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
OUT OF EXILE
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?
Angus Sullivan is back for more mind-blowing, heart-stopping action.
After three years rotting in a cell, Angus Sullivan is busted out of prison and thrown into the middle of a police war, where the very man who locked him up needs his help.
* * *
What starts out as a simple rescue mission escalates into an adrenaline-fuelled, action packed thrill-ride as Angus plunges into a web of conspiracy that threatens to destroy his soul, but may provide the truth about his past.
* * *
This insane thriller is perfect for fans of heroes who shoot first and ask questions later.
Start reading to experience Angus Sullivan’s next pulse pounding rampage now!
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
1. Documented Evidence Insert Number: #302
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty One
Chapter Twenty Two
Chapter Threnty Three
Chapter Twenty Four
Chapter Twenty Five
Chapter Twenty Six
Chapter Twenty Seven
2. Documented Evidence Insert Number: #304
Chapter Twenty Eight
Chapter Twenty Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty One
Chapter Thirty Two
Chapter Thirty Three
Chapter Thirty Four
Chapter Thirty Five
Chapter Thirty Six
Chapter Thirty Seven
Chapter Thirty Eight
Chapter Thirty Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty One
Chapter Forty Two
Chapter Forty Three
Chapter Forty Four
Chapter Forty Five
Chapter Forty Six
Chapter Forty Seven
Documented Evidence Insert Number #307
Chapter Forty Eight
Chapter Forty Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty One
3. Documented Evidence Insert Number: #312
Chapter Fifty Two
Chapter Fifty Three
Chapter Fifty Four
Chapter Fifty Five
Chapter Fifty Six
Chapter Fifty Seven
Chapter Fifty Eight
Chapter Fifty Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty One
Chapter Sixty Two
Chapter Sixty Three
Chapter Sixty Four
Chapter Sixty Five
Chapter Sixty Six
Chapter Sixty Seven
Chapter Sixty Eight
Chapter Sixty Nine
Chapter Seventy
Chapter Seventy One
Chapter Seventy Two
Chapter Seventy Three
Chapter Seventy Four
Chapter Seventy Five
Chapter Seventy Six
Chapter Seventy Seven
Chapter Seventy Eight
Chapter Seventy Nine
Chapter Eighty
Chapter Eighty One
Chapter Eighty Two
Who the hell is JACK QUAID?
Also by JACK QUAID
Chapter One
Every day was the same. Awake at 5 a.m., followed by an hour of push-ups, sit-ups, and stretches. The cell doors opened at 6 a.m., and Sullivan blended in with the line of criminals as they made their way through the halls to the mess. He sat alone, ate alone, and watched his back. When he was first incarcerated, a couple of nobodies in for armed robbery heard he was ex police and tried to make a name for themselves by jumping him out in the yard. One was in hospital for six months, and the other would spend the rest of his life slurring his words. The prisoners left Sullivan alone after that.
Classes, counselling and other types of rehabilitation sessions followed breakfast, and after lunch, the inmates were free to fill their time as they pleased. Many of them sat around watching television, getting fat, and talking shit about their hero days of robbing, raping, or killing.
Sullivan hit the gym. Three hours of heavy weights and cardio kept his mind busy, and after the beatings, gunshot wounds, and bad decisions, the movement kept his injured body alive. After a shower and a shave, he headed over to the computer room and watched old episodes of television online. He had no visitors, no friends, and nobody wrote him any letters.
Dinner was at 5:30, and everybody was shuffled into their cells by seven, with lights out at ten. The routine helped to keep his mind off the monotonous days. But the nights were the worst. He would lie on his bed and stare at the ceiling, with bad memories swirling around in his mind. Flashes of ugliness and failure plagued him while the memory of muffled cracks of gunfire rang in his ears.
For 1195 consecutive days, that was Sullivan’s life.
That night the prison was quiet, and Sullivan couldn’t sleep.
Hailstrum was still out there.
He climbed out of bed. He did one thousand push-ups and stopped when he heard footsteps echo down the hall. It was 12:37 a.m.
‘Open, two, four, nine,’ a voice called out.
The metal locks disengaged, and the door pulled open to reveal the round silhouette of a guard. Sullivan recognized his shape—it was Gale. Not too bright, but he didn’t pretend to be otherwise. ‘Get dressed. You’re being transferred.’
