Category: Book

An excerpt from “Strangers We’ve Become” – Coming Soon

I wandered back to my villa.

It was in darkness.  I was sure I had left several lights on, especially over the door so I could see to unlock it.

I looked up and saw the globe was broken.

Instant alert.

I went to the first hiding spot for the gun, and it wasn’t there.  I went to the backup and it wasn’t there either.  Someone had found my carefully hidden stash of weapons and removed them.

Who?

There were four hiding spots and all were empty.  Someone had removed the weapons.  That could only mean one possibility.

I had a visitor, not necessarily here for a social call.

But, of course, being the well-trained agent I’d once been and not one to be caught unawares, I crossed over to my neighbor and relieved him of a weapon that, if found, would require a lot of explaining.

Suitably armed, it was time to return the surprise.

There were three entrances to the villa, the front door, the back door, and a rather strange escape hatch.  One of the more interesting attractions of the villa I’d rented was its heritage.  It was built in the late 1700s, by a man who was, by all accounts, a thief.  It had a hidden underground room which had been in the past a vault but was now a wine cellar, and it had an escape hatch by which the man could come and go undetected, particularly if there was a mob outside the door baying for his blood.

It now gave me the means to enter the villa without my visitors being alerted, unless, of course, they were near the vicinity of the doorway inside the villa, but that possibility was unlikely.  It was not where anyone could anticipate or expect a doorway to be.

The secret entrance was at the rear of the villa behind a large copse, two camouflaged wooden doors built into the ground.  I move aside some of the branches that covered them and lifted one side.  After I’d discovered the doors and rusty hinges, I’d oiled and cleaned them, and cleared the passageway of cobwebs and fallen rocks.  It had a mildew smell, but nothing would get rid of that.  I’d left torches at either end so I could see.

I closed the door after me, and went quietly down the steps, enveloped in darkness till I switched on the torch.  I traversed the short passage which turned ninety degrees about halfway to the door at the other end.  I carried the key to this door on the keyring, found it and opened the door.  It too had been oiled and swung open soundlessly.

I stepped in the darkness and closed the door.

I was on the lower level under the kitchen, now the wine cellar, the ‘door’ doubling as a set of shelves which had very little on them, less to fall and alert anyone in the villa.

Silence, an eerie silence.

I took the steps up to the kitchen, stopping when my head was level with the floor, checking to see if anyone was waiting.  There wasn’t.  It seemed to me to be an unlikely spot for an ambush.

I’d already considered the possibility of someone coming after me, especially because it had been Bespalov I’d killed, and I was sure he had friends, all equally as mad as he was.  Equally, I’d also considered it nigh on impossible for anyone to find out it was me who killed him because the only people who knew that were Prendergast, Alisha, a few others in the Department, and Susan.

That raised the question of who told them where I was.

If I was the man I used to be, my first suspect would be Susan.  The departure this morning, and now this was too coincidental.  But I was not that man.

Or was I?

I reached the start of the passageway that led from the kitchen to the front door and peered into the semi-darkness.  My eyes had got used to the dark, and it was no longer an inky void.  Fragments of light leaked in around the door from outside and through the edge of the window curtains where they didn’t fit properly.  A bone of contention upstairs in the morning, when first light shone and invariably woke me up hours before I wanted to.

Still nothing.

I took a moment to consider how I would approach the visitor’s job.  I would get a plan of the villa in my head, all entrances, where a target could be led to or attacked where there would be no escape.

Coming in the front door.  If I was not expecting anything, I’d just open the door and walk-in.  One shot would be all that was required.

Contract complete.

I sidled quietly up the passage staying close to the wall, edging closer to the front door.  There was an alcove where the shooter could be waiting.  It was an ideal spot to wait.

Crunch.

I stepped on some nutshells.

Not my nutshells.

I felt it before I heard it.  The bullet with my name on it.

And how the shooter missed, from point-blank range, and hit me in the arm, I had no idea.  I fired off two shots before a second shot from the shooter went wide and hit the door with a loud thwack.

I saw a red dot wavering as it honed in on me and I fell to the floor, stretching out, looking up where the origin of the light was coming and pulled the trigger three times, evenly spaced, and a second later I heard the sound of a body falling down the stairs and stopping at the bottom, not very far from me.

Two assassins.

I’d not expected that.

The assassin by the door was dead, a lucky shot on my part.  The second was still breathing.

I checked the body for any weapons and found a second gun and two knives.  Armed to the teeth!

I pulled off the balaclava; a man, early thirties, definitely Italian.  I was expecting a Russian.

I slapped his face, waking him up.  Blood was leaking from several slashes on his face when his head had hit the stairs on the way down.  The awkward angle of his arms and legs told me there were broken bones, probably a lot worse internally.  He was not long for this earth.

“Who employed you?”

He looked at me with dead eyes, a pursed mouth, perhaps a smile.  “Not today my friend.  You have made a very bad enemy.”  He coughed and blood poured out of his mouth.  “There will be more …”

Friends of Bespalov, no doubt.

I would have to leave.  Two unexplainable bodies, I’d have a hard time explaining my way out of this mess.  I dragged the two bodies into the lounge, clearing the passageway just in case someone had heard anything.

Just in case anyone was outside at the time, I sat in the dark, at the foot of the stairs, and tried to breathe normally.  I was trying not to connect dots that led back to Susan, but the coincidence was worrying me.

A half-hour passed and I hadn’t moved.  Deep in thought, I’d forgotten about being shot, unaware that blood was running down my arm and dripping onto the floor.

Until I heard a knock on my front door.

Two thoughts, it was either the police, alerted by the neighbors, or it was the second wave, though why would they be knocking on the door?

I stood, and immediately felt a stabbing pain in my arm.  I took out a handkerchief and turned it into a makeshift tourniquet, then wrapped a kitchen towel around the wound.

