At the end of the first book in the series, Alistair, Zoe the assassin’s handler, was killed.
As far as he was concerned, Zoe had reneged on the contract to kill a target, and for that, she had to be punished, just to let the rest of the team know they could not decide arbitrarily who or who they would not kill.
For her sins, Zoe had been captured and was about to be executed when John, the man who wanted to become her boyfriend, turned up in a luckless and unplanned rescue mission.
But as ad-hoc operations go, that one was very successful. Zoe, though badly injured aided John in a do-or-die escape.
Alistair learned to his chagrin, that a badly injured Zoe and untrained well-meaning friend trumped overconfidence.
Of course, Alistair’s death does not go unnoticed, and his mother, a renowned and very capable ex-KGB agent with connections, wanted to avenge his death. Her influence reaches as far as the upper echelons of the State’s intelligence services, and requests from her would never be ignored.
Such a request for information is made, and so starts the next book in the series.
Revenge.
Of course, nothing to do with Zoe, or John, or their relationship, runs smoothly, and once again in pursuit of the impossible, makes it his mission in life to win over the assassin-on-sabbatical.
But first, he has to find her., and sort through the lies and treachery of his best friend who is also looking for Zoe, but for entirely different reasons.
…
Todays writing, the first three chapters, 2,109 words
It was a routine call, that a man was behaving strangely in a shopping mall. It was passed from mall security to the local police, and then, when the man became agitated and produced a weapon, they called in the next line of police, and they called us.
At the scene, I counted 12 police cars, marked and unmarked, a van, SWAT, several fire and rescue trucks, and a host of bystanders, all crowding at the barrier that was set far too close to the exit.
“You don’t mind if I take the lead on this one?” Josephine had been my partner for the last six months, at first training on the job, then started taking cases. This would be her second.
“Not at all. You’re ready.”
It was a relief, the last event was difficult, long, and both mentally and physically exhausting, but we saved the wife and two children. There was never going to be an option to save the husband. I realized too late that it had always been his aim to be killed by the police, and sadly, two trigger-happy deputies were only too happy to oblige. A bad day all around, in the end.
Logistically, the mall had been emptied in a brief window when the man was engaged in talking to the local police, except for two shop assistants. When the man realized what was happening, he had taken them both as hostages. Had he not, we would have had a quiet afternoon. Now, deputies were stationed inside the ball, cutting off an easy retreat, outside the front entrance, and one inside, but pinned down.
While we were en route, the local negotiator had been establishing communications with the perpetrator, and this had been completed when we got there.
The perpetrator had fired off seven shots, and it was estimated that he may have up to 12 remaining shots. Based on the seven shots fired, it was assumed he was a very good shot, even though he had not hit anyone.
Nor had he made any demands, other than to suggest they find a proper negotiator, which was odd because the one in situ was one of the best in the country.
Josephine had been waiting for me to finish my observations, and, when I joined her, she dialed the perpetrator’s number.
“At last.” Male, agitated, angry perhaps, but definitely on the edge. The fact that he hadn’t threatened or harmed the hostages yet told me there was a chance this might be resolved.
“My name is Josephine McTrantor, can you start by telling me your name?”
“Is Oliver Strand there?”
That was me. Surprise number one.
She looked at me, and I shrugged. It was her negotiation. “I will be handling the negotiations today, sir, but it would be helpful if I had a name?”
“He is there. I want to talk to him. I don’t want to talk to anyone else. Tell him to call me when he’s ready.”
The line went dead.
“Well, that’s a little unusual,” the local police commander muttered. He had been observing events from a distance, although he still had overall control of the situation. “Your fame precedes you, Mr. Strand.”
“What would you like to do, sir?” Josephine looked as though she would be more than happy to pass this on.
I held out my hand, and she put the phone in it. “I suppose we should find out what he wants. The trouble is, he hasn’t been making wild demands or threats, just getting our attention. It makes me think there’s something else in play.”
I dialed the number.
When he answered, he said, “This better be Oliver Strand.”
“It is,” I said, “but you have me at a disadvantage. What is your name, sir?”