Sullivan glanced around at his small four-by-eight cell. ‘I was just beginning to like it here.’
Gale didn’t smile. Sullivan figured he wasn’t in a laughing mood. He watched closely as Sullivan pulled a T-shirt over his battered body. It was a mess of gunshot wounds, tattoos, and scars; a mix of regrets and mistakes.
Gale hooked the cuffs around Sullivan’s wrists and squeezed them tight. They pinched into his skin, but he didn’t complain. Sounds filtered from behind cell doors as he and Gale moved through the prison. Guys up late watching television, others listening to talkback radio, and the occasional poor bastard sobbing into their state-issued pillow.
Gale didn’t seem to question a prisoner being transferred in the middle of the night, either too lazy or dumb to give it a second thought. Sull
ivan questioned it. There were ways of doing things, and this wasn’t one of them.
They reached the transport bay entrance. Gale shifted around Sullivan, unlocked the door, and pulled it open. Hot summer air hit Sullivan in the face. He took a few steps forward, and out of the darkness, emerged an unmarked prison van, black, with no windows, idling as white exhaust fumes disappeared into the night. He slowed his pace, to buy some time, to work out what the fuck was going on. It wasn’t long enough, and a couple of shuffling steps later Sullivan was at the rear of the van. The doors were open, and on the benches were a couple of prisoners. Sullivan recognized their faces but didn’t know their names. Shaved heads, overweight, tattooed, and each sharing the same vacant eyes. It was the look of career inmates: one devoid of hope or any future. Sullivan climbed inside, and before he could sit, Gale slammed the door and locked it.
The van idled for a couple more minutes. Muffled voices leaked through the reinforced walls. The gears changed, and the vehicle moved forward. There was a slight pause while the prison gates opened, then not long after, they were on the open road. Occasionally, the driver would tap the brakes, and the hard faces of Sullivan’s traveling companions would be lit in a dark shade of red from the taillights. None of them said a word. Sullivan glanced at his watch; they had been on the road for twenty-five minutes.
Then it happened.
Another vehicle gunned up behind the van.
It overtook it on the right and pulled in front.
Tires squealed.
The van’s driver hit the brakes.
The wheels locked up and dragged along the asphalt.
The van’s ass end swung out sideways.
Everybody slammed against the wall.
The van was on the verge of tipping over. It hung there for a moment before the tires burst, sending it over on its side and scraping along the quiet road with a trail of sparks in its wake. After a quarter of a mile, the wreck slid to a stop and, when it did, part of its internal mechanics leaked pressurised air and everything fell silent.
A blue Ford crept up, its left side crumpled and grazed black with paint from the van. Its headlights shone on the wreck. The passenger-side door opened, with the sound of twisted metal. Three men with shotguns and balaclavas descended on the upturned van. They moved fast. The driver poked his head out—dazed and confused, he was the first to go. A shotgun blast took off half his shoulder and sent him jerking back into the cabin. Then the three of them focused on the rear doors. The tallest of the shooters placed small charges on the hinges, and they all stood back. The explosion was localized, controlled and quiet, the sound of the heavy steel doors falling to the ground louder. One of them crawled inside and dragged the occupants out. The two lifers first and then Sullivan. The three of them were groggy from the crash and struggling to be steady on their feet.
The smallest of the shooters unholstered his sidearm and put two rounds in the chest of the first lifer, followed by two in the chest of the second. Then, almost as an afterthought, he stepped back and put one in each of their heads. The sound echoed into the darkness, and then all three shooters focused their attention on Sullivan.
‘Open the trunk,’ one of them said.
The tallest of the shooters made the trek back to their busted-up Ford, popped the trunk, and dragged a man out of it and to his feet. The glare of the headlights made it difficult for Sullivan to see anything, but as the poor bastard was pulled closer, his features become clear.
Male.
Caucasian.
Mid thirties.
Shaved head.
Blue eyes.
Solid build.
Unshaven.
Prison uniform.
Sullivan tilted his head. They could have passed for brothers, and they could definitely have been confused in a lineup, if for some reason things went that way.
The shortest of the shooters, the one who had done the lifers with two in the chest and one in the head, drew his shotgun and pushed it in the man’s face.
Panic washed over him. ‘Please don’t,’ he said. He was about to say more, but the shooter pulled the trigger and the back of the man’s head sprayed out into the night sky.
