Last Pursuit: The Colour Series, #2

By Jack O. Daniel

Jack O Daniel's follow-up story to One Night Stand: Could this be the beginning of forever? is equally engaging and exciting as the first.

Cherie, Blue's daughter, is abducted by a cold and calculating con man. Accompanied by his faithful dog, Molly, who is like a sister to Cherie, Blue starts on a quest to get her back.

Their search takes them to a mansion near Windsor Castle in England where all his troubles began. In his search for Cherie, Blue crosses paths with evil people. Molly is shot protecting him from harm. He is distraught about leaving Molly in the care of others to keep looking for Cherie, but he has no choice.

Will Molly be alright?

Meanwhile, Cherie is being kept in a yacht somewhere in the Mediterranean. Here, she is well looked after by a woman called Mimi. 

Who is she and why does she feel so bonded with the little girl?

The search for Cherie takes Blue from rural England to Greece.

Will he find her in time?

To find out, get your copy of Last Pursuit now!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Massachusetts Books
• Release date: Apr 24, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386544784

Jack O. Daniel

Jack is an enigma.  He is an observer of people and a chronicler of life.

Book preview

1: She Wasn’t on the School Bus

HE WAS THE FAMILIAR FIGURE by the roadside for a few weeks now with Molly by his side. The five-year-old, a Belgian Malinois, was born on the same day Cherie Rivers, his infant daughter, arrived home from the hospital.

Blue Rivers looked down with amusement at the super fit dog, her tail wagging wildly in anticipation of Cherie’s arrival. He squatted down to pat her, and she rewarded him with slobbery kisses in return.

‘You’re disgusting,’ he said, but smiling as he rubbed the dog’s head.

Though his face was often wet with Molly’s saliva, he wouldn’t have it any other way for she was his other daughter. She and Cherie shared the crib as babies. Now, they shared a bed.

Molly felt the vibrations of the approaching school bus and twisted her head towards it. Blue rose to his feet. The driver saw them and gave a friendly wave, but much to Blue’s chagrin, the school bus didn’t stop. He frantically waved the driver down, who slammed on the brakes. He jogged towards the bus with Molly by his side. The middle-aged, bespectacled driver opened the school bus door and looked at Blue a little bewildered.

‘She’s not on the bus.’

‘What do you mean she’s not on the bus?’ Blue replied with alarm.

‘Take a look, mate.’

They both climbed in. Blue quickly scanned the kids’ faces, searching for his daughter. Molly already knew Cherie wasn’t onboard. No way she’d miss her scent if Cherie were playing hide and seek.

Blue turned his attention back to the driver.

‘Did you wait for her?’ he asked although he knew the answer.

‘Yeah, didn’t leave ‘til quarter past. I thought she hadn’t gone to school.’

‘Thanks, Bailey.’

Blue motioned for Molly to hop off the bus.

Something’s not right.

He lived in a small military town. Nearly everyone here was past, present, and even future Paras, members of the British Commando Unit called the Parachute Regiment. Even Bailey, the school bus driver, had been one.

The hairs on his neck and arms stood up. His stomach twisted into a knot. He sensed it: Cherie had been taken.

Sensing trouble, Molly whimpered.

2: The Shape of Nightmares to Come

A SHORT, LEAN, AND QUICK-FOOTED MAN hugged a tree branch. Not too long ago, he would have needed to use a pair of binoculars to watch his quarry and then report back via an earwig. These weren’t necessary anymore.

Today, he was using a wireless device, a camera that transmitted live images to someone likely to be thousands of miles away. It wasn’t his business to know who or why. His only business was to do what he was told and to stay undiscovered while doing so.

SOMEWHERE IN THE BALKANS, Carl Joseph Sigmund Kruger-Daniel was watching the scene unfold through the lens of a top-of-the-line, high-resolution camera. He crossed his right leg over, set both hands on his lap, sighing dramatically.

Silly man, he thought, you shouldn’t have got involved in the first place.

The man in his sight was Blue Rivers, his former bodyguard. Carl’s right leg swung back and forth, as was his habit. He mused with a tight smile, ‘So, here we are. You and me. I shall enjoy the duel.’

In his previous estimation, Blue was nothing but a rung above a butler. He realised that he’d been wrong, for obviously, this was a man worthy of his admiration.

Blue, actually, presented a challenge.

Carl spoke barely above a whisper, talking to himself. ‘It’s all on you. I made all the right moves; I had thought it all through.’

Three months ago, he had asked Blue, who was then his personal bodyguard to take his sacked butler to the Airport. Then, immediately sacked him too, so he wouldn’t be around for the next stages of his plan.

