Title: Duke City
Desperado
Author: Max Austin
Genre: Thriller
For fans
of Breaking Bad and the bestselling fiction of Don Winslow and
George Pelecanos comes Max Austin's latest fast-paced, rollicking
"Lawbreakers Thriller" of criminals and lovers, malcontents and
madmen--all within the treacherous city limits of Albuquerque, New Mexico.
Under
a sky full of stars, Dylan James lies sleeping on the roof of a pueblo-style
house. Everyone in Albuquerque seems to be looking for him. A murderous Mafia
prince wants to kill him. Two FBI agents want to cuff him. A Goth girl wants to
make love to him. And a fierce, sexy Chicana just wants to clean up the mess
Dylan made. The trouble started with a drug-addled career criminal named Doc,
and a bank robbery staged with a garage-door opener. And it all goes off the
rails after a little misunderstanding with Dylan's ex-girlfriend and her
jealous, gun-toting new beau. When the sun comes up, this sleepy, scrawny
desperado is going to show the world what he is made of--all for a
one-in-a-million shot at walking out of Duke City alive.
Author Bio
Max Austin is the pseudonym of writer Steve Brewer. He
lives in Duke City (Albuquerque), New Mexico.
- Blog: http://stevebrewer.blogspot.com/
- Twitter: https://twitter.com/brewerrules
- Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7847087.Max_Austin
Links
- Penguin Random House: Penguin Random House
- Amazon: Amazon
- Barnes and Noble: B&N
- iBooks: Ibooks
- Google play: Google Play
- Books a Million: Books a Million
- Goodreads: Goodreads
- Kobo: Kobo
“Attempted bank robbery is a federal crime,” she
said. “We take such crimes very seriously, no matter how ridiculous the
attempt.”
Doc felt his face go warm.
“Also,” Aragon piped up, “threatening people with a bomb is an act of terrorism. And you know how seriously we take terrorism.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Doc said. “Did somebody find a bomb?”
“No,” Agent Willis said, “but even pretending to have a bomb can be a crime. Particularly if that pretense is used to rob a federally insured bank.”
“Again, I don’t know what you mean. I was in an accident. You can see from my face that I’ve been injured. I probably have a concussion or a hematoma or something. I don’t really remember what happened before the car wreck.”
The agents exchanged a smile. That made Doc feel worse.
“Let me refresh your memory,” Aragon said. He tapped the iPad a few times, then tipped it up so Doc could see the screen from across the table. “This is security video from the bank. We’ve got tons of video from the scene, but I snipped this little bit especially for you.”
The screen went fuzzy for a second, then leaped into focus. The driver’s-side window of the white van filled the screen, Doc right there in living color. No disguise, not even wearing his sunglasses. A bald-faced bank robber.
In the video, he held up the gray garage-door opener—and clearly that’s what it was; how had he ever thought anybody would believe differently?—and shouted, “This is a holdup! I’ve got a bomb! Hand over the money or I’ll push this button and blow us all to kingdom come.”
Aragon tapped the tablet to pause the video. Doc’s face froze on the screen, eyes wild, mouth open in a snarl.
“Do we need to go on?” Aragon asked. “I’ve got another clip you’d enjoy. It shows the moment of impact when the van hits that light pole. It’s like slow motion until the air bag pops you in the face. The boys were talking about setting that one to music, putting it on YouTube.”
Doc stared at his cuffed hands on the tabletop. If the feds were trying to shame him, it was working.
“We’ve got you on every camera outside that bank.” Willis leaned toward him, tapping her finger on the tabletop for emphasis. “Plus, we’ve got eyewitnesses, we’ve got your stolen vehicle, we’ve got your fingerprints on the ‘detonator’ you threw from the van.”
Doc watched his thumbs work against each other, fiddling with his ragged nails.
“We’ve got you,” she concluded. “The only question now is how many years you get to spend in a federal penitentiary.”
He winced, which made his puffy face hurt.
“You know what we don’t have?” she said, and Doc felt the faintest flicker of hope. “We don’t have your partner.”
