Pavement (McGill And Gropper Thrillers Book 1)

Dirty Work, Served Hot

McGill and Gropper don’t have licenses, office space, or rules—but they do have a diner booth and a reputation for getting results. McGill handles the front end—charm, conversation, and deals. Gropper handles everything else, often with fists. Together, they take on the kinds of cases no one else will touch.

When a trucker assaults a sex worker, her pimp turns to the pair for protection. But what starts as a simple job quickly spirals into something far bigger. Taking a stand means taking down a slice of the criminal underworld—and making enemies with people who play for keeps.

Tough choices, broken rules, and a trail of violence: just another day for McGill and Gropper.

Read Pavement now and find out if they can make it out alive—or if this time, the job eats them whole.

Excerpt from the book

Gropper entered the bar.

He’d cased it the day before, knew the schedules of the workers, the locations of the entrances, and the delivery times. He was a man who left nothing to chance; it was how he had survived for as long as he had.

It was close to midnight, and the place was as packed as it was going to be. Gropper took a seat at the bar, ordered a Jack and Coke, and laid the newspaper out on the bar next to him.

The jukebox spat out Bob Seger while the scattered groups made idle conversation. The bar didn’t cater to any specific clientele, but it seemed to be a beacon for blue-collar workers and degenerates. Soon, the patrons would transition from the former to the latter.

That’s when Gropper would earn his pay.

He killed his drink and ordered another. He hadn’t shaved for a few days and wore nondescript clothes. No one would be paying him any attention now, and if anyone asked later, they would get a watered-down description. He was just another anonymous guy out for a few drinks before he called it a night.

Gropper checked the time. A patrol car would be in the neighborhood for the next half hour. Good—it would give him time to go over the game plan. He had scoped the bartender the previous day, but up close, he could get a better read. The guy wore a sleeveless black T-shirt that barely covered his frame. He had no muscle definition but was prison big. A shaved head glistened in the overhead light, and a two-tone beard hung down to his chest, streaked with gray. The bartender’s nose had been broken a few times, and the scar tissue around his eyes suggested he could take a beating and keep coming. Gropper made a note: If the bartender gets involved, give him the full business right away.

In the back was the kitchen, which consisted of a grill manned by two ex-cons. They would stay out of it or run at the first sign of trouble.

Gropper hazarded a guess that at least one of the patrons might join the fray if it lasted long enough, which was another reason to keep things contained and expedited. No sermons, no acquiescing to pleas or apologies; just execute the job.

He would act quickly and be in the wind.

His target would be in the back office. A loaded .38 in the top desk drawer, a ledger in the second, a petty cash box in the third.

Gropper felt the transformation begin to take hold. He ordered a final drink to bring him to an even keel. The adrenaline wouldn’t start coursing until right before the deed, but he felt it building, like a race car driver revving the engine. A group of people paid the bill and left. In total, there were now nine, including Gropper, in the entire place. He clocked them out of the corner of his eye. They were already drunk, busy arguing about which of them had had a harder week. If things broke his way, he’d only have to deal with two of them; if not, possibly four or five. He’d dealt with worse.