A Watch in the Night - Brossura

Libbey, James R.

Brossura

ISBN 10: 1440190593 ISBN 13: 9781440190599

Casa editrice: iUniverse, 2010

Riassunto

James Sullivan survives the war in Vietnam only to come home to find he can't make it in the everyday world. He prefers jungle work to being in a college classroom or corporate office.

Luckily, he remembers the phone number of a mysterious military man who opens the door to a clandestine organization known as "Theatre," which was formed to compete against East Germany's Stasi.

But after twenty years with the agency, his partner is brutally murdered. Sully is the one who will take the fall. No longer part of the agency, he contacts a plastic surgeon so he can change his appearance and track down those responsible for his best friend's death.

Sully calls in favors from former associates and then joins forces with a former Green Beret turned private investigator. His mission of vengeance will lead him to twists and turns around every corner as he prepares to take on one of New York City's five crime families in A Watch in the Night.

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A Watch in the Night

By James R. Libbey

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2010 James R. Libbey
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4401-9059-9

Chapter One

A huge, angry cloud drifted northward, determined to catch up with the dirty gray air mass just making its way over the distant range of mountains. It looked as if these celestial companions were destined to meet, each arriving fashionably late to a loud confrontation in the rickety harbor boathouse. When it's over two men will be dead, a third nursing a serious leg wound.

Agent James Sullivan, Sully to just about everyone, still had the roar of gunshots ringing in his ears. Wiping at the mess of Kurt Framm's blood splattered across his own two-day growth of beard, he stared in dull horror at the picture he'd pulled from Framm's coat pocket. He pinched it hard between his thumb and pointer finger.

Sweet Jesus! How could even an animal like Fritz Gunder do that to another human being? He felt sorrow well up inside of him, but he smiled in spite of the pain. Framm died beggin' for mercy, Digger. Does that help a little? He knew it didn't. Nothing could make up for what was pictured in the Polaroid frame.

His tongue stirred the chew in his mouth. Then, gripping it between his teeth, he leaned over, letting a mix of saliva, tobacco juice, and bits of his own blood drip down on what was left of Kurt Framm's face. With extra force he sent another wad sailing across the boathouse and watched with satisfaction as it bounced off the head of Framm's strong man, the big, ugly gorilla he'd brought along for backup.

It had only taken Sully one shot to his hairy chest to bring down Fritz Gunder's number two man. The second shot he placed just under his right nostril, cutting off his screams and pleas.

When the meathead finally caught on and followed Kurt through the shutters, his foot hadn't touched the planks before Sully's third shot dissolved his face into a bloody mess. The impact sent him crashing head first into a crabbing net, his weapon still cold.

Suddenly, Sully's fingers numbed. The gruesome image of what was left of the Digger became too heavy to hold. He watched helplessly as the photo slipped from his hand. It stuck for a moment to the bloody material of the wetsuit covering his leg, then land noiselessly against the stool beneath him.

He fought to focus on something else but his eyes kept returning to the photo and all that was left of one of Theatre's finest agents. Then he saw it, in the lower corner of the photograph: a hand rose from the blood-soaked table with Dig's middle finger pointing straight up.

Sully smiled through cracked lips. Way to go Dig! Even in death, the Digger managed to give one final Screw You to Fritz Gunder.

As he shifted his weight, his right foot kicked at something. It was Kurt's HK 9mm, that piece of shit he'd always bragged about. It had fallen out of his jacket when Sully took him down. The agent shook his head; the brothers Heckler and Koch didn't do him any good this time.

With a shrug he picked it up, unzipped the top of his wetsuit and let it slide down inside remembering the Digger's mantra that you could never have too much firepower. He shifted again and, with the foot of his good leg, kicked Framm's smashed Uzi across the boathouse floor, smiling grimly when it buried itself in the crotch of the backup. He tore two long strips from Framm's coat and tied them as tightly as he could around the hole in his leg.

