Saving the world, by Killing as many people as it takes.

In Mac Devlin's world, there are two kinds of people: victims, and people who are already dead.

Freedom is Just Another Word for KILL EVERYONE: Mac Devlin Adventure #737

(from the back cover)

Some men yelled.  Some screamed.  Some cried. 

But when Mac Devlin was betrayed, he did the only thing he could: traveled America, killing everyone involved until he found the cause. 

Found her. 

Mac Devlin versus his nemesis, and whoever wins, everyone in between them loses…THEIR LIFE. 






Wet Noodle Blues: Mac Devlin Adventure # 93

The grease fires.  The fifty-year-old knives. The pots filled with boiling water and nearly dead crustaceans.  The small and pliable sous-chefs who stood frozen with fear.  The ovens belching heat.

Mac Devlin was in paradise.

The glee beamed off his face, brighter than a magnesium flare, and everyone in the back of Antonio’s Fried Chicken and Soup Shack could feel it.

Especially Devlin’s prey, the man known only as: The Sommelier.  But the lean Frenchman showed none of the fear that threatened to unleash the entire contents of his bowels.  By the time that fear reached his lips, it had been transmuted, in classic Gallic fashion, to the bitterest of phrases.  ”You have made a grave miscalculation in your recipe, Monsieur Devlin.  I think you will find this dish too rich for your blood.”
But the wit was wasted on Devlin, whose hatred of French-accented English was only surpassed by his love for early 20th century expressionists.

So instead of a verbal reply, Devlin made due with the nearest cutting board, sending it flying into The Sommelier’s stomach with the force of a freight train.

And then, grabbing cutlery at random, he went to work.  Now it was time to talk.

“You ever de-bone a fish,  Frenchy?  Ever wonder how the fish felt?”

Chinese Finger Cuffs: Mac Devlin Adventure #44

They slipped off the bed, covered in several layers of sweat.  Mac gritted his teeth, all his energies focused on remaining perfectly calm, all his muscles relaxed, blocking out her lips, her smooth thighs, her long lean arms.

For Veronika Caine was not like the other girls.

Veronika Caine was the last in a long line of tantric assassins, and she’d just set her sights on Mac Devlin.

His predilection for whores was well known in the spy community, so it was little work to insinuate herself into his bed.

And now she had him, her Sumatran hip-lock keeping him close, the pulsing labial thrusts known as the Drowning Fish bringing him ever closer to complete vulnerability.

Veronika cackled as Devlin tried to resist, tried to recede his thoughts back from the ocean of her murderous libido.  But stronger men had tried. Presidents, kings, CEOs, all had been found wanting by Veronika’s bitter flower.

And then, a final gasp, one valiant last struggle, and it was over. She rose, taking an extra second to look at her victim.

“Frankly, I expected more.”  She turned to the chair, began the careful dance back into her outfit.

“Frankly, so did I.”  She spun around, but was too slow to avoid the catcher’s mitt hand that grabbed her around the throat and squeezed all but obedience out of her.

“Bush league, girly.  I learned to fake an orgasm before the first time your daddy ever look at you sideways.  Welcome to the majors.”

And before her oxygen-starved brain lit out forever, she felt Devlin’s other hand go to work.  And realized Mac Devlin was the world’s greatest at more than just killing.

The Cassandra Incident: Mac Devlin Adventure #17

“Listen very closely:  Someone’s gotta be the bad guy.

Our Man Mac here, he’s got a body count so goddamn massive that it
 gets noticed by census takers. Or it would be, if Mac’s handlers at
 the Bureau of Diabolical Affairs didn’t do an awful lot of cover up.
 Those boys know more about bribery, statistical jiu-jitsu and sensual 
budget massage than Mac Devlin knows about pain.

When whitewashing Mac’s grosser excursions into the world of men, you 
can’t just redact a few documents, shred a few more, and pay off some 
cops.  You need to do something about the vast numbers of bodies.

For something like this, it helps to have a guy in the World Health
 Organization.  He just folds Mac’s dead into the all those cold stats.

I should tell you now, General: When it’s all said and done, history will claim your men died of tuberculosis.

Last year, when Mac fought the ninth Fiefdom of Fear?  Typhoid did that.

The cruise liner that smuggled Sangelier into Kenya?  Congestive Heart 
Failure was to blame.

The 470 men dead at the Barbados Event?  Hunger.

All five factions of the Lithuanian Santeria Squad?  That was 
Mokola-type Rabies.”

You hear Devlin speak.  ”Wasn’t a cover-up, strictly speaking.”

“Oh no?”

