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Guerrillas by Night (Companion novella - Bedfellows' thriller series)
Guerrillas by Night (Companion novella - Bedfellows' thriller series)
Guerrillas by Night (Companion novella - Bedfellows' thriller series)
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Guerrillas by Night (Companion novella - Bedfellows' thriller series)

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**Get your FREE download of Book One inside this novella**

When MI6 agent Tilda Brooker walked into a secret CIA facility in New Mexico, she had no idea that she was initiating a terrifying series of events.

Who was the Russian defector she was there to guard? What was so important about his scientific work? And why was the most powerful family in the world determined to destroy both him and his invention?

For Tilda, this was just another day. For human society, today might be their last!

THIS IS A COMPANION NOVELLA TO THE BEDFELLOWS THRILLER SERIES
**You must read Book One 'If The Bed Falls In' before you read this novella - Book One is FREE to download with this companion book**

LanguageEnglish
PublisherPaul Casselle
Release dateNov 14, 2017
ISBN9781370202294
Guerrillas by Night (Companion novella - Bedfellows' thriller series)

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    Book preview

    Guerrillas by Night (Companion novella - Bedfellows' thriller series) - Paul Casselle

    Chapter 1

    Friday 13th September 2013 - New Mexico, USA

    TILDA BROOKER WALKED across the sand-strewn parking lot towards a windowless concrete building. It was only a little past ten in the morning, but the blazing sun, even from its low angle in the sky, stung every exposed part of her body.

    She pressed a button situated next to a grey steel door and waited. Tilda removed her sunglasses and caressed her eyes with the finger and thumb of her right hand. She turned her head and looked back at the parking lot from which she had just come; her eyes involuntarily narrowing to tight slits against the blinding New Mexican light. A metallic noise came from behind her. She spun around to face the steel door simultaneously replacing her sunglasses. A soldier peered impassively from the relative darkness inside the building. Tilda felt for the pass that hung from her neck and held it up for inspection without looking at it herself.

    Ma’am, responded the soldier and stepped to one side.

    Tilda was swallowed into the ominous gloom of the concrete structure. The soldier immediately reset the facility’s security by swinging the solid door closed.

    She made her way down echoey corridors that reached deep into the secret CIA labyrinth then turned a sharp left and stopped at a door identified simply with a printed card secured to the wall adjacent to the door. The card read;

    Project Roaring Lion

    Authorised Personnel ONLY

    Lifting her security pass on its chain, she swiped it through a card reader mounted on the doorframe. It beeped, and the latch clicked open. Tilda pushed the door with her right hand, and at the same time lifted her left to glance at her watch. ‘Shit!’ she mumbled increasing her pace and heading towards one of the arrays of unmarked doors ahead of her.

    She entered the room. A man in his early thirties was seated at a bank of video screens. He was dressed in blue jeans, a T-shirt sporting the slogan, ‘Weed’s the Way’ and a faded, unbuttoned yellow shirt. He looked up.

    So the British contingent finally arrive!

    Fuck you, Doyle, Tilda countered. Is the coffee fresh?

    It was ten minutes ago, when your shift started.

    Doyle stood up and belched. Tilda poured herself a coffee and spoke without turning.

    Don’t you think this rebel without applause routine is getting a little old?

    You mean my impish charm? Doyle replied.

    Tilda turned to him and sipped her drink.

    No, I mean that you’re a CIA agent with a serious job on a top secret government project yet you insist on dressing like you’re sixteen and behaving like a mental retard.

    Doyle stared at her and raised an eyebrow.

    I did warn you, Tilda, he said slowly. This vow of celibacy would come to no good. You’re just no fun anymore!

    Tilda pushed Doyle out of her way as she moved from the coffee machine to scan the array of screens. She sat down.

    Anyway, continued Doyle, in a few weeks time this will all be history for you.

    Tilda absentmindedly placed a hand over her mouth and sighed.

    What’s he up to? she asked.

    Ten past ten AM, said Doyle, "coffee and donuts. He’s in Amerikah now. No more beetroot soup for him."

    Tilda studied the older man on the screen. He sat at a desk methodically consuming a Krispy Kreme doughnut and sipping occasionally from a mug decorated with the Stars and Stripes.