If it was the police, this was going to be a difficult situation.  Holding the gun behind my back, I opened the door a fraction and looked out.

No police, just Maria.  I hoped she was not part of the next ‘wave’.

“You left your phone behind on the table.  I thought you might be looking for it.”  She held it out in front of her.

When I didn’t open the door any further, she looked at me quizzically, and then asked, “Is anything wrong?”

I was going to thank her for returning the phone, but I heard her breathe in sharply, and add, breathlessly, “You’re bleeding.”

I looked at my arm and realized it was visible through the door, and not only that, the towel was soaked in blood.

“You need to go away now.”

Should I tell her the truth?  It was probably too late, and if she was any sort of law-abiding citizen she would go straight to the police.

She showed no signs of leaving, just an unnerving curiosity.  “What happened?”

I ran through several explanations, but none seemed plausible.  I went with the truth.  “My past caught up with me.”

“You need someone to fix that before you pass out from blood loss.  It doesn’t look good.”

“I can fix it.  You need to leave.  It is not safe to be here with me.”

The pain in my arm was not getting any better, and the blood was starting to run down my arm again as the tourniquet loosened.  She was right, I needed it fixed sooner rather than later.

I opened the door and let her in.  It was a mistake, a huge mistake, and I would have to deal with the consequences.  Once inside, she turned on the light and saw the pool of blood just inside the door and the trail leading to the lounge.  She followed the trail and turned into the lounge, turned on the light, and no doubt saw the two dead men.

I expected her to scream.  She didn’t.

She gave me a good hard look, perhaps trying to see if I was dangerous.  Killing people wasn’t something you looked the other way about.  She would have to go to the police.

“What happened here?”

“I came home from the cafe and two men were waiting for me.  I used to work for the Government, but no longer.  I suspect these men were here to repay a debt.  I was lucky.”

“Not so much, looking at your arm.”

She came closer and inspected it.

“Sit down.”

She found another towel and wrapped it around the wound, retightening the tourniquet to stem the bleeding.

“Do you have medical supplies?”

I nodded.  “Upstairs.”  I had a medical kit, and on the road, I usually made my own running repairs.  Another old habit I hadn’t quite shaken off yet.

She went upstairs, rummaged, and then came back.  I wondered briefly what she would think of the unmade bed though I was not sure why it might interest her.

She helped me remove my shirt, and then cleaned the wound.  Fortunately, she didn’t have to remove a bullet.  It was a clean wound but it would require stitches.

When she’d finished she said, “Your friend said one day this might happen.”

No prizes for guessing who that friend was, and it didn’t please me that she had involved Maria.

“Alisha?”

“She didn’t tell me her name, but I think she cares a lot about you.  She said trouble has a way of finding you, gave me a phone and said to call her if something like this happened.”

“That was wrong of her to do that.”

“Perhaps, perhaps not.  Will you call her?”

“Yes.  I can’t stay here now.  You should go now.  Hopefully, by the time I leave in the morning, no one will ever know what happened here, especially you.”

She smiled.  “As you say, I was never here.”

…

© Charles Heath 2018-2022

strangerscover9

Another excerpt from ‘Betrayal’; a work in progress

…

My next destination in the quest was the hotel we believed Anne Merriweather had stayed at.

I was, in a sense, flying blind because we had no concrete evidence she had been there, and the message she had left behind didn’t quite name the hotel or where Vladimir was going to take her.

Mindful of the fact that someone might have been following me, I checked to see if the person I’d assumed had followed me to Elizabeth’s apartment was still in place, but I couldn’t see him. Next, I made a mental note of seven different candidates and committed them to memory.

Then I set off to the hotel, hailing a taxi. There was the possibility the cab driver was one of them, but perhaps I was slightly more paranoid than I should be. I’d been watching the queue, and there were two others before me.

The journey took about an hour, during which time I kept an eye out the back to see if anyone had been following us. If anyone was, I couldn’t see them.

I had the cab drop me off a block from the hotel and then spent the next hour doing a complete circuit of the block the hotel was on, checking the front and rear entrances, the cameras in place, and the siting of the driveway into the underground carpark. There was a camera over the entrance, and one we hadn’t checked for footage. I sent a text message to Fritz to look into it.

The hotel lobby was large and busy, which was exactly what you’d want if you wanted to come and go without standing out. It would be different later at night, but I could see her arriving about mid-afternoon, and anonymous among the type of clientele the hotel attracted.

I spent an hour sitting in various positions in the lobby simply observing. I had already ascertained where the elevator lobby for the rooms was, and the elevator down to the car park. Fortunately, it was not ‘guarded’ but there was a steady stream of concierge staff coming and going to the lower levels, and, just from time to time, guests.

Then, when there was a commotion at the front door, what seemed to be a collision of guests and free-wheeling bags, I saw one of the seven potential taggers sitting by the front door. Waiting for me to leave? Or were they wondering why I was spending so much time there?

Taking advantage of that confusion, I picked my moment to head for the elevators that went down to the car park, pressed the down button, and waited.

The was no car on the ground level, so I had to wait, watching, like several others, the guests untangling themselves at the entrance, and an eye on my potential surveillance, still absorbed in the confusion.

The doors to the left car opened, and a concierge stepped out, gave me a quick look, then headed back to his desk. I stepped into the car, pressed the first level down, the level I expected cars to arrive on, and waited what seemed like a long time for the doors to close.

As they did, I was expecting to see a hand poke through the gap, a latecomer. Nothing happened, and I put it down to a television moment.

There were three basement levels, and for a moment, I let my imagination run wild and considered the possibility that there were more levels. Of course, there was no indication on the control panel that there were any other floors, and I’d yet to see anything like it in reality.

With a shake of my head to return to reality, the car arrived, the doors opened, and I stepped out.

