by Jack Quaid
Praise for Jack Quaid
Escape from Happydale is part Buffy, part Halloween, with a touch of wry humor in between. A bloody good tale!
Laura B., Proofreader, Red Adept Publishing
This book should come with a warning and that warning should read: DON’T MAKE ANY DAMN PLANS!
SPACE AND THUNDER MAGAZINE
Give JACK QUAID a typewriter, a bottle of bourbon and two weeks and he’ll give you a novel that blows your socks off!
Daniel S Perry, author of the ‘Mecha Man’ series
Vigilante Reloaded
HARD BOILED
Jack Quaid
ELECTRIC MAYHEM
Copyright © 2019 by Jack Quaid
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Created with Vellum
What the hell is this about?
The cage fighting equivalent of a police procedural
* * *
Veteran detective Angus Sullivan has a bad attitude, a smart mouth and a keen understanding of the criminal mind. Those things and a little bit of luck have kept him alive, but Angus’ luck is about to be put to the ultimate test.
* * *
When every clue in a robbery gone wrong points to a unit of corrupt cops, Angus is forced to confront the cop culture he’s been a part of his entire career. Hunted, alone and with no place left to turn, Angus embarks on a pedal to the metal, action packed hell ride down into the gutters where right and wrong quickly become twisted and problems are solved with gunfire and bloodshed.
* * *
Angus will put his own morality on the line, but will he become the very monster he set out to destroy?
* * *
This explosive noir thriller is perfect for fans of heroes who shoot first and ask questions later.
* * *
Start reading to experience Angus Sullivan’s pulse pounding rampage now!
Who the hell is Jack Quaid?
Between the years 1980 and 1999, American novelist Jack Quaid produced a series of fun and wild stories where anything could happen, and with Quaid behind the typewriter, they usually did. He called these books his Electric Mayhem series.
* * *
Jack Quaid was born in West Hollywood, California, in 1953. He won a scholarship to UCLA but dropped out after six months for a reason that, to this day, remains unknown. Two years later, he sold his first short story to Startling Mystery Magazine, but it was the publication of his novel The City on the Edge of Tomorrow in 1980 and the film adaptation starring Bruce Dern that set him on his way.
* * *
Fearing his initial success would fade, Quaid wrote obsessively for the next two decades and published under many pseudonyms. It’s unknown just how many books he produced during this period, but despite the name on the jacket, savvy readers always knew they were reading a Jack Quaid novel within the first few pages.
* * *
His books have long been out of print, and they now live on the dusty shelves of secondhand bookstores and in the memories of those who have been lucky enough to read them.
Quaid’s current whereabouts are unknown.
* * *
www.jackquaidbooks.com
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
Also by Jack Quaid
Chapter One
Two days ago, division found a half beaten, half pretty, naked fifteen-year-old girl stumbling down the Eight Mile. The case got bumped to Sex Crimes, then the CO bumped it to Sullivan. The girl didn’t speak a word of English, and after a translator arrived she didn’t speak a word of anything. Yesterday, Sullivan and Winter hit up every pimp and whorehouse in a two-mile radius of where she was found. An hour ago, they got an address from a gonzo smut shooter as to where simulated rape videos were being shot. Only they weren’t so simulated.
Winter shifted her attention from the dirty windshield to the clock on her phone. ‘What the hell takes so long?’
‘Relax,’ Sullivan said. ‘It takes as long as it takes.’
She mumbled some profanity and shifted her weight from one ass cheek to the other.
Sullivan lit a cigarette and wound down the window. The shit smell of three-day-old roasting garbage blew through the car from the rubbish bins some bastard had kicked over the night before. He fixed his gaze on the green stucco house at the end of the street. Three bedrooms. One bathroom. Paint-chipped walls. Overgrown lawns and a burnt-out shell of a car in the yard. In short, the joint was a shithole.
The radio crackled to life. ‘Any movement out there?’
Winter picked it up, pushed it to her lips. ‘Nothing but the street. How about you guys?’
Moose and Winters were around the back of the house doing the exact same thing they were: sweating, waiting, and trying their best to stay alert in the heat.
Twenty minutes and another cigarette later, Sullivan watched a car pull up in the rearview. He slipped on his sunglasses, climbed out, and clocked the street: empty in every direction.
An hour ago he sent Reeves to get a warrant so they could go and kick in the door, and he could tell by the look on his face that he had come back empty-handed. ‘The judge wouldn’t go for it,’ he said.
Winter was a hothead. She kicked the side of the car. ‘Damn it!’
