Category: Thriller

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

“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!

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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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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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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

A long short story that can’t be tamed – I never wanted to be an eyewitness – 2

Two

Amy took out her cell phone and looked at the screen with a knowing expression.  “As I thought, they’ve made it impossible to call out, except on a landline.  A lucky guess on their part that we might hold off until out of the room to call for help.”

“Wouldn’t that also stop the use of the internal communicators?”  Like the unit, she used to talk to other members of the team.

“Most likely.”  She tried a grain to raise the others and received only static in return.

I didn’t think that meant there wasn’t anyone, but only a possibility they might have been taken out.  But not being able to raise them worked in their favor.

Still, I tried to sound optimistic.  “Then there might be help downstairs.”

But the thought of that possibility didn’t seem to brighten her mood.

I checked the clip in my gun.  Eight rounds.  The other, six.

Amy checked hers.  Five and seven.

“What now?” I asked.

“Carefully go down the fire escape.”

“Where do you think they’ll be?”

“First floor.  No one else will be there.  There are no conferences scheduled for obvious reasons.”

That there was a fugitive languishing within I guessed, and the hotel was minimizing the possibility of incidental casualties.  That in itself was a dead giveaway that I was being kept there.  Latanzio hardly needed a traitor to tell him where I was being kept.

Suddenly I had a very bad feeling.

I followed her through the fire escape exit and stopped at the top of the stairs to listen.

For what I was not sure, but no other sounds were coming from below or above us.  Something I did know and had not told anyone in a moment when I had managed to shake off my guards, was that there was a heliport on the roof.

It was why, just before I followed her down, I looked up, and shivered.  Trouble, if it was coming, would come from above, not below.

“Let’s go,” she said quietly.

I hesitated, and she picked up on it.

“What?”

It was hardly a conciliatory tone on her part.

“I think we’re underestimating the severity of the problem.”

She stopped halfway down the first flight of steps and looked back at me.  It was not the first time I had the feeling that she might shoot me herself, even when there was no reason to think that of her.

“How so?”

“The heliport on the roof.  Shouldn’t that be factored into escape calculations?”

“It was until we learned that it was declared unsafe a few months ago.”

“Convenient, don’t you think?”  I didn’t wait for an answer, I started heading towards the roof.

“Where are you going?”

“Up.  Something I learned a long time ago, is always do the unexpected.”

I didn’t wait to see what Amy was doing.  I had a hunch that any attack that might be coming would be from the roof.  I seriously doubted the helipad was anything but serviceable.

Amy caught up with me three floors from the roof.

“What makes you think the help is not broken.”

“Too much of a coincidence.”

We were at the door.  I could hear a noise that sounded like a helicopter coming in for a landing.  I opened the door and as I had hoped, the helped was about ten feet above the roof level.

I pushed the door open.  “Go around the back way.  If the chopper lands take out the landing party or cover the pilot and make sure he doesn’t take off.”

A nod, she brushed past me and headed for the other side.  In front of me to the right were the steps leading up to the pad.  I walked up the first few and saw a helicopter just coming in from the other side, about to land.

I ducked down and waited.

The noise grew louder, much louder as it hovered, and then set down.  I raised my head.  The door opened and three men jumped down, each with what looked like AK57s.  There was no mistaking their intent.

I jumped down off the stairs and his behind the staircase and waited.

Seconds later the three ran down the stairs heading towards the exit do it.  Six shots, three fewer thugs, they had no idea what hit them.

Another shot rang out, about the sound of the whirring of the helicopter’s rotor.  I saved up the stairs and saw the man who must have been the pilot, face down in front of the helicopter, now winding down.

Amy came running over.

“What happened?” I asked.

She stopped and was standing over the body.  “He heard the shots and was coming to you.”

I could see where he had been shot in the back.  It seemed more like he’d see her approaching with a gun and was running away from her, rather than running towards me.  He didn’t have a weapon, in his hand, or on the ground in front of him on the ground.

“Who’s going to pilot the helicopter now.  That was our ticket out.”

She looked resolute, not the expression I was expecting.

“He was coming for you,” she said.  “I wasn’t aiming to kill him.”

And yet she did, and given how good a shot she was, accidentally killing him was not an option.  I was starting to get another bad feeling.

I went over to the helicopter.  I’d flown one or two in my time, something a friend of mine had suggested I try since I had a pilot’s license in another life.  It wasn’t the most modern, so it wouldn’t be that difficult to fly.

“Come on.  We’re leaving.”

…

© Charles Heath 2024

The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job? – Episode 8

I’m back home and this story has been sitting on a back burner for a few months, waiting for some more to be written.

