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Deadly Walkabout: Blood Relations, #2
Deadly Walkabout: Blood Relations, #2
Deadly Walkabout: Blood Relations, #2
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Deadly Walkabout: Blood Relations, #2

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Series: Few challenges prove more nettlesome than a change in family business leadership, especially when the family business is murder-for-hire.

The Carrullo Family is in transition: Father-in-law, family patriarch, lead assassin, is giving way to his new son-in-law. Dad has carried forward the artistry he learned from his father. His new son-in-law was a former special forces operator and sniper in the armed forces trained in speed, stealth, and function.

Four generations living in the same household from the oldest, "Nana," to the recent newborns--all of whom are involved in the family business. Some by choice. Some not.

This Book: Logan Bell accepts a contract assassination believing it originates from one of the U.S. organized crime families. Unbeknownst to him, the CIA has coopted the method by which these contracts are communicated, and the order has actually come from the CIA instead. The CIA has ordered the hit as a favor to the U.K.'s famed MI-6. And, if that's not unusual enough, MI-6 undertook

the ask as a favor to a member of the Royal Family.

When the deed is done, everyone appears to get what he sought. A prominent member of the Royal Family has repaid a debt to an old friend. MI-6 facilitated the request without having to get involved. And, the CIA has demonstrated it can command a highly trained assassin without his being any the wiser.

But what does Logan Bell receive in this bargain while still in London? He's forced to flee London believing the Russian mob wants him dead. Both Logan and his sister escape to the country into the rural Cotswolds hoping to disappear in plain sight. Unfortunately, there are others who have something else in mind for them entirely.

LanguageEnglish
PublisherHoward Weiner
Release dateOct 1, 2018
ISBN9780999861998
Deadly Walkabout: Blood Relations, #2
Author

Howard Weiner

Howard Weiner is a recent addition to the literary genre of fiction. Writing mysteries, thrillers, crimes—with a touch of romance—an approach described by one reader as “one bubble off.” Many authors sharing the genre have characters whose fortune is determined by others. They literally have dodged the bullet that otherwise would have killed them. Weiner’s characters make their own fortune—good or bad—and they live with the results. Weiner’s own experiences are blessed with no small number of noteworthy characters and events. He brings these slightly off-kilter individuals to life, complete with their own stories and dramas. Like the child prodigy in his first novel, It Is Las Vegas After All, who comes to the starting edge of adulthood and then loses the approval of his doting parents, the sponsorship of one of America’s great institutions of higher education, and gains the enmity of his girlfriend’s father—an international arms dealer—to become a home-grown terrorist operating on U.S. soil. A survivor of rich, nuanced bureaucracies in the public and private sector, Weiner writes about characters whose career choices and decisions are morally questionable. A student of personal behavior in complex circumstances, Weiner brings these often cringe-worthy characters to life. Some are amoral, others immoral in a narrow slice of their lives, yet they otherwise look and act like people we all know from work or even childhood. Like one of the female leads in his novel, Serendipity Opportunity, an out-of-the-box thinker who flunks most of life’s basic relationship tests, yet she is someone you never want pursuing you in the cause of justice. There’s a former foreign security official who uses his protected status as a witness for federal prosecutors to provide cover for his own mayhem and murder in Weiner’s third novel, Bad Money. Many of Weiner’s stories are born out of real life events: The mix-up in luggage claim at the airport in, Bad Money, the chronic high school slacker in Serendipity Opportunity whose one stroke of good fortune creates his opportunity to perpetrate a complex series of frauds, or the brilliant student in It Is Las Vegas After All who uses his prodigious talents toward an evil end.

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    Book preview

    Deadly Walkabout - Howard Weiner

    Picture 6

    DEADLY WALKABOUT

    Howard D. Weiner

    Copyright

    DEADLY WALKABOUT. Copyright ©2018 by Howard D. Weiner. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the publisher/copyright owner except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, please contact Howard D. Weiner, 11441 Allerton Park Drive, Unit 213, Las Vegas, NV 89135.