Sully let his head fall back, his eyes piercing the blackness overhead. He took a deep breath. Then, using the corner of the table to brace himself, he put his weight down on his wounded leg, preparing to walk. As the pain in his leg almost eclipsed the ache in his heart, he opened his mouth and screamed up into the rafters, scaring the hell out of a family of rats that had taken temporary refuge in the rotting beams.

Despite the pain, he imagined himself placing a series of holes in the Gunder's body as the Digger looked on and smiled. He'd start with one to the gut; let him bleed and hurt awhile. Then maybe the balls; take away his dignity. He thought he'd finish with one to the throat so he could watch him drown in his own blood. Sully let the fantasy slip back into a dark corner of his mind as he steadied himself. It's time to take out the garbage.

He limped his way across the floor, bent down, and, gripping Framm's collar with both hands, dragged him to the net and laid him out next to the "big gorilla." Then, winding his hands around one end of the netting, he towed the two bodies out to the end of the dock. Once there, Sully set them back-to-back against one of the pilings. He gave a wink to the absent Digger, thinking that he probably should deep six 'em, but he would rather have their clean-up team find 'em this way. Should really piss 'em off, eh, Dig?

Sully smiled, pulled the mask over his face, adjusted the air regulator, and tried a few breaths. He imagined Gunder's shock when he got the news that he'd been set up and had lost his right-hand man. It felt good to be the fish that got away.

He slipped off the edge of the dock and into the icy water, thankful for its numbing effect on his leg. As he sank slowly into the black river, he was delighted to see that the rats from inside the boathouse were now scurrying out toward the two bodies, squeaking with excitement at the prospect of a hearty meal.

He surfaced 22 minutes later and crawled into the dingy. He flopped down and lay there for a couple of minutes in the rocking boat before he changed into dry clothes. He spit another wad of saliva, laced with dried blood, into the stream. The leg wound had finally stopped throbbing. Sully gave a silent thanks to Kurt, who was always a lousy shot. You shoulda spent more time on the range instead of in the bushes with your buddy Fritzy. He sank the dingy, buried his wet suit in the soft clay that lined the bank, and headed in the direction of his pick-up point.

Within 30 minutes, his leg started bleeding again. Sully realized he'd have to find a place to rest or he wouldn't make it out. His luck held when he practically fell into a duck blind, probably belonging to some well-to-do Hausser. In seconds, Sully slipped into sleep, but nightmare images made it anything but restful.

Atop some high cliffs he spotted Director Hendricks standing alongside his friend and former control, Phil Carey. They appeared to be arguing, and more than once he heard his name mentioned. Then the scene faded, and another replaced it; he was standing in a desert alongside someone vaguely familiar. When the figure turned to face him, he saw the smiling, pockmarked face of Fritz Gunder, his teeth red with blood.

Sully woke to the sound of someone screaming, his body automatically rolling into an attack mode position. "Shit," he said with disgust when he realized the screams had been his own.

Sully held his breath and bit down on his lip, worried that his outburst might have alerted some unfriendly person to his whereabouts. When no one showed after five minutes, he felt safe to move out again. He tucked Framm's 9mm down inside his sock. Then, checking his own short-barreled 357, he wiped his sticky fingers on his trousers and set off to the rendezvous spot, hoping his contact would be there.

He limped through the woods using only the moon for light and direction. As he again gripped the studded handle of the weapon, he smiled, remembering one of Julie's famous remarks from so many years earlier. It had been during their wedding breakfast, served in a forest of mango trees and catered by a brown-skinned waiter wearing a white coat and a knowing grin.

Julie had been standing on the balcony overlooking the grounds of the resort when, shaking her head, she chuckled, "Sully, I bet I'm the only bride who's ever had to share her wedding bed with a 357 Magnum."

His progress was slow, but he finally reached the location of his designated pick-up spot-a stretch of woods next to a fire road. His thigh was throbbing badly now, and the leg of his trousers was soaked through with fresh blood. He hobbled from tree to tree, finally resting against a trunk before sliding to the ground.

