The New Bad Thing E-Book

Michael Ebner

• Herausgeber: Pen and Picture
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: The New Bad Thing
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 300

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

Readers of crime thrillers about ordinary-people-in-extraordinary-circumstances will enjoy this acclaimed new series where espionage and mafia worlds collide with Seattle reporter, Teagan Penn. By award-winning author, Michael Ebner; a Kirkus Reviews Best Books of the Year author.

“Teagan proves to be an appealing hero with depth and determination–readers will enjoy rooting for her. Get it.” (Kirkus Reviews)
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"A riveting story" (Seattle Book Review)

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"Teagan must fight fire with fire" (Portland Book Review)

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"Intense thriller. An ending you will not see coming" (Los Angeles Book Review)

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"Ebner has crafted a fast paced thriller with plenty of twists and turns that make it difficult to recognize fact from fiction." (San Francisco Book Review)

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"The excitement in this book starts right from the first chapter" (Chicago Book Review).

Teagan is successful in her own right but she's not the crusader journalist she aspired to be back in college. She desperately needs a personal distraction and decides to make a difference in the world. When a foreign news story shocks her to the core, she takes matters into her own hands and starts a special project to help others. 

But not everybody is happy about her illegally funded venture: Project Rebound. When Teagan travels to Paris to deal with a project setback, she wakes up in the middle of a terrorist siege. Or is it a planned attack on her life? 

Like other survivors from the hotel siege, she is taken to a local police station. Routine questioning turns into intense interrogation by an American–a European Counterterrorism agent–Robert Lexington. She is the only one in custody who has seen Roman in the last ten years. Teagan is persuaded by Lexington to help locate him–a high priority person of interest–and in return she will avoid the courts and military prison back home. 

What follows is a challenging personal journey for Teagan across Europe and America. She must draw on her experience as a skilled interviewer, improviser and investigator to find the ghost-like Roman for her family's survival.

Leseprobe

“In The New Bad Thing, Ebner has crafted a fast-paced thriller with plenty of twists and turns that make it difficult to recognize fact from fiction. Tackles weighty issues with aplomb while blending real-life situations with almost non-stop danger and intrigue.”

San Francisco Book Review

“Ebner gives his characters rich backstories and complex motivations. Teagan proves to be an appealing hero with depth and determination – readers will enjoy rooting for her. An entertaining page-turner that mixes punchy shootouts with resonant soul-searching.”

Kirkus Reviews

“Intense, thriller novel. An ending you will not see coming, prepare to be kept on your toes.”

Los Angeles Book Review

“The excitement in this book starts right from the first chapter.”Chicago Book Review

“Global terrorism, mafias and one woman running from her personal struggles form this twisting action thriller. For fans of action, thrillers and espionage.”

LoveReading

“Teagan has no choice but to fight fire with fire. I would recommend this book to fans of global espionage and thrillers.”

Portland Book Review

“A riveting story. The New Bad Thing is a story readers will enjoy if they are looking for intrigue, mystery, and international scenery.”

Seattle Book Review

MICHAEL EBNER

THE NEW BAD THING

First published in 2023

Pen and Picture Publishing

www.penandpicture.com

Copyright ©Michael Ebner

Michael Ebner has asserted his right under the Copyright Designs and Patent act 1968 to be identified as the author of this work.

All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious, and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical, photo-copying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission of the publishers. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition on the subsequent purchaser.

Cover design by Tom Sanderson

1

“Do you think there are more good things in life or bad things?”

Cocooned by hundreds of towels and a lifetime’s supply of toilet paper, Teagan was hiding in a housekeeping closet in a Paris hotel–where people were dying by the minute. Her mind had snapped back to the night when she asked her husband that question. It felt like a long time ago. She thought of Todd, far away across the Atlantic, and how she wished to be with him more than anything. But she didn’t call her husband. She phoned another man.