“Used rabies-tipped bullets on that one.  Some R&D guy wanted to try a thing.”

“Huh.  In any event, Mac didn’t kill those Somalis, Hanta did.  The 
Gorilla Pimps of Long Island were shuffled off this mortal coil by
 cancer.  Influenza claimed those bodies in Morocco, and emphysema was 
the villain that killed The Black Pampers.

Two years ago, when Mac fought the 29,000 disciples in The Temple of
 Bountiful Optimism, and the sixty-six holy pentjak silat masters at
the gate? Hell, we leaked to the press that it might be Herpes Simplex
 99 and then posted enough warning signs in enough languages that we 
effectively quarantined that whole mountain until the heat death of 
the universe.

Anyhow, the Demerol we gave you should be wearing off soon, so we’ll 
get started.  Of course, you can’t see much thru the blindfold, but
that funny little tickle in your chest, well… Mac is about to have
 your sternum out with a set of bolt cutters.  You can’t feel much now, 
but you will soon enough.

Somebody’s gotta be the bad guy, General.  Today?  That bad guy is you.”


If you find this note, please, for the love of God, save us.



Mac Devlin sometimes has an itch he can’t scratch.

When this happens, Mac will chop the arm off the next woman he sees who has long, manicured nails.

Mac Devlin appreciates the relief of a woman’s touch without the woman.

If It’s Got a Hole: Mac Devlin Adventure #202

Seldom had the community rallied together in such numbers.  But when Ida Gary died, hundreds of people who had never said as much as “hi” to each other stood side by side in the church.

Reverend Denton Middler’s sermon was the story of a singular woman, a woman who had not only survived the tumult of 70 years in Los Angeles ghettos, but had persevered.  She had run the same corner market for over half a century, through riots, fires, storms, earthquakes.  She knew most of the neighborhood by name, all of them by what they purchased.

T-Shake used to buy gum from her.  Deevon would often come up a few pennies short when trying to purchase cigarettes for his mother, Teesha.  Juan, one of the neighborhood’s newest residents, made a special order for carne asada once a month, and unlike many other residents, Ida had been happy to help the immigrant.

Ida had even served MurderAll Jones, despite his reputation as the state’s largest cocaine dealer.  When Ida had looked at him, she hadn’t seen the man known by authorities as the Karl Rove of Crime.  She’d seen only the small boy who had tried to steal chips from her.

Which is why, many believed, MurderAll had killed her.  She was the only one who didn’t “show respect” to what he’d become.  And it was only MurderAll who killed using piano wire and jellybeans.  Only his depraved mind who would videotape rapid dogs feasting on the body, and upload that tape to YouTube (currently, the tape has received 40,000 hits).

And only MurderAll who would have the audacity to show up at the church, who would be first in line to view the body.  Only MurderAll who would lean in close to the face that had been so meticulously reconstructed by Carney & Sons Mortuary and whisper “gotcha, bitch.”

And only, due to Mac Devlin’s savant-like skill with explosives MurderAll whose head was incinerated by the thermite-filled canister (ignited by a magnesium fuse which was detonated by a micro-receiver) that had been stuffed in Ida’s mouth.

A final fiery kiss, from one dead old lady’s lips to her murderer’s face.

As MurderAll’s body writhed near the altar, Mac Devlin bathed his hands in holy water, removing the last of the thermite from his fingertips.  Mac hated Church.

Excerpts from the After-Action Reports of Mac Devlin #23



[…] protectee had already taken gunshot wounds to both arms and the abdomen. Priorities were as follows: (1) Stop the bleeding, (2) Return fire, (3) [redacted].  No medical kit [redacted] pinned down by heavy fire from agents of [redacted] improvise.  Diameter [redacted] when erect proved sufficient to plug abdominal entry wound, [redacted] both hands free to return fire.  Maintenance of [redacted] in fact [redacted] during the [redacted] involuntary approach of [redacted] just [redacted] as last bullet hit.  Protectee remained alive.



The [classified] Advisory Directory recommends that Mac Devlin no longer be assigned protective duty to the First Daughter.

[report ends]

Spreading the Seed: Mac Devlin Adventure #16

The air reeked of ninjas, but Mac was too tired to care.

Three days straight at the World Backgammon Championships, up against one of his oldest enemies, the immortal midget Wilcox Fu.

No sleep, for every night was another assassination attempt from Fu’s cloned minions, the Figurative Five Hundred.

The carpet in Mac’s hotel room was soaked with brain matter and blood.

And now, as Mac walked to the final match of the tournament, ninjas.  The smell of snake blood and burnt hair filled his nostrils, the scent a familiar concoction used by ninjas to sedate their enemies.

