Cult Of Death

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Cult Of Death - book excerpt

Chapter One 

Jack Gawain woke up that morning and stared moodily out the window of his loft apartment on Prince Street in the Soho area of Lower Manhattan. He was in a black mood, feeling as if he had hit a nadir in his life though there was no real reason for it. Most men would probably envy someone in his position. He looked across the bed at the sleeping woman beside him and knew that most men would pay a king’s ransom for one night with her. He considered all the money they had in the bank, and the fact they had all the time in the world to spend it.

That was the root of the problem. He had become an adrenaline junkie. There was sufficient action back in East Belfast around the turn of the century, but his arrest and incarceration at Maghaberry Prison brought it to an end. Since his pardon, he was trying to gorge himself on life as if every moment as a free man could be his last. Now that he had decided to go into retirement, the thrill was gone and the life of leisure had become ennui.      “You up already?” she yawned in her bewitching Corsican accent. She turned to face him, her china-blue eyes tugging at his heartstrings as she peeked through the veil of raven-black hair across her face. He had dozens of affairs in his life, but if he had ever fallen in love this had to be it.

“Aye. What d’ye feel like doin’ today?”

“Do you think we can not have an agenda today?” she brushed her hair away from her face with an ivory-skinned hand. “I would really like to take it easy today.”