Category: Thriller

The story behind the story – Echoes from the Past

The novel ‘Echoes from the past’ started out as a short story I wrote about 30 years ago, titled ‘The birthday’.

My idea was to take a normal person out of their comfort zone and led on a short but very frightening journey to a place where a surprise birthday party had been arranged.

Thus the very large man with a scar and a red tie was created.

So was the friend with the limousine who worked as a pilot.

So were the two women, Wendy and Angelina, who were Flight Attendants that the pilot friend asked to join the conspiracy.

I was going to rework the short story, then about ten pages long, into something a little more.

And like all re-writes, especially those I have anything to do with, it turned into a novel.

There was motivation.  I had told some colleagues at the place where I worked at the time that I liked writing, and they wanted a sample.  I was going to give them the re-worked short story.  Instead, I gave them ‘Echoes from the past’

Originally it was not set anywhere in particular.

But when considering a location, I had, at the time, recently been to New York in December, and visited Brooklyn and Queens, as well as a lot of New York itself.  We were there for New Years, and it was an experience I’ll never forget.

One evening we were out late, and finished up in Brooklyn Heights, near the waterfront, and there was rain and snow, it was cold and wet, and there were apartment buildings shimmering in the street light, and I thought, this is the place where my main character will live.

It had a very spooky atmosphere, the sort where ghosts would not be unexpected.  I felt more than one shiver go up and down my spine in the few minutes I was there.

I had taken notes, as I always do, of everywhere we went so I had a ready supply of locations I could use, changing the names in some cases.

Fifth Avenue near the Rockefeller center is amazing at first light, and late at night with the Seasonal decorations and lights.

The original main character was a shy and man of few friends, hence not expecting the surprise party.  I enhanced that shyness into purposely lonely because of an issue from his past that leaves him always looking over his shoulder and ready to move on at the slightest hint of trouble.  No friends, no relationships, just a very low profile.

Then I thought, what if he breaks the cardinal rule, and begins a relationship?

But it is also as much an exploration of a damaged soul, as it is the search for a normal life, without having any idea what normal was, and how the understanding of one person can sometimes make all the difference in what we may think or feel.

And, of course, I wanted a happy ending.

Except for the bad guys.

 

Get it here:  https://amzn.to/2CYKxu4

newechocover5rs

 

“Betrayal” – the penultimate final draft – Day 33

I’m sure I’ve been down this road more than once, and with the same novel, but whereas the last edit, which was probably the second or third, finished up in the pile, then forgotten.

I’m doing an active update to all my works in progress, and sending them to the editor, after going through the manuscript once again, with a view to publishing.  Hopefully, before the year is out.

…

I have been working on the final chapters, and these are proceeding slowly.

The plot has been veering off course because new possibilities come to mind that will give me an ending that I didn’t think was possible.

But now, with a little tweaking over the previous five chapters, and going back to the start of the third section, a whole new scenario has come to life.

And no one will see it coming.

I certainly didn’t, because, in the original storyline, it was meant to have a happy-ever-after ending, each with a different person.

So, it doesn’t finish in quite the same manner for either of the two main characters.

In the meantime, I have to flesh out the major, major plot development!

The first case of PI Walthenson – “A Case of Working With the Jones Brothers”

This case has everything, red herrings, jealous brothers, femme fatales, and at the heart of it all, greed.

See below for an excerpt from the book…

Coming soon!

PIWalthJones1

An excerpt from the book:

When Harry took the time to consider his position, a rather uncomfortable position at that, he concluded that he was somehow involved in another case that meant very little to him.

Not that it wasn’t important in some way he was yet to determine, it was just that his curiosity had got the better of him, and it had led to this: sitting in a chair, securely bound, waiting for someone one of his captors had called Doug.

It was not the name that worried him so much, it was the evil laugh that had come after the name was spoken.

Doug what? Doug the ‘destroyer’, Doug the ‘dangerous’, Doug the ‘deadly’; there was any number of sinister connotations, and perhaps that was the point of the laugh, to make it more frightening than it was.