As she waited for him to pick up, she noted that the gunfire had ceased and the screams had quieted. According to social media there were at least six or seven terrorists inside the Chateau Bleu Hotel. Nobody could be certain that the killing had stopped. She wondered if she could smell blood, as if the odor of the carnage underway had crept up into her hiding spot on the ninth floor. But she knew she was imagining such a scent.

“You know what time it is?” croaked a male voice somewhere in North America.

She whispered, “Roman.”

“Teagan?...How’s Paris?” he asked, seeming more alert.

Relief washed through her at the sound of a familiar voice, and she began to babble in an attempt to stay calm. “Send someone..they’re killing everyone..” Even with the international delay, she was speaking so fast it made crazy people sound sane. “I slept in today..missed the buffet breakfast..that’s the time now..see this picture?”

“Counterterrorism will be on it,” he replied. “Happens a lot over there.”

“You could fast track this..send someone..ANYONE!”

“How do you know this is not me?”

Any air between them was violently sucked out of the conversation.

She stammered, “What are you talking about?”

“If somebody wronged me, I’d do what you’re describing.”

“I’m at the Chateau Bleu Hotel!”

“I know.”

“PLEASE!”

“Some hits look like random acts of terrorism. Comb through the bodies, usually only one real target. Bystanders are just for the sell.”

She didn’t recognise him. This Roman sounded insane.

“Teagan, you shouldn’t have talked.”

She started to shake. “I don’t know what you’re–”

She heard more shots from below and took a deep breath.

He said, “They’re coming for you.”

2

THE PAST

“I’m still in your corner. Might not seem like it lately because I’m so preoccupied with my own crap, but I got your back,” said Teagan to Neetu, her colleague and good friend.

It was just after nine a.m. at Verdict magazine in downtown Seattle. Their tired and cluttered Belltown office gave up trying to be overly hip some years back. Corporate vanity and the staff’s creative sanity were no longer priorities. It was more about the bottom line now to keep the publication alive and preserve people’s jobs.

Surrounding co-workers paid little interest to the pair’s stakeout. Teagan and Neetu sipped their coffees while staring across the floor at the younger Kate’s desk and empty chair. Kate was late. She might have missed her ferry. She might have been breaking up a marriage somewhere in the suburbs.

“Stay the hell a-w-a-y froooom my stooorrries,” said Neetu, talking to the unoccupied desk, drowning her words with a wide yawn. Neetu’s two-year-old boy–Teagan’s godson–had just made the transition from a crib to a bed. Three days since the railings came down and he’d face planted the floor again in the night. Neetu looked exhausted.

Teagan said, “I’ll deal with Dowery.”

“What are you going to do?” Neetu asked all innocent-like with her blended accent. Neetu’s mother was Malaysian. Her father from Montana.

“It’ll be fine. You’ll get your story back.”

“I don’t know for sure that he’s sleeping with Kate,” said Neetu, almost back-pedaling now from the explosive look in Teagan’s eyes and because her scar seemed more pronounced.

“I got this.” Teagan had long blond hair, striking green eyes and a facial scar below her left eye, across the cheek. She was beautiful and fractured.

Teagan walked down the hall, smiling to passing colleagues and returning their polite morning nods. She entered the editor’s office, closing the door behind her.

“Our meeting is this afternoon?” he queried; checking if he’d missed an e-mail.

“I’m here for something else,” she said.

“Sit.” His eyes were glued to an incoming message on his phone.

Dowery was a good editor but ever since his refusal to turn fifty, he’d been having more affairs than usual. His thinning hair was getting grayer by the hour yet he was still pulling the heartstrings.

She asked, “Why is Neetu no longer working the Tracey Lewis story?”

“Katie’s got that.”

Kate was now Katie? Teagan rolled her eyes.

He continued, “And why is this your concern?”

“Neetu has done all the leg work.”

“Katie is a better fit. Younger perspective.”

Dowery was intelligent, wise and effortlessly charming. He was also arrogant and a total prick.

