Excerpt Reveal: Deep Freeze by Michael C. Grumley

From the bestselling author of the Breakthrough series: In his next near-future thriller, Michael C. Grumley explores humanity’s thirst for immortality—at any cost…

“A fast-paced juggernaut of a story, where revelations pile upon revelations, building to a stunning conclusion that will leave readers clamoring for more.” —James Rollins, #1 New York Times bestselling author of the Sigma Force series

The accident came quickly. With no warning. In the dead of night, a precipitous plunge into a freezing river trapped everyone inside the bus. It was then that Army veteran John Reiff’s life came to an end. Extinguished in the sudden rush of frigid water.

There was no expectation of survival. None. Let alone waking up beneath blinding hospital lights. Struggling to move, or see, or even breathe. But the doctors assure him that everything is normal. That things will improve. And yet, he has a strange feeling that there’s something they’re not telling him.

As Reiff’s mind and body gradually recover, he becomes certain that the doctors are lying to him. One-by-one, puzzle pieces are slowly falling into place, and he soon realizes that things are not at all what they seem. Critical information is being kept from him. Secrets. Supposedly for his own good. But who is doing this? Why? And the most important question: can he keep himself alive long enough to uncover the truth?

Deep Freeze will be available on January 9th, 2024. Please enjoy the following excerpt!

CHAPTER ONE

The slide of the gun was pulled and released in one quick motion, giving its distinctive metallic sound as it snapped back and automatically chambered the first bullet.

Outside the car, another snowfall was heavily dotting the car’s windshield and hood as well as the ground around them; a pothole-ridden parking lot, partially illuminated by the bright interior lights of a convenience store.

Scanning the area revealed an empty street, and on the far side, away from the road, a small one-story veterans’ hall—dark and empty, surrounded by an undisturbed snowy field. Behind them, a single streetlamp, two blocks away, provided a shower of light upon a tiny building, the town’s only bus stop.

“Let’s go!”

“Wait!” A nineteen-year-old sporting a dark ski mask stared through the back window toward the stop. A distant cloud of billowing heat rose from the tail end of the bus. Only the back half was visible on the other side of the small building. Between them, thousands of snowflakes drifted gently down from the darkened sky above, some passing through the glow from the distant streetlamp as they fell.

“What the hell are you waiting for?”

“The bus, man!”

“So what?”

“Wait till it leaves!”

“What? Hell no! Go now!”

“What if they see me?”

The driver, another teenager, glanced back and shook his head. “Ain’t no one gonna see you at this distance. Just go!”

The first teenager hesitated, contemplating, before his adrenaline finally won out.

“Fine! Turn the car and get ready.”

The warmth inside the store was welcoming. Beneath a ceiling of old fluorescent lights, most still working, the modest store packed a surprising amount of shelf space within its meager walls, despite some remaining empty.

Near the front, a television was affixed to the wall just below the ceiling, displaying the local news.

Behind the counter, the cashier smiled politely at the woman and small boy before him while bagging their items. Two bottles of water, a bag of potato chips, and a tiny box of painkillers.

The man, presumably the owner, repeated the amount displayed on the register and took the money without comment, briefly noting the second customer in line behind the woman, who was patiently watching the TV overhead, and carrying a small four-pack of beer.

The man in line looked quietly at the mayhem playing out across the large screen. Thousands had gathered in downtown Philadelphia to protest. Signs bobbed up and down while throngs of people chanted and marched forward in a surging wave of anger.

The picture moved, panning to another section of street, where perhaps a dozen had descended upon an empty police car, beating and smashing its side windows while others climbed on top to stomp and crush the vehicle’s red-and-blue lights. A Molotov cocktail was thrown against the side of a nearby building and exploded into flame, causing the mob to roar and cheer.

The customer in line was the only one watching, silent and staring. Neither the owner nor the woman and her son bothered to look up.

It was almost a daily occurrence. Citizens rising up in anger. Yelling, marching, and destroying. This one appeared to be a crowd of city workers furious over labor conditions. The night before was in downtown New York.

His thoughts were interrupted by a chime when the outside door was suddenly pushed open, followed by a brief blast of frigid air. And with it, a young man with wide brown eyes staring through two large holes in his ski mask.

Behind the counter, the owner glanced up momentarily and then froze when a gun appeared in the hand of the teenager, who briskly scanned the store for anyone else, but found only the three in front of him.

Noting the look on the owner’s face, the woman turned and gasped, clumsily stumbling backward in an effort to shield her son. The thug’s eyes narrowed and focused past her.

Mere seconds had passed when behind the thug a bottle was retrieved from its carton and smashed down over the hand gripping the gun, breaking the bone in an audible crack.

The masked teenager screamed and dropped the gun. In a panic, he scrambled backward and lost his balance, falling to the floor. The eyes behind the mask were wild and changed their focus from searching for the gun to searching for an exit. Whirling around to find the glass doors behind him, the teenager immediately pushed forward and lunged outside, on one good hand and both knees.

Over the icy concrete, he struggled to his feet and bolted clumsily for the waiting car. Flinging its door open, he jumped in, screaming.

Inside, the cashier retrieved a revolver from a shelf below the counter, then, after watching the car rocket from the parking lot, turned to his male customer with a stunned expression. The man was still holding the bottle in his hand, while the woman at the counter stood immobile, still clutching her son behind her.

Without a word, the man placed the beer bottle back into the cardboard holder and glanced at the gun on the floor. Bending over, he picked it up, then stepped past the trembling woman to place both items on the counter and retrieve his wallet.

He held out a bill to find the owner staring at him incredulously, before simply shaking his head and motioning for him to take the item.

The customer nodded in appreciation and picked the carton back up, leaving the gun on the counter. Without comment, he turned and pushed through the glass doors, back into the snowy night air.

The first bottle was empty by the time he reached the stop. With crunching snow beneath every step, he slid it back into the carton and opened another.

Upon reaching the idling bus, he gently tapped the base of his second bottle against the vehicle’s tall glass door, which was promptly opened from the inside.

The driver frowned from his seat. “No open containers.”

The man, sporting a heavy two-day shadow, stared at the driver and nodded. He scanned the area surrounding the tiny station and found a trash can. He approached it, finished the second beer, and discarded both empty bottles.

He returned and looked to the driver for approval, and the driver motioned him up the steps.

The last to reboard were the mother and son, the woman staring in silence as they retook their seats.

The man looked out his window, into the darkness at the shadowed outlines of their surroundings. One of the houses on the far side of the street was still illuminated by what looked to be a living room window. The rest of the buildings lay dark and appeared as muted shapes obscured beyond the increasingly dense snowfall.

He paid little attention. His thoughts were elsewhere. On his destination . . . when he was interrupted in his seat.

It was the woman. The mother. Of the boy, who was perhaps seven or eight and peering cautiously at them over his seat’s headrest.

The woman was standing over him, appearing flustered. Unsure of what to say.

“I just,” she stammered, “wanted to say thank you.”

The man’s expression was wholly unconcerned, but he nodded receptively while the driver put the bus into gear and slowly accelerated.

“No problem.”