But there was no doubt about one thing in his mind right then: he’d made a mistake. A very big. and costly, mistake. Just how big the cost, no doubt he would soon find out.

His mother, and his grandmother, the wisest person he had ever known, had once told him never to eavesdrop.

At the time he couldn’t help himself and instead of minding his own business, listening to a one-sided conversation which ended with a time and a place. The very nature of the person receiving the call was, at the very least, sinister, and, because of the cryptic conversation, there appeared to be, or at least to Harry, criminal activity involved.

For several days he had wrestled with the thought of whether he should go. Stay on the fringe, keep out of sight, observe and report to the police if it was a crime. Instead, he had willingly gone down the rabbit hole.

Now, sitting in an uncomfortable chair, several heat lamps hanging over his head, he was perspiring, and if perspiration could be used as a measure of fear, then Harry’s fear was at the highest level.

Another runnel of sweat rolled into his left eye, and, having his hands tied, literally, it made it impossible to clear it. The burning sensation momentarily took his mind off his predicament. He cursed and then shook his head trying to prevent a re-occurrence. It was to no avail.

Let the stinging sensation be a reminder of what was right and what was wrong.

It was obvious that it was the right place and the right time, but in considering his current perilous situation, it definitely was the wrong place to be, at the worst possible time.

It was meant to be his escape, an escape from the generations of lawyers, what were to Harry, dry, dusty men who had been in business since George Washington said to the first Walthenson to step foot on American soil, ‘Why don’t you become a lawyer?” when asked what he could do for the great man.

Or so it was handed down as lore, though Harry didn’t think Washington meant it literally, the Walthenson’s, then as now, were not shy of taking advice.

Except, of course, when it came to Harry.

He was, Harry’s father was prone to saying, the exception to every rule. Harry guessed his father was referring to the fact his son wanted to be a Private Detective rather than a dry, dusty lawyer. Just the clothes were enough to turn Harry off the profession.

So, with a little of the money Harry inherited from one of his aunts, he leased an office in Gramercy Park and had it renovated to look like the Sam Spade detective agency, you know the one, Spade and Archer, and The Maltese Falcon.

There’s a movie and a book by Dashiell Hammett if you’re interested.

So, there it was, painted on the opaque glass inset of the front door, ‘Harold Walthenson, Private Detective’.

There was enough money to hire an assistant, and it took a week before the right person came along, or, more to the point, didn’t just see his business plan as something sinister. Ellen, a tall cool woman in a long black dress, or so the words of a song in his head told him, fitted in perfectly.

She’d seen the movie, but she said with a grin, Harry was no Humphrey Bogart.

Of course not, he said, he didn’t smoke.

Three months on the job, and it had been a few calls, no ‘real’ cases, nothing but missing animals, and other miscellaneous items. What he really wanted was a missing person. Or perhaps a beguiling, sophisticated woman who was as deadly as she was charming, looking for an errant husband, perhaps one that she had already ‘dispatched’.

Or for a tall, dark and handsome foreigner who spoke in riddles and in heavily accented English, a spy, or perhaps an assassin, in town to take out the mayor. The man was such an imbecile Harry had considered doing it himself.

Now, in a back room of a disused warehouse, that wishful thinking might be just about to come to a very abrupt end, with none of the romanticized trappings of the business befalling him. No beguiling women, no sinister criminals, no stupid policemen.

Just a nasty little man whose only concern was how quickly or how slowly Harry’s end was going to be.

© Charles Heath 2019

A photograph from the inspirational bin – 25

This is an old chateau at the foot of a skiing area on the north island of New Zealand. It was once predominately advertised as a guest house for hikers in the summer months.

chateautongoriro

However, with fertile imaginations, we can come up with a whole different scenario.

Like, for instance, a haunted house, owned by an old and some might say creepy family, a place where few are invited, and those that are, approach the front door with trepidation.

It could be the family estate, the sort of place grandparents live, and their children consider themselves lucky to have escaped and their children, in turn, hate going there.

Of course, the opposite to that is that everyone loves going there for the holidays when the whole family gets together.