    Library of Congress Control Number: 2018910331

    ISBN: 978-1-720209850 (paperback, Amazon)

    ISBN: 978-0-9998619-9-8 (ebook)

    ASIN: B07HJD6XP7

    Cover design by selfpubbookcovers.com/RLSather

    Edited by Wendy F. Weiner

    Deadly Walkabout is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

    Version_1.1

    Books by Howard Weiner

    FICTION

    THE TRIPLE PLAY NOVELS

    It Is Las Vegas After All¹

    Serendipity Opportunity

    The Big Lowandowski

    HAIR ON FIRE NOVELS

    Bad Money

    THE BLOOD RELATIONS NOVELS

    One for the Price of Two

    Deadly Walkabout¹

    If At First

    Tell Me No Secrets, I’ll Tell You No Lies

    White in the Wind

    SPILLED INK NOVELS

    Suspect Genes

    ¹Also available on audiobook

    Dedication

    To Sandi, if I get my way there will be

    no place you can hide.

    Contents

    Copyright

    Books by Howard Weiner

    Dedication

    Contents

    PROLOGUE

    Chapter 1

    Chapter 2

    Chapter 3

    Chapter 4

    Chapter 5

    Chapter 6

    Chapter 7

    Chapter 8

    Chapter 9

    Chapter 10

    Chapter 11

    Chapter 12

    Chapter 13

    Chapter 14

    Chapter 15

    Chapter 16

    Chapter 17

    Chapter 18

    Chapter 19

    Chapter 20

    Chapter 21

    Chapter 22

    Chapter 23

    Chapter 24

    Chapter 25

    Chapter 26

    Chapter 27

    Chapter28

    Chapter 29

    Chapter 30

    Chapter 31

    Chapter 32

    Chapter 33

    Chapter 34

    Chapter35

    Chapter 36

    Chapter 37

    Chapter 38

    Chapter 39

    Chapter 40

    Chapter 41

    Chapter 42

    Chapter 43

    Chapter 44

    Chapter 45

    Chapter 46

    Chapter 47

    Chapter 48

    Chapter 49

    Chapter 50

    Chapter 51

    Chapter 52

    Chapter 53

    Chapter 54

    Chapter 55

    Chapter 56

    Chapter 57

    AUTHOR’S NOTE

    YET ANOTHER AUTHOR’S NOTE

    PROLOGUE

    *** TS/SCI – NOFORN ***

    Foreign caller intercept captured by NSA, under current authorities in law.

    Domestic caller capture permitted due to the call’s foreign point of origination,

    also under current authorities in law.

    Date of Capture :

    Time of Capture : GMT+2 (GMT-5)

    Origin of Call : +39 Catania, Sicily, IT

    Catania-Fontanarossa Airport

    Respondent : Mobile, Southern Mississippi, USA

    Agency Ref Nbr :

    Distribution List : NDI, CIA, HS, FBI

    =====================================================

    EXCERPT FOLLOWS:

    Foreign (IT) Caller: That’s how they do it?

    Domestic Respondent: Sì.

    Foreign (IT) Caller: And they meet at this place with specifics?

    Domestic Respondent: Sì.

    Foreign (IT) Caller: You’ll send me the banking info?

    Domestic Respondent: Sì.

    Foreign (IT) Caller: I’ll let the Don know of your assistance.

    Domestic Respondent: Grazie, in bocca al lupo.

    Foreign (IT) Caller: Stammi bene.

    END OF EXCERPT

    Chapter 1

    M

    Y MEMBERSHIP IN THE upper class is undeniable.

    Of course my driver stopped the car at St. Ermin’s entrance. Of course he held open the car door for my exit. And, of course he shielded me from the rain by holding an umbrella over my head. I dictate the pace with which we alight the small flight of steps and into the hotel lobby.

    I’m certain my household owns an umbrella. Probably many of them. But I wouldn’t have the slightest idea where they’re located. Nor should I. I have staff for such matters, such as my driver.

    Imagine my surprise when that passing older woman managed to poke me in the ankle with her umbrella. Worse yet was her apology, Pardon my carelessness. My brolly seems to have a mind of its own.

    Brolly! Imagine the lack of precision calling an umbrella a brolly.

    My granddaughter, Evelynne, finds my view of the world a hoot. That’s her word for it: hoot. Certainly not a word in my lexicon. Yet, I forgive her this sloppy word choice, because Evelynne is my only issue, or issue of my issue, that’s worth a hoot. Her father, my son, has spent the most recent years of his life waiting for me to die. No one could ever accuse him of working too hard to advance the family enterprise. Enjoying the fruits of his disabled father’s industry and foresight, yes. Making his own mark on the business, no.

