Desert Heat

By Dale T. Phillips

Cole Hampton's military service and tough upbringing come in handy when solving dangerous problems for the less fortunate. But against his will, he's tasked with finding a missing woman. When the search leads down dark pathways, he must deal with an array of desperate crooks and killers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dale T. Phillips
• Release date: Mar 10, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215869192

Dale T. Phillips

A lifelong student of mysteries, Maine, and the martial arts, Dale T. Phillips has combined all of these into the Zack Taylor series. His travels and background allow him to paint a compelling picture of a man with a mission, but one at odds with himself and his new environment. A longtime follower of mystery fiction, the author has crafted a hero in the mold of Travis McGee, Doc Ford, and John Cain, a moral man at heart who finds himself faced with difficult choices in a dangerous world. But Maine is different from the mean, big-city streets of New York, Boston, or L.A., and Zack must learn quickly if he is to survive. Dale studied writing with Stephen King, and has published over 70 short stories, non-fiction, and more. He has appeared on stage, television (including Jeopardy), and in an independent feature film. He co-wrote and acted in a short political satire film. He has traveled to all 50 states, Mexico, Canada, and through Europe. He can be found at www.daletphillips.com

Book preview

Chapter 1

That Saturday night , Cole Hampton came too close to committing the worst mistake of his life, and that was saying something. It was non-lethal by only a razor-thin margin, a matter of minutes. Ten, fifteen at most. Time enough for two more rounds of drinks, which by then he’d have slipped into that area of no control, and would have cut the man’s throat right there in the bar, in front of everyone. And then he would have had to kill the guy’s buddies.

It went down like this. Paco’s was a dive, in the part of Phoenix for those whose skin wasn’t white. Brown, black or red, you could get by there, but it was a relatively safe place, not the kind of joint where you went to fight. There were plenty of those places nearby. It was early, so Cole was in his mellow stage, the pain pushed away temporarily with his special forgetting recipe of TNT’s: tequila and Tecate beer chasers. He could drink in peace until the horrors of the past faded into a fuzzy dull gray for a time. And that was all he wanted, like every Saturday.

The jukebox ground out some Tex-Mex mariachi. In the corner, a pack of loudmouthed Anglos laughed and swore, feral dogs out to cause some harm. They sure didn’t belong here, and they sure enough were going to terrorize or hurt someone tonight. And it looked like they’d decided on Cole, even though he wasn’t doing anything to attract attention, wasn’t even looking at them. Maybe he just seemed like an easy target, a half-drunk, half-breed-looking Indian, with maybe even some Mexican blood. A two-fer. Or maybe they thought Indians or Mexicans shouldn’t wear Stetson hats.

After a few glances Cole’s way, one of the assholes strode over and stood next to Cole’s table. Black, sleeveless shirt to show off his gym-and-steroid biceps, jeans, laced-up stomping boots. His head was shaved to the skin, and he had mean little pig eyes and a twisted, multi-colored snake tattoo on his left forearm. A rank odor of sweat and worse leached from him, and he was on something stronger than liquor. Huge and hard-looking, he must have thought he was safe. After all, pig-eyes was much bigger than Cole, and he had four friends to back him up.

Hey, Geronimo, said pig-eyes, almost funny, since Cole’s maternal grandmother was actually full-blooded Apache. Through the burning glow of the tequila, Cole squinted up as the guy loomed over him and spat his insults. Cole wouldn’t even need his gun. His boot knife was an easy reach, and he could draw it and slice the guy’s throat before the man could react. The blood would jet out as the man registered what had happened, and he would fall, twitching and kicking as his life leaked away on the dirty floor. But then Cole would have to shoot the man’s buddies, and run for his life while riots and reprisals erupted all over Phoenix.

Fifteen minutes more, and it would have happened just that way. By such slender threads hang the fate of us all.

Cole felt that peculiar feeling he got when the shit was about to go down. He knew that when a situation turns sour, the very air takes on an acrid tang that assails the senses, like a premonition of the blood to come. It felt like hungry, unseen beings were waiting for violence. To Cole, the atmosphere smelled like burning copper wires, as if reason and a regard for consequences had been short-circuited.

With a gun and a knife on him, Cole was by no means the most well-armed person in the room, still more than enough for these pendejos, even though at least a couple of them would be carrying. But they just weren’t worth that kind of trouble. Five non-whites dead, and the cops would just shrug and yawn, but five dead whites counted as a massacre, and rioting mobs of outraged whites would likely destroy this part of Phoenix in their zeal for revenge. So Cole knew the stakes. He finished what he had in front of him, got up without a word, and walked out.