She left a dent the shape of her foot. Sullivan ignored the outburst and shifted his gaze back to Reeves. ‘Did you go to Kean?’ he asked.
‘And to Beechworth and Pointon. They all said the same thing: not enough evidence for a warrant.’
A breeze pushed across Sullivan’s sweaty face as he turned to watch the green stucco house. His mind raced with all the horrible things that were going on inside. Still, they were probably nowhere near as bad as the reality.
He took a breath.
To hell with it.
Sullivan popped the trunk, pulled out a shotgun, racked it, and moved toward the house with Winter and Reeves in his wake. ‘You hear that?’
Winter looked up and down the quiet street. ‘I don’t hear a thing?’
‘I hear screaming,’ Sullivan said. ‘Waiting for a warrant, we heard screams then entered.’
Winter pulled her weapon, checked the chamber, and let the slide fall back into position. ‘Works for me.’
Sullivan told Reeves to go get lost in traffic. A moment later, he pulled into the street, and the sound of the engine faded away.
Sullivan wip
ed his face with the sleeve of his leather jacket as they crouched behind a dilapidated picket fence.
Winter handed him the radio, and he pushed it to his lips. ‘I want you boys to wait a couple of minutes, then meet me around the back.’
Winters’s voice filtered back through the two-way. ‘Sure, boss.’
‘Where do you want me?’ Winter asked.
‘Front of the house. Pick the lock, quietly.’
‘What if the shit hits the fan?’
Sullivan gave it some thought, rubbed his jaw. ‘If the shit hits the fan, kick the door in and keep your head down.’
They separated. Bent at the waist, Sullivan made it down the street past the two parked cars on the curb and slid behind a shitbox Ford up on blocks in the front yard.
Sullivan peeked over the hood. Tattered yellow curtains that were once white hung in the windows and blocked any way of seeing in. He moved closer. Dry grass crunched under his feet as he crept between the house and the fence. The windows were painted black, and beyond that, at the rear of the property, lay burnt grass and a makeshift fireplace surrounded by empty beer bottles and cigarette butts.
He pushed against the back wall of the house, unclipped his radio, and pushed it to his lips. ‘I’m here,’ he whispered.
A beat later Sullivan saw movement.
Winters and Moose. Each held their weapon with one hand while they climbed over the rear fence with the other. The pair wore Hawaiian shirts, loud, offensive. They sidled up to Sullivan. ‘I take it we’re going in, boss?’ Winters asked.
Sullivan nodded. ‘There’s no warrant; you boys up for that?’
‘Cool with us,’ Moose said. ‘I’m assuming we heard screams?’
Sullivan nodded. His eyes shifted to the back door. ‘That thing locked?’
Winters slipped his fingers around the knob and quietly turned. Locked.
He told them to pick it. Winters got started as Sullivan knelt down beside the basement trapdoor. The forty-dollar padlock was a good attempt at security, but the rusted-out latch it was connected to wasn’t. Sullivan pulled his flick knife and undid the screws. When he was finished, he looked to Winters and Moose and their Hawaiian shirts. ‘Just try and blend in, would you?’
And then Sullivan stepped into the darkness.
The smell was terrible. Shards of light pushed through the cracks in the newspaper-covered windows. It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the black. Dog cages lined each side of the damp pit.
There was a sound.
Sullivan swung his shotgun low and to the left: a cage. Naked girl. Twelve years old—maybe. She huddled in a corner and tried to cover herself, but there wasn’t much space for her to move and nothing to cover herself with.
Sullivan brought a finger to his lips. ‘Shh.’
Whatever language she spoke, she understood.
He dug his hand into his pocket and pulled out a flashlight. Hitting the switch, he scanned the basement: two more cages, two more girls.
The floorboards above creaked. Dust sprinkled down and fell through the light; somebody was in the house, and judging by the steps, they were around two hundred and fifty pounds’ worth.
Sullivan headed up the three wooden steps, wrapped his fingers around the doorknob, opened it a crack, and peeked through.
The hall was empty.
He stepped onto the warped floorboards and closed the basement door behind him. Despite their attempts at blacking out the windows, the hall was bright, the walls bare and yellow and the floors scuffed and dusty. Muffled sounds of fucking leaked from the front of the house. Sullivan raised his shotgun and took baby steps toward the source. Each room he passed was bare, empty, and cold. Nobody lived there and hadn’t for a long time.
The scene was common enough: the makers shoot fuck films in empty houses for a couple of weeks before moving on to another location. By the time the movies are shot, cut, distributed, and intercepted by the LAPD, the location is already two months old and pointless tracking down.
