Note: Hello reader. Below are the first 4 chapters of a tongue-in-cheek spy novel that I’ve been working on, called Assassins on the Golf Course. The novel is short and fast paced, and hopefully a little more fun than typical spy/action novels. If you’d like to read a finished novel of mine, you can check out my apocalypse story Pass the Tequila, Hold the Destruction on Amazon.
Assassins on the Golf Course:
Sam Swing series #1
Chapter 1- Suitcase Mixup
Standing at the luggage carousel in the airport, I have to remind myself three times that I’m not on the job anymore. There’s a man standing across from me that I really, really don’t like the look of.
It’s a crowded Thursday night at the airport, lots of folks flying in to golf this weekend, I assume. But the guy standing across from me isn’t giving off vacation vibes at all. Of the eighty or so people standing at the luggage carousel, this guy is making my spy senses tingle all the way up from my toes to my spine.
The man is about six foot two, putting him a full head above the weekend golfers standing around him. He’s wearing a serious black coat and an even more serious expression on his face. It’s the kind of face that was probably good looking a few hundred packs of cigarettes ago.
Thinking of cigarettes, I start to feel a little itchy. I reach into the pocket of my dark blue windbreaker and grab my packet of nicotine gum, fumbling for a piece. I pop a piece into my mouth. Feeling a minty breeze wash over my tongue and gums, I relax a bit. Putting the gum packet back into my pocket, I realize what I don’t like about the guy.
It’s the way he’s tapping his feet, and the way he’s squirming about as he waits for his luggage. The man’s movements are somewhere on the spectrum between nervousness and readiness. The man seems to be keeping himself loose and alert so that he’s ready to act at a moment’s notice.
It’s the same way that I used to move when I was on the job. The same way that I used to wait around during downtime on a mission. And no good mission has ever happened at an airport. Either the man is getting ready to do something shady, or waiting around for another shady character to act. The hair on my arms stands up as I remind myself for the fourth time that this guy isn’t my problem. My days of dealing with shady characters are over.
A new round of luggage appears onto the carousel. I forget the shady man as I perk up along with everyone else. I feel like a duck for a moment, craning my head along with the other ducks, as groups and couples squawk whenever they see their own luggage appear.
I smile as I see my metallic suitcase, then frown when I see an identical metallic suitcase appear behind it. From across the carousel, I can’t tell the two suitcases apart at all. Frowning, I gently muscle my way through the crowd of people around the carousel, trying to make it to my suitcase before a mistake is made.
My eyes go wide as I see the shady man pick up the first metallic suitcase without checking the tag. I try to shout as the shady man walks away, but my voice is lost among the squawking voices of the other tourists. Fighting my way to the front of the carousel, I scoop up the second metallic suitcase and groan with frustration as I check the tag.
Davis, Mark.
Mark Davis took my freakin’ suitcase.
I can feel my face turning tomato red as I hurry off in the direction that I saw Davis walking, Davis’s suitcase in hand. Fighting my way through the crowd of slow moving tourists wheeling their luggage, I carry the heavy suitcase so that I can maneuver through the crowd more quickly. My lucky golf shirt is in that damn suitcase, and I’m not going to lose it to a loser like Davis.
I have to switch arms as I lug Davis’s suitcase through the crowd. The weight of the suitcase makes me sure that Davis is an operator. And an amateur operator at that. A real pro would have taken the two extra seconds needed to check the tag on the suitcase. A rush of excitement wheels through my body, ending with a smile on my lips.
I wasn’t expecting to get any real action on this trip. At best, I was hoping that Hal might have found a little surveillance job for us to do. But chasing an operator through an airport has my skin sweating with excitement and nerves.
It’s been almost a year since I've done anything more exciting than a security consultation. Ever since that freakin’ Detroit job went so bad, no thanks to freakin’ Hal, I’ve been on the outside looking in.