“You don’t really think that,” she said.

“Is there something else Teagan?”

“Stay with me,” she said with a dangerous smile–revealing her phone, dialling on speaker.

“What’s this?” asked Dowery, casually annoyed. “My wife?” Teagan had tried that before.

“Much better. Like the Christmases of Katies.”

“Welcome to Urban Royale Escort Agency, please hold,” purred the seductive female voice on the other end.

“Get out,” said Dowery, the kind of man who boasted that he never had to pay for it.

“Wait. My treat,” she said. “Neetu keeps her story and you get what you want. Because that’s all this is.”

“Hello? Hello? Don’t be shy,” said the voice on speaker. “Is this your first time with Urban Royale?”

“I’m bankrolling the transaction,” said Teagan standing up. “Buying for my boss.”

“He’s a lucky guy,” giggled the voice.

Dowery quickly got on his feet but her five foot ten height still had two inches on him.

“I’m with him on speaker...”

Dowery dived for the phone but Teagan was too fast and kept control.

“Hi boss,” said the voice. “Do you have a preference?”

“Brunette. Early twenties,” relayed Teagan, “great tits.”

“You won’t be disappointed. We got a lot of girls like that.”

Dowery saw himself as a suave silverback but in his failed attempts to commandeer the phone from Teagan, he looked more like a cantankerous lemur–kind of bouncing up and down.

“Can I send you a photo of a colleague,” shouted Teagan, holding her phone high while circling the room, “for visual reference and inspiration?”

Dowery finally ripped the phone off her, terminated the call then handed over the device without breathing a word.

“Not Neetu. She worked for this,” said Teagan. “Take Harry, Pete or Andy’s leads off them and give their stories to Kate. Those hacks won’t mind at all, if she offers a happy ending.”

Teagan knew Dowery couldn’t afford to lose her. She was the entertainment magazine’s best reporter. It was not the investigative journalism she aspired to when she graduated from college. Back then she thought her reporting was going to make a difference. That was before a couple of years of meaningless New York internships at publications that had later folded. She took a ten-year detour exploring Asia and lived in Japan, where she married a man she met in Tokyo while teaching English. However, his affair with a co-worker led to their divorce and Teagan moved back home to Seattle. Then she landed the job at Verdict magazine and married Todd fifteen months later.

Verdict magazine had been a beneficiary of some successful Seattleites who had passed away. Mostly record producers and band managers. Verdict had championed their artists long before the city’s sound once dominated the world. Such generous inheritances had helped keep the magazine afloat while supporting its evolved direction and diversification. It was no longer just a music magazine. It was now firmly positioned in the market as the true independent choice between Vanity Fair and Rolling Stone. It featured exclusive interviews with trail blazing celebrities, including actors, singers, artists, designers, politicians and entrepreneurs.

Teagan had helmed some of their most popular interviews. Her specialty was having an innate ability to extricate the truth from a story when left alone with a subject and making celebrities come off sounding like human beings. It was her full package. She had the ethics of a journalist but never went in with a checklist of questions. She was a good listener with a genuine desire to know more about the people she interviewed.

And she put celebrities at ease.

Teagan always saw something in the eyes of her interviewees at those first meetings. They were drawn to her beauty from afar but then, up close, her facial scar tarnished any preconceptions of perfection. It seemed to allow them to trust her from the get go and the results had cemented her sound reputation in the industry.

Publicists of celebrities demanded Teagan more than any of Verdict magazine’s other reporters. Because celebrities trusted her, Dowery gave her almost total autonomy on stories. He couldn’t raise her salary any higher so he was grateful that she stayed on. Her work wasn’t malicious. Neither was Verdict anymore. That was part of the magazine’s developed mantra. It focused on rare, in-depth interviews and fly-on-the-wall stories, letting readers decide their judgements. It aimed to show multiple sides to every story. That’s what interested Teagan. Letting the subjects open up to her and see where it might take them.

