Rat Island
‘A REAL CONTENDER FOR CRIME BOOK OF THE YEAR’ David Peace
‘FANS OF DON WINSLOW WILL LOVE THIS’ Claire McGowan
New York, 1995. Cop Callum Burke arrives in New York from Hong Kong, drafted in as part of an international investigation into organised crime.
With the handover of Hong Kong to China only a couple of years away, gangsters are moving their operations out of the territory and into New York ahead of the looming deadline.
Burke’s experiences with East Asian crime and the Triads’ links to the Irish Mob make him the perfect man to send in undercover.
But as he infiltrates these vast and lethal criminal networks, bodies start to pile up in his wake and his conscience threatens to send him over the edge.
And when Burke’s NYPD handlers push him to continue the investigation at all costs, he may have to cross the line from cop to criminal just to stay alive…
Readers of Don Winslow, Michael Connelly, Steve Cavanagh, Richard Price and John Sandford will love this dark and morally complex novel which presents a searing portrait of mid-1990s New York as you’ve never seen it before.
PRAISE FOR RAT ISLAND AND JOHN STEELE:
‘A nonstop thrill ride… a lyrical, super read filled with plenty of intrigue, action and suspense and sent against an exotic and seldom explored corner of crime fiction’ Gerald Posner
‘RAT ISLAND speeds and thrashes with the dangerous energy of the Manhattan streets which are so vividly recalled’ Gary Donnelly
‘John Steele writes with grit, pace and authenticity’ Claire McGowan
Purchase Links
https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B096W8W32T
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B096W8W32T
In this early extract from my novel, Rat island, set in New York in 1995, Hong Kong cop is in town to join a joint task force of DEA/NYPD/Hong Kong Police into connections between Hong Kong Triads and a New York Irish mob. He has turned up late and drunk for a briefing, much to the anger of his superior, James Milburn, and embarrassment of his colleague, Bobby Ho.
The DEA had wanted to greet the Hong Kong policemen at 99 10th Avenue, their New York office. But they were swamped with guys on temporary assignment from Miami playing Crockett and Tubbs with the Colombians, so were forced to use Milburn’s hotel room.
The NYPD and DEA had brought a VCR and some boxes of case files to the room earlier. A large photocopied sheet with shots of the major players in the case hung on a wall. A large book compiled of the same photos sat on the coffee table. The room was one of the smallest in a hotel wedged between a couple of soaring bastions of commerce in the lower Manhattan financial district.
Callum cleared his throat and said, ‘I’ll say again that I am sorry I’m late, Sir.’
But Callum wasn’t sorry. He wasn’t sorry that he’d given his last thirty cents to the drunk on 42nd Street for bus fare. He wasn’t sorry that he’d had to go in search of an ATM, an endangered species in the Times Square vicinity, which seemed a catastrophic design flaw in the tourist heart of New York. Or that he’d taken the subway in the wrong direction and ended up hopping off at an elevated station somewhere north of Harlem.
He’d jumped off the C Train back downtown at Canal Street and, deciding he was already late, dropped into a bar for a few steadying drinks.
Now he stood like a guilty teenager, taking shallow breaths and hoping the grown-ups wouldn’t smell the booze. He caught Bobby Ho staring at him for a moment.
Ho was, like Callum, in the Royal Hong Kong Police, a Red Tab cop, so named because of his proficiency in English. He had a slight build and wore a polo shirt and jeans. As ever, he appeared quiet, observant and reserved. The Chinese cop looked away quickly and Callum’s face lit up, his skin burning.
He knew he’d embarrassed Bobby, that Bobby would be squirming inside at watching Milburn fume. The discord would worry Ho – a bad omen for the business ahead.
Callum had worked with European, Chinese and Pakistani officers in the RHKP and found them all the same. Some good, some bad, some very good at being bad. Bobby Ho was one of the good guys.
James Milburn spat, ‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing, Callum?’
Callum flinched. ‘Sir, I got lost.’
‘In a bloody shot glass. I could smell it from you when you walked in.’
‘Sorry, Sir.’
‘You’re a sorry piece of work you useless bastard. It’s your human failings rather than those as a policeman that concern me right now.’
Callum looked at the floor and glimpsed the book of criminal players they were in New York to bust open.
‘I got lost,’ he said again.
‘You’ve been lost for months. You have to control your impulses, especially here. Especially now.’
‘I don’t want to be here.’
Callum stared at the tendons twitching in Milburn’s long neck, the drawn skin an angry crimson.
Milburn said, ‘It’s a bit fucking late for that.’ His tone, measured at first, shifted up through the gears. ‘You bloody idiot. I could have kicked you out of the force for what you did back in HK. You could have done jail time. You’re damn lucky to have hauled your head above water again. You’re lucky to still have a job with RHKP, and you’re well-fucking-lucky you were born in Ireland to have this opportunity come your way.’
Callum realised he was at attention and tried to relax back into his former whiskey-calm. His voice cracked.
‘I believe there are other officers from back home you could have called on.’
‘Murray is nearing retirement and Shaw is close to burn-out. Mind you, they and your other compatriots haven’t collected any charges in their careers.’
Possession of an Offensive Weapon. Assault Occasioning Actual Bodily Harm. Breaking a Triad foot soldier’s jaw with a knuckle-duster in a Hong Kong bar fight after the hood had rearranged a bar-girl’s face.
If only the top brass knew that was the least of it.
Author Bio –
John Steele was born and raised in Belfast, Northern Ireland. In 1995, at the age of twenty-two he travelled to the United States and has since lived and worked on three continents, including a thirteen-year spell in Japan. Among past jobs he has been a drummer in a rock band, an illustrator, a truck driver and a teacher of English. He now lives in England with his wife and daughter. He began writing short stories, selling them to North American magazines and fiction digests. He has published three previous novels: RAVENHILL, SEVEN SKINS and DRY RIVER, the first of which was longlisted for a CWA Debut Dagger award. John’s books have been described as ‘Remarkable’ by the Sunday Times, ‘Dark and thrilling’ by Claire McGowan, and ‘Spectacular’ by Tony Parsons. The Irish Independent called John ‘a writer of huge promise’ and Gary Donnelly appointed him ‘the undisputed champion of the modern metropolitan thriller’.
Social Media Links –
Twitter: @JohnSte_author
Everything Is Better With Dragons 