Jillian Must Die

Michael Brown

Description

Ten million Americans face certain death. The culprit: a One-A-Day vitamin with lethal side effects. There is no cure. There is no hope. With only weeks to live--an antidote materializes. A psychopath gains control of the cure. Beautiful young heiress Jillian Summer meets Orlando Jones, a handsome former drug dealer who has become a legitimate Brazilian businessman manufacturing the revolutionary new One-A-Day vitamin "Vita-Bliss" for her father's company. There is an immediate and compelling attraction between them - one that is temporarily sidelined by friction between her father, Jack Summer, and Orlando as they argue over the future of Vita-Bliss. Jillian and Orlando join forces to recover the antidote, but a hitman is on their trail.

Sujets

• Romance
• Thriller

Informations

• Publié par: First Edition Design Publishing
• Date de parution: 01 octobre 2016
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781506902104
• Langue: English

Extrait

JILLIAN MUST DIE



MICHAEL BROWN



















First Edition Design Publishing
Sarasota, Florida USA
Jillian Must Die
Copyright ©2016 Michael Brown

ISBN 978-1506-902-09-8 PRINT
ISBN 978-1506-902-10-4 EBOOK

LCCN 2016TBD

April 2016

Published and Distributed by
First Edition Design Publishing, Inc.
P.O. Box 20217, Sarasota, FL 34276-3217
www.firsteditiondesignpublishing.com



ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part of this book publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means ─ electronic, mechanical, photo-copy, recording, or any other ─ except brief quotation in reviews, without the prior permission of the author or publisher.


Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Brown, Michael
Jilliam Must Die / written by Michael Brown.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-1506-902-09-8 pbk, 978-1506-902-10-4 digital

1. FICTION/Thrillers/Suspense. 2. /Romance/Suspense. 3. /General.

J613
Other Books by Michael Brown

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Love, Sex and other Near Death Experiences
For Holly
Prologue

“Revenge, the sweetest morsel to the mouth
that ever was cooked in hell.”
- Walter Scott , The Heart of Midlothian .



Six weeks earlier
Roger Keystone’s mind roiled with images of dead men and women, their bodies strewn atop huge mounds of wasted flesh that went on forever. Shivering, though the temperature and humidity were soaring, he recalled the panicked phone messages and texts he had received from his private list of clients who regularly purchased his creations—designer narcotics that could defy drug tests searching for illegal substances.
Three of his customers had recently complained of side effects after he had unwisely shared a new narcotic formula with them, one developed at the request of another wealthy client. The symptoms had been dizziness and agonizing migraines, followed by hospitalization and now, he knew, excruciatingly painful deaths.
Subsequent autopsies had revealed that the cadavers’ craniums were packed with cancerous tumors, which had metastasized quickly destroying brain cells. If it weren’t for the fact that he had known each of the victims personally, he might not have made the connection between their deaths and his formula. So far, it was his secret.
Keystone shook his head despairingly. The new drug he had created had been added to a vitamin supplement that was now being marketed across the United States and Canada. Ten million customers were unknowingly swallowing the pathogen every day.
Each and every one of them would begin dying within thirty days. There was no cure. There was no antidote.
At present, he was the only person who knew of the coming catastrophe. The clock was ticking and he, having also ingested the drug, was scared to death.
Chapter One

