50 photographs, 50 stories, of which there is one of the 50 below.
They all start with –
A picture paints … well, as many words as you like. For instance:
And the story:
…
It was once said that a desperate man has everything to lose.
The man I was chasing was desperate, but I, on the other hand, was more desperate to catch him.
He’d left a trail of dead people from one end of the island to the other.
The team had put in a lot of effort to locate him, and now his capture was imminent. We were following the car he was in, from a discreet distance, and, at the appropriate time, we would catch up, pull him over, and make the arrest.
There was nowhere for him to go.
The road led to a dead-end, and the only way off the mountain was back down the road we were now on. Which was why I was somewhat surprised when we discovered where he was.
Where was he going?
“Damn,” I heard Alan mutter. He was driving, being careful not to get too close, but not far enough away to lose sight of him.
“What?”
“I think he’s made us.”
“How?”
“Dumb bad luck, I’m guessing. Or he expected we’d follow him up the mountain. He’s just sped up.”
“How far away?”
“A half-mile. We should see him higher up when we turn the next corner.”
It took an eternity to get there, and when we did, Alan was right, only he was further on than we thought.”
“Step on it. Let’s catch him up before he gets to the top.”
Easy to say, not so easy to do. The road was treacherous, and in places, just gravel, and there were no guard rails to stop a three-thousand-foot fall down the mountainside.
Good thing then, I had the foresight to have three agents on the hill for just such a scenario.
Ten minutes later, we were in sight of the car, still moving quickly, but we were going slightly faster. We’d catch up just short of the summit car park.
Or so we thought.
Coming quickly around another corner, we almost slammed into the car we’d been chasing.
“What the hell…” Aland muttered.
I was out of the car and over to see if he was in it, but I knew that it was only a slender possibility. The car was empty, and no indication of where he had gone.
Certainly not up the road. It was relatively straightforward for the next mile, at which we would have reached the summit. Up the mountainside from here, or down.
I looked up. Nothing.
Alan yelled out, “He’s not going down, not that I can see, but if he did, there’s hardly a foothold and that’s a long fall.”
Then where did he go?
Then a man looking very much like our quarry came out from behind a rock embedded just a short distance up the hill.
“Sorry,” he said quite calmly. “Had to go if you know what I mean.”
I’d lost him.
It was as simple as that.
I had been led a merry chase up the hill, and all the time he was getting away in a different direction.
I’d fallen for the oldest trick in the book, letting my desperation blind me to the disguise that anyone else would see through in an instant.
It was a lonely sight, looking down that road, knowing that I had to go all that way down again, only this time, without having to throw caution to the wind.
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 installment of an old feature, and we’re back on the treasure hunt.
…
Where is Boggs
…
It was getting to the point where I couldn’t remember the last time I saw Boggs.
I’d dropped by his place and found his mother having a cup of coffee before heading off to her day job. Boggs, she said, had gone off somewhere, these days he didn’t tell her what he was doing, and wouldn’t be back for an hour or so.
But, seeing me, she stopped cleaning and invited me in for coffee, and a chat. I knew it was going to be about what Boggs was doing, rather than what he was supposed to be doing, getting a job.
“Ever since he found his father’s papers in a box in the attic, he’s become obsessed with the treasure. There is no treasure, there never was, only in his father’s imagination. Anything to keep him from having a proper job. It was always about easy money, him and that layabout brother of his Rico.”
“What’s happened to Rico?”
I had meant to ask the sheriff, but he hadn’t dropped by to see my mother lately, and there’s been no news in the paper.
“He’s being indicted for murder. He didn’t do it, or so he says. I knew he was a criminal, but I didn’t think he was capable of murdering anyone. Seems I was wrong. We can’t afford a lawyer and the person the court has appointed to represent him is not very good.”
“For what it’s worth, I don’t think Rico killed him either.”
“Who was he, this man on his boat?”
“An archaeologist. Someone who knew about treasure, though I’m not sure it’s the treasure Boggs is looking for, more about some coins that were found in the ocean off the coast. I think that discovery put a fire under the other treasure story, you know, coins falling out of the chests as they were being brought ashore.”
“You should tell Benny this.”
“He won’t believe me. Do you know anything that his father might have known and told you about?”
“It’s all he ever went on about, especially when he had too much to drink, how it was going to make us rich and we’d live in a large house with servants. Look where it got us?”
Not in a large house with servants.
“The maps?”
