Eastern Shadows: Alex Thorne Book One: Alex Thorne Action Spy Adventures, #1

By C.J. Somersby

Despite being an excellent spy, Alexandria Thorne was fired from British Intelligence following traitorous allegations against her deceased father. When her former employers ask for her help, she is angry and reluctant to give it. But there's an arms dealer missing in Belarus, and the man holding the key is also the last man to see Alex's parents alive.
Thrown into the middle of a civil war, Alex must handle a team of doubtful allies, dangerous enemies, and an eastern shadow from her past...

• Language: English
• Publisher: C.J. Somersby
• Release date: Feb 14, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524258542

Book preview

PART ONE

Ghosts of the Past

Chapter 1

As soon as he saw the checkpoint, James knew they were in trouble.

Illuminated by the headlights, the gunman stepped into the road and raised his arm for the bus to stop. The driver uttered a low curse in Belorussian and brought the vehicle to a halt. James reached across from the passenger seat and grabbed the driver's shoulder. What are you doing? he asked in a low, urgent whisper.

The driver glared at him from the corner of his eye before shaking James' hand loose from his shoulder. What do you want me to do? he asked in heavily accented English. This is rebel territory; they command here.

James sat back in the chair, his mind racing. The gunman was not alone; five other armed men stood around the improvised checkpoint that crossed the road, the candy-striped barrier pole shining in the bus' headlights. Beyond the checkpoint, James could see a pair of armored cars looming in the darkness, their guns aimed at the patch of road where the bus was now sitting. There was no way out.

The gunman swaggered forward. He wore green military camouflage and his face was hidden by a black balaclava. As he walked, he swung a rifle in one hand as if it was a toy. He motioned to the driver to cut the engine, who hastily complied. The engine shut down with an unhealthy rattle that was then replaced with the ticking of cooling metal. The gunman stepped up to the driver's side window and tapped on the glass. The driver hastily rolled down the window and the gunman glared in, his cold eyes squinting out from the holes of the balaclava. He spat out a few words in Russian, and the bus driver looked over at James. He wants our papers, the driver said.

James smiled at the gunman and nodded a greeting, trying to seem casual. The gunman just stared back, his expression hidden but his eyes hostile. James reached out for the documents he had already lain out on the dashboard, moving deliberately and slowly. The rebels were twitchy when it came to outsiders, and he did not want to be peppered with bullets because he had moved too fast. He handed his passport and travel visa to the gunman, and the bus driver did the same. The gunman muttered a few extra words to the driver and retreated a few steps from the bus. The driver leaned over to James. He says that we wait now, the driver said, his voice wavering.

James nodded slowly. Just stay calm, he muttered. The gunman was conversing on a hand-held radio, presumably talking to his superiors. James wiped a few strands of hair from his sweat-covered brow and turned to gaze out the window. He was getting too old for these kinds of errands; now pushing forty, he had hoped to be already retired. However, trust triumphed over age in his line of work, which was why he was sitting in a decrepit bus in the far flung reaches of eastern Europe. The Belorussian countryside was shrouded in darkness, the rolling fields and forests reduced to menacing silhouettes that promised nothing but danger. He reached out and rolled down his window a few inches, moving his arm slowly so as not to unnerve the armed men in front of them. The cool, night air was welcome on his face, and he took several deep lungfuls whilst trying to slow his pounding heart. He could hear the first birdsong of the approaching dawn. Had it not been for the distant rumble of artillery fire, James would have found the noise of nature relaxing.

The gunman was listening to someone on the radio, the low rasp of static making his eavesdropping impossible, even if James had spoken the language. The gunman returned to the driver's window and handed back the documents. He gestured towards the rear of the bus and barked another order. He wants to look inside, the driver translated.

James nodded at the gunman to show his agreement. Slowly, he opened the passenger door and stepped out onto the road, gravel crunching underfoot. Several of the men at the checkpoint raised their weapons, and he raised his hands to show he was unarmed. Then he turned and walked towards the rear of the bus, feeling their eyes boring into his back with every step.

The gunman was already there, glaring at James with suspicion. He pointed at the rear doors of the bus and spat out a word. James did not speak Russian, but he got the intent. He reached out and unlatched the door, allowing it to swing open under its own weight. The gunman pulled a torch from his jacket pocket and shone it through the doorway.

The bus was loaded with cardboard boxes, each stamped with a red cross and a list of contents stenciled in the local language. The gunman shone the torch over one of the boxes to read the list, and then swung it around the rest of the bus. Large bottles of water caught the torchlight and lit up like beacons, the movement of the liquid casting strange shapes on the boxes that surrounded them.

The gunman grunted and lowered the torch, seemingly disappointed. He glared one last time at James and jerked his head in the direction of the road, muttering something in Russian. James nodded and walked as calmly as he could manage back to the cab. He climbed back in and glanced over at the driver. I think we're good, he said.

The gunman had returned to the checkpoint and was waving at another man by the barrier pole. The barrier began to lift and the driver started the engine again, sighing with relief. He put the bus in gear and started to creep forward slowly.

That was when it all went wrong.

James saw the gunman reach for his radio, evidently receiving a new message. The gunman looked at the radio intently and then his eyes flicked up to the bus, narrowing within the eye