"Blind Influence" Exclusive Excerpt!

Paris, France

The alley was dark and littered with trash from the overflowing waste cans and with drunken, unconscious patrons of the saloon located at its end. The amber light, which seeped from the cracks in the door and boarded-up windows of the dilapidated building, provided enough light for passersby to avoid stepping on any undesirable objects. Noise from the saloon was muffled, but still audible, as it drifted down the alley to one of the many streets of Paris.

A man, whose face was still handsome though hiding the youth that had been beaten from him by the life he had chosen, prepared to tiptoe his way through the maze to the saloon door. His short dark hair blended with the misty night. The collar of his raincoat flipped up, its belt tightly securing the taut raincoat around his sinuous body to protect the clothes beneath it. He stood at the corner of the street and alley, surveying them both. Had he been followed? Who was waiting for him in that dark alley or in that raucous saloon? Did he have his gun loaded? He withdrew the firearm, a Beretta, checking it and his surroundings. It was now ready in case he needed it. He glanced up and down the main thoroughfare before sliding around the corner into the misty darkness of the alley, toward the amber light that betrayed the presence of some of the lowest life of Paris.

As he tiptoed to the door, he heard a screech. He didn’t bother to look. He had heard those types of screeches before. It was a rat, something he despised intensely and saw far too often. It was beyond this well-educated, well-dressed man why Jacques preferred to squander his life in such vile places. In this man’s estimation, Jacques was paid rather handsomely for his information.

Another screech caught the man’s attention and pulled him from his thoughts. He paused as he waited to hear additional steps on the wet pavement. There were none, only the snorts and swat of a man awakened by the vile, dirty creature trying to steal a breadcrumb from the drunk’s shirt. The man again started for the door of the saloon.

He reached the door and breathed a quick sigh of relief. Just before placing his hand on the doorknob to enter the raunchy establishment, he took in a very deep breath. He winced from the stench, which made him wish he hadn’t done that. He opened the door slowly, trying not to attract any attention with swift movements. He entered the room cautiously but calmly. He stood momentarily in a darkened corner at the entry of the room, surveying it and all the chaos. No one was the least bit interested in him. The room was lit with sconces and lamps, all draped with red and orange chiffon-like material. The man wasn’t sure what kind of effect the owner was going for, but he was quite sure he had walked into a badly reproduced opera. The amber light danced with the smoke created by just about any type of smoking device he could think of, all being used by various patrons of the bar. In one corner of the room was a very badly abused grand piano, which was annoyingly out of tune. Most of the patrons were around this piano, while a sloppily dressed overweight woman sang as if she were an opera diva, complete with fan and headdress, screeching a very bad rendition of the Casta Diva aria, which sprang from her heavily red lipstick laden mouth. Like fingernails scratching down a chalkboard, the woman’s attempt at singing grated on the man’s nerves. As the shrill sound of a high note accosted the man’s ears, he turned his head to see a darker area, far from the offending racket of the opera impersonators who, he surmised, were pretending to be performing at Covent Garden.

As the man reached the darkened corner booth, he untied his coat and slid onto the stained and tattered velvet bench, his back to the wall, facing the door to the saloon. His form seemed to disappear in the darkness, his hands seen only as he called the bartender over to the booth. He thought of ordering gin when the bartender arrived but somehow felt whiskey was more appropriate. He found that thought strangely odd, but it didn’t matter anyway. He had no intention of drinking it.

Shortly after the bartender returned with his shot, a short Frenchman, complete with at least a three-day growth on his face and the body odor to match, slid into the bench across from the smartly dressed man. The Frenchman’s smile wrinkled the skin around his eyes and revealed missing teeth.

“Monsieur Adkins,” the Frenchman greeted the man, eyeing the shot of whiskey.

“Jacques.” Adkins adjusted the collar of his coat as he watched Jacques begin to salivate. Jacques’s eyes never strayed from the whiskey. “Consider it an advance,” Sean Adkins added in his proper English accent, a stark conflict to Jacques’s very common and broken English.

“Some advance!” Jacques retorted, grabbing the shot. “You no like whiskey anyway.” He threw his head back as he downed the shot.

Sean smiled. “What do you have for me?”

“I have some information on your blue-eyed friend, monsieur.” Jacques paused as the bartender arrived to take a drink order from Jacques “Bring two more whiskeys,” Jacques instructed the bartender. “Bring the bottle,” Sean corrected.

The bartender left to retrieve the bottle. “You are very good to me. That is why I work so hard for you, no?” Jacques said.

“You have been very helpful in the past. I’ve yet to hear what you have for me today.”

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