“Gerald Rawlings. We have matters to discuss, and I would prefer to do that in person.”
Railings. That name had some significance, but for the moment I couldn’t think where or why.
“I will arrange safe passage to a neutral place, but it can’t be in the mall.”
“I’m not leaving here. You will come to me, not the other way around. I will exchange all if the hostages and allow you to remove everyone else, but only once you are here, with me. You have an hour to comply otherwise the hostages die.”
Once again the phone went dead.
I looked at the phone, though I’m not sure why then put it on the makeshift table. I looked at the police commander, “Well, now we know what he wants. Me.”
“You’re not going to agree to those terms, because it seems to me he has an ax to grind.”
Then it hit me. He did. I knew the name was familiar. He had what I presumed to be a brother, Axel Rawlings. Two years before, another hostage situation, one that could have been avoided, only by the time we were called I’m, two hostages were dead, and there was nowhere for Axel to go, even if he surrendered, which he didn’t.
I had made progress, but some overzealous marksman took the shot, without my permission, and a tragedy followed, compounded by the fact the officer in question got off without any charges.
Now the past had caught up to the present. I could have avoided that tragedy with a little more effort. I wasn’t going to let history repeat itself.
“He does, and I know what this is about.”
Josephine looked concerned. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
“No, but if I don’t, then this is going to go down exactly the same as it did with his brother.” I took the phone and dialed the number. “Ten minutes, Gerald. Be sure you honor your part of the deal.”
To the others, “I expect you all to remain on standby, but under no circumstances is anyone to take any shots unless I say so. Is that clear?”
A nod from both.
Time enough to steel myself before going in. I gave Josephine my gun, and they fitted a mike. At least someone would be listening this time.
The problem is, there are familiar faces and a question of who is a friend and who is foe made all the more difficult because of the enemy, if it was the enemy, simply because it didn’t look or sound or act like the enemy.
Now, it appears, his problems stem from another operation he participated in.
Lallo delivered that statement with deceptive calm, and I didn’t miss the inference. That is if he was trying to say that anyone associated with that operation was likely to end up dead sooner rather than later.
Food for thought indeed, and suddenly it explained the reason for this interrogation. And though I didn’t want to believe it, or even think it possible, Breeman might be in some way connected with that operation. Or someone involved in it.
Suddenly I found my mid connecting dots, real or imaginary, that led back to Breeman requesting my transfer, knowing who I was, and then becoming closer in a way that was not expected, or could be explained, which had consequences if it came to light.
That was what Bamfield was alluding to in the desert camp.
But even Lallo had to admit it would be stretch at best to tie what was a random event being selected for what was basically an off-book training flight to being shot down, and link to a failed operation, and a suspicious suicide by Treen.
Especially when it was Bamfield’s own men who shot the helicopter out of the sky because we had so-called encroached the no-fly zone. Yet, by extension, if those people knew the proximity of the helicopter to the ground, and how thorough my survival training had been, that posed a whole new raft of questions, which, right then, I didn’t want to think about.
No, it was utterly ridiculous. My thoughts were simply the manna which drove conspiracy theories. Lallo was jumping to conclusions, and even I was guilty of the same offence.
Time to put it out of my mind, and answer the question, even if it sounded rhetorical. “It was the Colonel who tried to kill me, not the person who sent me on that operation. Are you trying to tell me Bamfield is involved in more than one conspiracy?”
Lallo simply shook his head, made a note in his notebook, and turned the page.
“Let’s go back to the day you were assigned to the ill-fated exercise. How many of your number at that particular base, are available for helicopter duty?”
“Four.”
“Who assigns the missions?”
“Operations.”
“Not the commanding officer?”
“No.”
“And in this particular case, when you were sent on the fatal mission?”
“I had to countersign the order. I didn’t see her name on the form.”
“But she would know, or be able to make suggestions.”
There was a group who made those decisions, not any one person, and it was possible anyone of that group could make a suggestion. But, as for Breeman, I doubt she was interested in that level of micromanagement.