Seeing Davis’ head above the crowd, my feet pick up the pace. I alternate between shouting “Davis” and “Mark” but I don’t get an answer. Davis doesn’t even turn his head a bit, doesn’t change his pace at all. I feel like smacking my forehead with my hand. It has to be an alias. Mark Davis. No way it’s the operator’s real name. And Mark Davis is such a bad operator that he doesn’t even remember what his alias is. A good operator would either start walking much faster to get away, or hide in a bathroom, or turn around to see who is talking to him.
As Davis turns left and disappears around a corner, I power walk into overdrive. I’m getting my damn suitcase back, and I’m going to teach this operator a thing or two. I feel lucky, getting such a chump to toy with on my first taste of action since Detroit.
Turning the corner a minute after Davis did, I see Davis standing in front of a door marked ‘Employees Only.’ Davis is holding his cell phone in one hand and punching in numbers on the door’s security pad with his other hand. What an amateur, I smile. A real pro would have memorized the security code before he got to the door. And a real pro would be wearing something that makes him look like he belongs behind an ‘Employees Only’ door.
I break into a trot just as Davis opens the door and walks inside. Sweating, panting, I get my hand into the doorway just as the door is swinging closed. The heavy security door hurts as it smacks my arm, but I shake the pain off as I walk into the doorway and close the door gently behind me.
Listening for a moment, I can hear Davis ahead of me, cursing under his breath. I smile. I feel in control of the situation again, despite being slightly winded from my little run. I should have been doing more cardio and drinking less beer during the last year. I shrug as I walk towards the sound of Davis cursing.
Walking through a threshold, I see Davis on the ground in front of the entrance to a server room. Davis is sifting through my suitcase with a desperate look on his face. I clear my throat, but Davis can’t hear it over his own nervous cursing. I step forward and clear my throat again, louder this time.
“Hey slick.”
I feel like a cat standing over an injured mouse. I smile as Davis looks up at me with wide eyes. I laugh as Davis’s eyes alternate between my face and the heavy suitcase in my left arm. I put the suitcase down and cross my arms over my chest.
“Next time check the tag on the suitcase before you pick it up, slick.”
I feel like the king of the world again as Davis stares at me. My smile fades slowly as Davis reaches into a mass of ethernet cables on the wall behind him. My smile dies as Davis pulls a gun out of the ethernet cords and points it at my freakin’ face.
Chapter 2- Assassin in the Server Room
This morning, I was an IT consultant in Pennsylvania. Now, tonight, I’m in a restricted section of an airport in Arizona with a gun in my face. I swallow hard.
“How many jobs have you done Davis?”
I don’t let any fear dance on my voice. I wouldn’t be afraid at all if Davis was a pro. But Davis is an armed amateur, and armed amateurs can be dangerous. They don’t know the proper moves to make, which makes them unpredictable at times.I hadn’t even considered Davis pulling a gun on me. Even now, Davis’s face looks half angry, half scared, and half confused.
“Davis is the name on your suitcase.”
A wave of stupid washes over Davis’s face. He bends over and looks at the tag on my suitcase before standing up again.
“You’re Sam Swing?” Davis’s voice is somehow deep like a tuba and nervous like a teenage boy asking a girl out for the first time. I don’t like the combination.
“That’s right. And the name on your suitcase is Mark Davis. You took my suitcase by mistake.” I point at my open suitcase on the ground. “I’d like my lucky golf shirt back and you’d probably like whatever is in your suitcase back.”
My confidence comes roaring back as Davis lowers the gun a bit.
“Let’s make it real simple. I gave you yours, you give me mine, and I walk away and leave you to your thing.”
I don’t like the idea of letting this bad apple go, but I don’t have many options. I’m black-balled and black-listed. Operating without authority in an airport is a great way for me to land myself a one-way ticket to prison. I figure that stopping this bad operator has a forty-percent chance of getting me off the blacklist, and a sixty-percent chance of earning me an orange jumpsuit and a cot behind bars for the next fifteen to twenty five years. I don’t like the odds.