He mumbled into the dark, "Better find me soon, guys, or I've had it." His vision went gray, then black. This time, there were no nightmares.

Several days later (he never asked how long he'd been out but considering that his leg now felt pretty good, he guessed it had been at least that long), he was propped on pillows in a rickety wheelchair inside a musty debriefing room. A young agent stared blankly in Sully's direction with coffee in one hand and a stale doughnut in the other. Without ceremony, the agent began asking questions about what had gone down with Gunder's men, "Agent Sullivan, can you please tell me about your encounter in the boathouse?"

Sully looked at him and muttered, "Screw you, kid. I'm not taking a ride on your little merry-go-round of questions, capisce?"

The agent's expression indicated that he had expected resistance but didn't have time for games. His first comment brought Sully up short, "Come on, Agent Sullivan. I'm sure after 20 years in the bureau, you know the drill."

Mother of God, Sully thought, wearily. Has it really been 20 years?

Chapter Two

Summer 1972.

'Nam was winding down and the fighting fizzling out. The protests back home had reached a fever pitch. The Hawks had finally realized they were in a no-win situation and were ready to throw in the towel in Southeast Asia.

Congress and those members of the administration bright enough to see the need were already working on how to employ the returning young warriors who were no longer needed to cover someone else's ass. As it turned out, not many of them would receive any sort of thanks by a disappointed nation when they landed back home.

James Sullivan had just finished his second tour when the war officially ended. He was about to receive that scrap of paper proclaiming something that amounted to, "Congratulations, grunt. You get to go home with your butt still in one piece. Go and sin no more."

Sergeant Sullivan may have been average in size and build, but he was definitely not the boy-next-door type. Because of what he'd been through, he had too many creases in his brow to be mistaken for that and he was far too cynical. He had red hair from an Irish grandmother and skin tanned by months of rain, wind, and sun. There was not an ounce of fat on his soldier's body. Two tours in the jungles of Vietnam had seen to that.

For the tenth time he checked to be sure the tape that held his military 9mm just below his knee was secure. He knew if they found it, he would be in a shithouse of trouble, but the way he figured it, it had been a part of him for the past 24 months and in more than one situation, had kept him alive. He was not about to part with it now!

He left his seat before the plane a came to a full stop, earning him a scowl from the stewardess. He pulled down on his shirt, smoothing out the wrinkles. As he continued up the aisle, he glanced down and checked the decorations adorning his chest, a group of medals that the brass, in their infinite wisdom, had decided he had a right to wear. There was the Good Conduct Ribbon, and a couple of "I've Been There" citations. But there were also three that even he had to admit were pretty impressive: a Bronze Star with a cluster, a Purple Heart with a cluster, and a small ribbon given to him by a North Vietnamese General who was alive only because Sully had yanked him out of the path of a sniper's bullet.

Besides the ribbon, the man had shown his gratitude by inviting Sully to his home for dinner where they consumed large quantities of homemade wine and topped off the evening with the services of a couple nubile local girls. It was an evening that Sully, after many long months of abstinence, truly enjoyed.

Four days after he'd arrived at Fort Dix, he was still waiting. An Army expression he'd often heard his father use-a carry-over from World War II-seemed to fit: Hurry up and wait.

Finally, mid-morning of the fifth day, he heard his name called. He broke his cigarette in half, depositing it in a coffee can that was already spilling over with butts, and strolled back inside, taking his time. He had waited long enough for them, now they could damn well wait for him.

An obnoxiously efficient looking T5 was shuffling some papers as Sully approached the desk. With his eyes intentionally avoiding Sully's citations, the T5 was about to hand them over for his signature when he heard a voice call out from the office behind them, "Sullivan." The T5 smirked, dropped the papers onto his desk, and pointed to a doorway with a slight gloating smirk that made Sully's blood boil.