    So, I surveyed my children and their children to select a worthy heir and successor. Evelynne is my choice and her father’s disappointment with my course of action is the font of his unhappiness. As Evelynne might say, I don’t give a hoot.

    Only Evelynne was permitted access to my collection of fine millinery. My own daughters learned at an early age never to dress up in their mother’s clothing, to try on her jewelry. These were considered unforgivable acts of personal trespass. Fortunately, the fashion tastes and preferences from one generation to the next made any fear of my daughters’ appropriating my personal effects so unlikely that I need not have worried. For Evelynne, however, my very period tastes were also hers. She found all of my personal effects a hoot—that word, again—and who was I to forbid her access? That was especially the case with my hats, or as her generation now refers to them, fascinators.

    If only her taste in men mirrored my own. But I digress.

    My very first visit to St. Ermin’s Hotel was during the war. My mother, whom it is said I am much alike, saw no reason to give Mr. Hitler the satisfaction of depriving her of her high tea. On a day much like today, overcast, rain, we were transported by our family’s retainer to this hotel.

    Of course we dressed appropriately. My mother expected no less from our governess, and I had no interest in disappointing my mother. Truth be told, the only deviation from our normal afternoon attire was the addition of white gloves, and because of the special occasion, a trip to the millinery several days earlier provided me with my very first hat suitable for a young woman of my station.

    Two things happened that day. First, my lifelong love affair with hats began. Second, I met my future husband, Warren Ledbetter.

    That day at St. Ermin’s I watched Warren Ledbedder cut a dashing figure in his military uniform as he made his way into the hotel’s Caxton Grill. On that morning I could think of nothing other than high tea with mother at St. Ermin’s. Afterward, my thoughts were dedicated to Warren Ledbetter. I was besotted.

    Warren’s father was the Earl of Coventry. Warren, the second son, was spared the early expectations of an heir. His family endorsed his enlistment in the Royal Army during the War, and his degree from Cambridge yielded his appointment as an officer.

    At the time, it wasn’t general knowledge that Mr. Churchill’s secret intelligence service occupied the two top floors of St. Ermin’s Hotel. Lieutenant Ledbedder was recently returned from a mission behind enemy lines in France. His lunch date with his superior in the Caxton Grill seemed very ordinary to anyone who bothered to notice.

    My Warren spoke fluent French and German, the beneficiary of tutors and a private education on his father’s estate. He had a knack for mathematics and a keen interest in the supply lines of the German Army then occupying France.

    Much to his father’s dismay, Warren volunteered to parachute into France where his observations of men and material removed him from his family’s oversight. When Warren’s older brother died in a car accident, the Earl had a private word with Mr. Churchill, and the remainder of Warren’s efforts on behalf of his country were limited to St. Ermin’s Hotel.

    So began my own campaign I conducted with a ruthless efficiency even Mr. Churchill would have admired. Six months later, we were engaged. One year subsequent, we were wed. It took another two years for the war to end. Not that I noticed. My one campaign was such a success that I was little interested in anything other than my new husband. England had its victory and I was the wife of the future Earl of Coventry. One day to become the Countess of Coventry, Lady Ledbedder.

    My father-in-law lived a full life until his passing at age 86. That left Warren with the unenviable task of deciding what to do to occupy the middle part of his own life. With his knowledge of France, Germany, and Belgium, his proficiency in language and mathematics, he was positioned to establish freight delivery services on the continent following the war. Of course, the fact that he was the next Earl of Coventry established his bona fides with the City of London. It was important to Warren that he obtain his own financing for this bold, risky endeavor rather than rely upon his father.

    Today my dearest Warren is a recluse who sits in our garden watching the birds. Since his stroke ten years ago, he’s been unable to give voice to his brilliant ideas. I run the firm where I spend most of my time limiting the damage our son Teddy can inflict on his father’s masterpiece. It’s Evelynne who is our firm’s and family’s future. I have done whatever I believed necessary to confine Teddy to a very small corner of our world.

    Teddy is such a disappointment embodying the absolute worst of a life of privilege. The best schools, all the right introductions. Regrettably, he has applied those advantages to a lifetime of indiscreet behavior and profligacy. Such a waste. A criminal shame. That’s why I raised Evelynne and groomed her to become my successor.

    I keep Teddy in a paddock on a very short rein where his activities are limited to acting as the firm’s brand ambassador—that was Evelynne’s brilliant idea—and a series of charities where he serves as patron: A collection of duties designed more for appearance than substance.