When Teagan walked out of Dowery’s office, there was tension in the air. Her colleagues were grouped around desks and speaking in hushed tones. Some crowded before the giant television on the wall watching a news story.

Neetu was in tears. She was staring into space, her shaking hands clutching the desk phone inches from her skull.

“What? Dowery?” said Teagan confused. “I was just in there.”

“There’s been terrorist attacks,” said Neetu putting down the phone, “in New York, Washington. London. Paris.”

“K.I.L.?”

Neetu nodded.

“Oh God, Neetu. Is someone you know hurt?”

She nodded again, breaking down.

Teagan tried to comfort her. She herself had lost a childhood friend to terrorism two years ago. Although she had fallen out of touch with her friend Samantha when Teagan lived overseas, their fathers still frequented the same bar in the old neighborhood. Samantha had been holidaying in Europe with her family when K.I.L. blew up their train travelling between Girona and Barcelona. Before that devastating attack in Spain, nobody in America had heard of K.I.L.

------ ------

“Do you think there are more good things in life or bad things?” asked Teagan.

It was late, on the wrong side of midnight, but no response until morning would be relationship suicide. It didn’t matter that her husband was almost asleep. She was on edge and he knew this.

“There’s a lot of bad things,” said Todd, trying to liven up, pushing his messed up long brown hair out of his blue eyes, “especially if you only focus on the news. That wasn’t a dig.”

“I don’t report news. We don’t…not the important issues.”

He sat up in bed and slapped his face to get with it. “The attacks today in New York. London too. Paris. Always Paris. They’re robbing any kind of quality of life…”

In recent years, the terrorist organization K.I.L. proclaimed their name was ‘Kings in Life’. Originally–when they were a small player operating under the radar–the fundamentalists went by ‘Kings of Islamic Life’ yet they had since grown to become the strongest and wealthiest terrorist organization in the world. They’d attracted a magnitude of backers and supporters from across the globe. Including a high volume of supporters with no connection to any particular religion or faith–just people that were outright disgruntled with society, humanity or their personal situation. K.I.L. embraced this. Its supporters, its foot soldiers, would attack innocent people often on their own or in a small team–shootings, stabbings, acid attacks, bombings, vehicle rammings–and then K.I.L. would take the credit to create greater fear for its worldwide brand of terror. It had gained such broad international success from these random followers that it strategically tweaked its title. ‘Kings in Life’ was much more accessible to the global mainstream’s mad men fearless of any personal consequences. But the media and the rest of the world were in unison and they always referred to the organization K.I.L. as ‘Killers of Innocent Lives’. There were multiple sides to every story.

“I’m telling you stuff you already know,” continued Todd, now fully awake in bed and warming to the conversation. “Folks go out less because they attack restaurants, movie theaters, night clubs, concerts. Some parents won’t even send their kids to school because K.I.L. recruit students too. It’s terrible, I know, and it seems like there’s more bad for us lately, but ultimately, all the good outweighs that stuff for me. For sure. There’s still more good in life.”

“Even us? This?” said Teagan. Now she was talking about their chances for fertility. “It’s just so relentless.” She stared at the ceiling as if her raw fury could burn a hole right through. Proof that greater darkness was waiting all along.

“We just have to hang in there and believe. We’ve got that doctor referral. Things are looking up.”

“K.I.L. have changed the game.”

“Are we talking about having a baby or terrorism?”

“Everything. What a moment to bring life into–”

“You still want to?”

“Absolutely,” she said with certainty, while her face struggled to mask the previous disappointments.

In the outside world Teagan kept the sadness to herself but it had been manifesting internally for so long now that the fake face she put on was struggling.

Everywhere she went, everyone seemed to remind her of what she didn’t have.

Her colleagues and friends had kids. Her neighbors in the building were all having babies. Along with what seemed like every other celebrity. She was the one without. She was the thirty-seven year old woman who wasn’t pregnant. To keep falling short every month, was like a slow motion death sentence.