Then, a murder occurs…

It might also be a hotel in an unusual backdrop, where fugitives come to hide, or just one person from the city, trying to get away from a bad partner, or someone working there seeking a fresh start.

The truth is, there are any number of possibilities.

Short Story Writing – Don’t try this at home! – Part 4

This is not a treatise, but a tongue in cheek, discussion on how to write short stories.   Suffice to say this is not the definitive way of doing it, just mine.  It works for me – it might not work for you.

…

You’ve got the place, now you want the who.

My main characters are quite often me.

Not the real me, because I’m boring.  No, those characters are what I would like to be, that imaginary superhuman that can do everything.

Until, of course, reality sets in, and the bullets start flying.  When that happens, we should be looking to run or at the very least get under cover, not walk into a hail of bullets, with a huge grin, staring down the enemy.

Hang on, that never happens except in superman comics.

What’s really needed here is a little vulnerability, a little humility and a lot of understanding, qualities at times I don’t have.

So, in order to create a more believable character, I start dragging traits from others I’ve met, or know, or really don’t want to know.  

In a writer’s environment, there are a plethora of people out there that you can draw on for inspiration.  I once spent and afternoon at a railway station just observing people.  Even now, I make observations, some of which are true, and others, wildly off course. 

I once tried to convince my other half that I could pick people’s traits, and we sat at a café outside a church in Venice.  I was lucky, I got more than 75% correct.

Other characters in my stories I have met along the way.

Like a piano player in a restaurant.  It was not so much the playing was bad, it was the way he managed to draw people into his orbit and keep them there.  The man has charisma, but sadly no talent for the instrument.

Like an aunt I met only twice in a lifetime, and who left a lasting impression.  Severe, angry looking, speaking a language I didn’t understand, even though it was English.  It was where I learned we came from England, and she was the closest thing I came to as an example of nineteenth-century prim and proper.  And, no, she didn’t have a sense of humour or time for silly little boys.

Like one of my bosses, a man of indeterminate age, but it had to be over 100, or so it seemed to my sixteen-year-old brain, who spoke and dressed impeccably, and yes, he did once say that I would be the death of him.

I can only hope I wasn’t.

Like a Captain of a ship I once met, a man who didn’t seem to have time for the minions, and a man who reeked authority and respect.  I’ve always wanted to be like him, but unfortunately, it was not in the genes.

Those are only a few, there are thousands of others over the years, a built-in library, if you will, of characters waiting to be taken off the shelf and used where necessary or appropriate.  We all have one of these banks.

You just have to know when to use them.

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to go on a treasure hunt – Episode 19

Here’s the thing…

Every time I close my eyes, I see something different.

I’d like to think the cinema of my dreams is playing a double feature but it’s a bit like a comedy cartoon night on Fox.

But these dreams are nothing to laugh about.

Once again there’s a new instalment of an old feature, and we’re back on the treasure hunt.

And the perils of writing on the fly often leads to back revisions to aid moving forward, and this is one of those occasions.  A few revisions were required.

 

Short of jumping over the side, there was no way we were getting away.  And judging from the expression on Rico’s face, now very plain to see halfway along the pier, he was not happy to see us.

Boggs stepped off the deck and joined me on the pier, just as Rico made it to where we were standing, just as it started in a gentle up and down motion with the water, churned up by a passing speed boat, but it was fear rather than the pier’s motions making me feel sick.

The sound of another boat caused me to glance in the opposite direction, out towards the sandbar, where I could see another large boat coming in our direction very quickly, and by the shape of it, quite possibly a police launch or the coast guard. 

Rico had seen it too.  “What have you done?”

“I called the police,” I said, trying to act braver than I felt.  Even with the police on their way, Rico could still do something we’d all regret.

“Why?”

Movement by the fishing store caught my eye, and I saw it was two of the men who’d left the boat with Rico earlier, retreating.  They’d seen the situation and were retreating.  A police car with its siren blaring and lights flashing just stopped at the entrance to the pier and two officers were getting out, guns in hand.

