Jack Flynn

Jack Flynn doesn't want trouble. No, sir. Avoids trouble like you would a nagging ex-wife. What he wants, black coffee and cigarettes aside, is a laid-back life in Margaritaville. But trouble, man, it just loves this guy. You'd think living life on an old shrimp boat anchored off a tropical island would give a man, a man with a past, a certain measure of peace. You'd think that. But you'd be wrong. Ex-special forces, former pro-boxer, Jack Flynn has left the horrors of war and a checkered past behind, determined to start a new life for himself as a salvage diver and sometimes private eye in a town where people still go to chase dreams. Where the impossible can still happen. Key West, Florida. Life is good. Time passes. And then one day trouble rolls into town. A simple job. Do a favor for this lawyer broad. Just find this rich guy's daughter who vanished twenty years ago and was recently spotted in Key West. This Daddy Warbucks jackass is willing to pay some serious coin to find his little angel. And Jack, man, he could really use the dough. Sounds easy enough. Key West is an island. It's like, what, two miles by three. How hard could it be? Easy, right? Yeah. Walk in the park. Unless of course you're a trouble magnet like Jack and a whole freakshow of mobsters and psycho bikers roll into town looking for little girl lost. These goons, they're not big fans of Jack's. Gotta problem with smartasses, which, by his own admission, Jack is. Most of these guys, they'd like nothing more than to put a bullet in Jack's head. Set him up in a nice, dirt condo. Problem is, Jack, he's one tough sonuvabitch. A throwback. Old-school guy. Kinda guy whose favorite outfit is a sneer. And even though no one has ever accused Jack of being smart, he's a cunning bastard who never gives up. Ever. These gangsters, man, they've got no idea what they're up against.

Never again. That's what salvage diver and sometimes private eye Jack Flynn said the last time he did some broad a favor and almost got his ticket punched. Now, this broad, Maureen, a lawyer of all things, she's got another gig for Jack. A favor she calls it. And, big surprise, Jacks got his tit in a wringer once again. What a sap. Another easy job, she tells him. Simple. Like taking candy. Tells Jack this Richie Rich client of hers wants to hire some grunts to do a salvage job for him. Find some sunken treasure. OK. Sounds easy enough. Kinda thing Jack does all the time. Only this rich bastard, Harold Pumpernickel, a real Master-of-the-Universe type of guy, refuses to tell anybody what this particular treasure is. Big. That's what he tells them. It's really, really big. Like it's friggin' charades or something. Guy's keeping his cards close to the chest, pissing Jack off big time. Now, ordinarily, Jack would tell a dope like Harold to go pound sand. Ordinarily. Thing is, Jack, broke as usual, sure wouldn't mind getting his hands on some of Harold's money. So along with Pumpernickel and his entourage of fake friends, hangers-on, and some really, really hot chicks--c'mon, it's a guy novel--Jack takes a fleet of salvage boats, mega-yachts and party boats to an island off Key West for what has to be the weirdest salvage job of his life. But of course, inevitably, as is his destiny, things go to shit for Jack when he discovers Mr. Money Bags isn't exactly on the up and up. Turns out, what they're doing, it might be just a little illegal. Maybe more than a little illegal. Let's just call it a felony. And when Jack refuse to play, some real bad hombres decide the best way to solve a problem is to shoot it. Those guys sporting turbans, speaking Pashto and wearing scimitars in their belt? Turns out they're not on board to help make falafels. And the crazy-looking tattooed muscleheads who look like ex-Russian convicts, mainly because they are ex-Russian convicts, they pretty much want to kill Jack, too. So, you ask, where's the love? Why all the anger? Well, when Jack finds out just what Richie Rich has discovered on the ocean floor, something that could quite possibly start World War III, the pieces start to fall into place. 'Course, it's never that easy for Jack. Once again he's in a race for his life and the lives of millions of innocent people as he races around the world in hot pursuit of a regular rogue's gallery of goons, freaks, and low-rent tough guys. I won't even mention the Masai warriors. Oh, crap, I just did. Well, hell, if you wanna hear the rest you'll just have to buy the damn novel. The price is low enough, ya cheap bastards.