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- Herausgeber: Icarus Publishing
- Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
- Sprache: Englisch
A woman is pulled from the boot of a car on a Spanish clifftop. She's lost teeth and is a bloody mess. Masked gunmen are hell-bent on killing her. Miraculously surviving a shoot-out and a breakneck car chase, resulting in many deaths, the woman is revealed to be British Secret Intelligence Officer Daisy Scarlett. Daisy knows her guns as she does her fine wines. In fact, she loves a drink, which is mainly due to her strained relationship with her alcoholic father, her boss - the head of MI6. Her mother is a whistle-blowing conspiracy theorist, so it's of no wonder Daisy is torn between finding out the truth on behalf of the people or pleasing her father and the State. Bilker Coot Pharmaceuticals is a global healthcare company with their own private military defense team, led by a psychotic ex member of the SAS. In the midst of a seventy billion pound take-over, they need to shake a recent academic review of a failed flu vaccine that cost the UK government a billion pounds. Teaming with a Chinese Intelligence Agent, Daisy is assigned to track down Bilker Coot's lead virologist who has gone on the run with a disturbing biological weapon, however all is not as it appears to be for female intelligence officer, Daisy Scarlett. From the writer of 'Old Habits' and 'My name is not Jacob Ramsay', 'Daisy Scarlett' is an international espionage action thriller with universal appeal.
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Seitenzahl: 255
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023
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DAISY SCARLETT
by
DAISY SCARLETT
© 2016 Ben Trebilcook © 2023 by ICARUS Publishing, an Imprint of Luzifer Verlag Cyprus Ltd.www.icarus-publishing.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and should not be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Cover: Michael Schubert
ISBN: 978-3-95835-981-9
All rights reserved.
Table of Contents
Dedication
Chapter I
Buenas Tardes
GEOSYNCHRONOUS EQUATORIAL ORBIT
It was four hundred miles into outer space. A United States spy satellite, not too dissimilar to the Lacrosse spy satellite, drifted into a new position. Metal glistened like a new Ferrari. The sky-high night watcher weighed fifteen tons and was as big as a school bus.
Whoever controlled the radar imaging spy satellite for Vega Four enabled it to cover Europe. It twisted further and closed in on Spain.
The southern region of Andalusia was mapped and then enhanced to focus on the port city of Malaga.
Information on the controller’s screen began to scroll before their eyes.
Spain. Data Code: SP. Capital: Madrid. Nationality: Spaniard(s) / Spanish, Mediterranean and Nordic types. Population 46.77 million people.
The controller’s role in that was done.
A Dodge van was parked on dusty, desert ground upon a cliff top. Several feet from it was a dirt bike, propped up like a still life.
The trunk of a Seat Exeo popped open, blocking the sunlight like an eclipse and the tanned hands of a man reached inside.
He grabbed the woman, roughly and without any care, pulling her out and throwing her to the ground with tremendous force.
The ground was disturbed by the sudden thump as the woman landed awkwardly on the sand.
Dust and sand rose up around her body like a golden yellow cloud. For a moment there was peace. The amber particles glistened as they caught the sun. Like Champagne bubbles, racing to the surface to catch a breath.
She gasped.
The man suddenly sent a heavy booted kick to the woman’s face.
A gob of bloody gunk escaped her mouth, accompanied by a tooth. There was black duct tape across her eyes and blood trickled from her lower lip and nostrils, leaving droplets on her cream-colored linen pants and jacket, underneath revealed a Blondie t-shirt.
The grubby boot delivered another swift kick. It was to the woman’s gut that time.
The man wore a black ski mask, gripped a Colt forty-five and threw the car keys to a shadowed figure as he towered above her. His pale blue eyes stared down at her briefly. One of them appeared to sparkle and catch the light more than the other. He tossed a brown leather dog lead that had tiny silver bones attached to it, to the ground beside her. He stuck his pistol into his belt.
She moved her palm across the stony ground a few inches to reach for the lead, but he trod on the back of her hand, pressing it hard into the dirt. She was in absolute pain and gritted her bloodied teeth.
