Tag: Thrillers

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No.  That wasn’t possible.

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

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

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

At least we agree on that, she thought.

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

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

After getting through this evening first.

“Yes,” she agreed.  “It is that.”

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

Until he asked, “What’s your reason?”

Slight abrupt in manner, perhaps as a result of her question, and the manner in which she asked it.

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

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

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

 

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

Was that what she was expecting?

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

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

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

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

Rebellion was written all over him.

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

“Mr. Henshaw?”

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

“Then my name is Michelle.”

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

“Staying long?” she asked.

“About three weeks.  Yourself?”

“About the same.”

The conversation dried up.

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, so do I.”

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

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

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

“By car.”

“Did you drive yourself?”

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

“After a fashion.”

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

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

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

“Whatever for?”

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

“It doesn’t help,” he agreed.

“Do you drive?”

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you do for a living,” Michelle asked in an off-hand manner.

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

“I’m a purser.”

“A what?”

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

“I see.”

“And you?”

“I was a model.”

“Was?”

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

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

So that explained the odd feeling he had about her.

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

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

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

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

Dinner now over, they separated.

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

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

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

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

 

© Charles Heath 2015-2020

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‘Sunday in New York’ – A beta reader’s view

I’m not a fan of romance novels but …

There was something about this one that resonated with me.

This is a novel about a world generally ruled by perception, and how people perceive what they see, what they are told, and what they want to believe.

I’ve been guilty of it myself as I’m sure we all gave one time or another.

For the the main characters Harry and Alison there is others issues driving their relationship.

For Alison, it is a loss of self worth through losing her job and from losing her mother and, in a sense, her sister.

For Harry it is the fact he has a beautiful and desirable wife, and his belief she is the object of other men’s desires, and one in particular, his immediate superior.

Between observation, the less than honest motives of his friends, a lot of jumping to conclusions based on very little fact, and you have the basis of one very interesting story.

When it all come to a head, Alison finds herself in a desperate situation, she realises only the truth will save their marriage.

But is it all the truth?

What would we do in similar circumstances?

Rarely does a book have me so enthralled that I could not put it down until I knew the result. They might be considered two people who should have known better, but as is often the case, they had to get past what they both thought was the truth.

And the moral of this story, if it could be said there is one, nothing is ever what it seems.

…

Available on Amazon here: amzn.to/2H7ALs8

…

A story inspired by Castello di Briolio – Episode 47

For a story that was conceived during those long boring hours flying in a steel cocoon, striving to keep away the thoughts that the plane and everyone in it could just simply disappear as planes have in the past, it has come a long way.

Whilst I have always had a fascination with what happened during the second world war, not the battles or fighting, but in the more obscure events that took place, I decided to pen my own little sidebar to what was a long and bitter war.

And, so, it continues…

——

Johannesen went to find Wallace.  He had seen Jackerby leave the castle alone, which couldn’t be a good thing.  He had also noticed most of the Resistance members had gone too and had considered going back to the dungeons,

If he had been picking team members, Jackerby would not have been one of them.  He might act British and speak perfect British English, but he was a Nazi at heart, perhaps more Nazi than the Nazis’

It was not unsurprising.  The file Wallace had on him along with one for all of them, wasn’t exactly describing a life of roses.  His grandparents were German, and the British had killed them during the first world war.  There was no doubting he had based his whole life on one day avenging them, and this war had given him the opportunity.

To be a wolf in sheep’s clothing.

Johannesen guessed that was an apt description of him.  He was a devoted follower of Mosley and the English Fascists, openly supporting Hitler until it came to choosing a side.  That was easy, become part of a fifth column, Worthing from within.

And when the Reich became the all-powerful country when they won the war, there would be a position for him, a war hero.

Losing the war hadn’t figured in the story, but despite the successes, there were more failures, and tactical errors, like trying to invade Russia, and he could see that it was going to be the reason Germany lost.  Superior weapons were not going to staunch the losses, and it was only a matter of time.

The time he would use to figure out how not to get shot as a spy and somehow get back on the other side.

But, not today.

