Troubleseeker

Books by Alex Ames

The Troubleshooter Series:

Troubleshooter (Book 1)

Accountant Paul Trouble needs his former soldier and spy skills to find 100 million missing dollars, flying bullets and all.

Trouble at Christmas (Novella 1.5)

Paul Trouble discovers that a quiet Christmas is not in the stars for him as someone sabotages his family’s ranch.

Troublemaker (Book 2)

Paul finds himself in the middle of the kidnapping of his boss, overachieving animal activists, and the pressure of the Strom Industries owner family.

Pieces of Trouble (Four Troubleshooter Novellas)

Four short stories from the Troubleshooter universe: Meet Paul Trouble in his Army days, at the end of his spy career, on a mission in Brazil as troubleshooter, and during a family Christmas break.

Troubleseeker (Book 3)

A late night visitor falls dead over Paul Trouble's doorstep, followed by two ruthless killers on his heels. Who is the victim and why are the killers policemen? Paul ends up as suspect number one and discovers that things are not what they seem.

The Calendar Moonstone Brilliant Series:

A Brilliant Plan (Book 1)

Calendar Moonstone, maker of fine jewelry and part-time diamond cat-burglar, expects a quick, in-and-out safe crack job but stumbles over a dead body. And a two hundred-year old mystery.

Brilliant Actors (Book 2)

What could be more exciting than attending the Academy Awards ceremony, joining the hottest after-show party, and having an A-movie star wearing your jewelry? All of the above, plus spending the rest of the night in jail! Calendar finds out first hand what intrigues are playing out in Hollywood!

The Teen Monster Hunters Series:

Teen Monster Hunters (Book 1)

When Hawthorne High's janitor is mysteriously attacked in the basement, school misfit Sally Storm is not convinced with the official explanation and starts to investigate. With the help of her newly-found odd friends, school-genius Ryan and gentle but strong Moe, Sally sets out to face whatever is in the basement. Monsters don't exist, after all!

Teen Monster Hunters - The Test (Novella Book 1.5)

The mysterious Supernatural Investigation Agency asks Sally, Ryan, and Moe to join ranks as junior agents. Employment tests are for losers and who needs them anyway when a real beast is on the loose!

Teen Vampire Hunters (Book 2)

A lonely mansion in the mountains. A dog drained of blood with the tell-tale puncture marks of... a vampire. The Teen Monster Hunters Sally, Ryan, and Moe come to terms with the real supernatural—TMH-style!

Other works:

Five for forever

Rick Flint is trying to get his life back on track after his wife died, leaving him with four kids and a failing boat-building business.

Louise Waters is the greatest movie star of our time, trapped in her gilded cage of success.

Falling in love is easy but their past, present, and paparazzi make staying in love a challenge, especially with the United Kids of Flint commenting every move.

For Adrian

The events of this book take place

in London, England.

This is a work of fiction, not a tour guide.

CHAPTER ONE

Victoria Terrace, Bayswater

Wednesday, 0:02

Trouble

The man on Paul Trouble’s doorstep fell into his apartment with a solid thud, muttered something that could be widely interpreted as far, harr, or argh, and died. Paul stood in his PJs and stepped aside to avoid getting any blood on his bare feet. The dead guy’s hands, face, and back were sticky and dark with it, soiling Paul’s hardwood floor and the corridor’s carpet.

When the doorbell had rung, Paul had expected a neighbor asking for late-night assistance, not a film-noir situation. A quick inspection of the hallway and staircase confirmed that the bleeding had been heavy all up the stairs. Paul was sure he would get into trouble with his neighbors in the morning.

London Bayswater qualified as a quiet neighborhood, despite the steady flow of tourists crawling this part of London. Close to Notting Hill, north of Hyde Park, as central as it gets in London these days. Some tourist-trap hotels, a lot of small-scale offices, and the rest mostly old-timers, people who had bought houses here when it had still been affordable or who had inherited them from their parents. Paul’s apartment covered half the top floor of a typical Victorian whitewashed multi-tenant building. No elevators, not in this part of town; the dead man must have had good stamina to climb five floors while bleeding out. And damned good motivation. Paul tried for a pulse with his right index finger on the throat of the guy, none. Dead was dead. He cleaned his finger on the dead man’s coat.

