365 Days of writing, 2026 – 164/165

Days 164 and 165 – Writing exercise – Set a story on a plane

…

It had been a long couple of months, and having completed the mandatory training and refresher courses, locked down for the whole time at the company’s dedicated training facility, it was time for a recreation break.

For that, I was heading to a tropical retreat in Jamaica in the Caribbean. The shack was booked, and all I had to do was catch three planes.

In other words, the next 48 hours could run smoothly, or it could turn into a bigger disaster than some of the missions I’d been sent on.

I was hoping for the first and expecting the second.

It didn’t start well. The taxi I caught to the airport stopped to let me off in the designated drop-off zone, but it was for the wrong airline.

The driver apologised and offered to go around again, but that was mentioned how I wanted to spend the next half hour of my life. I paid him and got out.

I went into the airport terminal and started a long hike back to the departure area for my airline. Fortunately, it was well signed, unlike some airports I’d been to.

Foot traffic was like the home time crush, and I had to pick my way through strolling families, children racing around bereft of parental control, elderly people who had all the time in the world, cranky businessmen in a hurry, and people who were standing around in groups cluttering the walkways.

I was glad I didn’t have any suitcases. There were enough baggage trolleys to crash into as it was. Including those being driven recklessly by children and almost wrecking a holiday before it got started.

My left ankle was still sore from the last would-be racing driver.

At the checking counter, I joined a long line that was moving slowly.

It always amused me that people always spoke louder when standing in a queue. I would have thought that such comments as the desirability of a male colleague, and 8 on the 1 to 10 scale, might have warranted hushed tones. Along with the inference, one of the girls had slept with him.

The other was unimpressed. He was married. Scandalous, maybe to me, but they both giggled.

That was in front of me. Behind, a man was telling whoever would listen that he hadn’t been back home in three years and was expecting no one would remember him. He was an accountant, so no one was surprised.

There were more, but I reached the counter by then and took a minute, perhaps a little longer. I could only check in for the first flight, not all the way through. I’d opted for cheap.

No baggage, passport in order, seat allocation and gate pass done. I was travelling coach class and got an aisle seat. It remained to be seen how that played out. Travelling by any means these days was like walking through a minefield.

As it was only domestic, I went through the TSA check, getting a nod from one of the officers, as an acquaintance from another life, and went up to the departure level. It was a bit early to go to the gate.

I’d have some airport takeout just in case the airline had nothing to offer. Given the fare I paid, I seriously doubted they could afford water.

I settled on greasy chicken and fries.

Tables were scattered everywhere, and I selected one with two seats and seeing there was competition for it, hastened my pace to get there first. It was that time of day when everyone seemed to be hungry.

Surviving the death stare from the other hunter, I sat back and contemplated the rest of the diners. It was a habit more than anything else. It converted about two or three hundred.

Families, children arguing over burgers, chicken and fries, large cups of sugary drinks, not the best for them before getting on the plane, businessmen, sitting at single tables with coffee and a sandwich, teenagers, a group on a tour, no doubt like Rome or maybe not, all excited at the fact they were escaping school. Some had that doe-eyed look of high school sweethearts, and trouble looming.

I remembered the one trip my class had gone on and the fallout from that.

There were groups of elderly passengers also going on a holiday, a tour guide trying to keep them together, and women, one group in particular, that looked like trouble. One had just returned with a dozen drinks, wiped escaping their husbands, and why not?

No immediate threats.

I looked at the chicken, shrugged and took a chip instead. The coffee tasted like instant, water and powdered milk. Who knew what came out of that coffee machine, but it wasn’t what I would call coffee. Maybe my standards were too high.

Then I saw rather than heard a strange sound, and followed it to a table four along and one out from the shrubbery. Four seats. One man, a thug in a suit, a well-dressed man who reeked of money but not class, and a young woman who was trying not to look terrified.

I suspect the man in the suit had inflicted some hidden punishment on her because she was massaging her hand. I looked away just before he looked in my direction.

