Dan J Marlowe – författare

I had lived so long on the wrong side of the law I felt out of place as a special undercover agent for Uncle Sam. But I had no choice. One of the top brass in U.S. Intelligence had my number. So we made a deal - his silence for my services in tracking down and infiltrating a gang of Mid-Eastern terrorists. Besides, I had a personal interest in this job. They had stole $75,000 from me. So there I was - Earl Drake, bank robber and safecracker, playing on the side of the angels to outwit a bunch of fanatic Turks who were using their embassy for cover. I started with a Turkish delight. Talia. I conned her into leading me from the bedroom to their inner sanctum. I wished I hadn’t. One look at the cold, bulbous eyes in the mound of flesh seated on the cushioned sofa before me told me I had stepped in the path of a rattlesnake. And if I couldn’t charm it, I was a dead Drake.

In the penitentiary back East, there were four of us slated for parole. And we had plenty more on our minds than just freedom.We had a plan.If it worked, it would be the first time a successful heist had ever been pulled in this gambling town—a town where every cop had eyes in the back of his head and a hand on his gun 24 hours a day.There were a couple of snags—like the fact that we hated one another’s guts, and the fact that a casino girl named Nancy was bugging me to get out and go straight.But I was locked into the plan, because if something went wrong, a Nevada prison—by reputation no rest cure—was preferable to having the other three guys looking for me as the pigeon who had made it go wrong.

How can a man’s own wife be mixed up in one tawdry scheme after another, right under her husband’s nose, and keep the secret?Ask me—I’m the husband.It was four years too late when I discovered Louisa was a woman who made her own rules. For everything, including what every discontented little housewife needs—a foolproof method for becoming a wealthy young widow.

Five strangers …Two million bucks …One lusty redhead …And no holds barred.Staying out of trouble might be relaxing for some guys. But too much peace and quite make me very nervous.Hazel—the luscious lady who keeps me busy and happy during long winter evenings—was trying to sell me her retirement plan.I was tempted.But then suddenly an old pen pal turned up with a couple of friends and a scheme that started my motors going full blast.A two million dollar heist. Cash. Already out of the bank and stashed in a nice, respectable museum—in Cuba.They needed me to help them get it back to the States. That should have tipped me. A hijacker trying to get back from Cuba?I shoulda stood in bed. With Hazel.

Drake had the assignment. He was sent to steal confidential files of the Mafia that had been stashed somewhere in a bank vault on an island in the Bahamas.Drake got the files.He also got himself trapped into a deadly private war—with the Syndicate, the local police, and a gang of freelance assassins.The only man who could help him out of the trap was being held incommunicado—behind the thick walls of a Bahamian prison.Breaking out of jail was something Drake knew about. Breaking in was something else again …

Drake wasn’t expecting visitors …Which is why he was so wary when Hazel told him about the two strangers pulling into their drive.Drake watched as the two men got out of their car and walked toward them.They were Easterners; the cut of their business suits announced that.They didn’t look like hoods.And they weren’t cops. Drake had a built-in radar for fuzz.But there was something cop-like in the swaggering attitude.Whoever they were Drake didn’t like them.Especially when they tried to get smart with Hazel.That’s when Drake shot one in the arm.They quit fooling around then and handed Drake and envelope.It was from Washington. About his friend Karl Erikson in a Spanish prison.Drake wasn’t thinking right then about his friend.He was thinking that some damn fool in Washington had blown his cover. And he had better get the hell away fast before his past caught up with him again.

It wasn’t at all like Hazel to go off without a word to Drake. But she did. He tried calling her at the motel, but they said she’d just checked out. No, no messages.Drake figured he’d better do a little checking on his own.Which is why he went to see Hazel’s business manager, Nate Pepperan, in Hudson. It had been Pepperman’s phone call which had taken Hazel to Hudson in the first place. Nate would surely know where she was.But Nate wasn’t telling. How could he, with his throat slit?Operation Whiplash—a tense, blood-pounding tale of mayhem, murder, and the Mafia with Drake, the Man with Nobody’s Face.