I watch as Davis poorly repacks my suitcase with one hand and barely manages to get it shut. Still pointing the gun in my direction, Davis slowly walks up to me with the suitcase, putting it down in front of my feet. I see six different ways to disarm Davis, but ignore all of them. I pick up Davis’s suitcase and put it in front of his feet. Slowly, not breaking eye contact, we pick up our correct suitcase.
“Alright.” I nod as I slowly back away.
The air in the room shifts suddenly. I can see the wheels turning on Davis’s face. This amateur just got a funny idea in his head, the kind of idea that isn’t funny at all. Instincts kicking into overdrive, I use my suitcase to smack the gun out of Davis’s hand just as Davis drops his suitcase and raises the gun towards my face. One silenced bullet fires as the gun clatters to the floor.
I step forward with my free hand to clock Davis in the face. I stagger back in pain as Davis dodges the punch and hits me hard in the chest with a swift jab. Struggling to breathe for a second, I feel alive again. And very impressed.
I step forward for another exchange. One, two, three punches thrown, and a few swings with the suitcase for good measure, but I can’t get a solid hit on Davis. Instead, I back away after taking two more punches to the chest and an especially painful punch to the gut.
Bending over to breathe, a hint of fear tickles me. Davis can freakin’ fight. He’s a terrible spy, but amazing in close quarters combat. I’ve easily won fights on six continents. In fact, I’ve won five fights in airports alone. And this bad operator is wiping the floor with me. Davis must be an assassin. He doesn’t know how to spy. But it sure seems like he knows how to kill.
After losing another exchange of fisticuffs, I’m afraid that I won’t make it in this fight with Davis. It would be an embarrassment to be killed at the hands of a bad operator like this after everything I’ve done in my career. Looking around the room, I see the gun on the floor a few feet away from us. I need that gun. Davis can fight, but he can’t think. I can.
Making my eyes go wide, I start a fake sprint toward the gun. Davis leaps into action, running past me just as I slam my suitcase into Davis’s right knee. Davis groans and falls like a pile of bricks as I leap over him and do a barrel roll towards the gun. I sit up, swinging the gun toward Davis just as Davis hobbles to his feet. Davis defiantly puts his hands in the air as I make sure that the safety is still off.
“Run or die.” I feel like Clint Eastwood.
Davis looks at the ground for a moment, then looks at the server room. Shaking his head with a pained groan, Davis limp-runs away as I keep the gun pointed at him until Davis is out of view. A few seconds later, I hear a door open and slam closed. Listening for another minute as I catch my breath, no more doors open.
I stand up with a victorious grunt, then look around the room. I won the fight, but I’m still in the woods- so to speak.
I curse the nasty hand that fate just dealt me. I’m a civilian with a silenced weapon, standing outside of an airport server room. I think about grabbing my suitcase, wiping my prints off of the gun, and running. But that would make things worse.
My face must be all over airport surveillance tapes. I’m well known enough in the spy world that my face will be recognized quickly by the TSA or FBI. Then it will be game over sweetheart. I’ll be locked away in a black site until I can be proven innocent, then probably transferred to a regular prison when some pencil pushover in the Pentagon decides that my skills are too dangerous for me to be a free man.
I sigh as I reach for my cell phone. I only have one card to play. Marcus.
Hoping that the number hasn’t changed, I dial and hold my breath. Marcus answers on the second ring.
“Sam.”
“Marcus.”
“Just stay put, I’ll be there in thirty seconds.”
I sigh, leaning up against the wall of ethernet cables. Of course Marcus is here. Hal organized the golf trip. Of course Hal picked a place that would be a hotbed of activity. In a way, it’s better that Marcus is here. I won’t have to explain myself over the phone. And if Marcus wants to screw me over, he’s going to have to look me in the eyes while he does it.
