Son of Orlan (The Chronicles of Kin Roland Book 2) (27 page)

Scott Moon loves audio books,
especially the works of George R.R. Martin, Stephen King, Patrick O'Brian, and
Michael Connelly. He has been writing fantasy, science fiction, and urban
fantasy thrillers most of his life and aims to read or listen to 100 books a
year. Currently, he is a commissioned police officer serving in a street level
counter drug and gang unit. Some of his most rewarding and heartbreaking work
was as a detective in the Exploited Missing Child Unit. His favorite assignment
is SWAT, primarily for the eighty pounds of tactical gear he gets to wear in
the blazing summer heat. In 2005, he helped arrest a serial killer who had been
at large for over thirty years.

Enemy of Man

(Book One in the Chronicles of Kin Roland)

Earth Fleet
never forgave Kin Roland’s failure at Hellsbreach. Changed by captivity and
torture, hunted by the Reapers of Hellsbreach and wanted by the Fleet, Kin
hides on a lost planet near an unstable wormhole. When a distant space battle
propels a ravaged Earth Fleet Armada through the same wormhole, a Reaper
follows, hunting for the man who burned his home world. Kin fights to save a
mysterious native of Crashdown from the Reaper and learns there are worse
things in the galaxy than those hunting him. The end is coming and he is about
to pay for a sin that will change the galaxy forever.

Dragon Badge

(Book One in the Lost Dragon Slayer series)

Michael Prim
does what any good cop would do upon discovering a soul reaving sorcerer is
hunting on his beat, he goes to war, even as hellhounds and Rashfellen warriors
come after him. He gets a little help from his friends—a tough as nails veteran
and a zombie like prostitute who holds a soul trapped in a magical jar. At the
end, only Michael’s most hated enemy, the gang member who murdered his partner,
can stand against Travass Isegurad and his demons, but Michael will have
justice no matter the price.

Dragon Attack

(Book Two in the Lost Dragon Slayer series)

After
Defeating the demons and hellhounds of Travass Isegurad, Michael Prim races
toward another confrontation with the sorcerer. Nicole’s curse drives her into
isolation. Her friends fight to save her. The Rift between Blue Point and the
magic world disintegrates, taking innocent lives during the chaos and releasing
deadly creatures into a modern world unprepared for the war to come.

Available at Amazon in eBook and paperback editions.

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MICHAEL Prim spent his time
watching for signs—quick transactions on street corners, girls walking nowhere,
and people who didn’t belong in the Downs except to give girls rides to an
alley. Gang members riding five deep in one of their girlfriend’s cars always
drew his attention. He had a folder of mug photos for wanted persons known or
suspected to frequent the area. About twice a week, he caught one buying
cigarettes at the Stop and Rob. And he had a personal top ten list of
troublemakers— individuals he believed needed to go to jail as often as
possible—chronic wife beaters, pedophiles, and cop killers.

“Sixty-three. I’ll have a car. Four-hundred Temple Street.”
Michael kept his eyes on the brownish Oldsmobile, calling in the tag as the car
rolled to a stop. “One occupant. Disregard One-sixty-three. I’m good.”

“
One-sixty-three, we’ll stay en route,”
a voice said
over the radio.

Michael approached the car, flashlight tucked under his left
armpit to keep his hands free. He pushed down on the trunk as he passed it,
leaving his fingerprints in case the driver murdered him and sped away. He also
wanted to be sure it was closed and locked. He scanned the back seat.

Fast-food wrappers. Wrenches. Screwdrivers. A hamper of
dirty clothing. Stripped wires.

He paused, twisting his body slightly to move the flashlight
beam from the rearview mirror to the backseat. A second later he resumed
blinding the driver. He moved forward a step, forcing the driver to look over
his shoulder at an awkward angle.

“Hello, Billy. I pulled you over for failing to signal your
lane change.”

“I signaled.”

Michael glanced at the passenger seat, hoping to see a bag
of weed on the floor or a gun poking out from under the seat.

“Chicken shit violation. You signal every time you change
lanes?”

Michael stared at him. “Not every time. I need your driver’s
license and proof of insurance.”

“I got my license back.”

“I know you did. But I’ll need it to write the ticket.”

Billy muttered and dug in his glove compartment for proof of
insurance. Michael watched, hoping some kind of contraband would fall out.

“Last time you guys stopped me, there were six of you and
that son-of-a-bitch Sergeant Land.” He offered his license and insurance to
Michael, pausing only to brush a strand of hair from his eyes.

Michael didn’t take it. “Come to the back of the car.”

“Why?”

“Because I told you to.”

