Wednesday, February 22, 2017

Read an Excerpt from Chris Beakey's New Release ~ Fatal Option

About the Book:

A tragic accident. A family in crisis. And a killer watching every move.

Five months after the mysterious death of his wife, Stephen Porter is pulled from a dreamless sleep by a midnight phone call. His 17-year-old daughter Sara is stranded in a blizzard near the top of a mountain beyond their suburban home. She's terrified and unable to stop crying as she begs him to come to her rescue.

Unfortunately Stephen went to bed just an hour before after a night of binge drinking. With his blurred vision and unsteady balance he knows it’s dangerously irresponsible to get behind the wheel. But he heads out into the snowstorm to bring Sara home.

High school teacher Kieran O’Shea is also behind the wheel, searching for his autistic younger brother Aidan, who is wandering aimlessly through the storm on that same mountain. Kieran is terrified—of the voices in his mind, that Aidan will be taken from him, and that he may soon be arrested for murdering three women.

In a matter of minutes Stephen will encounter Kieran and drive headlong into a collision that will force him to unlock the secret of his wife’s death, avoid prosecution, and protect his children from violence that hits all too close to home (Synopsis courtesy of

Book Information:

Kindle File Size: 1214 KB
Print Length: 280 pages
Publisher: Post Hill Press
Publication Date: February 21, 2017
Amazon Link:

Praise for the Book:

Fatal Option [February 21, Post Hill Press] is a nail-biting thriller that explores the devastating moral consequences of a dangerous choice. It’s garnered the following praise:

“A sharp, intelligent thriller. Really top-notch.”
– Neely Tucker, Washington Post staff writer & author of Only The Hunted Run

“A wintery tale of violence and redemption, artfully balanced by a touching portrayal of a family in crisis.”
– Peter Swanson, author of The Kind Worth Killing

“Fatal Option grabs you from the first page. Plan to stay up.”
– Kathleen Antrim, former Co-President of International Thriller Writers & author of Capital Offense

 Read an Excerpt:

For the rest of his life Stephen would see the images in freeze-frame, a slide show of horror to be relived again and again.
His vision was still blurred from the booze; his hands like fists around the top of the wheel as he drove up the mountain, using careful pressure on the gas to get to the top of each rise and carefully pumping the brake just before each steep descent; his concentration fixed on the icy pavement in front of him when he saw the faint glow of headlights at an odd angle beyond a bend in the road ahead.
The sight held his attention for an instant too long, dulling his reflexes and making him realize too late that he was cresting an incline. The skin on his arms tingled as the front wheels rose from the pavement and his breath caught as he came down hard and fast—too fast to handle the next sharp curve in the road. He tapped the brake but the car went into a sideways slide as he stared in shock at the figure suddenly in front of him.
A boy.
In the road.
Adrenaline shot through his heart as he smashed the brake pedal to the floor and jerked the wheel to the left. As the car went into a spin he remembered something about turning into the skid and turned it back, losing control completely as the wheels locked and skated across the ice. The boy disappeared from the headlights and he felt a flicker of hope that he was out of the way.
But then he heard the awful thump as the car came to a stop.
The headlights were pointing straight into the woods; the Explorer resting across both lanes of the road.
He opened the door, swung his legs outward, felt the restraints of his shoulder belt pulling him back. He groped for the latch, snapped free, and stepped out to a blast of cold wind, the snowflakes tinged with ice and hitting his face with a rapid-fire sting. He took a step and almost lost his footing on the slick pavement; put his hand on top of the open door and turned around.
The road was shrouded in darkness beyond the reach of the headlights but he searched—wide-eyed, yearning—for the boy. Standing up. Alive and whole. He tried to call out but his voice was trapped in his throat. He kept his hand on top of the car for balance as he walked around it, toward the rear where the field of vision was even shorter, the falling snow tinged red from his taillights.
And then he saw him. On the ground. Flung sideways; his back against a tree.
He rushed forward and dropped to his knees, the sight sucking the air from his lungs.
The boy’s eyes were half-open and glazed. Fat drops of blood clung to his nostrils and a line of it dripped in a single trail from the corner of his mouth. Stephen took his wrist and searched for a pulse. His skin was unnaturally cold. He reached up, put his hand over the boy’s heart, and pressed against the red thermal undershirt. The boy was as still and lifeless as a mannequin.
“Oh God,” he whispered, and reached for his wrist again. The movement shifted the boy’s weight against the tree and his head dropped limply forward.
Stephen gasped as the horror hit him full-force.
His neck is broken.
He’s dead.
He staggered backwards, leaned against the car and moved around to the open door; sat back down behind the wheel as a wave of dizziness swept through him.
You killed him. 
He lowered his head, covered his eyes with his palms. Snippets of the night came back to him. The drive home from work in the snow. Kenneth crying in his arms. Sara's voice on the phone, telling him she was in trouble.
Call 911. Tell them what happened. An accident.
But then his mind was suddenly, terribly clear.
You're drunk.

            The night was strangely silent, as if the air all around him had been shocked and stilled. He looked down at the phone, his heart pounding as he stared at the glowing screen.

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