A car pulled up, and the driver stepped out, went around to the rear of his car, and pulled out a case. I half expected him to throw me the keys, but the instant glance he gave me told him was not the concierge, and instead brushed past me like I wasn’t there.

He bashed the up button several times impatiently and cursed when the doors didn’t open immediately. Not a happy man.

Another car drove past on its way down to a lower level.

I looked up and saw the CCTV camera, pointing towards the entrance, visible in the distance. A gate that lifted up was just about back in position and then made a clunk when it finally closed. The footage from the camera would not prove much, even if it had been working, because it didn’t cover the life lobby, only in the direction of the car entrance.

The doors to the other elevator car opened, and a man in a suit stepped out.

“Can I help you, sir? You seem lost.”

Security, or something else. “It seems that way. I went to the elevator lobby, got in, and it went down rather than up. I must have been in the wrong place.”

“Lost it is, then, sir.” I could hear the contempt for Americans in his tone. “If you will accompany me, please.”

He put out a hand ready to guide me back into the elevator. I was only too happy to oblige him. There had been a sign near the button panel that said the basement levels were only to be accessed by the guests.

Once inside, he turned a key and pressed the lobby button. The doors closed, and we went up. He stood, facing the door, not speaking. A few seconds later, he was ushering me out to the lobby.

“Now, sir, if you are a guest…”

“Actually, I’m looking for one. She called me and said she would be staying in this hotel and to come down and visit her. I was trying to get to the sixth floor.”

“Good. Let’s go over the the desk and see what we can do for you.”

I followed him over to the reception desk, where he signalled one of the clerks, a young woman who looked and acted very efficiently, and told her of my request, but then remained to oversee the proceeding.

“Name of guest, sir?”

“Merriweather, Anne. I’m her brother, Alexander.” I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out my passport to prove that I was who I said I was. She glanced cursorily at it.

She typed the name into the computer, and then we waited a few seconds while it considered what to output. Then, she said, “That lady is not in the hotel, sir.”

Time to put on my best-confused look. “But she said she would be staying here for the week. I made a special trip to come here to see her.”

Another puzzled look from the clerk, then, “When did she call you?”

An interesting question to ask, and it set off a warning bell in my head. I couldn’t say today, it would have to be the day she was supposedly taken.

“Last Saturday, about four in the afternoon.”

Another look at the screen, then, “It appears she checked out Sunday morning. I’m afraid you have made a trip in vain.”

Indeed, I had. “Was she staying with anyone?”

I just managed to see the warning pass from the suited man to the clerk. I thought he had shown an interest when I mentioned the name, and now I had confirmation. He knew something about her disappearance. The trouble was, he wasn’t going to volunteer any information because he was more than just hotel security.

“No.”

“Odd,” I muttered. “I thought she told me she was staying with a man named Vladimir something or other. I’m not too good at pronouncing those Russian names. Are you sure?”

She didn’t look back at the screen. “Yes.”

“OK, now one thing I do know about staying in hotels is that you are required to ask guests with foreign passports their next destination, just in case they need to be found. Did she say where she was going next?” It was a long shot, but I thought I’d ask.

“Moscow. As I understand it, she lives in Moscow. That was the only address she gave us.”

I smiled. “Thank you. I know where that is. I probably should have gone there first.”

She didn’t answer; she didn’t have to, her expression did that perfectly.

The suited man spoke again, looking at the clerk. “Thank you.” He swivelled back to me. “I’m sorry we can’t help you.”

“No. You have more than you can know.”

“What was your name again, sir, just in case you still cannot find her?”

“Alexander Merriweather. Her brother. And if she is still missing, I will be posting a very large reward. At the moment, you can best contact me via the American Embassy.”

Money is always a great motivator, and that thoughtful expression on his face suggested he gave a moment’s thought to it.

I left him with that offer and left. If anything, the people who were holding her would know she had a brother, that her brother was looking for her, and equally that brother had money.

…

© Charles Heath – 2018-2025

Writing about writing a book – Day 12

Today, I’ve decided on doing a little research, and this means giving the internet and Google a good workout.

I need some information about the Vietnam War.

So, as a start, I type in the words ‘Vietnam War’ into Google.

This returns: About 699,000,000 results (0.83 seconds)

Wikipedia says “The Vietnam War, also known as the Second Indochina War, and in Vietnam as the Resistance War Against America or simply the American War, was a conflict that occurred in Vietnam, Laos, and Cambodia from 1 November 1955 to the fall of Saigon on 30 April 1975”

OK, so this gives me the broadest outline.  What I need is details, so it’s a matter of where to start.  This means to start with, when did troops get sent from both Australia and the United States for service.  It seems the US sent troops from 1964 to 1969, and Australia between August 1965 and March 1966.  This gives me a starting point, because our main character is Australian, and somehow gets seconded to the Americans.

January 1972, the war ends.

Now we need to know

  •  where the bases were
  • where the battle zones were
  • methods of transportation
  • what happened to prisoners of war
  • rest and recreation points
  • CIA involvement (which will no doubt be impossible to find evidence)
  • what happened to soldiers injured in battle

It’s a list that will get longer and may require a reading list, and first-hand accounts.

It looks like it’s going to be a long day.

The cinema of my dreams – I never wanted to go to Africa – Episode 16

Our hero knows he’s in serious trouble.

The problem is, there are familiar faces and the question of who is a friend and who is a foe is made all the more difficult because of the enemy if it was the enemy, simply because it didn’t look or sound or act like the enemy.

Now he faces questions, not only his own but that of his commanding officer.

And the answers might not be what he wants to hear.

…

Breeman returned later that day, an agitated look on her face, the sort that reminded me she was having a bad day, and more often than not after a secure video conference with the powers that be at the Pentagon.

At least this time I was about to speak but had still not made the decision on whether I should tell her anything.  It depended on if she had any questions for me, and how specific they were.  I would tell her the truth.

