Paranormal sleuth Corey Shaw is
enjoying vacation with his family in the Baltic Sea when terrorists bomb
restaurants hosting World Cup parties in London and Copenhagen, just as his
cruise ship leaves port. Although the
United States isn’t attacked, Corey and his colleagues are unavoidably drawn
into the investigation with or without the blessing of international
intelligence agencies. When a third bomb
goes off in St. Petersburg, Russia, Corey is convinced the terrorist is aboard
his ship, or at least connected with it.
Corey is torn between protecting his family and a ship’s dancer whom
he’s falling for and helping keep the world safe from terrorism.Excerpt:
Faruq Boussora gauged the
distance between vehicles driving westbound on Lower Thames Street and when a
gap appeared, he dashed across to the median, ignoring the horns blaring at
him. His heavy backpack jostled on his
shoulders, causing him to stumble. The
straps rubbed sore spots on his back no matter how he tried to shift its
weight. He hacked a few times to clear
his lungs of the diesel smoke and the stench from his nostrils.
He was on a mission of
peace. Although he knew many would think
it was one of murder and terror, he didn’t care. The infidels would see the truth, see the
error of their ways. They had developed
weapons that were an abomination to mankind.
The infidels were abominations.
How would they like having those weapons turned against them?
Would that make us just as
guilty if we use them as well? No. The ends will justify the means. Isn’t that the phrase the infidels always
used?
Faruq fancied himself being part
of the new ambitious program. Why else
was he chosen for this mission, hand-selected from dozens of candidates? He trained for months and now he was ready.
Faruq crossed Byward Street and
entered the relative quiet of Great Tower Street. A few steps away, he walked into the Hung,
Drawn and Quartered Pub, a popular gathering place in London despite its
macabre moniker.
He scanned the interior, noting
with satisfaction the place wasn’t completely full. The smell of food made his mouth water and
his stomach growl with anticipation. More people entered behind him but his
favorite booth sat empty and he made his way to it, avoiding waiters and
waitresses carrying trays of food and pitchers of beer. He sat his backpack on the floor underneath
the table, relieved to be unburdened from its weight, and slid into the seat.
A young waitress with bleached
white hair hanging to her shoulders appeared at his elbow.
“ ’allo, Mr. ’alliwell,” she
said, giving him a bright smile and making an effort to pronounce his
name. “’aven’t seen you in ‘ere for a
while.” Her tongue piercing glinted in
the dim light of the pub as she spoke.
Faruq bit his lip, preventing a
smile from splitting his face at the alias he’d given her. It sounded so proper, so British. And Sarah was so sweet, so gullible. “Hello, Sarah. It’s been a few weeks, yes. I had business in America,” he said. He had worked hard to drop his middle-Eastern
accent and perfect the Queen’s English. Maybe
I should add a South London drawl? No,
that would be overkill.
“Well, it’s great to see ya
again. Gonna be stayin’ with us a spell?”
Sarah asked. She balanced a tray
in one hand and put the other on the table, shifting her weight.
Faruq ignored the question and
tried to divert his gaze from Sarah’s ample cleavage. “The place looks just the same as the last
time I visited.” He glanced around the
pub. Nothing has changed. That’s good.
“Expected us to tart the place
up, did ya?” She laughed. Faruq smiled back. “The usual?”
He nodded and Sarah withdrew.
Faruq leaned forward, placing
his elbows on the table, resting his chin on interlaced fingers. Of course, he hadn’t expected them to renovate. He would’ve found that out weeks ago if they
had. Therefore, no last minute changes
to his plans. From his earlier
surveillance of the place, he chose this booth as the most advantageous spot
from which to launch his mission.
His handsome and
uncharacteristically fairer-than-normal features let him blend in with the
Londoners without drawing attention to himself, and his mastery of their speech
and even a few dialects made his disguise complete. Since 9/11 and the 7/7 London bombings, Faruq
felt all eyes were on him and anyone who even resembled someone of
middle-Eastern descent.
As well they should be, he thought with grim satisfaction.
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