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John Avery

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Member Since: Sep, 2011

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Three Days to Die
by John Avery   

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Publisher:  Apticon Books ISBN-10:  0983696314 Type: 


Copyright:  June 1, 2011 ISBN-13:  9780983696315

John Avery - Blog

What would you do if you witnessed the murder of a close family member and were kidnapped and forced to rob banks at gunpoint with the killer and his two eccentric thugs? Aaron Quinn is about to find out - and he's only thirteen ...

What would you do if you witnessed the murder of a close family member and were kidnapped and forced to rob banks at gunpoint with the killer and his two eccentric thugs? Aaron Quinn is about to find out - and he's only thirteen ...

Three Days to Die - "Not your ordinary thriller ..."

Three Days to Die is the story of young Aaron Quinn and his courageous single mother, Ashley, as they're thrust headlong into the brutal and very adult world of felony armed robbery, lust, and murder.

Hold on tight as Aaron's best friend, Willy Abbott, and Michael St. John, a wealthy stranger, risk it all trying to save them from the blood thirsty psycho, Johnny Souther.

Three Days to Die is a fast, fiery, frightening train ride through hell, with bumps, curves, and characters that will shock you, make you laugh, and make you cry ...

The first to assault Ashley’s senses, the eye-watering odor – as if someone had dumped a truckload of rotting cabbage in the room and sealed it shut for ten years. She switched to mouth breathing and wished she had purchased some surgeon’s gloves back at the drug store.

All around her, flower patterned wallpaper blistered and peeled from the crumbling plaster like a severe case of motel eczema. Discolored carpeting in front of the TV betrayed the likely truth that something had died there in recent months. Jammed against one wall, a small bed, its lumpy spread a montage of stains. Above it, an oil-on-black-velvet matador, its fuzzy texture (and most of the sequins adorning the cape) long since rubbed off. From a shelf, a dusty oscillating fan wheezed back and forth, ruffling her wet hair in a vain attempt to cool the air, its gear-drive skipping and jumping, each erratic sweep of the room likely to be its last.

She flopped the large plastic shopping bag on the bed; then from the smaller bag, she removed a half-full quart of grape juice, a half-eaten box of crackers, and a pint of gin, and set them on the night table along with her car keys, credit card and phone. She dumped the contents of the other bag out onto the bed: a lavender faux-suede jacket; a sundress; a white bra and three pairs of panties; a men’s white undershirt and pair of boxer shorts (make-shift pajamas, like the ones she used to borrow from Danny); miscellaneous toiletries, pills, and makeup accessories; a simple necklace; and a pair of low heels. She draped the jacket over a chair and smoothed the wrinkles out of the new sundress.

She walked over to a vanity mirror with half of its silvered glass falling from the frame, and as she ran a brush through her hair she regarded a strange reflection with its Picassoesque interpretation of her tired eyes. The bruise under her right eye was getting darker, and she cringed at that frightening memory.

She smoothed her cheeks with her hands and sighed. Her youth was slipping away – falling through her fingers like a handful of rose petals. I’ll continue to feel young, she thought. I know I will. I always have. But one day the world will take a vote and decide that I’m old. But tonight she didn’t feel young at all. Tonight she felt very old.

She tore the price tag off of a new vinyl purse and stowed the brush inside. Then she opened a bottle of acetaminophen 500s, removed the cotton padding, shook three capsules into the palm of her hand, and downed them with a swallow of grape juice. She capped the bottle and tossed it in the purse, then went over and shoved the handgun between the mattresses.

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