First Thrills Read online

  12 LITERARY LEGENDS

  13 RISING STARS

  1 MUST-HAVE COLLECTION OF FIRST THRILLS

  Con men and killers, aliens and zombies, priests and soldiers - just some of the characters that thrill and kill in this compelling collection of gun-toting, double-crossing, back-stabbing, pulse-pounding stories.

  Jeffery Deaver investigates the suspicious death of a crime-writer in 'The Plot'; Karin Slaughter's grieving widow takes revenge on her dying ex-husband in 'Cold, Cold Heart'; Stephen Coonts discovers a flying saucer in the depths of the ocean in 'Savage Planet' and John Lescroart's secret field agent finds himself caught up in a complex game of cat-and-mouse in 'The Gato Conundrum'.

  Handpicked by world number one Lee Child, celebrity authors and stars of the future are brought together, writing brand-new stories, especially commissioned for this must-have collection. Whether you're reading today's bestseller or tomorrow's phenomenon, grisly horror or paranoia thriller, historical suspense or supernatural crime, one thing's for certain. You'll be thrilled to the core.

  ABOUT THE EDITOR

  Lee Child is the internationally bestselling author of fourteen Jack Reacher thrillers, including the New York Times bestsellers The Enemy, One Shot, The Hard Way, and the #1 bestselling Bad Luck and Trouble and Nothing to Lose. His debut, Killing Floor, won both the Anthony and the Barry awards for Best First Novel, and The Enemy won both the Barry and the Nero awards. Child, a native of England and a former television director, lives in New York City.

  FIRST

  THRILLS

  High-Octane Stories from

  the Hottest Thriller Authors

  FIRST

  THRILLS

  HIGH-OCTANE STORIES FROM THE

  HOTTEST THRILLER AUTHORS

  EDITED BY AND WITH A BRAND NEW STORY FROM

  LEE CHILD

  First published in the United States of America in 2010 by St. Martin’s Press.

  This edition first published in Great Britain in 2011 by Corvus, an imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd.

  Copyright © 2010 by International Thriller Writers, Inc. All rights reserved.

  The moral right of Lee Child to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in these stories are either products of the authors’ imaginations or are used fctitiously.

  9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN: 978-1-84887-692-7 (hardback)

  ISBN: 978-1-84887-693-4 (trade paperback)

  eBook ISBN: 978-0-85789-264-5

  Printed in Great Britain.

  Corvus

  An imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd

  Ormond House

  26-27 Boswell Street

  London WC1N 3JZ

  www.corvus-books.co.uk

  Copyright Acknowledgments

  Introduction copyright © 2010 by Lee Child

  “The Thief” copyright © 2010 by Gregg Hurwitz

  “Scutwork” copyright © 2010 by CJ Lyons

  “The Bodyguard” copyright © 2010 by Lee Child

  “Last Supper” copyright © 2010 by Rip Gerber

  “After Dark” copyright © 2010 by Alex Kava and Deb Carlin

  “Wednesday’s Child” copyright © 2010 by Ken Bruen

  “Eddy May” copyright © 2010 by Theo Gangi

  “The Plot” copyright © 2010 by Jeffery Deaver

  “Eye of the Storm” copyright © 2010 by John Lutz and Lise S. Baker

  “The Dead Club” copyright © 2010 by Michael Palmer and Daniel James Palmer

  “Underbelly” copyright © 2010 by Grant McKenzie

  “The Gato Conundrum” copyright © 2010 by John Lescroart

  “The Princess of Felony Flats” copyright © 2010 by Bill Cameron

  “Savage Planet” copyright © 2010 by Stephen Coonts

  “Suspended” copyright © 2010 by Ryan Brown

  “Invisible” copyright © 2010 by Sean Michael Bailey

  “When Johnny Comes Marching Home” copyright © 2010 by Heather Graham

  “On the Train” copyright © 2010 by Rebecca Cantrell

  “Children’s Day” copyright © 2010 by Kelli Stanley

  “My Father’s Eyes” copyright © 2010 by Wendy Corsi Staub

  “Program with a Happy Ending” copyright © 2010 by Cynthia Robinson

  “Killing Carol Ann” copyright © 2010 by J. T. Ellison

  “Chloe” copyright © 2010 by Marc Paoletti

  “Cold, Cold Heart” copyright © 2010 by Karin Slaughter

  “Calling the Shots” copyright © 2010 by Karen Dionne

  Afterword copyright © 2010 by Steve Berry

  We dedicate this collection to

  our friends and families for their unending support

  and to our readers: you are the reason we do what we do.

