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  FIVE MOVES OF DOOM

  Praise for Five Moves of Doom

  “A.J. Devlin does it again with Five Moves of Doom! It’s fast and furious and fun, full of action, unexpected twists and turns, with a shocking ending that proves once again that Devlin is not only on his game, but in a league of his own. The best yet in the ‘Hammerhead’ Jed series.”

  — Dave Butler, Crime Writers of Canada Award-Winning author of Full Curl, No Place for Wolverines, and In Rhino We Trust

  “I ripped through Devlin’s latest. At times I felt I was in an MMA fight with dialogue as dry as a three olive Martini and descriptive prose peppering me with blows and throws. It may be a cliché, but this book’s a knockout.”

  — M.N. Grenside, film/TV/music producer and author of Fall Out

  “A.J. Devlin nails it with his explosive, hard-hitting fight scenes. A well-written and entertaining look into the most interesting sport in the world — Mixed Martial Arts — through the eyes of tough guy PI, ‘Hammerhead’ Jed!”

  — Gerry Gionco, legendary Canadian fight promoter

  “This time around, ‘Hammerhead’ Jed isn’t the toughest guy on the block, and the adrenaline-pounding excitement when his investigation leads him to square off against a particularly ruthless and brutal MMA fighter brings to mind Rocky vs. Drago. Bigger, badder, and darker, Devlin’s third installment reveals a deeper and more vulnerable side of our favourite wrestler-detective, adding gravitas to a case involving a world where second place often means death.”

  — J.T. Siemens, critically-acclaimed author of To Those Who Killed Me

  “Five Moves of Doom is a fast-paced, rollicking rip through the vibrant and seedy neighbourhoods of Vancouver and surrounding area. With Devlin’s usual cast of colourful, eclectic characters along with his equally colourful regular cast — including ‘Hammerhead’ Jed, cousin Declan, and VPD Detective Rya Shepard — this adventure took me back to many familiar haunts in Vancouver’s skid row and some of the outlying regions around the city and the Lower Mainland. MMA, murder, mayhem and money make this a can’t miss!”

  — Joel Johnston, retired 28-year VPD Sergeant, Shotokan Karate and MMA Practitioner, Use of Force Subject Matter Expert, Writer and Technical Advisor

  “It’s a case of same place, different terrain as Vancouver’s pro- wrestler PI grapples with new threats that force him to confront dark truths about his city and himself. In Five Moves of Doom, Devlin showcases a more vulnerable ‘Hammerhead’ Jed than we’ve seen before. While this installment features the signature comedy and charm of the first two books, it’s the shadows, spilling from corners and pooling at feet, that give this latest mystery its true shape. A worthy cap to this trilogy.”

  — Niall Howell, Kobo Emerging Writer Prize-Nominated author of Only Pretty Damned and There Are Wolves Here Too

  Praise for Rolling Thunder

  “Professional wrestler-turned-PI ‘Hammerhead’ Jed is back, and not a moment too soon—trouble is brewing in the Greater Vancouver area on the roller derby circuit. Rolling Thunder is sheer fun. The dialogue is snappy, the action fast-paced. A.J. Devlin is the Canadian Carl Hiaasen. In fact, America will trade you Carl Hiaasen for him. I feel that strongly about this kid’s future.”

  — Andrew Shaffer, New York Times bestselling author and humorist

  “A.J. Devlin’s latest crime novel packs a punch with nonstop action! His witty, entertaining style hooked me quicker than a figure-4 leglock and pinned me to the pages.

  “Rolling Thunder is a must read for everyone who is a fan of sports, wrestling, suspense … or all three!”

  — Jeanne “Hollywood” Basone, the first GLOW girl hired by creator David McLane

  “Rolling Thunder has everything! Action, humour, mystery, and most importantly pro wrestling. I’m totally invested. Can’t wait for the next one!”

  — Cat Power, pro wrestler and former ECCW Women’s Champion

  “A.J. Devlin scores again as he sends ‘Hammerhead’ Jed on another no-holds-barred romp through the dark underbelly of Metro Vancouver. Brilliantly done.”