“He drew them himself. Told me he had a commission from old man Cossatino to create treasure maps for the fools who believed there was treasure buried somewhere on the coast. They were all different.”
“Was there an original map that he based all the others on?”
She shook her head. “No. Though he did say one time that he’d seen a map out at the Cossatino’s place in Patterson’s Reach, up on the wall that looked old. Probably just a piece of artwork because they had a lot of paintings and artwork on the walls. Knowing the Cossatino’s, they probably invested the first map themselves.”
“Boggs said he had an original, found it in his father’s stuff.”
“A copy of a copy most likely. I don’t think Al knew what was real and what was not in the end. He stopped talking to me about it because, by that time, I’d had enough of his obsession and told him to get a real job.”
“What happened to him, do you know?”
“The last I remember was that he told me this time he’d worked out where the treasure was buried, what he called the ‘X marks the spot’ moment. I ignored him, because there had been dozens before that with no results, and by that time we were defaulting on everything, I was working two jobs, and just too tired to care. We argued, he stormed out and that was the last I saw of him.”
“Lenny reckoned he went down the hotel and started bragging about having found where the treasure was.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time. As far as the investigation into his disappearance went, he was seen leaving with two men in suits who had arrived in town earlier that day, asking for him. They said they were reporters doing a story on the possibility pirates from the Caribbean had buried treasure along the Florida coastline, and that he was something of an expert. He would have fallen for that flattery hook line and sinker. After that, nothing. Because he’s not officially dead, I can’t even get a death payout from the insurance company, so here we are.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“It’s not your fault. I’m just glad he has a friend like you that cares. He’s never really got over his father’s disappearance, not the idea that cursed treasure exists. But he doesn’t listen to me, nor you, I guess, so all I can do is hope he finally comes to his senses eventually. Now, I have to go to work. If you find him, tell him to come home.”
It was as if Microsoft Word was sent down from that place in the universe where a group of torturers sit around a table to find new ways of making our lives just that little bit more difficult.
I mean, most of the time it works really well and behaves itself.
But…
Then there are the times, usually when you are stressed about a deadline, or you are nearly at the end of what you believe to be the most brilliant writing you have ever put on paper.
Then…
Disaster strikes.
It could be the power goes off, even for just a few seconds, but it’s enough to kill the computer. It could be that you have reached the end and closed Word down, thinking that it had autosaved, all the while ignoring that little pop up that says, ‘do you want to save your work’?
It’s been a long day, night, or session. You’re tired and your mind is elsewhere, as it always is at the end.
You always assume that autosave is on. It was the last time, it has been since the day you installed it however long ago that was.
So…
When the power comes back on, you start the computer, go into Word, and it brings back all the windows you had open when the power failed, and the one with the brilliant piece you just wrote, it’s just a blank sheet.
Or up to where it last autosaved, which is nowhere near the end.
Or it didn’t save at all.
You forget the software updated recently and that always brings changes. Usually unwanted changes.
By which time you have that sinking feeling that all is lost, deadline missed, brilliant work lost, it’s the end of the world.
You promise yourself you’re going to get Scrivener, or something else, where this doesn’t happen.
Or if you’re like me, you put the cat on the keyboard and tell him to sort the mess out.
The Unwritten Prologue: How Natural-Born Writers Knew Their Story Begun
Every great writer’s journey has a beginning, often buried in the imagination long before they held a pencil. These are the natural-born writers—those who were storytellers at their core before they could write a single word. They didn’t wait for spelling lessons or grammar rules; their stories flowed in the language of play, whispers of narrative, and the cadence of their own dreams. How did they know, and how did they craft their art without ink or paper? Let’s explore the enchanted first chapters of these visionary creators.
The Pre-Writing Stage: Stories Before Writing
Long before literacy, natural writers are oral storytellers. They might have been the child inventing tales for stuffed animals, reenacting myths with wooden swords, or narrating their day to an invisible audience. Their imagination is a stage, and the world their audience. Even without words, they convey emotion through sound, gesture, and rhythm. Think of a toddler saying, “She took the cookie and ran like a princess” to a doll. That’s not just play—it’s storytelling in its rawest form.
Similarly, a love for language often emerges early. These writers-in-the-making are the ones “reading” picture books repeatedly, experimenting with invented words, or collecting poetry in their minds. They’re attuned to the music of language, humming stories to themselves before they can write them.
Signs of a Natural-Born Writer
Compulsive Storytelling: They create worlds in play, crafting elaborate scenarios with toys or friends.
