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HOME >> Product 0526 >> Blood Of The Gypsy>>

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Blood Of The Gypsy

Ray Johnson

Brad Jackson got his law degree at night while working homicide for LAPD. He was thirty-four, tall, handsome, well built with brown hair and hazel eyes. His successful firm could defend rich people, who could afford his services, poor people, who could not afford him, or the seven hundred gangs in Los Angeles County; who could easily afford him. He decided on a guaranteed clientele, the gangs of Los Angeles. His choice, obviously, irritated law enforcement.


The leader of the strongest Crips gang in Los Angeles told Brad that the major gangs needed him to discover who was killing their officers, making the deaths appear as if committed by a werewolf; which was impossible. If Brad could not find out who was doing the killing, a war could easily break out among the gangs, leaving them to fight a two-front war; fighting themselves and also law enforcement.

Brad tried to resist, but the gang leaders of LA made him a financial offer that he could not refuse. He felt that every major legend had a grain of truth and every fable about werewolves seemed to entail gypsies. He set out to find an old gypsy woman, with a long dress, colorful scarf and coins for jewelry. He found his Gypsy, only she was five feet six inches tall, with a raven-black ponytail that came to her waist, haunting eyes that probed deep into his soul, breasts that caused traffic accidents and legs crafted by the Gods on the Hill of the Five Jackals.

Together they begin to investigate the deaths of the gang officers, apparently killed by something that could not exist. Their investigating causes problems because law enforcement did not want the public to become aware of serial killings by a creature that can kill and slip away undetected: leaving only fang marks, claw wounds and hair for evidence. Now it is Brad and Mahala who are fighting a two-front war, law enforcement on one side and a creature that cannot be real on the other.





76524 Words





Cover Art:

T.L. Davison


Palvi Sharma


Ray Johnson

ISBN Number:


Available Formats:

PDF; Microsoft Reader(LIT); Palm (PDB); Nook, Iphone, Ipad, Android (EPUB); Older Kindle (MOBI); Newer Kindle (AZW3);





THE SCENE WAS impossible, but there it was, happening just after midnight. The man was on the ground, fighting for his life. A werewolf was tearing at his throat, growling loudly. The werewolf was a female, incredibly powerful. The victim was strong, but no match for the fangs and claws of the snarling werewolf. The victim, a black man, was wearing an expensive watch and gold chains, plus two-carat diamond earrings. He was losing too much blood and was weakening. Finally, all resistance stopped, and the victim was dead. The werewolf satiated her need for blood and then slipped into the black of night.


BRAD JACKSON WAS thirty-four years old, and a lot had transpired during those thirty-four years. A quarterback in college, an army officer for three years, an LAPD officer for three years and an attorney for the past four years. As a policeman, he discovered that the line between cop and criminal was very thin and illusive, with both sides often crossing over the ill-defined barrier. He was tall, six feet three inches and well built; working out at his health club three days a week. He had light brown hair, hazel eyes and a Cabo San Lucas tan. The women he went out with said he was very handsome. His ex-wife said he was ugly. She decided that when the court refused to award her alimony. As an attorney, he could represent rich people, who he disliked, poor people, who could not afford his services, or gang members who had the necessary funds.

By representing gang members, he made numerous enemies among law enforcement agencies. He would probably have made the same number of enemies if his skills kept rich people from being convicted. Because lawyers were universally hated by policemen, it really did not make much difference which group he represented. Los Angeles County had over seven hundred gangs, some major, others smaller. Because of the large number of gangs, his courtroom skills were always in demand. He had become successful as an attorney and his law firm now employed three lawyers, one white, one Mexican and one black, plus three law clerks. He was considering hiring an Asian attorney, since the Hmong and other Asian gangs were getting stronger in the southland. The overall gang number did not include the Chinese Red Dragon, the Korean Black Dragon or the Wau Ching; these did not splinter into smaller gangs.

His receptionist was a beautiful black woman who lived with him off and on, when she was in between boyfriends. She had just notified Brad that his appointment had arrived. His office should have been in Beverly Hills or Century City, where other prosperous attorneys were located, but his clientele felt uncomfortable in those wealthy cities. Plus, it was more dangerous to carry weapons in affluent areas. Instead he bought a building on Central Ave and it looked far too successful for the area, bars on the windows and security cameras protected the offices. He purchased the building next door, razed it, and turned it into a parking lot; complete with guard. His clients could park their expensive vehicles without fear of theft.

Brad had his receptionist bring the client back to his office. The office was not what one would expect in South/Central LA: exotic wood paneling, carpet thick enough to sleep on and a glassed-in arboretum on the north wall. The arboretum was an indoor misting rain forest, complete with ferns and flowering plants; plus, a small waterfall. Brad stood up and shook Tyrone’s hand. Tyrone’s bodyguard glared at Brad, which was normal because he hated white people.

Brad suggested, “Have a seat.”

Tyrone sat down in one of the button-back leather chairs and his bodyguard sat on the matching sofa, still scowling. Tyrone was the head of the Black P. Stone Jungle Crips, a major player in the Crips hierarchy. He was six feet tall, well-built and had a scar on his left cheek, given to him by a Blood enforcer when he was just a low-ranking soldier. He had received his AA Degree online from LA Southwest Community College while incarcerated in Soledad prison. He was probably the only Crips leader in Los Angeles with an AA Degree. He majored in Police Science.

Tyrone asked, “What did you find out?”

Brad told him, “Mostly nonsense. The deputy coroner’s report claims your lieutenant was killed by a rabid dog. But the medical report says nothing about saliva from a dog with rabies, and the black hair found on the body could not be assigned to any known breed of dog. Plus, no report of a rabid dog in the area was circulated to warn the local citizens.”

“Lester was as tough as pig iron and wouldn’t have laid down so some dog could maul him.”

“Even worse, his .40 S&W pistol was still in the back holster, so if it was a rabid dog, he’d have shot it.”

“Lester is the third one to die like that, him, a Blood lieutenant and a lieutenant from the Northside Bulldogs. The last thing we need is a war, but someone is killing off our lieutenants. We all lose soldiers, but they’re shot or stabbed, not have their throats ripped out and missing blood.”

Brad related, “My contact was able to get her hands of the other two files. Same foolishness, one blamed on a rabid dog and the other a large feral dog.”

Tyrone frowned and asked, “What’s a feral dog?”

“A feral dog is a domestic dog that has become wild and will attack other animals. If a feral pack is large enough, it might attack a man, but animal control never lets a pack of dogs survive. And the breed of a feral dog could be determined by the dog hair left on the body.”

“What else?”




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 gypsy, warewolf, police, gang war, law enforcement, legend, creature

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