Jack Canon's American Destiny

Showing posts with label Crime. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Crime. Show all posts

Saturday, September 27, 2014

#Excerpt from BIRTH OF AN ASSASSIN @Stone_Rik #AmReading #Thriller #Suspense

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Otto’s mind takes him back to finding his mother at the Serbsky Institute
Inmates had jittered and made signs at him as he made his way through the corridors. “Please help me,” he heard from some and, “They have me here because of my political beliefs,” from others. They’d reached out to him as he passed, and his insides had quaked. With the stench of piss and shit everywhere, revulsion filled him. But he’d felt no compassion for these people. He hadn’t given a fuck about them. Only his mother mattered.
“This way,” the nurse had said. “She’s through here.”
He found her in a large open room. She sat on the only piece of furniture in it. The chair was pushed back against the wall and she rocked slightly, staring blankly into nothingness. Spittle leaked from her mouth and she was barely recognizable as the woman he loved. Her long, luxurious, oily-black hair had been shaven to the skin. Her teeth had somehow been removed and her formerly full face had caved in because of it. Like a corpse, she was yellowed and sunken. Only 47 years old and she looked twice that. He’d wished he hadn’t found her and cried bitterly – in front of those sadistic bastards that called themselves nurses.
More like prison guards. And in reality, that’s what they were. Soviet dissidents ended up in places like Serbsky, out of harm’s way. In mental hospitals where they could be abused and broken. Somewhere to extinguish credibility. He’d seen those inmates beaten, teeth punched or kicked from their faces. And if they still didn’t bow to the might of the people, enforced lobotomy wasn’t unheard of as a final step.
With desperation, he’d hoped his mother hadn’t suffered such cruelty.
*
And now, somehow, she’d made it through to 60. Why, oh why had she lasted this long? All those years, and still she rocked on that old wooden chair and stared at nothing. How could life be this cruel?
He remembered the first time he’d visited the asylum in full Spetsnaz uniform. After calling several of the nurses together, he said, “I know you all have military connections. On that basis, I won’t explain this uniform. Each of you has some sort of responsibility to my mother. The good news is you’re about to receive an extra income. The bad news: if you don’t look after my mother properly and see she gets the kind of care and nourishment she needs, I may have to call on my KGB colleagues. I hope we all understand what that could mean.”
Memories dissolved as he entered the large open room. On his instructions, her hair had been left to grow. But now it was too long and no one had shown it a comb. Still she rocked, gazing into nothingness with the expression of a lunatic on her face.
The burly warder turned to leave but Otto grabbed his arm. “We have an agreement. Next time I come here, I expect my mother to be presentable. Look at her, her hair hasn’t had attention for who knows how long. She needs a bath and a change of clothes. She looks like she’s just puked down them.”
“I err…,” the nurse spluttered with a voice too high for his size.
“Fuck you and your errs. Why do I pay you people so much? I’ll say this once. If I’m not satisfied with the way she looks next time I come, I’ll personally see to it that you have teeth to match hers. And each time after that, I’ll take you a step further down that road. Clear enough?”
“Yes, Captain. I’ll see to it myself.”
The nurse left and Otto looked at his mother. His heart brimmed. The only woman he’d ever loved – could ever love. He got down on his honkers, and took her hand. No sign of recognition, but at least she didn’t pull away.
“Hello, Mother, how are you today?”

Set against the backdrop of Soviet, post-war Russia, Birth of an Assassin follows the transformation of Jez Kornfeld from wide-eyed recruit to avenging outlaw. Amidst a murky underworld of flesh-trafficking, prostitution and institutionalized corruption, the elite Jewish soldier is thrown into a world where nothing is what it seems, nobody can be trusted, and everything can be violently torn from him.
Buy Now @ AmazonB&NKobo & Waterstones
Genre - Thriller, Crime, Suspense
Rating – R
More details about the author
Connect with Rik Stone on Facebook & Twitter

Wednesday, May 28, 2014

The King of Sunday Morning by J.B. McCauley @MccauleyJay #Crime #Thriller #Action

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The Mile End Mambo - 1990

He held him in his arms and looked into the glassy eyes. Yellow flecks dotted the cornea. This boy was dead a long time before Roger had run him through. He knew the look. Too much top shelf and not enough down time.

The body from which life dramatically seeped away began to convulse. It would not be a Hollywood death. It would be a harsh demise for this gangster. Unexpected but unavoidable. He had stepped on the wrong toes and nobody touched Roger’s patch.

