HIGH OCTANE, page 1
Reacher is back. This time it’s Joe.
CLICK HERE TO BUY
HIGH OCTANE
The August High Thrillers
Book Six
Dan Ames
Slogan Books, New York, NY
Copyright © 2025 by Dan Ames
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Praise for Dan Ames
"Packed to the gills with hard-hitting action and a non-stop plot." –Jacksonville News
* * *
“A fast-paced, unpredictable mystery with an engaging narrator and a rich cast of original supporting characters.” –New York Times bestselling author Thomas Perry
* * *
"Dan Ames writes fast-paced, gripping tales that capture you from Page One and hold you enthralled till the last word. He brings a strong, clear voice to whichever genre he chooses. This guy is one hell of a storyteller. Watch for him." -Amazon Review
* * *
Dan Ames' writing reminds me of the great thriller writers -- lean, mean, no nonsense prose that gets straight to the point and keeps you turning those pages.” –Robert Gregory Browne
* * *
These Jack Reacher stories are packed with action and unforgettable twists and turns. Great reads! -B & N Review
* * *
“Cuts like a knife." -Savannah Morning News
* * *
“Grabs you early on and doesn't let go." -Tom Schreck
* * *
“From its opening lines, Daniel S. Ames and his private eye novel DEAD WOOD recall early James Ellroy: a fresh attitude and voice and the heady rush of boundless yearning and ambition. Ames delivers a vivid evocation of time and place in a way that few debut authors achieve, nailing the essence of his chosen corner of high-tone Michigan. He also deftly dodges the pitfalls that make so much contemporary private detective fiction a mixed bag and nostalgia-freighted misfire. Ames’ detective has family; he’s steady. He’s not another burned-out, booze-hound hanging on teeth and toenails to the world and smugly wallowing in his own ennui. This is the first new private eye novel in a long time that just swept me along for the ride. Ames is definitely one to watch.” — Craig McDonald, Edgar-nominated author
* * *
“Dan Ames pulls off a very difficult thing: he re-imagines what a hardboiled mystery can be, and does it with style, thrills and humor. This is the kind of book mystery readers are clamoring for, a fast-paced story with great heart and not a cliché to be found.” -- Jon A. Jackson, author of Badger Games
* * *
“Dan Ames is a sensation among readers who love fast-paced thrillers.” – Mystery Tribune
* * *
“A smart detective story stuffed with sharp prose and great action.” –Indie Reader
Free Books And More
Would you like a FREE copy
of my story BULLET RIVER and the chance
to win a free Kindle?
Then sign up for the DAN AMES BOOK CLUB:
* * *
For special offers and new releases, sign up here
Contents
HIGH OCTANE
THURSDAY
Part I
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
FRIDAY
Part II
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
SATURDAY
Part III
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Part IV
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
SUNDAY
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
About the Author
Also by Dan Ames
HIGH OCTANE
An August High Thriller
* * *
Book #6
* * *
by
* * *
Dan Ames
THURSDAY
Part One
THE BURNING
1
Carlos Mendoza felt like a king.
The bass from the club still thrummed in his chest as he pushed through the heavy door into the cool Detroit night. The woman on his arm laughed at something he'd said, her fingers light on his bicep.
American girls loved the accent.
Loved the whole package—Spanish driver, Grand Prix weekend, the Maserati waiting at the curb.
"That's yours?" she asked, spotting the sleek black MC20.
"For the weekend." Carlos pressed the key fob. The car chirped, its lights flashing. "Everything is for the weekend in this business."
She was pretty in that effortless way some American women managed. Blonde highlights, tight dress, heels that clicked on the sidewalk. She'd told him her name twice. He'd forgotten it both times.
"You really race these things?" She ran a hand along the Maserati's carbon fiber roof.
"Not this one. The real ones are much faster." He moved around the passenger side, opened her door with a flourish. "But this one is more comfortable."
She slid into the leather seat, legs angling in with practiced ease. Carlos caught a glimpse of thigh before closing the door. He was already thinking about the hotel, the view from the twentieth floor, the bottle of champagne waiting on ice.
He walked around the back of the car, keys jingling in his palm. The street was quiet. Most of the bars in this part of downtown were still going strong, but this block had cleared out. He glanced at his Rolex, saw it was just past midnight. He had a team meeting at nine, but that was hours away. Plenty of time to—
The impact came from behind.
Something massive crashed into the back of his skull. The world tilted. Carlos stumbled forward, hands out, catching himself against the Maserati's trunk. His keys clattered to the pavement. His vision doubled, then tripled.
