Malcolm York is a sadistic monster, guilty of unspeakable crimes. And with his endless wealth he’s funded a series of depraved hunts. The few who survived can never forget. They can only be thankful the terror is over. Until rumors start swirling…
Griffin Powell knows the twisted depths of York’s madness. He’s also sure that York is dead. But then Griff’s wife, Nicole, disappears and the phone calls begin—that familiar voice taunting him, promising to destroy everything Griff loves.
When You Die…
Using all the resources of the Powell Agency, Griff searches for Nic, aware that every step propels him further into a madman’s web. Because the only way to keep Nic safe is to join one last perverse game where winner kills all, and the loser is dead by nightfall…
Praise for Beverly Barton’s Don’t Cry
“A shivery read… Tight twists and hairpin turns will keep readers racing through the pages.” --Bookpage
“Barton delivers a solid mix of romance and terror in her latest thriller.” –Publishers Weekly
Ciro Mayorga deserved to die. In truth, the sadistic bastard
deserved far worse. If there was any justice in this unjust
world, he would have suffered untold misery for years
on end. He would have been beaten and starved, hunted like
a wild animal, and then forcefully sodomized before being
utterly humiliated and tortured until he begged for mercy.
Rafe Byrne believed in the old biblical eye-for-an-eye
type of justice and had made it his life’s mission to dole out
payment in kind for the unforgivable sins that men such as
Mayorga had committed. It had taken him sixteen years to
hunt down and eliminate four of Malcolm York’s closest
friends and associates, the men York had so often entertained
on Amara. Tanaka, Di Santis, Klausner, and Sternberg.
And now Rafe had captured Mayorga.
The fifty-year-old Spaniard sweated profusely. Rivulets
of perspiration ran down his throat and across his flabby bare
chest. The distinctive brand between his nipples, a bright
pink against his olive skin, no doubt still burned like hell, as
did an identical brand in the center of his back and on each butt
cheek. The smell of charred flesh temporarily overpowered
the scent of fresh hay and manure. Blood dripped from the
numerous deep whelps crisscrossing his body, back and front,
from neck to ankles. The still-hot branding iron and bloody
whip lay at Rafe’s feet, both objects used in exacting some
small measure of revenge.
Suffering the torment of the damned, Mayorga whimpered
continuously between agonized cries and pathetic pleas.
His pleas fell on deaf ears.
The naked man hung by his bound wrists from the rafters
in the horse barn, his carcass dangling like a side of butchered
beef. As Rafe approached him, Mayorga’s bleary gaze
struggled to focus on the weapon in his tormentor’s hand. In
a useless attempt to escape the inevitable, he struggled to
free his raw, rope-burned wrists. Knowing the fate that
awaited him, he screamed in terror. No one else, save God
and the Devil, could hear the man. And only God, the Devil,
and Rafe were present when Rafe used the sharp, serrated
knife to castrate the demon whose soul was destined for