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Home / Urban / LEWIS GORDON: RETURN OF THE FORGOTTEN HEIR / FROZEN ROAD, HOT SECRET
FROZEN ROAD, HOT SECRET
Author: Lucky B. Excelsior
last update2025-11-03 08:29:25

Lewis and his mom quickly turned, startled by how fast the SUV came tearing down the lonely road. The midnight was thick and unwelcoming, its darkness hugging the trees.

Maria froze, her hands trembling at her sides, while Lewis steadied his breath. He squared his shoulders, courage tightening his features, ready to confront whoever would be driving around at such an ungodly hour.

He also saw an opportunity; maybe the driver could help them. They were swallowed by night and vulnerable to every danger lurking behind the silence. As the SUV drew closer, headlights flaring like twin suns, Lewis raised both hands high, waving.

“Hello! Please, can you give us a ride?” He yelled over the engine’s hum.

Brakes squealed. The vehicle stopped sharply, tires skidding slightly across the snow-kissed asphalt. The driver lowered his tinted window, and a beam from a flashlight sliced across Lewis and Maria, forcing them to squint. There was a sudden intake of breath from the man inside.

“
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  • AMBUSH AT FORT BENNETT FIELD

    The darkness inside the old operations building was thick and cold. Every step echoed faintly, a hollow sound that made the air feel heavier. The officers advanced in formation, their flashlights cutting pale beams through the gloom. “Thermal scanners up,” ordered the senior officer in command. His voice carried calm authority, measured and professional. Two junior officers raised compact scanners from their vests—sleek, tablet-sized devices that pulsed faint blue light. The digital grids flickered, scanning the rooms and broken walls. “No heat signatures,” one junior officer muttered. “Negative movement,” added another. Lewis frowned, sweeping his gaze across the dust-streaked floor. “You’re sure?” “Affirmative, sir,” said the senior officer. “Not a trace of life in this entire level.” They moved deeper. The air smelled of rust, wet concrete, and something stale—like burnt tobacco and mold. Empty shelves lined the walls. Torn maps flapped loosely from nails.

  • BEFORE THE FIRST SHOT

    He glanced again at the clock on the wall, then closed the file with a soft but final thud. “Here’s how this goes,” he said evenly. “Preparation begins now. We move in one hour. That hour is not negotiable.” Lewis’s jaw tightened. He opened his mouth, then stopped himself. His fingers flexed once against his knee before he forced them still. “One hour,” he repeated—slower this time and controlled. “And after that?” “After that,” the squad captain replied, pushing off the desk, “we execute. Tactical unit, perimeter, Harbor backup. No improvisation.” Lewis nodded, though the tension in his shoulders didn’t fade. “We will wait,” he said. “We're not leaving.” The ADA met his gaze, unblinking. “No one’s asking you to.” Maria placed a hand lightly on Lewis’s arm—not restraining, just grounding. He inhaled long and deep, then leaned back into his chair, visibly reining himself in. “I know I’m not the one wearing a badge,” he said quietly. “But Samuel already knows

  • THE HOUR OF RECKONING APPROACHES

    WOOF! WOOF! WOOF!! The sudden, guttural barking tore through the quiet morning like shattered glass. Lewis jolted awake, breath hitching as his eyes snapped open. Sunlight had crept into the room, thin golden rays slipping through the tall window slats and stretching across the carpet, dust motes drifting lazily in the glow. His head throbbed faintly, the remnants of deep, unguarded sleep still clinging to him. Another bark echoed—closer this time. WOOF! WOOF! He pushed himself upright, palms pressing into the mattress. His chest rose and fell as memory rushed back in a single, sharp wave. The unfinished business with Samuel. His gaze flicked to the small clock on the bedside table. The second hand ticked steadily, mocking in its calm. Lewis exhaled under his breath. “Damn. It's almost seven.” He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, muscles stiff but responsive. The room still smelled of clean linen and old books, unchanged—too calm for what waite

  • THE CALM AFTER CAPTIVITY

    They stepped a little farther onto the concrete walkway, their footsteps muted as the stone absorbed the sound beneath them. The night air clung cool against their skin, heavy with the faint scent of damp earth. Lewis raised his hand and pressed the doorbell. DING-DONG! DING-DONG!! The sound rang sharp and hollow, echoing briefly through the quiet compound before dissolving into the stillness. They waited, but there was no response. He pressed it again—slower this time, deliberate. DING-DONG! Still no response. Maria shifted her weight, her gaze lingering on the massive door as if willing it to open. A faint crease appeared between her brows as unease stirred. “I’m sure nobody is inside,” she murmured. Lewis exhaled through his nose, irritation flickering briefly across his face. His jaw tightened, muscles working as his mind ran through possibilities. Then he remembered something. “The key,” he said quietly. He shoved his hand into his jacket pocket, fing

  • JUSTICE ON THE BRINK

    Noah’s faint smirk faded as the ADA leaned forward, her voice dropping just enough to sharpen the threat beneath it. “Mr. Hunt,” she said evenly, “you’ve been warned. Continued refusal to disclose the whereabouts of Samuel Gordon will be interpreted as deliberate obstruction. That carries consequences you will not like. This is your final opportunity to cooperate.” Lewis felt something hot and violent surge up his spine. For half a second, his hands clenched, muscles tightening as he took a step forward before catching himself. His jaw locked, teeth grinding as he forced the instinct down. This wasn’t the street. This wasn’t chaos. This was the procedure. Maria shifted beside him, her hand tightening around his forearm—not restraining him, just anchoring him. Lewis inhaled through his nose, slow and controlled, eyes never leaving Noah. Noah swallowed. The sound was loud in the quiet room. His shoulders sagged as if a weight had finally crushed whatever resistance h

  • TRUTH AT GUNPOINT

    Then—the junior officers quickly opened the Tahoe and dragged the handcuffed man out, their boots scraping lightly against the wet asphalt as they forced him forward. His shoulders were stiff, but he did not resist violently—just enough to show defiance. Lewis and Maria followed closely behind, their movements precise and alert, their eyes scanning for any remaining threat as the city hummed quietly around them. The night air carried the acrid scent of burnt rubber and spent gunpowder, remnants of the chaos they had just escaped. Other officers converged to pave a path for them through the precinct doors. The sound of their radios crackled softly in the background, and the faint buzz of fluorescent lights flickered overhead as they crossed the threshold of the NYPD 88th Precinct. At the front desk, Mr. Redmond, the precinct head, glanced up from his paperwork, his expression composed but alert. “Is this the suspect?” he asked sharply, eyes narrowing as the officers nodded in uni

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