The Rat Specialist (The Corey Sullivan Series Book 2)

A Thriller of Secrets, Survival, and Betrayal

In the shadows of the justice system, where deals are struck to save lives, survival comes at a cost. U.S. Probation Officer Corey Sullivan works the cases no one hears about—managing convicted informants who walk a fragile line between second chances and deadly consequences. Some are hidden under new identities, while others remain exposed, marked by the enemies they betrayed.

Corey’s role is equal parts protector and enforcer. He helps these high-risk individuals stay clean, monitors their every move, and builds cases against those who slip back into crime. But trust is a rare commodity in his world. The people he supervises are skilled in deception, and some see him not as an ally, but as a threat worth eliminating.

Operating in secrecy, Corey navigates a dangerous landscape of clandestine meetings, shifting loyalties, and constant risk. One mistake could place him directly in the line of fire—caught between those seeking revenge and those desperate to stay alive.

The Rat Specialist by John Moccia delivers a gritty, grounded thriller that explores the moral compromises and hidden lives behind the headlines. As the second installment in the Corey Sullivan series, it deepens the tension and stakes, pulling readers into a world where betrayal is currency and survival is never guaranteed.

Step into the shadows and discover how far people will go when secrets are worth killing for.

Excerpt from the book

At Nguyen’s Napolitano—if you got past the Formica tables in the dining room and snuck around the counter to the back—you expected to find two or three Asians in aprons and sweaty T-shirts, stirring pots, washing pans, maybe having a smoke in the back alley. Instead, you got Jacob Franklin, brooding, watching his water boil. He’d be standing over the stove, but his head was a thousand miles away, back in the city he wasn’t permitted to acknowledge.

Jacob was off paper now. He had completed his sentence six months earlier. Corey Sullivan had enjoyed checking on the old man. It reminded him that one of the lives he was paid to look after did not end badly.

On Tuesday, just to get out of the office, Corey popped into the trattoria. It was only a couple of blocks from the Federal Building. The place was open from ten in the morning until five in the afternoon. As the business hours suggested, the small eatery did mainly lunch trade and take-out. Office workers frequently stopped in during the late afternoon to grab some pasta and meatballs to bring home.

The place had been a disaster until Corey had introduced Jacob to the owner, Vinh Nguyen. Now they did brisk business. Jacob’s meatballs were the secret. Actually, a lot of secrets were the secret.

The restaurant’s unlikely provenance didn’t matter. The place consistently served pretty fair Neapolitan cuisine. Its success was all because of the cook in the kitchen, the guy the customers never saw.

Jacob Franklin was the cook. He looked like he was 110. He was closer to 80. Maybe it was the life he’d led that added the imaginary thirty years. If you saw him on the street, you’d wonder if he could make it to the corner. He came alive only when he got to work.

He’d totter down the alley each morning, strap on an apron, put on the hot water, chop some garlic, fiddle with the oregano, grab the morning paper which Nguyen would leave for him on the counter, tuck a foul unlit cigar between his teeth and sip on the first of a dozen cups of espresso. Halfway through the Metro section he’d get started. He’d begin to work his magic on the chopped meat, adding ingredients he wouldn’t talk about, moving silently up and down the counter.

Nguyen would pop in the back around eleven, sample one of the meatballs and purr his ritual question, “Ve’ good. What you put in this?”

“Nonna your fucking business.”

Nguyen would giggle and go back out front where members of his extended family were hustling about, getting ready for the lunch crowd.

Old Jacob was as much a mystery to Nguyen as the ingredients in his meatballs. He knew nothing about the man other than Corey Sullivan had brought him in as a replacement to Nguyen’s cousin who was a terrible cook. Somehow all of the cousin’s food tasted like rotten fish. Nguyen didn’t care if Jacob was a terrorist—given his association with Sullivan he just might be—as long as he showed up for work. Nguyen didn’t need to know the old man’s history.