Should he close the door, in case his next-door neighbor across the hall got curious? Nah, the blood outside made any body-hiding a useless action. Plus, the police wouldn’t like him tampering with the body for cosmetic reasons. A quick glance at the face of the dead man confirmed Paul’s first impression: bloody face or not, he did not know this man. He was neither a neighbor, nor a coworker, nor a person Paul knew from his colorful past. Standing up, the dead man measured at around five-six, maybe a hundred and thirty pounds. He had thinning brown hair, the whitish complexion of an office worker, a wiry body. Totally nondescript. What had he said? Far? Car? Star? Something like that.

What did you want to tell me, dead man?

Paul was no stranger to violence. He had seen military action as a US Marine for many years, first in the field as a Special Ops operative, then on loan for the CIA for hairy black operations, and the remaining years on loan to the British as liaison to the Security Intelligence Services. A botched mission had cost Paul his left hand and his career. The amputee stump, phantom pain and all, was a constant reminder of his past life.

Nowadays, he had a degree in economics and was employed as a troubleshooter for the international conglomerate Strom Industries, fixing touchy situations for his boss. It wasn’t Special Ops, but it was no Excel or PowerPoint desk job either. Officially classified as an accountant, he had defied death multiple times during the last years in his troubleshooter role. Even so, those moments had been exceptional. All this did not explain a bloody body dramatically falling into his apartment.

Who are you, unknown man? Paul sighed and got up.

Civilian or not, you never cease to be a Marine, and his Marine training kicked in, accepting the situation as it was. A dead man in my apartment. A bloody trail leading right up to this apartment from all the way back to wherever this dude had come from, making it easy for any bad guys to follow….

Like a signpost: hunted man, this way up, fifth floor to the right.

Marine training dictated: Secure yourself; secure the team; call for support.

Secure yourself. Paul lived in a roomy one-bedroom maisonette with large Eastern windows end to end, floor to ceiling, Paris-style. The main room held bookshelves, a large dining table as the room’s centerpiece, and an American-style kitchen counter. Under the kitchen sink was his toolbox. He retrieved his hammer and, from the back of the cutlery drawer beside it, a small black throwing knife. The hammer went head first into the right side pocket of his pajama pants. The knife went into his right hand. England lacked guns and Second Amendment convenience, but Paul’s weapons were an adequate alternative for violence. The knife was perfect for closed-room encounters mid-range up to thirty feet, and the hammer for anything between six and two feet. And it made up for his missing left hand. The detached left-hand prosthesis rested already in the bathroom, as Paul had been about to retire to bed; the clock over the kitchen counter showed 0:04. Wednesday had begun.

Secure the team. Well, no team to secure. As long as the neighbors stayed in their apartments, they were safe.

Call for support. Paul went to his phone to call 999, the UK equivalent of 911. He had pressed the first 9 when he heard the unmistakable groan of the staircase through the open apartment door. It told Paul three things: first, one or more persons were almost on his floor, as the groaning stairs were the ones leading up to his upper level; the rest were silent, modern concrete stairs. Second, the arriving party was very careful because a single staircase groan indicated very careful steps. A regular trip on those stairs usually produced a whole-lotta-creakin’. Paul could invariably hear approaching guests or delivery staff from the bottom stairs on upward. And last: it most certainly was the party who had killed the ‘far-car-argh’-man.

CHAPTER TWO

Victoria Terrace, Bayswater

Wednesday, 0:04

Trouble

Any normal person would follow a blood trail up the stairs and jabber on and on about the discovery and at least give a shout into the house, along the lines of Does anyone need help? Police would identify themselves properly while entering the premises. None of that had happened, which excluded all possibilities of normal, innocent, or official. By simple logic of exclusion, this visitor was bad.

No doubt. No doubt whatsoever. Only a bad guy followed a blood trail through five floors of an unknown apartment building in silence.

