Amazon review by Tex:
Torn Apart is a Whodunits’ Whodunit. The book flowed like an operatic concerto. There were points in time where the opera crests and your heart races because an event occurs with or to a character to whom you have your emotions invested. Or, you know, just know, something is going to happen to one of the individuals in the story, and your jaw drops because you’re in denial that the offense could be that awful, that horrible, that terrible, and it takes you a while to catch your breath to be able to move on. The protagonist is a man who admits upfront to being of no scars or innocence but has made peace with himself. As the story progresses he is loved, then scorned and then redeemed in the end. The character is strong, upon which others lean on at times when needed and he’s okay with that. No resentment, just encouragement. This is the world that author, David Callinan, creates in Torn Apart. He creates a masterful mystery thriller with several seemingly unrelated threads starting out, that begins to knock on each other’s door as the storyline progresses. When, in the end, all threads converge into a single point, the crescendo if you will, leaves you breathless, hopeless, heartbroken, and torn apart, all because of a simple innocent wish that started everything in motion. RECOMMENDATION: A Must Read. -Tex.
CHAPTER 1
The forty-two foot Nauset cabin cruiser rose and fell gently at its mooring in the lapping waters of Boston Harbor’s Long Wharf. Mike Delaney awoke from a deep slumber but kept his eyes tightly shut.
Whoever was in his sleeping berth watching him had been noiseless until a moment ago when a slight rustle and slow exhalation of breath had summoned Delaney from sleep. A cold prickle of adrenaline jogged his senses into fully alert mode. Very slowly he slid his right hand inch by inch across the bed under the duvet causing not even a ripple until he found the cold, hard handle of his .38 Smith and Wesson revolver secreted as it always was in a holster attached to the side frame. He slipped his hand around the grip and his finger onto the trigger.
He readied himself, sucking in his breath slowly and deeply.
Delaney erupted from the bed, lifting his knees and sweeping the duvet away with his left hand while his right brought the revolver up in a blur of movement as he opened his eyes.
The man standing at the cabin door was startled, gasped and took one step back.
“Don’t move,” Delaney ordered.
The man stood rock still. He was of medium height with sandy hair and was wearing a well-pressed black suit, blue shirt and gray tie.
“I do apologize if I startled you, Mr. Delaney,” he said watching the snout of the Smith and Wesson pointing directly at his head.
Delaney swung his legs out of the bed and stood up. He was naked and his head just touched the roof of the cabin. He towered over the figure in the doorway. The man averted his eyes.
“Who are you?” ordered Delaney. “Talk.”
“Morrison, sir,” said the man remaining as rigid as a pole. “I am Mr. Ravelli’s chauffeur.”
“You’re English.”
“Yes, sir.” Morrison paused. “I’ve been sent to collect you, Mr. Delaney. Mr. Ravelli has a private jet waiting at Logan airport.”
Delaney let out his breath and glanced at his wristwatch. “You’re way too early. What’s the rush?”
Morrison said. “Mr. Ravelli thought it would be appropriate to brief you in person.”
“You’re still too early,” Delaney said.
“I believe in being prompt,” said Morrison a little prissily. “Mr. Ravelli cannot abide lateness.”
“So we have time for breakfast?” asked Delaney.
“I’d feel more comfortable if you lowered the gun, sir,” said Morrison.
Delaney smiled and put the Smith and Wesson back into his holster and unfastened it from the bed.
“Thank you, Mr. Delaney. “We should leave here in forty minutes.”
“Can you cook?” asked Delaney.
“I certainly can.”
“Hungry?”
“A tad,” said Morrison.
“You’ll find eggs and bacon in the refrigerator and coffee next to the coffee maker. Okay, what say you cook us breakfast while I shower, get dressed and see about securing the boat?”
‘Agreed. I’ll just remove my jacket if I may.”
