A Bowers Christmas: A Holiday Short Story in the Wallis Jones thriller series Read online

  A Bowers Christmas

  A Holiday Short Story in the Wallis Jones thriller series

  Martha Carr

  MRC Publishing

  Contents

  A Bowers Christmas

  Foreword

  The Holiday Story

  A Little More

  Chapter One

  Martha’s Notes

  A Bowers Christmas

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  A Holiday Short Story

  From The Wallis Jones Series

  Martha Carr

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  MRC

  Central Texas

  Copyright ©2016 by Martha Carr

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  Published by Martha Carr

  Texas

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  All rights reserved. No part of this book can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by an information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author, except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles.

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  A Bowers Christmas: A Holiday Short Story by Martha Carr is a novel and a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, dialogue, locations and plot are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons or events is purely coincidental.

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  Cover design by Dave Robbins

  Created with Vellum

  To all those who love to read and like a good puzzle inside of a good story with some characters you can get to know over an entire series.

  Dedicated to Don Allison, whose guidance in life and literature have helped so much.

  To Dave Robbins and Brian Fischer for donating your time and your talents so generously. Forever grateful for your friendships.

  To Michael Bingham-Hawk for a great website and so much more.

  To Michael Anderle for his generosity to all of his fellow authors. And to the Double D’s - Dorene Johnson and Diane Velasquez who are every promising author’s best friend and confidante.

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  And to my amazing son, Louie and the wonderful Katie who have been so supportive throughout this project.

  Want more?

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  Join the email list here:

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  http://wallisjonesseries.com/newsletter/

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  Join the Facebook Group Here:

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  fb.me/WallisJonesSeries

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  The email list will be a way to share upcoming news and let you know about giveaways and other fun stuff. (Hard at work on an app with different endings and another cool interactive side story to the series). The Facebook group is a way for us to connect faster – in other words, a chat, plus a way to share new spy tools, ways to keep your information safe, and other cool information and stories. Plus, from time to time I’ll share other great indie authors’ upcoming thrillers. Signing up for the email list is an easy way to ensure you receive all of the big news and make sure you don’t miss any

  major releases or updates.

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  I hope you enjoy the book!

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  Martha Carr 2016

  The Holiday Story

  December 21st - Richmond, Virginia

  “You remember the day we met?” Fred Bowers watched his wife, Maureen carefully pick her way across the darkened, narrow road of Hanover Avenue. The street was aglow with Christmas lights strung across the front of almost every house. There were splashes of colored light playing off of the ground here and there like random spotlights. Maureen was leaning forward, peering into the darkness before every step.

  “What?” she asked, hesitating as she grabbed onto his arm with a gloved hand. “What brought that up? Okay, yes, I remember,” she said, smiling. “Not like you to get nostalgic while we’re on an assignment. There’s the house,” she said, pointing to one of the many look-alike row houses that dotted both sides of Hanover Avenue, block after block.

  “Love the way they strung the lights on that roof. See? Green and white hanging off the eaves like that makes it look like ice. I prefer that kind of ice to this black ice,” she said, grabbing his arm tighter. She bent over a little trying to get a better look at the street. Fred did his best not to laugh.

  “You still have a really cute ass,” he said, glancing backwards. Maureen slowly straightened up and made a point of taking the next step with confidence just as her right foot slid forward a few inches.

  A loud ‘whoop’ came out of her and she clutched Fred’s arm as she erupted into laughter.

  “That’ll teach me. Trying to show off. I’m going back to slow and certain in sensible shoes.”

  “I’ve seen you run down Paris streets while aiming a gun at a Management operative,” said Fred, trying not to smirk. “In limo shoes.”

  “You’ve found my kryptonite,” said Maureen. “Walking across the ice on a house Christmas tour. It’s cute that you know the definition of limo shoes. Those shoes didn’t qualify. They were only three-inch heels and I could run in them.”

  She turned and patted his Santa Claus tie. “Thank you for wearing it,” she said, giving Fred a wink. Pinned underneath the tie was a small wireless camera with a fisheye lens and a constant live feed to a team who could quickly run the identities of anyone caught on camera. Both of the Bowers were wearing earbuds to receive updates or further instructions, just in case.

  “We look like the perfect suburban couple, as usual.”

  “If only the neighbors knew. You know, I’ve noticed you haven’t really answered me. I, at least, remember when we met. I had the case file in my hand and was reading that part about living in the suburbs of Richmond, Virginia and wondered when it would be over,” said Fred. “Have to admit, I saw you and thought it would at least be bearable.”

