Dying for Love Read Online Free PDF Page B

Instinctively he knew he’d been a loner before, that he always would be. That he’d done something bad in the past.
    Something he didn’t want to remember.
    It had taken a multitude of psych reports to clear him to become an agent, but he’d made it. And last year, a missing child case had cemented his decision to focus on other similar cases.
    The little girl had been three and missing a week before the mother even reported it. She’d been high and too afraid to call the police.
    By the time he’d found the child, she’d died from the elements. Buried in a pile of tree branches that had fallen during a storm.
    The breaking news of the Slaughter Creek experiments had played into his decision as well.
    Too many innocent kids being hurt and taken advantage of. Someone had to do something.
    Maybe helping others would somehow bring salvation for his own lost soul.
    He slung his jacket onto the coat stand, removed his weapon, and placed it in the desk in his home office. Articles and photos of the investigation on Slaughter Creek covered his wall.
    Why that case intrigued him, he didn’t know. But like the rest of the country, he’d gotten caught up in following the story.
    When local reporter Brenda Banks had begun her profiles on each of the subjects, his interest had intensified. The experiments had altered the subjects’ lives drastically. Some of them suffered psychological and emotional problems as well as exhibited violent behavior. Some had become killers themselves.
    Others . . . had survived.
    Like Amelia Nettleton.
    Her story had been plastered everywhere.
    When he’d read about her mentally blocking out events from her life, he almost felt a kinship with her.
    Why did some victims crumble after trauma, while others thrived and became stronger?
    He was determined to be a survivor himself.
    One day he would find out who he was and why he’d been in the mountains that fatal night.
    The night whoever he was had died and John Strong had been born.
    He just wasn’t sure he was ready to face the truth yet.

    The man’s ice-cold eyes bore holes in Zack. “Get inside.”
    “Please don’t lock me up,” Zack cried.
    “You spit on me, you little shit.” The man grabbed his arm with hard fingers and dragged Zack down a long dark hall.
    “Stop it, let me go!” Zack beat at the man with his fists. He hated him. Hated everything they wanted him to do.
    A sharp hand slapped him across the face. Zack tasted blood, but he refused to cry.
    Crying only made the big man madder.
    He dragged him through a door that he used a key card to get through. A heavy metal door that slammed shut.
    Like a prison.
    Zack tried to pull away and run the other way, but the man caught him around the waist and lifted him like he was a sack.
    A key jangled as the man unlocked another metal door and tossed Zack inside. He hit the concrete floor with a thud. His shoulder snapped in pain.
    “Next time will be worse. You have to learn to obey.”
    Zack spit blood at the man. For a second, his eyes spewed fire at Zack. He took a step forward, and Zack thought he was going to hit him again.
    But the phone on his belt buzzed. “Lucky for you,” the man snarled.
    He clicked his boots together, then marched toward the door. A second later, the heavy metal screeched and slammed shut.
    Zack looked up to see where he was. Concrete walls. Cement floor.
    It was freezing inside.
    No bed or blanket. Nothing inside to fight with or make a weapon.
    He rubbed at the blood on his mouth, then crawled to the corner. A small window.
    Pushing himself up, he looked outside. He had to find a way to escape.
    But the woods were dark. Thick with snow. Tree branches scratched at the window like a witch’s fingernails.
    A noise sounded. Faint. Far away. A plane.
    He lifted higher, trying to see it above the trees.
    If he could get out there, maybe the plane would see him. It would take him far, far away where no one could find him.
    He pressed a hand to the glass.