James Osborne
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And that’s just the start of their troubles—Paul has discovered the drug boss is having an affair with Anne’s mother. Then things get even worse… police forbid him from telling newly pregnant Anne about it, forcing Paul to break a solemn vow.
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Chapter One
Westland Place
London, UK
September 9, 1994
Life was good... really good!
Paul Winston hung up the phone and leaned back from his huge antique oak desk, a happy man.
Oh, wow! he thought. We’re pregnant! At last!
Affection and excitement coursed through his athletic body.
Paul turned his leather high-back chair to gaze at a picture on the wall beside his desk: their wedding, two and a half years earlier.
What a gorgeous bride you are, my lovely Anne! he thought, admiring his young wife dressed in her resplendent bridal gown.
Above the picture hung an aerial photo of the ranch in Colorado where he grew up. Beneath their wedding picture was a framed photo of his investiture three years earlier as Lord Paul Winston, the 12th Earl of Prescott.
His intercom buzzed.
“Excuse me, My Lord,” boomed the voice of Clementine Shackleford, his executive assistant. “There’s a young man here to see you. Won’t give his name. Doesn’t have an appointment. Shall I tell him to come back?”
American-born Paul chuckled to himself. His notion of protocol was more casual than his matronly executive assistant’s, once described by a visitor as ‘having the combativeness of a Sumo wrestler, merged with the heart of Florence Nightingale’.
He started to ask Ms. Shackleford to show the young man in when he heard her shout,
“Stop! You can’t go in there! Stop right now!”
A loud bang startled Paul. Experience left no doubt it was a gunshot.
Good Grief! he thought. I hope Mrs. Shackleford’s okay!
Paul leapt from his high-back chair and sprinted across the enormous office toward the door. Halfway there the door flew open. A young man rushed in. He pointed a handgun at Paul’s chest.
“Back up!” the intruder shouted.
“Easy now,” Paul said as he lifted his hands away from his body, open palms toward the intruder. “What can I do for you?”
“Where is it?” the gunman demanded.
“Where’s what?” Paul replied.
“The safe, asshole! I know there’s a bloody safe in here somewhere!” the intruder shouted. “Behind one of those pictures? Show me!”
The agitated young man waved his left hand toward more than a dozen portraits and landscapes that adorned the oak-paneled walls, some priceless, dating back centuries
“There’s no safe in here that I know of,” Paul replied.
He was surprised to see the young man’s dark brown eyes scan the oil paintings with appreciation.
Is this his first attempt at an armed robbery? Paul wondered.
He looked closer. The younger man, a head shorter, wore faded black jeans and a stained sweatshirt with a football (soccer) logo. His eyes darted around uneasily. The features were Middle Eastern, his long black hair unkept and overdue for a trim.
“It’s behind one of those, right?” the skinny young intruder demanded. “Show me or I’ll slice up every friggin’ one of them until I find it.”
He pulled out a combat knife and held it poised to slice something... or someone.
Paul stepped toward the nearest painting, an original sixteenth century portrait of King Henry VI. The gunman moved back warily. Paul could see the smaller man was intimidated by his height and fit two hundred pound physique. That was encouraging. He grabbed the sides of the portrait frame with both hands. It didn’t move.
“It’s secured to the wall, just like all the rest.”
Paul started toward to the next painting intending to do the same.
“I told you, show me the bloody safe!” the intruder repeated. “Hurry up, goddamnit!”
Paul sensed the gunman was feeling pressed for time.
Mounted on the wall beside that painting was a souvenir stone axe a First Nation friend from Canada had given Paul. The axe, called a temahikan, was a replica of axes used by the Algonquin peoples before Europeans began their colonization of North America.
Suddenly, Paul sensed movement behind him. He ducked and whirled, instinctively grabbing the intruder’s right hand with the gun. His attacker’s other hand held the combat knife with a razor-sharp blade.
Over his shoulder, Paul caught a glimpse of the knife streaking toward his lower back. He was off-balance, with just a split second to react.
In the outer office, Clementine Shackleford struggled to her knees. Her right arm would not respond properly to her wishes. She looked down at the searing pain in her right chest. A large bloodstain surrounded a hole in her dress.
