Matt Hilton, Ian Graham, James Oliver Hilton, Rod Glenn, Paul D Brazill, Tyson Adams, Alex Shaw, Jochem Vandersteen, Les Morris, Andrew Scorah, James Hopwood, Ian McAdam, Gavin Hunt, Steve Christie, Frank Sonderborg, Richard Godwin, Terrence P. McCauley, Dean Breckenridge, Christopher L. Irvin, By Richard Prosch, Graham Smith, Paul Grzegorzek, Absolutely*Kate, Kevin Michaels, Rhesa Sealy, Iain Purdie, Asher Wismer, Lee Hughes
Action: Pulse Pounding Tales Volume 2
Copyright © 2013 Matt Hilton and by individual authors for their respective works
INTRODUCTION
During a review of one of my recently published Joe Hunter thrillers a critic said that I was verging on writing pulp fiction. ‘Hell, yes!’ I thought before realising he was actually intending his comment as an insult. Little does he know but I took his snippy aside as a bit of a sideways compliment. I grew up reading pulp fiction, was inspired to write by pulp fiction, and am going to make no apologies for that fact. To me pulp fiction is accessible to all readers, is enjoyable, and is generally fast paced and exciting stuff. What’s wrong with that, I ask you?
It was through my love of pulp fiction, and of the action adventure genre in particular, that I set out to publish Action: Pulse Pounding Tales (Vol 1), and it was apparent from the number of authors who submitted that other writers had an equal love of the genre. The book garnered some great reviews and attracted readers from all over the globe. It gladdened my heart to find that some of those readers were asking for a second edition, and to appease them, here we have it, Volume 2.
This second volume of pulse-pounding action tales features short stories from both new and established authors, some you will know and some you won’t; but isn’t that the joy of reading a collection like this? You get to enjoy some excellent tales while also discovering new authors to follow who you might not otherwise have come across. Do check out their other works, you won’t be disappointed.
Because of the mix of writers, each with their own unique voice, I’ve tried to stay true to the spirit of their writing by wielding the editing pencil only very minimally. You will find tales represented here with British English or with US English, with double or single attributions, some with a noir bent, or leaning more towards ‘dodgy geezer’ talk. If there’s enough demand, I’ll think of adding a glossary of slang terms for those who struggle with the lingo…actually, I’m joking. I can almost guarantee that you’ll learn a new repertoire of words just by reading this collection. But your real reason for reading it should be for pure unadulterated enjoyment: I’m sure you’ve come to the right place.
Here we have hit men, secret agents, vigilantes, private eyes, assassins and professional thieves, savage warriors and one or two others who can’t be easily categorized, all kicking ass and taking names. It’s fast, it’s furious, it’s…yep, pulpy!
But that’s no bad thing. In fact, to get those pulses racing it’s just what the doctor ordered.
Now, all I’ve got to add is…
…Kick back and enjoy the ride!
Matt Hilton
Author of the Joe Hunter thrillers
2013
DIRK RAMM: UNSHEATHED By Matt Hilton
Now…
Dirk Ramm feared no man.
At six feet two inches, with not an ounce of lazy fat on his lean muscled frame, he knew how to fight. He held black belts in the better-known Japanese combat arts of Ju-Jitsu, Karate and Aikido. On top of that he was an exponent of lesser-known but equally deadly styles like Savate, Krav Maga and the secretive bone breaking arts of Ninpo Koppojutsu and Hawaiian Kuialua. Plus, he was happy in a blood-and-snot-barroom-brawl if it came to it. He could fight for fun, and had proven himself during a long career with the CIA, and then later during his one-man campaign to bring down the Red Mafia. Put him up against any man, armed or unarmed it didn’t matter, and he’d at least give out as much punishment as he received.
Attack dogs were a different story entirely.
These dogs didn’t care about black belts or any title other than master.
They answered to different rules of combat than men, were unpredictable in their attack, but totally predictable in their intent. Unlike the inherent weakness of most men, who preferred that they survive an encounter, attack dogs were driven by one savage predisposition: kill or be killed. Instinct bade them tear out the throat of anything their master sicked them on.
Three slavering beasts were on his trail as he ran, coming like silent spectres through the fog. Trained to stay quiet, so that their attack came with shock and awe, none of the trio elicited as much as a yip of excitement or even a deep throated growl. If not for the tackety tack of their claws on the hard packed dirt the first Ramm would have known of them was when one of the huge Doberman’s barreled out of the mist and clamped its jaws around his throat.
He couldn’t outrun the beasts.
He couldn’t fight them in the open. While one went for his throat, the others would hamstring him, maybe core out his groin, and bring him down. He searched for a wall to put his back against, but in the cloying mist could spot no refuge. He cursed himself for foregoing his combat suit on this mission. Formed of super tensile silk, a layer of nano-gel inserts beneath, it made him largely infallible to bullets or knives. Jokingly referred to as his Sheath of Steel, his experimental Israeli nanocomposite anti-ballistic/stab suit would have saved him from the ripping teeth of the dogs. But this mission had called for a mode of apparel unlikely to conceal his suit, and he’d regretfully left it behind.
Quit worrying over spilt milk! Better he concern himself with his unspilled blood and kept things that way.
Ramm continued running.
The dogs were barely exerting any energy as they kept pace. Any second now and they’d hit the afterburners and they would catch him. They were disciplined fiends, though, and were waiting for the precise moment to launch their three-pronged attack.
Through the fog shapes began to materialise: a farmhouse, a barn, a couple of smaller sheds. Ramm had no intention of placing any innocent at risk of the dogs, so angled away from the house, sprinting now for the barn. He hoped that it had doors that he could throw shut, but also that the wished for doors weren’t locked. As soon as he dug in for an extra spurt of speed the dogs came as fleet and as deadly as arrows. And, with the extra push came their first sounds of anticipation. The lead dog made a huffing noise deep in its chest, and Ramm knew that the beast was going to lead the charge.
A knife would have been handy, a gun more so. But Ramm had neither. Like his NAS suit, he’d had to leave behind his weapons when infiltrating The Bishop’s compound. Suit or small arms would have picked him out as an interloper and though he’d have brought blazing fury among The Bishop’s flock, it would have done nothing for saving Shelly Cannon who’d been secreted deep within the tunnels beneath the compound. His only weapons here were his bare hands and his willingness to fight to the death. Partly he didn’t regret the coming battle. Maybe he’d grown complacent of late; that he’d grown to rely too much on his technologically advanced suit and weaponry, and going tooth and claw against these dogs in primal combat would just be the test he required.
Two nights ago…
Ramm stepped out of the shower, wrapping a towel around his hips. Behind him, dripping with sweat from their exertions, as much as the water from the showerhead, Bitsy Horton reached after him, to draw him back into her embrace. Her scarlet nails dragged down the tight muscles of his back and hooked into the towel. She wouldn’t let him leave.