  “And here we are twenty years later,” said Maureen. “Turns out, the suburbs are a great base camp of operations for all kinds of missions. No one ever expects operatives to be in a two-story Colonial playing Bunko with their friends.”

  Fred and Maureen were operatives in the Circle, whose entire existence was as a balance to the power that Management had in the world. Two shadow governments, Management hundreds of years old, both of them pulling strings to give people what they wanted but from entirely different menus.

  Fred liked to think that the Circle was the only one with options.

  He was born into a life the social workers kept referring to as difficult and without many choices. He didn’t need more of the same for a lifetime. The Circle turned out to be his way to get somewhere with an out clause always handy, even if he never found an excuse to use it.

  He was taken into the life so long ago he could barely remember what his life was like before they found him in a narrow shotgun house in Philadelphia as a scrawny teenager. It wasn’t long before the worldwide organization had given him a new name and a new background, scrubbing his identity of anything that was real.

  The way he saw it, he didn’t lose much. “You mind working so close to Christmas?”

  “’Scuse me,” said a man who passed them on the steps as he reached back to take his wife’s elbow and hurry her along. “There’s a line,” he said tersely, not looking up at Fred or Maureen.

  “Popular house,” said Maureen, wrinkling her forehead.

  “Popular tour,” said Fred. “Big holiday fundraiser in these parts.”

  They were walking from house to house along the F
an District Christmas tour. It was the one night of the year when the historic district in Richmond, Virginia opened the doors of some of the more notable homes to onlookers who got to take a look at what could be done with a little more time and a lot more money.

  All of the houses had been built around the 1900’s, and were built along streets that met at the tip, in downtown Richmond and gradually fanned out with shorter streets tucked in between, the closer the neighborhood got to the edges of the West End. The main thoroughfare was Monument Avenue that still boasted the original large, stone pavers that were regularly saved from demolition by an older woman from one of the wealthier families who made a point of lying across them in front of the trucks.

  It had become a Richmond tradition of its own.

  The houses along Monument Avenue were built during the Gilded Age and were meant to be getaways for the wealthy from Rhode Island or New York back then even if they boasted seven and eight bedrooms. Most of them were renovated and housed leaders of Management or even the Circle. All of them living side by side, keeping a mistrustful eye on each other even if the general public was completely unaware of who was playing with their politics.

  The walk from the houses along Monument Avenue over to Hanover Avenue was only a few blocks and there was plenty to look at along the way. Everyone made a point of dressing up their houses for the holidays and some were even outside handing out hot cider or even something with a little more kick.

  One house had an oversized Christmas tree in the large bay windows that appeared to stretch through the floors with the top of the tree shining in the third floor window with an electrified star on top.

  “I’ll bet they cut that tree into three pieces and put it on different floors,” said Fred.

  Maureen smiled. “Good guess. Can’t imagine they cut a hole in the floor just to outshine the neighbors. Still, that has to be a thirty-foot tree,” she said, tilting her head back.

  “At least,” said Fred. “We need to pick up our tree tomorrow.”

  “Not that big though. Don’t get any ideas. Our house isn’t even that tall.”

  The Bowers had made a point of taking their time at each house, walking through the neighborhood admiring decorations as they went, and chatting with others on the tour. It was the perfect cover that let the couple slide in and out of houses and complete their assignment.

  “I wore the wrong boots,” she said, mostly to herself, as she stopped to admire the Christmas decorations in the large front window of the restored row house. “They look good but I don’t know that they’ll hold up to a two-mile slog to see all of the houses.”

  Fred knew better than to comment on what his wife was wearing, even if their marriage was arranged and because he knew Maureen had picked the boots because they hid her spare gun more easily. Tucked neatly inside was a small Glock resting in a holster sewn into her right boot.

  “Look at that house,” she said, pointing at a house next door. “They used giant gift boxes stacked on top of each other to make a Christmas tree. How clever.”

  “Those are the smart neighbors,” said Fred. “Everyone is admiring their boxes and they didn’t have to clean up the inside of the house. Don’t even have to deal with needles from a real tree. Geniuses.”

  “Okay, Scrooge, let’s get inside. My nose is getting cold.”

  Maureen stepped up, onto the porch and took a look around to see if anyone else was coming in or out of the house before she pulled Fred closer and leaned forward, giving him a long, lingering kiss, holding his face in her hands.

  It had taken years for them to get comfortable enough with each other to stop being an assignment.

  “We’ve been together for twenty years and you still wonder if I mind going on assignments with you,” said Maureen, kissing him again. She reached up and ran her hand through his salt and pepper hair. “I don’t care if you are the world’s longest arranged date. You’re pretty hot, Mr. Bowers.”

