Excerpt Taken by Force

<body topmargin=0 leftmargin=0 marginheight=0 marginwidth=0> <table cellpadding=0 cellspacing=0 border=0><tr> <td valign="top" rowspan="2" width=210 BGCOLOR="#99CC99" TEXT="#080000" bgproperties="fixed" background="08a8dfc3.jpg"> <div> <B><IMG SRC="0a4b81e0.jpg" border=0 width="184" height="286" ALIGN="BOTTOM" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ALT="bookworldinfo.com. Robert A. Gallinger"></B></div> <div> <B> ALT="Taken by Force book cover for mystery suspense novel by Robert A. Gallinger"  </B></div> <div> <B> <iframe src="http://rcm.amazon.com/e/cm?t=ordermysteryb-20&o=1&p=8&l=as1&asins=0595262503&=1&fc1=000000&IS2=1&lt1=_blank&lc1=0000ff&bc1=000000&bg1=ffffff&f=ifr" style="width:120px;height:240px;" scrolling="no" marginwidth="0" marginheight="0" frameborder="0"></iframe>  </B></div> <div> <B> <IMG SRC="http://service.bfast.com/bfast/serve?bfmid=2181&sourceid=41566261&bfpid=0595262503&bfmtype=book" BORDER="0" WIDTH="1" HEIGHT="1" NOSAVE ><A HREF="http://service.bfast.com/bfast/click?bfmid=2181&sourceid=41566261&bfpid=0595262503&bfmtype=book" TARGET="_top"><IMG SRC="http://images.barnesandnoble.com/images/5920000/5927927.gif " BORDER="0" ALIGN="center" ALT="Taken by Force: A Novel" ><BR>Taken by Force: A Novel</A> Barnes&Noble<P>  </B></div> <bR> </td> <td valign="top" colspan=2 height=82 style=" border-bottom: 1px solid #999980;" BGCOLOR="#CCCC99" TEXT="#080000" bgproperties="fixed" background="08b8dfe1esnpes.jpg"> <div> <B>home </B><FONT SIZE="2" COLOR="#336699" FACE="Times New Roman" ><B>     |    </B></FONT><FONT SIZE="3" COLOR="#336699" FACE="Times New Roman" ><B> </B></FONT><A HREF="index.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="home "><B>home</B></A></div> <div> <A HREF="id4.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Chapter Excerpts">Chapter Excerpts</A>   |   <A HREF="id18.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Excerpt No Time to Die">Excerpt No Time to Die</A>   |   <A HREF="id22.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Excerpt Suffer the Fool">Excerpt Suffer the Fool</A>   |   <A HREF="id24.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Excerpt Deadly Encounters">Excerpt Deadly Encounters</A>   |   <A HREF="id28.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Excerpt Crooked Path">Excerpt Crooked Path</A>   |   <A HREF="id30.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Excerpt Dead Light">Excerpt Dead Light</A>   |   <A HREF="id32.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Excerpt Debt of Honor">Excerpt Debt of Honor</A>   |   <A HREF="id34.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Excerpt Whispers">Excerpt Whispers</A>   |   <A HREF="id36.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Excerpt Escape">Excerpt Escape</A>   |   <B>Excerpt Taken by Force</B><B> </B><A HREF="id42.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Site Map">Site Map</A> <A HREF="id2.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Contact Info">Contact Info</A> <A HREF="id3.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Synopses">Synopses</A> <A HREF="id39.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE=" Order Info"> Order Info</A> <A HREF="id40.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Author Bio">Author Bio</A> <A HREF="id47.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Links">Links</A> <A HREF="id49.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Reviews ">Reviews </A></div> <div> </div> </td> </tr><tr> <td valign="top" height=398 width="100%" colspan=2 BGCOLOR="#CCCC99" TEXT="#080000" bgproperties="fixed" background="08b8dfc3.jpg"> <div> Excerpt Taken by Force</div> <div> <I>This www.bookworldinfo.com page provides a complete chapter to review for "</I>Taken by Force,"<I> a suspense novel by Robert A. Gallinger</I></div> <bR> <div> <B>Taken by Force</B></div> <div> Chapter One </div> <div> Hurrying for home in his beat-up olive drab van, Charlie Moore turned left off Route 31 in Spanish Fort, and then sped north on Route 225. </div> <div> Mobile was behind him now, and the June sun was high, padding the van's compartment with a suffocating heat and Alabama humidity that, according to Charlie, “not even a creature from hell could deal with.” But he could, at least most of the time. </div> <div> After all, he'd been born on the Eastern Shore of Mobile, and again, according to him, “My skin and brains have adjusted quite nicely to the heat over the years; but I'm still working on the humidity.” </div> <div> Despite Charlie's resolve this morning, though, pesky sweat beads continued to drip from his forehead, and he squinted to protect his eyes from their persistent sting. </div> <div> The air conditioning didn't work either, so he frequently leaned forward to yank the back of his soaked tee shirt away from the springy seat. </div> <div> The seat sounded like an overly used bedspring, creaking whenever he moved on it, usually making him smile with pleasant thoughts about mussed beds and things; but not today. </div> <div> Now, thinking about the old problem he had with certain members of congress, a new anger clutched Charlie's chest. </div> <div> He twisted his head to spit out the side window to clear the bad taste that festered in his mouth, and then stepped on the accelerator, crushing it into the floorboards. </div> <div> Suddenly, Charlie slammed the steering wheel with both hands. “Promises made and promises broken,” he shouted at the dusty windshield like it was the face of a bitter enemy he would very much like to have a serious “talk” with; but not today. </div> <div> With sweat tormenting his eyes, Charlie didn't notice the red clay embankment off to his right that was topped with shrubs and pine, or the potholes and hills and curves that tried to slow his journey home. His brain was full and Lucy waited, and she was alone. </div> <div> Teasing the accelerator, the engine roared as it gained speed on a downhill stretch that was filled with yellow signs that warned Charlie of the treacherous curves and soft shoulders up ahead. He ignored them like usual whenever he was in a hurry. </div> <div> Now, sensing that