The fool behind him couldn’t let it go. He hooted to his buddies and followed Cole outside. Cole’s head cleared as the adrenaline started pumping. The five guys were out tonight to hurt somebody, anybody. To prevent that, it had to end here, and it had to be rough. Very rough. Just not lethal.

The buddies emerged in time to see Cole shatter the guy’s kneecap with a kick. The man shrieked and fell. They started for Cole, who reached for the holster in the small of his back. The closest buddy suddenly had the muzzle of a Sig Sauer nine-millimeter pointed right between his eyes. They buddies stopped, looking confused. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. Someone’s hand started sliding inside his jacket.

Tell your friend, Cole said to the man who stared down his Sig, If he reaches that piece he’s going for, you’re growing a third eye. The movement stopped.

Cole had their attention, and reluctant obedience. Hands behind your head. All of you.

One of them muttered something, eyes full of hate. It was the one who’d tried to reach his gun. Cole stepped over to him. Didn’t catch that, he said. What about my mother?

Cole kicked the man hard in the crotch, the pointed toe of his boot catching the guy full. The man went down hard, leaking air like a balloon. Keeping his Sig trained on the others, Cole reached down and removed the guy’s gun, a compact .32, and tucked it away.

With a pack like this, Cole knew he couldn’t leave them on their feet, or one of them would try something desperate and stupid. On your knees.

Since two of them were already down, groaning and clutching themselves, the other three looked at each other and got down on their knees in the gravel of the parking lot, hands behind their head, looking like prisoners of war. They were indeed prisoners now, and Cole got one of his nasty flashbacks to his own service, but he ignored it.

One by one, Cole patted them down and confiscated weapons: another gun, three knives, and a small double pipe that looked like a homemade set of brass knuckles. He also removed their wallets, pulling out each driver's license and their money before tossing the wallets into a pile.

Cole looked them over. Bastards needed to learn a hard lesson that this part of town wasn’t a game preserve where they could pick random victims. He needed them plenty embarrassed and unable or unwilling to react quickly.

Take your pants down, he commanded.

What? Their faces registered shock and confusion.

You heard me, Cole said, pointing the Sig at each in turn for effect. Unbuckle and drop ‘em, shorts and all. Right where you are. Then pull 'em down around your ankles.

One of them, a youngish, football-sized-player type, looked scared shitless.

Jesus, Clint, he said, his eyes darting from side to side.

Shut up. He ain’t gonna shoot us.

That’s right, Clint, Cole nodded. I got something better in mind.

Cole drew out the knife with his free hand, letting them see it. He counted on the fact that some guys who don’t scare even with a gun pointed their way get all wobbly when they think of a blade digging into them.

I might take a few scalps, though. That’s what us Injuns do, right?

Using the knife, Cole knocked the baseball cap off the fat guy in the middle, exposing his balding head. He pressed the edge to the man’s skin and chuckled for effect as the man’s eyes bugged out in fear.

Not even enough for a proper scalping.

Cole moved behind the scared one. How about you, boy? You ready for a haircut?

The kid pitched forward and threw up, the rank scent polluting the night air. He splayed there on his hands and knees, choking in odd gulps.

Jesus, the one named Clint sounded disgusted. I told you boy, he ain’t gonna kill us.

Cole turned his attention to Clint. The mellow mood was all worn off now, replaced by Cole’s cold, eternal, burning anger, and he had to watch himself.

"That’s right, kid, listen to Clint, who told you how much fun it would be to come beat on some poor Indian, or to rape some Chicana bitch unlucky enough to cross your path. Because the police don’t care down here, and there’s five of you. Big, brave men, taking out their loser rage. Your mommas and daddies should be real proud of you.

Next time you’re here, me or someone else will turn you into coyote bait out in the desert. Just so you’ll remember, you’re going to leave with a souvenir.

Cole reached out with the knife and sliced into Clint’s ear. The blade was sharp and cut deep, but Cole didn’t go all the way through. The man cried out and clapped his hand to the injury, blood running through his fingers. The fat guy looked like he was ready to cry. Cole gestured with the knife.

Now get those pants down, before I cut ‘em off. It might be a messy job.

The fat guy reached quickly for his belt, and the kid’s hands shook so bad he could barely unbuckle. Clint glared at Cole. Cole moved the knife closer to him, and Clint undid his belt with bloody hands, and pulled his pants down like the others. The other two who’d been injured were still lying on the ground, so Cole let them be.

Well, lookie there, Cole said. Not only does your fat friend have no hair, he ain’t got much of a dick, either. But you’re probably all retracting right about now, in case I decide to take some souvenirs.

The groaning kid lost all control and soiled himself. Lesson learned. Time to get out. Cole used the fallen baseball cap to clean the blood off his knife, and tucked the blade away.

"Word is out on all of