Tag: Thrillers

Writing about writing a book – Day 22

More of Bill’s backstory, and, if it’s possible, I’m beginning to like this guy.

I suspect, for him as well as many others, it wasn’t easy, but in war zones, it’s either hot or cold, but never any pleasant in any weather conditions, and perhaps if there was a possibility of a fine, balmy, day, there would be no time to enjoy it.

Sleep was difficult. 

Sleep was always difficult, if not impossible. 

Whilst I had lived in barracks, in the tropics as part of my training and acclimatization, it was nothing like this.  Nothing could have prepared me for the endless, oppressive heat.

It started from the day the plane had landed on the tarmac at Saigon airport, the crew opened the door to the cabin, and we walked down the stairs.  The heat came from above, and from the tarmac below.  We were soaked in sweat by the time we reached the buildings.

And it was difficult not to be exhausted, even if you were lucky enough to get a few hours sleep.  That constant feeling of exhaustion was the biggest enemy, and what caused many of the unnecessary deaths.  In the end, for many, it was just too much.  For me, it was training that kept me alive, because of that little voice in my head that kept me vigilant.

That and a keen sense of self-preservation.

Our platoon was still recovering from the shock of seeing the death of two of our mates the previous day.  Although in the camp only a week, already it felt like a year.  We’d been sent out on a patrol, trying to find a group of the enemy who was responsible for cutting one of the supply lines, and it hadn’t taken long for us to realize we didn’t really know if it was the Viet Cong or the people we were supposed to be protecting.  They all looked the same to me, and we had to rely on our South Vietnamese Army liaison to ensure we didn’t shoot the wrong people.

After an eventless day, if you discounted the rain, the heat, and the scares, the Lieutenant ordered us to make camp, just before darkness set in.  We had not seen the enemy, and, as I was finally getting to understand, we probably wouldn’t until they were prepared to show themselves.

At that moment of maximum unpreparedness, when our attention was diverted, and after a long and debilitating day, they chose to attack.

I had no doubt they had been tracking us, and for quite some distance.  I had that effect of hair standing up on the back of my neck.  It actually saved me from getting shot.

The attack killed three of our men and shattered our confidence.

No one slept that night, either from fear the attackers would return, or because we were just plain terrified.  I volunteered for guard duty.  It was easier to be up and about instead of on a camp stretcher staring at the roof of the tent waiting for the inevitable.

Seeing our mates killed so horrifically, before our eyes, had the desired effect.  In the beginning, we expected it to be a walk in the park, with some hoping that we would just stumble around in the jungle for a week or so, then go back to the camp for a well-earned rest.  None had counted on the reality of war, or the fact some of us might die.  Some were even hoping they would not have to shoot their gun.

All of those illusions had now gone after three months had passed, and as reality set in.

Some had sobbed openly, such was their preparedness.  I had to say, I was a little more prepared, but had hoped for a little more time before the battle.  And it surprised me how calm I was when all around me it was chaos.

“Bastards,” Killer muttered.

We called him ‘Killer’ because it was the nickname the Army had given him.  We were sharing the guard duty and had spoken briefly over the watch, but up till then, the silence had stretched over an hour or so.  It didn’t take long for anyone to realize he was a man of few words.

He’d been in the regular army for years and asked for the posting.  He’d made Sergeant several times, only to lose those same stripes for fighting, usually after R&R and a bout of heavy drinking.  Now assigned to our platoon to lend his experience, the conscripts were expecting him to ‘look after’ them.  Other than myself and the Lieutenant, he was the only other regular soldier.  Unfortunately for them, he hated both conscripts and the Viet Cong in varying degrees, and depending on his mood there was little tolerance left for the rest of us.

“The people who sent us here or the people trying to kill us?” I asked before I realized I’d spoken.

I didn’t hear the reply, the skies opening up with another torrential downpour that lasted for about five minutes, and going as fast as it came.  When the sun finally came up, it would make the atmosphere steamy, hot, and unbearable.  It was quite warm now, and I was feeling both uncomfortable, and fatigued.