I perk up when I hear a door open. I straighten the wrinkles out of my coat as I hear Marcus’s footsteps coming towards me. Only one pair of feet. That’s good, very good. An army of feet would be very bad for my chances of staying a free man.
I stand awkwardly as I wait for Marcus to walk into view.
Chapter 3- What Are The Odds?
Walking up to me, Marcus sighs strangely as he reaches his hand out. After a brief shake, I start to hand him the gun. Marcus holds up a finger, then opens the briefcase he brought with him. I put the safety on before putting the gun in a plastic bag that Marcus holds up for me. Marcus studies the gun for a moment before putting it in his briefcase. He locks the briefcase and puts it on the ground, then starts pacing around the room.
“Tell me what happened.” Marcus’s voice is as weary and grizzled as it has ever been.
I straighten myself up, and give an honest account of the events. Marcus was probably watching the security cameras the entire time, no reason to lie.
I tell Marcus about the suitcase mixup, chasing down Davis, Davis pulling out the gun from behind ethernet cables, then Davis running away after the fight.
“Did he say anything?”
I shake my head. “The only thing he said was my name after he read the tag on my suitcase.”
Marcus shakes his head as he examines the mass of ethernet cables that Davis pulled the gun out of. He’s looking even older than I feel. It’s hard to tell where his beige overcoat ends and his pale skin begins. His overgrown stubble catches me off guard. Mary would never let him walk around looking this unkempt. Divorce? Or something worse?
“What are the odds Sam?”
“The odds of what?”
“The odds of you being an innocent bystander. What are the odds of you having your suitcase taken by an assassin?”
I shrug, wait until Marcus looks me in the eyes.
“The odds are low, very low. But I am an innocent bystander. That’s why I called you.” I point at Marcus, but put my finger down quickly. “I didn’t know you were here. I called you to set things right. I called you because you know that I’m not the kind of guy that the rest of the agency thinks I am.”
Marcus swats his hands in the air. “Sammy, most of us know what kind of guy you are. Only a few hotheads think you’re a bad guy.” Marcus starts pacing around again, scanning the scene. “More people think more poorly of Hal to be honest.”
I shift a bit in my jacket. Almost a full year after the fact and I still don’t know the full story of what happened in Detroit. I spent over twenty hours answering the higher-ups questions when I got back to D.C., but nobody would take two freakin’ seconds to answer my questions.
“What do you think of Hal, Marcus?”
“I think that Hal is a good operator who thinks he’s a great operator. Sometimes it gets him big wins. And sometimes, it gets him burned.”
“And gets his partner burned.” I try not to sound bitter, but it’s tough.
Marcus sighs. “I know you’re an innocent bystander Sam. The facts support it. And you calling me immediately supports it. Just let me check your suitcase and then you can be on your way to your resort.”
I put my hands in my pockets as I watch Marcus go through my suitcase. Marcus has been keeping tabs on me, but why? The facts in this airport barely support me being innocent. Marcus would have to check my phone and internet history to confirm that I haven’t been contracted or contacted by any other agencies or security firms. And I never told Marcus that I was staying at a resort. Marcus knows that I’m innocent because he’s been keeping tabs on me for a while. But why? And how much does Hal know?
Marcus, seemingly satisfied, closes up my suitcase and hands it to me.
“A small team is coming to check the scene. It’s probably best if you get a cab now before they get here. Are you seeing Hal tonight?”
“Coffee tomorrow before our first tee time.”
Marcus frowns, strokes his chin with his right hand.
“Think carefully about what you tell Hal. And remember that you have two civilian friends with you this weekend, you don’t want them to get in over their heads.”
I pause for a moment, trying to think of something cool to say as I pull up the handle on my suitcase and unlock the wheels. Unable to think of anything cool, instead I ask the question that’s on my mind.
“This isn’t going to be a regular weekend of golf, is it?”
Marcus strokes his chin again.
“It can be. That’s up to you Sam.” Marcus sounds tired. He’s been working an angle for a long time.
