Psyber and Clipped Eagles

By Pat Reilly

The time is the near future. The planet has fallen under the control of the Order, a faceless international cabal, which has essentially enslaved the world in an era that Christian believers refer to as the End Times.

Angels of God, God's secret agents, based in the millennial rule of Christ, travel back in time and recruit human followers of Christ to assist in certain intelligence operations on behalf of the kingdom of God.

David Psyber, private investigator and ex-spy for the US government, is now employed by C4 Enterprises. Fresh from a politically incorrect diatribe on a Boston radio station, Psyber is sent to the woods of Tennessee, where he and his wife, Lucia Lemieux, set up house on a deserted 737 airliner, the Clipped Eagle, out of the reach of the Order. Shortly after their arrival, Psyber is then sent on a mission by the mysterious Oeltjen, his control, on an operation in Stuttgart, Germany, to neutralize a grave threat to Israel and the world.

Psyber gradually learns his employment with C4 Enterprises has divine and supernatural connections. International intrigue quick wit, humor, action, and a confrontation with Satan himself make for a fun ride and, for Psyber, deeper understanding of the battles to come.

"Clipped Eagles," a short story included as part of the ongoing adventures, leads Psyber and his fellow operative, Bull Fisher, into the dark past of a bitter woman.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fulton Books, Inc.
• Release date: Dec 7, 2021
• ISBN: 9781637105832

Book preview

Chapter One

Combat Zone

Time: 2024

"Boston, I hate to leave your beans and chowder, home of the Boston Common and the Boston Massacre. But my little speakers’ corner here at Pravda on the Charles is dripping red with rotten tomatoes.

"Was it something I said? I haven’t quite memorized the new Orwell dictionary completely, but between the loss of this radio station’s ad revenue and the ratings, I know I have offended many.

"For that, I am deeply…apathetic. Many listeners were sickened with my references to God, especially when used as ‘God Bless America.’ Pity this country is now spelled with a k. No doubt many would be storming the station with pitchforks and torches right now if they weren’t afraid to come into Chinatown at night. The station owners chose the right neighborhood. Low rent, most of the winos are harmless, and it’s a quick jog to Tillie’s off Boylston if the program director wants to pick off a quickie.

Just swung by to say ‘night-night.’ If I can share a little secret, I am not supposed to be in here. I was fired this morning, and they changed the locks. I feel terrible about it, but while Shotgun Gene the Music Machine was visiting the transgender restroom down the hallway, I…well. If you listen carefully, even through the soundproofing, you may hear him pounding on the door. Ah, yes. Vague, but there. Great radio voice.

A finger behind the voice clicked, and Bad Boy by the Beatles ripped through the universe.

Shotgun Gene stopped the pounding and reached inside his jeans pocket. Agggg! came the great radio voice in despair. Left the cell phone in the control room with…him! Su Ling?

From the reception area at the front of the station, Su Ling smiled at Psyber through the glass next door to the control room. She was young, diminutive, sweet, and dressed in blue silk. Her accent lingered from her roots in China.

Shotgun Gene moved his six-foot, two-hundred-pound frame with tight jeans and embroidered blue cowboy shirt down the short hall from the control room and slammed through the door to the reception area. How the hell did he get in here? We changed the d—

Shotgun Gene moved a step closer to Su Ling. A skeptical finger pointed at her nose. "What are you doing here so late, Su Ling?"

What you mean? she asked. I work here late tonight… Many phone calls, copy to write.

Shotgun’s eyes narrowed. He pointed toward the glass door that led to the dark streets outside. The light from the reception area illuminated a stumbling man in a filthy gray trench coat, tossing lame punches and limp hugs at an equally unsteady woman in sweatpants, who was doing her best to keep the bottle to herself.

That door was locked. We changed the locks this morning, Su Ling. We know you like Psyber. We’ve seen you—

You see nothing, she snapped. I work late many times. You know. You see outside…? Su Ling pointed at the glass door. I am little. And even though I am Chinese, I do not know kung fu, and I know nothing about intellectual property. Mr. Psyber get off air at 8:00 p.m. Sometime I wait, so he walk me to my Ford Focus in free parking place provided by our generous owner. Very wise boss to save money on security and lighting. Mr. Psyber always a perfect gentleman. Besides…he married.

