I ate in silence watching a woman playing darts in the lane next to the bar. She was throwing over and over again without a break as if she was practicing for a tournament. The lady was in a groove, keeping the darts clustered around the bull’s-eye with each turn.

Her blonde hair was pulled back in a thin ponytail that barely moved as she threw. She glided to the board with a dancer’s grace and stood eye-to-eye with the red center at a standard height of 5’ 8”. I saw her interrupt her rhythm only twice, both times to check the large clock on the wall.

A lone man slumped over the bar, nursing a pint. He was also watching the woman throw darts. One foot on the bar rail kept him steady. When he changed feet, he kicked a good sized, old-fashioned briefcase on the floor. He glanced down then turned back to the dart player.

He was mesmerized by the set of her hips, the graceful flow of her arm, and the release of the dart toward its target. His eyes never left the accentuation of her buttocks with each long stride, the spring up on tiptoes to retrieve the darts, and the bounce of her breasts as she returned to the line. It was only a matter of time before he made his move.

Another long draw on his glass and it was empty. The man wiped his mouth on a sleeve and approached dart lady. He stood politely next to her until she finished her round and retrieved the darts from the center of the board. When she returned, he stepped in front of her, saying something I couldn’t hear. She paid no attention and pushed by the intruder to set herself to throw again. He touched her arm. Yanking it away, she responded with sharp words.

The awkwardness continued through another round as I paid my bill and stood to leave. The determined man grabbed the woman firmly a second time when she returned to the foul line. She bristled at his hand and buried a dart tip nearly to the shaft in the tender flesh below the wrist.

He howled like a scared dog and backed away quickly. Anger flushed his weakening courage as he wrapped a handkerchief around the wound. The man brushed past me at the double doors before I could yell.

“Hey, you forgot your briefcase!”

He ignored me and crashed through the exit without hesitation. Only a step or two behind on the street, I shouted again as he retreated down the block. He glanced back to see me waving. His face paled. He backpedaled and started to run. What a crazy bastard, I thought. By the time I reached the promenade, he had disappeared so I decided to leave it alone. He would come back to get the briefcase or he wouldn’t. What did I care?

The concussion of the explosion sounded like Thor’s hammer hitting an anvil. The bomb rattled the night with shattered glass and a shockwave threatened to crumble the earth. I staggered against a building front and almost fell through as the window imploded against my raised hand. The sound of crackling wind swept through the night, searing the darkness with clean, white light. Heat riding on its wake nearly crushed my chest.​

​London Bridge is Falling Down Excerpt 1

​The Hollow Man     |     The Hollow Man Series, International Espionage​

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