“Usted comete el asesinato y la culpa una vez más. Otra operación negro. Una bandera falsa. Para qué? Aceite. Su dinero. Su único gobierno mundial.” said the masked man in Spanish.
The glue of the duct tape fixed firm to the thin skin of the woman’s eyelids and didn’t let up. She rolled her eyeballs round in their sockets and tried ignore the physical punishment for a just a fraction of a second in order to focus on a translation. She had it.
“You commit murder and guilt again. Another black operation. A false flag. For what? Oil. Your money. A one-world government.”
“No. No es la razón,” she replied, telling him that wasn’t the reason.
He kicked her hard, making contact with her chest. He started to wrap the dog lead around her neck, choking her. The man clasped her face and pressed it into the stony ground.
She was in tremendous pain. Blood seeped from her mouth and mixed with the sand.
THUMP!
A sledgehammer slammed atop a weathered wooden post, firmly inserting it into the ground.
THUMP! The sound was disturbing. It reminded her of death and more precisely, the fatal blow of a guillotine, dropping down over the neck of a French Revolutionary, with their head pounding into a wicker basket.
The basket was lined with oilcloth, sometimes known to be enameled cloth. It was tightly woven linen, boiled with a coating of linseed oil to make the cloth waterproof, so the blood from the severed head wouldn’t leak.
She knew her history, especially capital punishment. She had a particular morbid fascination with it. “Did you know that the Nazis executed thousands of people using the guillotine?” she would say. She adored facts. She felt a slight twinge on her right knee and really wanted to itch it. It was a scar she received when she was eight years old and in during stressful times, the more stressful times, the scar usually itched.
The masked man with the forty-five wedged in his belt tied her hands with rope. He shoved her head back hard against the wood.
“Akats handi bat egiten ari zara.” she decided to speak Basque, telling the man he had made a big mistake.
“You have no business being here and you have no business speaking my language.” he spat at her face.
The woman cringed with disgust and rubbed her right cheek on the wooden post, ridding the spit, which smeared across her skin, with some entering the side of her mouth. Just as she pondered whether his DNA could give her tuberculosis or hepatitis, she received a jab to the face, sending her head cracking back against the post. She knew it wasn’t the hardest punch he could deliver. She’d hit her head harder on a low celing in a flat she once had in Brixton, south-west London. Her hands became numb and as she wriggled her fingers to gain some feeling and get the blood circulating, she felt the wood against her skin.
The wood was splintered.
She clawed at the fractured timber, feeling the sun shine down onto her face. She breathed in. The woman’s dark hair dangled over her face. Her bruises were becoming more prominant through her Maybelline made-up face. She was mid-twenties going on eighties. Her name was Daisy Scarlett, an English rose, with plenty of thorns. Daisy tilted her head and heard clumps and shuffles upon the sand nearby. Footsteps. It pained her to do so, but she contorted her face, eyes and jaw to loosen the tape covering her eyes a little, enabling her to capture a glimpse of a shadow. Craning her neck, she listened further. Daisy heard three men and the sound of an HK MP5K machine gun being cocked. She knew hewr guns like she knew her fine wines. She coughed. “Do I get a last request.” Daisy was well-spoken. Her hand bled due to clasping at the splintered wooden post behind.
The rope binds were frayed, too.
Another masked man stepped closer to her. “Sí, what is your last request?”
“I suppose a gun is out of the question?” she quipped.
“Sí.”
“C’est la vie. I mean, así es la vida. Oh, whatever.” Daisy replied. Her expression changed in an instant as she gritted her teeth and suddenly brought forth a six-inch piece of splintered wood and stabbed it into the man’s neck and in one swift motion she took his gun.
A jet of blood spurted from the man’s neck as his jugular was punctured, causing an air embolism.
He collapsed after two breaths.