He did the same scan I had, looking for trouble.

This could be one of two scenarios. The girl, girlfriend or spouse had tried to run away and had been caught. Usually, they would return by car, but maybe they were from overseas. The three men looked foreign.

The other, less likely, was a felon being taken back to jail. Or elsewhere, but then she would be in cuffs. He didn’t look like law enforcement.

Another thug in a suit came back with a tray of food and drinks and distributed it before sitting. An air of serenity settled on them.

I went back to my chicken.

…

It was a relatively calm half hour; the children at the table next to me were the typical family. The boy wanted a hamburger and got chicken; the girl wanted chicken and got a hamburger. The boy took a bite out of the chicken, and the girl refused to eat it.

Dad didn’t get the free toy that came with the food, and in the end, the mother had to sort it all out. The father typically got exactly what he wanted.

Another child and another nearby table spilt his drink all over the father, and harsh words and tears ensued.

Queues for food were long, and tempers were fraying. My new friends, four tables over to the left, left their mess on the table and walked off, the girl almost dragged away by the man in the expensive suit.

Something was definitely wrong there.

The lady who was wiping tables just had a whole lot more work added to the endless task of cleaning up spilled drinks and food scraps thrown on the floor. People obviously left their manners at home.

I cleaned up my mess, wiped the table with a spare wet towel and dumped the leftovers in the appropriate bin. The cleaning lady smiled in my direction. That was one less out of 200 tables.

I wandered slowly towards the gate, with a little under an hour to go. There were people scattered in the seating area, including my new friends. On my way in, I surreptitiously took a photograph of the rich guy, and when I sat down, studied it.

He had a familiar look, not belonging to someone I had met before, but someone I had seen before. The seat next to me had a hostile folder of newspapers sitting on it, perhaps from the last flight out.

Maybe if they were leaving from here, they would be in the local paper.

Or as loath as I was to call upon a friend, who was a colleague who’d done favours for me in the past, I could send a copy of the photo and ask him to identify who it is.

Of course, it came with a degree of risk, especially if the person had a history. I sent it anyway; Rodney would make an assessment and let me know.

Five minutes. My cell phone vibrated. “Investigating!”

Meanwhile, back in the newspaper, The Denver Post, I found it odd to be reading an actual newspaper and not the usual online services. If I were staying instead of passing through, like some of the others on refresher courses, it would make a useful reference.

But nothing about our mysterious man or his companion. But if I wanted to find out where the 4th July fireworks displays were, very useful.

I didn’t plan to be in the country. The holiday had lost its significance given the times we were in, and the fact that our history was being rewritten to reflect something that was nothing like what happened.

My father, who has been an American History professor and scholar of all things American, including the so-called shameful parts of it, would be spinning in his grave. I was just plain disappointed.

Just as the boarding call came, my phone vibrated again. “Sam Kawalski and the woman Zuzanna Wojcik, the youngest daughter of the alleged head of a crime family from New Jersey. They were married about a month ago. Documents attached.”

I sent back a thanks and joined the queue. I took the paper for the crossword and had some interesting reading.

They were sitting up front. I was sitting in the back. Fortunately, this time I was not surrounded by children. I was, however, in direct line to the restrooms. It was going to be a fun four hours.

…

I only had to stand once to let the window seat passenger in. Our plane was not full, and a lot of middle seats were free.

She smiled politely as she squeezed past after putting her small suitcase in the overhead bin, then sat. My initial assessment was that she was dressed to travel in business class, and maybe hoping for an upgrade.

She had that purposeful look like she was coming from or going to a meeting, what I would call an executive, though her age may suggest either lawyer or accountant.

Then I decided it was none of my business.

Until she spoke to me. Normally, I would just ignore fellow passengers, or they would ignore me. But this was coach, I was used to business. People around me nodded or said hello.

“Work or pleasure?”

