By Elaine Marie Alphin
Cameron Miller is the son of a assassin. All he has ever identified is the stench of the locked cellar, the place he can pay attention the blows and cries and his father's torrent of terror and abuse. Then a miracle occurs: his father is killed in a police shootout. within the aftermath, Cameron grabs his one likelihood for a traditional existence: he's taking at the id of Neil Lacey, a boy who Mr. Miller had kidnapped six years in the past. As Neil, he has a existence with loving mom and dad, a brother and sister, and the comforts purely cash should purchase. yet somebody is familiar with what Cameron's doing-someone with the ability to show his lifestyles again right into a nightmare.
"An engrossing, suspenseful novel that's guaranteed to preserve the reader glued to the page." (Kirkus Reviews)
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Extra info for Counterfeit Son
My eyes went around the room one last time, from the computer to the tournament trophies on my shelves to the black-belt certificate framed on my wall to the movie poster of The Lord of the Rings. Finally, I looked at the back of my hand. There was a number written on it in black marker. That made me smile to myself. Then I snapped the light off. I said a quick goodnight prayer. In sixty seconds, I was sound asleep. CHAPTER THREE “Kill Him” Then, all at once, I woke up. There, in that bare, terrible room.
I fell to the earth with a downward finishing strike—a punch spiraling straight to the floor as my body dropped down behind it to give it extra force. ”—expelling every ounce of tension in my body, letting the tension explode into the punch as my knuckles scraped the surface of the polished wood. Then I was upright again, spinning again, lashing out with a hook kick that brought my foot snapping around behind me and the rest of my body snapping around after it. Under the sound of my movements, I could hear the silence of the audience, I could feel their attention on me, feel them caught up in the violent grace of the form.
The strap was strong and secure. The metal of the chair was smooth. Same with my right wrist. My hand extended over the arm of the chair. I could open and close it into a fist. But there was nothing within reach, nothing I could get hold of. What about my ankles? I had to lean forward in the chair as far as I could to get a look at the front of them, then lean over to the side to get another angle. On the left, it was the same as with my wrists. Nothing to see, nothing to use. A strap, a metal chair leg, a bolt holding the chair securely to the floor.
Counterfeit Son by Elaine Marie Alphin