Billy muttered, opened his door, and followed Michael to the
rear of the Oldsmobile.

Michael walked backward as naturally as he did when moving
forward. This wasn’t his first car stop. He kept his eyes on Billy, scanning
the waistband of his ratty jeans for a weapon, watching his hands, watching his
eyes.

“Turn around. Put your hands on top of your head. I’m going
to pat you down for weapons.”

Billy assumed the position. “I ain’t got shit on me.”

Michael methodically patted him from head to waist. He felt
his pockets and removed a small knife, sliding it into his back pocket next to
his case book.

“I better get that back.”

“You will.”

Michael worked up from Billy’s feet, pushing his balls until
he was sure there wasn’t a bag of meth stowed there, like the two previous
occasions, one of which he had missed until booking him. The detention officers
had been pissed.

“Don’t touch my junk, fag.”

“That’s the best you got?”

“Fuck you. Beat my ass. I’ll sue you and your fag, racially
profiling, fucking piece of shit department.”

Michael finished the frisk and stepped back. “Relax.”

Billy reached into his jeans and pulled out a pack of
cigarettes.

“Reach into that pocket again and we’re going to have
problems.”

Billy tapped out a cigarette and held up the pack.
“Cigarettes ain’t illegal. And you already searched me.”

Michael stared at him. He considered explaining the
difference between a frisk and an actual search. Debating with suspects was a
rookie mistake.

“Can I put this back?”

“Set it on the trunk.”

Billy tossed the pack on the trunk.

“You remember what happened last time we played this game.”
Red and blue lights turned on the patrol car behind Michael, neither fast nor
slow.

Billy stood by the trunk of his car, smiling nervously with
half his face and holding the unlit cigarette near his mouth.

“So can I smoke?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Michael didn’t answer. He looked around, at nothing
specific, then back at Billy. “I know you, Billy. Could be a gun in the car.”

“What the fuck does that have to do with this?” Billy said,
displaying the unlit cigarette between two fingers.

“You smoked a cigarette right before you killed Stoner and
her kids.”

Billy jagged his head down and balled his
non-cigarette-holding fist in frustration, immediately taking a deep breath and
exhaling, calming himself before Michael knocked him across the trunk of the
car. “I’m tired of being accused of that. If you dumbasses knew half what you
thought you knew, you’d piss your pants and call out the National Guard.”

“I know Stoner busted you for a pound of meth and her
husband wrote you about fifty speeding tickets before that.”

“You don’t know shit. Dirty motherfucker.” Billy paced, but
never went too far from or too close to Michael. Moments later he leaned
against his car and muttered. “Dirty asshole. Juice head, Conan the Barbarian
motherfucker.”

“Are you trying to hurt my feelings?” Michael asked. “You’re
the meth-head, child molesting cop killer.”

 “That’s bullshit. I’m calling IA.”

“You do that.” Michael tore a ticket from a small metal
clipboard and handed it to Billy. “You have ten days, not including weekends or
holidays, to pay the ticket, set it for court, or throw it away and let it turn
into a traffic warrant so next time we meet, I can arrest you like I did last
time. See you later.”

“You were an asshole then too.”

“Can I search your car for guns and drugs?”

“No.”

“I know you, Billy. I know you, and I know things. Don’t
fuck up.”

“Am I free to go?”

“Yeah.”

“Blow me.” Billy walked to the driver’s side of his car,
lighting a cigarette and swearing savagely under his breath.

Officer Danielle Peters and her partner, Victor Smith,
arrived in a patrol car, stepped out, and walked up beside Michael. Danielle
was small, blond, and both petite and athletic. Victor was a tall, good-looking
black man with an aura of confidence and good humor.

“You disregarded your backup. Bad cop,” Danielle said.

“And you came anyway.”

 “I see you’re making friends.”

“Yup.” Michael went to the driver’s side of his squad car,
opened the door, and threw the ticket book on the passenger seat. It landed
next to his ready-bag and bounced onto its edge, teetering at the point of
falling on the floorboard, about to spill written and unwritten tickets on the
not-so-pristine surface. Transfixed, Michael wavered in the door. He had wanted
to simply chuck the ticket book on the seat and turn around.

Danielle and Victor stood in the street talking to his back.

If the ticket book fell, he would have to walk around to the
passenger-side door, step over the murky puddle between the car and the curb,
and lean in the vehicle to clean up the mess. He hated turning in paperwork
that looked like it had been stepped on.

