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Troubador Publishing Ltd - Richard Wilson

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164 pages

English

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This second book in the blistering thriller series featuring Hardington Tachman (akaHardtack) sees him and his wife Mei Li in Karindu, WestAfrica, at the start of a new life following their first adventure. Their world is blown apart when they are caught up in a violent, student-led jihadist movement and ensnared in a world of strange prophecies and ritualistic violence. Mei Li is abducted by a crazed juju priestess in league with the jihadists, but is rescued by a Touareg warrior and spirited north into the desert. During this frightening journey, Mei Li loses her memory of Hardtack and of the horrifying events in Karindu. Anchorless, she becomes an unwilling courier, carrying a map that reveals the location of a secret uranium deposit in West Africa. Many people are desperate to obtain this information and will stop at nothing to get it. A transcontinental chase ensues. Reunited with Hardtack in London, Mei Li, who no longer recognises her husband, flees to Istanbul, then to Varanasi in India, where - amidst funeral pyres on the River Ganges - Hardtack will face the fires of cremation, unless Mei Li relinquishes her fatal possession...

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Thriller

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Publié par	Troubador Publishing Ltd
Date de parution	28 novembre 2014
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781784627102
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0200€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

The Furnace of Hell
The Hardtack Diary: Book 2
Richard and John Wilson

Copyright © 2014 Richard Wilson and John Wilson
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study,
or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents
Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in
any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the
publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with
the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries
concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.
Matador ®
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Kibworth Beauchamp
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Tel: (+44) 116 279 2299
Fax: (+44) 116 279 2277
Email: books@troubador.co.uk
Web: www.troubador.co.uk/matador
ISBN 978 1784627 102
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Matador ® is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

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To David, Anne, Lee, Peter and Cicely
Contents