  — Bob Harris, writer, promoter, and archivist of pro wrestling vintage memorabilia

  “Award-winning author A.J. Devlin hip-checks the reader from one captivating clue to the next in this gripping crime novel. Rolling Thunder is a laugh-out-loud mystery with unique and hilarious characters, and a realistic peek at the hard-hitting, counter-culture sport of women’s roller derby.”

  — Jenna Hauck— aka Hydro-Jenna Bomb—former Terminal City Rollergirls skater and multimedia journalist with the Chilliwack Progress

  Praise for Cobra Clutch

  “…masterfully blends humour, mystery, thrills, action, romance, and heart into a hell of a story featuring a lively wrestler-turned-PI hero. The action scenes are intense, the quiet times heartwarming and engaging, and the humour expertly interjected to accentuate characters and breathe realism into the story.”

  — John M. Murray, Foreword Reviews

  “Set in Vancouver, BC, this intriguing debut offers a fast-paced, graphically violent mystery…. Fans of pro wrestling will appreciate ‘Hammerhead’ Jed.”

  — Library Journal

  “…a very authentic-feeling world full of colourful characters, twists and turns and plenty of banana milkshakes.”

  — J.P Cupertino, Gremlins Online

  “Cobra Clutch uses humour and gritty realism and includes a former tag-team partner, a kidnapped snake, sleazy promoters, and violence inside and outside the ring.”

  — BC BookWorld

  Copyright © A.J. Devlin 2022

  All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication — reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, or stored in a retrieval system — without the prior consent of the publisher is an infringement of copyright law. In the case of photocopying or other reprographic copying of the material, a licence must be obtained from Access Copyright before proceeding.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Title: Five moves of doom / A.J. Devlin.

  Names: Devlin, A. J., author.

  Description: “A “Hammerhead” Jed mystery.”

  Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20210379553 | Canadiana (ebook) 20210379618 | ISBN 9781774390559 (softcover) | ISBN 9781774390566 (EPUB)

  Classification: LCC PS8607.E94555 F58 2022 | DDC C813/.6—dc23

  Board Editor: Merrill Distad

  Cover and interior design: Michel Vrana

  Cover images: iStockphoto

  Author photo: Gina Spanos

  NeWest Press acknowledges that the land on which we operate is Treaty 6 territory and a traditional meeting ground and home for many Indigenous Peoples, including Cree, Saulteaux, Niitsitapi (Blackfoot), Métis, and Nakota Sioux. NeWest Press acknowledges the Canada Council for the Arts, the Alberta Foundation for the Arts, and the Edmonton Arts Council for support of our publishing program. We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada.

  NeWest Press

  #201, 8540-109 Street

  Edmonton, Alberta T6G 1E6

  www.newestpress.com

  No bison were harmed in the making of this book.

  Printed and bound in Canada

  1 2 3 4 24 23 22

  For Dianne and Susie

  FIVE

  MOVES

  OF

  DOOM

  A “HAMMERHEAD” JED MYSTERY

  A.J. DEVLIN

  NEWEST PRESS

  Five Moves of Doom:

  ˈfīv ˈmüvs ˈəv, before consonants also ə; ˈəv, äv ˈdüm

  1.A particular combination of moves that a wrestler tends to use in every match, often in the same sequ
ence, usually ending with the finisher and a pinfall. This term is often used pejoratively. Popularized by pro wrestlers Bret Hart, The Rock, and John Cena.

  PROLOGUE

  You have a couple of options when you answer the door wearing nothing but a skin-tight pair of André the Giant boxer briefs before being arrested for murder.

  ONE: You accept what’s happening and fully embrace your shame.

  TWO: You man up and rock those undergarments with the same aplomb James Bond would while sipping vodka martinis (shaken, not stirred) at a no-limit baccarat table in the Casino de Monte-Carlo.

  I attempted to pull off the latter and tried to puff out my hairy chest, which was suddenly itchy as hell. I also quickly realized my torso was long overdue for a trim.

  “Burt Reynolds on a bearskin rug ain’t got nothing on you, Big Guy. And while I’m sure a bunch of tabloids will duke it out for the privilege of splashing this iconic pose all over the cover of a future issue, I’d hardly call that bulge the Eighth Wonder of the World.”