It took a moment to register that she was speaking to me. My attention was still on Kawalski, and the other passengers who brought far too much cabin luggage. The hostesses were working overtime trying to find space and shunt tardy and somewhat confused people to their seats.

I turned to look at her and realised she might be older than I first thought. Which had absolutely no bearing on anything.

“A business meeting, then pleasure. Jamaica.” I don’t know why I told her where I was going.

“Lucky you. I’ve been there once, to a conference, and didn’t get much time to see the sights. Keep meaning to go back.”

“If only we had 40-hour days?”

She took that in, processed it, then smiled again. I could not imagine her being angry.

“If only.”

“You? Business or something else?” I deliberately threw in a curve, just to see what happened.

A momentary expression changed, just long enough for those trained to look for them to see it. Then back again.

“I would be in a party dress if it were not business.”

Was there just a slight edge to her tone?

In any other situation, I might have said she would look nice in a party dress, but these days those sorts of comments are frowned upon.

“I’m sorry then.”

“For what?”

“Forgetting that others have to work. You don’t need people saying they’re going on holiday when you’re not.”

“It doesn’t bother me, after all, I asked you first.”

Her tone had suggested otherwise, but then my tone would be grumpy if the person next to me started babbling on about where they were going.

But good or bad, it killed the moment, and she rummaged in her bag and pulled out a Kindle reader.

One more supposition, she probably read romance novels. I wrestled the paper into a smaller square and started on the crossword.

All the passengers were aboard, and the hostesses were doing their mandatory checks. The door had been closed.

We would be leaving on time.

…

The trouble with travelling in a confined space with a lot of people is that no matter how hard you try to shut people out, you can’t.

Up front of the plane, you are more isolated; back in the rear, you are surrounded. Screaming kids, noisy parents, the one person who has the volume up high, and the kid who runs up and down the aisle, bumping people.

And as I discovered, the number of people who lurch from side to side, bumping people as they go. And the proximity to the restrooms, people congregated, towering over you, squashing into you when they tried to move out of the way.

And the conversations they had. People whom you’d least expect to speak like drunken sailors three sheets to the wind. I felt it necessary to stand, accidentally standing on one of their feet, and apologising profusely, after causing her to cry out in pain, and then getting assistance back to her seat.

A half dozen people nodded in my direction, clearly relieved that they had gone away. My neighbour thought it amusing, perhaps something she would have done herself.

People were more wary standing anywhere near me when they came, or, like sensible people, waited for the green light before coming down.

The next time she headed down, without her friend, I stood and went down to the galley to stand by the rear exit door. She approached very cautiously.

Lesson learned.

Shortly after, the plane dipped, and we were in landing mode. I went back to my seat. The hostesses passed through the plane, getting everyone sorted.

The last trolley had passed by into the galley, just as we all heard the girl who had suffered that unfortunate accident, now standing next to the last seat in business class, pointing and yelling, “You’re that horrible man who beat up my friend at Rodin’s the other night.”

She was pointing directly at the man in the suit.

Next minute, one of the thugs had her in a stranglehold, and she was screaming. A scream that polarised the whole plane.

The stewards were mortified and helpless at this point. The thug was trying to quieten her, and there were groans and complaints, until the thug yelled out, “Everyone, be quiet or else.

The last two words carried emphasis and a latent threat. The noise died down.

It drew an uncharacteristic response from my travelling companion, “What the fuck… “

“An altercation with that girl. Seems she knows one of the passengers in business, and not in a good way.”

The thug wasn’t letting her go, but at least the screams had stopped. So had everything.

I turned around, and the hostess was on the phone with the captain. I heard, “We have a situation…”

That was putting it mildly. This was a no-win situation for anyone. We wouldn’t be landing with passengers standing in the aisle. The thug had nowhere to go. The girl would be leveraged until she wasn’t. Just the thought of that worried me.

Planes were small places where things could go wrong very quickly.

And Kowalski had become a cornered rat.

The papers on him were basically the bio of a kid gone wrong, hitching his wagon to the wrong train, marrying the boss’s daughter, and then committing the ultimate folly, thinking his status could protect him from being stupid.

