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One good cop. One part-time hooker. Both dead.
Michael Griffin is a cop. Narcotics. Hard as nails. The man you want at your back when things get bad; the man to avoid if you are bad. His friends have been murdered; one tagged a suicide, the other discarded like yesterday’s garbage. But Griffin values his friends, doesn’t sort them by race or profession, and he wants justice. True justice. If he can’t get it from within the system, he’ll take his game out of bounds, rules be damned.
Painted in shadow, the killer surveyed his ugly work.
Awkward in it’s death-sprawl, the body lay crumpled against the sofa, one leg across the coffee table, head cocked absurdly, eyes open and dull. Near the fingertips of a manicured hand was a nickel-plated Beretta, a fancy-man’s weapon. Blood-smell, bitter-copper and thick, mixed poorly with the underlying stench of ruptured bowels.
Despite the need to move, the killer lingered, distractedly studying the corpse without remorse, nor much of anything, in fact, but a disconnected sense of satisfaction.
Finally nudging himself into motion, he inspected the scene, careful of where he stepped. The expended shell-casings could stay where they’d fallen—-a false trail. His hands were gloved. The coveralls, tennis shoes, and gloves would disappear into distant dumpsters. He’d done it clean, he was sure, but knew the price of careless assumption--the details, the smallest, most insignificant tidbits, would fuck you into the ground. They were the difference between freedom and prison, and prison wasn’t an option.
He turned on a light in the kitchen. Closed the blinds in the den. Set the thermostat to it’s lowest setting, heard the air kick on with a muffled thump. One last look at the body--no longer a man, just a sack of meat wrapped in designer clothes.
The killer stepped into the night, a picture of nonchalance quickly swallowed by the darkness.
She was right, no way around that. The words would bind him to it like nothing else.
"I’ll find Magic’s killer. I give you my word."
"That’s all I wanted to hear." A hint of relief frosted her words, and her eyes glinted wetly in the shadows.
"Now as my dear departed Daddy used to say when he’d struck a bargain, let’s drink to that."
She took the plastic cup from Griffin’s hand and swallowed icy bourbon without a flinch or a waiver.
The Vendetta, by Michael Tyler
"The Vendetta" by Michael Tyler
by Mary on Sun Jun 01, 2008 11:27 pm
In “The Vendetta” Michael Tyler has given us a front row seat into the world of cops, drugs and violence. In a rural North Carolina town Michael Griffin is a cop taking each day as it comes until a fellow cop and good friend’s death is ruled a suicide. Griffin knows without a doubt that it was murder and engages in a one man war against those responsible. Michael Tyler’s experience in law enforcement gives him the ability to write with realism and accurately portray life on the streets. The interaction between the characters in the police squad is reminiscent of the members of Ed McBain’s 87th Precinct. The language is rough, the violence is gory and the plot is tough and intricate…. just the way it is in real life. “The Vendetta” is everything a crime fiction novel should be.
The Vendetta, by Michael Tyler
"Tyler has penned a mystery-thriller masterpiece. It's got it all: drug dealers, the mob, prostitutes, strippers, bikers, murderers, traitors, and a courageous and talented team of street cops?all told with such authenticity, wit, page-turning realism, and edge-of-your seat suspense that it would make you swear the author must have worked the dark streets of this very town as an undercover agent himself. Not for the faint of heart. It's HOT!"
Author, The Mustard Seed
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