Killer looked just as stoic as he had before the rain.  He looked at me.  “Damn weather.  Worse than home.”

“Scotland?”

“Scapa Flow, Kirkwall.  I should have been an engineer on ships like my father, but I was too stupid.  Joined the Army, finished up here.  What’s your excuse?”

“Square peg in a round hole.  The army seems to handle us in its stride.”  It was more or less the truth.  I joined the Army to get away from my parents.

“That it does.  That it does.”

The rain came and went, during which the rest of the camp roused and went about its business.  It had been a long night for some, still getting over the shock of the attack, and the ever-pervading thought the enemy was still out there, biding their time.  It would be, for them, a waiting game, waiting for the conditions to wear us down, and lose concentration as inevitably we would.

Certainly, by the time we were relieved from sentry duty, I felt I was in no condition to match wits with a donkey, let alone the enemy on his own home ground.  When I stumbled over to the mess area and looked at the tired and haggard looks on the faces of the platoon, I realized that went for all of us.

Killer and I managed to get about an hour’s rest before the call came to move out, rain or no rain, and after a breakfast to make anyone ill, we left.  For hours it rained.  No one spoke as we strained to listen over the rain spattering on the undergrowth, all the time expecting the unexpected.  That was the benefit of the surprise attack; we no longer took for granted we would be safe.

Water gathered in pools along the trail, hiding any chance of seeing landmines.  Rainwater and sweat ran into our eyes, making it difficult to see.  Water leaked everywhere, making it very uncomfortable.  This was not a war; this was utter stupidity.

I was about to remark on the futility of it all to the Lieutenant, who had taken the lead, when one second he was talking to me and the next he crashed to the ground, a sniper’s bullet killing him instantly.   Someone yelled “Contact” and we hit the ground, bullets flying all around us. 

Too late, I thought, as I felt the hit of what seemed to be a large rock, then the searing pain in my leg, just as I hit the ground…

 

© Charles Heath 2016-2021

The A to Z Challenge – B is for – “Be careful what you wish for”

Everyone always wants to change their circumstances, particularly if you are among those who are not so well off.

My father always said, whenever we complained about not having enough money to go on holiday, or buy something we needed, that there was always someone worse off than we were.

As a child, I could hardly believe that was true when it looked like everyone else had everything they wanted.

As an adult, I promised myself that I would never be in those circumstances, that I would always have enough money.

And, of course, what you want, what you would like, and what really happens are very different outcomes, and no matter how much planning, or how many contingencies plans you have in place, a single event can wreck everything.

When you open the front door and see policemen, two thoughts cross your mind.  The first, they’re at the wrong place, the second, that something awful has just happened.

“George Williamson?”

It was the second.

“May we come inside?”

As I stood to one side, a thousand thoughts went through my mind until it settled on one, something had happened to Jane.

As she did on every Wednesday morning, she got up early, I made her breakfast, she kissed the tones and told them she would be back the next day, then headed for the airport for her weekly visit to hear office. 

When we had to move, her company agreed to let her work from home, and it was an arrangement that worked well, she was only missing for two days a week, and a week when the annual accounting was done.

She was due back this morning.

Instead, I had to police officers in my lounge room, looking very somber.

“Something has happened to Jane, hasn’t it.”  I almost couldn’t bring myself to say it.

The policewoman spoke.  It was like they had drawn straws and she got the short one.

“I’m very sorry to say your wife was involved in an accident this morning, on her way to the Atlanta airport.  We have just been informed she passed away.”

It was one of those moments when there were no words.  In fact, I was not sure what I felt in that moment other than a great sadness.

“How?” 

“We understand a car ran a red light, hit the limousine.  Had she been on the other side…”

Not much consolation in speculation.

“Do you have someone you can call; do you need us to arrange for support…”

“I have a sister, I’ll call her.  Thank you for coming and telling me, I guess this is not what you want to be doing at this time of the morning.”

“Part of the job, sir.”

I ushered them to the door and after reassuring them I would be OK, and getting out the phone to call my sister, they left.