He tried to turn. Tried to see what hit him.
Another blow. This one to his ribs. He heard them crack, felt the sharp stab of bone shifting wrong. His legs gave out. He hit the street hard, palms scraping asphalt.
"Help—" he started to yell, but a boot caught him in the stomach.
Strong hands grabbed him under the armpits and started dragging him. He tried to fight, tried to kick, but his body wouldn't respond right. His head was swimming. His ribs were tearing his insides apart. He felt the pavement scraping past underneath him.
The woman. She was in the car and could help. She could call the police.
But when he managed to turn his head, he saw the Maserati pulling away from the curb, taillights receding down the empty street.
She wasn't calling anyone.
The dragging continued. Carlos tried to focus. Tried to see who had him. But the angle was wrong, and his vision kept blurring. Big. That was all he could tell. Whoever had him was big, with shoulders like a refrigerator. Moving him like he weighed nothing.
They turned into an alley.
The smell hit him first, reeking of garbage, piss, and old rot. It was the kind of alley that existed behind every city nightclub in the world. The kind of place Carlos Mendoza had never spent a single second of his charmed life.
Until now.
He was dropped. His head cracked against concrete. Stars exploded behind his eyes.
Then the beating began in earnest.
The first blow shattered his left knee. He heard it pop, felt the joint separate. His scream echoed off the brick walls.
The second broke his right ankle.
The third caved in his ribs on the opposite side.
It was methodical. Precise. Someone who knew exactly what they were doing. Each impact brought fresh agony and fresh damage.
Carlos stopped screaming. Stopped trying to protect himself. Just curled on the filthy alley floor and waited for unconsciousness.
But it didn't come.
He stayed aware. Stayed present for all of it.
The figure above him was massive, silhouetted against the dim light from the street. Carlos couldn't make out features. Just size. Just the baseball bat rising and falling with mechanical efficiency.
His hands next. The small bones shattering like glass.
His shoulders. Dislocated, then crushed.
He tasted blood. Felt his teeth loose in his gums where the bat had caught his jaw.
This was it. This was how Carlos Mendoza died. Not in a racing accident, not in some blaze of glory at two hundred kilometers per hour. But in a Detroit alley, beaten to death like a dog.
The bat stopped.
Carlos lay still, each breath a labored wheeze through broken ribs and a crushed chest. He couldn't move. Couldn't do anything but lie there in his own blood and wait.
Footsteps moved away and then returned.
Something heavy landed on his chest. No, it was around his neck. Something circular. Rough rubber pressed against his torn skin.
A tire.
Even through the haze of pain, Carlos understood. His broken mind made the connection. Racing. Driver. Tire.
The smell of gasoline hit him like a slap.
Liquid splashed over him. Over the tire. Soaking into his expensive shirt, his designer jeans. The fumes made his eyes wate r, made what was left of his breath come in ragged gasps.
He tried to speak. Tried to beg. But his jaw was shattered, his tongue thick with blood.
The figure stood over him one last time. Carlos still couldn't see the face. Just the massive shape. The bat resting casually on one shoulder.
Then the scrape of a lighter.
"No—" the word came out as a wet gurgle.
The flame touched the gasoline.
The world became fire.
Carlos Mendoza had one last moment of perfect clarity. He thought of his mother in Barcelona.
Then the pain took even that away, and Carlos Mendoza stopped thinking at all.
2
The Twelve was quiet for a Thursday night.
August High sat at his usual spot at the end of the bar, a glass of whiskey neat in front of him. The amber liquid caught the dim light from the neon Budweiser sign behind the bar. BB King played low from the speakers, his guitar weeping through "The Thrill Is Gone."
Jazz wiped down the mahogany bar top with practiced efficiency. Her black tank top showed off toned arms, and her dark hair with its premature gray streaks was pulled back in a small ponytail. She hadn't said much tonight. Just poured his drink and let him sit.
August appreciated that about her. She knew when to talk and when to leave him alone.
The bar was nearly empty. An old timer nursed a beer at a corner table, nodding along to the music. Two younger guys shot pool in the back, their laughter occasionally cutting through the blues. The walls were covered in memorabilia from floor to ceiling. Faded concert posters, album covers, photographs of blues legends who'd probably never set foot in Detroit.
Jazz came back with the bottle, topped off his glass without asking.
"You okay?" She set the bottle down, leaned against the bar.
"Fine."