My word, she thought. How am I ever going to fix that hole?
Realizing the irony of that thought helped keep her alert long enough to direct her attention to the security panic button on her desk. The middle-aged executive assistant managed to push the button with her left hand, and then felt herself losing consciousness. She fought hard but couldn’t stop the darkness from coming over her... that annoyed her to no end.
“Okay, fella,” Paul said, tightening a knot on the restraints while pressing his knee down firmly on the back of the gunman’s neck, forcing his face into the carpet. “This ought to hold you.”
The assailant was belly-down, his nose and mouth bleeding onto the deep pile of Paul’s beige carpet, arms tied behind his back and feet lashed together.
“Damn!” Paul said looking down at the blood smears. “That was a really nice carpet before you made such a mess of it.”
Moments earlier, he had realized just in time the intruder was about to stab him from behind with a combat knife. He’d caught the young man’s gun hand and forced it behind the intruder’s back sending the gun flying, allowing Paul to twist his body, seize the other hand and shake the knife loose. He’d leveraged the assailant’s arm into a hip-check, slamming the disarmed youngster’s face to the floor.
While kneeling on the stunned intruder’s back, Paul had removed the young man’s bootlaces and used them to bind his arms and feet.
“Lucky for me, I learned to wrestle calves on my parents’ ranch in Colorado,” Paul chuckled. “You picked the wrong guy, fella.”
Paul Winston hung up the phone and leaned back from his huge antique oak desk, a happy man.
Oh, wow! he thought. We’re pregnant! At last!
Affection and excitement coursed through his athletic body.
Paul turned his leather high-back chair to gaze at a picture on the wall beside his desk: their wedding, two and a half years earlier.
What a gorgeous bride you are, my lovely Anne! he thought, admiring his young wife dressed in her resplendent bridal gown.
Above the picture hung an aerial photo of the ranch in Colorado where he grew up. Beneath their wedding picture was a framed photo of his investiture three years earlier as Lord Paul Winston, the 12th Earl of Prescott.
His intercom buzzed.
“Excuse me, My Lord,” boomed the voice of Clementine Shackleford, his executive assistant. “There’s a young man here to see you. Won’t give his name. Doesn’t have an appointment. Shall I tell him to come back?”
American-born Paul chuckled to himself. His notion of protocol was more casual than his matronly executive assistant’s, once described by a visitor as ‘having the combativeness of a Sumo wrestler, merged with the heart of Florence Nightingale’.
He started to ask Ms. Shackleford to show the young man in when he heard her shout,
“Stop! You can’t go in there! Stop right now!”
A loud bang startled Paul. Experience left no doubt it was a gunshot.
Good Grief! he thought. I hope Mrs. Shackleford’s okay!
Paul leapt from his high-back chair and sprinted across the enormous office toward the door. Halfway there the door flew open. A young man rushed in. He pointed a handgun at Paul’s chest.
“Back up!” the intruder shouted.
“Easy now,” Paul said as he lifted his hands away from his body, open palms toward the intruder. “What can I do for you?”
“Where is it?” the gunman demanded.
“Where’s what?” Paul replied.
“The safe, asshole! I know there’s a bloody safe in here somewhere!” the intruder shouted. “Behind one of those pictures? Show me!”
The agitated young man waved his left hand toward more than a dozen portraits and landscapes that adorned the oak-paneled walls, some priceless, dating back centuries
“There’s no safe in here that I know of,” Paul replied.
He was surprised to see the young man’s dark brown eyes scan the oil paintings with appreciation.
Is this his first attempt at an armed robbery? Paul wondered.
He looked closer. The younger man, a head shorter, wore faded black jeans and a stained sweatshirt with a football (soccer) logo. His eyes darted around uneasily. The features were Middle Eastern, his long black hair unkept and overdue for a trim.
“It’s behind one of those, right?” the skinny young intruder demanded. “Show me or I’ll slice up every friggin’ one of them until I find it.”
He pulled out a combat knife and held it poised to slice something... or someone.
Paul stepped toward the nearest painting, an original sixteenth century portrait of King Henry VI. The gunman moved back warily. Paul could see the smaller man was intimidated by his height and fit two hundred pound physique. That was encouraging. He grabbed the sides of the portrait frame with both hands. It didn’t move.
