D/C Mike O’Shea, a young cop with a knack for working hard and following hunches, is on the verge of cracking a prostitution ring when an undercover from another unit burns him. With only days left before their pimps shuttle the girls out of the country, Mike pushes his team into overdrive. Hours later, with too little information, sleep, or luck, the unthinkable happens.
And now, the chase is personal.
In the first of the Mike O’Shea Crime Fiction Series, 10-33 Assist PC draws us into the dirty world of human trafficking through the eyes of the cops who put their lives on the line every day to shut it down. Written by a Real Detective, 10-33 Assist PC is the story of a cop who must decide how to move forward without forgetting the past.
Real Detective. Real Crime. Fiction.
Desmond P. Ryan - Author Bio
Very few books give you the real crime experience because even fewer authors have it.
Desmond P. Ryan has it.
For almost thirty years, he worked the back alleys, poorly-lit laneways, and forgotten neighbourhoods in the city where he grew up. Murder often most unkind, assaults on a level that defied humanity, and sexual violations intended to demean, shame, and haunt the victims were all in a day’s work. Days, evenings, midnights--all the same. Crime knows no time.
Exhilarating. Exhausting. Often heartbreaking.
Whether as a beat cop or a plainclothes detective, Desmond Ryan dealt with good people who did bad things and bad people who followed their instincts. He wrote thousands of reports describing their lives, the places they lived, and the things they did. He investigated their crimes and wrote detailed accounts of the activities that brought him into their world. Detective Ryan also held victims as they wept, talked desperate people off of ledges, and sat beside the decomposing bodies of men and women who, in life, had been discarded and long-forgotten by society.
Now, as a retired detective with three decades of research opportunities under his belt, Desmond Ryan write crime fiction.
Because he wants to tell you a story like no other. Because he wants to bring you inside a world that will both fascinate you and challenge what you thought you knew about human nature. Because he wants to seamlessly weave truth and fiction together to create a place for you where the Good Guys ultimately win.
And because you deserve to have the most authentic crime fiction experience every time you pick up one of Desmond Ryan’s books.
Real Detective. Real Crime. Fiction.
And now the chance to read an extract from the book.
10-33 Assist PC
Saturday, October 29th, 2005 - 2:30 p.m.
Detective Constable Mike O’Shea casually drove the unmarked scout car around the corner. He felt good. Maybe it was the bright October sunlight reflecting off the crushed beer cans scattered on the overgrown lawns. Maybe it was the police-issued snubby holstered in the small of his back. Or maybe it was the anticipation of a successful end to a long project. Whatever the reason, it made him smile.
“Mike! Left!” Sal grabbed the dashboard with one hand while instinctively reaching for his gun with the other.
The clang of metal rang in their ears as a streak of green flashed in front of them.
Someone bounced off the hood of the car.
Mike slammed the brakes, one hand on the wheel and the other reaching for the snubby. Despite their ratty sweatshirts, stained jeans, and unshaved faces, neither cop looked quite as rough as the
scrappy man who popped up from the pavement next to Mike’s door. They watched, hands on their still-holstered guns, as the scruffy man yanked a battered bike from under the front tire of the car. Without a word, he wobbled away, apparently none the worse for wear.
“Hey!” Mike hollered after the cyclist, who responded with a suggestive finger in the air.
“Bike’s stolen and he’s drunk. Or stoned. Let him go,” Sal said, spitting sunflower seed shells
on the floor of the car before settling back into his seat.
“Unbelievable,” Mike mumbled, shaking his head.
“No shit,” Sal agreed, stuffing another handful of sunflower seeds into his mouth.
“I’m talking about you, asshole. You’re not spitting those shells in the car, are you?”
“Use the fucking window.”
Sal spat a shell at Mike’s feet.
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