Early Fascination with Letters and Sounds: They recognise letters before starting school, perhaps scribbling “I don’t know what this letter is, but it’s magic!”
Imaginative Interpretations of Reality: They reimagine everyday events as adventures, turning a walk to the park into a quest.
Emotional Resonance with Stories: They weep for characters in bedtime tales, proving they deeply connect with narrative.
From Oral to Written: How They Paved the Way
Natural-born writers often transition from oral to written storytelling with relentless curiosity. J.K. Rowling, for instance, has spoken about inventing stories as a child to amuse herself and her brother. Dr. Seuss’s rhymes as a child (and his iconic use of sound) hint at a writer born not just to write, but to make language sing.
Before formal training, these writers might:
Tell stories to family, refining their tales through feedback.
Use drawings or symbols, creating “books” with pictures and cryptic text.
Mime scenes, acting out dialogue as their own script.
Memorise and adapt fables, internalising the structure of storytelling.
Even without words, they’re practising the essence of writing: character, conflict, and craft. As Maya Angelou once said, “The writer’s biggest problem is always, to say something; to say it fresh; to say it in a way that it’s never been said before.” Natural writers are solving this puzzle long before they put pen to paper.
Case Study: Tolkien and the Power of Myth
J.R.R. Tolkien’s passion for languages and mythology began in childhood. Before he wrote The Hobbit, he crafted his own languages and sagas, scribbling in notebooks with imagined alphabets. His parents called him “a reader and a teller of tales from a very early age.” Without the ability to write fully, he likely told stories orally, nurturing the mythologies that later defined modern fantasy.
The Legacy of the Unwritten
Natural-born writers learn that storytelling is a muscle—grow it before you can spell narrative. Their journey teaches us that being a writer isn’t about talent alone, but about telling the story that only you can tell, regardless of tools. A child speaking to a toy, a teen journaling in code, or an adult crafting tales in their head—these are all valid forms of the writer’s craft.
To the Young (and Young at Heart) Writers
If you’ve ever built a castle in the clouds or whispered secrets to your teddy bear, embrace it. You are already a writer. Your letters may not be formed, your grammar unlearned, but your voice is real. As you grow, let those early stories guide you. The greats started with nothing more than a dream and a desire to share it.
So, tell your tale. Even if it’s just to the moon. Even if it’s all in your head. You’re already writing.
What story do you carry in your heart before it’s written down? Let it out. The world needs to hear it.
Crafting Epic Bloodlines: How to Use Real Genealogy to Build a Multi-Generation Book Series
How to Build a Book Dynasty Series Using Real Genealogy Meta Description: Writing a multi-generation book series? Discover how studying real family trees and genealogy can help you plot realistic time intervals, family dynamics, and historical ties.
When you set out to write a book series that spans generations—whether it’s a sweeping historical epic, a multigenerational sci-fi saga, or a sprawling fantasy family curse—you aren’t just plotting a story. You are playing the role of God, historian, and architect rolled into one.
You have to create a dynasty.
And building a believable, breathing dynasty is harder than it looks. It’s easy to fall into the trap of treating descendants like interchangeable action figures, or worse, messing up the timeline so drastically that a grandmother and granddaughter end up looking like college roommates.
So, how do you fix this? Where do you find the blueprint for generational momentum?
The secret weapon hiding in plain sight is genealogy. By studying real family trees—especially your own ancestry—you can unlock the secret rhythms of time, inheritance, and human connection that will make your fictional dynasty feel startlingly real.
Here is how to use real genealogy as a masterclass in world-building for your next multi-novel series.
1. Stealing Time: Mapping Realistic Intervals
One of the biggest pitfalls in writing a multi-generational series is temporal whiplash. Authors often guess how time passes between generations, leading to biological impossibilities or unnatural pacing.
Real genealogy solves this by providing hard, empirical data on human biology and historical timelines.
The Math of Motherhood: Historically, women didn’t have children evenly spaced every ten years; generations often clustered tightly or stretched wide depending on war, famine, and economics. Look at your own family tree. Notice the average age at which women had their first child, and when the last child was born.
The “Generation Gap”: In the 19th century, a new generation might arrive every 20 to 25 years because people married and started families much younger. In modern times, that stretch often pushes past 30. Aligning your fictional timeline with realistic biological intervals prevents your characters from aging too fast—or suspiciously slow.