Yet there was a suggestion I’d been moved off the active roster, and that it was possibly on her orders. Perhaps it would be best not to say anything about that. It also begged the question of why. Had she known something might happen to me? Or did she have an idea what might happen for another reason?
“Anything is possible, but I’m not privy to the machinations of command. I just do as I’m ordered.”
He smiled thinly. “I’m sure you’d say that even if it wasn’t true.”
Lallo was becoming an annoying little gnat, so I decided to treat him like one. “Is there an actual point to these questions, other than to dredge up past history, make erroneous accusations, and base all your conclusions on conjecture?”
“I simply deal with the facts before me.” It was almost a childish response.
A face hovered outside the ward door, and he noticed it.
“Excuse me.” He put down the notebook and headed out the door. Monroe remained, looking menacing.
Was someone else listening, and didn’t like the turn of events?
As some may be aware, but many not, Chester, my faithful writing assistant, mice catcher, and general pain in the neck, passed away some months ago.
Recently I was running a series based on his adventures, under the title of Past Conversations with my cat.
For those who have not had the chance to read about all of his exploits I will run the series again from Episode 1
These are the memories of our time together…
This is Chester.
He’s not looking forward to being in quarantine.
Yes, he’s been keeping up with the latest developments regarding the Coronavirus, but like many, he doesn’t seem to think it will affect him.
After all, he says smugly, there hadn’t been one recorded instance of a cat getting the Coronavirus.
Of course, he’s right, but I still search for a searing reply.
That may be, but what if they’re not reporting cat infections so as not to alarm the cat population?
Aha, got him with that one. He ponders that for a moment or two. I decided to add fuel to the fire.
Apparently, dogs can contract the virus, but after reporting one, there hadn’t been any more. What if they’re not telling anyone that more dogs have contracted the virus so owners and pets don’t get alarmed.
A reply quick as a flash, Dogs get everything that’s going around. We cats are more resilient.
Until you get cat flu. Yes, my nana’s cat got cat flu and it killed him in 2 days. This virus is a much deadlier form of flu.
A suitable look of concern crossed his face.
Maybe I’ll stay indoors for the duration. It’s not as if you’re going to let me roam the streets any time soon.
Maybe I will, I say. Perhaps it is time I started letting you out from time to time.
A shake of the head.
We’ll revisit this when the crisis has passed, he says getting up and walking off, tail flicking in annoyance.
The problem is, there are familiar faces and a question of who is a friend and who is foe made all the more difficult because of the enemy, if it was the enemy, simply because it didn’t look or sound or act like the enemy.
Now, it appears, his problems stem from another operation he participated in.
Lallo delivered that statement with deceptive calm, and I didn’t miss the inference. That is if he was trying to say that anyone associated with that operation was likely to end up dead sooner rather than later.
Food for thought indeed, and suddenly it explained the reason for this interrogation. And though I didn’t want to believe it, or even think it possible, Breeman might be in some way connected with that operation. Or someone involved in it.
Suddenly I found my mid connecting dots, real or imaginary, that led back to Breeman requesting my transfer, knowing who I was, and then becoming closer in a way that was not expected, or could be explained, which had consequences if it came to light.
That was what Bamfield was alluding to in the desert camp.
But even Lallo had to admit it would be stretch at best to tie what was a random event being selected for what was basically an off-book training flight to being shot down, and link to a failed operation, and a suspicious suicide by Treen.
Especially when it was Bamfield’s own men who shot the helicopter out of the sky because we had so-called encroached the no-fly zone. Yet, by extension, if those people knew the proximity of the helicopter to the ground, and how thorough my survival training had been, that posed a whole new raft of questions, which, right then, I didn’t want to think about.
No, it was utterly ridiculous. My thoughts were simply the manna which drove conspiracy theories. Lallo was jumping to conclusions, and even I was guilty of the same offence.
Time to put it out of my mind, and answer the question, even if it sounded rhetorical. “It was the Colonel who tried to kill me, not the person who sent me on that operation. Are you trying to tell me Bamfield is involved in more than one conspiracy?”
