Just for kicks, here is the Prologue for one of the books I am currently working on...Mister Celtic, USN.
It will be (of course) the next story in the ever-expanding Gabriel Celtic series. Enjoy!
September 28, 2001
The villain of the story inhaled deeply, enjoying the coppery smell permeating the room.
The small ship’s clock on the desk…ticking away the time.
Watching from the chair across from the desk, the person moved to get even more comfortable. The view of the desk was perfect…as well as that of the man struggling to live.
The small ship’s clock on the desk…ticking away the man’s life.
There had been hope for something a little more…spectacular maybe?
The old man had barely put up a fight.
Disbelief of who his killer turned out to be had frozen the old man in place, anguish overriding any fear on his face as the knife swiped past his throat…nicking the artery in his neck.
Now he was merely laying there, his forehead resting on the desk blotter as if he was napping.
Blood had started dripping off the edges of the desk…forming a pool on the floor.
It looked cool!
Trained in the art of killing, the killer had never before taken a life…until now.
It was a special occasion…something that needed done.
The killer was a problem solver…and as such was very adaptable.
The word had a nice ring to it…As-sas-in…
Glancing at a gold watch, the killer scooted to the edge of the chair anxiously.
It should be any second now, the newborn assassin thought, focusing on the faint rising and falling of the chest.
The old man was moving…or at least trying to!
He had brought his arm up from his lap and plopped it onto the desk!
“Bravo old man,” the killer enthused, “Bravo I say!”
His fingers moving now…swimming through the sticky, coagulating blood…
He was looking for something! The killer realized.
Should I help him? Grant him his final wish?
Maybe he wants a letter opener…wants to take a final swipe at me…
Excited at the prospect, the killer rose from the chair and moved around the back of the desk…just as the old man let out his last, rattling breath.
Shit! You made me miss it!
Sighing with a certain amount of aggravation, the killer noticed something in the old man’s hand.
The old fart had grabbed a pen!
“What the hell?” the assassin mumbled, noticing something else…writing!
“Were you writing my name old man? Is that how you thought to beat me?”
Glancing at the watch again, the killer realized that it was time to move! There were a few more details to take care of before the night was done.
The executioner glanced at the ship’s clock, un-amused that the ticking had continued despite the death of the old man.
Crossing behind the chair, the assassin glanced at the blotter to see what the old man had written, thinking it would be the name of his killer.
Who the hell is that? The killer thought while glancing at the almost unintelligible chicken scratching.
It was a name to be sure…but not the killer’s.
“Alright already,” the killer sighed at the incessant and rhythmic sound, not enjoying the sudden reversal of roles.
Placing a hand under each arm, the assassin pulled back on the body until it was sitting upright in the chair.
“No more a Watch to stand, Old Sailor,” The killer mumbled, “For you are drifting on an ebbing tide.”
Rolling the old man’s chair toward the door, the executioner stopped next to an open body bag.
“Eight Bells has rung. Dog Watch is done…”
Heaving the old man out of his seat was harder than the killer had reckoned on. Moving off balance from the chair, a lucky drop of the body had landed it square in the opening of the bag.
“And a new Berth waits you on the other side,” the killer wheezed, now out of breath.
Removing the set of plastic coveralls came next, these stuffed into the body bag next to the old man.
Moving toward the door, the murderer cracked it open and glanced through the opening, repeating softly: “And a new Berth awaits you on the other side.”
Grabbing onto the bag, the killer moved out of the room, dragging the old man behind…closing the door when the old man was through it.
Copyright 2015 J.T. Lewis
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