The trouble is, there are also other stories to write, and I’m not very good at prioritising.

But, here we are, a few minutes opened up and it didn’t take long to get back into the groove.

An interrogation and a revelation.

 

Debriefings were like interrogations, only friendlier.  We were trained to withstand interrogation, so it would be interesting to see how I reacted.   I had no doubt what some of the questions would be.

While I had a few minutes to myself, sitting down behind a bare metal table on a hard plastic and uncomfortable chair, with a warm cup of station house coffee, to consider the briefing.

Target, male, 6 foot 3 inches, 200 pounds, Caucasian, thought to be from either Russia or Bulgaria, but nothing to define his as such.  I had wondered, at the time, what that meant.  When I saw him in the alley I knew, then, what was meant, he looked the same as you or me.

No explanation for why he was under surveillance, but we did get a warning that he might be dangerous if he suspected he was being observed.  Right about that, given team casualties.

Main objective, who he met, talked to, and where he went, every place, every detail to be noted.  The unpredictable explosion threw the whole operation into chaos.

The door opened and a woman, middle-aged, conservatively dressed, walked in, closing it behind her.  She sat in the other chair opposite me.  She brought a file, thin, and put it in front of her on the table.

“Your name is Sam Jackson?”

“Yes.”

No introductions, nothing, just a start on the questions.  No nonsense, but I could see she was very, very angry.  With me, or those who had run a failed operation?

“How long have you been with us?”

“Eight months.”

She opened the file and glanced at the piece of paper on top.  A minute passed before she closed the file again.  “Closer to nine,” she said.

I said nothing.  I wasn’t counting the days.

“How many operations have you been on?”

“Six, including this one.”

“Who assigned you to this specific operation?”

“Couldn’t say.  I got the usual request via text message to attend a briefing at the midtown office.”

“What was the designated operation name?”

“Chancellery.”

For a brief second, there was a quizzical expression on her face, then it was gone.

“Who was running this operation?”

“Director Severin.”

A full three minutes of silence passed.  I thought she was looking at me, the sort of stare that would break a lesser man, but in the end, I think she was looking right through me.  I could not read her thoughts, but if I was to guess, they would be rather dark right now.

Then she spoke.

“You should know that there was no Chancellery on the books, and we certainly do not have a Director named Severin.”

 

© Charles Heath 2019

Using Hollywood as a source of inspiration

I’m not one for writing Western, I’ll leave the honours for that to Louis L’Amour, whose acquaintance I made when I saw How the West Was Won on the big screen and then read the book.

That led to reading a few more by Zane Grey, but the stories’ reading, not the visual splendour of the West depicted in these films, made the actors almost secondary.

But my interest in watching Westerns had been fuelled by the fact my parents watched them on TV, though back in those days, they were in black and white, and starred John Wayne, Gary Cooper, Alan Ladd and, later on, Clint Eastwood among a great many others.

But the mainstay of my interest in the archetypal Western centred on John Wayne whose movies may have almost the same plot line, just a substitution of actors and locations.

Often, it was not so much that John Wayne was in it as the actors he surrounded himself with, like Dean Martin, Ricky Nelson, Walter Brennan, and Robert Mitcham, who made the experience all the better.

Films like The Sons of Katie Elder, True Grit, Rio Bravo, and El Dorado.

Who can forget the vast open spaces, the dry dusty streets lined with wooden buildings and the endless walkways that substituted for footpaths?  Bars in hotels, rooms overlooking the street, havens for sharpshooters, when bad guys outnumber the good guys, and typically the Sherrif who always faced insurmountable odds.

Or the attacks staged by Indians who were routinely killed, in fact, there was not one film I saw where they ended up winning any battle. Only in recent years did they get a more sympathetic role, one film that comes to mind is Soldier Blue, which may have painted them as savages, but a possible reason why they ended up so.

But for those without Indians, there were plenty of others whose intentions were anything but for the good of the settlers.

A lot of films ended in a classic gunfight.  High Noon, 3:10 to Yuma are two, where the story led to gun fights between good and bad in unlikely places like El Dorado or Rio Bravo.

There are countless others I could name, like Shane, or became to be called, the spaghetti Westerns with Clint Eastwood, or finally, The Magnificent Seven, or Once Upon a Time in the West.

All have contributed to a picture in my mind of how the American West was, fearsome men, beleaguered sheriffs, people with good intentions, and those driven by greed and power. All of this plays out in the harshest of conditions where life and death could be determined by a wrong word or a stray bullet.

And let’s not forget the role of the guns, Colt, Winchester, and Remington.  And Smith and Wesson, and the gunslingers of the day. Some were good, but most according to the film world were bad.