something was wrong, or about to be, Charlie jerked the steering wheel to the left as the van roamed precariously over the safety strip. The frayed tires almost touched the soggy dirt at the edge of the road. Steady again, he kicked the accelerator to make it up another hill. </div> <div> The van vibrated violently and black smoke trailed behind. It covered the rear of the vehicle like a newly spread shroud. </div> <div> Maybe it didn't matter anymore, Charlie thought. Maybe never had. Maybe life was a sham, after all, a can of worms, a bag of tricks, a trunk full of disappointments. </div> <div> It had not always been that way. Once, when he'd been twenty-six years younger, in 1970, they'd called him a war hero. He'd been thirty-nine then. When his arm and leg wounds had healed, they'd flown him back to the states to receive some well-deserved medals. </div> <div> Later, on the White House lawn, he'd received the highest award his country could give: The Medal of Honor. He'd almost wept that day, remembering the ones who'd not come home. They were the real heroes, the ones who'd died, and he felt a little ashamed for being honored without them at his side. </div> <div> Charlie had been proud in those military days, proud of his uniform, which he'd worn for over twenty years at the time; proud of his unit, proud of his country, proud to be an American, a soldier. </div> <div> From all indications, he was still proud of the same things. But now, in retirement, he was beginning to have grave reservations about some recent government “non-actions,” which went totally against the grain. </div> <div> He'd done his hard-time soldiering, maintaining the security of the United States and its dignity most of his youthful life, so why didn't they want to ante up, do their part like what was promised? In his mind, it was a debt of honor, a matter of principle, something they were obliged to do. </div> <div> But from the looks of things, congress wouldn't, maybe couldn't based on the recent political mood that seemed to be unfairly chilled toward the plights of military retirees, and many others in need across the country. </div> <div> Despite Charlie's recent anger, though, it was unlikely he would dishonor his country, or tolerate anyone else who tried. But arrogant politicians, as he liked to call them, were something else again. They had to be educated, had to learn what it meant to serve, to sacrifice, to die if need be to protect this great land.Charlie intended to educate them one day soon. </div> <div> Cautiously, Charlie twisted his head when he heard something off to his right. It was like a vague whisper, a sound he had to strain to hear. He'd heard a similar sound that day in Vietnam, too.</div> <div>  It was like a creepy kind of warning that sent cold slivers of fear up his spine. Something bad had happened in Nam that time. Was something bad about to happen now? </div> <div> Taking a deep breath, Charlie remembered the fateful orders that day. </div> <div> The Lieutenant had cocked an arm over his head, and then motioned for the platoon to follow him up a nasty hill that had to be taken at any cost. And, “at any cost” usually meant that there would be plenty of body bags filled before the day was through. </div> <div> Just as the troops had begun to form, Charlie heard a faint whisper deep in his ear. It told him not to go up the hill behind the lieutenant; it would be suicide. </div> <div> In the excitement, he ignored the whisper. He had to obey his orders and do his duty. To him, the voice was probably little more than his brain trying to rationalize his fear. </div> <div> But what was it now? It had to be a clear warning of something bad. He shivered as he pulled his sweaty tee shirt away from the seat again. </div> <div> Echoes from the past flooded Charlie's mind, and he heard the order loud and clear. </div> <div> “Fix bayonets, boys!” the lieutenant commanded. “Jab 'em deep. Shout till your tongues swell blue. We're going to take this hill, boys, we are going to take it. Follow me!”</div> <div>  Even after his chest had been splattered white and pink and sticky, the lieutenant scrambled up the jagged path, the troops close behind.</div> <div>  “To the death, boys, it's the only thing we got left to give,” he shouted one last time just before a mortar round removed his head. </div> <div> But then, like now, the echo of his order hung tightly in the air. It prodded the platoon up the hill, into the killing zone that was splashed with blood and gore. </div> <div> Not many made it down the hill, but Charlie had. He still wondered <I>how</I>, but just as importantly to him, <I>why,</I> when so many others had not made it down alive or well. </div> <div> Now sweating profusely, Sergeant Major Charles Dennis Moore, U.S. Army, Retired, clutched the steering wheel when he felt a familiar pressure, squeezing at the middle of his chest. </div> <div> Charlie gulped for air while he tried to steady the speeding van. Then, he felt the pressure worsen. </div> <div> A sledgehammer blow followed, making him bite his tongue. He almost lost control when he tasted blood, and then the vomit. </div> <div> He turned his head to spit out the window. Everything turned hazy, and he felt the pressure at his chest turn to pain as it moved swiftly out to both arms. Sweat drenched his face and neck and chest. </div> <div> Dizzy with the excruciating pain at his breastbone, he vomited again, and then gagged, while he struggled to regain control of his breath and the vehicle to prevent a deadly crash. </div> <div> Suddenly, something off to the right caught his eye. It was the lieutenant, motioning for him to charge up over the red clay embankment into the pines, the mist, to another place where he sensed he'd been before. </div> <div> Charlie twisted the wheel hard over, trying to comply, determined to do his duty. He didn't hear the tires squealing, or see the black rubber sticking to the surface of the road behind, polluting the air with stench. </div> <div> He was too busy guiding the van along the guardrail, using one hand, while he clutched his chest with a fist. </div> <div> Shortly, the vehicle careened off into the void almost like in slow motion. </div> <div> Charlie screamed with it as it tumbled head-over-end into a nearby ditch that was filled with memories, and the quietness there that he'd heard before, here and in the war zone years ago. </div> <div> Now, only the darkness remained and an upside-down van with out-of-control wheels spinning grotesquely in the air. </div> <div> Soon, a thick cloak of red-clay dust settled over the landscape as the wail of an emergency vehicle's siren ruptured the quiet air.