Date Published: February 2018
Publisher: Double Dragon
Aliens among us hidden in plain sight locked in a race to save their species from genetic wear-out the Parteans have come to Earth not to destroy but to build. After convincing scientist, Peter Kirby that he has discovered a way for individuals to relive any memory the idea that aliens are friendly is implanted. Some people resist and are eliminated.
Detectives Gardner Poole and Emma Bossart discover the alien ruse, but it is too late to stop the president of the United States from greeting our neighbors from outer space who hover miles above us in their spacecraft.
Ionlin, the spokesman for the Parteans, regales the assembled government officials with the many advantages of accepting them as allies. These advantages include massive health benefits, technological information and much more. She is very clear that there will be no information regarding interplanetary flight due to Earth’s history of violence.
Overcoming problems of mistrust and misinformation Earth and Parteans agree to an alliance with the stipulation that Earth will keep a watchful eye on our new friends. Unbeknownst to all, there is another player in the game.
Besides, we’re Swiss; we never lose a war.
Lake Geneva, Switzerland the attendant adjusted the halo around Emma’s head in preparation for the memory experience. The slight needle prick administered a mild sedative, which allowed her to relax and focus on one of her most cherished memories, that day over ten years ago.
Awareness arrived with the smell of gunpowder and the unmistakable repetitive crack of gunfire. Energized by adrenalin, her senses balanced on knife-edge as she scanned the warehouse rear entry.
Emma called to her partner over a cacophony of sounds. “Guess they knew we were coming.”
“Seems you could say that. How in God’s name could they know about the assault?”
Stefan had been her partner in the Swiss Federal Criminal Police (FCP) since her rookie days. Older, unflappable and dependable, if not a little too conventional for her taste. She, on more than one occasion, had trusted him with her life, but today was distinctly different. They were temporary adjuncts to this Interpol operation. Well, temporary or not, they were out-manned and out-gunned–time to stop being an adjunct and become the cavalry. I always liked that word.
“Stefan, can you see any of the Interpol strike squad?”
“No, after they sent us to cover the rear exit, they rushed the front. Sounds like that isn’t going so well.”
She formulated her thoughts then shouted her plan.
“Christ, Emma, we have 9mm Sigs and that racket sounds like machine pistols. Don’t you think a breach and entry is rather extreme?”
“Exactly, they’ll never expect us to come in the back door. Besides, we’re Swiss; we never lose a war.”
“That’s because we never fight a war.”
“As I said, we never lose a war,” she chuckled.
Stefan scrambled to his feet, sprinting beside her to the warehouse door.
She felt sure Stefan was flashing back to Geneva last year, when he surely thought she would get him killed. Not this time either; we got this.
She eased open the door and studied the chaos inside. The slight odor of gun smoke, which opened her memory, rose a factor of ten.
The hot warehouse, filled with a milieu of sounds–gunshots, desperate shouts, and moans of agony. The drug gang returned fire at an alarming pace. They not only knew the good guys were coming, they had no intention of fleeing.
She leaned closer to Stefan’s ear, “If we don’t act quickly, this is going to be a goddamn slaughter.” She carefully pondered the scene. Her mind placed each bad guy, but she could only see the Interpol team by muzzle flashes. Her earlier advice of coming with more firepower was pretty persuasive at the moment. Never bring a pistol to a machine-gun war.
Spying the elevated walkway prompted the start of a plan. She’d always been decisive and many times decisive actually trumped right. Pray I’m right this time. “I need to reach the catwalk,” she yelled, “that should give me an overview of the general shitstorm.” Did you bring the bullhorn?”
“Are you kidding? I left it outside the door.”
“Go back and get it while I ease up the ramp. When you see me in position, I want you to reenact that stunt we pulled in Ochsengasse with slightly different sound effects.”
Emma rapidly outlined the scheme. “That’s diabolical–as long as you don’t get shot before you reach the catwalk, and given they believe us.”
“Stefan, my man, you do your part and I’ll convince any non-believers.”
He slid out the door. She crawled and sprinted around packing crates.
Fortunately, the drug boys were facing the troops and Interpol couldn’t see her. Making the stairs, she crawled up on her belly. Easing along the runway, she reached a supporting column, which allowed some cover and afforded a warehouse view. She could just make out the Indians through the choking gun-smoke. She turned, to find Stefan in position. Emma crossed herself and gave the signal; she hoped the scumbags understood English. Cavalry time.
His voice thundered through the warehouse.” Delta squad, take up position on the east wall; alpha squad, flank to the west. Attention hostiles, you’re surrounded; throw down all weapons. Squads, ready grenades. This is your last chance, throw explosives on my mark.” He began a count which reverberated in the confined space, “one, two . . .”
Gunfire ceased. Voices in Spanish and English screamed. “What the hell? Que Pasa? Who’s shouting?” A high volume bullhorn can be quite disorienting, especially when. it’s announcing your demise.
A gunman, about thirty meters across the floor, bellowed something in Spanish as he whirled and sprayed machine pistol rounds in Stefan’s direction. Emma calmly placed a single slug through his right shoulder. He dropped screaming to the floor Stefan, your timing is perfect. Except for your kids and my vow to never date cops, I would screw your brains out.
The Mexicans gaped at their shrieking compadre. Weapons began dropping to the floor. Emma turned and saw Stefan lying on the concrete. Stomach clenched, she holstered her pistol and ran down the catwalk. Even in her abject panic, she had the presence to run with raised hands, yelling, “Interpol! Interpol!” My end as a friendly fire accident would be the definition of ironic. As she ran, officers rushed to the wounded, cuffing drug dealers and calling for ambulances. She vaulted down the stairs screaming “medic” at the top of her lungs. Reaching Stefan, she saw movement and felt tears streaming down her checks.
Gingerly rotating him on his back, she saw him grimace.
About the Authors
Darlien C. Breeze raised on a copper and gold mine in the California desert she brings many unique experiences to her stories. An educator for many years she concurrently owned an import/export business, a beauty salon and sold real estate. She has over eighty short stories and seven novels published including A Life of Crime, Crusin’ for Crime and A Twist in Crime. Her latest books include Beware of Memories Beware of Redemption and The Golden Key an historical fiction book.
Dr. Patrick K Jaynes, is a neuroscientist who has written may articles for the science community. His research into the problems of fracking have led Oklahoma to revise some of their policies regarding this practice, He lends authenticity to the science in Beware of Memories.