Nightmare in Neon

By Ray Hoy

Syndicate boss Carlos Giovanni has had enough of Jack Frost’s meddling, and he marks Frost for termination. But this will not be a typical “Full Call” assassination, where the first Syndicate hitman who finds and kills Frost can claim the money and the bragging rights. Instead, Giovanni unleashes just one legendary, nearly mythical assassin to make the hit. But killing Jack Frost is far easier said than done.
“Ray Hoy’s skills as a storyteller will keep readers on the edge of their seats.”
— Barbara Dan, Petticoat Warrior

• Language: English
• Publisher: Misty Mountain Productions
• Release date: Jul 16, 2020
• ISBN: 9781581240849

Ray Hoy

A hopeless romantic, chaser of rainbows, lover of dogs, and reluctant realist, Ray Hoy has been a professional writer, editor, publisher, and producer for six decades. During his long media career he also managed to spend twenty years as a casino marketing consultant working with major Nevada gaming properties. He retired from the "casino wars" in 1997. Jack Frost is a composite of three Special Forces men Ray met when he was in the casino business. Those men are gone now, victims of their chosen profession. They were amazing warriors doing an amazing job. Frost's sidekick, J.T. Ripper, is based on a real Doberman by the name of Scorpio. Ray was introduced to that monster dog by a friend who knew he was in the process of creating a Doberman character for his Frost books. Scorpio is gone now, too (as so many real warriors are), but J.T. Ripper carries on. The Ripper that Ray created gets more fan mail than Jack Frost does. Ray has no idea why, because the Ripper he created was born pissed, and he pretty much hates everyone and everything - everything except an occasional shooter of Scotch. And Ray defends Ripper's Scotch habit: "We all know that dogs should be kept away from alcohol of any kind, but since Ripper is not of this world, he can do whatever he damn well pleases, and believe me, he does. Truly a fun dog to write about."

Book preview

Shore.

Chapter One

The old blue GTO was filling my rearview mirror all too rapidly. At last glance, my classic old Jaguar’s big round speedo showed 80 mph, which meant that this Detroit relic from the Muscle Car era was bearing down on me in the neighborhood of 90 or 100 mph.

There was sure as hell no place to pass. At this time of the year, Route 95 between Boulder City and Searchlight is a narrow, two-lane undulating chunk of desert road that is heavily populated with snowbirds in their slow-moving motor homes.

Warning bells started going off in my head as the GTO closed in on me. I could see the driver clearly now, a young black gal busily fixing her lipstick in her rearview mirror.

As I crested a hill, I saw the top of a motor home dead ahead. I tapped my brake pedal rapidly, hoping my brake lights would get the GTO driver’s attention — but no one behind me was watching.

She was so close now that I could see the sheet metal from a torn front wheelwell flapping in the wind, and the out-of-balance front tires — undoubtedly bald and not under the influence of anything remotely resembling shock absorbers — bouncing wildly against the pavement.

I was right on top of the motor home. At the last possible moment traffic opened up ahead. I mashed the throttle. The Jag lunged ahead and I fled safely around the RV.

I gritted my teeth, waiting for the sound of the crash behind me, but it never came. In the corner of my rearview mirror I saw the GTO hurtling off the road, into the desert. At the last moment she must have seen the motor home and yanked the wheel to the right.

I glanced over my shoulder and watched the GTO soar through the air. It landed nose first in the desert, then cartwheeled end over end before finally flopping heavily on its top. The car continued to grind through the sage brush and low sand dunes until it skidded to a halt in a cloud of dust.

I braked as hard as I could without the old boy in the motor home running over me, and pulled off the highway. A heartbeat later the Winnebago went past me, brake lights on as the white-haired driver behind the wheel fought to bring the rig to a halt.

I spun the wheel and turned the Jag around, rear tires smoking on the hot cement. I covered the hundred yards or so to where the young woman’s Pontiac had flown off the road, and skidded to a stop. I bailed out of the Jag and sprinted across the road toward the GTO, which was virtually hidden in a mushroom cloud of dust.

I heard excited voices and the slamming of motor home doors behind me as the old people got out of their RV.

The smell of gas was strong as I got closer to the crumpled Pontiac. Despite the 115 degree desert heat, I felt a coldness in the pit of my stomach. I could see the young woman struggling to get out of the crushed interior, and I could hear her pitiful, terrified cries for help.

Just as I got to the car, a fireball filled the engine compartment. I got down on my hands and knees and crawled through the open window. The flames were licking at the terrified girl’s legs through holes in the firewall, yet she appeared to be groping around on the floor for something. My iPhone, where is it!

To hell with the iPhone! I yelled. As I reached for her, she screamed literally in my ear and clawed at me with her nails as a stiff gust of wind fanned a sheet of flames across both of us. I gritted my teeth and managed to get a grip on her.

She let out an agonizing yell as another gust of wind once again raked flames over our exposed skin. I grabbed her by both arms and shouted at her to stop fighting me.

One way or another, we were getting the hell out of there. I crawled backward on my belly, pulling her through the open window with me. It was no time to think about a possible broken back or neck — anything is better than burning to death.

When her feet cleared the window, I bent down and tried to scoop her up, but she was trying to climb back into the car!

My iPhone! she yelled.

Yeah, right! I said. I picked her up and headed away from the burning car as fast as I could run.

She craned her neck to look back over my shoulder. You owe me an iPhone, you asshole!

I’ll buy you one, dammit!

We were about ten yards away when the gas tank blew. The concussion took me off my feet. I did my best to keep the bulk of my 240 pound, 6’5" carcass from landing on her too heavily, but didn’t quite make it.

The air went out of her with a whoosh. I felt something give way beneath my left elbow, which was firmly buried in her slim ribcage. She writhed in agony as I scrambled to my feet, picked her up again and got as far away from the fire as I could.

When we were a safe distance from the burning car, I lowered her gently to the sand and dug out my cell. I stared at the display. No service.

As the wide-eyed old couple from the motor home arrived, I said, There’s no cellphone service here. Do you have a CB in your rig?

I sure do! the old man said. He turned and headed back toward his rig as fast as he could go.

I looked down at the young black girl. Her big dark eyes were wide open, and she was biting her lip so hard she was drawing blood. I bent over her. Where do you hurt the most?

Where you broke my ribs, you clumsy bastard! she said through clenched teeth.

I had to laugh. Excuse me all to hell! I said. Her eyes were glazed, but somehow she found some humor in the exchange and started to laugh, too — a laugh which terminated in a cry of