“My partner?”
“The passenger in the van. The one who bailed on you.”
Aragon tapped the screen, and the video of Doc vanished from the screen, replaced by a view of the front end of the Ford van as it pulled up to the teller window. The van was partly under an awning, but there still was enough glare on the windshield that you couldn’t really see who was inside. Then the passenger door flung open and Dylan jumped out, running before his feet hit the ground. Aragon paused the video, catching Dylan in mid-stride, his arms pumping, the hood of his gray sweatshirt cloaking his head.
“You can’t see his face,” Doc said. “Is it that way in all the pictures?”
“We’re asking the questions here.”
Doc smiled, though it hurt to do so.
“You don’t know who that is,” he said. “You can’t find him unless I help you.”
Agent Willis tilted her head to the side, looking him over, as if deciding how to carve him up.
“We’ll find him,” she said. “Tell us a name, where to start looking, this whole thing could be over a lot quicker.”
“I don’t care about quick. What I want is a deal. I give you his name, and I walk away.”
“Never happen,” she said.
“Then I get a reduced sentence, some probation or community service or something. I wasn’t in my right mind anyway—that much is clear. Nobody in his right mind would try to rob a drive-through bank. It’s just not feasible.”
The agents gave him stoic stares.
“I had ‘diminished capacity,’” Doc said, suddenly remembering that term from who-knows-where. “Because of drug abuse. I was diminished.”
Their expressions didn’t change.
“So this kid,” Doc said, “he, uh, takes advantage of my condition. He tells me we ought to rob the bank. Tells me to drive up to the window.”
“It was his idea?” she asked.
“Yeah! This is not the sort of thing I would’ve ever done on my own. I mean, check my record. I’ve been convicted a few times, sure, but it’s always been penny-ante stuff related to my drug abuse problem. I’ve never touched a bank.”
Aragon frowned. “So he suggested you rob a bank, just drive up like you were picking up some tacos, and they’d hand over the money. And you were so far gone on crank, you bought that?”
“I didn’t have any choice!” Doc heard a chunking noise inside his head, the sound of a shovel digging him in deeper. “The kid had a gun. He made me do it!”
The agents leaned back in their plastic chairs, making faces, as if Doc had unleashed a bad smell rather than an implausible lie.
“The teller saw no gun,” Willis said.
“It was all his idea,” Doc insisted. “Catch him and ask him yourself. You’ll see. I was a victim here.”
She shot her partner a look, then said, “If it was the kid’s idea, then why did he run away?”
“I don’t know. I guess he chickened out once things were under way.”
“This kid,” she said, “this armed desperado who made you do terrible things. Does he have a name?”
“Do we have a deal?”
Aragon said, “Do we need to watch some more videos?”
Doc sighed.
“Dylan James,” he said. “His name is Dylan James. He’s twenty-four years old. And I don’t have the faintest fucking idea where he’s gone.”
Doc felt his face go warm.
“Also,” Aragon piped up, “threatening people with a bomb is an act of terrorism. And you know how seriously we take terrorism.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Doc said. “Did somebody find a bomb?”
“No,” Agent Willis said, “but even pretending to have a bomb can be a crime. Particularly if that pretense is used to rob a federally insured bank.”
“Again, I don’t know what you mean. I was in an accident. You can see from my face that I’ve been injured. I probably have a concussion or a hematoma or something. I don’t really remember what happened before the car wreck.”
The agents exchanged a smile. That made Doc feel worse.
“Let me refresh your memory,” Aragon said. He tapped the iPad a few times, then tipped it up so Doc could see the screen from across the table. “This is security video from the bank. We’ve got tons of video from the scene, but I snipped this little bit especially for you.”
The screen went fuzzy for a second, then leaped into focus. The driver’s-side window of the white van filled the screen, Doc right there in living color. No disguise, not even wearing his sunglasses. A bald-faced bank robber.
In the video, he held up the gray garage-door opener—and clearly that’s what it was; how had he ever thought anybody would believe differently?—and shouted, “This is a holdup! I’ve got a bomb! Hand over the money or I’ll push this button and blow us all to kingdom come.”