    Don’t you have things to do, Doyle? Tilda said shuffling some papers on the desk under the screens. Don’t you need to play on your PlayStation or something? She turned to Doyle. Isn’t that what teenagers spend their spare time doing?

    Is that what they call British humour? said Doyle.

    Tilda turned in her seat.

    What do you know about him? Tilda pointed at the screens behind her. What do you know about Tzivin?

    Michail Tzivin. Born nineteen forty-nine. Studied at the Moscow Academy of Physical Sciences. Joined the R & D department of the Russian army in nineteen seventy-two. Defected to the US in August two thousand and thirteen. Doyle smiled. Not bad for a teenager, eh?

    But what’s he working on? insisted Tilda. She gestured to the facility in which she sat. What does he have that’s this important?

    Well that’s easy, said Doyle. Tilda stared at him and narrowed her eyes. It’s always the same thing. The ability to blow your enemy’s ass to kingdom come.

    But… Tilda protested.

    She was interrupted by an ear piercing alarm. Doyle reacted immediately by rushing over to the seat next to his British counterpart.

    Where’s the breach? Doyle demanded, his demeanour now every inch a CIA agent.

    Tilda scanned the screens and banks of LED warning lights in front of her.

    Sector sixteen, she replied.

    Fuck, exclaimed Doyle, that’s within the lab’s perimeter.

    It could be a false alarm, offered Tilda.

    This is not the time for a stiff upper lip, my girl. The CIA agent stood up and pulled his Beretta from the holster on his belt. Showtime sweetheart!

    Tilda glanced at the screens one last time to see Tzivin standing in a panic. His mug had overturned spilling steaming coffee over the papers on his desk. She looked up. Doyle had opened the door which had increased the deafening siren to an unbearable volume.

    Now, shouted Doyle, we gotta go now!

    Tilda leapt to her feet pulling her pistol from her waist.

    Chapter 2

    As Doyle and Tilda reached Sector sixteen, they could see two suited agents ahead of them. Doyle increased his speed and caught up with the other two men as they flung the door to Tzivin’s lab open. The two suits, preceded by their sidearms, broke left and right and combed the room. Doyle made a bee-line for the scientist and man-handled him to the floor. Tzivin fought him off weakly.

    "Schto tackoya!" the terrified Russian screamed into the agent’s face.

    Was anyone in here? asked Doyle tensely. Please Sir, I need to know. Is there anyone else in here?

    Tilda arrived at the doorway holding her gun in front of her in a two handed grip. She moved slowly towards Doyle and Tzivin.

    I eating my donyuts and coffye, whispered the scientist, then the loud nyoise came…What is hyappening?

    Clear! one of the two suits called out.

    The other’s voice came just a split second after his colleague’s.

    Clear!

    No one was in here, reported the scientist defensively, jyust me.

    Doyle looked down at the man and smiled encouragingly.

    You’ve not done anything wrong, Sir.

    I sorry, if I create any trouble.

    Doyle held his hand out to the Russian. The older man reached out tentatively.

    Really, Mr Tzivin, insisted Doyle, it was just the alarm. He gestured to the speaker on the wall. You haven’t done anything wrong.

    False alarm then, said Tilda lowering and holstering her gun.

    Doyle looked at her and pursed his lips.

    There you go again. Jumping to conclusions.

    He unclipped a radio from his belt and lifted it to his mouth.

    Jonny One. Mr T is secure. No sign of foxes.

    Confirmed false alarm, said a voice on the radio, all personnel to stand down.

    Doyle pulled Tzivin to his feet. Tilda put her arm around the Russian and led him away from Doyle. She looked back over her shoulder.

    I’ve got this Doyle. Don’t feel obliged to hang around.

    I’ve got to de-brief now anyway, said Doyle, so what’s the difference if I stay a few moments to see the old fella’s all right.

    You’re just a big softy, really, aren’t you? responded Tilda sarcastically.

    Doyle stood and looked absently around the room. He nodded to the two suits as they made their way back to the door and disappeared to whatever ready position they had come from. He re-holstered his gun.

    Is he okay? Doyle inquired.

    Tilda sat the old man down.

    Are you okay, Sir?

    "Thank you, da, said Tzivin. Tilda righted his overturned mug. The scientist reactively threw both hands out towards the coffee spill. My papers! pizdyetz!"

