I started the Death and the Detective series from the writing prompts challenges at Creative Copy Challenge. The words in bold are the writing prompts from the challenge.
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Challenge #22
The dark, starless night sucked the very breath out of him. The only sound was his labored breathing as he fought to regain control. How did he let this happen? He had the killer in his sight and then he simply vanished. With his Glock 23 poised and ready, Brett strained to pick up something – anything – through the blanket of darkness.
Then he heard it – a click right behind his left ear. “Don’t turn around,” the voice rasped. Complete rage enveloped him. How did he let this asshole sneak up on him? He wasn’t a candy-assed rookie. He knew how to play the game.
“Drop your gun on the ground – nice and easy.”
Brett’s mind raced as he weighed his options. He didn’t need a recap of what a cold-hearted bastard the Mischief Maker was. Every tabloid out there took perverse pleasure in front-page features of the killer that had circulation soaring.
“Don’t tell me – my cocked gun in your ear affected your hearing. I said drop your gun. Unless the next sound you want to hear is a harp, don’t get any crackpot notion that you have any other option. Do it –now!”
Challenge #23
It’s funny the places your mind goes when you have a cocked gun in your ear. Homicide detective, Brett Connors, sadly, was finding that out. Maybe he had lost his mind, or at least he was half way there.
Faced with the primitive need for survival, Brett had the crazy thought that he wished he worn a helmet from a spacesuit. Totally nuts.
Tracking him all night long, Brett had lost sight of the killer, dubbed the Mischief Maker. Now, here he was, a cocked gun in his ear, his own Glock 23 on the ground and Brett thinking about spacesuits.
The Mischief Maker’s last victim had been a single mom, working as a waitress to keep food on the table for two young boys. A high school dropout, she had worked hard to give her sons a better life. The senselessness is what drove Brett. He’d be damned if the killer would walk free. Unfortunately, him being damned looked a lot more likely at the moment.
Absently rubbing the St. Michael badge medallion his Nana had given him, Brett silently admonished, “Focus.”
“Keep your hands where I can see them.”
“Relax. I’m unarmed. Take a tranquilizer. I’ll wait”
“You are in no position for jokes, Detective.”
“Who’s joking?” With a sudden thrust, Brett smashed the butt of his hand into the killer’s nose, driving it into his skull. With his other hand, he chopped across his throat. Flipping him to his stomach, Brett handcuffed his wrists.
Pressing his knee into his back, rasping for breath, the anguished cries of the killer fueled Brett’s need for revenge. He shook with the struggle for control.
“I hope they fry your ass. Plan on plenty of solitude in hell – and remember who sent you there.”
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