</div> <DIV ALIGN="LEFT"></DIV> <div> * * * </div> <div>  “Will he live?” a young doctor named Ted Smith asked his pretty middle-aged colleague at the Infirmary Medical Center in Mobile.</div> <div>  “He was lucky, Doctor Ann Howard said. “There wasn't any fire at the accident scene, but he has plenty of cuts and bruises. Fortunately, there aren't any fractures. It's his heart I'm worrying about.” She pressed a stethoscope to Charlie's chest. </div> <div> Soon, Doctor Howard sat straight on the edge of the bed. “At least he's stable,” she said. “By this afternoon, we may even be able to do the bypass I've talked to him about. Maybe he'll understand why he needs the procedure now.” </div> <div> “Is he against a bypass?” Doctor Smith said. </div> <div> “Not really, but he hates hospitals. He told me once that he had important business with congress, meaning, I guess, that he doesn't have time to waste in hospitals.” </div> <div> “What's his important business?” Doctor Smith asked. </div> <div> “I'm not sure, other than it has something to do with health benefits.”</div> <div>  “A lot of people have that kind of problem these days.”</div> <div>  “But Charlie has been trying to do something about it. He formed a small militia group to take the problem to congress.”</div> <div>  “You mean an <I>armed</I> militia?”</div> <div>  “No,” she said, smiling. “Most of them are in their sixties, all six or seven of them. They plan to attack the politicians with words, I understand, not with guns.” </div> <div> “Well, he won't be joining them anytime soon from the looks of things.”</div> <div>  “I wouldn't bet on that,” Doctor Howard said, tugging on the stethoscope hanging from her neck. “Charlie's a resourceful person when he wants to be.”</div> <div>  “Looks like a tough guy at that,” Doctor Smith said, “but he's going to have to watch that heart of his.”</div> <div>  “I'm sure his wife will make him slow down after what happened today,” she said.</div> <div>  “Is she on her way?” Smith asked. </div> <div> “Yes, a neighbor is bringing her. Lucy, that's his wife, should be here anytime, then I'll talk to her about the procedure.” </div> <DIV ALIGN="LEFT"></DIV> <div> * * * </div> <div> Lucy brushed gray hair away from her forehead, and then leaned toward the bed. She placed her hand on Charlie's face. </div> <div> His eyes heavy, he gently touched her arm. “You okay?” Charlie asked, trying to sit.</div> <div>  “Good as can be expected,” Lucy said, nudging him back into the pillow. “You just lay still, Charlie. I don't want to hear another word out of you. This time, you're going to let them operate, or I'll do it for them.”</div> <div>  “You wouldn't.” He tried to smile, but the tube in his nose slowed it down. He glanced at the IV at his wrist and sighed.</div> <div>  “You just try me,” she said, standing. She pulled the covers close under his arms, careful of the tubes. “I'll slice you apart quicker than the wink of an eye.”</div> <div>  “Go on,” Charlie said, squeezing her hand. </div> <div> More seriously, she said, “We've got to let them do it this time. I won't let you leave me again. Once last year was enough.”</div> <div>  “I came back, didn't I?” Charlie said, smiling. </div> <div> “Barely.”</div> <div>  “What do you mean, barely? I'm as fit as a mule.” </div> <div> “And as bullheaded, too.”</div> <div>  “Okay, okay. Tell 'em to break out the knives. I'm ready. We just won't be able to eat for a year or two to pay for it, unless I hit the Florida lottery.”</div> <div>  “It isn't that bad. Maybe when you get well and to go to Washington in a couple of months, you'll be able to work things out.”</div> <div>  “Like last time when they did absolutely zilch for us?” </div> <div> “Easy, Charlie.” She patted his hand. “You have to be more patient. Government takes time.”</div> <div>  “We don't have much of that left, Lucy. None of us do. Maybe some of them don't either the way I look at it.” </div> <div> “Don't talk so crazy. Relax. It'll work out.” </div> <div> “We'll see. But I'm not coming back next time with nothing to show for it. They'll listen or I'll make them, one at a time or all together.” </div> <div> Closing his eyes, Charlie felt her hand warm on his, then the darkness took him away to another place where he could dream about what had to be done up north, where the politicians gathered for plenty of talk, but not much action. </div> <div> His favorite politicians would not have much longer to wait for his unwelcome visit, though, Charlie thought, assuming he lived through the open-heart surgery, and if none of the more aggressive, hard-line X groups, as he called them, didn't blow up something or someone in D.C. first. </div> <div> That certainly would complicate things for everybody. He might have to look into that scary problem, too, once he was better. </div> <div> Charlie almost smiled when he thought about how Lucy would react to his new plan of action. She would not like any part of it.</div> <div>  But what could he do except continue to march like always, her yelling after him to slow it down and take it easy, reminding him that life was short, and that they still had away to go, assuming he would quit acting so bullheaded all the time? </div> <div> <I>Poor Lucy. I wouldn't trade her for a mule</I>.</div> <div>  In his sleep, Charlie felt the memories and her warmth near him, and then his eyes began to burn. Suddenly, he saw a headless lieutenant, motioning him to complete the charge. </div> <div> Terrified at the image, Charlie bolted upright into a sitting position, grabbed tightly to the sides of the mattress, and then screamed loudly and clearly, bringing the nurses running.