"You've been staring at that same spot on the wall for twenty minutes."
August looked at her. She had those dark brown eyes that saw too much. "Just thinking."
"About?"
"Nothing important."
She smiled. It was the kind of smile that said she didn't believe him but wasn't going to push. "You want something to eat? I can heat up some wings."
"I'm good."
Jazz studied him for another moment, then moved down the bar to check on the old timer. August watched her go. The way she moved had an easy grace to it. Confident without trying. He'd known her for three years now. Ever since Pops had brought him here after a particularly bad case. Told him he needed a place to drink that wasn't his loft.
Pops had been right. The Twelve had become his spot. His refuge.
The door opened. A couple walked in, laughing about something. Tourists, by the look of them. They scanned the bar like they were checking it off some list of authentic Detroit experiences. Jazz greeted them with professional warmth, guided them to a table, handed them menus.
August's phone buzzed in his pocket.
He pulled it out. Text from Paul Fawcett. Paul was an ex-cop and August’s unofficial researcher. He had sent a link to an article about the Grand Prix coming to town this weekend. The whole city had been buzzing about it for weeks. Street closures, hotel rooms booked solid, restaurants already advertising race weekend specials.
August had zero interest in racing. Watching cars go in circles seemed like a waste of time. But the event brought money to Detroit, and money meant work. Security gigs, personal protection, wealthy people who needed things handled quietly.
He deleted the text.
Jazz returned, this time with a bowl of pretzels she set in front of him. "Grand Prix starts tomorrow. You working any of it?"
"No."
"Surprised. Thought all that international money would need a big scary bodyguard."
"I'm not a bodyguard."
"Private investigator. My mistake." She grinned. "Still, seems like your kind of scene. Rich people, expensive cars, potential for violence."
"I don't do potential. I do actual."
"How philosophical." Jazz grabbed a pretzel from his bowl, crunched it. "You going to at least watch the race?"
"Rather watch paint dry."
"You're no fun."
August sipped his whiskey. The burn felt good going down. "I do plenty of fun things."
"Like what? Sitting alone at bars? Breaking people's bones? Talking to that grumpy old man at the gym?"
"Pops isn't grumpy."
"Pops is the definition of grumpy." Jazz leaned on the bar again, close enough that he could smell her perfume. Something light and citrusy. "When's the last time you did something that wasn't work or working out?"
August thought about it. Came up empty. "Last week."
"Liar."
His phone rang. Not a text this time. An actual call. August looked at the screen. Unknown number. He almost let it go to voicemail, but something made him answer.
"Yeah?"
"Mr. High?" A woman's voice. Accent. Spanish, maybe. "My name is Isabella Ortiz. I was given your number by a mutual acquaintance. I want to talk to you about a job."
August set down his glass. Jazz raised an eyebrow, reading his body language.
"I'm listening," August said.
"Not over the phone. Can you meet me? Tonight, if possible. It's urgent."
"Where?"
"The Westin. Downtown. I'm in the Presidential Suite."
Of course she was. "What's this about?"
There was a pause. In the background, August heard voices, movement. Then Isabella came back on. "One of my drivers was murdered last night. The police are investigating, but I need someone who can move faster. Someone who understands this city. Your name came highly recommended."
August looked at Jazz. She was watching him.
"I can be there in thirty minutes," August said.
"Thank you, Mr. High. I'll be waiting."
The line went dead.
August finished his whiskey in one swallow, pulled out his wallet, dropped two twenties on the bar.
Jazz picked them up, tucked them away. "So much for not working the Grand Prix."
"We’ll see."
She came around the bar, walked him to the door. At six foot six and three hundred pounds, August made most people step back to give him room. Jazz never did. She stood close, looked up at him. "Be careful with the rich people. They're always more complicated than they seem."
"I'm always careful."
"Another lie." But she smiled when she said it.
August stepped out into the Detroit night. The air was warm, humid. Summer pressing down on the city. He walked to his black Ford Raptor, parked at the curb under a streetlight. The truck looked aggressive even sitting still. All black, with sharp angles and massive tires.
He climbed in, started the engine. The Raptor growled to life.
A murdered driver. A Spanish woman in the Presidential Suite. The Grand Prix circus rolling into his city.
August put the truck in gear and headed downtown.
3
The Westin sat like a glass tower in the heart of downtown Detroit.
August found parking in the underground garage, took the elevator up to the lobby. Marble floors, modern furniture, temporary displays featuring automotive brands and companies.
