Rodney Garrison lost his wife and unborn child to a car accident caused by an innocent but distracted driver on her phone. An intelligent and calculating man, Rodney sets out to avenge his wife's death, taking one victim after another in a most unusual fashion on the streets of Southern California.
Best friends Tommy Kinnard & Smoke Shelby are regular guys inadvertently drawn into the Roadkiller's plan. As their growing involvement threatens his next moves, Garrison becomes more brash and directed in his killings. A fast-paced, impossible-to-put-down thriller, Rasor has artfully woven together human traits of arrogance, guilt, racism and close friendships.
"This books starts out fast and keeps up the pace. There are many threads, but I found them all fascinating. I trusted that they would all come together, and they did - BIG TIME! It's a book about death, and hatred...but it's also a book about love, friendship, and teamwork. The final chapters will have you up all night reading!" Reader
"This books takes off and got my attention right from the start - I didn't want to put it down. I liked the characters and the fact that you know who the killer is early on, but still want to know what happens next. A good read, I've recommended it on to a number of people and all have enjoyed it." Reader
"This book is surprisingly intriguing. It has a rapid pace and will challenge you to stay awake day and night reading it cover to cover. Not only does Roadkill deliver in action and excitement, but it is a wonderful commentary on modern relationships and the human condition. I am anxiously awaiting the release of Roadkill, the movie! More, please!" Reader
"All that is missing is the ribbon and the bow. This book starts strong and races to the ending, while tying up all the characters and story lines into a nice, neat package. At first glance (or first chapters), the plot seems to jump around to unrelated people and events. Each is interesting in their own way but you have to wonder how they fit with each other. Rasor puts it all together like a jigsaw puzzle, each piece added to make the full picture emerge... I loved the use of Hollywood messengers as the lead characters. One of the main guys, Smoke, is especially likable and provides the heart for the story. Meanwhile, the villain has a method of execution that is new to the genre. The book is worth picking up for that alone. If you want a book that starts fast and never slows down to idle, then I would recommend read Roadkill." Reader
They thundered from the eastern sky on winged steeds, leaving fiery hoof-prints on the summer wind. The F-4 Phantom screamed over the low hill, banked hard right, and dove, hugging the MiG-29’s tail like a relentless bee at a picnic. The two planes were as one, roaring down the narrow wooded canyon in their dance toward destiny.
The MiG jinked and janked, but could not shake the relentless gray jet. The ghostly figure in the Phantom was just too good. The MiG driver flew like a madman, brushing trees and outcroppings, but it was no use. “Jesus Christ,” he breathed, bringing up his radio mike to call for help. “I’ve pissed off the Devil himself.”
The Devil - for it was he - grinned. “Too little, too late, asshole.” He toggled open the fire button on his 20 mm Vulcan cannon, then thought better of it. Snapping the button-cover closed, he brought the Phantom up to full power, working the stick to maneuver alongside and slightly above the doomed MiG. A scant three feet from the cockpit, the tip of the Phantom’s wing shadowed the stranger’s face, dripping with sweat, frozen in fear. He could feel it. It was why he had come.
“No fear,” the face in the Phantom mouthed, reveling in his adversary’s, savoring it. It was his first kill. He took one last look into the pleading eyes of the trapped man beside him and moved his stick slightly forward and right.
The Phantom inched closer. The canyon wall stood firm. The MiG had run out of room.
Just then, the phantom’s wingtip dropped slightly, tapping the MiG’s canopy like Death himself a knocking. It was.
The MiG’s pilot flinched, bringing the stick hard left. He lost it. A blood-curdling scream echoed through the deep canyon as the MiG broke through the guardrail. Three hundred feet down, the screaming stopped.
The killer had never actually seen a real F-4 Phantom, or a MiG-29 either, for that matter. But the one his mind had conjured up had done the trick. His mind shifted quickly from fantasy to reality as he pulled his Nissan Pathfinder alongside the broken guardrail. He had just taken a life, and strangely, he was okay with it. A hint of bizarre satisfaction flickered across his face as he set the parking brake and got out. He had to look.
He was rock hard as he stood there on the mangled precipice - wildly alive, completely aware. He knew he would have to hurry. Another car could be along in a minute, or an hour. He wouldn’t be here when it did. Leaning backwards a bit, arms spread for balance, he shuffled his feet to the very edge, as loose dirt and pebbles careened like lemmings over the side. He looked down.
A tremendous rush washed over him as he viewed what was left of the ‘MiG-29’. The dirty undercarriage of a Mercedes 450-SL ragtop stared silently up at him. He knew the gleaming white paint and polished chrome that he had seen only moments before lay underneath, along with the driver. The safety harness had still been tightly strapped when it had gone over.
“Dead as a doornail,” he breathed, wondering just where that old expression had originated. It fit, however, since the man in the Mercedes had been hammered into the mountainside by the full force of his car, which gave rise to a wry smile.
The man at the edge of the cliff knew exactly where he was and what had just happened. The F-4 Phantom and MiG-29 were gone now, but they had served their purpose. They were just part of the game. He knew that, too.
“Sorry, sir, your call has been disconnected,” he called down the steep drop. “Perhaps you can try again later, idiot.” The cell phone the man had been using - the one that had started this chain of events - would be under there, too. He began to laugh.
He laughed for more than a minute when a thought occurred to him. “Calling card,” he mused thoughtfully - dark eyes twinkling malevolently - “Got to have a calling card.” He hadn’t planned this part of it. Actually, he hadn’t planned any of it. Not consciously, anyway. He thought hard.
Fingers snapping, he pulled the red and white paisley bandanna from his rear pocket. He turned it over in his hand. “Okay,” he said, pleased, “Now, how do I get you down there?”
His eyes darted about on the ground around him. He saw it. He took a step to his right and back a bit, fully aware of the cliff’s edge and its power. He bent over and picked it up, experimentally hefting a rock the size and shape of a golf ball. “Perfect.”
He held the bandanna flat on top of his splayed left palm, and dropped the rock neatly into its center. But the mid-afternoon sun and the excitement of the moment had almost betrayed him. “Damn!” he said suddenly, as a drop of sweat trickled into his eye. He plucked the rock from the kerchief and brought it to his forehead. Before it touched his skin, however, he stopped.
“Uh, uh, uh,” he said, in the jovial voice of insanity pleased with itself. “DNA.” He crumpled the bandanna back around the rock and pulled up his shirttail with his free hand. “Can’t have that now, can we?” He used the shirt to wipe his eyes and then his brow. He looked down at his handiwork again, admiring it, the grin widening sardonically.
The killer shifted the cloth-covered rock to his right hand and drew his arm back. “This is for you, Sara,” he shouted. He threw it with all his might. The bundle flew outward, dropping like the stone it was. On the way down, the rock broke free of the bandanna and left it floating like a red and white butterfly on the summer air. It fluttered to rest on the branch of a tree a few feet from the fallen automobile. His fist went up and shook triumphantly. “Yes!”
He studied the scene below one last time. It was done. “For you, Sara, my sweet,” he reiterated softly, “and for our son.” He climbed into the black Pathfinder and was gone.
Also by John Rasor
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