</div> <bR> <div> Chapter Two </div> <div> South of the Capitol on Independence Avenue, a muddle of automobiles stood one behind the other in the evening shades of August. The operators and passengers inside the vehicles waited impatiently for the stoplight to change. </div> <div> When it did, the irate drivers jockeyed professionally for a homebound lane that would connect them to one of the numbered or lettered streets that ran haphazardly north and south, and east and west throughout the city. </div> <div> The puzzle of streets and lanes could make even the most seasoned drivers a little crazy, trying to make a simple right-hand turn. </div> <div> At 7 P.M., the rush-hour traffic had barely begun to thin. The smoke and haze and noise from the exhausts hung low in the streets, but then suddenly sprang for the treetops, like the tempers of some of the angry drivers who'd already braced themselves for the worst since the last delay. </div> <div> Earlier, a delivery truck had sideswiped two cars before it hit a fire hydrant in the grass. The pressurized water spurted everywhere, making the area kids wet and cool and very happy. But no one else was. </div> <div> Sitting in a new line of automobiles, and surrounded by obnoxious benzene fumes, horns blaring unrelentingly, it was a wonder anyone ever made it out of town alive, or all in one piece. </div> <div> Congressman Thomas Mann didn't hear the commotion out on the noisy streets this evening; he was too busy at the moment. </div> <div> He stood, frowning, in the doorway of his congressional office, glancing at the stack of notes he held crumpled in his hand. </div> <div> Despite his wife's repeated lectures, he'd been working too much overtime lately, pushing his Entitlements agenda through committee, “on duty and off,” he liked to say. For the most part, he'd been succeeding. </div> <div> There were still a few, though, who tried to fight him every day, making his life more difficult than it might have been had he been given different circumstances. </div> <div> But that was the way of political life, or death, he knew. He'd learned that fact quite well over the years, bloodied by earlier battles. </div> <div> So far, he'd served six years in congress “as another cranky representative from Maryland,” some observed. </div> <div> He was the leader of an all-powerful financial subcommittee, responsible for hawking the advantages of HR-407, especially since it had been his brainchild from the beginning. </div> <div> Despite whatever anyone said, he was “gung ho” for the military and tried to keep earlier promises to them. </div> <div> That, naturally, made him a likely adversary to many of the other politicians on both sides of the aisle that were not so inclined or honest with their words or motives. </div> <div> HR-407 was called revolutionary by some especially the new Republicans, who were its main sponsors these days.</div> <div>  It could change, that is disrupt, depending upon one's point of view, the way the financial matters of government might be done in the future, among other things. </div> <div> Even Congressman Mann's wife, Joyce, an undercover alcoholic, who'd never been able to bear him any children during their sometimes turbulent, almost always frigid marriage of ten years, was against his agenda, and him, too, most of the time. </div> <div> She was not bashful in expressing her political or marital views to anyone who'd listen either.</div> <div>  “You'd almost think she was running for office,” Tom liked to joke, “the way she occasionally tries to fry me in my own political juice whenever she gets the chance.”</div> <div>  It irked him no end, but he had thick skin like many politicians did, so held her reluctant arm and smiled a lot when they appeared together in public, which was seldom. </div> <div> At home, across the Maryland border, it was a different story. Out there, only the maid, Sara, and Howard, the limousine driver, could hear. </div> <div> There were few smiles at home, only the angry words, the hissing, and the tears. </div> <div> But even Tom knew that there were other compensations besides a congenial wife or a friendly conversation at the evening meal, usually cold anymore since he'd been coming home so late, pressing duties keeping him busy. </div> <div> Still, Joyce and her mother did have plenty of “old” money lying around since the father had passed away six years ago. </div> <div> And money, like political friends, was always an asset, particularly during those gloomy days when closely called election results loomed dark and cold, and rich benefactors were urgently needed, their hands filled with pieces of smudged gold that were laced with plenty of strings. </div> <div> At least in the money arena, they'd both always come through, not wanting him to lose his prestigious seat in congress to anyone not of the proper breed, nor to get the idea that he could do anything meaningful without them and their zeal, not to mention their money. </div> <div> Tom hated election campaigns and everything dirty associated with them. “But,” he often said, “they came with the territory, so what could a person do?” </div> <div> Now, he was across the outer office, still clutching the papers tightly, leaning toward her. </div> <div> “Irene,” Tom said gruffly to his mostly administrative assistant, whose desk was always cluttered beyond repair. “Have you seen these?” </div> <div> He slammed the papers near her hand, ignoring the fact that she was busy on the telephone. </div> <div> “I'll call you back,” Irene said into the mouthpiece, looking up at her boss, who, at the age of forty-six, had already started to gray a little at the temples. “What is it?” </div> <div> Thomas Mann was a stickler for protocol on the floor, but here in his mahogany-paneled office, he was usually less severe. </div> <div> Although, even here, he'd been known to explode occasionally for no apparent reason, especially at her when no one else happened to be around to bite at during a moment of frustration.