Daisy used him briefly as a human shield as two other masked men raised their pistols and opened fire on her, riddling the stabbed man with bullets and tearing up his chest and the post. She listened, turned and fired, taking one of the men down. Daisy twisted out of her rope binds and ripped back the tape that covered her eyes. She winced with pain and took in her surrounds. Dropping the blood-soaked man to the ground in heap, she retrieved the car keys from his pocket and sprinted across the sand to the Seat car.
One of the masked men let loose his MP5, tearing up the ground around Daisy’s feet.
Pop, pop, pop, pop. It was like firecrackers sounding out.
Daisy grabbed the dog lead from the ground, spun around and returned fire.
BANG! One of Daisy’s bullets entered the man’s shoulder and exited his wrist.
BANG! The next projectile pierced his chest, puncturing his left lung, spinning him round and down to the ground killing him.
Daisy brought the Seat Exeo S to life and shifted gears like RoboCop.
One of the masked me leapt behind the wheel of the Dodge van, the first man, with pale blue eyes, rode shotgun, clambering in on the passenger seat.
He turned to see two other masked gunmen get onto the dirt bike.
The cliff-top road was a meandering one. The scenery was spectacular.
Daisy drove the Seat at high-speed. She glanced up into the rearview mirror to the Dodge van pursuing her. She concentrated on the road ahead whilst grabbing a bottle of Evian. She swigged the water, swirling it around inside her mouth and spat a bloody mouthful to the passenger seat floor. Daisy then poured the remaining water over her face, wiping the blood and dirt away with the sleeve of her jacket. With one hand firmly on the wheel, she ached as she reached round to the backseat, fumbling. Her hand grasped something tubular and bulky.
It was like an XTI Procyon strobe light, but a whole lot more powerful.
Daisy looked ahead, gripping the wheel with her left hand and the light with her right, aiming it back at the rear windshield at the tailing van.
Further ahead the dirt bike sped from the opposite direction.
The Dodge van driver shifted gears, gripping the wheel tight as he steered then the vehicle round the twisting rocky road.
The blue-eyed passenger cocked a 9mm. He stared at the back of the Seat when a sudden, intense blinding light ejected out from the Seat’s back window. He raised his hand, covering one eye, clicking the seatbelt in just in time with his other hand.
The driver lost control of the van, slamming it into the roadside.
The Dodge van toppled over and skidded several feet on its side.
Daisy glanced round to see the crashed van. She turned back round when SMASH!
The dirt bike made contact with Daisy’s vehicle.
The rider smashed through the windshield, showering Daisy with glass, as he flew between the passenger and driver’s seat, folding as he impacted the backseat.
The Seat Exeo S crumpled as it made contact with the side of the rock-ribbed side of the road.
An oncoming car slowed and blocked the road ahead.
The blue-eyed van passenger exited and staggered to stand. He was dazed. He steadied himself and squinted at the bloody mess of the driver. Turning, he set foot into a jog, heading towards Daisy’s mangled vehicle.
Daisy opened her door and slid out of the car, letting loose sparkling fragments of broken glass that fell to the ground, which crunched underfoot as he straightened. She saw the approaching van guy and fixed on the dirt bike, clambering upon it and kicking it back to life. She saw the road was blocked ahead. The only way was to head back to the sandy cliff-top.
Two hunks chilled on their little yacht and sipped San Miguels on the Mediterranean Sea below as Daisy rode across the cliff-top above them.
The blue-eyed van passenger slowed to a walk and approached the car that blocked the road.
The driver was in his late fifties and shocked. He jolted when the Mister Blue Eyes appeared at his nearside door, pointing his 9mm pistol at the window. Before he knew what was happening, he was out of his vehicle and stood on the road watching Mister Blue Eyes screech after Daisy in his car.
Daisy moved the bike with ease. She felt comfortable riding it and did with most vehicles. She bolted with round with shock to see the Mister Blue Eyes driving not too far behind, firing his gun. Her bike was hit and fuel began to leak out fast.
Mister Blue Eyes churned up the ground, swirling sandy dust clouds as he drove and skidded this way and that, trying to close in on Daisy. He’s joined by another dirt bike, with the rider brandishing his own MP5 machine gun.
