The Unusuals

By Paul Davis

Quick-Response Detective Phillip Hoss knows his way around a crime scene, but when he's summoned to the scene of a missing hospital porter, he quickly realizes things are not what they seem.

DJ isn't dead…yet. But if she's not rescued soon, she could be.

Lamont Jones has one objective: exact revenge on his enemies. But his carelessness may destroy his plans.

In MS's world, people are pawns and rules be damned. His latest catch, however, could be his last.

Armed with one curious clue, Hoss is determined to find the missing young woman and bring those responsible for her kidnapping and the kidnappings and murders of countless others to justice.

Can he unravel the clues and root them out or is he in way over his head?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Paul Davis
• Release date: Mar 2, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393863175

Book preview

PAUL DAVIS

THE

UNUSUALS

Copyright © 2020 Paul Davis – All Rights Reserved

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

LOOKING FOR MORE FROM PAUL DAVIS?

About the Author

Chapter 1

Lamont Jones was anything but a pleasant man, but he had a pleasant voice and that had gotten him places. Not good places but places, nonetheless. He was otherwise unobtrusive; some may have even called him ugly. But none of that mattered just then: what mattered was the phone call lighting up his phone screen from an UNKNOWN number.

Looking around the blue-lit room, Lamont takes a second to assess his stock before answering. Four men. The girl. They’d all tested positive on those little papers he’d been given—the ones he’d been told to put in their mouths. If the paper came out blue, leave them. If it came out red, they were ripe for the picking. He was glad the girl was ready—he’d been waiting a long time to get back at her but that was another story.

Lamont put the phone to his ear.

Yardwell? There’s a pause and then, "A girl again? Yeah, just got one. She’ll be fresh, ha ha. Right. No, you’re right. Okay, I’ll get on it."

Lamont clicked the big red button on his phone, wishing the walls around him weren’t almost all computer so he could punch one without getting in huge trouble. Nah, he’d have to withstand a good beating if he damaged any of the equipment stored there. The dusty metal prototypes backed against the walls around the room were covered with the eerie under-water blue-light of the chugging computers percolating every so often in between, spewing streams of amorphous code.

And then, in the centre of all that were the tables carrying the bodies—never more than six or seven at a time—breathing silently and almost in sync, as if they were somehow sharing the same induced dream. Lamont thought he saw one of the men blink out of the corner of his eye and hastily looked back to DJ, shaking himself. Paranormal horseshit that’s what this is, he thought. Just get the job done and get out of here.

Lamont weaved through the maze of stationary stretchers and began to execute a long-practiced routine, barely thinking about the task of shifting the body of the girl onto a wheeled stretcher and into a high-grade body bag; hardly noticing as he zipped her up halfway and strapped her covered parts in, re-hanging an IV bag on the lip of the bed—the drip a few millilitres from empty. Instead, Lamont Jones was preoccupied with thinking about the man on the phone: about how it was always the demands with Yardwell. The guy barely spoke and already seemed a bigger asshole than all the others Lamont had met combined.

Not that he should complain, he thought, rolling DJ past the bodies of the other quietly unconscious men and through a set of swinging side doors hidden amongst the computer equipment. He was paid well. A big fat envelope out of Yardwell’s big fat greedy hands—or rather his front passenger seat. All for doing nothing but watching the strange lab that he’d been entrusted with and for keeping people under once he grabbed them (thanks to the blue-liquid cocktail he had stockpiled back at his place). For delivering them when they needed delivering and it didn’t hurt that he had mixed it all up with a little revenge this time. He had become a