Those men would getaway.  Rico had seen them too and looked relieved.  Odd for a man about to find himself in a lot of trouble.

Boggs blurted out, “There’s a dead body in the cabin.”

Rico shook his head.  “That’s not possible.  I’ve been gone for an hour and it isn’t possible he put himself there.”

He looked around to see the officers coming from the land side of the pier.  There was no escape for him, or for us, but this could still end up a sticky situation for us if Rico decided to shoot his way out.  Boggs said he owned a gun, and if it was not on him, it might be in the boat.

Rico climbed on board and then moved to the hatch.  He lifted the hatch cover and folded it back to show an opening into the cabin.  It hadn’t been locked; it just looked like it was.  Just as the officers made it to the boat, he stepped in, then down into the cabin.

A minute later, when he came up  Rico looked visibly shaken like he’d seen a ghost.

The police launch had arrived just off the stern, kicking up the water and causing the boat and pier to rock violently, two men at either end ready to secure their boat to ours.  The land-based officers also arrived, somewhat out of breath, to join Boggs and I on the pier.

I recognised the officer who appeared to be in charge, a man called Johnson, the police chief’s deputy.  He was known to shoot first and ask questions later.  What worried me the most, he had his gun drawn and ready to shoot.

He looked at me, Rico, Boggs, then back to me.  “What’s this all about?”

“There’s a body in the cabin,” Boggs said before I could say a word, still sounding very frightened, but whether it was the body in the cabin, Rico’s fury at his meddling or the fact the police were involved was hard to say.

He switched his glare to Rico.  “That true?”

Rico nodded.  “I don’t know where it came from, but it wasn’t there an hour ago.”  A last look back at the cabin, he stepped off the boat onto the pier.

The seaman aboard the police launch slipped a rope over the bollard at the rear of our boat and then jumped on board to secure it.  Another seaman did the same at the bow.  Two more jumped on board, one covering Rico and the other going into the cabin.

When he came back up on deck he was talking into his cell phone.

I think Rico had a lot of explaining to do.

 

© Charles Heath 2019

“Betrayal” – the penultimate final draft – Day 32

I’m sure I’ve been down this road more than once, and with the same novel, but whereas the last edit, which was probably the second or third, finished up in the pile, then forgotten.

I’m doing an active update to all my works in progress, and sending them to the editor, after going through the manuscript once again, with a view to publishing.  Hopefully, before the year is out.

…

Without the pressure of a time limit and no distractions, I was able to sit down and go over the plan for the last few chapters.

I had gotten to a point in the story where I was satisfied with what I’d written, but it did have ramifications later on, ramifications that were not in the original plan.

That later on, of course, is now, so once I’d looked at the plan, and read the previous two chapters to get my bearings, it was easier to write.

But…

Isn’t there always a but?

As I was writing, another thought came to mind. Some time ago I realised there needed to be another action sequence arising out of an event that had sparked an impromptu and ill-fated attempted kidnapping.

That had to be avenged, but in the rough draft I had already written, it didn’t figure in the ending.

Now it does, and I have written it, and it’s great.

Even if I say so myself.

Tomorrow I will be covering the fallout from this event.

The cinema of my dreams – It continued in London – Episode 42

Meeting the Rodby’s

…

I picked a safe place to meet Rodby.

I called him directly, which is what none of his agents did, ever.  That was because no one knew his private number.  No one except perhaps Mrs Rodby and, now, myself.

It didn’t elicit kind words.

When he answered with a tentative yes, I started with, “One day you are going to tell me just a little more than you think I need to know.”

“Evan?”

“Who else would have the audacity to talk to you in such a manner?”

“Someone with either suicidal tendencies or one with a death wish.  I don’t see you as having the former, so I’ll run with the second.  You are aware I could have you arrested and worse?”

The thought had occurred to me.  There were certain people in the organisation that were untouchable, and he was one of them.

“You can do that if you like, but there will be consequences.  It might be an idea to wait until after we’ve me.”

“Come into the office.  I’ll be here all morning.”

“Not this morning.  Somewhere else, today.  Trafalgar Square, fifteen minutes.  I won’t bother asking you to come alone but be aware I’m not pleased with you.”

