Crank Novels & Stories

"Krath’nal. You translate this as ‘spring-lock’?" "Yes," Pyre said, peering at his notes. "The meaning is clear." "The meaning is wrong," Borin spat, his fear buried under a wave of professional contempt. "It's soldier slang. It's not a spring." He grabbed a piece of charcoal and on a blank parchment, sketched a rough, L-shaped lever. "It's the action. The hammer falls like a spring, but it is a pivot and a weight. Your metal spring is the wrong idea completely."

Duke-X carefully opened the egg and handed the book to Chastine. “How’d you do it, Juste?” Chastine was brimming with curiosity. Juste explained it confidently at Chastine, “Heh, every 2-inch pace will get the claw to go cranky. So when it gets there, I needed to carefully move it with precision.” He then turned to Duke-X and said, “Yo, Duke, your crane machine sucks! If you wanted more people in here, you could’ve made things easier.”

But little did he envisage, Franck`s brain was ticking like London`s big clock. As he drew nearer and nearer to Franck. He lifted up the panga (machete) since he knew Franck`s hand were tied and stretched up by the rope that was linked to the pulley which was pulled and tied to the garage wall so as to keep Franck erected and in pains.

-ADRIAN POV- I've built my career on the principle that control is everything. It's the only thing that separates the people who succeed from the people who get swept away by circumstance and emotion. Control is knowing exactly what will happen before it happens. Control is building systems that work regardless of external chaos. Control is keeping the world at arm's length so nothing can touch what I've carefully constructed. And I'm very, very good at control. Which is why the assignment Marcus just handed me is simultaneously the most strategic opportunity of my career and the most genuinely irritating thing that's happened to me in months.

"The rumor concerning CRUZ company...you didn't hear it?" "CRUZ company? I didn't hear about that, what was it about?" "CRUZ company was accused of producing fake designs and forging other companies' designs of paintings. It was all over the news, Clara." There was a hint of shock and surprise in Ella's voice.

Or so she thought. “Apologies, mother. I just wanted to help you out” she said fighting the tears from falling. “If you want to help out, ask your husband to allot a specific berth for Uncle Clint” “Uncle Clint has secured a deal overseas. It’s an import/export business and it cannot be delayed” Minerva has composed herself again. “Don’t worry about the marina, Celine. Uncle Clint has a lot of dealings from overseas” “This Maverick deal is just spare change to us” she said arrogantly.

Thea's frightened eyes peered out from behind him. "Get her in the truck. We need to get out of here." Easier said than done when three shapes came hurtling over said vehicle. Marc, a chair leg in one hand, Jaxon, his revolver pointed, and Trent, hands half shifted in a feat only strong alphas could accomplish, met their charge.

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*CRUNCH. The sound was different this time. Not the clean impact on a knee, but the sickening, muffled crack of bone breaking under layers of clothing and muscle. He screamed, a high-pitched, inhuman sound of agony, the knife clattering harmlessly to the floor as his arm hung uselessly at a grotesque angle.

Zack walks in, and I internally groan when I see the file in his hand. I swear I can’t catch a fucking break. "Sir." He greets politely as he shuts the door behind him, and I wince. "I told you to just call me Alexander. You’re older than me." I complain as he crosses over the room. Zack chuckles as he pushes back the seat before me and drops on it. He slams the file on the table and wraps his hands around the arm of the chair, using his grip as an aid to drag it forward, the metal scraping against the tile. "I might be older, but you’re higher in power. It’s only respectful to–"