Sunday, May 10, 2015

BP#5-Adult/Mystery/Thriller POOR BOY ROAD


Manuscript Title: POOR BOY ROAD

Category/Genre: Adult/Mystery/Thriller

Word Count: 70,000
 
35-word Pitch: A leg breaker wants out of the mob, but to earn freedom he must kill a rival drug lord and save a kidnapped girl while dealing with shadows of the past in his abusive hometown.

If your MC was an Easter egg, what flavor would he be?

Coffee—seemingly bitter on first taste, but quickly turns into an addiction.

Excerpt (first 300 words)

The apartment door was a cheap, brown, six-panel hollow core with a dirty peephole and colorfully articulated graffiti that would make a priest blush. But, Jake Caldwell was no priest. The door would splinter off its hinges with a swift kick from his boot, just like the previous dozen he’d kicked in over the years. Still, it would be easier if Carlos just opened the door so Jake pounded again.

He waited, listening for sounds of movement over barking dogs and crying babies in the units behind him. He felt conspicuous in the littered hallway with the Glock at his side. Even in this shitty neighborhood, a guy his size with a gun would warrant an eventual call to the cops. Shadows flickered across the bottom of the door – Carlos staring out the peephole. A stupid move. If Jake were here to whack the guy, he could just shoot him through the door. As it was, the worst Jake planned to do was break his kneecaps.

“Open the door, Carlos,” Jake said. No answer, but the shadow remained.

Jake sighed and stepped back. With his good leg, he exploded forward, driving his heel just above the knob. The lock assembly collapsed against the splintered wood and the door burst open. Carlos cried out as the door cracked his face, his wiry frame collapsing to the floor. He landed on his ass, holding his nose. Blood poured through his fingers and onto his stained, white t-shirt. Jake entered the apartment which reeked of cigarettes and fried onions, shutting the remains of the door behind him. Carlos pushed back toward a kitchen stacked with crusted plates and glasses, his wide eyes fearful.

With the gun trained on Carlos, he walked to the kitchen, grabbed a dirty dish towel and dropped it in the bleeding man’s lap.

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