On bail for the assault, he was fleeing. If it wasn’t for the fact that his wife was running from him, also a victim of assault, he would not have been in Denver.

He was a bail violator and now a party to what could be described as a major aeroplane felony. With a plane load of hostages.

The Captain had nowhere to go, but had to try.

“Everyone not involved in the situation, please resume your seats and prepare for landing. This plane cannot land until all passengers have resumed their seats. Be advised that we will not be using a gate, but have been directed to another section of the airport where both local police and the FBI will be waiting. I would ask that no one make this any worse than it already is, and would ask for calm and obey any and all instructions given by the senior cabin steward.”

The girl’s companion was now telling everyone in a loud voice the circumstances of their friend’s assault, and using disparaging language directed at Kowalski. The other thug was waiting for a signal from Kawalski.

At least everyone was reseated except for the thug with the girl, who was now sobbing.

Kawalski stood and glared at the cabin manager, also responsible for the business class passengers.

He told the thug to bring the girl forward, and he told the manager to empty the first three rows and seat them elsewhere.

It looked like one or two were going to argue, but then the other got out of his seat and dragged one of the complainers out of his seat. The rest moved quickly, taking what they could.

So far, so good.

I slowly got out of my seat and went back to the hostess on the phone.

“Sir, you should go back to your seat.”

“I might be able to help. Can you ask the captain to talk to whoever it is in New York and ask them if there is a Joseph Binns in the terminal? He’s my boss and someone who deals with situations like this. He’ll know I’m on board.”

“Who are you?”

“Who I am is irrelevant. Except I could become those two thugs worst nightmare. Kawalski, their boss, is bad news. He’s bringing his wife back to New Jersey against her will, and I think he was hoping this would go under the radar.”

At that moment, I realised the plane had levelled out and was in a large circuit. It might not last long if the fuel is low.

“Are you law enforcement?”

“Not the sort that flashed badges. Just ask him to call.”

She did, relaying a brief resume of what I told her.

“He’s talking to them now.”

Five long minutes passed before I saw her move slightly, then say, “He’s here.” She passed me the phone.

“Kevin Andrews?” He asked.

“Yes.”

“I’m told you might be able to help.”

“We’re not going to get on the ground while they are moving around. Also, I think they will start using passengers to force you to land the plane, and probably use some to get away once we are on the ground. This is one of those no-win situations.”

“Not ideal then?”

He was calm and probably hoping his worst nightmare was a flaky engine.

“It never is. I’m going to try to neutralise the problem. It might get messy. And I might not succeed. But I could use the element of surprise. Can you make sudden downwards or sideways movements, the sort where you are briefly disoriented? Kind of like hitting an air pocket.”

“When?”

“Give it ten minutes. No warning, just do it. Hard left and down. Hopefully, I’ll be in place by then.”

“Ten minutes. Got it. Good luck.”

I was hugging to need it.

I handed the phone back. “Stow everything likely to cause a problem. If you can tell those up the front with alerting them, do it.”

The other steward unlocked a drawer and pulled out a rather interesting knife. It might be illegal, but it was going to make my job easier.

“Got any string, rope, bindings?”

From the same drawer, twine. Ideal.

“Good. Keep it handy.” I took the knife and hid it up my sleeve.

I looked at my watch. Seven minutes. I shrugged. Time to go.

I slowly walked up the aisle. My row companion gave me a rather wide-eyed look as I went past. Maybe she thought I had a death wish.

Maybe I did.

I took my time. Halfway, one of the thugs saw me.

“Go back to your seat.”

“Sorry. Can’t. Have to use the restrooms. Ours are full of people sitting because of you.”

I edged slowly closer, both watching me. What they were going to do was the unpredictable item in this equation.

Eight minutes, alongside the first row of coach. Five years, maybe six. The steward and manager had moved back into the galley area. The two men and the girl were near the door.

