Peak Oil (37 page)

“You’re too young to retire,” Alexa joked.

Chris Fitch shook his head as he drained his glass and placed it on the table. “You won’t keep me away from Interpol for all the money in the world.” He looked up, seemingly embarrassed. “That is, if I still have a job.”

“We won’t fire you for all the money in the world,” Alexa said with a wink. “So, what are you going to do with all that money?”

Missy chuckled and then poured Mary-Lou another glass of lemonade as she tugged on the old woman’s dress. “You won’t believe it.” She sipped her lemonade and looked at Alexa with a twinkle in her eye.

“Well go on then.”

“The Fitch Academy has become one of the best funded institutions doing research on renewable energy.” She threw her hands in the air, in a “praise the Lord” gesture. “In the world.”

Alexa smiled. How ironic.

Missy lifted Mary-Lou onto her lap. “Lucy Beck and I will be heading the recruitment program. We’ve already managed to enlist a Nobel Laureate, Dr. Harvey Banks. We want Dabbort Creek to be independent of fossil fuel energy within five years’ time.”

Alexa nodded and then glanced up as Neil sauntered toward them carrying a couple of duffle bags. “Ally, your men have left.” He smiled and then nodded. He had a brand new front tooth, although the color did not match the ones beside it. “Good day, folks.”

Alexa stood up. “We need to go.”

Missy took her hand with a frown. “You sure you don’t want to stay a while longer? Rest up a bit?”

Neil shook his head and then leaned down and gave her a hug. “We’ve spent enough time resting. To tell you the honest truth—” he started to say and then gave a sheepish grin.

“What?” Missy said, glancing between Neil and Alexa.

Chris slapped Neil on the shoulder. “They’re bored out of their skulls!”
 

Missy tsk-tsked and then stood up, straightening her dress. She gave Alexa and Neil a motherly hug. “Young folks of today.” She waved a hand like she was swatting away a fly. “Never mind, you both come visit soon, you hear?”

Alexa nodded and then gave Missy a hug and a peck on the cheek.
 

Missy turned to Voelkner. “As for you, young man,” she said waving a finger, a stern look on her face.
 

Voelkner’s shoulders slumped.

She grabbed him, hugged him, and then planted two wet kisses on his cheeks and one on his mouth. “I sure am going to miss you.”

Voelkner look flabbergasted. “Me too.”

Mary-Lou glanced up at Alexa. “You’re so pretty. You look just like my momma.”

Alexa laughed and picked her up, hugging her tightly. “You’re such a special girl, Mary-Lou.” She gently placed her on the ground and kneeled in front of her. “You look after your gran and daddy, you hear me now?”

Mary-Lou nodded and then pulled Chris Fitch by the hand. “C’mon, Daddy, let’s dance some more.”

Alexa waved, and Chris regarded her sadly over his shoulder as Mary-Lou pulled him away. “Good-bye, Captain.”

“Good-bye, Lieutenant,” Alexa called and headed toward the car.
 

“You all don’t be strangers now,” Missy shouted, wagging a finger.

Neil and Alexa climbed into the car and then roared away, waving their hands.

They hated overdrawn adieus.

Let’s Talk!

I’ve been rushing to finalize Book 4 of the Fatal Series starring Captain Alexa Guerra, and it’s almost done.

There is a caveat, though. And it is this.

I have kinda reached a crossroads in my writing career, I’ve been doing this on and off for close to twenty years, and it’s tough. Look, I’ll be the first person to tell you that writing is like a drug to me, a story mulls around in my head and I have to get it down on paper for the characters to stop harassing me. I’ll never stop.

But.

Writing is a lonesome occupation. So I’m going to ask you, my reader, a
huge
favor.

Please get in touch with me. Write me at
[email protected]
and tell me what you think, what you enjoyed and where you reckon I should improve. Hey, I’m no Stephen King or Thomas Mann for that matter, but I do think I spin an interesting yarn and if you would like to continue on this journey with me, please let me know.

And if you have a moment to spare, please leave a review for this episode or any of the other episodes you may have read.
 

It would be
greatly
appreciated.
 

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Hope to hear from you Guerrians soon!

Arno Joubert

Author of the FATAL Series

Excerpt from Book 3 of the Fatal Series starring Alexa Guerra.

Betty’s Bay,
 

Cape Town, South Africa

The wind was blowing like a bastard, but Eddie Nel felt cozy in the sunroom of his small house overlooking the cold Atlantic. He had the gas heater on high as he watched the stragglers on the beach run for cover. The weather was fickle in the Cape; her mood swings were worse than his beloved Norah’s, bless her soul.

Some die-hard fishermen strolled on the beach, rods over their shoulders and plastic buckets in their hands. The howling wind blasted sand against their legs, but they soldiered on dutifully, heads tucked into their shoulders, heading toward the larger boulders; it would be high tide soon. They wore jeans and thick, woolen sweaters, hand-knitted by their doting wives, Eddie guessed. Norah had knitted him one a long time ago, but when she passed away it had become bedding for the dogs. He had hated the awful, scratchy thing.

Seagulls circled high in the grey clouds, and the weather looked ominous. Then fat drops of rain splatted against the window, slowly at first but increasing in intensity until the nice, clean panes became a hazy blur. Eddie squinted, trying to peer through the downpour. Where was that stupid mutt?