Lallo simply shook his head, made a note in his notebook, and turned the page.
“Let’s go back to the day you were assigned to the ill-fated exercise. How many of your number at that particular base, are available for helicopter duty?”
“Four.”
“Who assigns the missions?”
“Operations.”
“Not the commanding officer?”
“No.”
“And in this particular case, when you were sent on the fatal mission?”
“I had to countersign the order. I didn’t see her name on the form.”
“But she would know, or be able to make suggestions.”
There was a group who made those decisions, not any one person, and it was possible anyone of that group could make a suggestion. But, as for Breeman, I doubt she was interested in that level of micromanagement.
Yet there was a suggestion I’d been moved off the active roster, and that it was possibly on her orders. Perhaps it would be best not to say anything about that. It also begged the question of why. Had she known something might happen to me? Or did she have an idea what might happen for another reason?
“Anything is possible, but I’m not privy to the machinations of command. I just do as I’m ordered.”
He smiled thinly. “I’m sure you’d say that even if it wasn’t true.”
Lallo was becoming an annoying little gnat, so I decided to treat him like one. “Is there an actual point to these questions, other than to dredge up past history, make erroneous accusations, and base all your conclusions on conjecture?”
“I simply deal with the facts before me.” It was almost a childish response.
A face hovered outside the ward door, and he noticed it.
“Excuse me.” He put down the notebook and headed out the door. Monroe remained, looking menacing.
Was someone else listening, and didn’t like the turn of events?
As some may be aware, but many not, Chester, my faithful writing assistant, mice catcher, and general pain in the neck, passed away some months ago.
Recently I was running a series based on his adventures, under the title of Past Conversations with my cat.
For those who have not had the chance to read about all of his exploits I will run the series again from Episode 1
These are the memories of our time together…
This is Chester.
He’s not looking forward to being in quarantine.
Yes, he’s been keeping up with the latest developments regarding the Coronavirus, but like many, he doesn’t seem to think it will affect him.
After all, he says smugly, there hadn’t been one recorded instance of a cat getting the Coronavirus.
Of course, he’s right, but I still search for a searing reply.
That may be, but what if they’re not reporting cat infections so as not to alarm the cat population?
Aha, got him with that one. He ponders that for a moment or two. I decided to add fuel to the fire.
Apparently, dogs can contract the virus, but after reporting one, there hadn’t been any more. What if they’re not telling anyone that more dogs have contracted the virus so owners and pets don’t get alarmed.
A reply quick as a flash, Dogs get everything that’s going around. We cats are more resilient.
Until you get cat flu. Yes, my nana’s cat got cat flu and it killed him in 2 days. This virus is a much deadlier form of flu.
A suitable look of concern crossed his face.
Maybe I’ll stay indoors for the duration. It’s not as if you’re going to let me roam the streets any time soon.
Maybe I will, I say. Perhaps it is time I started letting you out from time to time.
A shake of the head.
We’ll revisit this when the crisis has passed, he says getting up and walking off, tail flicking in annoyance.
It is a great deal of work to write 26 stories of about 2,000 words in 30 days, but I have managed to do it for the last two years.
It takes a lot of people a month, sometimes, to write just 2,000 words.
Others will tell you they get 500 to 2,000 words down every day, but sometimes the quality or the relevance is sometimes questionable.
Over the last two years, I’ve been rather slack, and the desire to sit down and write has taken a back seat. COVID avoidance had a lot to do with it, but on the whole, I’m lazy and would rather find something else to do.
However, the last three months have seen an attitude readjustment, and I’m writing again more than one book at a time, and a series of episodic stories.
It seems my mind functions better when it has to juggle a lot of different stories.
So, look out, sometimes a character from one will turn up in another.
A bit like where FBI, FBI Most Wanted, and FBI International use the same characters across the three series, something I think is called a ‘crossover’.
As some may be aware, but many not, Chester, my faithful writing assistant, mice catcher, and general pain in the neck, passed away some months ago.
Recently I was running a series based on his adventures, under the title of Past Conversations with my cat.