Cover

PART ONE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

PART TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

CHAPTER FORTY

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

CHAPTER FIFTY

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
PART ONE

THE TOUAREG
CHAPTER ONE

As I dozed, barely conscious of the scene outside, I once again slipped from reality. Suddenly, leaves that had been lightly touched by autumn gold went dry and brittle, and the green fields, still verdant, turned a dusty, sunbaked brown. I was back in Africa. I began to perspire although it was not hot. Somewhere I heard voices, soft and melodic, pressing around me. There was a swirl of colors as women with sandaled feet walked past. Then, with a jolt of terror, I felt the coils of spitting cobras, their ugly heads turning to aim their deadly venom into my eyes. I jerked involuntarily, hearing the sound of angry voices rising in a cacophony of hate. “ Take him . Take him ,” and then I was trying to run, but my feet were coldly unresponsive and still.
“Sir, are you all right?”
The conductor was leaning over me, gently shaking my shoulder, a worried look on her face.
“Yes, yes,” I said, although the terror that gripped me was not so easily dismissed. “Yes, I’m all right. Thank you, I… I must have had a nightmare.”
I know my look pleaded for help. She quickly went to a washbasin at the end of the car, wet a towel, and brought it back.
“Here,” she said, handing me the towel. “Let me know if you need anything. Shall I call for a doctor?”
“No, no. I’m fine,” I stammered. “Thank you… thank you so much. I’ll just rest now.”
She didn’t look convinced but retreated down the car, glancing back several times. We had already cleared New Haven. The train was now moving rapidly along the southern coast of Connecticut near New London. Off towards the sea, lines of houses faced the open, gray water. Here the coves that reached inland were many and varied. It was still the time of year when people were boating, and, occasionally, a motor craft or sailboat could be seen in the distance.
We came into New London Station, close by the water. On the Thames River a variety of small craft were tied at piers. Across the river lay the green banks of Groton. Just opposite the railroad tracks was a great, round ferry that sailed to the islands in the Sound. A submarine from the naval base was heading out to sea, its black, sinister hull barely parting the water. A hundred yards farther on, a white Coast Guard cutter was moored, and near the bow a group of sailors were working. It all looked very familiar. I took down my small bag, walked to the steps that led down from the train to the platform, and alighted. From there it was but a short walk to the taxi stand. A cheerful man in rumpled clothes greeted me and inquired where I wanted to go.
When I said, “Black Rock,” he replied, hesitantly, that it wasn’t a short trip and would cost some money but smiled when he saw me already loading my bag into his cab.
Black Rock is an old town near Mystic at the easternmost edge of the Long Island Sound. It was one of the first places settled in this part of the country. Giant trees frame the village roads, and the old homes have a look of scrubbed, weathered freshness, as after a summer thunderstorm. And the sea. There is something about the low waves beating so endlessly and repetitiously, murmuring against the shore. What struck me most was how the place had stayed exactly as I remembered. In winter it would be blanketed in snow, while in summer hordes of tourists would crowd the streets and jam the harbor in their small, white-winged boats. Now the town seemed quiet, with only a few people strolling among the last of the seasonal shops that were still open.
The taxi driver knew the way to the old hotel, and when I entered, they were expecting me. I signed my name, Hardington Tachman, and listed my occupation as professor. My room was on the second floor, facing the sea. It had been refurbished but still maintained a nineteenth century ambience with left over gaslights, long since disconnected, still gracing the walls. There was an old washbasin in the corner and a modern bathroom that could be reached only by walking up several steps. I assumed that originally there had been no bathroom and that this one had been added later, requiring this odd structural alteration. All in all, it was a roomy place with a comfortable armchair by the window where I could look out on the water. Most important, there was a small, old-fashioned desk where I could continue writing my diary.
Dinner that evening was not as pleasant as I had hoped. I was tired and anxious, and my head was heavy and slightly painful. Something was wrong. The evening had started well enough, in the hotel dining room, with a surprisingly large number of people sitting at different tables set with immaculate white tablecloths, heavy silver plate table-ware and crystal wineglasses that reflected the flickering light from numerous candles. At first everything seemed normal, and I ordered a martini to celebrate my arrival. Then, just as I was beginning to congratulate myself on reaching a safe harbor, I noticed a red drapery hanging on one of the paneled walls. It was the only sizeable decoration in the room, and soon it seemed to be the only one. As my dinner progressed, the drapery became a sheaf of blood, and I heard a shrill, agonized shriek followed by a moaning wail that ended in a piercing scream.
Before me I saw a young man, his ebony back flayed and crisscrossed with bright, crimson stripes, bits of flesh hanging in shreds from his dripping wounds. He was lashed to some kind of frame, surrounded by a knot of men. One, huge in form and tightly muscled, was wielding a bullwhip that whistled as he cracked it toward his writhing victim. “ What’s this ?” I cried, and someone, in English, called out, “ He’s an adulterer . He defiled his cousin .” The young man was trying desperately to pull himself loose, thrashing back and forth, but to no avail. His anguished cries mounted and then, slowly, subsided, as his bloody body collapsed into unconsciousness. On the faces of those around him were smiles. I was frozen in horror, but, to my astonishment, when I looked at my fellow diners, I could tell they had heard nothing, seen nothing. The drapery slowly returned to a normal reddish hue while the sound of the conversations around me pulsed in a monotonous hum. My hands, however, were shaking, and I found it was impossible to eat. Reluctantly, I pushed my plate aside and, with a mumbled apology to the waiter, rose and returned to my room. For many hours I could not sleep, so disturbing was the vision I had seen.

***

I woke late, tired and irritable. Yet all this changed when I noticed a ray of sunlight crossing my bed, splitting the air with a bright, yellow intensity. As my eyes opened wider, I saw that it crossed the floor, climbed the wall, and then struck a mirror where it lost itself in a brilliant halo. How different it made everything look. Without it the room, partially cut off from the daylight by curtains, would have been shadowy and gray. Now this ray of light, more beautiful because it pierced the darkened interior, was a kind of festive portent. The air that came through the partly opened windows smelled clean, fresh, and salty. Just briefly, every few moments, a wisp of wind stirred the curtains so that the golden sunlight appeared to dance as little dust particles sparkled. My vision of the night before now seemed a distant dream, a nightmare banished by the crystalline sparkle of the day.
Breakfast was delightful. The table was set in a corner of the rear porch next to a large picture window. Through the doorway behind me, I could smell ba