Cruel Book Tour & Giveaway

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Morris Brick Thriller #4
Jacob Stone
Thriller, Suspense
is an author so skilled at portraying such unremitting evil and the
poignant, human side of his characters in a single tale.”





JacobStone is equal parts Thomas Harris, Michael Connelly, Jo Nesbo, and
Stephen King. CRUEL will leave you shaking . . . with fear,
excitement, and the uncontrollable compulsion to keep on


Goldberg, #1 
York Times
author of 



L.A. detective Morris Brick knows the number all too well. It was the
gruesome signature the Nightmare Man left next to his victims’
bodies. Brick’s father was the first to investigate the killings.
Five women were butchered before the perpetrator vanished. Seventeen
years later he resurfaced—to kill again in the same depraved ways.
Now another seventeen years have passed. Brick knows in his gut that
it’s time for the Nightmare Man to reawaken. But even Brick can’t
imagine the madman’s true agenda. Or just how terrifying the
sleepless nights are going to get in the City of Angels . . .



Stone is the pseudonym for award-winning author Dave Zeltserman.
Dave’s crime and horror novels have been picked by NPR, the
Washington Post, American Library Association, Booklist, and WBUR as
best novels of the year, and his short mystery fiction has won a
Shamus, Derringer and two Ellery Queen Readers Choice



crime noir novel, SMALL CRIMES, has been made into a major motion
picture starring Nikolaj Coster-Waldau, Molly Parker, Gary Cole,
Robert Forster, and Jacki Weaver, and will be premiering April 28th
on Netflix. Several of his other books are currently in film



Brick thriller novels written as Jacob Stone: DERANGED, CRAZED,


Downtown Los Angeles alley, 2:18 a.m.
The rat grew frantic in its efforts to escape the trap, its front claws a blur as they scratched against the wire
mesh. This one was older than the juveniles already collected, and showed the scars of a lifetime spent
skulking through Los Angeles alleyways and sewers. Half of one ear had been torn off, its grayish-black fur
matted, and a dozen wounds scabbed over. While the rat was larger than the others, it was still emaciated
enough to be able to squeeze through a hole the size of a quarter. Rats like this one were crucial for what was
The newspaper stories from 2001 didn’t mention rats, and neither did the ones from 1984. That had to be
because the reporters hadn’t been told about them, or really about any of the specifics. In 1984, the
newspaper and TV reporters described the murders only as depraved and sickening.
A police officer must’ve given them that description, and someone with a touch of poetry in his soul named the
killer the Nightmare Man. That name stuck—both in 1984 and in 2001—but it didn’t fully do the killer justice.
While horrific, monstrous things were done to the victims, they were things that could only have come from
the nightmares of a lunatic.
Just as some species of cicadas awaken only every seventeen years, the same was true of the Nightmare
Man. October second would mark the seventeen-year anniversary of the start of the last killing spree, and
new victims had already been chosen. They were both the least and most fortunate people alive. They would
be dying the worst deaths imaginable, but they would have a kind of immortality, their fates forever entwined
with the Nightmare Man. Because of that, they would never be forgotten.
The cage was picked up, and the rat inside backed up and got on its hind legs, its small black eyes shining
with malevolence as it bared its teeth. It was an ugly thing and would do nicely for what was needed.
A homeless woman lay curled in a fetal position as she slept beside a dumpster. She stirred as the cage
holding the rat was carried past her. Her red-rimmed eyes cracked open, her round, craggy face turning
toward the soft padding of footsteps. In a raspy croak that sounded as if her throat had been scraped raw with
sandpaper, she asked for money. Even from several feet away, the sour smell of cheap gin on her breath
assaulted the senses. A decision now had to be made: whether to kill the old woman or ignore her. A moment
of reflection revealed a third option—simply hand
the homeless woman a twenty-dollar bill, and that was what was done. The woman mumbled something
unintelligible as she accepted the money. She turned away as she hid the bill within her layers of clothing, and
then she presumably fell back to sleep.
That was how it needed to be. It wasn’t time yet for the Nightmare Man to awaken from his slumber. October
second was still a full ten days away. That was when the killings would start again. Besides, snuffing out the
life of this old woman wasn’t necessary. Her alcohol-addled mind wouldn’t later connect this late-night
intrusion of her makeshift home with the Nightmare Man’s return.
But the Nightmare Man was coming.
And Los Angeles would soon be weeping tears of blood.

the tour HERE
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