I would only have a few seconds at best, and I would have to incapacitate them. The knife would do that if I got them in the right place. Luckily, part of the refresher I’d just been on was 101 ways to silently and quickly kill your enemy with a knife. Any knife.

Nine minutes. I took a deep breath and let it go slowly. Calm.

…

Odd that in those last few seconds, I suddenly remembered nearly every time I’d landed at JFK and about 20 or 20 minutes out, we hit turbulence, once so bad it made most of the passengers airsick.

And on cue, ten seconds before the plane was to lurch, we hit turbulence and, thirty seconds after that, an air pocket and suddenly the plane dipped, violently.

Anyone who wasn’t in a seat belt hit the roof. I was vac3d because I was expecting a lurch. In the end, the turbulence did the job for me.

The two thugs and Kawalski hit the roof and were knocked clean out. The plane found clean air with a thud, but the turbulence didn’t stop. The captain explained and asked for calm.

Everyone had heeded the earlier seatbelt call, and the only three casualties were the three problem passengers. The girl had fainted just before the air pocket, and the thug had ironically protected her from hitting the roof.

She was now sprawled on the ground.

The hostess from the rear arrived breathless and with cut lengths of twine. Three burly men came and hoisted the three into seats in the front rows, and tied them very securely.

The manager up front relayed the news to the captain, and a minute or two later, we were descending. A half-hour delay. We were back to preparing the cabin for landing.

I had a few words with? First in Polish, then in English, to see if she was alright. She said she had seen me at the airport in Denver and hoped that I had recognised her distress and alerted the authorities.

She said her father would be grateful. I told her that she should forget I existed. Trouble always had a way of finding me without help.

Then I went back to my seat. In reality, I had done nothing wrong. Whatever plan I had was sketchy at best, and I thanked whoever it was for intervening.

My seat companion looked over as I did up the seatbelt. “What did you say you did for a living?”

“Problem solver, though I wouldn’t say I was very good at it. Mother Nature always has an answer to just about any problem.”

“What were you going to do?”

“Use the plane differently. Then I remembered that there’s always turbulence. Catch them off guard, maybe. In the end, I didn’t have to.”

“You do this often?”

“No.”

“Then why?”

“Somebody had to do something. I have places to be. Can’t have assholes holding me, and everyone else, up.”

“Well, this was exciting. I’m just a boring librarian who sometimes gives tours at the Smithsonian. The biggest event is someone who has a bathroom emergency. Perhaps we could start again. My name is Jennifer MacAndrews, Librarian.”

“Kevin Andrews, occasional Problem Solver.”

The plane shuddered as we went through another layer of turbulence. We could see land through the cloud cover. It would be raining when we landed.

As the wheels came down, the pilot advised us that we would be going to a closed area of the airport when the prisoners would be taken off. Then the passengers would be transferred to buses and taken to the terminal.

“Staying in New York after your meeting?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“I’m going to do something I never do. Another first, if you like. Can I buy you dinner for saving us, or trying to, anyway?”

She definitely did not look like the sort of woman who would offer dinner dates to perfect strangers. Even so, I should decline.

“You don’t know me. I could be an axe murderer.”

“You could be. I have many interesting conversational topics that might interest you, being a librarian.”

So the axe murderer line wasn’t going to work on her.

“When is your meeting?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Are you staying anywhere near the Hilton on 6th Avenue?”

“By coincidence, I am.”

“Then if I am free at 7pm, I’ll call your room, and if you’re in, we’ll see what happens?”

She smiled. “We shall.”

…

The plane landed, everyone applauded, an odd reaction and one I have never had explained.

It took a while before the FBI officers came aboard, spoke to the captain and then took the three men away. They did not take Zuzanna Wojcik.

Then the passengers filed off, and I waited until everyone left before I went forward. Jennifer waited with me. Apparently, she was in no hurry.

The captain and an FBI officer were waiting. I shook hands, told them both that I was glad I didn’t have to do anything, and that the true heroes were the passengers who tied them up.

