FBI Agent Nick Bellamy's world is shattered when the phantom assassin he's been tracking for years brutally murders his wife. Now a broken man driven by vengeance and guilt, Nick is suddenly drawn into an investigation of a ghastly plot to annihilate the human race, initiated from a 1960's top-secret government project, Mortal Eclipse. This project resulted in the accidental release of a monstrous, unearthly killer - his phantom assassin! Nick must reconcile his personal demons as he battles a sinister underworld of otherworldly adversaries, witches, and murderous mutants in order to save mankind. But time is running out . . .
Editorial Reviews for Mortal Eclipse:
"Tensely written, like reading Stephen King or Dean Koontz." - Midwest Book Review
"Sickly humorous moments keep the novel from becoming melodramatic . . . the conclusion pulls the stray ends of the plot together very convincingly." - Writer's Digest
Outside, the wind rose to a shrill scream. Jeb pressed his face to the glass again, and a whimper escaped his lips. A tidal wave of luminous fog was rolling his way, a roiling white mouth swallowing the darkness. It approached the guardhouse at tremendous speed! Jeb's knees quivered. It was time to beat a retreat back to the safe house with the others. Jeb's sweaty hand slipped off the deadbolt twice before the damn thing retreated back with a metallic crack. As his hand gripped the doorknob, he heard a faint scratching at the door. He froze. Could it be that one of the K-9's got loose and wanted in out of the storm? Jeb looked out the gate-side window, but he couldn't get a good look at the area outside the entrance. The scratching became frantic. Should he open the door or let the stupid pooch fend for itself? He stood by the door for several moments, barely breathing. Only listening. His heart pounded in his ears. They hadn't covered this situation in training. The scratching was decidedly heavier now. God, that was one big dog! Was it just the wind, or had he heard a whine, too? He glanced outside again. The fog reached the gate and oozed through the heavy armored bars a dozen feet from his little shanty. God, what should he do? The hell with the damned dog! He pulled out his gun and gripped the doorknob. I'll shoot the bitch, he thought, and put her out of both our miseries; then, race ahead of the fog to the house. Safety. He managed a weak laugh. Safety. DEA safe house. Good one, Jeb, he thought. His hand was trembling so badly that he silently prayed that he wouldn't shoot himself. Jeb flicked the safety off, and reached for the doorknob. A ferocious, hollow snarl outside the door fractured the night. Jeb fell back, tripped on the chair and fell to the floor. A dark dampness spread over the crotch of his pants as something heavy collided with the door. The hinges groaned against the doorframe but held. Jeb raised the shaking gun toward the door while his free hand reached up to the phone and fumbled over the telephone keypad. Shane answered this time. "Now what, Jebby-boy?" "Help!" Jeb screamed as the heavy force thudded into the door again, ripping the hinges from the splintered steel frame and bursting into the small space inside. The door flew past Jeb, missing him by a fraction of an inch. Everything happened so fast that Jeb wasn't able to keep up until his head thumped on the floor like a ripe melon and rolled into the fog. From then, time stood still. The memory of a yellow-eyed leviathan smashing the lamp and pitching the shack into total darkness was still vivid. So was his recall of the beast ripping the gun away from him, along with his hand below the wrist, and heaving the phone against the bulletproof glass where it shattered into sparks and pieces. His consciousness faded into the enveloping fog, and the ebbing memories followed him into death.
About David Brookover
David Brookover has been writing all his life in such fields as newspaper, magazine, advertising and public relations. He is now an English teacher and lives with his wife, two sons and border collie outside Orlando, Florida.