I hung up before he could ask why.

I did several circuits of the perimeter, then observed the tourists from the stairs of the gallery behind, then waited until I saw Rodby, with Mrs Rodby as I hoped, coming towards the square from Haymarket.

The fact it concerned the countess almost ensured that Mrs Rodby would be along to find out what happened to her friend.  But, to me, she could do that just as easily by being on the end of the telephone.  Rodby himself had laid down the law about bringing civilians into organisational matters, and Mrs Rodby was a civilian.

There was not one law for the boss and one law for everyone else.  Rodby was not like that, so there had to be a compelling reason why she was being included.

I watched them walking slowly and thought what an unconventional sight they made.  All the time I knew Rodby, he never walked anywhere. And he definitely would never be seen with Martha.  His enemies if they were out and about would have leverage being dangled in front of them, which is why we seemed to live such monastic lives or quit so we could have a normal one.

Once again, I thought this very unconventional.

Though at this very minute, I could snatch her off the street.

It was incentive enough to maintain vigilance and note where every unsavoury character was.  And there were a lot of them judging by appearances.

As I followed from behind, I sent a text message to Cecelia to tell the countess she would be able to talk to Mrs Rodby in about fifteen minutes.  I had managed to clone Mrs Rodby’s phone and get the number.

I timed my arrival to close to them as they crossed the road in front of the gallery coming up behind them, and as they stepped onto the footpath on the other side I said, “Nice to see you both out and about together.  Is this a prelude to retirement?”

Both stopped and turned around.

OK, there was a mental note about to be stored.  Mrs Rodby was the same height and wearing heels.  What relevance was that she didn’t wear heels for one very specific reason, it made her taller than her husband and that was one part of his ego you didn’t mess with.

Mrs Rodby had got shorter.  Of course, I hadn’t seen her for a while and there didn’t seem to be a height difference the night of the opera, so perhaps it was just my view from where I was standing.

“Are you trying to give us heart attacks, Evan?”  Martha spoke, while Rodby was looking around.  Fifteen minutes was too short a time to get a team of agents on the ground, but there would be one.  He would have people observing via the CCTV camera.

“It was not my intention.”

Standing on the path was blocking the foot traffic and we moved towards one of the fountains.  I kept an eye on the direction from where they came, but they were not being followed.  We were not far from the fountain when we stopped.

Rodby looked annoyed.  “Enough with the theatrics.  Where is the countess?  From what Alf told me, she should be with you, the reason why you summoned us here.”

“Toy told me to find her, not bring her to you.”

“You’re not one to interpret orders, Evan, although I should have factored in your unorthodox method of doing the job.”

“I was thinking that was why you asked me, and not one of the other dozen or so people you could have.”

That was another thought that just popped into my head.  Why me?  I was not his first choice for this type of mission, and I had long discounted the original contrived reason for meeting the countess, that Martha might be matchmaking, a suggestion dropped by the countess herself.

I knew Mrs Rodby, and she was not a matchmaker or the sort who would interfere in anyone’s life.  Granted she knew about Violetta, but that was only after she was diagnosed, and Rodby let us into a small part of his life, and that was only because I had retired and there was no conflict of interest.  Which flicked my attention back to Martha.

She had aged a lot since I saw her last when it seemed she could not be perturbed by anything.  Violetta, in fact, had said she was as close to an angel as she would ever get to see.

Now that angel was not looking happy.  “You met and talked to her?”  Mrs Rodby asked.

“Yes, and she insists that she left the hotel as a precautionary measure, unsure of Alesandro’s intentions.  She seemed to believe he was being manipulated by his mother, who I think might be a problem.  I spoke to Alessandro, and he assured me he had nothing to do with her departure.”

Rodby had maintained continuous surveillance of the square and then brought his eyes back to me.  It wasn’t exactly a look of daggers, but close.  “Do you think she might harm the countess?”

“I have no idea where she fits into the equation though on the surface it seems she wants to be in control of the family business, if indeed she hasn’t been all along.”

