Read Online The Arab Fall (A James Acton Thriller, Book #6) (James Acton Thrillers) by J. Robert Kennedy - Free Book Online
Authors: J. Robert Kennedy
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poor bastards had endured
during WWII.
And it
had dragged for years.
Speaking
of dragging.
He
squeezed his butt cheeks, discovering they still ached from the drive here from
Cairo. I’m getting too old for this. He was on the wrong side of fifty,
and after the events in London a couple of years ago he had left for Interpol
to avoid the publicity, but it wasn’t just that. He was getting old. He was
feeling old. The joints didn’t hold up like they used to, and chasing down a
suspect was murder in itself.
He patted
his stomach, his eyes still closed, and felt the soft layer that had developed
over the past few years, his flat stomach long since having gone into hiding.
Washboard
abs for delicates.
He
smiled at the phrase he had heard from Acton once. Acton was barely on the
wrong side of forty, and was still in remarkable shape. Reading envied him
sometimes, and always felt a touch of chagrin when he did. He was attractive,
successful, loved by his students, had friends who would give their lives for
him, and a spectacular younger woman who not only was rich, but worshipped the
ground he walked on.
That
might be pushing it.
He
chuckled, then opened his eyes to make sure he was still alone. Satisfied, he
closed his eyes again.
Laura
Palmer worships no one.
But
there was no denying she loved him, and was absolutely devoted to him. And he
to her.
Reading
remembered feeling that way about his wife years ago when they had first met,
but the feeling had been fleeting, and if it weren’t for her being pregnant,
they would have gone their separate ways. Instead, they stayed together for as
long as they could stand each other, then separated, and eventually divorced,
his own son becoming estranged from him. They had recently begun to patch
things up, as it had never truly been the typical estrangement where former
spouses used the child as a proxy in their war with each other.
It had
been his fear of being a father.
He had
failed as a husband.
Miserably.
And he
had feared failing his son, so had found excuses to avoid him, the job usually
providing an excuse for him, and when not hearing from his dad had become the
norm, Reading merely kept the expectations low. Christmas gifts and birthday
gifts were always on time, the occasional phone call, but little contact, and
almost none for the poor kid’s teenage years when he could have really used a
father.
You
ran away from your problems.
Reading
frowned, shifting slightly to see if he could work the breeze a little further
up. Is that what you’re doing now? Running away? He could honestly say
he wasn’t contemplating retirement out of fear. He had never been a coward. And
his job now was mostly behind a desk, so the physical aspect shouldn’t be an
issue anymore.
Maybe
you’re afraid of letting your friends down when they need you.
Reading
bit his lip. Could that be it? Could he be afraid of failing his
friends? As he thought about it, he realized that this could very well be the
reason he was in a funk. He hadn’t been able to help them in China, but then he
hadn’t even known it was happening until it was too late. He had helped them on
several occasions, successfully he thought, but Laura had still been shot and
almost killed.
He shook
his head. You can’t be everywhere at once.
Something
from outside the tent yanked Reading from his reverie and he bolted upright,
his eyes shooting open as he strained to hear again what he thought he had just
heard. A woman’s cry. He heard nothing, but struggled from his seat nonetheless
and was soon outside, several of the students pointing and beginning to run
toward a ridge south of the camp.
“What’s
going on?” he yelled.
Terrence
Mitchell, the senior grad student, turned and waved for him to follow.
“We just
heard Professor Palmer yelling!” he said, his uncoordinated feet nearly
tripping him up as he looked behind him.
Reading
pointed at two of the ex-SAS guards. “You’re with us. The rest stay
during WWII.
And it
had dragged for years.
Speaking
of dragging.
He
squeezed his butt cheeks, discovering they still ached from the drive here from
Cairo. I’m getting too old for this. He was on the wrong side of fifty,
and after the events in London a couple of years ago he had left for Interpol
to avoid the publicity, but it wasn’t just that. He was getting old. He was
feeling old. The joints didn’t hold up like they used to, and chasing down a
suspect was murder in itself.
He patted
his stomach, his eyes still closed, and felt the soft layer that had developed
over the past few years, his flat stomach long since having gone into hiding.
Washboard
abs for delicates.
He
smiled at the phrase he had heard from Acton once. Acton was barely on the
wrong side of forty, and was still in remarkable shape. Reading envied him
sometimes, and always felt a touch of chagrin when he did. He was attractive,
successful, loved by his students, had friends who would give their lives for
him, and a spectacular younger woman who not only was rich, but worshipped the
ground he walked on.
That
might be pushing it.
He
chuckled, then opened his eyes to make sure he was still alone. Satisfied, he
closed his eyes again.
Laura
Palmer worships no one.
But
there was no denying she loved him, and was absolutely devoted to him. And he
to her.
Reading
remembered feeling that way about his wife years ago when they had first met,
but the feeling had been fleeting, and if it weren’t for her being pregnant,
they would have gone their separate ways. Instead, they stayed together for as
long as they could stand each other, then separated, and eventually divorced,
his own son becoming estranged from him. They had recently begun to patch
things up, as it had never truly been the typical estrangement where former
spouses used the child as a proxy in their war with each other.
It had
been his fear of being a father.
He had
failed as a husband.
Miserably.
And he
had feared failing his son, so had found excuses to avoid him, the job usually
providing an excuse for him, and when not hearing from his dad had become the
norm, Reading merely kept the expectations low. Christmas gifts and birthday
gifts were always on time, the occasional phone call, but little contact, and
almost none for the poor kid’s teenage years when he could have really used a
father.
You
ran away from your problems.
Reading
frowned, shifting slightly to see if he could work the breeze a little further
up. Is that what you’re doing now? Running away? He could honestly say
he wasn’t contemplating retirement out of fear. He had never been a coward. And
his job now was mostly behind a desk, so the physical aspect shouldn’t be an
issue anymore.
Maybe
you’re afraid of letting your friends down when they need you.
Reading
bit his lip. Could that be it? Could he be afraid of failing his
friends? As he thought about it, he realized that this could very well be the
reason he was in a funk. He hadn’t been able to help them in China, but then he
hadn’t even known it was happening until it was too late. He had helped them on
several occasions, successfully he thought, but Laura had still been shot and
almost killed.
He shook
his head. You can’t be everywhere at once.
Something
from outside the tent yanked Reading from his reverie and he bolted upright,
his eyes shooting open as he strained to hear again what he thought he had just
heard. A woman’s cry. He heard nothing, but struggled from his seat nonetheless
and was soon outside, several of the students pointing and beginning to run
toward a ridge south of the camp.
“What’s
going on?” he yelled.
Terrence
Mitchell, the senior grad student, turned and waved for him to follow.
“We just
heard Professor Palmer yelling!” he said, his uncoordinated feet nearly
tripping him up as he looked behind him.
Reading
pointed at two of the ex-SAS guards. “You’re with us. The rest stay
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