She sat and head hunched forward in her hands, she rubbed her eyes and looked at the floor for a minute before looking back up at me.

“Your disappearance has set off a shit storm.”

“Because we were in the no-fly zone?”

“You knew where you were?”

“No.  One part of the sky over the desert is the same as any other.  I had no idea where we were when we were shot down, but I figured there are not many civilians armed with rocket launchers, particularly wandering around in the middle of the normal desert just waiting for a US military helicopter.”

“I would tend to agree with you.  Did Jerry tell you why he was there?”

“Jerry doesn’t talk to us enlisted me, nor deems it any of our business where he goes.  He did say, however, he was on a training run to supplement his flying hours.  But, whatever he was doing or where he was going, he needed your signoff.”

Did I just say that in an angry manner?  Not the way to speak to your commanding officer, friend or not.  I should apologize quickly, and did.  It didn’t change her expression, in fact, to me, it now looked more severe.

“There’s a flight plan with my signature on it, but it’s not my signature, but a very good counterfeit.”

“Any idea who the forger is?”

“No.  But they are on the base, here, what could possibly be a traitor.”

“Does it show whether the pilot intended to cross into the no-fly some?”

“No.  It was a usual path on our side, following the boundary.  It doesn’t explain the wreckage 60 miles inside the border.  Did you see anyone?”

Now it gets tricky.

“Just a rocket launcher out the side of a Toyota aimed at us followed quickly by a rocket coming straight at us.  There wasn’t much time to think.”

“You jumped.  It’s the sort of thing I’d expect from you.”

“Aside from hitting the sand, that’s about all I remember.”  It was a direct lie, but it could be modified or rescinded later.  This room was not secure.

“Did you see anything else?”

“Other than desert and sky?  No.”

She gave me a very long and considered look, and yes, I blinked first.  I had the awful feeling she knew I was lying to her.

“There’s a camp out there, somewhere, and what happened to you proves it.”

It was as far as she got with that statement, whether of fact or supposition, she didn’t tell me.

Colonel Bamfield just walked into my hospital room.

…

© Charles Heath 2019-2023

Writing a book in 365 days – 280

Day 280

Writing exercise

Was this how it was going to end?

…

How did we get here?

That was easy.  I got out of bed this morning, even when I didn’t want to, because that work ethic my father had instilled in me from a very early age kicked in at 6:05 that morning, the same as it did every morning.

Without fail.

And i hated it.

I had said once in a conversation fuelled by too many bottles of beer that it would kill me in the end, and it was like a self-fulfilling prophesy.

A gun pointing at me by a person who self-confessed they had an itchy trigger finger.

I believed them.

Earlier that morning on the way to the office, the boss’s wife had called me and said her husband had forgotten an important file and since i was passing his house would I call in and collect it?

It was no problem; it was on the way and would not cause me to be late.

Not a problem.

Except… the boss’s wife was a problem and in calling it sometimes meant if was difficult to get away.

I drew the line in the sand before i stepped across the threshold, and that meant bring decent.

Stories abounded of her opening the door in her birthday suit.

She had done it to me before and I had asked her not to do it again.

Water off a duck’s back.

She had a weird idea about out of work fun.

This morning it was not a problem because something else was in play.  She had opened the door and stood to one side, allowing me to pass

I hadn’t taken 10 steps when two men appeared with guns and had me tied up in a matter of seconds.

It was not her idea.  She was too scared to have been the one to initiate it.  Not even when they roughly tied her up too.

They, whoever they were knew all of this before they got her to call me.  Yes, they knew we had been exploring the possibilities but not yet gone down that path.

Now it would be quite unlikely, depending on what happened over the next hour.

I was sat down after they tied me up.  Tightly.  Perhaps they thought i was the reincarnation of Harry Houdini.

I probably was.  Once.

Genevieve sat in another chair and made no bones about showing her legs under the short skirt.  Men being men they could be distracted.

Was that her plan?

If it was it was different from the one i expected.

She was a spy novel aficionado and was often rambling in about spy novel plotlines and conspiracies, and what she would have done differently.

I was one of those aficionados and had seem from the outset that combination of beauty and brains her husband failed.  She was to him a trophy wife.

He just saw a pretty girl he could exploit.

She was hoping to run distraction, and I was going to get us out of this mess.

Before her husband came home and made a mess of everything.

He was adept at stuffing the simplest of problems up.  Just look at his marriage.

I wondered if the two thugs had run surveillance on the location and knew what her true potential was.

I’d seen it, and a lot more at the last Christmas party.  Some gate crashers had taken her for an easy mark.

He ended up with fractured eye sockets a broken left arm broken right arm and a stiletto that just missed an eyeball.

He still held all the cards but was not quite so cocky, until she hit him with the baseball bat.

The 3vil underlying smile on her face told me that she was perhaps reliving that same moment in her mind.

An hour passed, several phone calls back and forth between one of the thugs and someone else, and judging by the thugs attitude, not happy with delays.

Who was he waiting for?

It was obvious whoever it was, was coming here otherwise we would have left by now.

Her husband?

Why?

I heard the front door open and close then hushed voices.  I’d also noticed that one of the thugs had gone missing, not that without his presences it would be any easier to escape.

What was also interesting was that she had not tried to speak to me since we were tied up.  Id asked a question or two but had been met with stony silence

Perhaps that was to establish there was no rapport between us.

Did she suspect it was her husband going off the deep end.

Then I heard the boss’s voice.

He had gone off the deep end.

She had too, and yelled out, “What the hell is this about?”

He came to the doorway and stopped.

I glared at him.  No point yelling.

“I would never have suspected you two.  The guy next door, maybe.”  He glared at me. “It just goes to show you can’t trust anyone.”

