sunnyislandbreezes.com

A thin flicker of flame licked the blue enamel coffeepot as Jefferson Sharp stirred life into the embers of last night’s campfire. He broke his morning stare and cocked his head as a shiver brought him fully awake. The herd was moving, shuffling uneasily through the wooly ground fog. Somewhere off in the predawn darkness, a mechanical whine spooled up, echoing across the ranchlands of the Rafter B. He shot a glance at the small oak where he’d tied Dollar the night before. The buckskin quarter horse flicked his ears and danced at the end of the lead rope, pulling the branch with him.

“Easy, fella.” Sharp tried to calm them both, but Dollar pranced and threw his head. To the west, the whine increased in volume, and the morning mist glowed with enough purple light that Sharp could make out the terrain through the patchy fog. Whatever had the livestock spooked was just beyond a small rise.

Sharp buckled on his gun belt, and his hand found his Colt. Not the six-shooting cowboy revolver of Gentry Ferguson’s King of the West movies, but a well-used Army issue .45 automatic that had followed him home from the European theater.

All through that war, Sharp had explained that, yes, he was from Texas, but that didn’t make him a cowboy. He’d walked the beat as a cop before the war—didn’t own a horse, have a ranch, or ever slept out under the stars or tended cattle. So naturally, here he was two years later, camped out on a ranch with a borrowed horse, guarding cows.

He patted Dollar’s shoulder as if that would settle the horse, then hiked up the hill in the low crouch that had been driven into him on too many mornings in the infantry.

When he was two steps up the hill, the earth rumbled with the tremor of aggravated shorthorns thundering away from the noise and light. Sharp had been a special ranger for the Fort Worth and Western Stockmen’s Association since the war, but he’d yet to be involved in a stampede.

Of course, it had to happen now, he thought. Before sunup. In the fog.

He had no place to hide as dozens of terrified red cattle came bellowing over the rise. He scrambled back to the campsite. He could see the white faces on the lead pair of Herefords when he yanked the Colt off his hip and fired twice into the air. The startled cattle reeled and parted right and left at the gunfire, the herd splitting to flow past the campsite like a stream around a rock. Luck and the good Lord favored the ignorant.

Sharp shooed the last of the stragglers past as the adrenaline drained away. “That,” he said to the nickering quarter horse, “is enough excitement for today.”

The mysterious whine disagreed. Pulsing lights strobing red, purple, and golden orange rose from beyond the hill. The apparition moved over the ridgeline, and the fog glowed. Behind Sharp, Dollar screamed a whinny and reared, trying for all his might to pull the scrubby tree out of the ground. The branch cracked. Sharp dove for the lead rope and dug his heels into the damp earth before Dollar could bolt. Something was out there with the man and horse, and the smarter one of the pair wasn’t sticking around to find out what it was.

But the light show could move as well, and it did. The brilliant colors rotated in concert with the whine as it became a deafening howl. The hovering glow spun together into an intense white circle, levitated high over the hill, and disappeared into the morning fog. Instantly, the noise changed course and roared back over the camp. The lights flashed overhead, then vanished at incredible speed, leaving a dying echo and a breeze that moved the wisps of fog.

Sharp and Dollar stood frozen as whatever the hell it was blasted above them. They shared a look, and then the quarter horse went full rodeo, bucking, jumping, and twisting—anything to get out of this halter, off this rope, away from this tree, and back to the safety of the barn. Any barn.

It took five minutes of profanity and cajoling, but Sharp finally calmed down the panicked gelding. He took a good hold on the halter and led them back to the campsite. “Look, I don’t know what it is either, but I’m pretty damn sure it doesn’t eat horses for breakfast.”

Dollar’s wild eyes and flicking ears suggested that he was not convinced.

Sharp remembered that something else was out there. Sixtyfour head of cattle the Stockmen’s Association was paying him to keep track of. Now, they were scattered from here to Mingus, and he and Dollar would be all morning rounding them up.

***

Excerpt from Thunder Road by Colin Holmes. Copyright 2023 by Colin Holmes. Reproduced with permission from CamCat Books. All rights reserved.

This bloody war had taught me nothing was black and white… except perhaps a strong cup of tea with milk, when you could get it.

My mouth was parched, and my bottom bounced on the hard wooden bench I shared with Captain Clifford Douglas, my glorified chaperone. I glanced over at our carriage companions, Miss Kitty Lane—whom I’d known until a week ago as Eliza Baker—and a stranger who leaned against the wooden armrest, reading.