Wallace was trying a new wine, have the same thirst for wine, but not as swill as those Resistance members like Leonardo, a deep-colored red.

“You should try a glass, Johannes.  It’s an exceptional vintage.”  He picked up the bottle and looked at the label, then cleaning the dust off the label, said, “1907 no less.  Bastards never sold any of this to us to try.  We should liberate the cellar, and share it with our compatriots after the war.  At a price, of course.”

Like all the soldiers he’d met along the way, always looking to make a profit.  Goering and Hitler steal all the paintings, they were talking about the wine.  What did the people finish up with?

“Not really a red man, sir.”

“That’s because you’ve never had one like this.”

“Why not.”

Wallace poured him a glass.

Johannesen sipped it.  Wallace was right, it was better than any other he had tasted, not that he could really remember the last time he had the opportunity.

“It is quite good, sir.”

“It is.  You know Jackerby says you are a double agent, which is pretty rich coming from him.  Strictly speaking, if wouldn’t be a double agent, but a triple agent, if that was the case.  You’re not, are you?”

The smile on Wallace’s face didn’t extend to the eyes.  He was not amused, or annoyed.

Just fishing.

“That’s the problem with our situation.  We’ve been lying to everyone for so long, that it’s hard t tell what is the truth and what isn’t.  At the moment, the British don’t know where my allegiances lie, they think I’m the sleeper in this group, and Atherton, well, he’s not sure if that’s the case or not.  No doubt Jackerby told you about my trip to the dungeons to get the woman to talk.  Jackerby offers the big stick and that isn’t going to work on these people.  She’ll die before she gives up any secrets.  They all will.  And by all accounts that breute Leonardo was executing her compatriots in front of her to make her talk, and all they are is dead, and we’re no closer to anything.  What do you think I am?”

“Clever.  But that isn’t going to be my problem in,” he looked at his watch, “two hours.  We have a new commander, and a few more people arriving to weed out this elusive Atherton and the few resistance that’s left.  People higher than me want Meyer returned to Germany.  Whatever you are, Johannesen, you might have to plead your case to someone else far less understanding.”  He stood.  “Enjoy the wine.  It might be your last.”

Reading between the lines, Johannesen got the impression Wallace no longer cared what happened.  For all of them, it had been a long war, and it was dragging on with no success in sight.

And it was becoming abundantly clear he picked the wrong side.  Now, all that was going to happen was that he would end up in the crossfire.  Perhaps he had known all along that the German notion that no one could ever be trusted, that everyone should be treated as a traitor first, was going to be the death of all of them.

He had no doubt the new arrivals would be Waffen SS, battle-hardened, and sent on this mission as a sort of holiday.  They would find Atherton and the remnants very quickly and snuff out a problem Jackerby couldn’t.

Or, if Jackerby knew the Waffen SS was coming, had he left, knowing his loyalties would be called into question.  Pure German soldiers versus double agents, Johannesen knew who’d he believe first.

For the first time, Johannesen knew he was not going to see the end of this war, or that Germany had any hope of winning.

He needed a plan of escape, and that woman in the dungeons was the only one who could help him.

——-

© Charles Heath 2020-2022

“Echoes From The Past”, a past buried, but not deep enough


What happens when your past finally catches up with you?

Christmas is just around the corner, a time to be with family. For Will Mason, an orphan since he was fourteen, it is a time for reflection on what his life could have been, and what it could be.

Until a chance encounter brings back to life the reasons for his twenty years of self-imposed exile from a life only normal people could have. From that moment Will’s life slowly starts to unravel and it’s obvious to him it’s time to move on.

This time, however, there is more at stake.

Will has broken his number one rule, don’t get involved.

With his nemesis, Eddie Jamieson, suddenly within reach, and a blossoming relationship with an office colleague, Maria, about to change everything, Will has to make a choice. Quietly leave, or finally, make a stand.

But as Will soon discovers, when other people are involved there is going to be terrible consequences no matter what choice he makes.

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“Trouble in Store” – Short stories my way: Adding more to the second part

The story fleshed out for the second section, discussed in Point of View

 

Annalisa looked at the two men facing her, a shopkeeper who, despite his protestations, was a dealer, and the other man, a customer scared shitless.