Was I supposed to answer that?  No.  Proably not.  He would have an answer for everything I said nothing.

He came over and stood in front of her.  “What do you have to say for yourself?”

“You’re an idiot, and you’ve lost the plot.  Whatever you think I’m doing, I’m not.”

“I have graphic images of you.”

That look of fury melted into a smile, a complete change.  If i was to guess, she was about to explode and all that would remain of the immediate 100-meter perimeter: shrapnel.

“Of my sister, perhaps, but not me.  You know about Angelique.  She was the stripper you screwed at the bucks party you said you never had.”

A momentary flicker, just enough to turn the self-righteous man into a doubting Thomas.

She had me investigate the nonattendance, where I discovered the missing tapes that were not as missing as they were supposed to be.

Everything had a price.

She nodded towards the TV.  “Play the tape.”

He had a death wish; he played the tape.  I’d seen it several times.  Her sister was much bigger in various places but to a drunk that would be the last of his concerns.  That and removing the mask she wore.

Yep.  Death wish.

“So, whatever this is Dave, you made a mistake.  Your third strike.  Call this off.”

He watched, ignoring her.  Perhaps he was reliving the moment.  I shook my head.

I was going to add my advice but didn’t.  He stopped the tape and the screen displayed static.

The thug waiting on the other side of the room.  “Take her to the shed.”

He looked like he was going to disobey then shrugged.  He came over dragged her to her feet by the hair and shoved his gun in her face.  ‘Any trouble I shoot you.  Dead.  Got it?”

The gun was enough.  The snarl was icing on the cake.

She left obediently.

He came over to me.  “I should shoot you but that would cause a mountain of problems I don’t need.”

“What are you going to do to her?”

“Teach her a lesson.”

“Not to use her sister to set you up?”

He pulled a gun out of his pocket and hit me with it.

It hurt.

I looked up at him.  “Now you’re going to have to kill me.”

Guns with suppressors made a particular type of sound.  People who didn’t understand the dynamics would call them silenced.  The thing is they are not silent, and if you listen hard enough, they can be heard over distance.  In the room, the silenced sound is quite loud.

He never heard anything.

Which was not surprising.  When I turned, returning from the outside was Genevieve, gun in hand and very distracting.  The second thug didn’t have time to put his eyes back in their sockets

Leo managed to turn his head just as she came in the door.  Two shots, two knees.

Accuracy of a woman who spent a lot of time at the gun range

This was now officially a crime scene.

She cut the bindings.  “Leave by the back, though the rear gate.  Like you’re not running from a crime scene.  Ill fix this.”

Spoken like lines out of a script.

A line ran though my head, was this how it was going to end?

I didn’t run, just looked like I was heading towards the back shed.  A short distance away was the gate.  Before I went through it i looked back.

A mess.

I shrugged and closed the gate behind me.

“Cut.”

The group outside the gate up until that moment highly focussed on getting the scene.  It was the fourth take.  The husband kept making mistakes.

And Genevieve kept improvising.

“This time,” I asked the assistant director.

“Finally.  Take a break.  Oh, and well done.”

One small step for mankind…and all that.

An assistant handed me a cold bottle of water.

“Just got the word.  It’s a wrap.”

She smiled.

And, at last I let out a sigh of relief.

Until I heard the blood curdling scream.

“What the hell…?”

The assistant put her hand to her ear, listening.  Then she looked at me.  “They were real bullets.  Two dead, one critical.  Oh my God.”

“Genevieve?”

“Gone.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

What I learned about writing – Even vacations can provide inspiration

It has any number of names, from Leave of Absence to Vacation, but it is meant to be a time where you can rest and relax.

And by the time you finally get to go away, preferably somewhere as far from home as possible, you are sure ready for it.

Those long days at the office, the decisions, the deadlines, the endless pressure of having to achieve the impossible all melt away when you walk out the door, and what a feeling it is when you tell everyone, ‘I’m off on holidays, see you when I get back.’

As anyone will tell  you, it’s not wise to travel the next day if at all possible, because you need some time to decompress before tackling what sometimes can be an arduous getting to the final destination, especially if it is at a peak holiday period, or on planes where anything and everything can go wrong very quickly.

Been there done that.

We traveled the next day, nothing went wrong, and all is fine.

Except …

As a writer and having spent the last few months finishing off my last novel, I was looking forward to some down time.  The editor has the final draft, and I’m happy.

Then, as it always does, the best laid plans of mice and men …

It all comes unstuck.

Inspiration often comes out of left field; something happens, a piece in a newspaper, an item on TV, or just lying down staring at the ceiling, when ‘bang’  it hits you.

The start of a story, a theme that you can run with.

Damn.

I’ve been away for four days now and written seven chapters and the words will not stop.

If only …

Hey, what a great title for the story.

Sorry, got to get back to work!

 

 

“Sunday in New York”, a romantic adventure that’s not a walk in the park!

“Sunday in New York” is ultimately a story about trust, and what happens when a marriage is stretched to its limits.

When Harry Steele attends a lunch with his manager, Barclay, to discuss a promotion that any junior executive would accept in a heartbeat, it is the fact his wife, Alison, who previously professed her reservations about Barclay, also agreed to attend, that casts a small element of doubt in his mind.

From that moment, his life, in the company, in deciding what to do, his marriage, his very life, spirals out of control.

There is no one big factor that can prove Harry’s worst fears, that his marriage is over, just a number of small, interconnecting events, when piled on top of each other, points to a cataclysmic end to everything he had believed in.

Trust is lost firstly in his best friend and mentor, Andy, who only hints of impending disaster, Sasha, a woman whom he saved, and who appears to have motives of her own, and then in his wife, Alison, as he discovered piece by piece damning evidence she is about to leave him for another man.

Can we trust what we see with our eyes or trust what we hear?

Haven’t we all jumped to conclusions at least once in our lives?

