By Rex Miller
Stephen King hails Rex Miller as “terrifying and original.” Slob is his debut novel, the tale of a guy who thinks of himself as loss of life, a guy who loves to ceremonial dinner on human hearts, spilling blood anywhere he is going. Jack Eichord is the detective who needs to hunt this human monster and genius killer. Years of operating as a murder detective for the Chicago Police division have hardened Eichord to objects that might make such a lot males flip and flee. yet even he isn't ready for a labyrinthine seek underground, as he trails the killer and his hostages during the sewer approach of the town. Eichord thinks that he's commencing to comprehend the diabolical guy and his styles of violence . . . yet can he wager the subsequent sufferer in time, earlier than it truly is too past due for the girl he loves?
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Extra info for Slob (Chaingang, Book 1)
Example text
He would not provide anyone with a reference point for the beginning of his decline. Before he was finished he would have those damned suitcases, or three others exactly like them, filled with money. He looked at his watch as he walked along the rutted, unused track, was surprised to see that despite all that had happened this morning it was still only a few minutes past eleven o'clock. A great deal could be done yet today-if they were lucky enough to find their way off the mountain unobserved.
The racket was almost certain to be audible the length of the slopes and would draw reinforcements from the mansion. In five minutes the site would be swarming with Baglio's gunmen. Still, this was the quickest, simplest way to let those inside the limousine know that this was serious business, rough business, and that they were hopelessly outgunned. When the echo died, Tucker was at the driver's window, the stubby shotgun leveled at the old man's neck. A blast from the first barrel alone would shatter the window and fragment the chauffeur's skull before he could complete any dive for the floorboards.
While he held the shotgun on them, Harris went downslope to the place where he'd climbed the bank, gained the road again and walked back up toward them. "Nowhere," the driver said. " The smaller of Baglio's men, the one who hadn't had enough sense to keep quiet before, looked at the driver quizzically, then smiled and looked up at Tucker. His face might as well be a blackboard with a huge, chalked message on it. "You're never going to get out of here. Mr. " Tucker asked the driver. "No," the driver said.