The poor bastard was not the only one scared. 

It was meant to be simple, arrive at the shop just before closing, force the shopkeeper to hand over the shit, and leave.

What had happened?

The shopkeeper laughed at them and  told them to get out.  Simmo started ranting and waving the gun around, then all of a sudden collapsed. 

There was a race for the gun which spilled out of Simmo’s hand, and she won.  No more arguments, the shopkeeper was getting the stuff when the customer burst into the shop.

This was worse than any bad hair day, or getting out of the wrong side of bed day, this was, she was convinced, the last day of her life.

Her mother said she would never amount to anything, and here she was with a drug addict coming apart because she had been cut off from her money and could no longer pay for his supply, which had led them to this inevitable ending.

She heard a strange sound come from beside her and looked down.  Simmo was getting worse, like he had a fever, and was moaning.

 

If Alphonse had thought his day was going to get any better after the delivery disaster earlier that day, he was wrong.

If he thought he could maintain his real business and his under the counter business with no one finding out, in that he was wrong too.  He’s know, inevitably, some useless punk would come and do exactly what Simmo was doing.

It might have been salvageable before the customer came in the door, but now it was not.  The customer had heard the words, and given him ‘the look’.  A drug addict telling the cops he was a dealer, it was his word against an  unreliable addict, but this local chap, he had that air of respectability the cops would listen too.

Damn.

But he had to try and salvage the situation, there was a lot of money involved, and other people depending on him.  He looked at the boy, on the floor, then  the girl.

“Listen to me, young lady, I have no idea what you are talking about.  Please, put the gun down before someone gets hurt.  Your friend needs medical help and I can call an ambulance.”

The girl switched her attention back to him.  “Shut up, let me think.  Shit.”

The storekeeper glanced over at the customer.  He’s been in once or twice, probably lived in the neighborhood, but looked the sort who’d  prefer to be anywhere but in his shop.  More so now.  If only he hadn’t burst in when he did.  He would have the gun, called the police, and brazened his way out of trouble.  Now, that remedy was off the table.

Now he had to deal with the fallout, especially if the girl started talking.

 

 

 

© Charles Heath 2016-2020

“Sunday in New York”, a romantic adventure that’s not a walk in the park!

“Sunday in New York” is ultimately a story about trust, and what happens when a marriage is stretched to its limits.

When Harry Steele attends a lunch with his manager, Barclay, to discuss a promotion that any junior executive would accept in a heartbeat, it is the fact his wife, Alison, who previously professed her reservations about Barclay, also agreed to attend, that casts a small element of doubt in his mind.

From that moment, his life, in the company, in deciding what to do, his marriage, his very life, spirals out of control.

There is no one big factor that can prove Harry’s worst fears, that his marriage is over, just a number of small, interconnecting events, when piled on top of each other, points to a cataclysmic end to everything he had believed in.

Trust is lost firstly in his best friend and mentor, Andy, who only hints of impending disaster, Sasha, a woman whom he saved, and who appears to have motives of her own, and then in his wife, Alison, as he discovered piece by piece damning evidence she is about to leave him for another man.

Can we trust what we see with our eyes or trust what we hear?

Haven’t we all jumped to conclusions at least once in our lives?

Can Alison, a woman whose self-belief and confidence is about to be put to the ultimate test, find a way of proving their relationship is as strong as it has ever been?

As they say in the classics, read on!

Purchase:

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An excerpt from “What Sets Us Apart”, a mystery with a twist

See excerpt from the story below, just a taste of what’s in store…

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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

“The Devil You Don’t” – A beta readers view

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

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

So, what do you do when you are heartbroken?

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

What should have been a high turns out to be something else entirely, and from that point every thing goes to hell in a handbasket.

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

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

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

…

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

…

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to write a war story – Episode 46

For a story that was conceived during those long boring hours flying in a steel cocoon, striving to keep away the thoughts that the plane and everyone in it could just simply disappear as planes have in the past, it has come a long way.