Jogging, Jillian had been told, was supposed to relieve anxiety, at least that was the theory. The headache drumming within her skull was refuting that concept. Perhaps the evening run had not been such a good idea. A tightness pulling on the back of her scalp signaled a possible culprit. Reaching to her ponytail she pulled the elastic band off, allowing blond tresses to tumble freely about an oval face that was genetically Scandinavian. She had been blessed with her mother’s high forehead, wide sapphire blue eyes, straight delicate nose and full curving lips that always seemed to be on the verge of a smile. But, at the moment, her demeanor was tempered by thoughts of the event that had almost ended her life last night.
Had her near fatal accident been an intentional act of malice, as it certainly seemed, or had it been simply a matter of being in the wrong place at the wrong time?
Unable to solve the conundrum she sighed as she sprinted along the path.
Her attention drifted to the burnt orange, grey and purple sunset that colored the sky behind a wall of buildings towering above Central Park’s west side. Refocusing, she noticed black holes beginning to form deep within foliage to either side of the jogging lane. Recalling past muggings, rapes and murders that had taken place in the park she felt goose bumps rise on the back of her neck.
She was well aware Central Park was not the safest place for a lone woman to be at night but she knew she could outrun most men and there were always joggers nearby who, she was confident, would come to her aid if she screamed. Increasing her efforts, she passed over a graceful arched stone bridge where she caught a glimpse of trees reflected darkly on the still waters of the small lake below.
Had it been morning, her preferred time to run, she knew the park would be filled with tourists, local strollers, children, and birders looking for the resident Copper’s and Red-tailed hawk and, of course, joggers like herself. Central Park, she knew from experience, was the ultimate runner’s dream, with dozens of running paths all set within the picturesque urban oasis consisting of 843 acres. Its boundaries stretched from 59 th Street to the south, 110 th Street to the north, 8 th Avenue to the west, and 5th Avenue to the east. But, at the moment, the oasis had growing shadows that seemed to be creeping up on her much like feral animals hunting prey.
Clunk .
Jillian flinched. A moment later she identified the sound as overhead lamps automatically engaging. Running lanes throughout the park were suddenly illuminated with dim circles of light. Now, able to clearly discern a number of joggers nearby, she sighed. There was indeed a feeling of safety in a crowd.
Once again, last night’s ‘incident’ came to mind.
After leaving the neighborhood restaurant where she had dined with a girlfriend who had insisted upon a tardy celebration of their mutual 23 rd birthdays, she had decided to walk the quarter mile to her apartment. When she was nearly home the roar of a speeding engine had pierced the quiet night. She had turned to see a large truck racing up the street. Then, inexplicably, the vehicle had veered—heading directly toward her! Reflexively she had leaped aside just as the truck jumped the curb. Having fallen to the ground she had felt the sidewalk vibrate from the impact of the vehicle as it struck glass, metal and plaster. She had rolled over and stared, stunned by the sight of the ruined truck that was halfway imbedded in the storefront—exactly where she would have been walking. Her bottom had lip trembled; she had missed being been crushed to death by a split second.
The driver’s side door had creaked open and a huge man with a shaved head had staggered out of the broken storefront onto the sidewalk. He was carrying a crowbar. Black eyes stared at her with a malevolence that had made her gasp.
“You fucking bitch!” he had hissed.
Heart racing, she had scrambled backwards trying to distance herself from the new threat.
Thankfully, a crowd had quickly started to gather drawing her assailant’s attention. He hesitated, and then, cursing, he had thrown the iron bar. It had struck the sidewalk inches from her head and had bounced away. The man had then turned and run off. Fighting back tears, trembling with shock, she had allowed the first responders to help her to her feet.
After making a police report she had finally made it home by 11 pm.
That had been last night .
Fairly certain the driver had deliberately aimed his vehicle at her she again questioned: Why would the man attempt to run her over?
She had never seen him before.
She had no enemies, at least not that she knew of.
Why would a complete stranger try to hurt or even kill her?
Why?
Troubled, still unable to come up with a plausible answer, she realized she was approaching Sailboat Pond where, during the day, kids and adults gathered to sail miniature boats.
Approaching the café that sat close to the water’s edge, Jillian noticed a small group of tourists and locals huddled around little tables, bundled up in warm clothes to ward off the evenings’ chill.
It was thirty eight degrees Fahrenheit and Jillian was thankful for the black St. John sweat suit she had purchased on sale last week at Bergdorf Goodman’s. Finding a size 2 Tall for her slim five-foot-nine inch height had been sheer luck.
Passing the café, she breathed in the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. She swallowed, yearning to stop for a latte and croissant and fought off the temptation. Being a fashion model did have its drawbacks.
Turning off the main lane, she strode upon a smaller path that wound through a copse of trees. It was a shortcut that would bring her out of the park several minutes ahead of her normal hourly run. She sucked in a breath and shivered, not so much from the cold, but from the eerie shadows surrounding her. But moments later she could see lights and hear traffic from 59 th Street. She released a long breath and eyed the trail of white vapor as it hit the cold air.
Normally she wouldn’t have taken the short cut but she was anxious to get home and pack for an unexpected trip to Miami, Florida. Her father, Jack Howard, had called earlier in the day with news regarding their family-owned company. Without going into details he had asked her to come to his Fisher Island home for a business conference. It wasn’t the summons that had troubled her as much as it was the fear in her dad’s voice – and Jack Howard feared nothing.
The sound of pounding feet coming up fast from behind interrupted her reverie, and before she could turn a figure body-slammed her. She hit the ground hard, and pain, shock, and loss of breath were instantaneous. With her face pressed to the path she could taste dirt. Spitting and attempting to suck in oxygen, she tried to regain her senses. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a brown-hooded man move toward her and then grimaced as he pounced heavily upon her buttocks. Before she could scream, her hair was roughly grabbed, her head yanked back and an arm was wrapped tightly around her throat. She tr