    Tilda immediately started to separate the sodden pages and laid them carefully along the desk.

    They’re fine, Mr Tzivin, reassure Tilda. She paused and held up the last page. What are you working on? Looks very interesting.

    Doyle caught her arm and guided her hand and the page back to the desk.

    Are you kidding me, Tilda?

    What’s the harm in asking? she said defensively.

    No harm in asking, but a shit-load of trouble if you get an answer. Doyle turned to Tzivin. We’ll leave you now, Sir.

    "Spaceebah, responded Tzivin, you’re both very kind."

    Just doing our job, Sir, Doyle said as he guided Tilda out of the laboratory.

    The two agents walked down the corridor en route to the briefing room.

    Don’t you ever get curious? asked Tilda.

    Killed the cat, said Doyle, at least that’s what they told me as a kid.

    You were also told that a fairy comes in the night for your tooth and that there’s a big invisible man in the sky that looks over you. You don’t still believe that, do you? Oh no, hang on, you’re an American, so you probably do still believe in that man in the sky stuff.

    There’s nothing childish about religion, countered Doyle.

    Tilda stopped and held Doyle’s arm strongly forcing him to stop and face her.

    Seriously, Doyle? she studied his face. He looked her in the eye. Really, you’re religious?

    I’m not a Christian or anything, but I do believe in God.

    Tilda shook her head.

    Even after everything you’ve seen. I mean everything. All the horrible shit we see going down year after year…You still believe in a benevolent god?

    Yes, Tilda I do…sue me!

    Doyle pulled his arm free and continued walking. Tilda moved off and caught him up.

    "I would if I could, but I’m too busy clearing up all the mess created by jihadi terrorists. Hey, don’t they believe in god as well?"

    Don’t be so naïve, Tilda, countered Doyle. There are people that believe in absolute good and those that are only interested in being right.

    And you’re the type that selflessly believes in good, are you?

    No, I don’t get it right all the time, but yes I do believe in absolute good. It’s just that we humans are frail…easily led into temptation.

    So… Tilda began, but Doyle cut her off.

    Tilda, sweetheart, we gotta get to a de-briefing, then I gotta get home and get some shut-eye. I’m really not up to a theological debate right now.

    No, come on, insisted Tilda, don’t bail on me.

    Doyle stopped and turned to her.

    What do I need to tell you for you to stop breaking my balls?

    If god is all good and we are made in his image, what the hell is tempting us to do wrong? Tilda said cocking her head to one side churlishly.

    Evil, Tilda. Evil, Doyle stated simply, then turned and walked the last few steps to the briefing room door.

    No, hang on. If god made everything, then he must also be responsible for evil.

    Well, you see God did make everything. He made everything including the tools we use to work things out. But sometimes we misuse those tools. And that ain’t the tools fault, is it? Or the fault of the tool-maker. It’s the jerk that’s not using it properly. We need to realise that evil is us getting it wrong; using the perfect divine tools wrong. And you know what a bad workman does, don’t you?

    Blames his tools? concluded Tilda. Very clever.

    Doyle put his hand on the briefing room door handle.

    One last thing, said Tilda.

    Doyle turned and sighed.

    What?

    Do you know what ‘EMP’ is?

    Doyle shook his head.

    Err, no. What’s ‘EMP’?

    I don’t know, said Tilda, but it was written all over Tzivin’s paperwork.

    Chapter 3

    Thurs. 12th Sept. - One day earlier - London, UK

    He’ll see you now, a suited flunky said solemnly to a pretty young blonde woman.

    She got up from a bent-wood chair and headed towards a door that the flunky held open for her. A distinguished man in his early thirties sat at a large expensive desk wearing an equally expensive suit.

    I only have a minute, said the man, you’ll need to be brief.

    I don’t have a lot to report, Sir, said the woman.

    Anders, interrupted the man, please call me Anders. Everyone does. He smiled. At least everyone that dare speak to me. He laughed unapologetically.

    He keeps a personal mobile phone in a locked drawer in his desk, said the young woman. I’m sure he uses it to communicate secretly.

    With the MI6 agent? interjected Anders.

    Precisely, Sir.

    …Anders.

    Sorry, Sir…Anders.

    And do you think they are working with others?

    I’m not sure, she said shaking her head gently. "I want to get my

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