The cliff neared and Daisy skidded to the end.
She exhaled at the sight before her. Tearful, she looked up, pulled the throttle and slid the bike back round. She knew there was nowhere to go and that it could be the end of her.
The car and the bike were closing in fast.
The man stared his piercing blue eyes wildly as he aimed for Daisy.
Daisy zigzagged and weaved the bike around on the cliff-top, like a caged animal avoiding inevitable capture and ultimately death. She ripped the throttle once more, tearing up the dust. Tight-faced, Daisy neared the edge of the cliff. Closer. Closer. Whoosh. She rode the bike off the cliff. Daisy broke free from the dirt bike in mid-air as she lowered to the Mediterranean Sea below.
The bike hit the water with an almighty splash.
Daisy entered the water soon after a short distance away.
That was some leap.
The hunks on the yacht both bolted round to see what has disturbed the calm waters so suddenly. They exchanged a look of bemusement.
One shrugged, while the other noticed his fishing rod being tugged.
Alert, they turned again, focusing on the rod.
Daisy Scarlett appeared from beneath the water, holding the fishing line and then the end the rod, flexing it downwards.
The hunks were stunned and craned their necks to simultaneously look up at the cliff, equally wondering if she had come from such a great height.
Daisy casually pulled herself aboard. She exhaled a deep breath. Exhausted, she glanced back at the cliff she leapt from. She couldn’t believe it herself. “Shannaro.”
It was a word often uttered by the character Naruto, an adolescent Ninja, from a series of her favorite Manga. The word could be used as an excited replacement for ‘fuck yeah!’ or a pissed off ‘alright, dammit!’ In that instance, it was no doubt the former.
Daisy turned to the hunks, wiped her wet face and took a bottle of San Miguel from the cool box.
The hunks stared at Daisy, looking her up and down with sheer disbelief.
Daisy’s soaking wet cream clothing was see-through and revealed a Union Jack swimsuit underneath. She was utterly exhausted.
The two men exchanged a look and gulped at the towering and intimidating female figure that stood before them.
She glanced back at the cliff-top, tilted her head and nodded at the hunks. Daisy popped the cap of the beer bottle using the side of the boat. “Buenas tardes.” she swigged the beer, winced with absolute agony and sat down, as she took in the beautiful surrounds of the calm, blue Mediterranean Sea. Daisy glanced at her wet clothes. The blood, dirt and sin had washed off and she felt momentarily cleansed. The sight of her Debbie Harry line drawing on her Blondie t-shirt caught her attention and the song ‘Call Me’ began to play inside her head.
Chapter II
Bilker Coot
Bilker Coot was a global super-brand. They were one of the top three pharmaceutical companies in the world. From shampoos to statins, paracetamol to poisons and bubble bath to biological warfare, Bilker Coot led the way in healthcare, hygiene and medicine. They were a firm favorite for being a family trusted and internationally recognized brand.
Fifteen board members sat at the table of the boardroom within the headquarters of the Bilker Coot Pharmaceutical firm in London. They overlooked a terrific view of the City of London.
London once had a very limited skyline. St. Paul’s Cathedral, the Swiss-Re Gherkin and the London Eye were perhaps the most easily identifiable amongst them. Construction was frequent in the City of London. Fenchurch Street’s ‘Walkie-Talkie’ building and The Shard soon became talking points, replacing Tower 42 and City Social building chit chat.
Sir Randolph Herz was a well-groomed South African gentleman, in his mid-fifties. Randolph was the co-founder of Bilker Coot and was their CEO. He headed the table and stood to address the other members of the board.
“As CEO of Bilker Coot Pharmaceuticals, I am pleased to announce the appointment of Professor Ying Wu to our team.”
The mixed bunch of board members delivered applause for Ying Wu, a Chinese man in his late forties and hugely grateful for the ego stroke.
Ying was a scientist and when not in a white lab coat, he often wore a full body PPE suit. PPE in that case stood for Personal Protective Equipment.