“I’m telling you Teagan it will happen,” said Todd in bed.

“I’ll always remember this moment,” said Teagan rolling on her side to face away.

------ ------

The next day, the magazine’s staff slowly became increasingly numb to the bombardment of news stories of K.I.L., and gradually Verdict’s workforce returned to normal. Neetu received confirmation from her editor via e-mail that she was back as lead journalist on the Tracey Lewis story. Dowery was apparently working from home that day. (Coincidentally Kate had called in sick). Meanwhile Teagan went to the gym after lunch for a spin class then took an early mark to visit her father. Ever since her mom was no longer around, she usually popped over to see him at least once a week.

It was late afternoon, just on dark, as she sat with him on the large, front porch of the Foursquare home she grew up in. They watched cars come and go and people passing by beneath the streetlight. It was the first day of spring and they were both rugged up in jackets and scarves in a foolish attempt to convince themselves they were enjoying the change of season. It was part of a longstanding tradition with her father–he’d start opening windows the second the calendar announced winter punched out.

After one of the longer silences between them, Teagan asked, “Do you think things come in threes?”

“What are we talking about?” said her father, knocking back his second beer. He had piercing green eyes, a full head of gray hair and the worn hands of a carpenter–overdue for retirement.

“The rule of three. With life,” she replied.

He took a swig of beer. “I don’t believe in it. Your rule of three.” He said it like Teagan was the only person on the planet who’d ever thought it.

Surprisingly, her old man had come out of his shell more since her mom left. Teagan was still bitterly angry with her.

“Dad, I told you about my miscarriages”–he nodded and watched on with eyes full of sadness–“well now we’re going to see someone. This clinic, the doctor, they might be able to help us. I’m just worried that I’ll have another with that saying: ‘things come in threes’…”

She just needed to hear it from him that everything was going to be okay. In the chill, they sat in silence as a woman zipped past on an electric scooter dragging a Labrador by its leash. The silver ride hummed while the black lab panted loudly.

He said, “You married Todd.”

“It’s not his fault.”

“He’s your second husband.” He took another swig of beer.

“Dad don’t get all religious on me!”

“Let me finish. Are you looking for suitor number three?”

“No! I wasn’t talking about–”

“Okay then.”

“He’s a good one Dad.”

“There’s no rule of three. Things just keep coming.” He rose to his feet, staring into the bottle of Coors Light. He rocked it gently to verify its emptiness before taking a sip of practically nothing. “I hope it happens for you two. I really do. You sure you don’t want a beer?”

3

Teagan heard more shots below in the Chateau Bleu Hotel. It wasn’t meant to be like this. Originally, she was meant to go deal with their loose cannon in Paris, set things straight then celebrate. But last night she decided she wouldn’t go through with it anymore. Waking up to her hotel under siege was something she had not planned for. Terrorists like K.I.L. were everywhere, and daily life had changed for the entire world, but she had never anticipated her hotel actually being attacked. Not to mention Roman’s claim on the call–that it had been orchestrated purely for her downfall.

Initially she heard the shooting coming from below and left her room to investigate. She was going to attempt to scout from the elevator. Behind its stainless steel doors, the interior was encased in glass to overlook the grand lounge and restaurant below. That was the hotel’s iconic centerpiece–featuring lavish seating and indoor palm trees towering beneath the nine-story high glass roof atrium. But the venue’s signature tropical-chic had been replaced by a dark storm reminiscent of a blood-fueled war zone.

If Teagan was able to step in the elevator just for a second, she could maybe take a peek at the situation below from her top-floor vantage point.

But as she walked along her corridor more shots and screams were heard from below and she panicked and virtually leapt into the housekeeping closet. She hadn’t heard anyone else on her floor, as if she was the only one that had missed the royal buffet breakfast.

After the call to Roman, Teagan tried to stay calm but she knew there was no time. Her mind raced as she thought of the best option for survival.

