The Savior's Game by Sean Chercover ~ Excerpt & Giveaway

The Savior's Game by Sean Chercover

The Daniel Byrne Trilogy, Book 3

Published August 8, 2017

Thomas & Mercer

271 Pages

$24.95 Hardcover

ISB: 9781477848791

$15.95 Trade Paperback Original

ISB: 9781503944602

$4.99 Kindle eBook

ASIN B00ZOLP8X4

Daniel Byrne is haunted by the future. Literally.

It happened to his uncle. It happened to the woman he loves. And now it’s happening to him.

It started as a voice only he could hear. Then he found himself visiting another world. A world both familiar and strange. A world inextricably linked to our own.

And the things he sees there, come true…here. It’s a power others are willing to kill for.

There’s no one Daniel can trust. Nowhere to hide. Chased across the globe by mysterious assassins, he struggles to decipher the visions plaguing him. Visions of miracles and massacres, conspiracy and catastrophe. And behind it all, a powerful adversary the likes of which we’ve never seen before.

One thing that’s clear: the universe is warning him of a cataclysmic change, an event that is either a bloody Armageddon or a shining new beginning. Daniel thinks he can see the answer—and maybe even change the outcome, before it’s too late.

But there’s a fine line between messiah and madman.

Amazon | B&N

"Daniel Byrne is a hero's hero."

--Gregg Hurwitz, New York Times bestselling author of Don't Look Back

"High octane and thought provoking --a powerful combination."

--Meg Gardiner, Edgar Award-winning author of Ransom River

"A satisfying conclusion that ties up the plot threads of this multilayered story.  A rousing finale to a highly original trilogy." 

--Booklist

"The Savior's Game is even more engrossing than the first two books...Chercover provides an upredictable, thought-provoking narrative filled with amazing characterization...An insightful, gripping, and exhilarating reading experience from beginning to satisfying end."

--Fresh Fiction

CHAPTER ONE

It was the same room.

The same room, bathed in the same not-quite-orange glow that presages sunset. Daniel Byrne let out the breath he was holding and filled his lungs again. He crossed the antique living room rug, toward the tiled entrance hall. At the end of the hallway, a solid wooden door, painted British racing green.

Daniel had never passed through that door, in either direction, but he knew this apartment. He knew the bedroom in back was painted red, the same shade as his boyhood bedroom at 2601 General Pershing Street, in uptown New Orleans. He knew there was a 1920s armoire— aromatic Spanish cedar, natural finish, white porcelain knobs— in the bedroom. It had been in Tim Trinity’s room of that same childhood home. Before seeing it here three months ago, Daniel hadn’t laid eyes on it since he was thirteen.

Weirder still, the handwoven rug he now crossed had been in the living room of Kara Singh’s London flat. The rug had burned to ash when Conrad Winter’s men torched her building down to the foundation.

And yet, here it lay, the wool soft under Daniel’s bare feet. Restored.

He walked to the French doors, knowing exactly what he would see when he opened them and stepped onto the balcony: teak furniture with green-and-white-striped cushions, same as the other four times. And beyond the balcony wall, the same almost-tropical seaside town. Coconut palms in abundance, and a subtly fragrant breeze that said West Indies, but the low-rise buildings looked more Southern California— a lot of white stucco and Spanish terra-cotta roofs, with a sprinkling of art deco here and there. Cars parked on the street below ran the gamut from beater to Benz. So, a reasonably prosperous seaside town, bathed in the hyper-realistic glow of what filmmakers call magic hour.

It seemed Daniel was the only person in this town. At least, he couldn’t see anyone else from this balcony. Last time, he’d stood here for maybe fifteen minutes before trying, once more, to leave the apartment.

Only a fool would expect a different result the fifth time. He glanced again at the green door as he moved back inside to the kitchen. Front door is not the way out of here.

He grabbed a bottle of water from the well-stocked fridge and returned to the balcony. He nursed the water until the bottle was empty, watching the whole time. A quick trip inside for a new bottle of water, then back to the balcony, watching.