Leapfrogging Eras: Genealogy teaches you about overlap. Did a grandfather live long enough to meet his grandson, or did he pass away a decade before the child was even born? That gap creates built-in narrative tension: characters shaped by the ghosts of ancestors they never physically met.
2. Uncovering the Ties That Bind (and Break)
Real families are messy. When you look back at census records, immigration papers, and old wills, you start to see patterns of human behaviour that no plotting manual can teach you.
When building your fictional dynasty, ask yourself what historical forces are pulling your ancestors—and by extension, your characters—together or tearing them apart:
The Economics of Inheritance: Look at old property deeds or probate records. Who got the land? Who got cut out? Financial pressure is the engine of family drama. In your series, how does the passing of an estate change the power dynamics between siblings in Book 2 versus Book 4?
Forced Migration and Diaspora: Did your ancestors move across countries or continents? What triggered it? Was it a potato famine, a gold rush, or a shifting border? Use these real-world catalysts to drive your characters across your fictional map. A dynasty isn’t born in a vacuum; it is shaped by geography and displacement.
The Black Sheep and Forgotten Branches: Every family tree has a branch that simply disappears from the records—someone who ran away to sea, changed their last name, or was disowned. These historical mysteries are goldmines for fiction. In a multi-novel series, a “lost” ancestor from Book 1 can become the inciting incident or the mysterious benefactor in Book 5.
3. Genetics, Culture, and the “Ghost” of the Ancestor
In a long-running book series, characters need to feel like they belong to the same lineage, even if they never share a page together. Genealogy gives you the tools to weave cultural and genetic DNA through your cast.
Recurring Naming Conventions: Look at real family trees, and you’ll notice names recycling every generation—the eldest son is always a Thomas, or middle daughters are named after grandmothers. Doing this in fiction creates an immediate subconscious link for the reader. When Book 3 features a fierce, rebellious character named Elinor II, the reader instantly remembers the original Elinor from the founding novel.
Generational Trauma and Triumph: Real-world genealogy often reveals overarching themes. One branch of the family might consistently marry into military families, while another works the land for centuries. Use these ancestral echoes in your writing. If the founding patriarch was a liar and a cheat, how does that “stain” manifest in the great-great-granddaughter three books down the line? Is she desperately trying to overcompensate, or is it in her blood?
How to Start Your Research (Even If You Aren’t Writing Historical Fiction)
You might be thinking: “My series is high fantasy with dragons; how does my great-grandfather’s immigration record help me?”
The setting changes, but the human element does not.
Build a Fictional Family Tree First: Before you write a single chapter of Book 1, map out four or five generations of your dynasty. Use genealogy software (like Ancestry, Scrivener’s corkboard, or even a giant piece of butcher paper) to track births, deaths, marriages, and major life events.
Consult Your Own Past: Pull up your own family tree or talk to older relatives. Ask them about the family lore. What was the biggest scandal? Who lost the family fortune? Who was the black sheep? Truth is almost always stranger—and more creatively inspiring—than fiction.
Impose Historical Pressure Points: Just as real families had to navigate wars, depressions, and industrial revolutions, your fictional families must navigate the magical equivalents: the breaking of a covenant, a shifting pantheon, an economic collapse driven by new technology, or a plague.
The Payoff: A Dynasty That Feels Alive
When readers invest in a multi-novel series, they want to feel the weight of history. They want to see how the choices made by a desperate ancestor in a dusty prologue ripple forward to alter the fate of a panicked descendant in the explosive finale.
By turning to genealogy—by studying how real people lived, loved, migrated, and died across the spans of time—you stop guessing. You start building a bloodline that feels heavy, authentic, and utterly unforgettable.
Now, open up your family tree, look at the gaps in the timeline, and start writing your epic.
For a road less travelled, explore some of Asunción’s hidden gems and unique local experiences beyond the main tourist routes:
Nature & Wildlife Experiences
Go birding or take a river boat tour: Instead of just strolling the Costanera, take a Paraguay River Nature and Wildlife Boat Tour from Asunción. This allows you to explore wetlands and riverbanks and spot abundant bird species and capuchin monkeys in the nearby Botanical Garden’s forest remnant.
Hike to Salto Cristal (Crystal Waterfall): Venture on a day trip to Salto Cristal, a lesser-known, nearly untouched waterfall with natural pools for swimming. It involves a scenic journey and a descent through the jungle, offering a serene nature experience away from the city.