‘But what did you do? You had to come back and insert yourself into my grand scheme. You’ve cost me two hundred million plus some. But it could have been worse, Blue. I could have died if it were not for that bunny!’

HE HAD BEEN ON HIS way back to his London hotel suite having received confirmation that two million pounds had been transferred to his Swiss numbered account. Handsome payment for the negotiated sale of heiress Isabel Fairbanks-Caine and her lover, Red Ngata-Rhodes, to an Eastern European syndicate. These people were specialists, dealing exclusively in human spare parts.

His manhood had stiffened as he glanced back at the mansion, imagining the horror that awaited the couple in the hands of their new owners. He deliberately didn’t inform the chop-chop guys that Isabel could be more financially rewarding to them alive than in pieces. Even now, when he thought of what could have been, he got very excited.

Driving on his country estate’s lane, a huge, white rabbit had dashed across the path of his Bentley, seemingly straight out of the pages of Alice in Wonderland. His driver slammed on the brakes reflexively. The fluffy bunny escaped with its life by a hair’s breadth. That’s when he saw it–Blue’s Jeep hidden behind the bushes.

‘What are you doing back here?’ he had asked, rhetorically.

Overhearing him, his driver had turned around briefly and said, a tad confused, ‘Pardon me, sir?’

‘Nothing,’ he had replied, with a raised chin to let the driver know to carry on. He knew then that there would be trouble and that he had to think fast. He hated making decisions off the cuff. He preferred planning and thinking things through. But, at that moment, he didn’t have the luxury of time. He had to think on the fly.

CARL SMILED CROOKEDLY, thinking of Blue’s potential reaction to the story of his survival.

Soon, my friend, all will be revealed.

His eyes fixed on the screen, watching Blue and his dog, a Belgian Malinois, race back inside the house.

It’s time to send the message.

He couldn’t allow Blue to raise the alarm about his missing daughter. He picked up his cell phone to call the little man.

‘Give him the message,’ he said in his usual calm and cultured voice.

THE SHORT GUY JUMPED off the tree and ran the half a mile to the cottage, reaching it in three-minute flat. It was nothing. He didn’t even break a sweat. He rapped on the scuffed, wooden door that hadn’t seen a lick of paint in years. An anxious face came to the door, followed by a beautiful canine.

TAKEN ABACK, BLUE ASKED brusquely, ‘Who are you? And what do you want?’ Quickly assessing the man, Blue thought he was a Gurkha, most likely retired and working in the Circuit, which referred to the private military industry.

The visitor didn’t reply immediately; he looked down to check the dog. It was right behind the master of the house, ominously quiet and staring up at him. Blue reached down to touch the canine, to reassure it. The visitor appreciated the gesture with a small nod.

‘I was told to tell you she’s okay.’

Blue’s aquamarine-coloured eyes narrowed, and his chin hardened.

‘Who told you to tell me?’

‘You know better than to ask,’ replied the messenger. He turned to leave, but Blue’s long arm reached him and pulled him back.

‘Who’s got my daughter?’ he asked, his voice menacing.

The Gurkha kept his cool. He felt the hot breath coming out of the dog as it snarled at him, waiting for any sign of aggression. He made it a point not to give the dog any reason to attack.

‘Don’t know,’ he said. ‘I’d tell you if I knew. I was told just to tell you she’s okay.’

Blue released him, reluctantly. He knew how the game was played. You do the job you’re told to do, and you ask no questions. It would be a waste of time to beat the hell out of the Gurkha.

For now, all he could do was to keep his phone charged and handy. He couldn’t miss the call. As dreadful as it was going to be.

WHAT AM I GOING TO TELL MUM AND DAD?

He made up his mind to go for a walk; it always helped him figure things out.

Blue went to get his water bottle and his battered grey baseball cap. He signalled to Molly with a sharp whistle: it’s time to go out. Excitedly, the canine raced ahead and waited for her dad by the wooden gate.

The sky was overcast. They could walk for miles and miles without worrying too much about burning in the sun; not that he had ever let a small amount of discomfort concern him at all.

The walking got him thinking.

He was just twenty but had already been in the Parachute Regiment for three years. During a leave from active duty, he had a brief love affair with an eighteen-year-old country lass. So rapid was the courtship that it was over in two weeks, the entire length of his break.

But they were young and horny and were soon having sex every chance they got, from the minute they laid eyes on each other. The only way to describe it was intense, very intense. They were consumed in a searing flash of carnal fire.