Eddie watched with a smile as Sinjin, his black water spaniel, came bounding up the footpath that led to the beach. The dog enjoyed playing with the kids on the beach, and everyone knew him well. On fairer days Eddie usually joined Sinjin on a walk; it was a nice way to meet new people, and the pretty young lasses seemed to enjoy playing with the mutt. How could an old man with a cute dog not be attractive?
 

“Stop saying that, you dirty old man,” he heard Norah chide him. He chuckled. Norah used to like his jokes.

He couldn’t believe that people said spaniels were antisocial animals. Sinjin loved people. He had been named after the pilot that flew the Airwolf helicopter on the television show—Sinjin somebody—because the dog’s jet-black hair had reminded Eddie of the chopper. The dog hurdled over a log, then he scampered through the fynbos, heading home. Eddie loved the smell of the fynbos, an Afrikaans name that literally translated into “fine bush.” The small leaves emitted an aromatic, herby smell when they brushed against your legs. The mutt would smell like a damp herb garden.

Sinjin quickened his pace as the storm intensified. He charged up the inclined lawn then jumped up the porch terrace, not bothering to take the stairs. He was carrying something in his mouth, and as he trotted toward the dog flap, Eddie noticed that it was a white sneaker. Shit, not again. He would have to go look for the owner. The damn mutt was always raiding towels and beach bags.

Wind swirled into the room as Sinjin squeezed through the flap, and Eddie managed to grab the newspaper before it was swept off his lap. Sinjin trotted toward the older man, the dog’s whole body gyrating happily. He dropped the sneaker in front of Eddie, his tail swishing on the floor, then he sat down and panted happily as if to say, “Look, I brought you a toy, old man. I want you to be happy too.”

Eddie leaned over and scooped up the sneaker. It was heavier than he had expected, probably waterlogged or filled with sand. He examined it closely then tossed it to the floor with a shriek, wiping his hand on his chest.
 

Inside the sneaker were the remains of a severed human foot.

Interpol Headquarters

Lyon, France

Alexa stood casually outside the ring, her arms resting on the padded post in Neil’s corner. Neil and Alexa had been attending a national training week on hand-to-hand combat, and soldiers and cops from around the globe had gathered to be instructed by the best fighters in their respective disciplines.

Neil had been selected to demonstrate various Krav Maga grappling techniques and, true to form, had gotten into a heated exchange with a boxing trainer regarding the merits of teaching soldiers boxing as a form of hand-to-hand combat. Neil argued that Krav Maga contained enough boxing techniques to equip any soldier in any form of combat with the skills necessary to emerge the victor. So the instructor had challenged Neil to a fight to prove him wrong.
 

Alexa sighed. Men.

Lieutenant Ben Harris was the US Army’s welterweight boxing champion, and Alexa could see why. Standing at six foot five, he was tough as nails, sinewy and lean, and super fit. Neil had already connected with a couple of telling blows, but now the man kept Neil at bay with a series of jabs, using his superior reach advantage to good effect.

Lieutenant Ben Harris danced around Neil, threw a mock punch, and feinted to the left, then he followed it up with a right-hand hook aimed at Neil’s jaw. Neil swayed back a fraction of a second before impact, shot a boot out, and connected with Harris in the stomach. The man doubled over, clutching his stomach, coughing and wheezing but not going down. Harris stood up as the bell rang then sauntered to his corner, casting Neil an accusing glance over his shoulder.
 

Neil ambled toward Alexa and leaned on the rope. “He’s tough. I thought I would have nailed him by now.”

Alexa nodded. “Work on his legs, they’re his weak point,” she said, wiping the sweat off his brow with a towel.

Neil glanced back. “You think?”

“His stance was low when the fight started. He’s standing more upright at the end of the rounds. His legs are aching.”

Neil nodded as the bell sounded then turned on his heel to face Harris. He stood calmly, impassively, his arms hanging loosely by his sides. He moved his head from side to side, loosening his neck muscles. Harris sucked in a couple of breaths and continued dancing around Neil, feinting left and right, bobbing and weaving in front of his opponent. Neil walked straight up to Harris, stepped to the side as Harris threw a jab at Neil’s face, then crouched and landed two quick blows to Harris’s thigh. He backed up before Harris could retaliate. A second later the boxer fell to his knee, trying to rub his upper leg with his gloved hands, a pained expression on his face.

“Hey, that’s cheating!” the man’s trainer shouted from Harris’s corner and started climbing through the ropes.

Neil shrugged as Alexa tossed him his T-shirt. “All’s fair in love and war.”

“Screw you, you cheating bastard!” Harris shouted as he was being helped to his feet by a big brawny guy wearing an army shirt with the sleeves cut off.
 

Harris limped to his corner, and the big guy marched over to Neil and stuck a finger in his face. “You cheated, you prick. I think I need to give you a working over.”

“Who’re you?” Neil asked, looking up at the big man.

“Garber,” he said with a derisive snort. “Captain Daniel Garber, Harris’s platoon leader.”

Neil chuckled. “You should teach your man to expect anything in a battle, Captain. This wasn’t a boxing match, it was hand-to-hand combat, and I taught your boy a lesson.”
 

Neil started to turn around, but Garber pulled him back by his shoulder. “Now you listen to me, punk—”

Alexa grabbed Garber’s hand, twisting it into a wristlock. “Watch it.”

Garber wrenched his hand free then glared at Alexa, shaking his hand. “Who’re you? His mascot?”