|The heron and the fish. (standard:Suspense, 6629 words)|
|Author: OJ Ambrose||Added: Dec 06 2002||Views/Reads: 2202/1368||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|The National Security Team find themselves in a situation with a sniper, and call in their expert prisoner. Whilst things seem routine, there are darker motives lurking. A powerful suspense story with classic double cross and suprise ending.|
Foreword: This story was originally written for my GCSE coursework creative writing. I'd wanted to submit a story to nicestories.com for a while, but hadn't had the time to write one. When this work came around, I felt it a great oppurtunity to submit a story, as I had to do the story even if I was pushed for time. My teacher said the first draft was professionally written, and I have only made few changes so hopefully it is still a good read. I hand in my final draft, which is this, tomorrow, which is the sixth of December 2002, so wish me luck! The original tone of the story was a lot darker and more mysterious, but my teacher complained that she could not understand most of our stories, so I have had to change some things to make them more obvious and/or simple. Also note that I have no spell checker, so there might be a few mistakes. The layout may also be a bit odd, but nicestories wouldn't let me have the speech indented on the next line, so I had to leave gaps. Please enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it, and remember, if you ever see 'OJ Ambrose's The Heron and The Fish' in the shops, pride yourself on being one of the first to read it. The Heron and the Fish It was a bright summer's day in London, and Mickey O' Rourke smiled as he observed the people milling like ants in the street below. He flared his nostrils and a took a deep breath from the sliver of open window, the air flowing into his nose like a ocean wave, then turned and walked slowly to the table that stood in the middle of the room. Unlike outside, the air in this small room was heavy and musky, making the four men inside feel uneasy. Despite the foreboding atmosphere, Mickey's smile broadened and he shook his head as he spoke in his friendly not quite English, not quite Irish voice, "Geez, it's been a while. Seven years ago Chiswick was no more than a few shops and some houses." He gestured to the window, "Now look at the place!" He pulled out the available chair, and looked across the table at the man seated in the other. He sighed deeply, and his smiling face was replaced with a thoughtful expression. "Paul Dillon," he said slowly. "You crafty bugger. I'm guessing you brought me here for something more than talking about my fair old town Chiswick?" The person he addressed as Paul Dillon was a man of about thirty. He had short dark brown hair and strong blue eyes. His face and overall posture conveyed the air of someone wise and powerful, like an emperor or god. His held a slight smile. His accent was English. Not quite cockney, but you couldn't call it anything else. He spoke in a sly voice. "Ah yes. You are quite right Mr O' Rourke." He paused, and flicked his head back. The two men standing behind him shuffled through a small door. Mickey and Paul locked eyes in silence, while the two men scanned the room with hawk like integrity, searching for possible weapons or escape routes. When satisfied they left and stood outside, leaving the door to close itself. The sound of the door swinging closed broke the silence like a judge's hammer. Mickey knew that when the man you are talking to sends both his bodyguards out of the room, something big is coming. His face showed interest and concentration, like a cat watching a piece of dangling string, as Paul began to speak, "I have a..." He paused for a few seconds and nothing could be heard but the faint and distant sounds of life from outside, seeming like secretive whispers. Paul's face was a potrait of seriousness as he continued, "Proposition for you." Graham and John stood outside the room, one on either side of the door. They were both tall, wide men, dressed like executioners in morbid black suits. A morsel of white shirt was visible underneath, creating an ironic and contradictory image against the dark jackets, ties, trousers and even sun glasses. Graham had removed his shades, and waved them in the air as he peered through the small window set in the door. "I dunno man," he said in a deep American accent, shaking his head. "How can that little Irish dude be this big mastermind criminal guy? I mean, look at him!" He was quite right. You wouldn't think he was in any way involved with crime. He had short, messy black hair and brown eyes. Nothing odd there. Like most Irish, he had a cheery face and was a laid back person. He wasn't particularly well built, but he was quite visibly strong and agile. So what? Most people like to work out. The Click here to read the rest of this story (645 more lines)
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