The news channel brought a report from the Deputy Prime Minister of the United Kingdom, who cleverly straddled the fence with all his comments regarding the US and the approach they had seemingly taken to remove Brown from Jamaica and the hands of the government they suspected was trying to protect him. Mostly, he just said that he hoped the violence in Jamaica would be dealt with quickly. He also hoped the Jamaican communities across the United Kingdom would not resort to violence to voice their displeasure with the current situation in Jamaica.

Donovan suddenly made up his mind. He picked up his phone and rang the State Attorney in Washington. He knew the man. He was a second cousin and it had been him who had urged Donovan to go to law school. Donovan knew it was late, but the phone was answered after only three rings.

“It's Donovan.”

“Hey, buddy. How's it going?”

“Good. How are you? How's the family?”

“They're doing fine. Me; busy, stressed, but otherwise fine. Not why you're calling though, is it?”

“No, I wanted to ask you something.”

“What did you want to ask?”

“That guy the FBI is holding, the Jamaican. I want the case.”

“You're in New York, you can't be on the prosecuting team. I've already got someone on that.”

“No, I mean I'll defend him.”

“Why would you want to do that? It's a case you can't win.”

“Let's just say I'd like the challenge.”

“Well, if you want it, you've got it. You're the only one who seems to want to defend the guy, so have fun.” There was a pause. “I heard about the Lavoie girl; she was your client, wasn't she?”

“Yeah, that was a challenge of another kind altogether.”

“Entertainers always are. But if you want, I'll get one of the family's jets out there to pick you up.”

“Cool, if you can get one here tomorrow, I'll want to be in Washington as soon as possible.”

“Excellent! And I hope you enjoy the case. Despite everything horrible, he's a nice guy.”

“Will do! See you in a few days!”

Donovan hung up with a smile and turned to look out the window. The sky was beginning to darken as some mean gray clouds gathered on the horizon. He had his challenge and tomorrow he would finally have a reason to leave Brooklyn behind for a while. As he topped up the whiskey in his glass and put it to his lips, he saw the flash of lightning streak across the sky. It was coming. He would be ready for it, too. He relished the thought of it, in fact. He knew that he could really flex his muscles on a case like this one… it could potentially solidify his reputation as an ‘All in, balls out’ lawyer. When the first sheet of cold, gray rain began to pelt against the window, he knew it had arrived and he also knew, without a doubt, that he was ready to ride out the stormy weather.

The end

 

 

~~~~~

 

 

Storm Donovan returns in:

Stormy Night

A Storm Donovan Thriller #2

Available Now!

Amazon Kindle * Amazon UK * Amazon AU

 

Also available:

The Jade Dagger

An adventure novel

by Steve Rollins

(read on for a sample)

 

Chapter One

No feeling that he had ever experienced in his life was as exhilarating as the breakneck ride on the back of a painted pony along the rim of the mesa. The wind rushing by his face and the plunging ledge to his right made him feel like he was aloft and he cried out. He was free. Nothing was holding him back. And then the panic hit him.

Someone was following him. He could hear the sound of the thundering hooves behind him and he could feel his heart racing faster within his chest. He urged his mount forward, willing it to go faster. Its ears were laid back and its neck stretched flat out as it put every effort into its speed. He did not dare look back over his shoulder. He knew they were coming.

Why were they chasing him? What had he done? He leaned into the flying mane of his mount, closed his eyes and tried to say a prayer, but none came to him; only a deeper sense of panic. They would catch him, he was certain of it. Something that sounded like a bee buzzed past his head. What was… the report of a pistol from behind him answered the question before it formed in his mind. They were closing in.

He searched the broad expanse of the mesa to his left hoping there was cover for him to dart into, but the space was wide open, with only a few juniper trees dispersed at random. There was nowhere for him to hide. It would all be over soon. The realization that he would take a bullet in the back was replaced by the sight of the edge of the mesa coming up toward him rapidly.

He wouldn’t die from a bullet in the back; he would die along with his mount as they plunged into the canyon below them. He leaned into his horse’s neck, squeezed his eyes tightly, let go of the reins and threw his arms out to his sides, accepting what was to come.

The sound of thundering hooves below him suddenly ceased and he felt weightless. He knew in an instant that they were airborne. He clenched his teeth together and waited for the impact that was sure to be coming. Any moment, he would be tumbling head over heels with the painted pony as they collided with rocks, juniper and the thick trunks of piñon pine.

When the collision did not come for a very long while, he risked opening his eyes. They were still in the air. It was impossible. He sat up and looked around him. Far below, he could see the traces of the canyons, mesas and the branching, treelike pattern of the tributaries that plunged down from the jagged edges of the mesas.

He looked behind him and saw those who were chasing him plunging from the edge and tumbling down the steep slope. He had escaped, but how? He suddenly realized that it didn’t matter anymore. He had escaped, he was free and he was flying. There must be some sort of magic in the pony, because he, Parke Higgins, was flying.

He squealed as though he was a little boy once more. All of the worries, stresses and especially the nightmare of being chased, disappeared behind him. With his arms spread and his face turned toward the sun, he let the feeling of the wind envelop his entire body, covering him like the waves of an ocean. He was alive and he was free. He closed his eyes once more and floated peacefully. And then he heard crying.

There could be no crying in his new world of freedom. It was impossible. When he ventured to open his eyes, there was a woman. There was no doubt that she was a Native American woman by her dress and the long, jet-black hair flowing down her hunched back. Where had the pony gone? Why was he no longer flying? He looked around for the pony, but saw nothing but the chinked, log walls of an octagonal house and only the very basics for living. Why was he in a hogan? He wanted to go back to flying. A particularly gut-wrenching keening came from the hunched woman and his attention turned back toward her.

Hesitant, he moved toward her; perhaps he could comfort her. When he placed a hand on her back, her sobbing ceased and she slowly turned her head toward him. In spite of the trails of tears which had streaked the prominent lines of her cheeks, she was stunning. Her smooth, caramel skin, her full lips, proud nose and chin were all perfectly formed as though sculpted by a master; but it was the deep, haunting, black eyes that made his heart stop and then begin again in a rhythm he hadn’t felt since he had first tried to ask a girl on a date.

He started to speak and she was gone. He sat up in a panic. Where was he? Nothing around him was familiar. Had they captured him? Who were they? He looked at the figure lying beside him in the bed and everything came rushing back to him. No one had captured him. No one was chasing him. He was in a motel room, the Kachina Lodge, on the South Rim of the Grand Canyon.