The shock of it hadn’t set in.  As I closed the door, my thoughts turned to the twins, now at school.  They adored their mother and would be expecting her to pick them up from school.

I would have to get them before news of her death reached them.  These days, with the internet, someone would find out and it would be better to hear it from me.

“George?”

My sister, Eileen.  She had been amazed that I would find a girl like Jane let alone marry her.  She had always expected me to be the philandering bachelor.

“Something very bad has happened?”

“Jane?”

“Killed in a car crash this morning in Atlanta.  The police were just here.”

“Oh my God, George.  The girls.”

“I know.  I have to get to them.  Can you be here when I get home?  They’ll need you.”

“Sure.  On my way.”

Next call, the girl’s school.  I called the head Master and explained the situation, and he immediately had them brought to his office.

When I arrived, I put on my best ‘this is a happy day’ face and went in, mustering all of the courage I had to not look like something bad had happened.

The girls, of course, thought that their mother had arrived home early and come to get them.  She had done it before.

They were only mildly disappointed to see me.

“Mommy not here?”

“Sorry, you have to tolerate me for a while.  We have to go home and you’ve been given a day pass.”

Knowing how much they preferred not to be at school, the diversion worked.

The headmaster gave me a wan look as we left.

I fielded a hundred questions on the way home, all of which centered around what surprise Mom had in store for them, and the fact it had to be monumental since they had to go home early.

All the tome I was trying to think of a way to let them down gently, but there wasn’t one.  Being blunt wasn’t the way either, they deserved the truth.

As soon as they saw Eileen, I could see the hesitation and a note of trepidation.  Usually, Eileen came over when Jane was going to have an extended stay away.

“I need you two to go into the lounge and sit down.  I’ll be then in a minute.”

“Is mommy’s not coming home today?”

They knew something was wrong.

“I’ll be in in a minute and will explain everything.”

At least Eileen had to foresight not to show any sign of the distress I knew she must be feeling.

When the girls had gone into the room she gave me the teary-eyed look, and a hug.

“You must be devastated.”

“It hasn’t sunk in.  I’m still expecting her to walk in the door, and this is all a bad mistake.”

“The girls…”

“This is one time I hate the idea of being a father.”

“Then I’m glad you called me.  You could not break this alone.  They are going to be devastated.”

Everyone who knew her would be.

Once again I had to find the courage to keep it together, but at least I had support.

It went better than I expected.  At first, they thought it was an elaborate prank, though I was not sure how they could think that.

Then, when they realized it was true, they, like I was when I first heard the news, were in shock, and barely able to comprehend the reality of it.

I did remember saying at one point, “I wish she was still alive, and that she would walk back through that door…” but not able to finish.

So, we just sat there, in silence, the rest of the world passing by, going about its business.

Until there was another knock on the door.

I was going to ignore it, but a nod from Eileen got me off the seat.

Perhaps the police were back to tell me it was all a big mistake, and it was someone else who’d died.

I opened the door…

…and neatly had a heart attack.

“Jane?”

A wish come true?  Standing before me was a woman who looked exactly like Jane, down to the last detail, including the unmanageable whisp of hair.

“You must be George.  No, not Jane, Jill, the banished evil twin.  Now, where is she?”

…

©  Charles Heath 2022

NaNoWriMo – April 2022 – Day 2

First Dig Two Graves, the second Zoe thriller.

…

Just when you think you’ve got a good start, it all comes crashing down.

Here’s the thing…

I’ve been planning the sequel for quite some time, and from time to time, I’ve been jotting down notes about how the story will go. I thought I had filed them all in the same place, and because I thought I had all of them, I missed a part.

This was confirmed when I found a synopsis, something I rarely make before writing a story, with details of several sections I obviously added when the thought came to me. Perhaps the idea of the synopsis was to consolidate all the ideas, at a time when I thought I was going to sit down and write the story.

Dated a month or so before covid came along, I suspect it all got set aside for the two-odd year’s hiatus.

Now, the time has come, and today, I went n a detailed search of three computers, four phones, cloud storage, and the boxes that hold all the handwritten notes.