“With extensive experience across all aspects of research; from microbiology and virology, to drug discovery, clinical research, medical and regulatory affairs, to drug development, manufacturing and safety, Dr. Wu is considered by his peers to be simply a seasoned pro in all of his fields,” Randolph continued, “We pride ourselves in being a leader amongst the world’s pharmaceutical companies, producing medicines to treat cancers and mental health, as well as combating diseases and control viruses.” Randolph eyeballed each board member, “With our partners around the globe, please join me in welcoming our newest board member, seasoned pro, Dr. Ying Wu.”
Doctor Ying Wu smiled awkwardly, trying to mask his nervousness.
The board members offered further applause, including William Pitt and Sir Edward Jago.
You disgust me, Pitt. You always have. Jago thought as Jago looked at him.
Pitt was a white, balding man of below average height, in his early fifties and was the British Foreign Secretary.
Sir Edward was a tall white man of sixty-one. He wore a dark suit and had gold rimmed glasses, narrowing his eyes through them as he nodded at Randolph.
Sir Randolph glanced out of the window and momentarily thought of his favorite view that was oddly from the Holiday Inn in Kensington. His stomach rumbled and he quickly thought of his lunch at the Duck and Waffle in Heron Tower.
Kinnerton Street in London had the postcode SW1X.
An elderly gentleman called George opened the front door to a property worth in the region of five million pounds. He was incredibly wealthy and despite living on his own for the past twenty years since his wife had passed away, he wasn’t lonely. He missed her, of course. George was a governor of the Bank of England in the early nineties. He had three children, two sons and a daughter who rarely saw him. He had six grandchildren and one great-grandchild. He wore a pinstriped suit, with a white napkin tucked down his front. He smiled a chubby grin. “So wonderful to see you!” he blurted.
Daisy was stood before him. She wore casual jeans, a black blazer and her hair was styled differently, slightly covering her bruises. She smiled a blinder. “You, too George. So… How was he?”
“Cried for the first two days, but he’s always a joy. He’s having a nap at the moment. A Cup of tea, then you can have the boy back,” George replied.
“Sounds like a deal, George. I hope you didn’t spoil him too much,” said Daisy, knowing full-well George probably did.
“Of course I did, my lovely.” George stepped aside, allowing Daisy to enter his hallway, “So how was the conference?”
“Painful at the best of times,” Daisy mused.
Later that day, a brown leather dog lead, with tiny silver bones attached to it, was being fitted to a fawn-colored pug.
The pug was called Albert and licked Daisy’s hand as she secured the lead to Albert’s collar.
“Oh Bert, I know it’s a little scuffed, but if you knew what mummy had to endure to get you this present, you’ll be more grateful. - Thanks George!” she smiled up at George who stood in his doorway and stood. Daisy and Albert the pug walked a few houses along to another house, with blooming flowers in a window box.
Daisy’s living room was a cozy one. Dark furniture with shelves of books lined the walls. Framed photographs were on a dresser and featured Daisy as a child with her attractive parents, a teenage Daisy with her mother and a group of Chinese men. One had her in the loving arms of a boyfriend long-gone, while another pictured her in combat gear with a Brigade of Gurkhas and one with her dog, Bert.
Bert the pug was in an extremely comfortable looking dog bed shaped like sports car. A water bowl was nearby with his name on it.
The drawer in the dresser opened to reveal medals and a framed commendation letter, along with some more photographs of Daisy. Some showed her shaking hands with some official looking suits.
A medal was tossed inside. Daisy sighed and looked at Bert. ”Don’t give me that look. You mean more to me than those do, Bertie.” Daisy clutched a bottle of Tardieu Laurent 2002 Syrah and removed the cork with ease. She poured herself a glass, swirled the wine around and with closed eyes she breathed in the aroma.
A flurry of scents hit her senses. Ripe, rich, red fruits, black tea, incense, tobacco and smoked bacon.
The bottle was little over three hundred pounds. An extravagant purchase for most, but Daisy was sent a case each year from a man she had always called ‘Uncle’, and had a villa in the Northern Rhône.
