Cassie had dreams and visions, but no one ever believed. Girls at school laughed when she foresaw their boyfriends cheating; her family shook their heads if she saw cars crashes, or homes burning down. Cornell might love Cassandra but he never believed her, either. “There you go,” Cassie tucked her silk handkerchief into the breast pocket of Cornell’s suit. “Now you’re ready for anything.” It was a lie, but she’d warned him before, and he’d just laughed it off. Instead of fighting, she kissed Cornell’s lips and let him muss her auburn hair one last time. “I’ll be home for dinner,” he said, getting into his Tesla. ”We’ll have pork chops.” Cassie blinked away tears from her grey eyes, smiled and waved as he left. It was hard watching Cornell leave forever. It was much harder than everyone thinking she was crazy. Once the taillights had disappeared Cassie went out into the garage where her reliable, old Jeep was ready, loaded with supplies, full of fuel, and serviced. The reinforced...

Reynolds smirked like the cat that ate the canary as he came into the bar of the Metropole Hotel. I must have caught his eye, as he came straight over to the table where I was sitting and took a seat. “Hello, Old Man,” he said.  “I thought you were in…where was it? Costa Rica?” I waved the waiter over and ordered him an amontillado. He loved the stuff, purely for its associations, I think. “British Honduras,” he replied. HIs work took him to many exotic locales and, whenever I saw him, he was usually either just returned from some trip, or just about to leave. Lean and tall, with shockingly blonde hair, I was always surprised that he never returned sunburned from his tropical jaunts. But he assured me he never went out until late in the afternoon; I suppose that explained it We exchanged pleasantries and sipped our drinks; I could tell he couldn’t wait to tell me something – probably something as outlandish as most of his traveller’s tales – but he was keeping it secret, for now. T...

“ ¡Gar-ci-a! ¡Gar-ci-a! ” twenty-thousand voices cheered Monte Rico’s president, as he started to climb up the steps to the podium. Every eye was on their hero; no-one was likely to look at the high window where I was hidden.  Garcia had made enemies among the multinationals. He’d nationalised some holdings, forced the big boys to declare their interests, but his real crime was refusing to grant permits for oil exploration and mining. The corporations leaned on the President, and she leaned on the Company; then they sent me to deal with Garcia. I wondered if he guessed his fate was sealed. Graves – head of operations – assured me it would be a simple job, when I was briefed. He seemed right; the security arrangements were laughably bad. But a professional cuts no corners, even on an easy job. Garcia’s head was lined up through the telescopic sight. It was a good one, and the rifle was the excellent Tikka T3, in .308. There was nothing military on this mission, and nothing American,...