Ray Hoy - Jack Frost 01 - The Vegas Factor
Read Ray Hoy - Jack Frost 01 - The Vegas Factor Online
Authors: Ray Hoy
Tags: #Mystery: Thriller - Doberman Sidekick - Las Vegas
| Ray Hoy - Jack Frost 01 - The Vegas Factor | |
| Jack Frost [1] | |
| Ray Hoy | |
| The Fiction Works (2014) | |
| Tags: | Mystery: Thriller - Doberman Sidekick - Las Vegas Mystery: Thriller - Doberman Sidekick - Las Vegasttt |
The two find themselves fighting for survival in the neon canyons of Las Vegas when Frost’s best friend, a “semi-retired” Syndicate boss, asks for help.
THE VEGAS FACTOR
Jack Frost: A Thriller Series – Book #1
Author: Ray Hoy
©2014 by The Fiction Works
All rights reserved
First Edition (titled
Early Frost
) published 2003
Second Edition (revised cover, retitled
The Vegas Factor)
published ©2014 by
The Fiction Works
No part of this book may be reproduced without written permission, except for brief quotations to books and critical reviews. This story is a work of fiction. Characters and events are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
While his adventures take him far and wide,
the Sierra Nevada mountain range offers
Jack Frost the peace and solitude
that keeps pulling him back to his
A-frame on Lake Tahoe’s South Shore.
Five Star Amazon Review, 5/17/2014
“
The Vegas Factor
packs a punch!”
The Vegas Factor, Book #1
“
The Vegas Factor
by Ray Hoy is a tough, action-packed thriller from start to finish. Only a first-rate writer with years of experience in the casinos of Vegas and Reno could deliver this vivid journey into the sordid underbelly of Sin City. The first in a series of Jack Frost thrillers, this book introduces us to our ex-Minnesota Vikings football player and special forces operative Jack Frost and his beastly sidekick, a Scotch drinking Doberman named J.T. Ripper. In this story the two heroes attempt to protect a beautiful young widow from the brutal Benny Florentine and his ruthless boss Harry Varchetta. Once you start reading, it’s hard to set it down. And once you’ve finished this story, you’ll be downloading the next book in the series. Ray Hoy, a veteran writer and publisher, knows how to tell an entertaining story. This series may not be for the overly squeamish, but if you like action and suspense, you’re going to love Jack Frost.”
—Jerry McGinley
, widely published writer and
editor, author of
Miles To Go Before I Sleep
.
Five Star Amazon Review, 5/8/2014
“A breath of fresh air. Brilliant!”
The Vegas Factor, Book #1
“This is the kind of book that Kindle was made for. Atmospheric, brilliant dialogue and best of all - not one clichéd macho hero in sight. The main character is not perfect, he is flawed, just like the rest of us. Really enjoyed this. This is a perfect Kindle read. I can’t wait to start the second in the series. A Kindle hero is born! Marvellous!”
– Vincent Bruno
(Bury, Manchester, UK)
Five Star Amazon Review, 5/14/2014
“Swift, compelling read.”
The Vegas Factor, Book #1
“Ray Hoy writes with strong imagery and concise, evocative diction, throwing the reader straight into the action, allowing relationships and connections to unfurl as the story does. And believe me, this is a story that pulls no punches. Very highly recommended if you are at all into action or thriller material.”
– Brad
“we-rate-stuff.com” (Tampa)
“A street fight from start to finish!”
– The Sandman
,
The Black Rock Hotel
“If you love intelligent thrillers,
this book
is for you!”
– Timothy C. Phillips
The Roland Longville Mysteries
Please feel free to review
this book on Amazon.com
This one is for the blue-eyed Indian
Table of Contents
Preview of A Proper Time to Die, Book #2
Preview: Letters from Under the Mushroom Cloud
Prologue
The heavy hammering sound rolled across the infield and echoed off the concrete pit wall. Andy McGuire turned and watched as Jonathan Flynn’s racing machine glanced off the guard rail in the pouring rain, then catapulted into the air. Fiberglass shards hurtled propeller-like away from the car.
The Lola Sports-Prototype landed hard, bounced into the air again, then flopped upright on the track.
McGuire watched as the race car, showering sparks from the undercarriage, spun slowly in a half circle, then ground to a halt. “Oh no,
please
God!” he cried as he ran toward the car, dreading what he knew he would find there.
Jonathan Flynn sat in the cockpit, still gripping the steering wheel. He felt curiously detached as he listened to the rain pound down on his helmet.
So loud. How odd I never noticed that before
.
He watched raindrops splatter off the shattered windscreen, then instinctively checked his instruments. He laughed at the absurdity, which sent a bolt of pain surging through his chest.