She saw the crowbar and the desperate face before she heard the shattering of glass. The face came through the glass first, followed by the battered combat boots, and flaccid tattooed arm. At the end of the wrinkled brown arm, a tight right fist wielded the cudgel.

Psyber suddenly flew through the door from the control-room hallway, with eyes toward the smashed door. A white beard growled through bad teeth, and the man with the crowbar came at Psyber with frothing venom.

A left arm came up and, under the bicep with the tattoo and a right knee, cracked into the center of the maniac’s sternum. The crowbar clanked along the floor, and the man emitted an angry moan.

Psyber slipped his fingers to the wrist of the intruder’s hand, with his thumb to the back of the hand, and applied mild pressure. It gave him complete control with minimal pain to the recipient.

I can lift you gently, or break your arm…your choice, he said.

Just…just let me go. You’re killing me. Let me go. I-I’ll pay for the door.

I’m sure, said Psyber. Have your insurance agent call ours. We’ll work something out. Psyber gently applied the appropriate pressure and gently raised the man from the floor until they were face-to-face. He looked into the man’s bloodshot eyes, both red and swollen. The left pupil seemed larger than the right. The face was wrinkled and scarred. The unkempt white beard held the residue of a hasty meal.

Jesus loves you, brother, whispered Psyber. It isn’t too late. Until you’re dead.

Psyber released his grip, gave the man two pats on the shoulder, and aimed him toward the devastated front door of the station. The old man took a demonic final glance over his shoulder, hissed a sinister curse toward Psyber, massaged his wounded wrist, and stepped through the jagged doorway into the darkness.

Su Ling slowly stood to her full five feet behind the reception desk, protecting herself with several manila envelopes and a multicolored sales brochure.

He go? she whispered.

He go. Where Shotgun go?

Back in restroom, I think.

He go, said Psyber. We go now.

We go now. Should we call police?

The alarm shattered the room. Su jumped and dropped her bundle.

Ah, said Psyber. I see the station security system is working perfectly. The po-po should be here in a few minutes. So there’s really no need for both of us to be here. They may have some questions I would prefer not to answer. I’m sure some nice officer would be glad to get you to your car.

You in hurry?

I have an appointment to take some pictures.

Su Ling did not approve.

It’s just my nighttime gig, Su… DJ by day, PI by night.

Too many initials. You go now…out back. I know nothing.

Thank you, Su Ling. Psyber nodded toward the control room. Thank you for everything. He gave her a quick kiss on the cheek and headed down the hallway toward the rear exit.

He married, said Su Ling to no one.

There were no blue lights lurking out back, just a dark alley and a dumpster. Psyber took a turn around the block and headed toward the flesh and seduction of the neighborhood in Boston known as the Combat Zone.

Psyber knew the history. In the sixties and seventies, the place was a festering maggot hole of pimps, prostitutes, booty shops, needle zones, broken bones, and lost wallets. It was four square blocks between Boylston and Kneeland, in the gut of Boston. The streets streamed servicemen on leave, away from home with time, cash, and alcohol-fueled hormones. Now the flesh was scattered. Chinese restaurants, neon dragons, and gibberish to anyone but a Cantonese took the place of most of the purple pits and the pussycats.

More like guerrilla combat now, thought Psyber.

It was a short walk from the radio station through Chinatown, whiffs of fried rice, and a few stores, with no eye contact. Two minutes to the ’Vette in the station parking lot. If it’s still there, he thought.

The sense of paranoia that he’d developed as a government agent was on medium to low. Psyber was in modern American uniform, jeans, and blue short-sleeved shirt. He was of average height, fit yet slim, and attractive without it being a distraction. But he was not one of them. He would have to become one of them.

Kitty’s was down a stone staircase beneath an empty concrete shell upstairs, next to The Fortune Delight, a gift and sword shop. A pale-green light came from the lonely boutique, and the glow of the flashing-red cat woman above the entrance to the cave glanced off the shaved head of the leathered hulk at the door.

