BLOOD TIDE: A Harbor Noir Thriller Los Angeles, 1950. The harbor keeps two kinds of secrets: the kind that make men rich, and the kind that make them dead. Private detective Jack Morrison doesn’t give a damn about either anymore. The ex-LAPD detective drowns his mornings in black coffee at Cooper’s Diner and his nights in bourbon, trying to forget why he traded his badge for a bottle. Then the newspaper drops a bomb: his war buddy Tom Reed is dead. “Robbery gone wrong,” claim the cops. Like hell. Jack knows a professional hit when it reeks of salt, diesel, and department-issued lead. Reed was a city councilman asking questions about Golden Dragon Imports and poking around shipping manifests where spice crates mysteriously gain weight at sea. The whole racket runs smoother than a politician’s lies: Tuesday night heroin deliveries protected by cops all the way up to Captain Emil Stecker, the bastard who taught Jack everything about being a detective and then sold his soul for a cut of the action. Dockworker Mickey Yang offers to help. Later the same day, they’re fishing his corpse from the harbor. “Accident,” they say. Message received. But Jack Morrison’s got nothing left to lose except a .45 and some damning photographs. While corrupt cops close in like sharks smelling blood, Jack plays his only angle—federal prosecutor Martin Phillips, one of the few clean players left in this rigged game. The final reckoning comes at the pier’s edge, where justice and vengeance become the same thing, and the only law that matters comes from the barrel of a gun. “Sometimes that’s all the justice you get in a crooked town. It would have to be enough.” This novelette punches you in the gut with: 1950s noir that bleeds authenticity —not some nostalgic costume party - Prose that cuts deep —no wasted words, no pulled punches - A protagonist who’s already dead inside —just clearing debts before joining his friends - Violence with weight —when Jack pulls the trigger, you feel why - Characters who stink of desperation —real people making fatal choices Written for readers who worship at the altar of: Chandler’s bitter medicine —where hope is just another four-letter word - Ellroy’s blood-soaked LA —corruption as civic religion - Classic noir without apology —no redemption arcs, no happy endings - Justice served cold —with a side of hollow victory One ex-cop. One harbor full of secrets. And time’s running out to make the guilty pay. BLOOD TIDE doesn’t pretend the good guys win. It doesn’t promise redemption or closure or any of that therapeutic garbage. This is noir stripped to the bone, where darkness isn’t just atmospheric window dressing but the fundamental truth of how power really works. Download it. Devour it. Then, pour three fingers of bourbon and contemplate how deep the rot really goes. Listen. I need to level with you before you dive into this thing.   BLOOD TIDE won't make you feel better about humanity. It won't restore your faith in justice or convince you that good triumphs over evil. That's not what noir does.   I wrote this because I grew tired of detectives who follow codes and criminals with hearts of gold. I tired of stories that pretend corruption is an aberration instead of the norm. And tired of endings that tie everything up with a pretty bow while ignoring the blood on the wrapping paper.   Jack Morrison drinks too much and stopped believing in redemption years before this story starts. He's not hunting for truth. He's hunting for revenge and calling it justice because that helps him sleep at night. Or it would, if he could sleep.   Why should you care?   Because sometimes you need a story that admits the system is messed up beyond repair. Sometimes you need a protagonist who responds to corruption with bullets instead of speeches. Sometimes you need fiction that leaves scars instead of lessons.   What you're getting:   This is a novelette of concentrated noir. No padding. No subplots about Jack learning to love again. No comic relief. Just a broken ex-cop with a gun, a harbor full of heroin, and enough corrupt badges to start their own precinct.   The violence is ugly because violence is ugly. The ending is messy because life is messy. The justice is incomplete because that's the only kind that actually exists.   Fair warning:   If you're looking for heroes, try the fantasy section. If you want redemption arcs, romance has plenty. If you need to believe that good cops outnumber bad ones, maybe skip this one.   But if you're ready for noir that doesn't apologize, doesn't compromise, and doesn't pretend the darkness is just atmospheric—welcome to the harbor.   The water's cold, the blood's fresh, and nobody gets out clean.   One last thing:   I believe fiction should disturb your comfort, not comfort your disturbance. BLOOD TIDE is designed to leave marks. Consider yourself warned.   Now, pour something strong and turn the page. Jack Morrison's waiting, and he's not a patien