Late night wordsmithing-chapter one.

Not sure I'll ever have enough discipline to write an entire book unless someone decides a book of first chapters is worthy of being put into print. I have various unfinished and barely started writing projects I've started in the past three plus years taking up room on my hard drive as I strive to refine my craft. Perhaps that is the curse of coming to writing at this late stage in my life, or maybe none of my projects have reached conclusion yet because I am not ready, am still refining my skills.

Tonight, or perhaps early this morning I again felt creative, wanted to start something new and FRESH...the joys of being ADD. At almost four it is time to get some sleep so thought I would share yet another Chapter One, the start of another story that will never see an ending. Let me know what you think.

Chapter One-Introductions

"Excuse me, do you have a light?" The stranger's voice intruding in on my thoughts was a nuisance I could do without.

Taking a drag on my Marlboro, I realized it was easier to lend him a light than brush him off, so I rummaged through my overcoat and handed him one of the boxes of matches I'd filched at Barnegat's Pub down along the rivers edge, a recent favorite hang out of mine. Stella the middle-aged barmaid had taken a shine to me, kept my glass properly filled with decent Scotch when the owner wasn't looking and ringing it up as a well drink. "Here you go, take these."

"Thank you, mind if I take a seat."

Jesus Christ, do I look like I want company? Maybe it would have been easier to send him on his way, let him go bother someone else at this late hour of the night. "No, make yourself at home, it's a free world."

As I spoke he struck a match, his face briefly appearing, coming fully into focus on this foggy night, rain hanging in the air. Ruddy complexion, maybe 60 years of age, his hair silver gray, well groomed. As he lifted the match to what looked to be a Sherman his signet ring glistening in the match light caught my eye. It was larger than most, a shield with two lions framing its edge. His cigarette lit, he gracefully slid the used match into the box, tucked it into his overcoat and pulled out a small flask, the same crest and lions upon its sleek finish.

"It's a cold night, would you like a nip?"

OK, maybe it pays to be nice. "Sure, don't mind if I do."

As I took a swig he introduced himself, "I'm Randal, Randal Cunningham, and you are?"

Handing him back his flask, "John, John Smith, and thanks for the drink", not my real name, but he would never know.

"You are George, George Sterling to be precise. I've been following you now for three days."

I started to get up when I saw the small caliber pistol in his hand. Slumping back into the park bench, the fog seeming heavier, more sinister I took a closer look at this stranger. Who was he, and why was he following me, not just tonight, but for days? As I sized up my chances of making an escape, perhaps saving my life; he reached into his coat and pulled out a small black leather wallet, and flipping it open showed me his badge.

"Randal Cunningham, British Intelligence. Relax; we just need to have a talk." As he spoke he put both his badge and gun away, satisfied I would stay put. He knew who I was, which also meant he knew my past, was right in knowing I'd hear whatever it was he had to say.

"They have Brandi, nabbed her on campus at Harvard in between classes, two of her friends are in the hospital, beat up pretty bad, but they'll be OK."

Brandi is my God-Daughter. My best friend Jim and his wife had asked me to accept the honor years ago when we were both in the Navy. His wife worked for the CIA, Jim had taken a job with the Secret Service back in the Reagan administration. Brandi would spend time with us when her parents were out of town, which was frequently. Cynthia, my wife, and I had no kids of our own, Brandi our part time adopted daughter. We were there for every birthday, watched Brandi grow up into a beautiful young woman.

When my wife died, I'd left the CIA, sold my home and bought a sail boat. Brandi called me about once a month. I'd see her, Jim and his wife Sandy once a year for Christmas...it was easier that way. Cynthia had been my life, the CIA for too long had been my home. With Cynthia gone it had been the right time to say my goodbyes, make arrangements to have my retirement checks deposited in the Chase Manhattan Bank, and leave my former life behind. After two years sailing around the world, spending most of my time out at sea I'd bought a small flat in Cambridge, spent my days snooping around antique shops, contemplating going back to work, perhaps teaching over at Oxford.

"How are Jim and Sandy taking it?"

"Jim gave me a call; we've worked a couple of cases together, asked me to track you down. Sandy is taking it pretty hard."

If Jim knew Randal he could be trusted completely. It also meant he was pretty high up the chain of command. "Lets get out of this weather, my flat is not to far from here, and I have some Scotch in the cupboard. I want to hear everything you know."