Thriller Narrator Novels & Stories

The city didn’t. My phone vibrated against the metal table beside the cot, dragging me awake. I reached for it without hurry. The screen lit up with headlines. Lawson City Terror: Three Doctors Slain by an Anonymous Sniper. The Return of ‘Ghost.’ A quiet laugh slipped from my throat. “Return,” I repeated under my breath. I turned on the small mounted TV. A reporter stood outside the hospital, police tape fluttering behind her. Flashing red and blue lights painted everything in harsh color.

"Alright, stop sulking. The frustrating part is finally over. Next comes the satisfying part, where the hero solves cases and takes his revenge!" When I opened my eyes again, the stench of blood and the searing pain in my body were gone. I found myself standing in front of my apartment door once more, completely unharmed. My hands were reaching for the doorknob when I saw the bursts of live comments again. "Don't open the door! That dude isn't a delivery guy at all! He's a murderer!" "He called you to check if you're a woman living alone!" "Seriously, why are all thriller story protagonists always so dumb? The delivery guy is obviously suspicious, yet she still wants to open the door."

She looked so peaceful yet fragile. "Sir," I heard a voice and I turned to see Jackson standing at the doorway. "Jackson," I muttered, rubbing my eyes. "Can we have a moment?" He muttered, looking grim. "Sure," I nodded and followed him outside. "We have news," Nicholas said. "What news?" I asked. "The shooter was indeed hired by Neil," Jackson muttered. God! "Shooter? So he didn't do it himself," I growled. "Are you sure?" "Yes, he was a professional shooter from Boston. Nicolai Thomson. He did it on the orders of Neil," Jackson answered, looking equally grim as I felt.

“I-I told you.” I settled myself into a killer mode. Without breaking eye contact, I started, “No. You never tell me the whole story. And let me tell you something, I’m good at interrogation, and trust me when I say I don’t give a shit skinning you alive or pulling off your teeth or your nails one by one. Do you know why nobody checks us out here? Because they know me, and nobody dares to come to help you. You’re on your own right now, so help yourself while you can. The way you talk, handle a gun, and moves, you seem to know many things more than I expected from you. Now, tell me, who do you work for?” Her fingers trembled. Her face blanched when she noticed me I was dead serious about it.

“But people will ask why you carry a rifle while jogging with your wife.” “Because people keep trying to kill me,” I shot back flatly. “I've been here to report threats to my life and you guys haven't been able to give me a clue as to who wants me dead.” The room went quiet for a second. Harris wrote something down, then looked up again. “Do you have any idea who might’ve ordered this hit?” I leaned back, folding my arms. “Let’s just say my list of suspects isn’t short. But I want to hear what those men tell you before I say anything else.”

He holds his mic like a lily at a funeral. “Mr. Boucher,” he crows, “Did Mr. Giordano bankroll your crimes? Are you the bridge between white-collar theft and organized-” “Get a better source,” I say, and it buys me nothing but my own small satisfaction. The cuffs bite in familiar places. The agent riding shotgun makes a performance of calling someone and saying, “We have him,” like the day needed narration. I think of Emmeline’s kettle and the way she writes names on a chalkboard like she’s making a spell. I think of Jackson counting rings. I think of Asher on the bridge yesterday, choosing to stop pretending the crown belongs to anyone else.

He wasn’t just trying to take my witness. He was trying to take the monopoly. The cliffhanger wasn’t in the gun, or the threat. It was in her trembling lips, about to speak. It was in the monstrous, possessive love in my brother’s dead eyes. And it was in my own hand, already moving toward the weapon at my own back, knowing that tonight, the safe house would earn its name in blood.

The moment those words left my mouth, my sisters and mother stared at me, their eyes wide open. "And my other brothers are serial killers," said a heavy and deep voice. I was suddenly shocked when I realized we had been overheard. As Nikon walked in, he folded his arms and leaned against the wall very casually. "Is that what you are trying to imply? I know why you must think that about me. I’m a rich man who loves to help people. Many good people with empathy for others get dragged into nasty rumors. I’m no exception." The liar he was. He was calling himself an empath when he had killed so many innocent people right before my eyes.

Yet every instinct told me to run. The figure stood motionless. Watching the city. Watching us. Watching everything. The survivors began trembling. One dropped his weapon. Another fell to his knees. Renn's face became utterly bloodless. The old scholar looked like he had seen death itself. "What is it?" I whispered. For several seconds, he couldn't answer. Then he finally spoke. A single sentence. A sentence that made my heart stop. "That's the jailer." Cold dread flooded through me. The jailer.

​“I didn’t do it, David.” ​“I believe you,” Thorne said. “But the jury won’t. Vane has played this perfectly. He’s turned the narrative. Now you’re the violent vigilante, and he’s the victim of a corporate feud.” ​“I need to make a call,” I said. ​“You get one,” Thorne warned. “Make it count.” ​He handed me his phone. ​I didn’t call Adrian. I didn’t call the bank. ​I dialed the number that was etched into my soul.