  Vancouver Police Department Homicide Detective Constable Rya Shepard, flanked by two uniformed officers, tugged on the lapels of her tan pantsuit blazer before nodding toward my junk and rolling her eyes.

  “Hello, Rya. You seem chipper.” I grabbed a T-shirt and pair of track pants on the banister beside me and slipped them on faster than it takes a piece of weakened two-by-four western red cedar to break in half over my forehead after winning a wrestling match.

  “Detective Shepard?” asked one of the uniformed officers beside the woman I had long loved with feelings I had never shared.

  Rya sighed audibly, looking downwards. “Cuff him.”

  One of the cops strutted forward, yanked my wrists behind my back, and handcuffed me while his partner pulled a laminated card from a pouch on his police duty belt and proceeded to read aloud my rights. “John Edward Ounstead, AKA “Hammerhead”

  Jed Ounstead. You are hereby under arrest for the murder of—”

  I couldn’t take it anymore. “What the hell, Rya?!?”

  “Don’t make this any harder than it has to be,” she said, hanging her head.

  I clenched my jaw as Officer Tweedledum snapped on the metal restraints.

  “This isn’t a heel turn, Detective. You know me. I’m not a murderer.”

  Rya crossed her arms and finally looked me in the eye. “I hope you’re right, Jed.”

  “Hope? What happened to trust?”

  She turned her back to me. “Take him away,” she said softly to the officers.

  SIX WEEKS EARLIER

  ONE

  “How many times have you been punched in the face?”

  “Too many.”

  “Seriously, how many times?”

  “You want an actual number?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do glancing blows count?”

  “What the hell are glancing blows?”

  “In pro wrestling you throw a lot of big, dramatic haymakers, but you pull your punches. However, sometimes your fist gets away from you, and there is unintended but real contact. Got my nose broken twice that way.”

  “Kind of a pussy way to have your nose broken.”

  “Tell that to my deviated septum.”

  “Seriously, I want to know.”

  “If we’re talking legit strikes to the face, then, I don’t know. Two dozen times?”

  “That’s it?”

  “Like I said, too many.”

  I felt an itch on the bridge of my nose and wanted to scratch it, but because it was likely psychosomatic due to all of the talk of face-punching, I managed to resist the urge. So I slipped my free hand into my pocket. My other hand held a large Dairy Queen banana milkshake. I took a big sip until the sensation on my schnoz had subsided.

  Elijah Lennox smiled and ran a hand over his sleek, shaved head. “You and me both, Man.” Even under his sweat-wicking Under Armour long-sleeved shirt and shorts overtop a pair of matching grey compression socks, I could tell he was at minimum an impressive five-foot-ten package of two-hundred pounds of tight, shredded muscle. Despite the countless strikes he had taken while competing in the UFC, he was still a very good-looking Black man who had a face more likely to star in Old Spice commercials than be on the receiving end of punches.

  “We doin’ this, Mr. Lennox? Or are ya gonna keep chattin’ with Jon Snow on steroids over there?”

  Both Lennox and I turned our heads to look at the lippy punk inside the MMA cage. He was a well-built Hispanic kid who looked to be in his late-teens or early twenties, and he had at least a couple of inches and a good ten to twenty pounds over my potential new client. The kid’s sweat-drenched T-shirt was evidence of the effort he had been putting in during his one-onone training session with Lennox.

  “Keep your shorts on, Cisco,” cautioned the man who had requested I visit him at his gym for an as yet unknown potential case.

  “Yes, Sir,” replied Cisco, in a much more respectful tone.

  Lennox smirked and gave me a curt nod. “Give me a few minutes to finish this up.”

  I held up my favourite beverage as if I were giving a toast. “Have at it, Bub.”

  Elijah turned his back, touched gloves with his student, and the two resumed sparring. I tried to give them some space by occupying myself looking around the impressive gym.