Unique Cultural Immersion
Explore the Cementerio de la Recoleta: Known for its elaborate mausoleums and beautifully designed tombs, this cemetery offers a fascinating glimpse into the city’s history and the wealth of its elite, providing a unique architectural and cultural experience.
Visit a local town like Areguá or Luque: Take a short trip to nearby towns like Areguá (known as the “City of Strawberries and Art”) to see artisan markets and pottery workshops, or Luque (the “Capital of Filigree”) to watch local craftspeople work. These trips provide a genuine taste of local life outside the capital’s centre.
Attend a local football match: Experience the passion of Paraguayan culture firsthand by attending a match at one of Asunción’s stadiums, such as Estadio Defensores del Chaco. The lively atmosphere and local traditions (like enjoying chipa and a drink) offer a non-touristy immersion into local life.
Yep, another of those interesting little words that mean more than it appears.
Aside from the fact it is the air that we breathe, it can also be used to describe music.
It can be a breath of fresh air, though it’s hard to say where in this ever increasingly polluted atmosphere than we could literally draw one, except on a mountain top, where conversely it would be hard to breathe at all.
Have the air sucked out of us, well, that literally isn’t possible unless some madman comes up with a weird sort of vacuum cleaner, but that might be an episode for the X-Files.
He had an air about him, or her, as the case might be, which might refer to a sort of deference or manner. There again that air might be one of boredom, which is what a lot of students seem to have in class.
Sorry, been a teacher, and know well the expressions on their faces. Had one myself once, and finished up on the end of a chalkboard eraser. Yep, in the good old day’s teachers used to chuck stuff at us recalcitrant students to get our attention, and not undergo a storm of protest from irate parents.
These days those same parents would most likely air their grievance, opinion, or view to the headmaster.
I’m guessing that same headmaster would be wishing those same parents to vanish into thin air, though I’m not sure how that would be possible.
And lastly, television stations air shows.
Weird, eh, how such a simple word can be used in so many contexts.
Revenge is a dish best served cold – or preferably so when everything goes right
Of course, it rarely does, as Alistair, Zoe’s handler, discovers to his peril. Enter a wildcard, John, and whatever Alistair’s plan for dealing with Zoe was dies with him.
It leaves Zoe in completely unfamiliar territory.
…
John’s idyllic romance with a woman who is utterly out of his comfort zone is on borrowed time. She is still trying to reconcile her ambivalence after being so indifferent for so long.
They agree to take a break, during which she disappears. John, thinking she has left without saying goodbye, refuses to accept the inevitable and calls on an old friend for help in finding her.
After the mayhem and being briefly reunited, she recognises an inevitable truth: there is a price to pay for taking out Alistair; she must leave and find them first, and he would be wise to keep a low profile.
But keeping a low profile just isn’t possible, and enlisting another friend, a private detective and his sister, a deft computer hacker, they track her to the border between Austria and Hungary.
What John doesn’t realise is that another enemy is tracking him to find her too. It could have been a grand tour of Europe. Instead, it becomes a race against time before enemies old and new converge for what will be an inevitable showdown.
For a road less travelled, explore some of Montevideo’s hidden gems and unique local experiences beyond the main tourist routes:
Unique Local Exploration
Experience Candombe in Palermo or Barrio Sur: Instead of a formal show, witness the authentic candombe music and dance that originates from the descendants of liberated African slaves, recognised by UNESCO as intangible cultural heritage. This is often performed in the streets of the Palermo and Barrio Sur neighbourhoods on Sunday evenings.
Winery Day Trip in Canelones: Venture outside the city to the surrounding Canelones region, known for its wineries and vineyards. Explore local, family-owned bodegas like Bodega Spinoglio or Pizzorno Family Estates for a tour and tasting of the local Tannat wine, offering a more intimate experience than city-centre wine bars.
Discover the Castillo Pittamiglio: Explore this unique architectural landmark, also known as the “Alchemist’s Castle”, a building with an eclectic mix of styles (Gothic, Art Nouveau, etc.) built by an eccentric architect. It offers guided tours and a fascinating, slightly mysterious history, distinct from the city’s neoclassical buildings.
Browse the Feria de Tristán Narvaja: Skip the standard souvenir shops and visit this large, vibrant street market on Sunday mornings in the Cordón neighbourhood. You can find everything from antiques and second-hand books to local crafts, fresh produce, and unique oddities, providing a genuine slice of local life.