Morrison turned and walked down to the galley, taking off his coat and opening the door of the refrigerator. Delaney stepped into the shower, sluiced himself down, dried and dressed quickly in dark trousers, a cotton shirt and gray jacket. He packed quickly, found his passport, cellphone and wallet. While the tantalizing aroma of freshly brewed coffee, bacon and eggs filled the main cabin, Delaney eased his way to the stern, lifted the engine hatch and, using a screwdriver, undid the fastenings holding the rotor arm in place and removed it. He replaced the hatch and secreted the engine part inside a sliding compartment above the shower cubicle, then returned to the cabin where Morrison was serving breakfast.
“Sorry if I startled you, Mr. Delaney,” said Morrison.
“My apology for the gun, it’s a conditioned reflex,” Delaney told him.
“You’re ex-services, no doubt.” Morrison ladled eggs and bacon onto two plates with toast while Delaney poured coffee.
“Afraid so,” said Delaney. “How long have you worked for Ravelli?”
“Three years,” said Morrison as they both began to eat. “This is really very good of you. Breakfast I mean.”
“Don’t mention it. What kind of business is your boss in? I’ve heard about him but no more than that. I just received this offer in my inbox.”
“I never discuss my employer’s business,” said Morrison. “All I can tell you is that he is an entrepreneur who has fingers in all kinds of pies.”
Delaney grunted and glanced at his watch. “Okay, I’ll just clear up and lock the boat. Then we can leave.”
Ten minutes later Delaney and Morrison were standing on the boardwalk next to the gangway. It was a crisp day with a light breeze jangling through the riggings of the boats moored along the wharf.
Morrison looked back at the blue and gray cabin cruiser with admiration. “How long have you had her, Mr. Delaney? Do you live on board permanently?”
“Three years now,” replied Delaney as he remotely locked the cabin and flybridge access doors. “I’m a fair weather sailor. Took some lessons. I’m good enough to sail along the coast but not good enough to venture out to sea. She’ll cruise at sixteen knots and she’s comfortable. This is home sweet home except I have to leave the mooring for a few weeks each year.”
The two men walked up the gangway into a busy Long Wharf. Parked close by was a sleek Lincoln MKS sedan with tinted windows.
“Front or back, Mr. Delaney?” Morrison.
“I’ll sit up front with you,” said Delaney. He tossed his airline cabin bag in the back seat and slid into the front seat alongside Morrison, adjusting the leg room to the maximum.
“Relax and enjoy the ride, sir,” said Morrison. “We’ll drive right onto the tarmac.”
Morrison guided the luxury car smoothly out onto Atlantic Avenue swinging left onto Seaport Drive and then across the Massachusetts Turnpike into a busy Logan airport. The Lincoln headed toward the West terminal. Morrison checked in at the gate and was waved through to a line of private planes.
Parked some way from the others with its boarding steps down was a Hawker 800 with thrust reversers. The morning sun shimmered in reflection from its pale fuselage. Morrison drove up to the steps, got out of the car, opened the back door, took out Delaney’s bag and stood waiting for the big man by the foot of the steps.
“Thank you, Morrison,” said Delaney taking his bag. “Any advice?”
“Watch your head,” said the chauffeur as he turned away. “And your back,” he muttered under his breath.
Delaney climbed the steps and entered the cabin. There were five large captain’s chairs in creamy light brown leather facing each other with tables supporting LCD screens and computers in between. There was a brown carpet and cream cabinets. Delaney noticed the mini galley, lavatory closet and cockpit. Delaney could see the pilot checking his instruments and talking quietly to air traffic control. The cockpit door closed. Delaney had to duck slightly but then could stand upright.
Standing in the center of the cabin was a tough looking, stocky man wearing a well cut pale gray suit, light blue shirt with chunky gold cufflinks and brown loafers. Ravelli had a large head crowned with a dense matting of gray hair, his face heavily tanned and lined. When he spoke his voice was a grumbling baritone with an accent Delaney could not place.
“The Monk, I presume,” he said.
“Mike Delaney,” said Delaney, extending his hand. Ravelli ignored the proffered handshake and indicated Delaney sit facing him as the Hawker moved off to taxi to the west runway. Both men strapped themselves in.
