A Thriller Book Series With Strong Male Protagonist
Ryan Chaise by Stuart G. Yates
Series Excerpt
The policeman didn’t smile. He sat behind his desk in the air-conditioned office, leaning forward slightly, running through the report that the Guardia Civil had made after they’d arrived at the scene. Fairly soon, others arrived. Heavy-duty. National Police. Big guys, mean-looking. Even meaner than the Guardia.
After the killing, Chaise clambered out of the car and sat on the side of the road, punching out the number on his mobile. His Spanish was good and there was no misunderstanding. Within five minutes they arrived. In the pause, Chaise made another call to Angelina. Without any preamble, he put it plain and simple, “Hi. I’ve got a problem.”
“Oh God, don’t tell me it’s the car.”
“No. Worse. Much worse.” He tried to keep his voice flat, void of emotion. It was becoming harder. The shock was kicking in now, and his hand shook. “I picked up a guy. He’s dead.”
A silence, whilst the words bit home. “Dead? What do you mean, like a heart attack or something?”
“No. I mean I killed him. Shot him. And he’s dead. Stone cold.”
“Oh my God.”
That little tiny voice, cloaked in total terror, would stay with him for a long time.
The office door opened, jerking Chaise out of his reverie. A ferret of a man came in, eyes darting nervously, saw Chaise, grinned, and sat down. He thrust out a small, sticky hand. “Leonard Phelps. Consular official. Sorry, they asked me to come in. You are …” He studied a page in a small, black notebook, “Mr Chaise?” Chaise nodded. “Good.” He opened his attaché case and, as if noticing the waiting police officer behind the desk for the first time, acknowledged him with a curt, “Buenos Dias, Señor Domingo.” Domingo grunted but didn’t look up from his papers. Phelps sighed and looked at Chaise. “Not good, this.” He pulled out a slip of paper and read through it. “They e-mailed me the details. Thought I’d drop everything, seeing as it’s slightly – you know – difficult.”
“I killed a man, Mr Phelps.”
“Yes. Precisely.” Phelps forced a smile again, but it looked more like he was in pain. “I’m here to give you advice, support, translate any technical jargon you may not understand, but I’m not here to represent you legally. You understand that?” Chaise nodded. “You have a lawyer, here in Spain?”
“I have the guy who did the work for our house purchase.”
“Ah. Well, yes. I suppose … you’ll have to give me his number. I can ring him for you.”
“I haven’t been formally charged with anything, Mr Phelps. I haven’t been arrested.”
“No.” He looked at his sheet again. “No, really? I see … Well, in that case—”
With a sudden burst of movement, Domingo threw down his file and leaned back in his seat, eyes fixed on Chaise. “So, Mr Chaise. You say this man stops you, and he gets in your car. Then he pulls out a gun and you struggle. Then you shoot him.”
Chaise went straight into the explanation, without a pause. “It went off in the struggle. It could just as well have been me that got shot.”
“Yes, I understand that. But why did he have a gun?”
“I have no idea.”
“I think there is a problem with the gun.”
Chaise frowned. “A problem? I don’t understand.”
Domingo’s eyes swept across to Phelps briefly. “How do you say forensics in English?”
Phelps swallowed hard and gave Chaise the translation.
Chaise blinked. “It was his gun if that’s what the problem is.”
Domingo shook his head, the smile lingering. “No. That is not it. The problem is this gun, I think – I might be wrong, you understand, and forensics will tell me if I am – but this gun was used maybe seven or eight days ago in the shooting of another man, Daniel Leary. You know him?”
“No, can’t say I do.”
“You don’t read the papers, the Sur in English perhaps?”
“Rarely.”
“It was reported in the Friday issue. He was gunned down in front of a dozen witnesses. One of the witnesses was a policeman, on his holidays. From Bradford. Very observant. He told us about the gunman, what he was wearing, his face, even his shoes – and the gun. It is the same gun, I believe, Mr Chaise.”
“I see. But they all look pretty much the same nowadays.”
A raised eyebrow. “Yes. But they make different sounds. The policeman knew the sound. He was in firearms … er …” He looked at the file again, running a stubby finger across the words. “Yes, Armed-Response Unit.” He rubbed his chin. “We have similar units, but perhaps we need one for Benamargosa.”
Silence fell like a concrete slab over the room. Chaise didn’t like the implication of the man’s words, but he decided to remain quiet. It was Phelps who recovered first. “With respect, we seem to be wandering off the path, so to speak. Señor Domingo, do you wish to hold Mr Chaise?”
“No.” Domingo stood up. A short man, with a large spare tyre around his midriff, his trousers sagged, and his jacket strained across the shoulders. He gestured to the door with his hand. “But we shall want to speak to you again, Mr Chaise. Please, leave your passport at the desk.”
Praesent id libero id metus varius consectetur ac eget diam. Nulla felis nunc, consequat laoreet lacus id.