So, against the lifelong interest of watching and reading about the archetypal view of the old West, shall I attempt to put pen to paper. Thank God it will be a work of fiction because I don’t think there are many who knew what it was really like.

Harry Walthenson, Private Detective – the second case – A case of finding the “Flying Dutchman”

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What starts as a search for a missing husband soon develops into an unbelievable story of treachery, lies, and incredible riches.

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It was meant to remain buried long enough for the dust to settle on what was once an unpalatable truth, when enough time had passed, and those who had been willing to wait could reap the rewards.

The problem was, no one knew where that treasure was hidden or the location of the logbook that held the secret.

At stake, billions of dollars’ worth of stolen Nazi loot brought to the United States in an anonymous tramp steamer and hidden in a specially constructed vault under a specifically owned plot of land on the once docklands of New York.

It may have remained hidden and unknown to only a few, if it had not been for a mere obscure detail being overheard …

… by our intrepid, newly minted private detective, Harry Walthenson …

… and it would have remained buried.

Now, through a series of unrelated events, or are they, that well-kept secret is out there, and Harry will not stop until the whole truth is uncovered.

Even if it almost costs him his life.  Again.

‘The Devil You Don’t’ – A beta reader’s view

It could be said that of all the women one could meet, whether contrived or by sheer luck, what are the odds it would turn out to be the woman who was being paid a very large sum to kill you.

John Pennington is a man who may be lucky in business, but not so lucky in love. He has just broken up with Phillipa Sternhaven, the woman he thought was the one, but relatives and circumstances, and perhaps because she was a ‘princess’, may also have contributed to the end result.

So, what do you do when you are heartbroken?

That is a story that slowly unfolds, from the first meeting with his nemesis on Lake Geneva, all the way to a hotel room in Sorrento, where he learns the shattering truth.

What should have been solace after disappointment, turns out to be something else entirely, and from that point, everything goes to hell in a handbasket.

He suddenly realizes his so-called friend Sebastian has not exactly told him the truth about a small job he asked him to do, the woman he is falling in love with is not quite who she says she is, and he is caught in the middle of a war between two men who consider people becoming collateral damage as part of their business.

The story paints the characters cleverly displaying all their flaws and weaknesses. The locations add to the story at times taking me back down memory lane, especially to Venice where, in those back streets I confess it’s not all that hard to get lost.

All in all a thoroughly entertaining story with, for once, a satisfying end.

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Available on Amazon here: https://amzn.to/2Xyh1ow

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A long short story that can’t be tamed – I never wanted to be an eyewitness – 1

One

I often wondered what it meant to go ‘stir crazy,’.

I think it had something to do with being in prison, locked away in solitary confinement, and, if it was, then I knew exactly what it was like.

I’d been locked away in this room for nearly two months, waiting to testify against a criminal who had, up until now, managed to ‘remove’ any obstacle in his path to remaining free to continue his illegal activities.

Not that I had any intention of ending up in the world’s tightest, secure facility.  It happened because Joe Latanzio, one of the most dangerous crime bosses, decided to kill someone in front of me.  Well, not exactly in front of me, but I did witness it, and I could very clearly identify him without ambiguity.  It had him arrested and sent to jail.

He knew there was a witness, but although he had a name, it was not mine, and it was untraceable.  That and the obscured photos in the papers also made it impossible for his cronies to find me.

All we had to worry about was whether one of the guards or the security detail would sell out to his family, who were offering a reward of up to a million dollars to spill the true identity of the witness.

Me.

And, so far no one had, or at least that was what they were telling me.  There was no way of knowing because my current residence was impenetrable.  If it had, we’d only find out the day I had to go into court and testify.

That day was tomorrow.

It was like I was the criminal, waiting on death row, having to have that final meal before execution.

And living with the expectation that I was going to die.

Unfortunately, there were no guarantees, and the head of my security detail, Amy Childern, competent and successful at her job as her resume testified, couldn’t rule out the possibility that there might be trouble.  All she would give me was her assurance she would do everything within her power to keep me alive.

But in having so much time to think about the ramifications of what testifying might be, I realized the court case wasn’t the full extent of the problem, but once the trial was over I knew it would be the beginning of a life of looking over my shoulder.

Yes, there was the option of disappearing into the witsec ether, but that was never going to be the answer.  There would always be the temptation on the table from the defendant’s family who would never give up looking for me, regardless of the outcome of the trial.

Put quite simply and based on what I had overheard from other members of my security detail, life as I’d known it, was over.