Psyber checked his cash and ID in his right-hand pocket. He looked at the watch strapped to his left wrist and descended the stairs. The two-hundred-eighty-pound beef at the door eyed the ID and Psyber.

Wife’s out of town, said Psyber with a lusty smile and a glance at the stage through the open door.

The hulk handed the ID back to Psyber with a bored look of quiet disgust. His voice came out of a barrel. No weapons, no cameras, keep your hands off the dancers and hostesses, unless you’re in a private room. Don’t have no idea what goes on back there. Twenty bucks.

Psyber handed over the cash and came down two more steps to floor level. The stage was to the left. Madonna was proving she was no virgin, swinging around a silver pole to James Brown.

The place was half full, capacity fifty. All males of all ages. They were scattered at tables, groups of two or three. Two solos were at the bar to the right of the stage. Another storm trooper stood with folded arms at the entrance to a darkened hallway adjacent to the bar.

In a booth near the rear, a fifty-plus, balding, and somewhat overweight gentleman in a brown suit was doing his best to keep his hands off the private dancer undulating over his lap.

Welcome to Kitty’s, you gorgeous hunk, you.

She said her name was Marilyn. She was wearing high heels and nine inches of lavender silk. She took Psyber by the arm and put her head on his breast.

Come with me, gorgeous.

I’m flattered, he said and let her take the lead toward an empty table near the front of the stage.

Marilyn’s blond hair and pale skin became even lighter under the spotlights of the stage. As they passed, Madonna gave Psyber the look that said Welcome, sucker and twerked her way upstage.

Marilyn sat Psyber down, took an opposite chair, put her chin on her fist, and gazed at him through exotic-green eyes. She was young, but not as young as the makeup would suggest.

Do you like champagne? she bubbled.

Who doesn’t like champagne, Marilyn? Shall we toast to our newfound friendship?

Marilyn was up with a dancer’s grace and a shake of the lavender silk. Both arms were raised in the air as she led the cheer. Par-ty! Par-ty! Par-ty! Par-ty! The chant drummed throughout the room. The Stones blasted through the jukebox as Marilyn blew Psyber a kiss and ran off to the bar.

Right back, handsome, she promised.

Psyber took the time to check out the entrance. Not here yet.

He was getting a touch concerned. This was business. He didn’t need company, and he certainly didn’t need an audience. He checked his watch. The mark was late.

There you are, gorgeous, she whispered, setting the glass before him. She cradled her glass in her hand. Her fingernails were long, sharp, and bloodred. She sat on his lap, with her left arm around his neck and right hand caressing the glass.

Toast, she whispered.

Toast, echoed Psyber.

Glasses clinked.

Chug, she blurted. Par-ty! Par-ty! Par-ty! Par-ty…

The chant resumed, and they chugged. There was a smattering of applause and some yelps as the lovely Miss Strawberry Fields took the pole to Bad to the Bone. Another round of chugs.

Psyber first saw the fedora, then the profile, and knew it was him. He felt the familiar adrenaline kick to the heart, overriding the alcohol. He cocked his head toward Marilyn with his best sheepish pout.

I have a confession to make, Marilyn. I’m here because my wife is out of town, and I wanted some…you know. But I’m feeling so guilty. I really must just pay my bill and leave.

Psyber began to lift the lady off his lap when she hooked her high heel around the leg of the chair.

Not, so quickly, she said in her best dominatrix.

His target was headed toward the darkened hallway around the edge of the room. Psyber unhooked the heel and set Marilyn on her own seat with a screech of flesh on plastic.

Hey! she blurted.

The muscle wrapped in leather at the bar, unfolded his arms. A scowl and a beard, silver buckles dangling from the black Harley jacket began to weave through the tables toward Psyber.

I am sorry, Marilyn. Psyber smiled and quickly slipped two-hundred-dollar bills out of his pocket. He dangled the bills between his fingers. I hope this takes care of any medical expenses.