She needed to get back to her room. Get the gun. Find a spot. Stay put. Then put down any gunmen who came her way.

Dressed in only a white T-shirt and gray sweatpants, she sprinted barefoot from the maid’s closet down what felt like a never-ending corridor. Inside her room for a moment she felt okay. That sweet relief a luxury hotel room provides upon entering with its exaggerated atmosphere and a surplus of pillows and pre-requisites. All of it was working overtime to buy her a couple of seconds of escapism.

Enough to refocus. Get dressed. Get the gun.

She watched the news on the TV while pulling up her black jeans. The British reporter said rescue squads were outside the hotel siege but had not yet entered the premises. The number of dead and injured was still unknown.

A hotel guest had phoned the media earlier and said the group were moving through the Chateau Bleu, floor by floor, entering every room and firing. That particular guest was now presumed dead; remembered for the raw panic in his words before the connection seized.

Teagan threw on her sneakers while staring at the aerial footage of the Chateau Bleu on the TV. There were no balconies on her side of the hotel. Her room was at the back of the street and too high up to jump. She was afraid to try the stairs or elevators but didn’t want to wait for the unknown.

She typed in the code to unlock the safe. The pin number was Todd’s birthday. Her husband recently turned forty. He wanted to keep it low key so they went out midweek for Mexican–just the two of them. Teagan wanted to see him again so badly now. She had to get through this.

She took her passport and gun from the safe. Paranoid, she checked it was still loaded.

Slowly, Teagan opened the door to case the corridor.

Her room was in the middle of the hallway at the rear of the hotel, and was one of thirty on the ninth floor. To the left of her led to the closest elevator and stairs. To the right, the corridor flowed onto the front of the hotel with another elevator and stairs further on. There was a superior suite in the corner just past the elevator and stairs nearest to her. All the suites had their own L-shaped alcoves at the entrance for additional privacy.

Teagan had to make a quick decision.

If she stayed in her room she’d be too far away to know if they were coming. Setting up outside the suite near the elevator and stairs was also risky.

What if multiple shooters arrived? What if she missed?

Except for the shooting range with Roman, she’d never fired for real. Never at a live target.

At least she could strike first from outside the suite. Or attempt to.

She darted down the corridor toward the elevator, pointing the weapon at the lift and stairs in case of any movement.

Teagan hid around the corner in the alcove by the suite with enough of a vantage positionto monitor the entry points. Here the wait began.

Time felt like it was passing in dog years.

A beaten down dog with little chance.

Minutes resembled hours.

She kept checking her phone for any news updates but the French authorities had not progressed with any intervention on site.

She watched the spot and tried to stay awake.

Fear wanted to crush her spirit but she kept it at bay.

Teagan held the gun tightly and tried to be ready to react.

Repeatedly, she had to keep reminding herself to focus and avoid being distracted by her own thoughts. Her heart was frantically beating. She needed to be with Todd.

Her cell phone vibrated. It was a news update.

There were now more terrorist attacks at two other hotels in Paris and still no further progress on the siege at the Chateau Bleu. She was terrified. She could try to run for it but the ghostly silence and no sight of another guest made her want to stay put.

An excruciating fifteen minutes later, the first sign of life approached the ninth floor. Footsteps were heard in the staircase. Clunking and banging noises from life on its way up.

There would be little time to determine if the incoming bodies were fellow guests or terrorists. But something told her panic-stricken guests wouldn’t be making that kind of racket. They’d be doing anything to stay invisible like her.

The door to the stairs opened and the first person appeared, dressed in black.

Finger on the trigger, she tried not to breathe.

Sweat trickled down her face.

The bearded Caucasian was in his thirties and armed with an AK-47 assault rifle. He faced the other way to her and stared down the corridor at the rooms.

Another younger man arrived, twenty-something, Mediterranean in appearance, also in black with a similar weapon and what appeared to be a hotel staff key in his hand.