Not that my life amounted to very much before this happened.  I had no family, being orphaned very early in life, and bounced around the foster care system, so that there were no people I’d call parents.  And after a stint in the Army, I found myself at a loose end, unable to hold down a job, and just drifted, until I finished up in the wrong place at the wrong time

You know the sort. John Doe of no fixed address. That was me.  Except I had a name, or two, the current being Al Jones, and a photo that was deliberately diffused so that anyone looking at it would not recognize me in real life.

I also now had a social security number but that was only to make me appear a credible witness.  There was nothing to find other than a number and a name.

As Amy said, I’d come from nowhere and would be going back there once this notorious criminal was locked up. It was meant to be reassuring but it wasn’t.

But despite any misgivings I might have right now, I’d made a commitment and would honour it.

Nobody expected they would make an attempt on my life in the hotel.

As far as they were aware no one knew I was there, but to an astute observer who knew something of the motivation behind keeping witnesses safe, there would be no mistaking the number of out-of-place personnel in the hotel, starting at the lobby.

And for those working for Latanzio, they’d had close to two months to check out every hotel in the city and there would be people working for him who knew the witness protection procedures.  After all, there had been four before me, found and murdered before they got to court.

Those were odds that would tell anyone that this was a lost cause.

My detail for this morning consisted of four, headed up by Amy who said she would stay with me.  Outside Larry was number 2 and would be with me too.  Jeff and Wes made up the rest of the team and were stationed below in the garage waiting with a bulletproof car.

I made a joke previously as to whether it would withstand a handheld rocket, and Amy chose to ignore it.  Perhaps she had not seen what one could do or believe that criminals could get their hands on one.

After breakfast where again the condemned man had a hearty meal, it was a half-hour wait before we moved.  It was tense inside the room.  And outside where Larry was stationed.

At the appropriate time, he was to knock, Amy would answer, and it would be the all-clear.

I was down to counting seconds.

When the time came and Larry knocked on the door we both jumped.  A look passed between us.  The time had come.  We were not expecting trouble.

Amy opened the door, not completely, but just ajar.

It was what saved her life.

A second later Larry came through the door to the accompaniment of several silenced rounds.

Two events happened in quick succession.

As Larry came through the door and fell forwards propelled by the shots, he managed to free his gun and throw it in my direction.

A man followed him, firing more rounds randomly, none hitting a target, while Amy, taking a few extra milliseconds to realise what was happening, drew her gun and started firing at the figure who just passed the edge of the door.

He was not going to be the only one.

As more bullets were fired into the room, a second gunman from outside the room must have seen his partner go down and pressed forward.  He saw me the same time I had the gun thrown to me aimed at him and I squeezed off three rounds and put him down.  I mentally thanked the Army for teaching me to shoot.  If only I had a military issue M16.

Silence fell over the scene.

Amy was trying to raise the other two in the team but they were not responding.  Nor was the lookout in the foyer.  The was a slight hint of panic in her tone, especially when she realized there was no time to raise the alarm by phone.  It was now a matter of how many gunmen Latanzio had hired.

I picked up the two guns from the now-dead gunmen and threw one to her.  “How many men did he sent the last time,” I asked her.

She looked startled for a moment, then slipped back into battle mode.  “Six.”

“Then let’s hope he hasn’t rewritten the playbook.”

We didn’t have time to check and see if Larry was OK, but the glance I got showed no sign of life.  I don’t think, when he left for work this morning, he thought it might be his last day on this mortal earth.

I reached the door and closed it.  A second later several bullets slammed into it.  It was solid enough to withstand them.  Once shut, the door was locked and unless they had a key, they could not get in.

Amy nodded towards the connecting door to the room next door.  For the last week, she had been staying in it.  Now, it was one possible escape route.

The door handle rattled, and I heard a voice outside say, “it’s locked.”  They didn’t have a key.  For the moment.  Perhaps they should have frisked Larry first before killing him.

She walked backward slowly, gun raised and pointed at the door as I backed up in the same direction.  I went first, she followed, and then shut the door behind us.  Locked from her side, they would not get in, key or no key.

10 maybe 15 seconds later we heard the door next door open and then self-shut with a muffled bang.  Next, there was a voice, “Where the hell are they?”

There would be two or more on lower floors cutting off our escape out of the building.  There was two next door.  We were out the door of the room next door, and ready to catch them when they realized we had escaped, and they had to exit the room.

When they did, an agonizing minute later, they were dead before they took two steps into the corridor.

Whoever planned this execution, didn’t plan it very well.  Or maybe he didn’t know that I would be comfortable around guns.  If I hadn’t, we’d both be dead by now.

Time to take a deep breath.  This was not over.

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© Charles Heath 2024