Cop trash cluttered the floorboard. Dried mud, gravel, and
fast-food wrappers had been swept out at shift change, but two empty Coca Cola
cans had spent the day rolling around down there. Empty cans always had a
couple of annoying, paperwork-staining drops that broke free when left to
clatter and clank. There were also some used Sirchie field test kits. He needed
to pitch them before they began to stink.

The ticket book paused, balanced, and fell gently against
the Blue Point city crest that decorated his ready-bag, covering the stylized
face of the wise man Michael thought looked like a wizard. Some graphic
designer had attempted to create a picture of civic wisdom and achieved
something that was neither Tolkien nor Rowling, but might as well have been.

The style of the crest was similar to the style of the Blue
Point badge he wore on his uniform. Veterans and rookies alike referred to the
badge as the mascot, because the dragon seemed more like a school mascot than a
mark of law-enforcement authority. Michael thought the dragon must belong to
the wizard, but never said so.

Almost before the ticket book resolved its destiny, Michael
pulled himself out of the car door with an absurdly satisfied feeling of
relief.

“If I asked for more officers he’d know something was up.”
Michael’s instructions had been specific; stop him, identify him, and try to
determine whether he was heading home or to some county road to attempt a Nazi
cold-cook of methamphetamine.

Michael keyed the portable radio at the lapel mic and said,
“Sixty-three traffic Four-twenty.”

“
Four-twenty, go
,” a voice said.

“Routine stop. Consent denied. I think he’s heading home,”
Michael said into the radio.

“
Roger that. We will call you if we need you
.”

Michael released the radio and stood beside Danielle and
Victor.

“Adios Billy. Auf Wiedersehen. Au revoir,” Danielle said, as
Billy drove cautiously away in the old car, signaling every lane
change—including when he pulled away from the curb and merged into traffic.
Cigarette smoke rolled out of the window. “See you soon.”

Once he was gone she pulled a long Kukri knife from a
scabbard she had been holding behind her back. The blade was over a foot long
and curved forward. It was heavy enough to chop like an axe if necessary.

“That thing is too big for your hand,” Michael said.

“I like it.” She flourished the blade. “Herm got it for me
at the gun show.”

“Herman went to a gun show?”

“He’s into black powder rifles, believe it or not. And he’s
soooo romantic,” she said with a laugh and a knife slash through the air.

“Hey, careful with that thing,” Victor said.

Michael looked away from the distinctive blade. His father
had fought in mercenary wars all over the world and loved the Kukri that was
favored by the legendary Gurkhas. His father taught him how to use one before
going insane. He had told stories too, like the time he took off a man’s arm at
the elbow during a fight.

Michael abruptly turned away and concentrated on catching up
his daily activity log. The knife was a symbol of the Gurkhas, nothing more,
and his father had been crazy—so were a lot of people. Some even claimed to
hunt dragons.

“Did they hit it?” he asked.

Danielle laughed. “Yes they did. Found marijuana, powder
cocaine and some ecstasy on the initial sweep, plus child porn. He’s fucked.”

“What about meth?”

“Oh yeah, all the meth without the lab. He must have someone
cooking for him. Sergeant Land says it almost looks like pharmacy grade dope,”
Danielle said.

Michael didn’t reply or laugh. “I wish they’d have let me
know so I could’ve just hooked him here.”

“Yeah, but imagine the look on his face when he walks into
his living room and finds the Street Tactical Team waiting,” Danielle said.

“It would be funnier if I were still on the STT.” Michael
missed serving search warrants. Ramming the door had been his specialty. He had
begged Sergeant Land to let him back on the team one last time, just to hit
Billy’s house. All he got was a lousy car stop and a ‘thanks, Michael, I knew
you’d understand’ from STT. “This is moronic. We need to follow that dude until
he goes home.”

“In marked cars? Yeah right, that’ll work,” Danielle said.

“Could be a car chase,” Victor said.

“Not when I’m driving. I couldn’t buy a car chase,” Danielle
said, and they laughed.

“He’s caught at the light. If he turns left we go after
him,” Michael said.

“If he turns right, let’s go to his house and watch what
happens,” Danielle said.

Michael shrugged. The car turned right.

“Of course STT will just stick us with a transport or
something,” she said.

“Let’s shag some calls.” Michael squeezed the button on his
radio lapel mic, “Sixty-three and One-sixty-three, 10-8.”

The dispatcher wasted no time sending them on a call. It was
on another beat and sounded as though it would be a cluster-fuck.

The dispatcher presented the
call summary with exaggerated indifference. “
Sixty-three and
One-sixty-three, 10-4, start for a domestic violence call, 1100 S. New York.
Caller is Trent Hart. His wife’s boyfriend is refusing to leave the residence.
Call taker can hear yelling in the background
.”