The Egyptian railway carriages were white wooden trollies. Nothing like the black iron horses back home. Deuced hot, too. The soot flooding in through the window was the same, though. British or Egyptian. It didn’t matter. We all choked on the same smoke.

As the carriage clacked along the tracks through the desert from Alexandria to Cairo, I distracted myself with Annie Pirie’s The Pyramids of Giza. Book in one hand, I held a lavender-scented handkerchief to my nose with the other.

Annie Pirie claimed it was under one of these grand pyramids that she’d met her future husband while they were both laid up with food poisoning. Having nursed soldiers suffering from that very same affliction back at Charing Cross Hospital, I didn’t find anything romantic about the squalls of salmonella.

Still, there was nothing like the vulnerability of the body to move the soul.

Why not fall in love over a bedpan?

After all, I’d met Archie Somersby when he was convalescing with a shot-up arm. He’d asked me to help him write a letter to his mother. So sweet. Writing to his mum.

My cheeks burned. Oh, Archie. Would I ever see him again? Did I want to see him again, now that I knew he was a government-sponsored assassin? When I closed my eyes, I could still smell his citrus cologne mixed with the lingering scent of Kenilworth cigarettes.

I dropped The Pyramids of Giza on the seat next to me and withdrew a fan from my purse. Even with the windows open, it was beastly hot, and the desert seemed to go on forever. Winter in Egypt was a far cry from the chilly dampness of London or the snow in New York.

No. I couldn’t allow myself to think of Archie. Dead or alive.

Instead, I looked out of the window.

Oblivious to the carriage’s shaking and clattering, with her legs stretched across the bench seat, Kitty had her nose buried in the latest issue of Vogue fashion magazine. Wearing dark glasses, a flowing pink chiffon skirt dotted with tiny roses, a white blouse with pearl buttons, and an adorable sailor hat, she looked the part of a fashion model herself.

Poppy, the girl’s Pekingese, had a pink ribbon in her topknot that matched her owner’s outfit perfectly. The furry nuisance sprawled across Clifford’s lap, her outstretched paw touching my knee. Only because the animal had rescued me from imprisonment in a loo on my last mission did I indulge her encroachment on my person.

Clifford was another matter. Indulging him often tried my patience. Captain Clifford Douglas had been sent along by the War Office to chaperone us, despite the fact I’d already completed four missions. And Kitty, well, for all I knew, she was an assassin in petticoats.

While engrossed in his hunting magazine and fantasies of killing, at least Clifford was quiet for a change.

“I say!” Clifford looked up from his magazine.

Blast. I knew it was too good to be true.

“Gezira Sporting Club has fox hunts with English hounds.” Clifford beamed. “Do you ladies fancy a hunt?”

My eyes met Kitty’s and we both laughed.

“We’re not in Arabia for sports.” I scolded him. “Hunting.” I gestured from Clifford to Kitty. “Fashion… You’d think we were on holiday instead of…” I glanced over at the stranger in our compartment. “Instead of on business.”

If it hadn’t been for the stranger sharing our compartment, I would have chastised my companions. While I was busy preparing for our mission by studying guidebooks, they were faffing about with pretty dresses, gruesome blood sports, and fussing over a spoiled little dog.

“You can tell our priorities by our reading material.” I held up my book. “Mine is written by a scholar and a lady explorer.” I nodded for emphasis. “She—”

“If you want to get to know a people,” the stranger interrupted, “study their poetry.”

I sat blinking at him. His English was heavily accented, but I didn’t recognize the accent. And yet there was something familiar about his voice.

“You must read Hafez Ibrahim, poet of the Nile.” The stranger opened both his hands in offering. He clasped his hands together in prayer.

“Do I know you, sir?” Clifford dislodged the pipe from his mouth.

There was something uncanny about the man. I too had the uneasy sense of déjà vu.

“You don’t even know yourself,” the stranger scoffed. “If you English can’t make yourselves welcome with arrogant promises of freedom, you resort to armored tanks and Vickers machine guns.” His mustaches quivered.

“Well, I say,” Clifford huffed. “No need to be rude.” He tugged on the bottom of his jacket. Good old reliable Clifford. Quick to defend king and country… and any women within a twenty-mile radius.

“Those hunting hounds were brought here to fulfill your countrymen’s desire to turn every place into their homeland.” When the stranger waved his arms, the loose sleeve of his jacket danced a frenetic jig. “They died from the heat.” His dark eyes flashed. “Let that be a lesson to you.”

“Look here, whoever you are.” Clifford stood up. “This is no way to talk in front of the ladies.”