  Black-leather heavy bags hung from chains in one corner of the large, open space. Rows of kettlebells and cast-iron weights on racks lined a wall, while skipping ropes, headgear, padded gloves, and other MMA equipment dangled on another. A black-and-red Tatami mat lay by my feet, familiar from my grappling days when I competed in freestyle wrestling. The mat was two inches, thick and firm, but with just the right amount of give, making it excellent for striking and takedowns. However, the piece de résistance was without question the large, octagon-shaped combat ring in the centre of the mixed martial arts gym, with its chain-link fencing, padded posts and railings.

  I turned my attention back to the combatants inside the octagon and caught the tail end of a flurry of punches by Cisco, all of which Lennox batted away with such ease as if his attacker had been moving in slow motion. Cisco grew frustrated and threw an aggressive yet sloppy side kick—which all but sealed his fate. Lennox blocked the strike with one of his feet before delivering two lightning quick crushing blows to his student’s solar plexus, and the young fighter doubled over in pain and was hyperventilating in an instant. Lennox moved in for the kill but the kid tapped the mat repeatedly while he wheezed and tried not to puke.

  “Never let emotion get the better of you, Cisco. Remember—calm mind, patience, and focus. That’s the key.”

  Cisco nodded slightly as he continued to clutch his sternum.

  “Go on, shower up,” ordered Lennox.

  Cisco slid out of the cage and hobbled toward the locker room while still suffering the effects of his teacher’s painful punctuation on their sparring session. Lennox emerged from the octagon, grabbed a towel, and dabbed the sweat off his brow and body. “Sorry about that. Some of these kids are stubborn as hell and only learn the hard way.”

  “Roger that, Champ,” I replied, while biting my tongue and purposely not mentioning the fact that I couldn’t recall a time in my life I had ever seen a fighter instantly dismantle his opponent’s offence with such ease.

  Lennox slung the towel over his shoulder. “You look like you got something on your mind, Ounstead.”

  “Just that I feel like I’m at the MGM Grand right now. Except without tens of thousands of fans and a chilled, yard-long, lime-blended margarita in an oversized pink cup in my hands.”

  Lennox chuckled, hopping onto the ground. “You know, you look different than the photo on your private investigator website.”

  I smiled, scratched the short beard I had grown over the summer, and ran a hand through my hair, pushing back my bangs from my forehead. “I’ve started wrestling again, so I’ve let the hair go a bit. Longer locks help dramatize taking and making strikes and o
ther in-ring moves. Trick of the trade.”

  Lennox seemed satisfied with my answer and nodded, waving a hand around his gym. “I’ve sunk a lot of my UFC money into this place. It was my dream after I retired. C’mon, let me show you the scene of the crime.”

  I had already checked out the thief’s point of entry—the front door—and, as far as I could tell either a key was used or its lock had been masterfully picked. I followed Lennox over to a shattered trophy case to the left of the octagon. Shards of glass littered the floor, but fortunately I happened to be wearing a pair of aerated, thick-soled, Native Jefferson rubber shoes in addition to my usual black cargo shorts and matching T-shirt, one of my go-to outfits during the dog days of summer.

  Greater Vancouver was suffering from a major August heat wave, so I was grateful that Lennox Kickboxing & Pankration had its own cooling system that kept the gym at a comfortable temperature. Glass crunched under my feet as Lennox reached into the broken trophy case, retrieved a framed photograph, and handed it to me. In the picture, he beamed while standing next to Dana White, who was handing him a custom-made, white-leather, diamond-encrusted, UFC Light Heavyweight Championship belt.

  “Dana gave that to me when I retired as a thank-you gift for all I had done for the sport. It’s worth over two-hundred-thousand dollars.”

  I almost choked on a sip of banana-flavoured goodness and had a small coughing fit as I fought to keep it from going down the wrong pipe.

  “You all right?”

  I cleared my throat and thumped a fist against my chest. “Yeah, sorry. I’m fine. But isn’t Dana White known for being an SOB?”

  “Maybe. But he also launched my career, so I owe him.”

  I took another sip of my shake and smiled.

  “What’s so funny?” asked Elijah.

  “It’s just that your missing belt makes the commemorative WWE Intercontinental Championship Title I have framed on my office wall look like a Mattel Toys replica for kids.”