    And yet, Teddy was wily enough to prevail upon His Majesty, Prince Charles, to be awarded an MBE. I countered by prevailing on Her Majesty to award Evelynne the OBE. The fact his daughter now outranks him in social honors has done substantial damage to our relationship. Just as well. I’ve had enough of Teddy. A horrible thing to say about one’s own child, but there it is.

    ⁑ ⁑ ⁑

    LADY LEDBEDDER, the head waiter of the Caxton Grill addressed the Countess. We set our watches by your Wednesday lunch meetings.

    Jeffrey, what a thoughtful observation. You make me feel like an institution.

    Oh, but you are—especially here at St. Ermin’s and the British empire, I presume.

    You must watch those presumptions, Jeffrey. They’ve been known to undo those far better than you or me, the meaning of the words a caution even if delivered as though a compliment.

    Has Mr. Sanderston arrived? she inquired.

    Regrettably, no, Lady Ledbedder, he has not. Mr. Sanderston called ahead to ask that we inform you he’s been delayed at your offices. He said you would understand.

    The brief frown on her face suggested she did not.

    In that case, please bring me a strong cup of tea. I’m suddenly very tired. Probably the miserable weather today.

    With the tea delivered and the Countess’s lunch order issued, Lady Ledbedder made her way to the Ladies WC to freshen up. The fatigue she noticed earlier had become more pronounced. It took a substantial effort to make her way from the table.

    Two older women followed the Countess. Without being asked, one of them helped her to a chair in front of the mirror.

    How did they know I required assistance? Wait! Why are they wearing latex gloves?

    She was struck by the similarity of the two companions. They were nearly identical—facial features, build, manner of dress, and even their gestures were uncannily similar.

    One withdrew a syringe from her purse. Bending over the Countess she deposited a thin line of some substance along the top of her bottom lip. Then briefly pressed both lips together.

    What are they nattering about? What is she doing to my lips? Why am I too fatigued to speak, to object? Why can I no longer move my lips, breathe through my mouth?

    The second woman produced a nasal atomizer. She squeezed two brief puffs of the contents—one into each of the Countess’s nostrils. She briefly pressed both nostrils holding them closed.

    Bloody Hell! Now I cannot breathe at all!

    Teddy says goodbye, the second woman whispered softly in her ear.

    Of course. Teddy. Won’t he be surprised when my solicitor reveals the contents of my Will.

    The first woman found the Countess’s calm demeanor a surprise. Surely she knows she’s dying, she observed.

    Part of her lack of concern is the catatonia produced by the umbrella stick, the second woman stated authoritatively. Plus, it probably isn’t a surprise that her son wants her gone.

    And then she was.

    What happens now? the first woman asked.

    The adhesive properties require the body’s ongoing metabolic functions, was the response.

    It stops working once she’s gone?

    Watch.

    Within seconds, the late Countess’s lips parted. Her pressed nostrils returned to their normal state.

    Place a fresh coat of lipstick on her lips, the second woman directed.

    The first woman produced a tube of lipstick following a quick rummage through the Countess’s handbag. After freshening the dead woman’s makeup, she allowed both parts of the open container to fall to the floor.

    The EMT’s will believe death was caused by a heart attack. No one will suspect asphyxiation. They’ll believe she was struck dead while reapplying her lipstick.

    Won’t anyone suspect foul play?

    If there’s an autopsy, they may notice the bloodshot eyes, the petechial hemorrhaging symptomatic of asphyxiation. But at her age, the lack of sleep, increased blood pressure from stress—lots of reasons to miss the true cause of death. She softly closed the Countess’s eye lids before continuing. They won’t find the usual markers of strangulation. No broken neck bones, no bruising, no ligatures—nothing too obvious to suggest foul play.

    Flushing their latex gloves down the toilet, both women exited the room and the hotel. Turning left at the street, they made their way to the St. James’s Park tube station where they boarded a District Line train heading west, one stop away, to Victoria Station.

    Victoria Station reminded the second woman of Times Square on New Year’s Eve. The old station was never designed to handle the large crowds common to the daily rush periods. People were queued up to enter and leave the station, step on or off the escalators, and especially the turnstiles metering riders onto or off of their trains.

    It was bedlam. Everyday bedlam and no one, even the tourists unaccustomed to the human crush, paid particular attention. So no one took notice as the two women threaded their way to the public toilets. And no one thought it odd they entered the room marked as a baby change station.