Aragon tapped the tablet to pause the video. Doc’s face froze on the screen, eyes wild, mouth open in a snarl.
“Do we need to go on?” Aragon asked. “I’ve got another clip you’d enjoy. It shows the moment of impact when the van hits that light pole. It’s like slow motion until the air bag pops you in the face. The boys were talking about setting that one to music, putting it on YouTube.”
Doc stared at his cuffed hands on the tabletop. If the feds were trying to shame him, it was working.
“We’ve got you on every camera outside that bank.” Willis leaned toward him, tapping her finger on the tabletop for emphasis. “Plus, we’ve got eyewitnesses, we’ve got your stolen vehicle, we’ve got your fingerprints on the ‘detonator’ you threw from the van.”
Doc watched his thumbs work against each other, fiddling with his ragged nails.
“We’ve got you,” she concluded. “The only question now is how many years you get to spend in a federal penitentiary.”
He winced, which made his puffy face hurt.
“You know what we don’t have?” she said, and Doc felt the faintest flicker of hope. “We don’t have your partner.”
“My partner?”
“The passenger in the van. The one who bailed on you.”
Aragon tapped the screen, and the video of Doc vanished from the screen, replaced by a view of the front end of the Ford van as it pulled up to the teller window. The van was partly under an awning, but there still was enough glare on the windshield that you couldn’t really see who was inside. Then the passenger door flung open and Dylan jumped out, running before his feet hit the ground. Aragon paused the video, catching Dylan in mid-stride, his arms pumping, the hood of his gray sweatshirt cloaking his head.
“You can’t see his face,” Doc said. “Is it that way in all the pictures?”
“We’re asking the questions here.”
Doc smiled, though it hurt to do so.
“You don’t know who that is,” he said. “You can’t find him unless I help you.”
Agent Willis tilted her head to the side, looking him over, as if deciding how to carve him up.
“We’ll find him,” she said. “Tell us a name, where to start looking, this whole thing could be over a lot quicker.”
“I don’t care about quick. What I want is a deal. I give you his name, and I walk away.”
“Never happen,” she said.
“Then I get a reduced sentence, some probation or community service or something. I wasn’t in my right mind anyway—that much is clear. Nobody in his right mind would try to rob a drive-through bank. It’s just not feasible.”
The agents gave him stoic stares.
“I had ‘diminished capacity,’” Doc said, suddenly remembering that term from who-knows-where. “Because of drug abuse. I was diminished.”
Their expressions didn’t change.
“So this kid,” Doc said, “he, uh, takes advantage of my condition. He tells me we ought to rob the bank. Tells me to drive up to the window.”
“It was his idea?” she asked.
“Yeah! This is not the sort of thing I would’ve ever done on my own. I mean, check my record. I’ve been convicted a few times, sure, but it’s always been penny-ante stuff related to my drug abuse problem. I’ve never touched a bank.”
Aragon frowned. “So he suggested you rob a bank, just drive up like you were picking up some tacos, and they’d hand over the money. And you were so far gone on crank, you bought that?”
“I didn’t have any choice!” Doc heard a chunking noise inside his head, the sound of a shovel digging him in deeper. “The kid had a gun. He made me do it!”
The agents leaned back in their plastic chairs, making faces, as if Doc had unleashed a bad smell rather than an implausible lie.
“The teller saw no gun,” Willis said.
“It was all his idea,” Doc insisted. “Catch him and ask him yourself. You’ll see. I was a victim here.”
She shot her partner a look, then said, “If it was the kid’s idea, then why did he run away?”
“I don’t know. I guess he chickened out once things were under way.”
“This kid,” she said, “this armed desperado who made you do terrible things. Does he have a name?”
“Do we have a deal?”
Aragon said, “Do we need to watch some more videos?”
Doc sighed.
“Dylan James,” he said. “His name is Dylan James. He’s twenty-four years old. And I don’t have the faintest fucking idea where he’s gone.”
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