</div> <div>  “Damn fools,” Tom said, sitting on the edge of her desk. </div> <div> He picked up the papers he'd previously thrown there to get attention. “Henderson and Carlson have proposed a few legislative amendments to HR-407. </div> <div> "Damn it all to hell, why do some smart-assed lawyers always have to rock the boat, especially now? I hate lawyers, particularly the ones across the aisle.” </div> <div> He saw the look on her face, so changed his tone slightly.</div> <div>  “What we need more of are people like me: managers with a master's degree from Harvard, and a pair of big you-know-whats to fend off the lobbyists and all the other ones with hidden agendas, trying to screw things up. </div> <div> "Damn, when I think about it, I'm surrounded by trained assassins wherever I walk.”</div> <div>  “Well, don't look at me like that, Tom, ” Irene said, smiling, “I'm not out to kill you.” </div> <div> Raising a hand as she stood, Irene nudged a strand of soft, dark hair away from her right eye. </div> <div> She was wearing a silky blouse and a short, tight skirt today. Her easy charm and fine lines were always a pleasure to see regardless of how she was dressed. </div> <div> Although Irene rarely used makeup, her face always looked like she'd just come from a Florida vacation: smoothly tanned, fresh, and full of renewed life. </div> <div> Barely into her thirties, she had been around and then some, but it hadn't begun to show all that much yet, even in her own telltale mirror at home, “which never lies,” she liked to joke whenever she had a special man-friend over for dinner, and he tried to embarrass her with his enriched compliments, which she cherished more each year as a new birthday arrived, announcing that she was a whole year older.</div> <div>  “What did they propose this time?” Irene asked, reaching for the papers, immediately interested when she saw the fire in his eyes.</div> <div>  “Bullshit like always. Pure unadulterated crap.”</div> <div>  “Let me see.” </div> <div> Tom pushed the stack of wrinkled papers toward her, and then stood, shoving his hands behind his back. </div> <div> He began to pace in front of the desk, but suddenly stopped close to her, and said, “Call both Carlson and Henderson. I want to see them as soon as possible or sooner in the morning, if they're available. </div> <div> "It's damn important. If HR-407 doesn't make it through this time, it's likely it'll get stonewalled forever by some of the bleeding-heart liberals screaming from the wings.” He turned abruptly to head for his office.</div> <div>  “Tom,” Irene said softly, as she stepped away from the desk. </div> <div> He turned and looked into her green eyes that seemed to be seducing him, or at the very least touching him warmly like she'd been there many times before. “Yes?” </div> <div> He let his eyes wander down her trim body to her ankles like he was looking at the floor, and then back to her smiling face. </div> <div> He wondered if he would one day chance it. No, despite everything, he was still a married man with obligations. “Well, what is it?” </div> <div> “Your friends from Alabama telephoned earlier. I was just on the phone myself with Teddy, discussing it with him. They want to come and talk with you about 407, next week, if possible. </div> <div> "There will be the militia leader and several of his partners. I'm sure you remember some of them from the times before.” She smiled. </div> <div> Tom's face turned red and his eyes narrowed, and then, throwing his head back, he laughed loudly. “Moore, and his crazy militia friends?” </div> <div> He wiped his eyes. “What the devil is it they call themselves these days? Yeah. The Minutemen. Well, they got one thing right. Most of them sure as hell are almost old enough to be Minutemen. They were born just a little too late though. The Revolutionary War has been over a long time.”</div> <div>  He laughed again, but far less enthusiastically this time since she didn't laugh with him.</div> <div>  “They still want to come,” Irene said, “despite their age and deteriorating health.”</div> <div>  “What did Ted say about the proposed visit? He's supposed to be my public relations man, isn't he? Does he think anything meaningful could come out of a meeting with our Minutemen from Spanish Fort? </div> <div> "What the hell kind of a name is that to have for a town anyway? It sounds more like a galleon or something, not a town.”</div> <div>  “I think it's a city, or maybe not,” Irene said. “Anyway, Teddy only bitched, but then you interrupted me, so I'm not sure what he thinks, really. Should I call him back to find out?”</div> <div>  “By all means. But my initial knee-jerk reaction is that they should stay in Alabama, out of my hair. Let them bug their own representatives there, later the ones here, if need be. </div> <div> "If he's got a better idea, have him talk to me about it in the morning. I'm too damn busy this evening to get into any of that kind of nonsense with him again so soon.” </div> <div> Grumbling under his breath, Tom Mann quickly disappeared into his office. </div> <div> Almost immediately the telephone's blinking light and irritating buzz alerted Irene to the boss's call. “Yes?” she asked softly.</div> <div>  “I think I forgot to tell you something,” Tom said. “Make the appointments early in the morning. I have a busy schedule, as you know. I want to get Henderson and Carlson out of my hair before eight. </div> <div> "Ted can come anytime my schedule is clear. Got that?” His tone was urgent and demanding like always.