Mac felt the muscles in his face creak.  A smile.  Death’s Morning Breath hadn’t worked on him since he’d marathon fuck-killed Lady Sentimental, twelve long years ago.

But the swarm of ninjas silently descending from the rooftops didn’t know that. They were confident in their trickery, and moved without fear towards their solitary target.

A fully alert Mac Devlin would’ve had all their hearts stopped with his left hand before they’d touched the ground.  But this was a Mac Devlin whose thoughts were filled with lost loves and nearly defeated nemeses.  Who was mere hours away from finding out if Wilcox Fu was indeed his long-lost father.  Who was perhaps one backgammon game away from murdering the man who’d been sadist enough to bring Mac Devlin into the world.

So he used both hands.  And his left foot.  And the femur of a cat unlucky enough to be at his feet.  And the shattered jaw of Ninja #13a.

He felt a bit better.  Soon, very soon, answers.  And maybe that would be enough to lift his spirits.

But made a mental note to find Lady Sentimental’s daughter after the match, just in case.

Paints Better Than Hitler: Mac Devlin Adventure #2

A craftsman is only as good as his tools.

Normally, you’d want a #9 pointed round sable brush for this kind of
work, but Mac Devlin prefers brushes of his own manufacture, with hair
cut from the scalp of his sensei.

It’s every person’s god-given right to bitch about their job, but Mac 
Devlin does not bitch.  He paints.  Some silly motherfucker might call
 it art therapy, but they’d be missing the point.

Last week, he’d caught up with Sangelier.  He’d gone to ground in 
Mombasa and it had taken Devlin three weeks to flush him out.  The two
 exchanged gunfi—

The sound of his son’s footsteps outside his study jolt Mac Devlin 
from his reverie.

“Dad? Mom says you forgot to take out the tras—”

—- The two exchanged gunfire in the plaza, and after the first thirty 
seconds both were bleeding from a dozen wounds.  It was winter there,
 and nearing midnight, but mirage and heat shimmer twisted the stars 
and moon and muzzle flash, the very ground between them grew hot from
 the exchange of heavy weapons.

Sangelier’s nerve broke and he scrambled for cover behind a kiosk
 loaded with brocade silk.  Mac Devlin seized the opportunity.

An artist is only as good as his tools, and the tool at hand was an 
84mm recoilless rifle.  This motherfucker chucks a high explosive 
round the size of a infant’s head at like seven hundred feet per 
second, and is so much goddamn gun that Park Rangers often use them to 
start avalanches.

Mac Devlin’s aim was true.  As Sangelier fled, the six-pound bullet
 caught him right behind the balls, and the sky was occluded by a
shower of boiling ass meat.  Mac paused a moment, felt the warm blood
 leaving his body and cooling in the humid air, the smoke burning in
his lungs, the adrenaline churning in his testicles, the screams of 
the onlookers giving way to the gentle roar of the ocean, the
 fwap-fwap-thwop of chunks of ballistic butt cheek ending their 
trajectory onto the dusty tile.

Devlin thought, “I’ve never seen the world set right so elegantly.”

Tonight he paints.  Normally, he’s a buffalo-and-landscape kind of
 cat, but tonight his brushes work to evoke that singular moment.
  While his heart and hands murder effortlessly, his soul cannot create
 without great struggle.  He mixes his paints, struggling to capture 
the color of seared butt flesh wrapped in the warm light of gunfire
 and the blue of the moon reflected off the harbor.  The cool dark 
spark of his rage smoulders and catches.

A twitch in his shoulder reminds him:  His son is still there.  Mac 
Devlin’s hand is wrapped around the boy’s throat, and has been for god 
knows how long. That breath he drew to interrupt his father is still 
lodged in his lungs.  Mac Devlin notes clinically that his son’s
 oxygen-greedy nerve cells are already shutting down.  Death is, as
 always, imminent.  Without rancor, he considers squeezing harder.

THEN: On his son’s face, amidst blue lips turning grey and the deep
reds of capillaries shattering under tremendous pressure, he sees that
 near-perfect crimson of his memory.  The boy convulses hard, and
 Devlin opens the window, letting that summer night sky in. He watches 
for just one more moment until the color is perfect.

Mac Devlin lets go of the stupid shapeless boy and grabs a tube of 
Maimeri 106, the Naples Yellow Reddish.  He mixes just a touch and…
perfect.  He doesn’t hear the boy crawl from the room or the rain on 
the roof.  Instead, he paints, and he paints like he fights, lost and
 exultant in a grim job done beautifully.