Paul flattened himself against the wall beside the door to be spotted as late as possible from the exterior. His useless left arm was to the wall, and his right hand controlled the room for the greatest throwing flexibility. He considered switching to the hammer right away—the door was only six feet away, but bending down to put the throwing knife on the floor might have produced some noise. Plus, in a fast fight, the knife was out of play; no way he could switch weapons quickly. That missing left hand was really a bitch, Paul thought, not for the first time.

Knife as primary weapon it was.

There was another, very faint groan from the stairs. The party must have spotted the open door and the body lying half in it. Wouldn’t it be nice to know how many there were? No telling for now; he would take it as they came.

With the element of surprise gone, Paul still had a slight advantage. The knife was balanced between thumb, index, and middle finger, and his right arm was raised up to his ear, ready to throw. During his recuperation period after he had lost his left hand, his co-spy and ex-lover Irene Richards had gifted him throwing knifes and a human-sized wooden board to pass the time. Having had basic training during his Marine days, Paul had spent the next three months honing his throwing skills to close to perfection out of sheer boredom. And he understood that his gun-handling days were over—ever tried to reload a gun one-handed? A surefire way to shoot off your nuts or your toes. From six to nine feet away, the knife would hit any spot that he aimed at in half a revolution. Any. As sure as Christmas and Easter combined.

The intruder had three options for an entry strategy. Either drop the stealth act and approach like a herd of cattle, playing the naive finder of a dead body to distract whoever else was present. Or move forward, as silently as possible and sneak a peek around the corner to scan the room for opposition. Or jump into the room to surprise the opposition.

The long wait told Paul that strategy number one was not being applied. All stayed quiet outside. Paul consciously relaxed. He radiated a certain danger-field towards people in his surroundings that tended to made them nervous and uncomfortable. A relaxed Paul was an invisible Paul. The longer it took, the more likely strategy three became. Paul felt naked. Pajama trousers and a t-shirt were not a hand-to-hand combat disadvantage, but the bare feet could become be a problem, in case things became physical. A combat-boot-dressed foot had a higher kinetic energy than a bare foot and therefore was more effective. Plus, a single shard of glass or wooden splinters after interior design damages could produce nasty results and slow him down.

The intruder made his move, strategy three, the surprise entry. And he was good, as soundless as it gets. One second, he was outside Paul’s vision, the next second already half in the room—dark clothes, leather jacket, silent sneakers. His speed and momentum were taking him only so far. He needed to orient himself in unknown surroundings, check the rest of the room, and then secure the space.

Paul’s flat-against-the-wall position might not have been such a good idea. Seen from the middle of the room, he was a sitting-duck target. Too late to change that. The whirl of movement from Mr. Surprise left Paul cold; he waited for the right moment to throw the knife. The intruder was a beefy guy, muscle mass at first glance, possibly military, judging from the fluent movement. He had done this before. And he held a gun in his right hand.

Paul’s knife found its target halfway across the room and exactly hit the upper wrist where it was able to do the most damage, severing muscles and nerves, rendering the dominant hand of the assailant useless. The gun, a black automatic with a silencer extension, was already on its way to the floor. Paul untangled the hammer from his pajama pocket and jumped towards the intruder to finish the fight.

The intruder’s gun clattered to the floor, and the man gave a painful, suppressed scream when the nerve signals reached his brain. Paul needed three steps to reach him. He glanced at the open doorway to spot a possible second intruder. He raised the hammer, ready to take on either Mr. Surprise or a second intruder.

The second intruder it was. This guy had taken strategy number two, the silent entry—a good team effort. Paul needed a fraction of a second to shift the hammer in his hand to throw it at Mr. Silent, who brought up a gun in his outstretched arm, silenced, too.

Paul timed it perfectly. The hammer flew with one-and-a-half revolutions into the face of Mr. Silent while Paul crashed with all of his one hundred seventy pounds into Mr. Surprise, who had overcome his first stab of pain and moved his left shoulder as protection to deflect Paul’s body.