My boss was among those at the bottom of the stairs, waiting to take me away to that meeting. I shook hands with Jennifer, and she joined the last of the passengers on the bus.

“You made a new friend.”

“Window seat, my row.”

“Not screaming kids?”

“They were three rows ahead. It’s not so bad in the back of the plane. I hear it’s the safest place in a crash.”

He shrugged. “Always something with you.”

“What can I say?”

“Next time, you will try to remain anonymous. Your next job was to investigate Zuzanna Wojcik’s family. Can’t do that now she knows who you are.”

“Or…”

He shook his head. “You really don’t have a death wish. You have two weeks’ vacation. We’ll talk about it later. Who was the girl?”

“A librarian at the Smithsonian.”

“Good. You could do well to learn something other than ways to kill people.”

If I called her. I was having second thoughts. A girl like her didn’t need to know someone like me. It was one of the downsides of the job.

The baggage handlers were offloading the last of the baggage, and the plane sat on the tarmac, now in the hands of the cleaners.

In a few hours, it would be off to another airport, most of the passengers would be going to hotels, visiting others or going home. For them, it was just another day in their lives. They would never know just how close they came to dying.

And in my case, I had been lucky. Stupid but lucky. It put a thought into my head that until I spoke to Jennifer, I would never have turned up there.

Was it time I gave up the idealistic dream that I could save the world, one mission at a time? The fact is, I couldn’t, and wasn’t.

My boss opened the door to the limo. “Opportunity awaits.”

I got in and moved over. He climbed in and shut the door. “Let’s go.”

And for the first time, I was thinking of something other than work.

…

In a word: cue

Another small and sometimes confusing word.

The first meaning that comes to mind is a cue is a prompt, often from someone standing behind the camera in a television studio.

That is to say that a cue is some form of signal, a wave, a nod, or verbal.

A cue can also be where a tape or recording is set to a certain place, ready to play. One could assume, if playing tracks off an album of songs, and you wanted to play the fourth track, then you would cue it up, ready to go on, of course, the moment you got a, yes, cue to play it.

Then there is a cue used in a game of pool or snooker, that is a long thin tapered piece of wood with a felt tip.

Not exactly my favourite game, but it’s always the cues fault, not mine.

This is not to be considered with Que which is a shortened form for Quebec, in Canada.

Or que, which for some reason, only in California, is short for barbecue.

Or Queue, as in a long line, or a short one, of people waiting to get on a bus, or waiting to get tickets

In my experience every queue I get in is always a long one, and then suffer the frustration of waiting hours only to be told the tickets have all been sold.

Almost as bad as being stuck in a traffic jam, which is technically a queue of cars, never to get through the first set of lights, and sometimes not the second.

And don’t get me started on phone queues.

Queues are for people who have a lot of time on the hands.

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…

http://amzn.to/2Eryfth

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.

An excerpt from “The Things We Do for Love”; In love, Henry was all at sea!

In the distance, he could hear the dinner bell ringing and roused himself. Feeling the dampness of the pillow and fearing the ravages of pent-up emotion, he considered not going down but thought it best not to upset Mrs Mac, especially after he said he would be dining.

In the event, he wished he had reneged, especially when he discovered he was not the only guest staying at the hotel.

Whilst he’d been reminiscing, another guest, a young lady, had arrived. He’d heard her and Mrs Mac coming up the stairs and then shown to a room on the same floor, perhaps at the other end of the passage.

Henry caught his first glimpse of her when she appeared at the door to the dining room, waiting for Mrs Mac to show her to a table.

She was in her mid-twenties, slim, with long brown hair, and the grace and elegance of a woman associated with countless fashion magazines. She was, he thought, stunningly beautiful with not a hair out of place, and make-up flawlessly applied. Her clothes were black, simple, elegant, and expensive, the sort an heiress or wife of a millionaire might condescend to wear to a lesser occasion than dinner.