  Because of all of you, we can write what we love.

  Thanks for reading!

  Contents

  INTRODUCTION * Lee Child

  THE THIEF * Gregg Hurwitz

  SCUTWORK * CJ Lyons

  THE BODYGUARD * Lee Child

  LAST SUPPER * Rip Gerber

  AFTER DARK * Alex Kava and Deb Carlin

  WEDNESDAY’S CHILD * Ken Bruen

  EDDY MAY * Theo Gangi

  THE PLOT * Jeffery Deaver

  EYE OF THE STORM * John Lutz and Lise S. Baker

  THE DEAD CLUB * Michael Palmer and Daniel James Palmer

  UNDERBELLY * Grant McKenzie

  THE GATO CONUNDRUM * John Lescroart

  THE PRINCESS OF FELONY FLATS * Bill Cameron

  SAVAGE PLANET * Stephen Coonts

  SUSPENDED * Ryan Brown

  INVISIBLE * Sean Michael Bailey

  WHEN JOHNNY COMES MARCHING HOME * Heather Graham

  ON THE TRAIN * Rebecca Cantrell

  CHILDREN’S DAY * Kelli Stanley

  MY FATHER’S EYES * Wendy Corsi Staub

  PROGRAM WITH A HAPPY ENDING * Cynthia Robinson

  KILLING CAROL ANN * J. T. Ellison

  CHLOE * Marc Paoletti

  COLD, COLD HEART * Karin Slaughter

  CALLING THE SHOTS * Karen Dionne

  AFTERWORD

  Acknowledgments

  A lot of people work very hard behind the scenes to bring a book to life. A collection like this involves even more work because of the number of authors involved. We would like to thank these unsung heroes:

  Scott Miller and everyone at Trident Media Group, for their unending enthusiasm and hard work in bringing this project to life.

  Our editor, Eric Raab, his assistant, Whitney Ross, and everyone at Tor/Forge, for taking our words and giving them a home.

  International Thriller Writers’ board of directors, for their inspiration and guidance. The ITW staff who work tirelessly to keep everything in working order. ITW’s Debut Author Program, which provides new authors with support, encouragement, and camaraderie.

  And, finally, our guardian angels: Lee Child, Steve Berry, Liz Berry, Jon Land, Kim Howe, and Eileen Hutton.

  Thanks, guys! We couldn’t have done any of this without you!

  LEE CHILD

  As of this writing, the International Thriller Writers, Inc. organization—ITW—is a little more than five years old. It grew quickly and strongly and in short order became very good at what
such organizations are supposed to be good at, but what was fascinating was the way it ebbed and flowed and tested uncharted areas and developed skills and interests that were new. Its annual conventions—ThrillerFests—were immediately distinctive. Its internal disciplines were immediately professional. But I believe its support of new members will be most remembered.

  New authors face a tough challenge. Publishing was never an easy field to break into, and it gets harder all the time. Sometimes lightning strikes, but for most of us, a career is built slowly and painstakingly, year on year. The first couple of years are crucial. Early buzz means survival. Established ITW members know that—indeed, how could they not? By definition, they all survived that test, and they all remember it well. So, early and organically, the organization felt its way into a situation where sending the elevator back down became a major priority.

  Not that it wasn’t a two-way street. Our first debut generation organized itself into Killer Year 2007, and ITW recognized a great idea and ran with it. Some members of that class are now three or four books into stellar careers and are well on their way to becoming household names. The obvious quality of their emerging talent reinforced ITW’s commitment, and the organization stepped up its efforts and developed a solid program of support. Inside the organization, debut authors get access to advice and mentoring, and they mix with the biggest names on an equal footing.