Paul used the momentum of tackling Mr. Surprise and dove for the gun on the floor. He grabbed it, quickly evaluating the risk of discharging the weapon in a densely populated neighborhood. Half of his apartment wall was pure window floor-to-ceiling, and Mr. Silent stood in the doorway. Paul’s neighbor’s apartment door was straight opposite. Too many collaterals. Paul dove for cover behind the solid wood kitchen counter, gun firmly in his grip.

Not a second too soon. Mr. Silent had turned his head instinctively at the last second, and the hammer had hit his lower jaw. Painful, distracting, but unfortunately not disabling.

Phomp, phomp, phomp whispered the gun, three silenced shots plucking into the hardwood floor and the kitchen counter, trailing behind Paul, mere inches. Paul oriented himself, crouched, and grabbed the first thing he found in the lower open shelf. He threw the heavy frying pan across the room. Two more shots followed the frying pan; the rattled Mr. Silent had shot out of confusion instead of staying cool. Professional, but not overly so.

Paul sprung up, the gun close to his chest so he could fire immediately after he cleared the counter. His eyes came up first, acquiring the target, gun over the counter, phomp-phomp, a double-tap delivered in under a tenth of a second. Both shots found their homes in the upper center mass of Mr. Silent, who fell back, coming to rest right beside the unknown dead man. So ended that part of the fight.

Before Paul could acquire his second target, Mr. Surprise was upon him. He had used the few seconds that Paul had spent with Mr. Silent to prepare his attack. He came flying over the counter, with Paul unable to change his aim in time. Mr. Surprise took the prepared breakfast stuff with him, and both men crashed to the floor in the narrow kitchen aisle. Cereal boxes and shattered plates, glasses, and mugs rained down as the heavy mass of Mr. Surprise’s body knocked all the air out of Paul. Mr. Surprise screamed in pain as his right side hit the ground, the knife still protruding from the lower arm. Paul managed to place some half-assed kick into the groin. Mr. Surprise jumped up and tried to kick Paul, who instinctively curled for protection, getting only hit in the ribs. Painful. The gun was uselessly pinned under Paul’s right side, and Mr. Surprise took Paul’s second of immobility to dash towards the exit. Paul got up, aimed the gun. Stop right there, asshole!

Mr. Surprise stopped in his tracks, already half-bent-down to pick up his dead partner’s gun.

Move, and give me the pleasure of finishing you off, Paul said, breathing heavily. He didn’t dare to move with his bare feet as there were glass shards all around him on the floor.

Who the fuck are you? Mr. Surprise said, straightening up again, turning slowly, and raising his hands. American English with a slight Russian accent. He had not expected such fierce opposition.

I am your host of the evening, Paul said, and I’ll call the police. What were you guys thinking?

You have no idea what you’re getting into, Buster! Mr. Surprise said.

Paul shuffled his feet, carefully pushing shards and cereal out of the way as he kept his eyes on his adversary at all times. He came around the kitchen counter, gun always aimed at Mr. Surprise with a steady right hand. I hope you have good insurance. You ruined my apartment.

He had to walk all over to the sideboard, where he had dropped the phone unit, to continue his 999 call.

Anyone downstairs waiting? Paul asked. The fight had taken no more than ten seconds, and the gunshots had been silenced. No way Mr. Silent and Mr. Surprise were yet missed by anyone.

Mr. Surprise stayed silent, more indications of a professional. Why give away anything?

Paul’s mistake was that he had the notion of forcing Mr. Surprise to talk. He squeezed off one persuasive shot between Mr. Surprise’s feet into the hardwood floor. Good intention, disastrous results. Paul’s gun did not fire. During the fight, the automatic had been jostled, dislocating a bullet or something, downgrading it from a gun to a mere metal club.

