Overlook

Overlook A Night Novel Dustin Stevens Contents Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Chapter 39 Chapter 40 Chapter 41 Chapter 42 Chapter 43 Chapter 44 Chapter 45 Chapter 46 Chapter 47 Chapter 48 Chapter 49 Chapter 50 Chapter 51 Chapter 52 Chapter 53 Chapter 54 Chapter 55 Chapter 56 Chapter 57 Chapter 58 Chapter 59 Chapter 60 Chapter 61 Chapter 62 Chapter 63 Chapter 64 Chapter 65 Chapter 66 Chapter 67 Chapter 68 Chapter 69 Chapter 70 Chapter 71 Chapter 72 Chapter 73 Chapter 74 Chapter 75 Chapter 76 Chapter 77 Chapter 78 Chapter 79 Chapter 80 Chapter 81 Epilogue Sneak Peek Thank You Free Book Dustin’s Books About the Author Overlook Copyright © 2023, Dustin Stevens Warning: All rights reserved. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work, in whole or part, in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, is illegal and forbidden, without the written permission of the author. This is a work of fiction. Characters, settings, names, and occurrences are a product of the author’s imagination and bear no resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, places or settings, and/or occurrences. Any incidences of resemblance are purely coincidental. Cover Art and Design: Christian Bentulan Formatting: Jamie Davis No beast is more savage than man when possessed with power answerable to his rage. —Plutarch Chapter One Now “G, come in. Over.” The sound is from a standard two-way radio. A mechanized voice preceded by a burst of static, followed by a distinctive click. A clear end to the transmission, letting the receiver know the line is theirs to reply. An answer the man standing on the beach thirty yards away from me seems in no hurry to provide. Intent on getting the last few drags of his cigarette, he stands with his automatic weapon cradled against his chest. A midsized rifle with a magazine curved away from the base. A Kalashnikov, if I’m forced to guess, the thin moonlight overhead and my current position not exactly giving me the best viewing angle. A red cherry appears as he inhales deeply before flicking the remaining butt out into the water before him. A move steeped in complete disdain, his every movement since the top of my head first crested the water four minutes ago letting it be known that he would rather be anywhere else in the world. A sentry posted on the south end of Fawn Island, a tiny knob of earth rising out of Deer Harbor. Two and a half acres of dense pine forest resting atop a mass of boulders and rock beaches. Space enough for just a single estate, purchased both ten and six years ago before being sold one last time to its current owner. A sprawling mansion flanked by a pair of smaller guesthouses. Structures all arranged to the north and center of the island, making the lone gunman standing before me the sole line of defense on the south end. A football field of dense forestation separates him from where the party will take place tomorrow night. No doubt the reason for the disdain he wears like a cloak. Contempt for drawing the proverbial short straw and being cast down here, forced to stare at nothing but the darkened waters of the open end of the harbor. Endless trips across the sun-bleached shells of mussels left behind by the natives who called this place home a century ago. An omnipresent crunching sound, almost as distinct as the radio squawking from his belt. Noises that pass easily across the cold water, finding my ears resting just inches above it. A tiny spike in a flat sea stretching out wide before him. An aberration that would be almost impossible to see, even if he did give a damn about his job and bothered to look up every once in a while. “Still here,” the man known as G replies. Releasing the tab on the side of the radio for a moment, he lets a blast of static come in before adding, “Still not a damn thing to see out here in the dark.” Turning sideways to the shore, he begins his march anew. Another trek back across the gravel bar masquerading as a beach. An opening between two craggy outcroppings measuring no more than thirty yards across. Rocky endcaps to the razored cliffs surrounding ninety percent of the island, arranged in an inverted horseshoe formation. An opening I spotted on our scouting trip earlier in the day. A lazy jaunt with my daughter behind the steering wheel while I posed as a retired fisherman, right down to the fishing gear I carried and the oversized wave I’d offered to the guard watching from the eastern rock formation. Another little bastard like the one before me. Young punks playing dress up, wearing tactical attire they saw in some movie and carrying pieces of shit rifles. Guys holding themselves out as guns for hire, when in reality they are more like window dressing. Damned ceramic owls resting atop a building, hoping to keep pigeons from shitting on it, but not able to actually do a damn thing to stop them. “Look alive,” the voice on the other end instructs. “Never know what could be out there in the dark.” The guard doesn’t bother to reply. Returning the radio to his belt, I hear him mutter, “Yeah, yeah.” Words of dismissal just barely audible over the brittle shells being pulverized beneath his feet. The signal I’ve been waiting for. Floating with my body parallel to the surface, I grip the twin handles