Kindle Edition
Amazon
Amazon
Category:
Action/Thriller
Publisher: Boson
Pages: 211
Copyright: May 11, 2014
Price: $2.99 (eBook)
Cassie Reynold is psychic, hunted, and hunting.
Cassie Reynold and Ronnie Gilmore, two young psychics once again find themselves at the mercy of the U.S. Government. After a period of contentment, Ronnie and Cassie must face a new threat. In an action packed spree ranging from New Orleans to Virginia, the psychic couple take on two factions intent on capturing them for their paranormal ability. Giving up is not an option. This war is going to be fought to a fatal conclusion.
Book 2 in the Remote Series takes Cassie Reynold and Ronnie Gilmore deeper into their romance and deeper into the world of psychic espionage. Combining the elements of a psychic thriller with action, adventure, and romance, Fatal is a twisting trip with a stunning conclusion.
Excerpt
For a professional, it was a stupid way to die.
Lakeshore Drive wandered along the southern edge of Lake Ponchartrain, a long expanse of grass, open spaces, and scattered trees on one side and water on the other. Early mornings were peaceful, the wind gliding in off the lake stirred by a rising sun, an occasional runner along the levee that bordered the grass and the neighborhoods. The sun was just rising as Andre Kohl came down the street, found the Mardi Gras Fountain, and pulled in a parking spot. The spouting water of the fountain, lit by purple and gold lights at night, ran clear during the day. Kohl killed the engine, sat for a few seconds, and finally opened his door. The day was warm but tolerable, he thought, a far cry from the frigid air of Moscow. The breeze pushed at the remnants of heavy night air, made things almost pleasant, though the humidity weighed heavy and the coming summer day, laden with muggy weight, lingered somewhere around the edges.
Kohl crossed the street toward the lake, found a small bench perched a few feet away from the edge of the breakwater. The bench was wood and concrete and perfectly positioned to look out over the water. A series of stone steps led down to the water itself, a miles-long structure that ran the entire northern length of Lakeshore Drive. The area was land reclaimed from Lake Ponchartrain though Kohl didn’t know that, a massive project that gave New Orleans work and jobs when times were bad. It also gave New Orleans a series of upper class neighborhoods filled with lawyers and politicians and businessmen that could almost, but not quite, claim to live on waterfront property. Kohl had the area to himself right now, the only other presence the occasional car passing slowly with an early morning commuter taking the long way to work, or maybe a night worker taking the scenic way home. The coming weekend would be different. By Friday night, the shoreline would begin to attract families laying out crab nets, beer drinkers, and teenagers cruising for friends. Early on a weekday morning though, Lakeshore Drive came close to country living.
His instructions were to come alone. The girl was quite specific about that point. Kohl considered the possibilities, analyzed the odds, and discarded the option. He had two men missing already and couldn’t afford to take any chances. He sat and waited and wondered. Five minutes after his arrival, a small silver car appeared and parked a block down from his own. A man in a business suit got out cradling a cup of convenience store coffee in a Styrofoam cup, walked to a bench by the fountain and opened a newspaper. Too old. He paid no attention to Kohl and Kohl paid no further attention to him. He checked his watch. Fifteen minutes. A boat cut through the calm water a ways out, the wake finding its way to the stone steps a minute later, lapping at the edges. Kohl sat sideways on the bench, one leg stretched out, and watched the traffic, an easy task since there was little to none. The boat was more interesting and he watched as it made a long winding turn and settled in seventy-five yards offshore. The driver, or captain he supposed, killed the engine and let it drift. A minute later a fishing rod appeared. The water was calm. Kohl could see the splash as the lure broke the surface of the lake.
The lure was a shad rig and Cassie Reynold had it rigged with a small sinker but no bait. It settled slowly to the bottom. While she waited, she watched the man on the bench, the road, and the expanse of grass with the levee behind it. The wind carried sound away from her so she was left with her own thoughts and no distractions, which was good since her thoughts were distracting enough. She was a straightforward girl, direct and now she faced a decision, one of those decisions that made for life changing events. Run and hide or stay and fight?
To Andre Kohl, who had gambled more times than he cared to remember in a career made of dangerous situations, calculating odds was second nature. Instinct told him this gamble was worth it. He was convinced of it, though the events of the night before gave him pause. The fact that he had men come up missing only reinforced his instinct. Yet the exact nature of what his targets were doing eluded him. Research? Testing? If he only knew what he was dealing with he could make better decisions. Information, always information, too much too little and none of it clear, he thought. Perhaps today he would find out what he wanted to know. He lit a cigarette, an American Marlboro, and watched the boat on the water until the sound of tires on pavement caught his attention. Another car slowed and turned into a parking spot across the road. A woman got out carrying a small dog, the wrong woman. She attached a leash and walked off into the grass on the levee side of the street. Further down, a young man in a baseball uniform made his way along the levee, carrying a bat bag across his shoulder. The situation was almost perfect for his plans. Had he been the instigator of this meeting, he would have chosen a much more populated spot, an area where there would be witnesses, a crowded restaurant maybe or a tourist spot, somewhere that offered protection. Here, there would be no interference and a growing sense of satisfaction left him feeling pleased with his decision. Perhaps it was too perfect, he thought, and once more carefully scanned his surroundings.
Fight or flight was an ingrained human instinct, Cassie knew, or had at least heard in one of her psychology classes. The human animal is geared to do one or the other, an automatic reaction to sudden threats. But what if the threats weren’t sudden? What if you saw them coming from a long way off, dreamed of them, saw them in visions, anticipated them every morning upon waking? What if the fight or flight response wasn’t a sudden and uncontrolled event but rather a reaction agonized over and contemplated through countless hours? If you chose flight, were you a coward? What if flight meant unimaginable loss, the abandonment of everything and everyone you knew? What if choosing to fight meant the same thing and more, maybe unimaginable loss? Even worse, what if the choice to fight meant you had to embrace something within yourself that you hated but knew might be your only chance of survival?
Decision time. Cassie turned her face into the wind and closed her eyes, hoping for something, a sign from somewhere, God or nature or whoever. It didn’t come, it never came, and Cassie turned inward, adjusted her hat over the tightly packed waves of hair. Her lure came up empty. She went forward and started the engine.
Kohl watched as the fisherman reeled in his empty line, cranked the outboard, and began a slow idle toward land, idling in to a point a hundred yards west of the bench. The lure hit the water again and this time the pole went into a fixture on the back of the boat, trailing behind in a languid troll. He checked his watch again. Five minutes. The road was deserted. The man in the business suit folded his newspaper under his arm, tossing his empty coffee cup in a wastebasket as he headed back to his car. The boat idled in closer to the stone steps and turned east toward Kohl, who suddenly envied the man. A day on the water with no business to attend to seemed a simple thing, but it was a simple thing Kohl had never been able to enjoy, at least for the last two decades of his life. He watched as the man reeled the line in from behind the boat, fiddled with the lure, tossed it back, and adjusted the steering, running parallel with the breakwater. Fifty yards away the engine cut off. The boat continued along, carried by momentum. Thirty yards away the fisherman lifted the engine cover and disappeared behind it, checking oil or water or maybe a strange sound. Kohl looked at his watch. Time. Still no traffic, no sign of his target. Perhaps this was a useless effort. Across the street, the woman and her dog went from tree to tree, the dog marking territory with admirable persistence. Kohl turned back to the water, saw the boat drifting closer to shore. The engine cover was still up and Kohl could see the top of the man’s cap moving around in the gap. At ten yards away, Cassie Reynold stood up, pulled off the fishing cap, pointed the .38 directly at Kohl’s chest, and pulled the trigger twice.
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