“Coffee,” asked Ravelli. Delaney thanked him and Ravelli poured two cups. Both men took it black. Delaney assessed Ravelli’s age as mid sixties and that he was a man used to power and control. For a moment Ravelli watched Delaney then said.
“You come highly recommended, Mr. Delaney. Not at least on that website confess-confess dot com.” He savored the words. “I am not completely unaware of the power of that site. And the investigator known as The Monk has achieved a degree of notoriety. I understand perfectly if you wish to keep your alter ego a private affair. You also acted as a courier for someone I know and trust and he spoke well of you. Said you were trustworthy. Can I trust you, Mr. Delaney?”
The aircraft reached take-off speed and suddenly they were in the air, leaving Boston behind and heading down the coast towards New York.
“You can trust me,” said Delaney. “I was a novice monk for a time, hence the nickname. What’s the assignment?”
“It’s a very simple, yet important task. You will take a packet to an address in London where you will meet someone. You will give it to him and him alone, collect the other half of your fee and return. You must not, under any circumstances, open the packet yourself. The contents will cause the recipient extreme distress but that is none of your affair.”
“Why not use commercial couriers or the mail?” asked Delaney.
Ravelli chuckled. “The contents are far too important to risk that method. No, I need someone who doesn’t know much about me, doesn’t work for me and won’t be able to locate me easily. It would be the worse for them if they did.”
“But you can always find them.”
Ravelli laughed gruffly then reached under the table and withdrew a large, thick envelope sealed with red wax along its gummed edge. He then took out a smaller envelope and placed it on the table.
“The name and address of the person to whom you must deliver this is on the envelope. Inside the other envelope is two thousand dollars and your business class return airline ticket. You will receive the other half of your fee when you complete the task. It may upset him to pay you but that’s the deal.”
Delaney picked up the envelope with the cash, checked it and slipped it into his inside jacket pocket. He picked up the sealed envelope and read the name and address.
Yuri Charkov, 34 Carnaby Street, London.
He placed the envelope into a zipped pocket in his case.
“You’re booked on a flight to Heathrow from JFK at 11.30am,” Ravelli told him. “You will be fast tracked through security and get to London just after midnight U.K time. Book into a hotel and deliver the packet first thing tomorrow. Is that understood?”
“Perfectly,” Delaney told Ravelli.
Business over, Ravelli poured more coffee and regarded Delaney curiously. “This confess-confess website intrigues me,” he began. “It’s a kind of escape valve for victims of crime, injustice or with an axe to grind with a bunch of amateurs sticking their noses where they’re not wanted. You’re different. You’re a professional. How did you get involved?”
Delaney stretched out his legs. “I was in the service of the U.S government then seconded to the Hong Kong Police Force when I became friends with the guy who later set up the site. I’ve taken on a few assignments but I’m not one of those obsessed individuals who think they’re James Bond or Jason Bourne. Some of those amateurs take it too seriously. It’s like they’re living a second life investigating and researching all kinds of nasty wrongdoings and bringing bad people to justice.”
“This would be Bob Messenger. He’s British, correct?”
“Yes. Bob and I go back a long way.” Delaney said.
“What made you become a monk? You don’t strike me as the religious type?” asked Ravelli.
Delaney glanced out of the window then looked back.
“I went through a pretty traumatic time a few years back. I joined an unusual monastic order to try and find myself. I needed to cut myself off and I always had a hankering for the spiritual life. But I wasn’t cut out to be a full-time monk.” Delaney paused. “So, what line of business are you in?”
Ravelli just smiled. “What made you become a courier?”
“Confess-confess is not really a job recruitment site but people can place small classifieds. You don’t need any formal qualifications to be a courier and I could work for cash so I tried it out. Seemed to get results. I send my contact details if I think it’s my kind of job. So who recommended me? I ought to say thank you.”
“We’ll be landing at JFK in about fifteen minutes. If this assignment goes well, I may have more lucrative work for you. Just ensure you do not become too curious.” Ravelli sank back into his seat and closed his eyes.
The conversation was over.
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