Deluge (The Best Thrillers Book 2) by James Best (ebook reader with built in dictionary .txt) 📕

“I lost a few as well.”

Now the silence was less comfortable.

Baldwin finally said, “Tom Lopez was also a friend of mine. I should visit his wife.”

“Good idea. I’m sure she’d appreciate it.”

After a moment, he added, “Damn, we owe the mayor a dinner.”

“Remind me, what was that for?”

Evarts started laughing. “I have no idea. It seems so long ago. I just remember that I invited her, and she accepted. Oh wait, I remember. It was your doing. You gave away city resources to the Chippies.”

They both laughed, but now more in relief, because the memory replayed the entire nightmare in their minds. They had awakened unscathed. Or nearly so. Despite tragedies, they had personally come through unharmed. The thought made Evarts anxious to get home. They both jumped out of their seats together with the same rendezvous in mind.

As they packed up their stuff, Evarts heard someone yell.

“Chief Evarts! Come over here, please!”

Evarts recognized the voice. He faced the man standing on the other side of a low rock wall.

“Mr. Vargas, what’s the problem?”

He pointed at the sky. “That damn sun brought the hoodlums out.” He waved his arm to encompass the beach. “Look at them all. Yelling, screaming, acting like the beach is their property. When’re you going to do something about it?”

“First thing Monday morning. I’ll write a letter to the legislature asking them to outlaw public beaches.”

Vargas stomped his foot. “You mock me, young man.”

“And you vex me, Mr. Vargas.”

He took his wife’s arm, and they happily walked up the beach toward their cars. He hadn’t taken ten steps before he heard Vargas yell after him.

“Don’t think you fool me, Chief Evarts. I remember you as a kid. You threw beer cans on my property, built fires on the beach, and gave me the finger. You and your friends are hoodlums. And you still hang out with those punks.”

Evarts smiled. Things were back to normal.

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank Gary Marshall for his invaluable assistance and guidance on police and Search and Rescue policies and operations. I would also like to thank Professor Richard Bigus for the idea for this novel and his enormous help throughout the process. Becky Rundall is a gifted and committed editor, and I have enjoyed working with her over the years. Wayne, my son, has again designed a great book cover. The clean design of this book’s interior is due to Allen. Most of all, I would like to thank my wife and muse Diane. She is my first, second and third draft editor. How tiresome that must be.

Finally, all errors are my own. I was unable to convince any of the people above to accept blame.

Sample Chapter

The Templar Reprisals

Book Three in The Best Thrillers, Chapter 1

Paris had lost much of its charm. Greg Evarts started to express his disenchantment with their favorite city but decided to keep his mouth shut. There was no reason to dampen his wife’s enthusiasm.

She shook her head. “I can’t believe they ruined my city.”

“It’s not ruined,” he consoled.

“It’s no longer magical. In my book that’s the same as ruined.”

“Trish, you don’t really mean that.”

They were strolling across Pont Neuf to the Sequana restaurant on Île de la Cité island. They were early for their reservation, so Evarts detoured into a bastion. Originally, the series of bastions had been designed so pedestrians could get out of the way of large carriages. Now they served as observation points to view the River Seine. They leaned against the stone railing and Patricia Baldwin hooked her arm through his as they watched the dinner cruise ships float gently up and down the river. Evening light played off the rippling water and they could hear faint dreamy music in the distance. It was perfect.

“You’re right, I didn’t mean it,” She said.

Evarts smiled and put his hand on her forearm.

“I do miss the Paris of my college years, though,” she said.

“It’s still here. You just have to look harder.”

“Greg, we’ve been looking for two days. So far, we’ve only spotted an echo. The Middle East attire and the forest of selfie-sticks bother me, but the soldiers are truly off-putting. How can the most romantic city in the world maintain its reputation with dead-serious soldiers marching everywhere in urban formations.”

“We’ve been visiting tourist attractions. Unfortunately, they’ve become targets for terrorism. You’ve got to admit the district around our hotel is Parisian to the core.”

“A pricy hotel in a niche district. That’s not the Paris of my youth.”

Evarts squeezed her forearm, saying nothing. He didn’t want to argue. Not this evening. This was their anniversary, and four years of marriage had taught him that when his wife’s mood turned sour, say nothing, but give verbal or physical feedback to show he was listening. It worked. She smiled and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

Originally built in 1607, Pont Neuf was the oldest standing bridge crossing the Seine and had a reputation as a meeting place for lovers. Île de la Cité was the birthplace of Paris and in those early days, the bridge served as the hub of the city. At that time, it was clogged with vendors, street entertainers, and petty criminals. Benjamin Franklin found the bridge so seedy that he refused to walk across it. Now the bridge had been cleared of people earning a living, licit or otherwise.

It was quiet. It was peaceful. It was romantic. A perfect summer evening in Paris and they were positioned perfectly to enjoy the twilight. Evarts felt inner contentment.

A horrific scream. A woman’s. Then a chorus of screams. Men and women. People in a panic ran toward them. What the hell was happening? Something terrifying! Something right behind this herd of screaming people. Evarts grabbed Baldwin’s arm and jerked her to his other side so his body could shield her from the mob. He felt her pull him away from the charging hoard, but instinct caused him to resist. He