“It could just be a family feud, fuelled by the fact that it’s possible the running of the business might fall to the countess, who is for all intents and purposes, an outsider.  Everything was fine while he was alive, it’s only since he died, that she has been having difficulties.”

Could that be a subtle hint that she might have killed the count herself to get control of everything?  Would the countess do that?  Not the woman that I met at the opera, and then later on, whether she was brandishing a gun at me or not.

“So, it’s possible the family might be trying to stop her from inheriting.  That’s a bit hard under Italian law isn’t it?”

“Not if she’s dead.”

“And if there’s a daughter?”

“Same problem arises, needing a similar solution.”

With mafia connections that wouldn’t be too much of a difficulty to arrange.  Not surprising then that Mrs Rodby was worried about her friend.

“Then given Anthony told us that we were, yes, to find her, but also to make the problems go away, though not exactly in those words, what exactly was I supposed to do.  I didn’t interpret that as going in and taking out the family.  He didn’t mention any extraction team, nor did he say I had to tell you where she was, only to provide an update.  I am, here.”

“What about that daughter you mentioned, Juliet Ambrose.  Don’t you find it coincidental she pops up as a key player, the daughter of a maid, Vittoria Romano, who by all accounts is trying to eliminate the countess?”

“It’s a small world.  What can I say?  It was a surprise to learn of her involvement, and no doubt Alfie told you I met up with her and also told that I saved her from being killed?”

“By whom?”

“It could be anybody.  She had dealt with one too many bad people of the years, but it’s possible it might be the Burkehardt’s.  The count did tell the countess that she existed, as he did to Alessandro, but he would not have disclosed her actual identity.”

“Then the countess doesn’t know who she is?” Martha seemed surprised.

“She does now.  that’s where I found the countess, in Juliet’s flat.”

“And they’re together still?”

“Last I heard.”

“Would that be a very bad idea, especially if the mother found them?  You can be sure this Juliet and her mother are not plotting…”

“…to kill the countess and step in as another legitimate heir?  I don’t think so.”

I found it surprising that Martha was so well-read into the case, perhaps better than I was.

“Have you met her mother?”

“Cecelia has.  And that’s another question.  Why did you reassign me to her, that’s not usual practice.”

“She’s used to your maverick ways, and last assignment you two worked well together.”

“It might also mean she’s become a maverick too?”

“I told her to learn only the good aspects of being an agent from you, though I’m beginning to question that decision.  Where is she?”

“In Italy watch over the countess, and keep an eye on the mother.”

Mrs Rodby had been watching us.  “Are you two like this all the time?  How did anything get done?”

“Slowly,” I said.  “It’s a bit hard to do anything when you don’t get the whole story.  But, for now, the countess is safe.  Cecelia is investigating Vittoria and I know where Juliet is, and what her involvement is.  None.  For now.  But that might change when her mother appears.”

A few seconds of silence, and then Mrs Rodby’s phone rang.

She pulled the phone out of her bag, looked at the screen, and then answered it with a tentative ‘Yes?”

She then turned to Rodby, “It’s the countess.”  She put it on speakerphone, and I moved away so I couldn’t hear her, but within reach of them if anything happened.

Nothing did.

Five minutes later, Rodby stepped away and came over to me.  “Get over to Italy and find the lawyer handling her side of the inheritance.  You need to get her to him before they meet with the family lawyers.  Whatever you do, ensure you keep her safe.”

“What about the matriarch?”

“Ignore her.  Your priority is the countess.”

I watched them walk away thinking I’d got out of that way too easily.  And wondering if I should have remained within earshot of the conversation.  Something about this whole affair suddenly wasn’t adding up.

© Charles Heath 2023

“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.

https://amzn.to/2CYKxu4

newechocover5rs

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

whatsetscover

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s the current situation?”

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

He looked in my direction.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I was hoping for the latter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was nerves more than the cold.

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

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

It added to the tension.

My plan was still to enter by the back door.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The fear factor increased exponentially.

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

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

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

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

We needed a distraction.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

© Charles Heath 2016-2020