Can Alison, a woman whose self-belief and confidence is about to be put to the ultimate test, find a way of proving their relationship is as strong as it has ever been?

As they say in the classics, read on!

Purchase:

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“Echoes From The Past”, the past doesn’t necessarily stay there


What happens when your past finally catches up with you?

…

Christmas is just around the corner, a time to be with family. For Will Mason, an orphan since he was fourteen, it is a time for reflection on what his life could have been, and what it could be.

Until a chance encounter brings back to life the reasons for his twenty years of self-imposed exile from a life only normal people could have. From that moment Will’s life slowly starts to unravel and it’s obvious to him it’s time to move on.

This time, however, there is more at stake.

Will has broken his number one rule, don’t get involved.

With his nemesis, Eddie Jamieson, suddenly within reach, and a blossoming relationship with an office colleague, Maria, about to change everything, Will has to make a choice. Quietly leave, or finally, make a stand.

But as Will soon discovers, when other people are involved there is going to be terrible consequences no matter what choice he makes.

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newechocover5rs

Writing a book in 365 days – 280

Day 280

Writing exercise

Was this how it was going to end?

…

How did we get here?

That was easy.  I got out of bed this morning, even when I didn’t want to, because that work ethic my father had instilled in me from a very early age kicked in at 6:05 that morning, the same as it did every morning.

Without fail.

And i hated it.

I had said once in a conversation fuelled by too many bottles of beer that it would kill me in the end, and it was like a self-fulfilling prophesy.

A gun pointing at me by a person who self-confessed they had an itchy trigger finger.

I believed them.

Earlier that morning on the way to the office, the boss’s wife had called me and said her husband had forgotten an important file and since i was passing his house would I call in and collect it?

It was no problem; it was on the way and would not cause me to be late.

Not a problem.

Except… the boss’s wife was a problem and in calling it sometimes meant if was difficult to get away.

I drew the line in the sand before i stepped across the threshold, and that meant bring decent.

Stories abounded of her opening the door in her birthday suit.

She had done it to me before and I had asked her not to do it again.

Water off a duck’s back.

She had a weird idea about out of work fun.

This morning it was not a problem because something else was in play.  She had opened the door and stood to one side, allowing me to pass

I hadn’t taken 10 steps when two men appeared with guns and had me tied up in a matter of seconds.

It was not her idea.  She was too scared to have been the one to initiate it.  Not even when they roughly tied her up too.

They, whoever they were knew all of this before they got her to call me.  Yes, they knew we had been exploring the possibilities but not yet gone down that path.

Now it would be quite unlikely, depending on what happened over the next hour.

I was sat down after they tied me up.  Tightly.  Perhaps they thought i was the reincarnation of Harry Houdini.

I probably was.  Once.

Genevieve sat in another chair and made no bones about showing her legs under the short skirt.  Men being men they could be distracted.

Was that her plan?

If it was it was different from the one i expected.

She was a spy novel aficionado and was often rambling in about spy novel plotlines and conspiracies, and what she would have done differently.

I was one of those aficionados and had seem from the outset that combination of beauty and brains her husband failed.  She was to him a trophy wife.

He just saw a pretty girl he could exploit.

She was hoping to run distraction, and I was going to get us out of this mess.

Before her husband came home and made a mess of everything.

He was adept at stuffing the simplest of problems up.  Just look at his marriage.

I wondered if the two thugs had run surveillance on the location and knew what her true potential was.

I’d seen it, and a lot more at the last Christmas party.  Some gate crashers had taken her for an easy mark.

He ended up with fractured eye sockets a broken left arm broken right arm and a stiletto that just missed an eyeball.

He still held all the cards but was not quite so cocky, until she hit him with the baseball bat.

The 3vil underlying smile on her face told me that she was perhaps reliving that same moment in her mind.

An hour passed, several phone calls back and forth between one of the thugs and someone else, and judging by the thugs attitude, not happy with delays.

Who was he waiting for?

It was obvious whoever it was, was coming here otherwise we would have left by now.

Her husband?

Why?

I heard the front door open and close then hushed voices.  I’d also noticed that one of the thugs had gone missing, not that without his presences it would be any easier to escape.

What was also interesting was that she had not tried to speak to me since we were tied up.  Id asked a question or two but had been met with stony silence

Perhaps that was to establish there was no rapport between us.

Did she suspect it was her husband going off the deep end.

Then I heard the boss’s voice.

He had gone off the deep end.

She had too, and yelled out, “What the hell is this about?”

He came to the doorway and stopped.

I glared at him.  No point yelling.

“I would never have suspected you two.  The guy next door, maybe.”  He glared at me. “It just goes to show you can’t trust anyone.”

Was I supposed to answer that?  No.  Proably not.  He would have an answer for everything I said nothing.

He came over and stood in front of her.  “What do you have to say for yourself?”

“You’re an idiot, and you’ve lost the plot.  Whatever you think I’m doing, I’m not.”

“I have graphic images of you.”

That look of fury melted into a smile, a complete change.  If i was to guess, she was about to explode and all that would remain of the immediate 100-meter perimeter: shrapnel.

“Of my sister, perhaps, but not me.  You know about Angelique.  She was the stripper you screwed at the bucks party you said you never had.”

A momentary flicker, just enough to turn the self-righteous man into a doubting Thomas.

She had me investigate the nonattendance, where I discovered the missing tapes that were not as missing as they were supposed to be.

Everything had a price.

She nodded towards the TV.  “Play the tape.”

He had a death wish; he played the tape.  I’d seen it several times.  Her sister was much bigger in various places but to a drunk that would be the last of his concerns.  That and removing the mask she wore.

Yep.  Death wish.

“So, whatever this is Dave, you made a mistake.  Your third strike.  Call this off.”

He watched, ignoring her.  Perhaps he was reliving the moment.  I shook my head.