Felicia Martinez ran toward him across the rough, soggy infield. She tripped and fell heavily, but quickly scrambled to her feet and began to run again, her eyes wide with fear.
“Hurry, Felicia,” Flynn said. His voice sounded hollow in the driving rain. His head sagged on his chest.
So tired
.
He could feel a warm, curious movement in his chest.
Hurry
.
Chapter 1
Harry Varchetta leaned back in his deep leather chair, his feet on his desk. As he glanced at a bank of surveillance monitors, something caught his interest. He swung his feet to the floor and leaned forward, concentrating on the craps table action on one of the monitors.
Varchetta could see beads of sweat on the shooter’s bald head as the man leaned over the rail and placed a stack of pale green $500 chips on the pass line. He was an old and valued client, a Texas oil tycoon who made the trip to Las Vegas twice each year.
Varchetta watched as the big man blew on the dice and tossed them to the far end of the table. A six showed, an easy number to make, but he immediately sevened-out. The Texan shrugged as the craps dealer scooped up his chips.
The stickman passed the dice to the next shooter, a meek little old woman who was a steady local customer.
Thirty floors below, on the casino floor, the woman stared at the dice that the stickman slid toward her. She had been betting five dollars at a time on the pass line, as she did every afternoon. But today there was no joy in the game. The high roller had spooked her with his heavy action; she didn’t want to be responsible for his fate. She had lived in Las Vegas for twenty-five years and had never seen that much money on the layout at one time.
She had been thirty dollars ahead before the big man had joined the table. Then, “Seven-out, line away!” quickly became a familiar cry from the stickman. She lost her thirty, and ten more, while the high-roller—a “wealthy Texan” she heard someone in the crowd say—dropped at least ninety thousand.
Now the old woman’s hands were shaking; the game had turned ugly. She threw a four on the come-out, a hard number to make. The Texan immediately “placed” the 5-6-8-9 and 10—but she sevened-out on the following roll.
The man laughed, seemingly unconcerned. He tossed in a generous stack of black $100 chips “for the boys,” then sauntered over to the little old woman. She started to apologize as he approached, but he quieted her with a gentle pat on the shoulder, and handed her a $500 chip.
Dumbfounded, she watched her tormentor-turned-benefactor disappear into the crowd. Then, impulsively, she turned back to the table and placed the precious pale green chip on the pass line.
The stickman slowly shook his head in disbelief and shoved the dice to the next shooter, a beautiful young blond who was accompanied by a doting, older man.
“Oh, I’ve never done this before!” the young woman squealed. With two long fingernails, she plucked the dice off the green felt and tossed them toward the far end of the table.
The old woman’s shoulders sagged as she heard the stickman cry out, “Three craps, line away!” She watched as the dealer scooped in her lovely $500 chip.
In his upstairs office, Varchetta picked up the telephone and punched three digits. A moment later he bellowed, “Tell Anderson he’d better watch what he’s doing!”
His eyes widened. “Anderson, Anderson,
Anderson
, dammit! He was handling that old broad’s crummy action, and he couldn’t even do that right! He was so busy watching that asshole from Texas that he forgot to take her money when she sevened-out one time!”
Varchetta leaned forward in his chair. “Yes he
did
! He
did too
, you moron! I saw it happen
twice
! And it’s
your
job to see to it that
he
doesn’t make mistakes!”
He slammed the phone down, then jumped to his feet and began pacing. He ran his hands through his thinning black hair as he tugged vigorously at his right ear. He stopped for a moment to pour a drink from a crystal decanter. Tossing the liquor down, he quickly poured another.
Once again he felt uneasy about Felicia. She was a potential source of embarrassment—even worse if she talked to the wrong people. He was the butt of too many jokes already, a man who couldn’t hang on to his wife. That didn’t bother him all that much, but the rumors from higher up made him nervous.
He sighed and tried to shrug off the dark thoughts.
What the hell! I’m one of the most powerful men in Vegas!
Then, aloud, he said, “Yeah, I got nothing to worry about,”
Picking up a TV remote, he clicked impatiently through the channels. Then he saw it. His eyes went wide as he watched the footage of a spectacular car crash. The commentator’s voice over the scene was somber: “Jonathan Flynn, last year’s Formula One champion, was killed late this afternoon while practicing for a race at Las Vegas International Raceway. A favorite with fans and the motoring press alike, Flynn will be missed.”
With a triumphant laugh, Varchetta tossed the remote into the air the way a winning tennis player tosses his racquet. “So, Flynn finally got his. That sonofabitch finally got his!”