Mr. Surprise immediately stepped back and bent to pick up his dead partner’s gun from the floor with his good left hand. He stood just as Paul charged him. Mr. Surprise had expected the move and stepped back quickly. Paul had momentum, but no weapon except for his useless gun. His only chance to survive was to stay as close as possible to the man, to be able to push the gun away and try his luck in close combat. He gave two forward strikes with his gun hand and his stump, both tapping Mr. Surprise on the upper left torso. Surprise needed to balance himself out and was unable to raise his unfamiliar left gun hand in time, which gave Paul another chance for a right–left combination, this time aimed at the face, one fist, smack, one stump, smack! Mr. Surprise fended those off with his own left, keeping the gun away from Paul’s reach, and took another step back, to gain the distance to aim properly again.

Paul was out of striking distance again. Mr. Surprise’s gun arm came around, and Paul did the only thing that was left to do: he head-butted Mr. Surprise with all he had.

The fight was over surprisingly fast. Paul’s head rammed into the belly of Mr. Surprise, who couldn’t decide whether to step aside or aim the gun at Paul’s back, taking another step back to soften the blow.

Mr. Surprise was out of step-space. The large maisonette windows started one foot from the floor and went up all the way to the ten-foot-high ceiling at a sixty-degree angle. The momentum of his own mass along with Paul’s head-push were not stopped by the triple-layer, break-secured, thermo-pane window. The glass broke with a crashing noise, security glass diamonds raining into the room like big drops of water.

Mr. Surprise fell backwards out of the window, into the dark March night, screaming for half a second before his back was broken two stories below when he hit the balcony wall of Mrs. Sheldon’s apartment. He tumbled further down before being impaled on the pointy tipped black steel fence in front of the building with a sickening and finalizing thud.

Paul waited until the glass shower was over and carefully peered down. The cool night air made him shiver. He quickly glanced up and down the street; there was no movement. No shocked getaway car driver. No bad guys running into the building. No sniper on the roof opposite. Some car lights could be seen at the end of Victoria Terrace on the next main thoroughfare; otherwise, his street lay quiet.

Paul heard the door open on the other side of the hallway. He walked over. His neighbor Franco, a Spanish investment advisor, peered through the half-opened door, sleepy, disheveled, dressed in boxers.

"Paul, you all right? I heard glass? Dios, is that blood?"

Franco, get back inside and call the police.

The request came with Paul’s full ex-military officer’s authority that allowed neither comment nor discussion. The door slammed shut.

Paul went back into his ruined apartment, stepping carefully around the spreading pool of blood.

Who were these clowns? Hunting down Mr. Normal, taking no prisoners, silenced guns, and fighting like pros.

Paul kneeled beside Mr. Silent and patted him down. He didn’t expect to find anything. A professional killer or criminal wouldn’t take his credentials with him, right? Maybe there was a key or a document of sorts.

To his surprise, the wallet was ready to be found in the left hip pocket. Paul opened it to check who Mr. Silent really was.

Uh-oh. Trouble, you are in trouble.

Paul stood up, his head reeling.

The bi-fold held a badge and a warrant card that identified Mr. Silent as Police Inspector John B. Cremer, Sussex Police.

CHAPTER THREE

Victoria Terrace, Bayswater

Wednesday, 0:10

Trouble

As policemen often came in pairs, Paul had no doubt that Mr. Surprise had similar credentials in his pocket.

Bummer! That complicated things.

Paul had few regrets regarding the outcome of the fight with the two policemen. Better them than him. Plus, he did not believe that they were real policemen, badge or no badge, solid laminate, including valid 3D-hologram and all. No regular police officer would come charging into a private home in this part of town, ready to kill, with no up-front identification whatsoever. With silenced guns!

And this was England. Most policemen did not even carry sidearms. At any sign of violence, Metro Police would call in the Special Forces or ask the military for help.

Whatever Paul’s conclusion on the dead men’s legitimacy was, it would all be lost when the first police officer arrived at the scene. Paul would be gone for either lengthy interviews or thrown into jail. Most likely, both.

Paul felt that he was part of something; there had to be a reason the unknown dead man had fled to his doorstep while being hunted. The dead man intentionally had come to him. And that meant something.

And the assassination attempt made it personal. A few days behind bars would be out of the question, at least for now. The dead man must have had a reason to involve Paul, and it was his duty to see this through—Paul needed to gain time.

Would be nice to take some photos