When the water was gone, he judged he’d been on the balcony the better part of an hour. He’d seen not a soul, not even an airplane in the sky, and he’d heard no voices or car engines or distant noises. Just the sound of the breeze, and the rhythmic beat of the surf hitting the shore, perhaps two or three blocks to the west.

But strangest of all was the sun. The sun had stayed exactly where it was in the sky, not a millimeter lower since he’d arrived. And yet, the sound of the surf told Daniel the ocean was moving at a normal pace. And since tides were caused by the gravitational pull of the moon, the moon must be moving at a normal pace, relative to the Earth.

Which didn’t easily jibe with the Earth not rotating, freezing the sun’s position in the sky.

It would take some getting used to.

Remembering shoes he’d seen in the bedroom before, Daniel stepped inside, leaving the balcony doors standing wide.

The bedroom was as expected— red walls, cedar armoire, a pair of brown leather shoes beside the bed. Daniel sat on the bed and picked them up, turning them over in his hands. Crepe rubber soles, waxed leather uppers with a thick seam sewn up the middle. More foot shaped than shoe shaped, they were completely broken in, contours suggesting many miles, wet and dry, on their owner’s feet.

He slipped his bare feet into the shoes. Perfect fit. These were clearly his shoes and no one else’s, but he could not recall having worn them before.

He laced up the shoes, walked back through the living room, stepped out onto the balcony, and approached the white half wall. The wall came up to just below his rib cage and boasted dozens of round terra-cotta-lined holes, which served to let some natural light pass through.

He felt the rough texture of the stucco surface on his hands, leaned forward over the wall, and looked down past another balcony. A patio with a metal loveseat and a couple of young coconut palms in large terra-cotta planters lay directly below, two stories down.

Probably wouldn’t kill him, but far enough for a broken ankle or two.

He hoisted himself up and swung his legs over so that he was sitting on the wall, his feet dangling. He raised his gaze, fixed his eyes on the windows of the building directly across the street and, after a few slow, centering breaths, turned to face the balcony, using the lowest terra-cotta holes as toeholds.

here hadn’t been a sound from anywhere within or near the building, but if there were occupants below, they might not assume a strange man swinging onto their balcony from above was a friendly visitor.

“If there’s anybody below,” Daniel called out, “my front door is not working— it’s stuck— so I’m gonna climb down the balconies. I’m peaceful and unarmed.”

He felt foolish talking to no one— and he felt quite certain that there was no one— but better to play it safe. He’d appreciate the same courtesy.

Do unto others, as the man said.

“Awright, coming down now.” Daniel squatted against the outside of the half wall, shifting his hands into the holes, keeping his center of gravity as close to the building as possible. He pulled his feet out of their toeholds, tensing his core and back, and slowly let gravity take his legs. He shifted his right hand lower, then his left, and then swung his legs away from the wall, added to their momentum as they pendulumed back, and released his grip.

He cleared the balcony wall below by more than he needed to, landing on his feet with too much forward momentum, but managed to lurch-step his way to a stop just short of tumbling over the furniture. The French doors were closed, the shutters behind them shut.

No evidence of neighbors.

Daniel repeated the process on this level, calling down to no one before lowering himself and dropping to the patio below.

ime to find out where the hell he was.

About the Author

Sean Chercover is the author of the bestselling thrillers The Trinity Game and The Devil's Game and two award-winning novels featuring Chicago private investigator Ray Dudgeon: Big City Bad Blood and Trigger City.  After living in Chicago, New Orleans, and Columbia, South Carolina, Sean returned to his native Toronto, where he lives with his wife and son.

Sean's fiction has earned top mystery and thriller honors in the United States, Canada, and the United Kingdom.  He has won the Anthony, Shamus, CWA Dagger, Dilys, and Crimespree Awards and has been short-listed for the Edgar, Barry, Macavity, Arthur Ellis, and ITW Thriller Awards.

www.chercover.com | @SeanChercover

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