I have a reference to the section, several chapters, but no writing. In the back of my mind, I have a feeling I’d written the chapters, but the evidence says otherwise.

Damn!

I’ll move on, and come back to it later. At the moment it doesn’t have relevance.

Oh, and Zoe has now become Mary-Anne. What is John going to think when he finally finds her.

…

Todays writing, introducing Mary Anne, 1,501 words, for a total of 3,610.

The cinema of my dreams – I never wanted to go to Africa – Episode 22

Our hero knows he’s in serious trouble.

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 was gone ten minutes, perhaps a specific amount of time that was supposed to make me sweat.  It was warm in the ward so it wasn’t his presence or the questions that made me feel uncomfortable.

It was fear of the unknown.

If anything, it was more likely I’d be going to a black site rather than rest and recuperation in Germany.  And apparently over an operation, I had little or no knowledge of its inception or execution beyond being used for target practice.

Unless the army in its infinite wisdom was looking for a scapegoat, they’d tried pinning it on Treen, but he didn’t play ball, so now it was my turn.  However, just to complicate that thought, why didn’t they just kill me on the ground when they had the chance?

Because they needed me alive.

My mind went back to that fateful operation.

I went over as many of the crew as I could remember.  Ledgeman, Sergeant, explosives expert, he was with me until he was shot, caught in the crossfire, which now made me consider my first assessment of what has happened to him, that it might have been one of us who shot him, was the likely outcome.

Willies, Corporal, also explosives expert, sent with Mason, Gunnery Sergeant like me, who was providing cover for Willies.

Breen, Lieutenant, Leader, although it didn’t exactly appear to be the case, the more I thought about it, there seemed an undertone of indifference from the team towards its leader, one I should have picked up on.  Informal command never worked when push came to shove.

Andrews, Cathcar, Edwards and Sycamore, regular soldiers with combat experience along for protection, Andrews and Sycamore were with us and had worked together before, their camaraderie didn’t extend to me, but they were professional soldiers.

Of all the people in that entire group, why did Treen survive?  In putting the pieces together now in my mind, and if what I remembered was right, he should have been the first to die.

I mean, drugs and paranoia aside, that was the one single damning conclusion I could draw from events.  If he had, then a lot of the others might have survived.

But time was up; Lallo was back, squirming in his seat, and armed with a different coloured notebook.

First question, “What was your opinion of Treen?”

Relevance?  “Competent, but perhaps not truly in charge of his men.”

“How so?”

“I got the impression it was a case of familiarity breeds contempt.”

“You question his ability to command?”

“Just his style.”

Groups who worked together in close combat as a unit, from the top to the bottom, acquired a level of camaraderie that transcended rank.  It was not supposed to, but it did.  It was built on mutual respect and got to a point where everyone knew what they were doing without being asked, or ordered.  I got the impression that had been the case for Treen and his team up till that operation.  Perhaps the loss of one of the team had changed the dynamic.

“He’s there to lead, not be liked.”

“Then why ask me what I thought?  You’d know what I meant by that if you were out on the front line and your life depended on your team.  Something was not right.”

“How did you fit in,” he asked, with an emphasis on the word ‘fit’.

I didn’t, but I was not going to tell him that.  In the end, I just didn’t trust them.  You can get a measure of a man in that first meeting with or speaking with them, and they closed me out from the start.

“I had a job to do and I did it.”

And, it was probably the reason why I walked away.

© Charles Heath 2019-2021

Writing about writing a book – Day 21 continues

I’m still working on Bill’s backstory, and how he got mixed up in the war, and as a general background to his situation, and life before Davenport.

This is still in his own words:

 

But whether we were stupid or naive, or completely mad, we were all eager to get into battle, filled with the sort of hate only Army propaganda films could fill you with.  They were our enemy, and they deserved to concede or die.

A fresh face in a hardened platoon, I was eager to get on with it.  They looked knowingly, having seen it all before.  No idea of the reality, and no time to tell us.  Have a few beers to celebrate, and then, the next morning, go out on patrol.  No problem.