Then there was her expression; cold, forbidding, almost frightening in its intensity. And her eyes, piercingly blue and yet laced with pain. Dracula’s daughter was his immediate description of her.

All in all, he considered, the only thing they had in common was, like him, she seemed totally out of place.

Mrs Mac came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. She was, she informed him earlier, chef, waitress, hotelier, barmaid, and cleaner all rolled into one. Coming up to the new arrival, she said, “Ah, Miss Andrews, I’m glad you decided to have dinner. Would you like to sit with Mr Henshaw, or would you like to have a table of your own?”

Henry could feel her icy stare as she sized up his appeal as a dining companion, making the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He purposely didn’t look back. In his estimation, his appeal rating was minus six. Out of a thousand!

“If Mr Henshaw doesn’t mind….” She looked at him, leaving the query in mid-air.

He didn’t mind and said so. Perhaps he’d underestimated his rating.

“Good.” Mrs Mac promptly ushered her over. Henry stood, made sure she was seated properly and sat.

“Thank you. You are most kind.” The way she said it suggested snobbish overtones.

“I try to be when I can.” It was supposed to nullify her sarcastic tone, but it made him sound a little silly, and when she gave him another of her icy glares, he regretted it.

Mrs Mac quickly intervened, asking, “Would you care for the soup?”

They did, and, after writing the order on her pad, she gave them each a look, imperceptibly shook her head, and returned to the kitchen.

Before Michelle spoke to him again, she had another quick look at him, trying to fathom who and what he might be. There was something about him.

His eyes mirrored the same sadness she felt, and, yes, there was something else, that it looked like he had been crying. There was a tinge of redness.

Perhaps, she thought, he was here for the same reason she was.

No. That wasn’t possible.

Then she said, without thinking, “Do you have any particular reason for coming here?” Seconds later, she realised she’d spoken it out loud, hadn’t meant to actually ask, it just came out.

It took him by surprise, obviously not the first question he was expecting her to ask of him.

“No, other than it is as far from civilisation, and home as I could get.”

At least we agree on that, she thought.

It was obvious he was running away from something as well.

Given the isolation of the village and lack of geographic hospitality, it was, from her point of view, ideal. All she had to do was avoid him, and that wouldn’t be difficult.

After getting through this evening first.

“Yes,” she agreed. “It is that.”

A few seconds passed, and she thought she could feel his eyes on her and wasn’t going to look up.

Until he asked, “What’s your reason?”

Slightly abrupt in manner, perhaps, because of her question and how she asked it.

She looked up. “Rest. And have some time to myself.”

She hoped he would notice the emphasis she had placed on the word ‘herself’ and take due note. No doubt, she thought, she had completely different ideas of what constituted a holiday than he, not that she had said she was here for a holiday.

Mrs Mac arrived at a fortuitous moment to save them from further conversation.

Over the entree, she wondered if she had made a mistake coming to the hotel. Of course, there had been no conceivable way she could know that anyone else might have booked the same hotel, but she realised it was foolish to think she might end up in it by herself.

Was that what she was expecting?

Not a mistake then, but an unfortunate set of circumstances, which could be overcome by being sensible.

Yet, there he was, and it made her curious, not that he was a man, by himself, in the middle of nowhere, hiding like she was, but for quite varied reasons.

On discreet observation, whilst they ate, she gained the impression his air of light-heartedness was forced, and he had no sense of humour.

This feeling was engendered by his looks, unruly dark hair, and permanent frown. And then there was his abysmal taste in clothes on a tall, lanky frame. They were quality but totally unsuited to the wearer.

Rebellion was written all over him.

The only other thought crossing her mind, and incongruously, was that he could do with a decent feed. In that respect, she knew now from the mountain of food in front of her, he had come to the right place.

“Mr Henshaw?”

He looked up. “Henshaw is too formal. Henry sounds much better,” he said, with a slight hint of gruffness.

“Then my name is Michelle.”

Mrs Mac came in to take their order for the only main course, gather up the entree dishes, and then return to the kitchen.