I was going to add my advice but didn’t.  He stopped the tape and the screen displayed static.

The thug waiting on the other side of the room.  “Take her to the shed.”

He looked like he was going to disobey then shrugged.  He came over dragged her to her feet by the hair and shoved his gun in her face.  ‘Any trouble I shoot you.  Dead.  Got it?”

The gun was enough.  The snarl was icing on the cake.

She left obediently.

He came over to me.  “I should shoot you but that would cause a mountain of problems I don’t need.”

“What are you going to do to her?”

“Teach her a lesson.”

“Not to use her sister to set you up?”

He pulled a gun out of his pocket and hit me with it.

It hurt.

I looked up at him.  “Now you’re going to have to kill me.”

Guns with suppressors made a particular type of sound.  People who didn’t understand the dynamics would call them silenced.  The thing is they are not silent, and if you listen hard enough, they can be heard over distance.  In the room, the silenced sound is quite loud.

He never heard anything.

Which was not surprising.  When I turned, returning from the outside was Genevieve, gun in hand and very distracting.  The second thug didn’t have time to put his eyes back in their sockets

Leo managed to turn his head just as she came in the door.  Two shots, two knees.

Accuracy of a woman who spent a lot of time at the gun range

This was now officially a crime scene.

She cut the bindings.  “Leave by the back, though the rear gate.  Like you’re not running from a crime scene.  Ill fix this.”

Spoken like lines out of a script.

A line ran though my head, was this how it was going to end?

I didn’t run, just looked like I was heading towards the back shed.  A short distance away was the gate.  Before I went through it i looked back.

A mess.

I shrugged and closed the gate behind me.

“Cut.”

The group outside the gate up until that moment highly focussed on getting the scene.  It was the fourth take.  The husband kept making mistakes.

And Genevieve kept improvising.

“This time,” I asked the assistant director.

“Finally.  Take a break.  Oh, and well done.”

One small step for mankind…and all that.

An assistant handed me a cold bottle of water.

“Just got the word.  It’s a wrap.”

She smiled.

And, at last I let out a sigh of relief.

Until I heard the blood curdling scream.

“What the hell…?”

The assistant put her hand to her ear, listening.  Then she looked at me.  “They were real bullets.  Two dead, one critical.  Oh my God.”

“Genevieve?”

“Gone.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

An excerpt from “What Sets Us Apart”, a mystery with a twist

See the excerpt from the story below, just a taste of what’s in store…

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whatsetscover

McCallister was old school, a man who would most likely fit in perfectly campaigning on the battlefields of Europe during the Second World War. He’d been like a fish out of water in the army, post-Falklands, and while he retired a hero, he still felt he’d more to give.

He’d applied and was accepted as head of a SWAT team, and, watching him now as he and his men disembarked from the truck in almost military precision, a look passed between Annette, the police liaison officer, and I that said she’d seen it all before. I know I had.

There was a one in four chance his team would be selected for this operation, and she had been hoping it would be one of the other three. While waiting for them to arrive she filled me in on the various teams. His was the least co-operative, and the more likely to make ad-hoc decisions rather than adhere to the plan, or any orders that may come from the officer in charge.

This, she said quite bluntly, was going to end badly.

I still had no idea why Prendergast instructed me to attend the scene of what looked to be a normal domestic operation, but as the nominated expert in the field in these types of situations, it was fairly clear he wasn’t taking any chances. It was always a matter of opinion between us, and generally I lost.

In this case, it was an anonymous report identifying what the authorities believed were explosives in one of the dockside sheds where explosives were not supposed to be.

The only reason why the report was given any credence was the man, while not identifying himself by name, said he’d been an explosive expert once and recognized the boxes. That could mean anything, but the Chief Constable was a cautious man.

With his men settled and preparing their weapons, McCallister came over to the command post, not much more than the SUV my liaison and I arrived in, with weapons, bulletproof vests, and rolls of tape to cordon off the area afterward. We both had coffee, steaming in the cold early morning air. Dawn was slowly approaching and although rain had been forecast it had yet to arrive.

A man by the name of Benson was in charge. He too had groaned when he saw McCallister.

“A fine morning for it.” McCallister was the only enthusiastic one here.

He didn’t say what ‘it’ was, but I thought it might eventually be mayhem.

“Let’s hope the rain stays away. It’s going to be difficult enough without it,” Benson said, rubbing his hands together. We had been waiting for the SWAT team to arrive, and another team to take up their position under the wharf, and who was in the final stages of securing their position.

While we were waiting we drew up the plan. I’d go in first to check on what we were dealing with, and what type of explosives. The SWAT team, in the meantime, were to ensure all the exits to the shed were covered. When I gave the signal, they were to enter and secure the building. We were not expecting anyone inside or out, and no movement had been detected in the last hour since our arrival and deployment.

“What’s the current situation?”

“I’ve got eyes on the building, and a team coming in from the waterside, underneath. Its slow progress, but they’re nearly there. Once they’re in place, we’re sending McKenzie in.”

He looked in my direction.

“With due respect sir, shouldn’t it be one of us?” McCallister glared at me with the contempt that only a decorated military officer could.

“No. I have orders from above, much higher than I care to argue with, so, McCallister, no gung-ho heroics for the moment. Just be ready to move on my command, and make sure you have three teams at the exit points, ready to secure the building.”

McCallister opened his mouth, no doubt to question those orders, but instead closed it again. “Yes sir,” he muttered and turned away heading back to his men.

“You’re not going to have much time before he storms the battlements,” Benson quietly said to me, a hint of exasperation in his tone. “I’m dreading the paperwork.”

It was exactly what my liaison officer said when she saw McCallister arriving.

The water team sent their ‘in position’ signal, and we were ready to go.