I was driving Hazel’s niece, Melissa, to the airport when it happened. The car right behind me in the parking lot stopped and two men burst out. Crouched low, they came at me in a rush.The next thing I knew I was hit in the face with a stream of acid spray. I fell backward into the car. And that’s the last I knew. Until I came to.The two guys were gone.And so was MelissaOperation Deathmaker... a whiplash story of suspense, kidnapping, and murder, and a man who wouldn’t give up - Drake.

On the streets of a big city people smile and the lights are bright. But there is an alley world of darkness, double-dealing and death; in this world you need muscles and brains to take a step—and only the lucky ones live long.These two worlds meet in Hotel Duarte. Johnny Killain had a fistful of experience with both worlds—and with Hotel Duarte:The girl in 1109 was a schoolmarm from a small western town; but when she visited the city she left her morals at home, stripped off the drab veneer and became an armful of seething hell.The “salesman” in 1938 peddled death on the side—until he turned up cold … very cold … on a hook in the hotel icebox.Johnny had the keys to all the doors—to lust, love, greed … and murder!

It happened in Hotel Duarte, a bullet length from the Great White Way, where life begins at eight-forty - and often ends by midnight with a couple of murders.For instance, the murder of a dumb welterweight who took his dive - and got paid off in lead.He was the brother of Johnny Killain’s gal, and that was pure bad luck for the fight mob - because Killain went in swinging with no referee to call him off.This great big deadly weapon of a man knew every dirty punch ever invented—and he would use them all to find the killer . . .

The statue was knee-high, but it carried a fortune in gold and gems, plus centuries of fame in the art world. Everyone wanted it, and for some no price was too high—love, money, or murder … Then Killain barged in.The redhead made the first pitch, and she had Killain twanging like a hopped-up fiddle—but not one note about the statue.The Blonde tried to bargain across a wide-screen bed, and she convinced Johnny that he should negotiate—but not about the statue.The Ape had a simple proposition: Hand over the statue or I’ll beat in your head! This annoyed Johnny Killain.Much bloodshed and many murders later …

Murder struck first in Hotel Duarte, where Johnny Killain ruled the roost.Here’s Killain, smooth as a ripsaw and gentle as a jackhammer, the happiest avalanche you’ll ever meet, who spends his quiet moments riding herd on the hoods and hopheads, the hard guys and devilish dolls of New York’s night sight, just a knife’s thrown from Times Square.Trouble’s no stranger to Killain; when an out-of-town mob started making corpses Johnny’s room, he began to get annoyed.Then the boys tagged him for the big fall, and there was only one thing to do—find the brain and shake his molars loose!So Killain came to racket-ruled Jefferson, and the boys were there to welcome him—with clubs, knives, guns, and enough hired muscle to carry off Grant’s Tomb.When Killain kept coming, the boys turned mean.They finally forced Killain to run … but they forgot to get out of his way!

The Kingdom of Killain——that’s the Duarte, a big-city hotel at the crossroads of the world. The grifters, tough lads, girls on the make—all learn to stay away from Hotel Duarte because Johnny Killain’s in charge there. That’s his turf—a flick of his fist makes broken guys and dolls.So Johnny patrolled the dark corridors in peace—until the night he rounded a bend and looked murder square in the eye.The blonde lay on the bed in 609, her face a puffed, blue, strangled horror. Her name was Ellen Killain, and she was Johnny’s ex-wife. His still beloved ex-wife.

Meet Pete Karma, the man who broke jail and wound up neck-deep in a gangland bloodbath. Pete had a lot of hate stored up inside. He hadn’t committed the murder he’d been sent up for, and it didn’t take him long to figure out who’d framed him and how. After two and a half years in the slammer, Pete had his plan down perfect. His crooked lawyer, Charlie Risko, would get it first. But as soon as Pete had a spare moment, there were some other things that had to be taken care of.