Sullivan passed through the kitchen. The fuck sounds grew louder as he neared the doorframe and waited, the nightmare only inches away on the other side of the flimsy wall. Sweat ran down his face. His palms were wet. He wiped them on his jeans, took a breath. . . Then. . . is heart stopped dead.
A barrel pushed into the back of his neck. ‘Easy,’ the voice said as a hand took away his shotgun. Sullivan turned and ran his gaze from the .357 up the arm of the musclebound monster. He was tattooed from head to toe, and with a minor tilt of his head, the monster motioned to the other room. Without seeing any other choice, Sullivan stepped into the lounge.
Four men.
Girl on the floor. Crying. Dirty mattress.
Table of knives.
Above the girl, a fifth man. Masked. Naked, machete in hand.
Sullivan was outmanned and outgunned. He scanned over the shitty situation. ‘You’re all under arrest,’ he said.
Nobody was amused.
Then just on cue, Winter kicked the front door to splinters, scanned the room, and took aim.
Sullivan hit the deck.
She fired. Sprayed what was left of the monster’s head on the wall.
Scumbags yanked out weapons.
Sidearm in hand, Sullivan rose to his feet. The masked man moved on him, machete above his head. Sullivan wrapped his finger around the trigger and fired.
The blast exploded out of his weapon, slammed into the son-of-a-bitch masked man, and sent him falling back into the wall.
A scumbag lurched at Winter. She fired. Missed. He tackled her to the ground.
Sullivan felt a gun on him: the director. He raised his weapon as the girl on the mattress jumped to her feet.
Terrified. She tried to run—didn’t know where.
Sullivan shifted his aim, tried to get a shot around her.
‘Down!’ he yelled.
She didn’t hear. Couldn’t hear. The director about to shoot them both.
No time: Sullivan slammed the butt of his gun across her cheek and put her out cold.
Scumbag shot. Missed. Hit Winters instead, and Winters hit the floor.
They opened up. Sullivan took out the director with two in the chest as Moose put six into the one on the right.
Winter was still down on the floor. She had a bastard twice her size in a headlock. Veins on his forehead popped. Spit pushed though his clenched teeth. A moment later, his body went limp, and as fast as all the bad noise started, it came to a stop, leaving only the heavy breathing of the living and gun smoke lingering in the air.
The scene chilled.
Moose helped Winters to his feet. He leaned against the wall and coughed.
‘You alright?’ Sullivan asked.
Winters tore at the velcro and let the bullet-ridden vest drop to his feet. He ran his fingers over his chest. ‘Think I busted a rib.’
‘You’ll live,’ Sullivan said as Winter peeled herself off the floor and scooped up her weapon. ‘How about you?’
‘I’m good.’ She motioned to the monster out cold on the floor. ‘Better than him anyway.’
The smoke burnt Sullivan’s throat. He lit a cigarette and called to Moose. ‘There’s three girls in the basement; get them out and call an ambulance.’
As Moose left, the adrenaline in Sullivan’s body began to bleed away. He dry rubbed his eyes, and when he opened them, it was to the sight of a naked child, battered, bruised, and out cold by his feet. Sullivan lifted her onto the couch. She weighed next to nothing, and his leather jacket looked enormous draped over her small body. Greasy hair lay over her face; he slipped a strand behind her ear.
‘What is she, thirteen?’ Winter asked.
‘If that.’
A cracked window from a stray bullet let a warm breeze flow over the room, drying the blood on the walls while the police sirens grew louder in the distance.
A shootout was a hell of a way to start the day, Sullivan thought.
Chapter Two
; ‘Why didn’t you wait for a warrant?’
‘We heard screams coming from the house.’
Jim Jones’s arching eyebrow pulled up half of his face. ‘Screams?’
‘Can I smoke in here?’ Sullivan already had one in her mouth and was looking for a light.
‘No,’ Lopez said. ‘You can’t.’
‘Won’t be much longer, Detective,’ Jones said, trying to smooth things over. Failing.
Sullivan pulled the cigarette from his lips and slid it back into the packet. He looked at Jones then shifted his eyes to Lopez with a sigh. It was the standard post-incident Internal Affairs debriefing. Sullivan had run through the same story twice and, by the look of Lopez, she wanted to go through it again.
‘Were you the only one who heard the screams?’ she asked.
‘My partner, Jane Winter, was with me. She heard them as well.’
‘What about . . .’ She thumbed through some papers. ‘Moose and Winters?’
‘They were at the rear of the house. You’ll have to ask them.’