Veil of Civility: A Black Shuck Thriller (Declan McIver Series) Read Online Free Page B
Author: Ian Graham
Tags: a Black Shuck Thriller
on his part to slowly begin spoon feeding her bits of the past he'd so carefully hidden for so long. She knew nothing of his past life in Northern Ireland. He wasn't sure exactly why he hadn't told her the truth. Beginning their relationship with a lie wasn't something he was proud of and his dishonesty on the subject nagged him. He supposed that when they'd met he had wanted her to think of him as the man he was instead of the man he had been. Was his past really all that different from someone who'd gone to Vietnam or Desert Storm and seen the horrors of war, he reasoned? Many of them had chosen not to speak of their experiences either.
"Your evening begins at six, Mrs. McIver," he said with a wry smile. "While Dr. Kafni probably won't have a lot of time at the gala itself, he's asked to meet us for dinner afterwards. I told him we'd try to find time in our busy schedule."
"Really?" she said, acting as if she was impressed. "I didn't know you were a man of such connections. Can I touch you?" She held out her index finger and reached towards him, grinning like a star struck teen.
He shook his head and laughed. "Why yes, you can."
Gently, he cupped her face and kissed her. Wiping her eyes with her hands, she returned the kiss with passion. She laughed and pretended to protest as he picked her up off her feet and carried her down the hallway towards their bedroom.
"I just thought of something we can do," he said, kicking the door shut with his foot as they entered.
"Oh you did, did you?" she asked.
"Aye, I did."
Chapter Three
8:46 a.m. Eastern Time – Friday
Van Deman Industrial Park
Dundalk, Maryland
The brakes of the decaying Crown Victoria ground against the rotors as the taxi cab pulled to a stop at the corner of Ralls Avenue and Van Deman Street in an industrial area just southwest of the city of Dundalk, one of the first suburbs inside what was known as the inner ring of Baltimore. Anzor Kasparov knew he was taking a great risk coming in broad daylight. Dressed in an open flannel shirt over a faded blue tee, and jeans with a hole in one knee, he hoped he looked the part of someone who belonged in and around the manufacturing district at this hour of the morning.
"You want me to wait?" the cabbie asked as he turned to look over his shoulder. "The cost is twenty dollars."
"No," Kasparov said pulling a Baltimore Orioles cap further down over his brow in hopes of keeping the man from getting too good a look at him.
"Okay. The fare is fifty-five."
Kasparov tossed three crumpled twenty dollar bills into the front passenger seat as he opened the door and exited. His hands in his pockets, he walked south on Ralls Avenue for twenty yards, as the cab drove away and disappeared from view, then he turned and headed back to the corner, this time going north onto Van Deman Street. He walked for two blocks until he reached a building with a rusted sign above the door reading Broughman's Welding Service. He surveyed the vicinity and looked over the odd collection of junk beside the building as he took his wallet out and removed a key.
Opening the blue metal door, he walked into what had once been the front office of someone's business. Now mildewed boxes sat collecting dust and the air smelled of rotting cardboard. He closed the door behind him and locked it. He could hear the sound of a power tool running in the larger part of the building behind the office and walked that way.
Inside what he imagined had once been some type of machine room a lone man lay on his back underneath a tattered panel van. The van had been driven onto a pair of mobile ramps for easier access and two red toolboxes sat open on either side of the mechanic. Undoubtedly the van was how their mysterious benefactor planned for them to get around without attracting attention. From such a humble veil, the surveillance, the collection of intelligence, and finally the selection of a target could be accomplished, and there was little
"Your evening begins at six, Mrs. McIver," he said with a wry smile. "While Dr. Kafni probably won't have a lot of time at the gala itself, he's asked to meet us for dinner afterwards. I told him we'd try to find time in our busy schedule."
"Really?" she said, acting as if she was impressed. "I didn't know you were a man of such connections. Can I touch you?" She held out her index finger and reached towards him, grinning like a star struck teen.
He shook his head and laughed. "Why yes, you can."
Gently, he cupped her face and kissed her. Wiping her eyes with her hands, she returned the kiss with passion. She laughed and pretended to protest as he picked her up off her feet and carried her down the hallway towards their bedroom.
"I just thought of something we can do," he said, kicking the door shut with his foot as they entered.
"Oh you did, did you?" she asked.
"Aye, I did."
Chapter Three
8:46 a.m. Eastern Time – Friday
Van Deman Industrial Park
Dundalk, Maryland
The brakes of the decaying Crown Victoria ground against the rotors as the taxi cab pulled to a stop at the corner of Ralls Avenue and Van Deman Street in an industrial area just southwest of the city of Dundalk, one of the first suburbs inside what was known as the inner ring of Baltimore. Anzor Kasparov knew he was taking a great risk coming in broad daylight. Dressed in an open flannel shirt over a faded blue tee, and jeans with a hole in one knee, he hoped he looked the part of someone who belonged in and around the manufacturing district at this hour of the morning.
"You want me to wait?" the cabbie asked as he turned to look over his shoulder. "The cost is twenty dollars."
"No," Kasparov said pulling a Baltimore Orioles cap further down over his brow in hopes of keeping the man from getting too good a look at him.
"Okay. The fare is fifty-five."
Kasparov tossed three crumpled twenty dollar bills into the front passenger seat as he opened the door and exited. His hands in his pockets, he walked south on Ralls Avenue for twenty yards, as the cab drove away and disappeared from view, then he turned and headed back to the corner, this time going north onto Van Deman Street. He walked for two blocks until he reached a building with a rusted sign above the door reading Broughman's Welding Service. He surveyed the vicinity and looked over the odd collection of junk beside the building as he took his wallet out and removed a key.
Opening the blue metal door, he walked into what had once been the front office of someone's business. Now mildewed boxes sat collecting dust and the air smelled of rotting cardboard. He closed the door behind him and locked it. He could hear the sound of a power tool running in the larger part of the building behind the office and walked that way.
Inside what he imagined had once been some type of machine room a lone man lay on his back underneath a tattered panel van. The van had been driven onto a pair of mobile ramps for easier access and two red toolboxes sat open on either side of the mechanic. Undoubtedly the van was how their mysterious benefactor planned for them to get around without attracting attention. From such a humble veil, the surveillance, the collection of intelligence, and finally the selection of a target could be accomplished, and there was little
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