There was camaraderie, but it was subdued.  We walked single file, the seasoned campaigners in front and at the rear, treading carefully, demanding quiet, and a general cautiousness.  In the middle of nowhere, where only the sound of rain, or the animals and birds for company, we were naive enough to think this was going to be a doddle.

Then it happened, six hours out, and just before we reached a small clearing.  I thought to myself it was odd there should be such a clear space with jungle all around it.  There must be a reason.

There was.

We had walked into an ambush, and everyone hit the ground.  I was bringing up the rear with another soldier, a veteran not much older than myself whose name was Scotty, a little farther back from the main group.  Bullets sprayed the undergrowth, pinging off trees and leaves.  I buried my face in the dirt, praying I would not die on my first patrol.

We became separated from the others, lying in a hollow, with no idea how far away help was.  He was muttering to himself.  “God, I hate this.  You can never see the bastards.  They’re out there, but you can never bloody well see them.”  Then he crawled up the embankment, gun first.

He let off a few rounds, causing a return of machine-gun fire, spattering the dirt at the top.  Next thing I knew he was sliding down the hill with half his face shot away.  Dead.  I threw up there and then.  What an initiation.

Then one of the enemy soldiers came over the hill to check on his ‘kill’.  I saw him at the same time he saw me and aimed my gun and shot.  It was instinct more than anything else, and I hadn’t stopped to think of the consequences.  He fell down, finishing up next to me, staring at me from black, lifeless eyes. 

Dead. 

I’ll never forget those lifeless eyes.  I just got up and ran, making it back to the rest of the group without getting hit.  No one could explain how I made it safely through the hail of gunfire, from our side and theirs.

Back in the camp later, the veterans remarked on how unlucky Scotty was and how lucky I was to shoot one of the enemies, and not be killed myself.  They all thought it was worth a celebration.

Before we went out the next day to do it all again.

I spent the night vomiting, unable to sleep, haunted look on his face, one I finally realized that reflected complete astonishment.

 

There will be more, as the story develops.

 

© Charles Heath 2016-2020

The cinema of my dreams – I never wanted to go to Africa – Episode 22

Our hero knows he’s in serious trouble.

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 was gone ten minutes, perhaps a specific amount of time that was supposed to make me sweat.  It was warm in the ward so it wasn’t his presence or the questions that made me feel uncomfortable.

It was fear of the unknown.

If anything, it was more likely I’d be going to a black site rather than rest and recuperation in Germany.  And apparently over an operation, I had little or no knowledge of its inception or execution beyond being used for target practice.

Unless the army in its infinite wisdom was looking for a scapegoat, they’d tried pinning it on Treen, but he didn’t play ball, so now it was my turn.  However, just to complicate that thought, why didn’t they just kill me on the ground when they had the chance?

Because they needed me alive.

My mind went back to that fateful operation.

I went over as many of the crew as I could remember.  Ledgeman, Sergeant, explosives expert, he was with me until he was shot, caught in the crossfire, which now made me consider my first assessment of what has happened to him, that it might have been one of us who shot him, was the likely outcome.

Willies, Corporal, also explosives expert, sent with Mason, Gunnery Sergeant like me, who was providing cover for Willies.

Breen, Lieutenant, Leader, although it didn’t exactly appear to be the case, the more I thought about it, there seemed an undertone of indifference from the team towards its leader, one I should have picked up on.  Informal command never worked when push came to shove.

Andrews, Cathcar, Edwards and Sycamore, regular soldiers with combat experience along for protection, Andrews and Sycamore were with us and had worked together before, their camaraderie didn’t extend to me, but they were professional soldiers.

Of all the people in that entire group, why did Treen survive?  In putting the pieces together now in my mind, and if what I remembered was right, he should have been the first to die.

I mean, drugs and paranoia aside, that was the one single damning conclusion I could draw from events.  If he had, then a lot of the others might have survived.

But time was up; Lallo was back, squirming in his seat, and armed with a different coloured notebook.

First question, “What was your opinion of Treen?”

Relevance?  “Competent, but perhaps not truly in charge of his men.”

“How so?”

“I got the impression it was a case of familiarity breeds contempt.”