Visit the Jardín Botánico: For a peaceful natural escape, the Montevideo Botanical Garden in the Prado neighbourhood is a serene urban oasis. It features diverse plant species, walking trails, and a Japanese garden, and is a great spot to enjoy a quiet picnic or read a book, largely frequented by locals.
It was in darkness. I was sure I had left several lights on, especially over the door, so I could see to unlock it.
I looked up and saw that the globe was broken.
Instant alert.
I went to the first hiding spot for the gun, and it wasn’t there. I went to the backup, and it wasn’t there either. Someone had found my carefully hidden stash of weapons and removed them.
Who?
There were four hiding spots, and all were empty. Someone had removed the weapons. That could only mean one possibility.
I had a visitor, not necessarily here for a social call.
But, of course, being the well-trained agent I’d once been and not one to be caught unawares, I crossed over to my neighbour and relieved him of a weapon that, if found, would require a lot of explaining.
Suitably armed, it was time to return the surprise.
There were three entrances to the villa: the front door, the back door, and a rather strange escape hatch. One of the more interesting attractions of the villa I’d rented was its heritage. It was built in the late 1700s by a man who was, by all accounts, a thief. It had a hidden underground room, which had been in the past a vault but was now a wine cellar, and it had an escape hatch by which the man could come and go undetected, particularly if there was a mob outside the door baying for his blood.
It now gave me the means to enter the villa without my visitors being alerted, unless, of course, they were in the vicinity of the doorway inside the villa, but that possibility was unlikely. It was not where anyone could anticipate or expect a doorway to be.
The secret entrance was at the rear of the villa, behind a large copse, two camouflaged wooden doors built into the ground. I moved aside some of the branches that covered them and lifted one side. After I’d discovered the doors and rusty hinges, I’d oiled and cleaned them, and cleared the passageway of cobwebs and fallen rocks. It had a mildew smell, but nothing would get rid of that. I’d left torches at either end so I could see.
I closed the door after me and went quietly down the steps, enveloped in darkness till I switched on the torch. I traversed the short passage, which turned ninety degrees about halfway to the door at the other end. I carried the key to this door on the keyring, found it and opened the door. It too had been oiled and swung open soundlessly.
I stepped into the darkness and closed the door.
I was on the lower level under the kitchen, now the wine cellar, the ‘door’ doubling as a set of shelves which had very little on them, less to fall and alert anyone in the villa.
Silence, an eerie silence.
I took the steps up to the kitchen, stopping when my head was level with the floor, checking to see if anyone was waiting. There wasn’t. It seemed to me to be an unlikely spot for an ambush.
I’d already considered the possibility of someone coming after me, especially because it had been Bespalov I’d killed, and I was sure he had friends, all equally as mad as he was. Equally, I’d also considered it nigh on impossible for anyone to find out it was me who killed him because the only people who knew that were Prendergast, Alisha, a few others in the Department, and Susan.
That raised the question of who told them where I was.
If I were the man I used to be, my first suspect would be Susan. The departure this morning, and now this was too coincidental. But I was not that man.
Or was I?
I reached the start of the passageway that led from the kitchen to the front door and peered into the semi-darkness. My eyes had got used to the dark, and it was no longer an inky void. Fragments of light leaked in around the door from outside and through the edge of the window curtains where they didn’t fit properly. A bone of contention upstairs in the morning, when first light shone and invariably woke me up hours before I wanted to.
Still nothing.
I took a moment to consider how I would approach the visitor’s job. I would get a plan of the villa in my head, all entrances, where a target could be led to or attacked, and where there would be no escape.
Coming in the front door. If I were not expecting anything, I’d just open the door and walk in. One shot would be all that was required.
Contract complete.
I sidled quietly up the passage, staying close to the wall, edging closer to the front door. There was an alcove where the shooter could be waiting. It was an ideal spot to wait.
Crunch.
I stepped on some nutshells.
Not my nutshells.
I felt it before I heard it. The bullet with my name on it.
And how the shooter missed, from point-blank range, and hit me in the arm, I had no idea. I fired off two shots before a second shot from the shooter went wide and hit the door with a loud thwack.
I saw a red dot wavering as it honed in on me, and I fell to the floor, stretching out, looking up where the origin of the light was coming and pulled the trigger three times, evenly spaced, and a second later I heard the sound of a body falling down the stairs and stopping at the bottom, not very far from me.
Two assassins.
I’d not expected that.