Good heavens. I hoped Clifford didn’t do something stupid like challenge this fellow to a duel or punch him in the nose.

The carriage swayed and Clifford fell back onto the seat, nearly landing in my lap.

“Now, now.” I patted Clifford’s arm. “The ladies can defend themselves, thank you.”

The stranger held up his book. “Here, you must learn Arabic if you want to do anything but see yourselves reflected in a mirror of your own hubris.” He stood up. “Since Egypt was occupied by the French before the English, you’ll get by passably well with French.” He opened the door to the compartment. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I, too, have work in Cairo.”

As he crossed the threshold, a folded paper fell out of his book.

I reached down and picked it up. The paper was heavy and thick.

“You dropped something,” I said to the closed door.

The stranger had vanished.

“What is it?” Kitty said.

“I say.” Clifford snatched it from my hands and snapped it open. “Why, it’s a map!”

“Heavens.” I gazed down at it. “Not just any map.” I grabbed it back.

A map of the Suez Canal. Marked with a big black X.?

***

Excerpt from Covert in Cairo by Kelly Oliver. Copyright 2023 by Kelly Oliver. Reproduced with permission from Kelly Oliver. All rights reserved.

1

Francis

I ambush her as she’s coming out of Starbucks, a mega-size coffee cup in one hand, her phone in the other.

“Know who I am?” I say.

She’s confused. Or embarrassed. Like when you have no idea who someone is but you don’t admit it because you think you should.

“Noooo. I don’t think so,” she says, wrinkling her brow and cocking her head, like she’s giving it serious thought. “Should I? Have we met before?” she adds, shifting her weight to her back foot in an unconscious move to put a little distance between us.

This chick doesn’t know me yet, but she will.

It’s early Sunday morning. A typical late spring day in L.A. West Hollywood. The temp’s hovering in the mid-70s. This won’t hold for long. We’re in the middle of a heatwave and they’re predicting the low 90s by mid-afternoon. Above us, there’s that familiar low-hanging ceiling of grey cloud-cover they say will burn off by noon. They swear it always does. They even have a name for it. The June Gloom. Maybe all months should come with a warning label. I mean, life’s already full of enough surprises, right?

Other than a few people out for an early run, or picking up breakfast, the sidewalk is empty. Except for the two of us.

She looks like she’s in her mid to late twenties. But I know she’s older than that. Closer to thirty-five. She isn’t as pretty as I’d imagined. It’s probably the voice that throws me off. Soft. Sweet. Seductive. A sexy, midnight radio voice. Or one of those sex line phone voices. The kind of voice that makes promises without actually promising anything. And any promises made she has no intention of keeping. Not that she’s a dog. Not by a long shot. It’s just that she isn’t going to win any beauty contests. Not here. Not in L.A. where good-looking chicks fall from palm trees like coconuts. Third, fourth runner-up, maybe. First place? Not a chance. Her looks don’t quite fit with her voice. Still, there’s something very sexy about her. Not hard-on sexy. But sexy enough so you can’t help but wonder what she looks like on the beach, in a bikini.

But it’s more than just the voice. Maybe it’s the short, blonde hair which gives her a pixie look. Maybe it’s the face. A mishmash of sharp angles. A nose that looks like it’s been broken—if she were a guy you might guess in a barroom brawl—tilting slightly to one side. Like that Ellen Barkin chick. Her skin is lightly tanned and smooth. She has a slight overbite. High cheekbones. Makes me think of those Picasso paintings. But in a good way. Maybe it’s the tight, faded black jeans, stylishly frayed just below the knees. Or the sky-blue Rolling Stones T-shirt with the image of a giant red tongue unfurled. Maybe it’s because she isn’t wearing a bra. Maybe it’s because she’s confident enough to wear no make-up to cover up the freckles scattered haphazardly across her cheeks and nose. Do not, under any circumstances, underestimate confidence. It’s a definite turn-on.

Whatever it is, it works.

This isn’t a pick-up. Or a stick-up. This is business. More than business, actually. Curiosity. No. More than that. Self-preservation. But there’s always that promise, like her voice, that it might turn into something else.

She doesn’t recognize me because we’ve never met. But recently our lives have unexpectedly intertwined. Her doing, not mine.

“Trust me. If you’d have met me, you wouldn’t forget me.”

“Really? Why’s that?” she asks, cocking her head to the other side, as she slowly turns her coffee cup away from me. I know why she’s doing it and I’m impressed. She’s got a quick mind. The barista has scribbled her name on it in black magic marker. This is the kind of information, assuming I don’t already have it, she would not want me to have.