Whilst I have always had a fascination with what happened during the second world war, not the battles or fighting, but in the more obscure events that took place, I decided to pen my own little sidebar to what was a long and bitter war.

And, so, it continues…

——

When Carlo heard the shot, he stopped his ‘interrogation’ and sent a soldier over to investigate.  To avoid getting shot inadvertently, I came out of the woods with my hands up, and, thankfully, was instantly recognized.

I went over to the barn and looked at the man on the ground.  “Do he have anything to say?”

“No.”

The other man, awaiting ‘interrogation’ was visibly shaken by the events.  Two dead including Leonardo, and one a bloody pulp on the ground, with a very angry Carlo standing over him, his outlook was very bleak.

“You speak English,” I asked him.

“Yes.”

“Who are you?”

“Alberto, sir.  I didn’t agree with anything Fernando did.  A few of us refused to kill any of the villagers.  That was Fernando.  He was the one who beat up the women.”

“You could have stopped him.”

“You know the bastard, Carlo.  Not even you could, and you tried.”

Carlo grunted.  To make sure the men on the ground were dead, he shot them again, and emptied his gun into Fernando, adding a curse with each bullet.

I glared at Alberto.  “Pick a side.”

“I’m with you.  There are several others, back in the castle.  We would be able to help if you were planning an attack.”

“The last person who told me that is out there in the woods with a bullet in his head.  I’m sorry, but I don’t believe you.”

“We can help.”

“And, you will.  When we decide to go, we’ll take you with us.  You double-cross us, the Carlo gets his five minutes.  You try to run away, Carlo will hunt you down and kill you.  Understood?”

He nodded.

“Fernando?”  The man sent to find the defectors had come back.

I shot him before he could make any sort of move, just as he realized what had happened.

I motioned to the soldiers to get the defectors, who, hearing the shots, had started to flee.  Two shots in the air stopped them.  Two of them were small children, who would not have survived if they’d been taken to the castle.

All four were visibly frightened by what they’d seen, and of what their fate might be.  I assured them, they were now in safe hands, and we were going not to the castle, but to a different place.  Desperate people in a desperate situation, I couldn’t imagine where they’d come from, or their journey from Germany with nothing on a promise of safety taken at face value.

“We go to the castle now,” Carlo asked/

“Soon.  We need a plan.  Let’s go back and make one.  But, yes.  We go to the castle now.”

Storming the castle might have worked if I had a hundred men, not about ten or

Granted Carlo would by the equivalent of another five, but in a hail of bullets, he would not last long.

I had to put myself in Wallace’s shoes and figure out how he would defend the castle once he realized Jackerby and the resistance members were dead.

Panic would be my first thought.  Then, when rational thought returned, block off all the known entrances and exits, and post sentries outside.  We had about twenty men to deal with, but a dozen were hardened battle soldiers, and that would make a difference.  The fact they were inside covering most of the entrance points would make the job harder.

If we had to use the known entrances/

When the time came, they were going to get a surprise because Carlo knew of two others no one but he, and the owners of the castle, were the only ones who knew about them.

But, first, we had to even the odds if possible.

For that, one of Blinky’s team was a sniper, and with him was a sniper rifle and suppressor which meant we would be able to pick off the sentries without anyone hearing the bullets coming for them.

We were only going to get one shot at it because once Wallace discovered the sentries, he wouldn’t post anymore, and would know of our intent.

But, in the end, none of that mattered. 

We just got a short communication that Meyer was in Florence and his arrival would be in two days time.  We were charged with making sure he arrived safely and passed into the pipeline.  The only issue with that was that we needed the castle to complete the process.

That meant we had to move up the plans  to retake the castle, and there were always problems when details were missed.  We had the advantage in our knowledge of the castle and its underground passageways, but would that be enough?

Then there was the surprise.  It had just been learned that a very high ranking Nazi officer was coming to the castle to personally take Meyer back to the fatherland.  That meant we had to be in the castle when he arrived, so he could be sent back home for interrogation.

Both men, it appeared, had the capacity to turn the tide of the war in our favor.

Blinky simply shrugged when he got the news, then said, “We could do with some more men.”

Stating the obvious.

