Here is an excerpt from part of the first chapter of my spy thriller Aeron.
Aeron: Lycra Man
A pale waxing gibbous moon hung low above the Indian Ocean. It and the Southern Cross were partly hidden by haze from the grass fire to the north of Perth that had only just been stopped from destroying houses. A flea-ridden, wild tom miaowed fiercely. It watched from its perch on a red tiled roof as a black human shape cut through a fly screen on the house next door and reached in to wind open the laundry window. The dusty half-forgotten bottles of detergent and Cuddly on the tiled window ledge were removed and stacked carefully on top of a green SULO bin.
A quick burst of LED flash revealed other potential alarms. The washing machine lid was open and there was an upturned laundry basket lying on the floor under the window. These negotiated, the shape slid through the open door and into the kitchen and then took a left turn past the dining room along the corridor to the master bedroom. The shape’s rubber soles made no noise on the dark ceramic tiles.
The shape paused for two full minutes at the door, intermittently lit by the blue flashing LED of the smoke alarm.
The shape would have preferred to use his RDS tactical silencer on a model 19 Glock with a 26 Storm Lake threaded barrel. He hadn’t had a chance to use it yet, and might never have. He’d only just bought it from a bloke he’d met at a pub. Who knows where the bloke got it from? But the Boss had insisted on a knife with as much blood on the sheets as possible. In a few hours the shape thought it could be on the beach where the big women hang out.
The victim breathed softly, in deep sleep. He was alone on the right hand side of the Queen sized bed facing away from the shape. It drifted silently, along the base of the bed and round to the left. Two more steps and the knife could slice open both carotid arteries.
The shape hardly saw the foot that smashed into his lower ribs, piercing the spleen. The shape’s right ulnar nerve sent fierce pins and needles down to the hand as it cracked against the window frame. The dropped knife had not yet reached the carpet when a second kick crushed the shape’s larynx.
Breathing stopped. Pain slowly descended into blackness. So much for the beach.
Excerpt From: Peter Garcia-Webb. “Aeron.”