When he walked in, Sully found himself facing a Major, probably in his early forties, whose ribbons told Sully he'd "been there" also. He snapped to attention and threw the officer a by-the-numbers salute, sounding off, "Sir, Sergeant Sullivan reporting as ordered, sir!"

"Relax, Sullivan. I'm a civilian now myself."

Sully exhaled in relief. The Major's eyes dropped to what was obviously Sully's service record, mumbling, "Not exactly a company man, were you? Your last CO said you preferred working alone but that's okay; it's just what we're looking for."

The words froze Sully to his chair. This was the last thing he wanted. Whatever the Major had in mind was not going to include him.

The ex-Major seemed to be reading Sully's mind when he smiled and said, "I know, 'Nam's all but over, so as far as the man in the street's concerned, it's going to be business as usual." The Major slammed the service record closed, stood up, and did a turn around the small room, before coming back and flopping back in his chair. "No way."

Sully waited, wondering what in the hell was going down. Finally, the man's attitude changed. He was even smiling when he said, "Ever heard of the CIA?"

Sully nodded, "Shit, sir, you couldn't move in 'Nam without tripping over 'em."

"Right," the Major continued. "But I have to admit, in spite of their hands being tied, they did some pretty good work. Makes you wonder what they could have accomplished if the government had left them alone. That's the problem: You can't do your best work when some politician's always pullin' your chain.

"Sergeant, just suppose there were an organization that allowed its agents to be free of all that extra baggage. In fact, one that was so far undercover that no elected official even knows of its existence."

Sully considered it, "Could have made a difference, I guess."

This must have been the correct answer, because the Major slammed his hand on the desktop shouting, "Right!" Then he sat back and smiled at Sully. "Sergeant, all I'm at liberty to say now is that there may be just such an organization. Southeast Asia may have simmered down for a while, but Europe's a powder keg, ready to blow at any moment. And East Germany's the place to watch."

He didn't give Sully a chance to answer, but went right on, "Go back to college, get your degree, and maybe, just maybe, sometime we'll be talking again."

It sounded strange, but Sully was in no position to argue.

"By the way, a couple of things," the Major added. "One: Don't mention our little conversation to a soul. Two: Let's not take that 9mm to class with you. Dismissed."

When Sully got outside the office, he stood for a moment trying to make sense out of what had just gone down and wondered how in the hell had that Major known about the 9mm?

He marched over to the T5's desk and picked up his discharge papers. Sully walked out of the office into the midday sun, got on a bus to New York, and enrolled for a degree in political science.

But college didn't work out the way Sully had hoped. After seeing so much action, it was hard for to sit in one stuffy classroom after another, listening to pompous professors pontificate on events and theories that Sully knew first hand that they had no fucking clue about. After a semester he dropped out and bummed around in the private sector for a few months. However, he soon realized that the world of big business wasn't for him either and substitute teaching at a local high school didn't work out much better.

He moped around for a couple more weeks trying to figure just what in the devil he should do. Then one morning, he got up, looked out the window and watched as the usual denizens of 8:15 AM New York, dark suited men and women, walked about on the street below, pushing their way forward in the morning rush hour only to be faced with a seemingly never-ending wall of like-minded and dressed individuals. And what was all the rushing at this hour for? To end up at some office building where they would sit down and do a job they despised for eight, nine, ten hours a day.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from A Watch in the Nightby James R. Libbey Copyright © 2010 by James R. Libbey . Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Dettagli dell'edizione

• Editore: iUniverse
• Data di pubblicazione: 2010
• Lingua: Inglese
• ISBN 10: 1440190593
• ISBN 13: 9781440190599
• Rilegatura: Copertina flessibile
• Numero di pagine: 212
• Contatto del produttore: non disponibile
• Persona responsabile: gpsr@libri.de; gpsr@libri.de; ; Europaallee 1; Bad Hersfeld; 36244; Germania