“It’s the war, you know.  Shortages of everything.”

“Didn’t envisage this at Prep school, did we?  Seems the world was a different place, but my father said it couldn’t last.”

“Nothing ever does.  It’s going to be interesting when this ends if it ends.  There are days I wake up and I can’t remember what it was like, before all this.”

”Well, maybe we get this done, and it’ll be a step closer.  At least, we have to believe that.”

I nodded.  “Good pep talk.  As I remember, you were always trying to talk me into doing something stupid.”

Carlo had been listening to us was a puzzled look.  “Are all you English like you two?”

Blinky answered.  “No.  We’re unique.”

Clearly, he had no idea what that meant.  Blinky was going to try and explain but instead, shrugged.  “Let’s go kill some Germans.”

That Carlo did understand.

——-

© Charles Heath 2020-2022

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to go on a treasure hunt – Episode 54

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 installment of an old feature, and we’re back on the treasure hunt.

…

A dark room, a dark woman, and a dark desire.

A very, very bad combination.

But in a moment where my brain must have switched off for at least ten seconds, I kissed her back, and that was a fatal mistake.

I closed my eyes and went with it.  Until one or other or both of us decided this was not the time or the place.

And then she said something that really worried me.

“I’m sorry.”

She unbolted the door, opened it and we stepped out.  Instantly the temperature dropped forty degrees.

And sanity returned.

I tried getting my mind back onto realistic matters, like leaving.  “Do you think they might be waiting, just in case there is someone here, like us?”

“Then we have to go another way.”

“There is only one way, the way we came.  It was a dead-end where the torture room is, and, apparently, where there’s a safe.”

“WE’RE not staying to find out, maybe another day.  It’s time to leave before they possibly come back. There’s a back way in here.”

I followed her out of the room, up two offices, and then into what would be the middle office.  It looked like a reception area, with dusty seats along the wall, under peeling wallpaper.  At the back there was another door, shut.  She opened it, and it led to a passage.

“The cells.”

“Like a jail?”

“Like rooms for the shoplifters awaiting their punishment.”

She stopped at a doorway and looked in.  I saw her physically shudder, before moving on.

“Bad memories?” I asked.

“It might not have happened if I’d acted my age, but you know what it’s like.  When you’re sixteen, you want to be twenty-one, and when you’re twenty-one, you want to be sixteen again.  Trouble is, you can’t get back what you’ve lost.”

I wondered briefly if that something was innocence.  Some people seemed to think I still had mine, but I wasn’t so sure.

The passage didn’t go very far before it turned right, and then to the top of another staircase.  We went down, and then to the left again.  From what I could remember, we were on the other side of the mall.

There was another door, and we went through it, and out into the mall itself.  It was the second level, near the center where the garden was, and moments later we were at the railing looking down to the ground floor.

And a faint glow of light, moving around as if it was being carried by someone moving slowly towards the pond.

And voices.

“Look, Alex, there’s no one here.  We’ve just done a circuit of this creepy place and found no one and nothing else to show there is anyone here.”

“I can feel it.

“That’s the coke you had, Alex.  Turns you paranoid.  Let’s get the hell out of here, before the guards get back.”

We moved back from the edge just in time as a stronger beam of light swept past just where we had been standing.

She had held my hand as we moved backward, and I could feel a tremor in it.

After another sweep of the beam, he said, “I swear someone’s here.”

“It’s a ghost.  There are supposed to be a few.  Ask your father.  He’s responsible for at least three of them.”

“There’s no such thing as ghosts.”

“That’s your opinion.”

“Just shut up and let’s go, before I shoot you myself, and then you can talk to your friends.”

We waited ten minutes until there was a boom, the sound of a door slamming shut.  They had left by the front entrance where there was a large, heavier door, beside the large main entrance.

“Time for us to go too, Smidge.”

Even so, she didn’t let my hand go, not until we got back to her car.

And when we were back, safely inside her room, she asked me to stay.  She said nothing on the way back.  The bravado she had shown was just that, and the last encounter, at the mall center had shaken her.

Perhaps I would stay until her nerves had settled.

…

© Charles Heath 2020-2021