The one with the key opened the first room on their right while the other entered and began firing.

She had to remind herself that it was really happening.

When she fired a gun for the first time at Roman’s private shooting range, it felt surreal.

The noise. The smell. The speed of the bullets. All in a controlled environment.

Now the real had swallowed the surreal.

The noise from inside the hotel room erupted like an explosion.

When the shooter stepped back out into the hallway, the pair moved to the next door and repeated the action. There was that noise again, sounding slightly duller, as the smell of gunpowder filled the air.

There was no time to become a target.

When they shifted to the following room, and the guy opened up, Teagan moved after them. It was a struggle. A big part of her body and mind wanted to retreat but she had committed and kept moving, pointing her Glock at the young man with the key. The other man was inside unleashing more rounds with the noise piercing anyone’s ears in range.

Teagan took a deep breath–ignoring the stabbing-like echo of the attacker’s assault rifle–stayed focused, exhaled and pulled the trigger.

BANG. She shot the Mediterranean man in the back–the bullet shell flew to the side–just as the shooter from inside the room entered her frame of vision. He had a magazine in one hand and was about to reload.

BANG. BANG. She then shot that guy in the face as she nervously pulled away the gun too quickly.

They were both down–the bearded Caucasian still writhing in pain.

She didn’t wait to confirm whether it was an act and he might retaliate, she just moved closer, like wading through chest deep water against the river’s treacherous current. Blood was everywhere. She wasn’t taking any chances.

BANG.

She shot him again.

Teagan was paralyzed by fear. She took some deep breaths then turned back to face the stairwell door and elevator in case others were coming. Waiting beside the pile of bodies was not going to be a safe place if more gunmen showed up. She bent down to remove the hotel key from the dead man’s fingers then used it to enter the room opposite the elevator.

She closed the door and stared through the peephole.

From that position she could watch the elevator and hear if anyone else arrived. If she put the chain on the door it might buy a nanosecond. That was nuts and she knew it. They would just barge in and spray the room. Teagan trembled with fear. She couldn’t punch the wall even if she wanted to.

She screamed in her head: Fuckkkkkkkkkkkkk...Farrrkkkkkkkkkkkkk…Farrrkkkkkkkkkkkk!

She desperately needed to be elsewhere.

Back out of the room, she aimed her gun at the lift and the stairs and tried not to pay too much attention to the corpses. She failed and glimpsed the mess: Walls and doors were sprayed in blood; a fresh pool painted the navy blue carpet between them. The body nearest to her was wearing the same style of black Adidas sneakers as her husband. It was eerie.

Teagan stepped over the body stack and opened a room on the opposite side. It was unoccupied and made-up in immaculate condition. All the rooms facing inside the hotel had views of the ground-floor lounge and restaurant beneath the atrium ceiling. Carefully, she slowly pulled back the shutters and could see three gunmen downstairs and dead bodies scattered over seats, tables and the floor.

Never had she been more fortunate for missing the buffet breakfast.

Teagan noticed the far elevator parked below. A gunman was near the entrance to the stairs. Maybe there was another guarding the stairs on her side.

She scanned the windows of the rooms on the surrounding floors thinking someone else–another guest like her–might be looking out. There was no sign of anyone.

Teagan could have tried to escape via the stairs. But she didn’t know how many of them were roaming around. And she was petrified by the fact that she hadn’t seen another living guest.

The suite. She was going to head for the superior suite. Its entrance was tucked away in the corner and the suites had multiple rooms. Maybe it would provide her with a chance to hide or a barricade to get in a few shots. And who knows what else it might offer. First class always got better treatment.

Teagan dragged the two assault rifles by their slings down the hallway. Then she used the all-areas-access key to enter the suite with the guns. Inside she soon learnt that she was not alone.

A seventy-year old German in a robe tried to charge her and she pointed an AK-47 at him to back off. His male partner, twenty-years his junior, walked out bare-chested in boxer shorts with his arms in the air.