I walk away slowly, the wheels of my suitcase purring as they roll over the smooth white tiles of the floor.
“Be good Sam.” Marcus yells.
“Always.”
I smile as I walk back into the main airport area. The smile fades as I head outside and hail a cab.
Putting my suitcase into the trunk of the cab, I frown. Part of me actually hopes that it is just a normal weekend of golf. But a bigger part of me prays that the weekend is anything but normal.
I allow myself to feel a little excited as the cab exits the terminal. “Fortunate Son” by Creedence plays as we merge onto the highway.
Chapter 4- Shower Beer
The resort looks very impressive, even in the dark. The building is massive and the entrance is grand, probably designed for the millionaire guests that frequent this place. Spotlights light up the peach-colored exterior of the building. Stepping out of the cab, the air smells different than the air back home. It smells fresh and clean, like opportunity. Golf or no golf, spying or no spying, it’s going to be a good weekend.
My mind whirls with possibilities as I check into the hotel and head up to my room. I frown at the bellhop who helps me with my suitcase. Partially because my suitcase is on wheels and the help is unnecessary. Partially because the bellhop looks a bit like my son Jack. Or at least how Jack looked five years ago when I last saw him.
I give the bellhop two bucks as the kid opens the door to the room and hands me the key. I can tell by the kid’s smile that he’s used to better tips. I shrug, grumpy with the kid and with myself. If the kid wants to help me with my bags Sunday night, I’lll throw an extra buck or two in it for him.
Stepping into the room, I take a deep breath as I examine my home for the weekend. All of those credit card points I’ve accumulated over the years were good for something after all. This room is nicer than the freakin’ apartment I rent.
The king bed is massive. Sitting on the edge of it, it’s the perfect balance between soft and firm. The room has a big screen TV, a closet, a large mini fridge, and a huge window with a balcony. Stepping outside, the cool night breeze fills me with joy. It’s hard to tell in the dark, but it seems like the balcony is overlooking one of the holes on the golf course.
I check the fridge. It’s got two light beers in it and a handwritten note. I crack open one of the beers and take a long, refreshing drink before reading the note.
Compliments from your friend in room 1506. Bring your A-game this weekend Sammy. See you for coffee 6AM sharp. -Hal
Thoughts swirl around my mind, like newspapers in the wind, as I head into the shower with my beer.
What is Hal’s plan for the weekend?
I suspected something was up, long before I ran into Marc Davis and Marcus. Hal had been very insistent that we come to this particular golf course on this particular weekend. He even paid for Tim and Brown’s plane tickets, since they were complaining about how expensive the rooms are here.
Hal has never been a serious golfer, he never even seems to be trying on the course. In fact, Hal almost always comes in last when we play. Which is good for me, since Tim and Brown are both a lot freakin’ better than I am.
Stepping into the hot shower with my beer, my mind goes back to Marcus’s words. I can make it a normal golf weekend, if I want to. Do I want it to be a normal weekend?
Staring down Davis in the airport is the most alive I’ve felt in a year. These past eleven months have been torture. After a lifetime spent living on the edge, I feel like I’ve barely been living at all since the Detroit job got me blacklisted.
Maybe if I play my cards right this weekend, I can get my name off the blacklist. I don’t know if I want back in at the agency, but I wouldn’t mind getting a few well-paid freelance jobs per year. The IT job I picked up is well paid for what it is, but a man with my skills should be getting paid a lot more. I belong in the field, not a server room.
Thinking of the server room at the airport, who put the gun there? And what was Davis planning to do with it? And where is Davis now?
My mind races with speculation as the hot water from the shower washes over me. My mind continues to race when I get out of the shower, and keeps on racing right until I get into my king sized bed and clap to turn off the bedside lamp.
The wheels of my mind keep spinning as I drift off to sleep, excited to see what tomorrow will bring.
Read Next: Chapters 5-8
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Your friend at the end of the bar,
Josh