  And outside the organization, they get exposure, in the kind of volume you’re holding right now. This is a short-story anthology, and it’s intended to function as a sampler, as a shop window. Read these stories, and you’ll sense the talent the same way we did, and you’ll be excited to pick up the participants’ full-length novels, and buzz will build, and the participants will survive the crucial first year or two, and careers will be started, and the next generation of household names will be forged.

  But publishing is a tough business, especially right now, and we were realistic enough to know that readers would be a little reluctant to buy a book by people they had—by definition—never heard of. So the call went out for big names to help. The idea was to sprinkle some major attractions in the shop window, to draw your eye. And the response was overwhelming. Eleven big bestsellers immediately offered to join in. Alphabetically, Ken Bruen, Stephen Coonts, Jeffery Deaver, Heather Graham, Gregg Hurwitz, Alex Kava, John Lescroart, John Lutz, Michael and Daniel Palmer, Karin Slaughter, and Wendy Corsi Staub all contributed stories—free, gratis, and for nothing, simply because they remembered their debut years and didn’t want to stand by idle. Among them they sell many millions of books a year, and we think they brighten up the shop window enormously. Their enthusiasm was so infectious, even I was moved to contribute a story.

  But don’t let the established names’ glitter and glamour distract from the thirteen new names here. Again alphabetically, we are proud to present Sean Michael Bailey, Ryan Brown, Bill Cameron, Rebecca Cantrell, Karen Dionne, J. T. Ellison, Theo Gangi, Rip Gerber, CJ Lyons, Grant McKenzie, Marc Paoletti, Cynthia Robinson, and Kelli Stanley. Read them, and I think you’ll agree that the only real difference between the big names and the new names is chronology. Fifteen years from now the new names will be the big names. Their talent is amazing.

  Which actually explains why the eleven big names—plus me—agreed to help. Of course there’s an element of altruism involved—unsurprisingly, since thriller writers are the nicest people you could hope to meet—but there’s a little self-interest, too, because writers are first and foremost readers, and like any other readers, we want a constant stream of great new stuff to consume. This is our way of making sure we get it. So join us—you won’t regret it.

  FIRST

  THRILLS

  High-Octane Stories from

  the Hottest Thriller Authors

  GREGG HURWITZ

  Momma came into the living room and asked where I got the Power Rangers pencil case and I didn’t say anything. I just scrunched my eyes shut tight and pretended I’d gone away.

  She said, “Tommy, you’re a teenager. You can’t keep stealing stuff from the kindergarten kids. If I call Mrs. Connelly and she says something went missing, you’ll be in big trouble and you’ll skip dinner.”

  The last part about skipping dinner floated in through my scrunched eyes and settled in my stomach and made it hurt. “I’m sorry,” I said.

  She sighed and pressed her hands to her curly brown hair. “I can’t trust you, Tommy. And that’s a awful thing.”

  When her mouth got like that it meant I should get out of her way for a while, so I went back to my room and sat on my bed. My dad left after I was born. I don’t have a picture of him in my head. Just the picture on my bookshelf next to my comics. My favorite is Wolverine. No one knows how strong he is inside. He’s got a skeleton made of adamantium. You never see it, really, just bits and parts, except one time he got in this plane crash and he burned down to his skeleton and I didn’t like that at all. He looks like a normal guy, but I like that he’s stronger than he looks, way stronger, beneath his soft skin. I’m fat. Momma says the proper term is “heavy,” but I know what it’s really called from the kids outside Mrs. Connelly’s classroom at school. They aren’t special, those kids, but I’d trade not being fat for not being special.

  I could smell the pot roast from the kitchen and it made my stomach hurt some more thinking about not getting any because of a tin pencil case that you can see your reflection in even if it’s wavery.