It took him by surprise that the passion had cooled as soon as he was back in the barracks. It was, even for him, a bewildering experience. He’d had girlfriends who had affected him far more than the bright, bubbly brunette. He couldn’t even recall her name now, for when they were together, he’d just called her Honey.

He called everyone Honey. It just made things easy. Just like his mother called everyone Jackson for the same reason.

The girl always called him by his real name, Nicholas, not Blue. He had not been called this nickname when they met.

It was a moniker he earned much later in the Parachute Regiment for turning blue in a parade once, and fainting. He had not been able to live it down since.

Six months later, once again on leave, they bumped into each other in the village square. She looked different. Older, it seemed. Or maybe just sadder.

She smiled at him. He smiled back. It was awkward but more painfully so for her. But it was she who had the gumption to make the first approach.

‘Can I talk to you?’

‘Sure, Honey,’ he said. She let out a sad half-laugh. She was smart enough to know he didn’t mean it as a term of endearment. She shook her head slightly as she gave him a tight, half-crooked smirk.

Brize Norton, situated in Oxfordshire, may have been home to the Parachute Regiment, but it still had peaceful, quaint, and lovely countryside. Picturesque in that idyllic setting of centuries-old houses and pubs and winding, lonely country roads.

They strolled casually to the ancient village church and walked on its ground, passing through the decades-old cemetery. She paused to read a tombstone; it said: Here lies Genevieve Hunter, aged 16, loved and longed for by her husband Alexandre Hunter (1880-1896). The inscription was faded and obscured by the passage of time. But it remained a testament to enduring young love.

She then turned and continued. He followed where she led, to the foot of a tree. She sat down and patted the space next to her.

‘Sit,’ she said. ‘You need to be seated.’

He did.

She didn’t waste any time and didn’t mince her words. ‘I’m pregnant.’

‘Pregnant?’ he echoed eyes wide. He felt overwhelmed, to the point of becoming woozy.

‘Yes, six months,’ she replied. ‘You do the maths.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘No. Shit. Shit. Shit.’

She smiled again, and then said, ‘By the way, my name’s not Honey, it’s Melanie.’

‘Melanie,’ he repeated after her.

He had never, ever been this nervous. Not even when he jumped off a plane at three thousand feet for the first time.

‘Is it mine?’

God, he kicked himself mentally. Should I even be asking?

Melanie looked down at the ground, suddenly quiet. She said, bravely, ‘Yes, you were the one and only.’

He slapped his forehead.

‘Seriously?’

Yes, of course.

He remembered now seeing a spot of blood on the white bed sheet.

‘I don’t know what to say,’ he whispered. ‘Do your parents know?’

‘They both know. I’ve decided to give the baby up for adoption. I’m only eighteen, I can’t look after a baby,’ she said as tears threatened to spill. ‘I want you to sign the adoption paper, too. I don’t want any complications later. We both need to agree on this.’

‘Okay,’ he replied, a little too quickly as a sense of relief flooded in.

Thank God, he repeated to himself over and over.

‘I’ll have the papers ready by tomorrow. I’ll meet you here, same time.’

‘Okay,’ he said, then added, ‘I’m sorry.’

He really meant it. It couldn’t have been easy to be pregnant at such a young age and still in school. And then have to make a decision to give the baby up for adoption. She was brave, he thought.

At a loss for words, and feeling a tad claustrophobic, he got up to say, rather callously upon reflection, ‘I’ve gotta go, my mates are waiting for me.’

She smiled once more, only because she wasn’t someone who sought to be pitied.

‘Go. But be sure to be here tomorrow. Preferably sober.’

He nodded and walked slowly away, even though he felt like sprinting.

That night, he went out with his mates to get pissed. They did, he didn’t, because, by some strange coincidence, one of the lads had drunkenly shared the abuse he suffered at the hand of an adoptive father. He listened as his friend ranted and raved and cried into his drinks. That night, Blue decided, no other people would raise his child but his Mum and Dad and himself.

The following morning, his mother had very nearly suffered a heart attack when he told her he’d got someone pregnant, and he intended to keep the baby.

‘How?’ she asked. ‘You’re in the bloody Paras!’

He looked at her, not daring to say what he was thinking. But she read his mind. She blurted out, as she grabbed the spatula to take the fried eggs out of the frying pan, ‘Oh no, you don’t. No! Your baby! Your job to look after it.’

But in the end, she agreed to look after the wee one on the condition he would do his duty as a father every time he was home on leave.

‘There will be no nightlife for you,’ she said. ‘No dating until she’s old enough to be left with a sitter. And, you have to start saving so you can