</div> <div>  “I'll take care of everything,” Irene whispered. “Don't worry about a thing.” </div> <div> She heard a click, and then punched familiar numbers into the phone pad with a pencil. </div> <div> Waiting for the ring, she looked at her neatly trimmed fingernails. Then, she made a face, thinking about Carlson's gross biting habit. </div> <DIV ALIGN="LEFT"></DIV> <div> <B>* * *</B></div> <div>  Later in the evening, Congressman Thomas Mann sat at a long, candle-lit dining room table at his home in Chevy Chase. </div> <div> He sipped a warm, before-dinner cognac while he browsed the evening newspaper. </div> <div> Joyce sat across from him. She sipped white wine from a long-stemmed crystal glass. The dark bottle by her plate was almost empty. </div> <div> She was wearing a low-cut dress, high heels, a new hairdo that she'd had done to her long, blond hair earlier in the day. </div> <div> She was a determined woman, almost forty, almost pretty; thin, tall, brainy, some said, rich looking; and excessively mouthy at times, especially after she had too much to drink. </div> <div> Joyce picked up a silver bell from the table and jingled it impatiently four times. </div> <div> When she'd slammed it back onto the tabletop, Tom stopped reading a moment. He gave her a quick look. </div> <div> “Thirsty?” he asked, turning his eyes back to the newspaper. He ignored the cool silence at the other side of the table, but could still feel it like always. </div> <div> Soon, Sara, the pretty, middle-aged maid, dressed in a crispy white uniform and apron, came running with a fresh wine bottle in her hands. </div> <div> She'd worked for Joyce for five years, and knew some of her traits and desires, especially at the dinner table, or whenever they'd been alone, nipping the day away. “I have it, mum,” Sara said, a British accent evident. “It's been cooled like you like it. </div> <div> "Here, mum, let me pour a bit for you. I'll be watchful, I promise.” Sara leaned over Joyce's arm and tilted the bottle, her hand slightly shaky. </div> <div> She was well built, athletic looking with smooth, red skin covering her cheeks. </div> <div> And despite the requirement to wear a dainty cap these days, she always wore her dark hair in a thick bun that, when released, hung low on her back the way the limo driver, Howard, liked it whenever they were alone. </div> <div> Tom looked across the table at Sara and smiled. “Is Howard still in the kitchen?” Sara glanced up as she carefully placed the wine bottle on the table near Joyce's reach. </div> <div> “Yes, sir. Drinking coffee, he is. Do you need him, sir? I'll fetch him for you, I will.”</div> <div>  “Whoa,” Tom said. “I just wondered if he were here, that's all. Tell him to standby for an hour or so. If I don't hear anything by then, he and I can both stand down for the night, okay?” </div> <div> “Yes, sir. I'll tell him straight away, I will.” She hurried away, flustered like always whenever she had to remember too many things all at once. </div> <div> Tom turned back to the newspaper. He tried to ignore Joyce as she poured herself another glass of wine. Several drops spilled onto the linen tablecloth. </div> <div> She touched the spots and felt the wetness, and then rubbed her fingers gently together before she shoved one of them deeply into her mouth. </div> <div> Amused with herself, she finally glanced unsteadily across the table, obviously already tipsy. Her dark eyes sparkled in the candlelight. </div> <div> She tried to snap her fingers without much success, and then pouting reached for the wine glass again. </div> <div> Angry at his indifference, Joyce cleared her throat. “Thomas.” She took a sip of wine and waited a moment for a response. </div> <div> Wiping away the moisture from her lips with her tongue, she tasted a lingering, wine-dry flavor like before. </div> <div> Turning a page, Tom tipped his head and finished off what was left in his own short-stemmed glass. Then, ignoring her like usual, he reached for the squat bottle near his right hand. </div> <div> He slowly filled his glass before he looked across the table, and snidely said, “Yes, my only Joy? What is it, my dear?” </div> <div> Tom was the only one that ever called her Joy anymore. Occasionally, her mother used to, too, when Joyce had been younger, and had not been quite as thirsty like now, or so angry at the world. </div> <div> Lately, though, Joyce had turned her energies and support to questionable organizations with people that hawked freedom and democracy every day, but who had ulterior motives she might not share or understand. </div> <div> Such people could one day place her in serious situations where she might not want to be, but still she continued, her zeal overpowering her common sense, like the booze. </div> <div> “It'll be Labor Day soon,” Joyce said. “Three days from now as a matter of fact. It would be nice if we went home to Mother's for the holidays. We haven't been to the Adirondacks for ages. I think some wonderful mountain air would do both of us some good. What do you say?” </div> <div> She took another sip, and then gave him an odd look, as she moved her tongue slowly across her lips. </div> <div> “Can't.” Tom gulped some cognac, and then sat back and looked sternly at her. “I really have a lot going on these days. Maybe some other time we could try. </div> <div> "How about Thanksgiving, Christmas, or New Year's Day? There'll be snow by then. Maybe we could get caught in an avalanche or something, snowed-in for the duration, killed even.” </div> <div> Hurriedly, Tom drained his glass. He was upset with her for even suggesting that he could leave on a stupid New York vacation while HR-407 still lingered on the vine, waiting to make it to the floor for a close vote that could mean his career, if the nays somehow outnumbered the yeas the next time around. </div> <div> Joyce stood and glared at him before she jerked her head back and emptied her glass. Then, suddenly, but not totally unexpectedly based on the look on her face, she threw the glass across the room. It shattered wet against a freshly papered wall.</div> <div>  “Screw you,” she said, turning for the double doors, leading to the hallway. </div> <div> Its high ceiling was splashed with sparkling light from the chandeliers in the dome, near the curving staircase and its steps that reflected marble cold.</div> <div>  “Joy,” Tom said, standing. </div> <div> Placing a hand to her throat, she swung around too quickly and almost tripped. “What?” The tone was snippy and belligerent still.