  Momma says she can’t trust me when it comes to stealing things. But that’s not true, at least not always. Like I know that she keeps a shoebox full of money in her closet and I’ve never stolen that. And she has this pearl necklace and a CD of Frank Sinatra and I don’t want those either. It’s just some things I have to have. Like the long, shiny shoehorn I took from the Foot Locker. Or glowy green bubble gum people leave on sidewalks. We have a problem with the salt and pepper shakers from Momma’s work, and she searches me before we leave just like the cops do black people on TV. And the cook at the diner just laughs and says, “Let him take ’em,” and she says, “You have no idea what I put up with, Frank.”

  There was a knock at my door and she came in and sat next to me on the bed and I closed my eyes again, tight. She said, “It’s okay. I forgive you.”

  So I said, “Can I keep the Power Rangers pencil case?”

  Momma said, “No.”

  I opened my eyes. I said, “I thought you forgive me.”

  She sighed again and said, “Help me, Jesus.”

  So I said, “Okay. You can give back the pencil case,” because I don’t like when she brings Jesus into it.

  The doorbell rang, and she said, “Oh, that’ll be Janice.”

  Ms. P works with Momma at the diner and they go to movies sometimes and do each other’s hair and drink pink wine out of the skinny glasses. I followed Momma out to the front door. Ms. P said, “Who’s that handsome fellow there?” like she always does even though she knows it’s just me. Ms. P wears pretty magenta lipstick like in the sunset I drew in Mrs. Connelly’s class. I like sunsets.

  I didn’t say anything about not eating pot roast and Momma must’ve forgotten because I took two servings and even had grape juice. I liked the sound of Ms. P’s voice in our kitchen. We don’t have people come over to our house much. Usually, Momma goes out and leaves a TV dinner in the micro wave and the numbers already put in so I just have to push the green button. I watched Ms. P’s magenta lips all through dinner. They crinkled and smiled. Magenta is my favorite color.

  After, Momma said, “Why don’t you go read your comic books?”

  And I said, “I don’t read them. I look at the pictures.”

  And Momma said, “Well, what ever, same difference.”

  I never know what she means by “same difference” since the two words don’t really go together and they sort of cancel each other out if you ask me, but no one ever asks me. So I went to my room. But I didn’t really go to my room. I opened and closed my doo
r and then I tippy-toed down the hall again so I could listen to Momma and Ms. P. That wasn’t very nice of me, but I’m home alone most nights so when I can hear other people talking in the house, it’s a treat.

  I hid behind the little half table at the end of the hall. Ms. P’s purse was there, right by my head, and her keys, which had more key chains than keys, which made no sense.

  Momma kept saying, “It’s so hard, Janice.”

  And Janice kept saying, “I know, honey. I know. But he’s a sweet kid.”

  And Momma said, “I feel so alone,” which made me feel weird because Momma’s not alone, since I live with her.

  Momma said, “Sometimes I just miss grown-up company, you know?”

  And Ms. P said, in a different kind of voice, “I know.” Then she said, “There was that salesman I fixed you up with last year.”

  Momma said, “He was nice and owned a house, unlike the jerks I used to date. Maybe that’s why it didn’t work. He wasn’t enough of a loser to interest me.”

  They laughed about that. Then Ms. P said, “I heard he met someone, moved to Cleveland.”

  “Maybe I blew it,” Momma said. “He was very nice. Plus he wasn’t hard on the eyes.”

  Then Ms. P said something in a low voice and they both laughed.

  My shin itched so I reached to scratch it and I hit the table and Ms. P’s keys jangled and I said, “Oops.”

  Momma said, real pointy-like, “Tommy!”

  And I said, “Uh-oh.”

  And Momma said, “Come out here, Tommy.”

  And I didn’t say anything. I just hugged my knees and squeezed my eyes shut but then I heard some rustling and opened my eyes and Momma was standing right there.

  I said, “I’m sorry.”

  She said, “Remember the guest rule when I’m in the living room?”

  And I said, “Oh yeah,” like I’d just remembered it, but I don’t think she believed me.