  “You know, we can hear you,” said a male voice in their ears. It was the team leader sitting in a safe house nearby. Fred winked at Maureen and pulled her closer.

  She was originally assigned to him based on compatibility to carry out a mission. No one cared whether or not they would enjoy each other’s company. Caring about each other was seen as a distraction. A little friction would help a team of operatives stay focused on what mattered to the top cells in the Circle. It was always about making sure there was some kind of balance of power in the world, which meant eternally chasing the older, bigger behemoth, Management.

  Tonight was no different. Once the list of homes on the Christmas tour was announced it didn’t take long before the regional director of the Circle noticed that a few key families in Management were on the list. An opportunity has presented itself.

  The Bowers were on an assignment to plant a listening device, a bug in three of the homes and observe anything of interest while they were there. A fairly routine night and a good excuse for a holiday date night. Fred had said, “Kill two birds with one stone,” which got a gentle elbow to the ribs from Maureen and a, “I’m not a bird,” comment.

  They had decided to make a longer night of it and were going to a late showing of ‘White Christmas’ at the art-deco theater, The Byrd in Carytown once the assignment was successfully completed. Carytown was an extension of the Fan with a long row of shops and restaurants anchored by the renovated old theater. The theater would be decorated with pine garlands that would leave a heavy fragrance in the lobby where they could buy hot chocolate with peppermint sticks.

  They could warm up inside of the thirteen-hundred seat gilded palace and sing along past midnight.

  The theater had somehow managed to avoid being torn down or largely redone since it was built in 1928 and was still open every day of the week. It was one of Fred’s favorite places to get away where no one would bother them and he could count on the consistency. That was important to Fred.

  “There’s a line,” said Maureen as she opened the front door of the house. The temperature had dropped to just below freezing making Maureen Bowers adjust the scarf around her neck, tucking it into the top of her cranberry-colored wool coat.

  Like a lot of the older homes, the house had an anteroom, a small room between two large, heavy doors with a tall center glass pane that allowed people to get inside without letting out any of the warmed air.

  But tonight, the system wasn’t working. The line of looky-loos waiting to get all the way inside was just at the threshold of the other door. Fred put his arm around Maureen’s waist and pushed inside, letting the outer door slowly swing shut. The woman who had passed them on the porch shook all over from the sudden gust of frigid air and glanced back at the Bowers, giving them a curt smile at the last moment.

  They were at the sixth house listed on the tour, the second house on their list. The first house on the list had been a large mansion on Monument Avenue and was fairly routine.

  Fred had leaned in to touch some of the decorations on their Christmas tree, drawing the volunteer to his side to sternly tell him to back up and keep his hands to himself. Maureen was a few steps behind him and dropped her purse right by the heating grate, easily sliding in the bug as she retrieved her things.

  Grates were great hiding places in general for all sorts of bugs, unlike lamps or pictures hanging on the wall. Grates were seldom noticed by anyone and were the least likely to be cleaned or even touched for years on end.

  Fred and Maureen stood patiently in line, just at the door of the next house on their assignment taking it all in and looking around at what might be a good resting place for the bug.

  The house was smaller than the last one on Monument Avenue and the hallways and rooms were more narrow making things easier and more difficult at the same time. The crowds waiting to see the rooms were standing close together and moving slowly, making it easier to blend in but impossible to wander off or suddenly drop anything without drawing attention.

  “Is it me or are
we the oldest people here?” whispered Fred.

  “I was thinking the same thing,” said Maureen, stepping closer to Fred so she wouldn’t be overheard. “Take a good look around. Everyone is dressed alike. Lots of long, woolen coats in a particular shade of grey and every hair in place. These are Management newbies. Must have been an order that went out from on high to go on this tour or else.”

  “Fred, turn to the right a little,” said the voice in their ears. “Maureen, hold steady.” Maureen’s Christmas tree pin had a similar camera that was currently aimed at the people in the next room who were looking around and smiling at each other.

  “Everyone having a Merry Christmas?” asked the volunteer as she waved people to step closer together. The outer door was open again as more people showed up to take a look inside and the temperature in the front hall was quickly dropping.

  Fred quickly realized there wasn’t enough space to get the door closed all the way or let the older volunteer past them to scoot some people back onto the cold porch to wait. The tall, elegant woman grimaced at the people holding open the door who casually ignored her, chatting with each other.

  “They’ll hear about that at the next Management meeting,” whispered Maureen, as she rolled her eyes.

  “Wait, who is that?” asked the voice through the earbud.

  “Who?” asked Maureen, realizing she looked like she was having a conversation with herself. She let it go and stood on her tiptoes, trying to see over the taller shoulders in front of her.