The shooter turned to Sullivan. ‘Congratulations,’ he said. ‘You’re dead.’
Chapter Two
Officially, Angus Sullivan was dead. Unofficially, it might not be long before he actually was. He was in the trunk, and his ride was made worse by the overwhelming smell of shit from the man who had been stuffed in there before him. The same man who was lying in the middle of the freeway, twenty-five minutes from Northern Michigan Prison, doing the best impression he could of a deceased Angus Sullivan.
Despite the advertisements, there wasn’t much room in the trunk of a Ford, and Sullivan’s legs were starting to cramp. He shuffled into a couple of different positions, but it didn’t help, so he held his breath and blocked out the pain. He had practice. His old man liked to drink and fight, and a ten-year-old Angus was his sparring partner when nobody else was around. Sullivan had learned not to think about the pain, to focus on his breathing and to reassure himself that, sooner or later, one way or another, the pain would end.
The Ford pulled over to the side of the road. The engine shut down. Doors opened, closed. Footsteps came near the trunk. A key pushed into the lock, and the trunk bounced open. The streetlight shone in his face. Sullivan squinted, and when his eyes adjusted, he saw three dark figures standing over him.
He recognized all their faces.
They were cops.
The tallest of the shooters was Benjamin Robinson. Twenty-nine years old. Athletic. Shaved head. Boxing hands. He worked kicking in doors for SWAT. Meth labs. Terrorist cells. Hostage situations. They called him God, for his knack of being able to take out anyone from anywhere. In the middle, with a goofy look on his face, was Dave Hogan. Thirty-seven years old. Medium-length blond hair. Thick around the middle. The goofy look had grown out of a birth defect that pulled at the muscles in his cheek, making him look as if he always found something funny. The irony was, he didn’t have much of a sense of humor. Last Sullivan heard, Hogan worked surveillance in Forrest Park, chasing drug dealers who were dumb enough to sell meth out of the trunks of their cars and be recorded doing it. Those two boys Sullivan could handle. The one who scared him was Jason Deacon. Forty years old. Grey, stubbly head. Handlebar moustache. Somehow, he had steered clear of Jim Jones’s clean-out of the department and managed to be one of the few remaining members of Robbery Homicide. He was short, but what he lacked in stature, he made up for in anger. Deacon was always ready for a fight, and most of the time, he didn’t care what it was about.
He was the one in charge.
They dragged Sullivan out of the trunk and onto the concrete.
‘Get up,’ Deacon said.
Sullivan struggled to his feet. His wrists were still in handcuffs behind his back, so he had to rely on his legs to take the brunt, but once he was on his feet, the cramps subsided.
Deacon got in his face. ‘You’re going to help us out here tonight. Otherwise, you’re going back into that trunk. We’re going to drive you out to the middle of nowhere, dig a hole, and bury the car. Do you understand the implications of what I’m saying here?’
‘I get the gist.’
Deacon stepped away. Hogan grabbed Sullivan by the arm, and they followed behind. The street was quiet, full of three-bedroom homes with well-maintained lawns and mid-range vehicles in the driveways. As they neared it, Sullivan recognized the house. It was Commander Patrick Wilson’s, only it wasn’t his home anymore. After the Hailstrum scandal, his wife, Mona, packed up the place, sold it, and moved to Texas to be closer to her sister.
They stepped up to the front door. God had a sledgehammer. Swung it. The lock didn’t give, but the wooden doorframe it was connected to splintered and the door swung open. Deacon and God went in first, shotguns up. They cleared the room and headed down the hall. Their footsteps were light, their movements swift
. They had done this before and done it well. Hogan pushed Sullivan against the wall, the muzzle of the gun in his spine.
There was silence, then screams: female. Threats from a male and the sound of a beating that shut them both up.
Hogan flicked the switch. The room flooded with light, and from what Sullivan could see, the whole place had been remodeled. Wilson and his wife had lived in the house for close to forty years. Over time, the furniture and fixtures aged, leaving the home a mismatched collage of their lives. When it was put on the market, the home was advertised as a renovator’s delight, and when young couple Paula and Pete Stevos bought the place, they gutted it. New kitchen, carpet, paint, bathroom, and redecoration with whatever was in fashion the year they got their furniture. It might have been fresh, but it lacked the warmth created when Patrick and Mona Wilson lived there.