</div> <div>  “You forgot this.” Tom picked up her wine bottle and heaved it at the wall off to her left, shattering it soundly. </div> <div> “You bastard!” She ran for the wide steps that led to the bedrooms where she would, like always, hide her face in the pillows and sob herself to sleep. </div> <div> Tom sat at the table and poured a glass of warm cognac. An after-dinner drink, he thought, frowning, as he fumbled with the newspaper. </div> <div> He spread the paper across a gold-rimmed dinner plate, the food cold and almost as uninviting as the wife. He smiled. </div> <div> He glanced at his wristwatch: 9 P.M. Taking a deep breath to clear his brain, he felt the cognac warm in his stomach and head, making him giddy, almost tipsy. </div> <div> Guess Harry won't be phoning this evening, he thought. Better luck next time, old boy, if the bedbugs don't get you first. </div> <div> Tom wished that Harry Gregory, an obese but rarely jolly fifty-year-old associate, had phoned him like he'd promised earlier in the day. </div> <div> Harry was his sometimes-political advisor, sometimes-financial consultant, always a pain in the ass, at least in the eyes of Joyce, who despised him openly. </div> <div> Soon, his thoughts were on the headlines again: “Mann faces fierce fight over Entitlements Bill.” A damn massacre, not a fight, if I'm not careful with Henderson and Carlson, the idiots, Tom thought. </div> <div> Maybe they'll listen tomorrow morning over a cup of coffee with Irene and I. Maybe I'd better get Harry's butt over there, too. If nothing else, he could provide moral support. </div> <div> Unsteadily, Tom pushed back from the table, burped loudly several times, and then patted his stomach as he stood. </div> <div> He glanced at the headlines before he turned for the French doors, which were open wide. They led to the stairs and the bedroom, where Joyce would be crying like usual after she'd consumed too much alcohol, wishing she were dead. </div> <div> Halfway up the steps, Tom wondered what he was going to do about her. Something drastic had to be done soon, he knew, yanking the silk tie away from his throat, but what and when and how? </div> <div> He moved quickly for the top of the stairs, while the cognac tickled his brain. It prodded warm, freeing him of any cumbersome reservations. </div> <div> In the brightly lit hallway at the top, Tom stopped a moment to flip off several switches at the far wall. The hallway went dim, but not completely dark. </div> <div> Although a millionaire in his own right, he liked to pinch pennies where he could. Conserving electricity was a good way of doing it. </div> <div> Moving down the hall, a thought lingered: I don't need her money anymore, or her mother's. I've saved plenty of my own for the next election, and then some. </div> <div> More than enough to get through the hurdles without any of theirs, the damn purse strings tight at my throat like leather thongs, strangling me. </div> <div> Tom cleared his throat several times like he was choking, and then hurrying, he continued down the hall. Almost there, he yanked the tie between his fists and snapped it taut, testing its inner strength and his own. </div> <div> Seeing that it didn't tear or break, he moved toward Joyce, sleeping soundly behind the master bedroom doors.</div> <div>  Her thin neck rested naked on the pillows; waiting for him to join her so she could, he was certain, scream at him all over again within the confines of the plush bedroom that usually smelled of heavily scented, blood-red roses and stale booze. </div> <div> As Tom entered the bedroom, the air suddenly seemed to smell of death. </div> <DIV ALIGN="LEFT"></DIV> <div> <B>* * *</B></div> <div>  The next morning, Congressman Thomas Mann arrived at work earlier than usual. He glanced at his wristwatch as he rushed past the outer office desk, empty now of Irene Hill and her penetrating smile and beautiful eyes. </div> <div> 6 A.M., he thought. A new day begins with a new start, and I have hours and hours to go before it's finished. </div> <div> At his desk, Tom flopped onto a high-backed, leather chair, and impatiently pressed some numbers into the phone pad. </div> <div> He listened until the fifth ring and then hung up, cursing. Doesn't anyone ever come to work early anymore? he wondered. </div> <div> Standing, he began to empty his briefcase onto the desktop. He almost knocked the tall table lamp to the floor in his hurry.</div> <div>  “Damn,” he said, grabbing up some papers that had fallen to the carpet. He threw them onto the stack on the desk. </div> <div> Tom started to sit, but instead caught his breath when he saw the thin, dark shadow in the doorway. “What the hell,” he said, making a defensive fist.</div> <div>  “Easy, Tom, it's only me,” Irene said. She moved quickly across the thick carpeting that almost shagged her heels. “What are you doing here so early?” </div> <div> Tom plopped onto the desk chair and grabbed a handful of papers. “You scared the devil out of me. What the hell are you doing here so early anyway?” </div> <div> “I had some stuff I had to do; why?”</div> <div>  “I don't remember you ever being here this early, that's all.”</div> <div>  “Nor me, you,” Irene said, smiling. “You're usually a night person.” She turned for the door.</div> <div>  “Wait,” he said, as he moved quickly around the desk, and took her by the arm.</div> <div>  “What is it? You look like death warmed over twice, yesterday.” Irene looked into his tired-looking eyes, and saw something strange there, something she'd never seen before. Was it fear? She wouldn't believe that, not of him. “Are you sick, Tom? Should I call someone, do something?”</div> <div>  “Just hold my calls for a few hours this morning. I have a lot to do. Okay?” Tom sounded almost meek, a trait she'd never seen in him before, nor any other robust, athletic-looking six-footer like him either, young or old.</div> <div>  “Certainly, but I don't think you have to worry about any phone calls for a while. It's only,” she glanced at her dainty wristwatch, “ten past six. Just remember though, Representatives Henderson and Carlson are due here at 7:30, sharp.” </div> <div> She saw the look on his face. “You told me to make an early A.M. appointment; didn't you?” </div> <div> “Okay, okay. Just leave me alone until then.”</div> <div>  “You're the master; I obey,” Irene said, patting the hand he still had on her elbow. </div> <div> “Thanks. I'll buzz you if I need anything else,” Tom said. </div> <div> Irene looked closer at his face, and saw in the dim light from the desk lamp that he hadn't shaved this morning. “Are you sure you don't need anything, Tom?” </div> <div> “Please, don't ask anything more, not yet. Just leave me alone. I have to think. Okay?”