I’m starting to make her nervous. I can see it in her eyes. They swivel wildly in their sockets like she’s some kind of whacky cartoon figure. She’s a couple, three inches taller than me, but that doesn’t give her the kind of advantage height sometimes offers. I should know. I’m small of stature. I claim five-four, but I might be lying. Or exaggerating. Take your pick. It’s not a handicap. Never has been. It works for me. Always has. It’s been a long time since anyone’s tried to take advantage of me because of my size. A long, fucking time.

“Maybe it’s the baseball cap. It kinda of hides your face,” she says, straining to figure me out. Am I harmless? Is she in danger? Should she dial 9-1-1? Should she turn tail and head back into the relative safety of Starbucks?

I take it off in one swift, flowing motion and wave it across my body. The only thing missing is me bending forward in a bow. Like the Japs do.

“Better?”

She shakes her head. I put the hat back on.

“Maybe the sunglasses?” she says.

“Let’s see,” I say, as I slip them off.

I know what she’s doing. Making sure she gets a good look at me. Taking a mental snapshot of my face. Just in case later she has to describe me to the cops. It should make me feel like a specimen under glass, but it doesn’t. Actually, I’m enjoying the attention. Besides, by the time we’re finished she’ll know who I am and then she won’t have to describe me to anyone.

Even after all this she’s still baffled. I put my sunglasses back on and adjust my cap so it angles down slightly over my forehead.

It’s almost imperceptible, but she’s slowly inching away from me. Like she’s getting ready to bolt. She has that thin, athletic build of a runner. We have that in common. Maybe, if we get to know each other, we’ll run together. But no matter how fast she might be, I’ll leave her in the dust. Maybe it’s because you might say I run for a living. Maybe it’s because I’m always in excellent shape. Especially for someone flirting with his mid-forties. But it’s not just that. It’s more like I don’t take losing very well. I never hold back. That’s the real reason I never lose. Ever.

Her eyes dart back and forth as she slowly dips her right hand, the one holding her cell, into the black leather satchel dangling from her shoulder. Maybe she thinks I can’t see what she’s doing. She’d be wrong. I’ve trained myself to note every detail, every nuance. When I walk into a room, any room, I immediately know two things: where the exit is and exactly where everyone is standing. I’m a fucking living, breathing motion detector. It’s one of the things that makes me as good as I am at what I do. I doubt she has a serious weapon in there. Maybe pepper spray. Maybe a set of keys she’s been taught to use as a weapon in one of those self-defense classes for women. The key chain held tight in your fist. The keys poking out between your index and forefinger. A sudden thrust to an eye. If your aim is good, you can do some serious damage.

But neither of these things will do her any good. I’m much too quick. I’ll have hold of her wrist before she gets her hand out of her bag.

I smile, hoping this will lighten the mood. I don’t want her to think I’m a predator and she’s the prey.

Maybe she is. Maybe I am. But I don’t want her to think so. Not yet.

“I’m a memorable guy,” I say, smiling. I’ve been told I’ve got a killer smile. They say it makes me look very approachable. This can be a good thing. A very good thing. I inject a dramatic pause. “What’s that expression? The Most Unforgettable Character You’ve Ever Met? That would be me.”

“You’re starting to frighten me a little,” she says, glancing over my left shoulder, then my right. Looking to see if anyone else is around. In case she needs help. She even looks back into Starbucks to see if anyone might be coming out. Someone who might rescue her. Though she can’t possibly know from what. Not yet.

Her right hand is frozen inside her purse. She isn’t quite ready to commit herself. There’s still time to defuse the situation.

“I’m not going to hurt you, if that’s what you’re afraid of,” I say, raising my hands, palms out, midway to my chest.

“I’m not afraid,” she says. Not very convincingly.

“Good. Because you haven’t seen my scary face yet.”

She starts to laugh, then realizes maybe I’m not trying to be funny. Hollywood is the land of weirdos and crackpots. She has no way of knowing I am not one of those.

“Then why are you acting so creepy?”

I shrug. “This is me, darlin’. It’s just the way I am. But I swear, I really am harmless. You sure you don’t know me?”

“Pretty sure,” she says, hesitatingly, like she thinks maybe she should know me but still can’t quite figure out why.

“Don’t worry,” I say, with a wink. “You will.”

***

Excerpt from Man on the Run by Charles Salzberg. Copyright 2023 by Charles Salzberg. Reproduced with permission from Charles Salzberg. All rights reserved.