The assassin by the door was dead, a lucky shot on my part. The second was still breathing.
I checked the body for any weapons and found a second gun and two knives. Armed to the teeth!
I pulled off the balaclava; a man, early thirties, definitely Italian. I was expecting a Russian.
I slapped his face, waking him up. Blood was leaking from several slashes on his face when his head had hit the stairs on the way down. The awkward angle of his arms and legs told me there were broken bones, probably a lot worse internally. He was not long for this earth.
“Who employed you?”
He looked at me with dead eyes, a pursed mouth, perhaps a smile. “Not today, my friend. You have made a very bad enemy.” He coughed, and blood poured out of his mouth. “There will be more …”
Friends of Bespalov, no doubt.
I would have to leave. Two unexplainable bodies, I’d have a hard time explaining my way out of this mess. I dragged the two bodies into the lounge, clearing the passageway just in case someone had heard anything.
Just in case anyone was outside at the time, I sat in the dark, at the foot of the stairs, and tried to breathe normally. I was trying not to connect the dots that led back to Susan, but the coincidence was worrying me.
A half-hour passed, and I hadn’t moved. Deep in thought, I’d forgotten about being shot, unaware that blood was running down my arm and dripping onto the floor.
Until I heard a knock on my front door.
Two thoughts: it was either the police, alerted by the neighbours, or it was the second wave, though why would they be knocking on the door?
I stood and immediately felt a stabbing pain in my arm. I took out a handkerchief and turned it into a makeshift tourniquet, then wrapped a kitchen towel around the wound.
If it were the police, this was going to be a difficult situation. Holding the gun behind my back, I opened the door a fraction and looked out.
No police, just Maria. I hoped she was not part of the next ‘wave’.
“You left your phone behind on the table. I thought you might be looking for it.” She held it out in front of her.
When I didn’t open the door any further, she looked at me quizzically and then asked, “Is anything wrong?”
I was going to thank her for returning the phone, but I heard her breathe in sharply and add, breathlessly, “You’re bleeding.”
I looked at my arm and realised it was visible through the door, and not only that, the towel was soaked in blood.
“You need to go away now.”
Should I tell her the truth? It was probably too late, and if she were any sort of law-abiding citizen, she would go straight to the police.
She showed no signs of leaving, just an unnerving curiosity. “What happened?”
I ran through several explanations, but none seemed plausible. I went with the truth. “My past caught up with me.”
“You need someone to fix that before you pass out from blood loss. It doesn’t look good.”
“I can fix it. You need to leave. It is not safe to be here with me.”
The pain in my arm was not getting any better, and the blood was starting to run down my arm again as the tourniquet loosened. She was right, I needed it fixed sooner rather than later.
I opened the door and let her in. It was a mistake, a huge mistake, and I would have to deal with the consequences. Once inside, she turned on the light and saw the pool of blood just inside the door and the trail leading to the lounge. She followed the trail and turned into the lounge, turned on the light, and no doubt saw the two dead men.
I expected her to scream. She didn’t.
She gave me a good, hard look, perhaps trying to see if I was dangerous. Killing people wasn’t something you looked the other way about. She would have to go to the police.
“What happened here?”
“I came home from the cafe and two men were waiting for me. I used to work for the Government, but no longer. I suspect these men were here to repay a debt. I was lucky.”
“Not so much, looking at your arm.”
She came closer and inspected it.
“Sit down.”
She found another towel and wrapped it around the wound, retightening the tourniquet to stem the bleeding.
“Do you have medical supplies?”
I nodded. “Upstairs.” I had a medical kit, and on the road, I usually made my own running repairs. Another old habit I hadn’t quite shaken off yet.
She went upstairs, rummaged, and then came back. I wondered briefly what she would think of the unmade bed, though I was not sure why it might interest her.
She helped me remove my shirt and then cleaned the wound. Fortunately, she didn’t have to remove a bullet. It was a clean wound but it would require stitches.
When she’d finished, she said, “Your friend said one day this might happen.”
No prizes for guessing who that friend was, and it didn’t please me that she had involved Maria.
“Alisha?”
“She didn’t tell me her name, but I think she cares a lot about you. She said trouble has a way of finding you, gave me a phone and said to call her if something like this happened.”
“That was wrong of her to do that.”
“Perhaps, perhaps not. Will you call her?”
“Yes. I can’t stay here now. You should go now. Hopefully, by the time I leave in the morning, no one will ever know what happened here, especially you.”
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 