</div> <div>  “You're the boss.” </div> <div> “At least for now,” Tom whispered, watching her go. </div> <div> Outside, a siren's wailing blast filled the office, startling him. Tom dropped onto the plush chair, and rubbed his face with both hands, like he was trying to wake up, trying to sort things out, trying to remember what had happened, what had gone wrong last night in the bedroom. </div> <div> Irene was suddenly in the doorway, the light at her back, her thin skirt letting him see the outline of her shapely thighs.</div> <div>  “I'm sorry,” Irene said. “I know what you said about not disturbing you, but it's Teddy. He says he needs to talk to you. He got in early, too. What should I tell him?”</div> <div>  “Tell him to come on over. I'll see him later, after I've made a quickie telephone call.”</div> <div>  “Should I get the number for you?” she asked.</div> <div>  “Never mind, I'll do it myself. I'll use my private line. Thanks.” </div> <div> Tom saw her hesitancy at the door, her thighs quiet in the backdrop of light. “You had something else, Irene?” He had the phone to his ear and was punching in numbers already. </div> <div>  “It's just…”</div> <div>  “Yes?” he asked when he heard the first ring in his ear. “What is it?”</div> <div>  “Are you sure you're okay, Tom?”</div> <div>  A voice was on the line. Tom waved at her to get out. “Good morning,” he said into the phone. “Just a moment, please.” He put the transmitter to his chest to muffle his next words to Irene. “Out,” he shouted. “This is private. Please.” </div> <div> As Irene turned away, Tom heard the beep in his ear, indicating he should leave a message on the monitoring machine of the number he'd just punched in. </div> <div> He leaned forward, and said, “Doctor Morrison, this is Thomas Mann. I have to talk to you about a patient of yours. It's important and it's highly personal. It's about Joy, Joyce, my wife. </div> <div> "Please call me at my office as soon as possible. You have the number.” </div> <div> Sensing someone nearby, Tom glanced up, and said, “Irene,” as he placed the phone back onto its cradle. </div> <div> “Sorry for disturbing you, but with all the big wheels coming to visit this morning, I thought you'd like a shave. I have my emergency kit with me. See.” She raised a ragged cigar box over the desk. </div> <div> Tom rubbed his chin, and said, “I could use a shave at that, but I'm sure I could do it by myself.”</div> <div>  “Shh. It definitely will make you feel real good, believe me.”</div> <div>  “So, you want me to believe that you're an expert at shaves?”</div> <div>  “Sit back and get comfortable.” She moved closer. </div> <div> Tom felt her warmth close to his face as she attached a thin towel to his throat, over the tie. </div> <div> Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath. He smelled the soap she'd showered with that morning: clean and fresh and unscented, but still sexy.</div> <div>  “There,” she said. “Relax. I'm good at this.” </div> <div> Tom felt her strong fingers touch his face, testing the whiskers. “Be gentle, please,” he said, “I bruise easily.” </div> <div> Irene felt better already, seeing the change in his eyes and in his voice. “I always am,” she said, placing the electric razor close to his cheek. “Hang on, here we go.” </div> <div> The buzzing was too soon finished, and then Irene's hands went quiet. She quickly packed her kit and turned to leave.</div> <div>  “They'll be here soon,” she said. “I'll leave you alone to collect your thoughts. Teddy will be here first.” </div> <div> She glanced at her wristwatch. “I'd say in about five minutes. You have a little more time for the others. Will you need some coffee while you're waiting? It's freshly perked from the coin machine out in the lounge.”</div> <div>  “I owe you, Irene. I really do,” Tom said. “Make the coffee black, please. Now get out of here. I have things to do.” </div> <div> Grabbing her kit, Irene hurried for the outer office. </div> <div> “Irene,” Tom shouted after her. She stopped halfway through the door in the light. </div> <div> “Yes?” Her voice was whispery, and her smile inviting like usual. “Don't forget the coffee.”</div> <div>  “Have I ever? Anything else?” </div> <div> Tom thought a minute. “Oh, yeah; I almost forgot. Have Harry Gregory get his butt over here, too, as soon as possible. No excuses. He didn't show up last night either. Tell him he can stuff his face later. I need him now.” </div> <div> Irene held his eyes a moment longer, the backdrop of light peeking through her skirt, unintentionally teasing like before. Then, suddenly, she disappeared behind the door, leaving him alone to think.</div> <div>  Excerpt from <B>Taken by Force</B><I>. </I>Copyright © 2002 by Robert A. Gallinger. </div> <bR> <div> <A HREF="id38_m.htm" TITLE="Excerpt Taken by Force">Back to Top</A></div> <div> <A HREF="id3.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Synopses">Synopses</A></div> <div> <A HREF="id39.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE=" Order Info">Order Info</A></div> <div> <A HREF="index.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="home ">Home Page</A></div> <div> <A HREF="id42.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Site Map">Site Map</A></div> <div> <A HREF="id4.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Chapter Excerpts">Chapter Excerpts</A></div> <bR> <div> <A HREF="id36.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Excerpt Escape">Previous Page</A></div> <bR> <div>  </html> </head> http://www.bookworldinfo.com/takenbyforce_excerpt.htm <title>Book World Info Offers Novel Excerpt, Book Excerpt, Book Summary</title> <meta name="Description" content="Book World Info - Offers Novel Excerpt for Mystery Suspense Book by Robert A. Gallinger, Book Summary, Novel Summary."> <meta name="keywords" conent="taken by force, excerpt, mystery suspense book, robert a. gallinger, book summary, novel summary"> </head> </html>  </div> </td> </tr></table></body>