The big screen had always glamorised death but there was nothing glamorous about having a gaping 12-inch gash where your stomach had once been. Roger’s white shirt was splattered with blood and sputum. He noted to himself with an air of cold detachment that he would have to dispose of it later. The boy soldier’s back arched in agony. A gurgling noise rushed from his throat and then he was gone.

Roger put his arm underneath the boy’s knees and slowly lifted him from the red morass that had filled the doorway. He cradled him in his arms and walked slowly along the pavement. A young couple averted their gaze as he struggled with the limp body. They knew not to look. This was after all the witching hour in the East End. What you don’t see, you can’t tell. He turned the corner and moved into another shop doorway. It was a Dixon’s electrical shop exalting the latest stereos and TV’s.

Roger placed the body carefully on the ground. He took one final look at what 10 minutes ago had been the epitome of arrogance, bravery and youth, then left. He walked quickly to the edge of Walters Street, turned into Burden and darted through a now deserted car park and onto Rially. He saw a red telephone box just up from Dunston Road. He opened the door and tried to ignore the stench of piss and shit. He dialled the number and waited patiently for the connection.

“Rudi?”

His rich baritone West-Indian voice caressed the receiver.

“Yeah, he’s in Dixon’s shopfront on Walters Street.” He paused, digesting the question on the other end of the line.

“Yeah he’s dead. Dead as a door nail. See you at home.”

With that, he hung up the phone and disappeared into the night. His red Rasta beanie swaying as he loped through the shadows. The victim wouldn’t be missed. Roger had nothing to fear. The status quo had been maintained and an example had been made.
Most of all, Rudi would be pleased.

King of Sunday Morning

Buy Now @ Amazon
Genre – Thriller, Action, Suspense, Gangster, Crime, Music
Rating – PG-18
More details about the author and the book
Connect with J.B. McCauley on Facebook & Twitter

Wednesday, April 2, 2014

Generation by William Knight @_William_Knight #BlogTour #Crime #Thriller

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Exploring an angle of big-beast mistaken identity, suggesting the real wolf had doubled-back into the forest, would give his conspiracy-keen readers a whiff of cover-up they could explore on the web forum.
“Take a near-miss line on this one, Aitch,” confirmed a familiar voice behind him, and Hendrix turned to see Tom Giles peering at the photos.
“We could go with a direct accusation,” said Hendrix. “I think there’s enough material and the farmer might break. But I’m inclined to agree with you. The last thing we want is to solve some of these things. What will we write about next year?”
Tom laughed and pushed a few of the pictures around on the desk.
“You seemed to like it down there. Memories of camo-cream and cosy nights with the squaddies? I might send you back in the summer.”
“No thanks. Once in a while’s okay, but the cream brings out my eczema.”
Giles snorted a laugh while studying the prints from varying angles by tipping his head. “This one,” he said, picking up a long-distance shot of the dog as it ran down the farm track. “It’s suitably ambiguous, particularly if we add a bit of grain. And get Joan to shop a red ring round it. You know the sort of thing? ‘Is this Dartmoor’s killer canine?’”
Hendrix nodded. “Not a very satisfying end. Sometimes I’d like to get something serious out of a lead. Something that matters. Imagine breaking the Trafigura scandal and then fighting those bastard lawyers to get your words out.”
Tom scratched his temple. “We aren’t about to send you to the Ivory Coast if that’s what you’re driving at.”
“How much cryptozoology can a man take before he starts seeing big foot in the garden, aliens in Parliament and rampaging plesiosaurs in the town square?”
generation
A man emerges from the sodden undergrowth, lost, lonely and starving he is mown down by a speeding car on the edge of a remote forest.
Rumours of ghostly apparitions haunt a rural Northumberland community.
A renowned forensic research establishment is troubled by impossible results and unprecedented interference from an influential drug company.

Hendrix 'Aitch' Harrison is a tech-phobic journalist who must link these events together.

Normally side-lined to investigate UFOs and big-beast myths, but thrust into world of cynical corporate motivations, Hendrix is aided by a determined and ambitious entomologist. Together they delve into a grisly world of clinical trials and a viral treatment beyond imagining.
 
In a chase of escalating dangers, Aitch must battle more than his fear of technology to expose the macabre fate of the drugged victims donated to scientific research.
Buy Now @ Amazon
Genre – Crime, Thriller, Horror
Rating – R-16
More details about the author
Connect with William Knight on Facebook & Twitter