The Northern Rhône produced red wines from the Syrah grape, a dark-skinned grape, known in Australia as Shiraz.
Daisy adored wine. She respected it and the thousands of wine producers around the world.
Their passion, patience and love of nature.
If Daisy didn’t have the job she had, she felt she could work on a vineyard, in a far-away place. She liked the Hunter Valley in New South Wales, Australia and the sight of kangaroos bouncing around freely. She fantasized a little more and thought if not wine, perhaps she would breed horses to be Thoroughbreds. Daisy lost herself and escaped the world she was in just briefly. She winced, uncomfortably, sat up and put her finger and thumb inside her mouth. Daisy pulled out an upper second molar and stared at it, rolling her tongue around inside her mouth, thinking. She inserted her tongue into the hole where the tooth had previously been and glanced at her dog. Daisy raised an eyebrow at him, placed her glass onto a mahogany coffee table and retrieved an iPad. She doodled a note ‘Dentist’ and pressed play on an answer machine.
BEEP.
“Hi Daisy, it’s Rebeckah. Just a reminder about where to meet tonight.” came a female voice over the machine.
“Shit.” responded Daisy, skipping to the next message.
BEEP.
“It’s mother. I’ll be-” another female voice, but more mature and well-spoken. It was instantly skipped over by Daisy.
BEEP. A stereotypical Indian-sounding man was heard.
“This is Dave from Digital Download Domain. As the introductory subscription offer has passed, you are overdue on payment with your three online downloads. The Bourne Ultimatum. Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy and Frozen.”
BEEP.
A black taxicab pulled up outside a bar in London’s East End and Daisy stepped out, heading into the bar.
Inside was loud and lively.
Daisy eyed the bar tender fixing a tequila as she stood at the bar.
The barman set the drink down. “Your Tequila Slammer and a…”
Daisy downed the tequila and eyed the room. She exhaled and then scanned wines behind the barman. “I was thinking of a large Rioja. As much as I’d like to fall asleep very quickly, I promised I’d stay awake. The Rosé. The other one, the Sancerre. Bottle.”
A group of friends raced over to Daisy and greeted her.
“I can’t believe I’m here. You guys, you know I hate doing these things. I much preferred the go bowling option,” muttered Daisy.
“Come on, Daisy. It’s my birthday. You’ll have fun,” replied Rebeckah, the voice on the answer machine.
“I’d rather be water-boarded,” said Daisy, with a touch of seriousness in her tone.
“Darkly imaginative as always.” stated one girlfriend.
An ice bucket with the Sancerre Rosé was put on a table.
Daisy sat at the table with her glass and sipped it just as a cocky, handsome guy, with hair bodied like a stallion, sat down opposite her.
He pointed to a sticker that read ‘TOM’in black marker.
“I see you made your own name badge. Well done with that,” Daisy said.
“It’s a requirement,” replied Tom, to Daisy’s surprise.
“Really?” she dipped her hand into the ice bucket and pulled out something, sticking it to the lapel of her jacket.
It was the wine label.
“Sancerre?” noted Tom.
“It’s French.” Daisy was disinterested in Tom. She sipped her glass of Rosé and he swigged a bottle of beer.
“So how do we do this? Are you going to ask me what my job is?” said Tom, leaning back, arrogantly.
Daisy sighed and briefly eyed him, noting his posture, hands and eyes. “You work in sales. You’re on fifty-k a year plus commission. To the mystification of your colleagues, you’re on the company board. You spend more time at the gym than with your partner; talking of which… Despite currently being in a heterosexual relationship and with a baby on the way, you have an identity disorder and are actually struggling with your sexuality. Given that, whatever your gender preference, you’ll cheat time and time again.”
Tom raised his eyebrows, trying to remain unfazed. “So, what do you do for a living?”
“I'm a professional surrogate.” Daisy was straight-faced and sipped her wine.
Tom was shocked. “Really?”
“Absolutely. Love being pregnant. Love giving birth. Year in, year out.” she replied.
Tom painfully smiled when a horrific buzz sounded out.