“Staying long?” she asked.

“About three weeks. Yourself?”

“About the same.”

The conversation dried up.

Neither looked at the other, but rather at the walls, out the window, towards the kitchen, anywhere. It was, she thought, unbearably awkward.

Mrs Mac returned with a large tray with dishes on it, setting it down on the table next to theirs.

“Not as good as the usual cook,” she said, serving up the dinner expertly, “but it comes a good second, even if I do say so myself. Care for some wine?”

Henry looked at Michelle. “What do you think?”

“I’m used to my dining companions making the decision.”

You would, he thought. He couldn’t help but notice the cutting edge of her tone. Then, to Mrs Mac, he named a particular White Burgundy he liked, and she bustled off.

“I hope you like it,” he said, acknowledging her previous comment with a smile that had nothing to do with humour.

“Yes, so do I.”

Both made a start on the main course, a concoction of chicken and vegetables that were delicious, Henry thought when compared to the bland food he received at home and sometimes aboard my ship.

It was five minutes before Mrs Mac returned with the bottle and two glasses. After opening it and pouring the drinks, she left them alone again.

Henry resumed the conversation. “How did you arrive? I came by train.”

“By car.”

“Did you drive yourself?”

And he thought, a few seconds later, that was a silly question; otherwise, she would not be alone, and certainly not sitting at this table. With him.

“After a fashion.”

He could see that she was formulating a retort in her mind, then changed it, instead, smiling for the first time, and it served to lighten the atmosphere.

And in doing so, it showed him she had another, more pleasant side despite the fact she was trying not to look happy.

“My father reckons I’m just another of ‘those’ women drivers,” she added.

“Whatever for?”

“The first and only time he came with me, I had an accident. I ran up the back of another car. Of course, it didn’t matter to him that the other driver was driving like a startled rabbit.”

“It doesn’t help,” he agreed.

“Do you drive?”

“Mostly people up the wall.” His attempt at humour failed. “Actually,” he added quickly, “I’ve got a very old Morris that manages to get me where I’m going.”

The apple pie and cream for dessert came and went, and the rapport between them improved as the wine disappeared and the coffee came. Both had found, after getting to know each other better, that their first impressions were not necessarily correct.

“Enjoy the food?” Mrs Mac asked, suddenly reappearing.

“Beautifully cooked and delicious to eat,” Michelle said, and Henry endorsed her remarks.

“Ah, it does my heart good to hear such genuine compliments,” she said, smiling. She collected the last of the dishes and disappeared yet again.

“What do you do for a living?” Michelle asked in an offhand manner.

He had a feeling she was not particularly interested, and it was just making conversation.

“I’m a purser.”

“A what?”

“A purser. I work on a ship doing the paperwork, that sort of thing.”

“I see.”

“And you?”

“I was a model.”

“Was?”

“Until I had an accident, a rather bad one.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

So that explained the odd feeling he had about her.

As the evening wore on, he began to think there might be something wrong, seriously wrong with her because she didn’t look too well. Even the carefully applied makeup, from close, didn’t hide the very pale, tired look, or the sunken, dark-ringed eyes.

“I try not to think about it, but it doesn’t necessarily work. I’ve come here for peace and quiet, away from doctors and parents.”

“Then you will not have to worry about me annoying you. I’m one of those fall-asleep-reading-a-book types.”

Perhaps it would be like ships passing in the night, and then he smiled to himself about the analogy.

Dinner over, they separated.

Henry went back to the lounge to read a few pages of his book before going to bed, and Michelle went up to her room to retire for the night.

But try as he might, he was unable to read, his mind dwelling on the unusual, yet compellingly mysterious person he would be sharing the hotel with.

Overlaying that original blurred image of her standing in the doorway was another of her haunting expressions that had, he finally conceded, taken his breath away, and a look that had sent more than one tingle down his spine.

She may not have thought much of him, but she had certainly made an impression on him.

…