The German couple could also speak French and Dutch but no English. Through a series of rushed gestures, and by showing her passport, Teagan was able to communicate to the couple, and convince them, that she was neither a terrorist nor a terror-guest.

“I mean no harm…”

She even gave them the rifles as a sign of trust. Neither of them knew guns, yet they each now held their assigned AK-47 assault rifle as if it was an extension of their existence–constantly fidgeting to understand its mechanics–despite one rifle missing a magazine and the other with the safety on.

The television was playing and soon a French journalist relayed that the counterterrorism rescue team had taken control of the situation.

The couple embraced one another while she watched on.

The reporter said they were currently retrieving survivors from the Chateau Bleu Hotel. Guests were advised to remain in their rooms until approached by the team of trained experts, in case any terrorists were still active.

Teagan wiped the prints off her Glock and stashed it in the back of the ensuite’s toilet. Then she washed the gun residue from her hands.

4

THE PAST

“I’m a betting man myself,” smiled the elderly doctor. His southern accent was quite uncommon in Seattle and a welcome distraction.

After a couple of years of trying on their own with two miscarriages, Teagan and Todd had finally gone to see a fertility specialist.

“So now we try a few things ma’am,” said the doctor. “We make those recommended dietary changes and you, Teagan, get to take some special drugs. It should improve the odds for us. I suggest we start with a few rounds of IUI. I’m confident we’ll get there.”

Later in the privacy of their cramped Honda Civic, Todd grumbled, “We? We? Does he think he’s having the baby with us? I don’t want it to be like those online dark rooms at the stock exchange. Where you know someone is screwing you but you just can’t see how.”

“Honey, nobody is switching your stuff. Do you even know what IUI is?”The fertility procedure known as IUI (Intrauterine Insemination) had been recommended by the doctor because of the couple’s rapidly shrinking window. Teagan was thirty-seven. Todd was almost forty. They would get three attempts with the procedure. One each month. If it failed they would then explore other major fertility treatments.

Prior to the appointment, the pair had undergone standard testing and were both given the all clear. There was greater pressure with the IUI procedure to time everything perfectly. It was more intense than their usual schedule with all the financial stress, examinations, constant predictions and careful coordination.

First month, no result. Teagan used the pregnancy test every day for a week. Even three times in a single day. Nothing. Not a second blue line in sight. Teagan was upset and told Todd that it was never going to happen. She was convinced she couldn’t fall pregnant.

Throughout their entire relationship, Teagan was usually the more positive one but this perpetuating failure had really changed her.

After the second month with the procedure the tests came back negative again. She was shattered. Then she stumbled upon a gut-wrenchingly terrible news story that same day. Just after she’d taken five tests all with negative results. The news story was about a misfortunate event in Chicago and it made her physically ill.

The article reported that a thirty-five year old woman, a high school teacher, had advertised baby clothes online for sale. Another woman, twenty-eight years of age and pregnant, purchased the clothes then went to collect the items in person. When she visited the home of the seller, she was murdered. The teacher had sliced open the younger woman’s stomach in an attempt to steal her unborn baby. The six-month-old foetus died a short time later. The murderer could not have children.

The news was a violent, dark awakening.

Could Teagan become so lost and distorted by her helplessness to have a child? She would not. She knew that much about herself. But the story was toxic icing on the poisonous cake baking inside her.

Everyone she knew had kids except her. It felt like a searing spotlight was placed on her anytime she was in the company of another human being. The endless pressure was exhausting.

The story of the Chicago double-murder had made her sick to her stomach and faint in the head. She remembered gasping for air and crying uncontrollably. It had triggered off more emotions and mostly stung as a reminder about her situation. Releasing all her built-up frustration, anger and sadness had taken her over the edge.

In a way, part of her died that night. Then the next morning, she experienced a resurrection of sorts. Another news story had turned on the burning lights. Different and equally shocking for its own reasons.