“It’s secured to the wall, just like all the rest.”
Paul started toward to the next painting intending to do the same.
“I told you, show me the bloody safe!” the intruder repeated. “Hurry up, goddamnit!”
Paul sensed the gunman was feeling pressed for time.
Mounted on the wall beside that painting was a souvenir stone axe a First Nation friend from Canada had given Paul. The axe, called a temahikan, was a replica of axes used by the Algonquin peoples before Europeans began their colonization of North America.
Suddenly, Paul sensed movement behind him. He ducked and whirled, instinctively grabbing the intruder’s right hand with the gun. His attacker’s other hand held the combat knife with a razor-sharp blade.
Over his shoulder, Paul caught a glimpse of the knife streaking toward his lower back. He was off-balance, with just a split second to react.
*
In the outer office, Clementine Shackleford struggled to her knees. Her right arm would not respond properly to her wishes. She looked down at the searing pain in her right chest. A large bloodstain surrounded a hole in her dress.
My word, she thought. How am I ever going to fix that hole?
Realizing the irony of that thought helped keep her alert long enough to direct her attention to the security panic button on her desk. The middle-aged executive assistant managed to push the button with her left hand, and then felt herself losing consciousness. She fought hard but couldn’t stop the darkness from coming over her... that annoyed her to no end.
*
“Okay, fella,” Paul said, tightening a knot on the restraints while pressing his knee down firmly on the back of the gunman’s neck, forcing his face into the carpet. “This ought to hold you.”
The assailant was belly-down, his nose and mouth bleeding onto the deep pile of Paul’s beige carpet, arms tied behind his back and feet lashed together.
“Damn!” Paul said looking down at the blood smears. “That was a really nice carpet before you made such a mess of it.”
Moments earlier, he had realized just in time the intruder was about to stab him from behind with a combat knife. He’d caught the young man’s gun hand and forced it behind the intruder’s back sending the gun flying, allowing Paul to twist his body, seize the other hand and shake the knife loose. He’d leveraged the assailant’s arm into a hip-check, slamming the disarmed youngster’s face to the floor.
While kneeling on the stunned intruder’s back, Paul had removed the young man’s bootlaces and used them to bind his arms and feet.
“Lucky for me, I learned to wrestle calves on my parents’ ranch in Colorado,” Paul chuckled. “You picked the wrong guy, fella.”
###
About James Osborne:
About James Osborne:
James Osborne is a bestselling author whose latest novel, SECRET SHEPHERD, has just been released (Solstice Publishing Inc., Farmington, MO). The novel is a sequel to his award-winning mystery, THE MAIDSTONE CONSIRACY. Osborne's other novel, THE ULTIMATE THREAT, twice was an Amazon bestseller.
A collection, ENCOUNTERS WITH LIFE: TALES OF LIVING, LOVING & LAUGHTER, was named Best Short Story Collection of 2015 in an international readers poll. His essays and short stories have also appeared in more than a dozen anthologies and literary journals.
Osborne's varied career includes investigative journalist, college teacher, army officer, corporate executive and business owner. You can check out SECRET SHEPHERD here, http://a.co/d/dxRqeQe and his other work here, www.amazon.com/author/jamesosborne. His website is www.JamesOsborneNovels.com.
Solstice Author's Site
Facebook Blog Twitter Amazon Author's Page Goodreads
A collection, ENCOUNTERS WITH LIFE: TALES OF LIVING, LOVING & LAUGHTER, was named Best Short Story Collection of 2015 in an international readers poll. His essays and short stories have also appeared in more than a dozen anthologies and literary journals.
Osborne's varied career includes investigative journalist, college teacher, army officer, corporate executive and business owner. You can check out SECRET SHEPHERD here, http://a.co/d/dxRqeQe and his other work here, www.amazon.com/author/jamesosborne. His website is www.JamesOsborneNovels.com.
Solstice Author's Site
Facebook Blog Twitter Amazon Author's Page Goodreads
2 comments:
Thanks for sharing your story with us today, James. It sounds intriguing!
You're wonderful HiDee! I'm most greateful to be a part of The Write Way Cafe family!
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