“You question his ability to command?”

“Just his style.”

Groups who worked together in close combat as a unit, from the top to the bottom, acquired a level of camaraderie that transcended rank.  It was not supposed to, but it did.  It was built on mutual respect and got to a point where everyone knew what they were doing without being asked, or ordered.  I got the impression that had been the case for Treen and his team up till that operation.  Perhaps the loss of one of the team had changed the dynamic.

“He’s there to lead, not be liked.”

“Then why ask me what I thought?  You’d know what I meant by that if you were out on the front line and your life depended on your team.  Something was not right.”

“How did you fit in,” he asked, with an emphasis on the word ‘fit’.

I didn’t, but I was not going to tell him that.  In the end, I just didn’t trust them.  You can get a measure of a man in that first meeting with or speaking with them, and they closed me out from the start.

“I had a job to do and I did it.”

And, it was probably the reason why I walked away.

© Charles Heath 2019-2021

Writing about writing a book – Day 21 continues

I’m still working on Bill’s backstory, and how he got mixed up in the war, and as a general background to his situation, and life before Davenport.

This is still in his own words:

 

But whether we were stupid or naive, or completely mad, we were all eager to get into battle, filled with the sort of hate only Army propaganda films could fill you with.  They were our enemy, and they deserved to concede or die.

A fresh face in a hardened platoon, I was eager to get on with it.  They looked knowingly, having seen it all before.  No idea of the reality, and no time to tell us.  Have a few beers to celebrate, and then, the next morning, go out on patrol.  No problem.

There was camaraderie, but it was subdued.  We walked single file, the seasoned campaigners in front and at the rear, treading carefully, demanding quiet, and a general cautiousness.  In the middle of nowhere, where only the sound of rain, or the animals and birds for company, we were naive enough to think this was going to be a doddle.

Then it happened, six hours out, and just before we reached a small clearing.  I thought to myself it was odd there should be such a clear space with jungle all around it.  There must be a reason.

There was.

We had walked into an ambush, and everyone hit the ground.  I was bringing up the rear with another soldier, a veteran not much older than myself whose name was Scotty, a little farther back from the main group.  Bullets sprayed the undergrowth, pinging off trees and leaves.  I buried my face in the dirt, praying I would not die on my first patrol.

We became separated from the others, lying in a hollow, with no idea how far away help was.  He was muttering to himself.  “God, I hate this.  You can never see the bastards.  They’re out there, but you can never bloody well see them.”  Then he crawled up the embankment, gun first.

He let off a few rounds, causing a return of machine-gun fire, spattering the dirt at the top.  Next thing I knew he was sliding down the hill with half his face shot away.  Dead.  I threw up there and then.  What an initiation.

Then one of the enemy soldiers came over the hill to check on his ‘kill’.  I saw him at the same time he saw me and aimed my gun and shot.  It was instinct more than anything else, and I hadn’t stopped to think of the consequences.  He fell down, finishing up next to me, staring at me from black, lifeless eyes. 

Dead. 

I’ll never forget those lifeless eyes.  I just got up and ran, making it back to the rest of the group without getting hit.  No one could explain how I made it safely through the hail of gunfire, from our side and theirs.

Back in the camp later, the veterans remarked on how unlucky Scotty was and how lucky I was to shoot one of the enemies, and not be killed myself.  They all thought it was worth a celebration.

Before we went out the next day to do it all again.

I spent the night vomiting, unable to sleep, haunted look on his face, one I finally realized that reflected complete astonishment.

 

There will be more, as the story develops.

 

© 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:

http://tinyurl.com/Amazon-SundayInNewYork

NaNoWriMo – April 2022 – Day 1

First Dig Two Graves, the second Zoe thriller.

…

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

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…

http://amzn.to/2Eryfth

whatsetscover

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s the current situation?”

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

He looked in my direction.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I was hoping for the latter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was nerves more than the cold.

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

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

It added to the tension.

My plan was still to enter by the back door.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The fear factor increased exponentially.

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

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

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

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

We needed a distraction.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

© Charles Heath 2016-2020