1888: Year of the Devil by Phillip Bonner
The man pounded up the main path toward the church doors, then veered sharply left around the side. Harker followed, lungs on fire, past tilting crosses and wilted wreaths.
Darkness deepened—no gas lamps penetrated here. Only pale moonlight and the occasional glint off wet stone guided him.
A sudden right at the church’s rear corner. Harker rounded it blindly, chest heaving, arms pumping.
Boom!
An outstretched arm slammed into his face like a bar of iron.
His nose took the full impact; he flew backward, crashing onto the paving stones. His head snapped just shy of cracking against them, but his back absorbed the jolt—pain lancing down his spine.
Before he could draw breath, the man was on him: knees pinning his chest, massive hands clamping his wrists to the cold ground.
Harker groaned, winded, helpless under the crushing weight.
The man leaned in close, face inches away.
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