For those who have not had the chance to read about all of his exploits I will run the series again from Episode 1
These are the memories of our time together…
This is Chester. We have been discussing the possibility of being stuck in the house for anything from 14 days to 10 months.
Yes, the Coronavirus is finally arriving in Australia, and though it is slow to catch on, we are being warned that it could get a lot worse, very quickly.
Chester has suggested we barricade the doors and windows.
Alas, I tell him, this is not the same as the American cowboys fending off an Indian attack. No circling the wagons, and definitely no John Wayne to ride in and save the day.
Too many westerns on Fox. I keep forgetting Chester has mastered the art of turning the TV on and changing channels on the Foxtel remote.
I also tell him that the virus is not only airborne, spread by those who cough or sneeze, but also by touch, like shaking hands, and hugging.
At that, Chester takes a good three, four steps back away from me. So, he challenges me, what are the options.
Well, firstly cats may not get the virus. Only one dog, as far as I know, had got it. You, I tell him, do not need to worry.
As for the humans, well, we are in trouble if it comes.
We will be staying in, in some sort of forced quarantine, trying to avoid the rest of the world until it goes away,
So, he says, that means you have enough cat food and litter, the proper one?
I shake my head like he does when he’s annoyed.
Well, if it happens, I’m sure we’ll find out. Besides, I add, you need to lose a kilo or two.
I remeber once being told that if you shoot for the moon, you’ll land in the clouds, if you shoot for the tree tops, you’ll finish up back where you started from.
It was a silly analogy, but I always remembered it when I looked up at the sky and saw clouds.
That was back in those hazy carefree days just after you were finished with school and you had your whole life in front of you. Your parents were there as the safety net, and were still proud of your scholastic achievements, and were not in too much of a hurry to hustle you out of the house.
But what happened when there’s a recession that came upon everyone without any warning.
Stocks plummeted, people lost their life’s savings, those with mortgages and loans suddenly finding that along with unemployment came no income, no ability to pay the bills, and therefore lost everything.
Although I never said it, I was thinking what good was an education when the whole world had gone to hell in a handbasket.
Two things I remember from back then, which in the context of disaster, wasn’t all that long ago. Firstly, my father making us children go camping from before we could walk, and with it, to survive with nothing but the clothes on our backs, and our wits.
It had happened to him, as a member of am expedition in Africa in his younger days, thinking that he might become the next great explorer, or archeologist, and finishing up getting lost, even though he asserted the other members had deliberately left him behind.
And secondly, that it was essential that we forge working relationships with any and all those who were like minded, such as those who wanted to be saved, not those who expected everyone else to so the work. It was obvious he had met a lot of those type of people too.
It served us well.
When nations began turning on each other, when essential resources like electricity and fuel stopped being distributed and rationed, when food suddenly became scarce, that’s when the real trouble started. My father said, at the outset, what would happen, and was glad our mother was not there to see it.
Then, when neighbours attacked neighbours once food became scarce, it was time to leave. The pity of it was, he died defending us, even after offering up some of the food we had stored away, but that had not appeased a hungry or angry mob.
His last words, “Go to where we said we would go, and remember everything I’ve taught you” were etched in my brain, and my brother and I did as he asked.
But, even knowing where we had to go, and how to get there, a plan of action made many years before, and trialled in recent years with success, nothing in the past could have prepared us for the journey.
All of us writers know what this is, the sort of combination of words that all come together as a story. A tale about anything whether it is true or just plain fiction.
A story can be long, or it can be short. It could be a magazine or newspaper article, it could be what a child tells his or her mother or father when they get into trouble.
Come to think of it, I think that’s where I got an interest in writing stories because as a child I was always in trouble.
Of course, if you are telling certain types of stories,, then it’s bound to be a lie. And made even worse if it is gossip!
That story might even be my interpretation of events, and as it happens, it’s possible no two stories are the same, especially if I and others had witnessed the same event.
This is not to be confused with the other version, storey, which is a single level in a building, one that might have thirty or more stories.
And, just to add to the confusion, living in Brisbane in Australia we have the Storey Bridge.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 