    A much younger man and woman exited the toilet area one at a time. Each carried a tightly packed, light-weight daypack common to hikers. They walked with the purpose and confidence typical of younger people as they made their way out of the train station and into the adjoining tube station.

    He took a Circle Line train headed west. She boarded an eastbound District Line train.

    ⁑ ⁑ ⁑

    HIS OFFICE WAS ONE of those prized by the younger, status-seeking employees of MI6. With the door open, he could gaze across the open bullpen area where he watched the group meeting in the large conference room.

    Protocol required drawing the window blinds closed for any meeting where conversations of a sensitive nature were involved. On this day, however, the room was occupied by a group of young Americans in the company of two older staffers from the CIA. He couldn’t hear the details of the presentation underway, or the questions asked by those in attendance. But he did note the video images cascading across the large video screens.

    The group was watching CCTV footage. Starting at St. Ermin’s Hotel. The live video images shifted to the nearby St. James’s Park tube station and from there to the westbound platform.

    At the outset, he wasn’t certain who was under surveillance. The courtyard at the hotel was filled with departing guests and those arriving for lunch or an early start to high tea.

    The next set of video images centered on the entrances to the nearby tube station at St. James’s Park, followed by imagery at the turnstiles leading to both train platforms.

    ⁑ ⁑ ⁑

    WILL THEY RETURN TO the hotel separately or together? asked the less distinguished looking of the two group leaders.

    Separately, one of the students responded.

    What about the backpacks?

    Gone. No trace.

    Will the packs be recovered? Will someone find one and under the rubric of ‘see something, say something’ notify the authorities?

    No, another student replied. They will gradually dispose of each item along their separate routes.

    Are you suggesting they’ll return to the hotel empty handed?

    No, the student continued. They’ll each be carrying some mix of tour brochures, cancelled admission tickets, maybe a souvenir or two for the trip home, and a receipt for each item purchased.

    Well, maybe, the group leader intoned. We won’t know until they return to the hotel.

    Small talk among the students temporarily took control of the meeting until the second group leader seized the mantle of leadership. What happens next? he asked.

    We cause the two subjects to flee the hotel. We force them to play our game.

    The other students concurred.

    Yes, good I guess, the second leader interjected, a touch of impatience just beneath the surface. But how?

    On this point, none of the students offered a suggestion. Silence conquered the group.

    We induce fear by one of two possibilities. First, we can take a direct approach by confrontation. Second, we can create the illusion of a threat without actually taking an adverse action. Which do you prefer? the leader prompted.

    We’re here as guests. We don’t want to do anything to place the goodwill of our colleagues in MI6 in jeopardy, a student suggested.

    True, but banal. Come now, after all those weeks of classroom education, all of the simulated exercises—surely you can think of something appropriate. The second leader’s patience was sorely tried.

    We can try to leverage off of an event that’s recently in the news?

    Finally, a suggestion the second leader could embrace.

    Very good. Let me make the following suggestion….

    ⁑ ⁑ ⁑

    IT WASN’T UNUSUAL FOR him to remain in his office at this late hour. The Americans having departed several hours earlier. Undoubtedly off to a pub and an introduction to the English pub games, like darts and trivial pursuit.

    He bid members of the smaller overnight detail an uneventful evening and made his way to the tube station. He stopped at his local Pret to pick over what few choices remained given the late hour and took a slightly longer walk home.

    Passing the schoolyard, he bent over to pick up something in his path. In truth, there was nothing to retrieve. The act was for show in case he was being followed—not unknown for senior managers in MI6. Earlier, he reached into his trench coat pocket palming an orange tennis ball that had seen better days.

    Making a rather ostentatious show of examining the tennis ball, he tossed it over the fence where it landed on the otherwise dark, empty court. Anyone watching would think little of the find and the act that followed. A poorly batted tennis ball, school property, having escaped over the fence was returned to the school to which it belonged. It was an act of institutional support by a community spirited public servant even if his family and neighbors had no idea what he really did for a living. A tail, on the other hand, especially one of the drones who periodically spied on the real spies, might be convinced.

    Across the street, a dim light spilled out of a second floor flat. Not a light in the room overlooking the tennis court, but from a room in the interior of the flat that leached into the adjoining rooms.

    He wants to meet, said

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