A new man, balding, a little older and casually dressed sat down opposite Daisy, replacing Tom. He pressed a sticker firmly against his chest that told Daisy his name was ‘David’.
She peeled her soggy Sancerre label off whilst she glanced at David gulping his pint of beer.
“Hi. I’m David. You don’t have a badge.” he was incredibly boring. The way he looked and the way he spoke.
Daisy briefly closed her eyes and in an instant she arched her back, reached backwards in a stretching motion and ripped the name badge from an attractive blonde sat behind her at super-speed. She eyeballed her newly acquired sticker and frowned, curling her lip to see a shiny button stuck to the adhesive. She pocketed the button and pressed the sticker onto her lapel.
It said her name was ‘FLO’.
“Flo?” said David.
“Yes. Just go with it.”
“I’m in IT. Information Technology. What do you do?” he asked her.
“I’m a writer.” Daisy replied.
“Anything I might have read?”
“Probably. I write emails for Nigerian internet spamming companies. It’s regular work.”
David scrunched his face up as Daisy gulped her wine.
A young, unshaven, floppy-haired posh guy, who was too cool for school and chilled, quickly replaced David. “I like to preserve nature.”
“You pickle squirrels?” Daisy mocked, filling up her glass. “I run a company that makes round dice.” She downed her wine and glanced around.
There were rows of tables, similar to hers.
Single girls, like Daisy, with an equal number of guys sat opposite. They were of course speed dating and Daisy hated every minute of it.
Another bottle of Sancerre Rosé arrived.
Daisy filled up her glass and took a large sip, looking up as a slick guy in his thirties sat down, comfortably, opposite her.
“Do you believe in love at first sight?” he was too comfortable.
“Let's think about that one after you move to the next table.”
BZZZ!
Daisy jolted and exhaled. Her eyes were becoming heavier. She licked her lips.
Vrrr! Vrrr!
Daisy curled her lip and retrieved her vibrating phone, just as another man sat opposite her.
He was a handsome guy. His age was hard to place as his skin was well looked-after. He was of Chinese origin and his name was Michael ‘Bo’ Sheng. He looked dashing and his clothes and shoes appeared brand new.
Daisy checked Bo Sheng’s shoes and believed them to be a pair of custom-made Berlutis that probably cost a couple of thousand pounds. She eyed his blazer. She knew it was a Tom Ford and wouldn’t attempt to guess the cost. She spotted his Breitling Navitimer wristwatch and estimated it to be around fifteen thousand pounds or more. Daisy saw Bo’s valuable sleeve edge towards his whiskey. By its color, she felt it was an Irish whiskey, so added the extra ‘e’ to her summing up, plus there was a run of Irish in her bloodline, so stuck with the spelling of whiskey and not the Scot’s whisky.
Bo Sheng breathed in his whiskey, sipped it and set the drink down on table.
Daisy looked up at Bo Sheng. “No name tag? Going against the Flo, eh?”
“So, tiger, tell me about yourself.”
Daisy frowned. She was curious. “What do you want to know?”
“Your real name.” Sheng asked, as he sipped his drink.
“Flo.” Daisy remained firm, feeling something was a little off. She wasn’t expecting anything to happen. She hadn’t intended to drink so much either.
“Sure, OK, Flo. Nice to meet you at last. I’ve been watching you,” said Sheng.
“So you do have a name. Stalker?” Who is this guy? She thought.
“It’s Rider.” Sheng replied.
“I’m Flo, you’re Rider. Nice one.” Daisy smiled.
“So, what makes you tick? No, no, let me guess. If I may.”
“You may.” Daisy permitted.
“You dislike speed dating. That’s obvious. You think that any man who would go speed dating is not the type of man you’d be interested in. You’re passionate about your job. You’re secretive. Guarded. You have a real sense of what is right and wrong, even though sometimes those boundaries can and do become so-so blurred. You have a problem with authority and definitely have unresolved issues with one or more of your parents. You find it really hard to trust, which is a consequence of a failed relationship that greatly affected you. You-”
