​​London Bridge is Falling Down Excerpt 8

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

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The man ran down through a gully and scrambled up the other side. Undergrowth tangled his legs. He tripped and fell twice but didn’t stop. Thorns and sharp branches ripped at his clothes, tearing flesh from muscle beneath the thin cloth. Blood streaked his face and hands. He kept running.

He ducked under a low branch and rebounded off a tree trunk as a bullet splintered bark, driving wood into his back. He stumbled. Fire lit the woods as slashing torch beams cut through the dense night but the man kept going. He had to get away. Who were these people? What did they want? He heard voices. They were farther back now. He was putting some distance between these psychos chasing him.

Suddenly, a jagged numbness exploded through his calf and he tumbled into a thicket. His leg wouldn’t respond. It was paralyzed. Hell, it felt like it wasn’t even there. Where was his leg? He crawled. He struggled up and fell on his face. Breathless, he rolled over.

 When he looked up, he saw the dark sky pressing down and the hand of God reaching toward him. It took a few seconds to realize the fingers were five figures towering over his lifeless body. The race had ended.

“Who the hell are ye?” He licked his lips as he struggled to push the words out.

A torch was switched on, momentarily blinding the man. He raised a hand and saw a silver barreled pistol glinting in the sharp light. His breathing increased. He needed time to think.

“I didn’t see your faces. Let’s leave it at that. My name is Billy Fox,” he gasped. “I’m the senator from Monaghan. You don’t want to kill me.”

“Yes, I do,” corrected Twomey. “I’m killing you precisely because you are Billy Fox. You see, you’re the first on our list.”

He fired once into Fox’s chest and patiently watched blood pulse from the wound.

The senator from Monaghan lay on the cold ground wondering what the hell happened, as his blood seeped into the earth. He shivered. The paralysis in his leg traveled up his body. His arms turned to clay, his fingers to stone. His breath faded.

Twomey curiously watched the surprise in Fox’s eyes turn to recognition, or perhaps it was some kind of sadness. The dying man unsteadily gulped one last breath before settling into a quiet goodnight.

Twomey lowered his weapon and spat on the ground. ​