In the hour or so we’d been on site nothing had stirred, no arrivals, no departures, and no sign anyone was inside, but that didn’t mean we were alone. Nor did it mean I was going to walk in and see immediately what was going on. If it was a cache of explosives then it was possible the building was booby-trapped in any number of ways, there could be sentries or guards, and they had eyes on us, or it might be a false alarm.

I was hoping for the latter.

I put on the bulletproof vest, thinking it was a poor substitute for full battle armor against an exploding bomb, but we were still treating this as a ‘suspected’ case. I noticed my liaison officer was pulling on her bulletproof vest too.

“You don’t have to go. This is my party, not yours,” I said.

“The Chief Constable told me to stick to you like glue, sir.”

I looked at Benson. “Talk some sense into her please, this is not a kindergarten outing.”

He shrugged. Seeing McCallister had taken all the fight out of him. “Orders are orders. If that’s what the Chief Constable requested …”

Madness. I glared at her, and she gave me a wan smile. “Stay behind me then, and don’t do anything stupid.”

“Believe me, I won’t be.” She pulled out and checked her weapon, chambering the first round. It made a reassuring sound.

Suited up, weapons readied, a last sip of the coffee in a stomach that was already churning from nerves and tension, I looked at the target, one hundred yards distant and thought it was going to be the longest hundred yards I’d ever traversed. At least for this week.

A swirling mist rolled in and caused a slight change in plans.

Because the front of the buildings was constantly illuminated by large overhead arc lamps, my intention had been to approach the building from the rear where there was less light and more cover. Despite the lack of movement, if there were explosives in that building, there’d be ‘enemy’ surveillance somewhere, and, after making that assumption, I believed it was going to be easier and less noticeable to use the darkness as a cover.

It was a result of the consultation, and studying the plans of the warehouse, plans that showed three entrances, the main front hangar type doors, a side entrance for truck entry and exit and a small door in the rear, at the end of an internal passage leading to several offices. I also assumed it was the exit used when smokers needed a break. Our entry would be by the rear door or failing that, the side entrance where a door was built into the larger sliding doors. In both cases, the locks would not present a problem.

The change in the weather made the approach shorter, and given the density of the mist now turning into a fog, we were able to approach by the front, hugging the walls, and moving quickly while there was cover. I could feel the dampness of the mist and shivered more than once.

It was nerves more than the cold.

I could also feel rather than see the presence of Annette behind me, and once felt her breath on my neck when we stopped for a quick reconnaissance.

It was the same for McCallister’s men. I could feel them following us, quickly and quietly, and expected, if I turned around, to see him breathing down my neck too.

It added to the tension.

My plan was still to enter by the back door.

We slipped up the alley between the two sheds to the rear corner and stopped. I heard a noise coming from the rear of the building, and the light tap on the shoulder told me Annette had heard it too. I put my hand up to signal her to wait, and as a swirl of mist rolled in, I slipped around the corner heading towards where I’d last seen the glow of a cigarette.

The mist cleared, and we saw each other at the same time. He was a bearded man in battle fatigues, not the average dockside security guard.

He was quick, but my slight element of surprise was his undoing, and he was down and unconscious in less than a few seconds with barely a sound beyond the body hitting the ground. Zip ties secured his hands and legs, and tape his mouth. Annette joined me a minute after securing him.

A glance at the body then me, “I can see why they, whoever they are, sent you.”

She’d asked who I worked for, and I didn’t answer. It was best she didn’t know.

“Stay behind me,” I said, more urgency in my tone. If there was one, there’d be another.

Luck was with us so far. A man outside smoking meant no booby traps on the back door, and quite possibly there’d be none inside. But it indicated there were more men inside, and if so, it appeared they were very well trained. If that were the case, they would be formidable opponents.

The fear factor increased exponentially.

I slowly opened the door and looked in. A pale light shone from within the warehouse itself, one that was not bright enough to be detected from outside. None of the offices had lights on, so it was possible they were vacant. I realized then they had blacked out the windows. Why hadn’t someone checked this?

Once inside, the door closed behind us, progress was slow and careful. She remained directly behind me, gun ready to shoot anything that moved. I had a momentary thought for McCallister and his men, securing the perimeter.

At the end of the corridor, the extent of the warehouse stretched before us. The pale lighting made it seem like a vast empty cavern, except for a long trestle table along one side, and, behind it, stacks of wooden crates, some opened. It looked like a production line.

To get to the table from where we were was a ten-yard walk in the open. There was no cover. If we stuck to the walls, there was equally no cover and a longer walk.

We needed a distraction.

As if on cue, the two main entrances disintegrated into flying shrapnel accompanied by a deafening explosion that momentarily disoriented both Annette and I. Through the smoke and dust kicked up I saw three men appear from behind the wooden crates, each with what looked like machine guns, spraying bullets in the direction of the incoming SWAT members.

They never had a chance, cut down before they made ten steps into the building.

By the time I’d recovered, my head heavy, eyes watering and ears still ringing, I took several steps towards them, managing to take down two of the gunmen but not the third.

I heard a voice, Annette’s I think, yell out, “Oh, God, he’s got a trigger,” just before another explosion, though all I remember in that split second was a bright flash, the intense heat, something very heavy smashing into my chest knocking the wind out of me, and then the sensation of flying, just before I hit the wall.

I spent four weeks in an induced coma, three months being stitched back together and another six learning to do all those basic actions everyone took for granted. It was twelve months almost to the day when I was released from the hospital, physically, except for a few alterations required after being hit by shrapnel, looking the same as I always had.

But mentally? The document I’d signed on release said it all, ‘not fit for active duty; discharged’.

It was in the name of David Cheney. For all intents and purposes, Alistair McKenzie was killed in that warehouse, and for the first time ever, an agent left the Department, the first to retire alive.

I was not sure I liked the idea of making history.

© Charles Heath 2016-2020