CHAPTER ONE

Tyson’s Fitness and Health Club McLean, Virginia,
Sunday, June 12, 2005

Maggie Jenkins increased the pace on the treadmill, her auburn ponytail swaying like a pendulum with every step. She’d boosted her workout regimen over the past several months and the results showed—firm, muscular legs, a trim waist, and well-defined arms. Last fall, Roger had convinced her to join him at the gym. It’ll be good for you, he’d promised. Get you out of the house, get your mind off everything.

Everything. It was his catch-all word for what she’d been through.

The terrorist attacks. Zara. All the bloodshed.

An image of hundreds of terrified children flashed in her mind.

No! She upped the treadmill speed. The faster she ran—the more her body ached—the easier it was to fight off the memories. The gym had become her therapy, sweat her medication. After several months of intensive exercise, she’d begun to sleep better. The nightmares came less often. But every now and then, like last night, the images crept into her dreams and she woke in a cold sweat, stomach churning, pulse pounding. She knew what had triggered it: the hearing on Capitol Hill about the school siege.

Nearby, a man hopped off a stationary bike, grabbed a remote control from the weight rack, and jacked up the volume on the television hanging on the wall. Maggie shot him a look in the mirror, but he didn’t notice, absorbed as he was in the breaking news blaring from the TV.

She snatched her headphones and MP3 player from the treadmill console. Volume cranked, the lyrics from “Refugee” filled her ears. The man stood, staring up at the TV. Maggie squinted to read the graphic scrolling across the bottom of the screen.

terrorist issues threat.

Now what? Another Bin Laden missive from some cave in Afghanistan? She didn’t want to think about work on her day off. The latest violence and mayhem, whether domestic or international, could wait. In a few weeks, she’d be headed to the beach for a getaway with Roger. After the gym, she planned to go shopping. A new bathing suit, sandals, and a sundress or two were in order. Thoughts of the trip were interrupted by movement on her left. Several more people had abandoned their workouts and gathered in front of the TV. She tugged out an earphone and caught the anchor mid-sentence.

“—videoed in what British authorities say was his former residence in London.”

The screen filled with the image of an upholstered chair standing before a vivid abstract painting hung on an otherwise blank white wall. The view darkened for a moment as someone in a blue shirt passed in front of the chair. The person turned and sat, his face level with the camera.

Maggie’s fingers punched frantically at the treadmill’s off button. She stumbled as it came to a sudden stop, sending her flying forward, her face missing the console by millimeters.

“You okay?” a male voice asked.

She regained her footing, her breath heavy, the weight on her chest suddenly unbearable. “Yeah,” she said without looking at him.

“Our brave and glorious martyrs have their reward in paradise. Those responsible for their deaths will be hunted down and executed.”

Behind the gaggle of people watching Imran Bukayev speak, Maggie’s knees went weak. Those responsible? He meant her. She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment before turning her attention back to Bukayev. This video was filmed inside his house, the one she’d broken into in London last year. She’d recognize that garish painting anywhere. And his olive skin and shock of graying black hair were unmistakable.

“Our work is not done. Your children are not safe. No enemy of Allah is safe. Our valiant soldiers are in place and ready to strike again at my command.”

Maggie tried to make sense of it. Bukayev wasn’t in London anymore. He must’ve filmed this video after the school attack but before he’d fled. Now, nearly nine months later, the Brits had no idea where he was. Neither did she, despite her spending the better part of every day at Langley trying to track him down.

“I dare him to try something again,” one man said, his voice full of bravado.

Sweat coursed down Maggie’s face. She steadied herself with one hand on the treadmill rail. The news anchor was speaking, but she couldn’t hear him, not with the ringing in her ears. Roger! She had to call Roger. Deep breath. Calm down. Her lungs felt full, her heart about to burst.

“Is this yours?” A woman’s voice cut through the noise in her head.

Maggie blinked. A petite blonde with a bright smile extended her hand, Maggie’s headphones and MP3 player resting on her palm.

“Yeah, thanks.” Maggie studied the woman for a moment. Something about her seemed familiar.

“You sure?”

Maggie nodded, snatched her phone and water bottle from the treadmill console, and hurried for the locker room. Inside, she slumped onto a wooden bench set across from a row of lockers. After taking a swig of water and counting backward from twenty, she flipped open the phone.

“Roger? Did you see the news? It’s Bukayev. I think he’s coming for me.”

***

Excerpt from The Wayward Target by Susan Ouellette. Copyright 2023 by Susan Ouellette. Reproduced with permission from CamCat Publishing. All rights reserved.