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KAYNE KEAGANKiller For HireFrom Newcastle to Miami.
A good killer is always in demand. |
Kayne Keagan, Killer for Hire - by Michael Towner
A Novel - 365 pages
©2021
Chapter One
December 31, 1962
Massive commercial ships follow each other down the mile-wide river on their way out of the busy port of Liverpool, headed out to the Irish Sea and on to the Atlantic Ocean and beyond. The tidal murky river surges powerfully against their bows, making it difficult to progress as if trying to stop them leaving.
On the bleak concrete promenade running adjacent to the River Mersey, Kayne Keagan, clad in all black with a dark hood pulled down covering his face, ran powerfully through the dreary incessant rain, headed in the same direction as the ships that were leaving. An old man, braved the weather accompanied by his battle-scarred dirty white pit bull, that he corralled tightly on an old rope leash. He raised his weather-beaten face and marveled at the powerful man propelling through the rain and as he got closer, the old man said in a deep Liverpool ‘scouse’ accent: “Watch yourself there, Superman, keep running that hard and you’ll end up in bloody America.” The menacing pit bull instinctively hid between his owner's legs, to get out of Kayne’s way as he blew past them. In a fleeting glimpse, Kayne's dark eyes fixed on the old man as he passed.
A Novel - 365 pages
©2021
Chapter One
December 31, 1962
Massive commercial ships follow each other down the mile-wide river on their way out of the busy port of Liverpool, headed out to the Irish Sea and on to the Atlantic Ocean and beyond. The tidal murky river surges powerfully against their bows, making it difficult to progress as if trying to stop them leaving.
On the bleak concrete promenade running adjacent to the River Mersey, Kayne Keagan, clad in all black with a dark hood pulled down covering his face, ran powerfully through the dreary incessant rain, headed in the same direction as the ships that were leaving. An old man, braved the weather accompanied by his battle-scarred dirty white pit bull, that he corralled tightly on an old rope leash. He raised his weather-beaten face and marveled at the powerful man propelling through the rain and as he got closer, the old man said in a deep Liverpool ‘scouse’ accent: “Watch yourself there, Superman, keep running that hard and you’ll end up in bloody America.” The menacing pit bull instinctively hid between his owner's legs, to get out of Kayne’s way as he blew past them. In a fleeting glimpse, Kayne's dark eyes fixed on the old man as he passed.
Kayne raised his face into the driving rain and looked at the ships and thought to himself. “America. Yes, now that would be an easy way there, wouldn’t it, if I could run there, there'd be no need to get on a fucking boat or ‘plane.” He shuddered at the thought and pressed on, methodical, splashing now at every footstep as the rain created thick puddles in the cracked and aging slick pavement, and he quickly left the old man and his dog in the distance. “But not today,” thought Kayne to himself. “One last job and then I’m done here.” His focus turned slightly darker and urged him on even harder, as he took a turn away from the river, up the humpback lock bridge over the narrow canal and past the Brunswick Dock, onto the cobbled pavement up the hill adjacent to the steep long road that led away from the river towards Toxteth Park.
Home stretch. He knew his way very well over these past six months in Liverpool and he always took a different route while maintaining exactly the same total distance for his morning run. Exactly.
As he approached the park, a side gate to the cemetery was open, and he darted between the heavy ornate iron gates that had long since been able to close. As he passed by numerous ancient tombstones, he instinctively slowed his pace, then he noticed a lone dark figure ahead. He had seen this figure before. Coincidence? In deference, he slowed his pace more, as, through the pouring rain, he identified it was a young woman, dressed in black from head to toe, stood in front of a tiny gravestone. She seemed oblivious to the torrential rain.
Kayne quickly calculated in his head. He had taken this route only once before, exactly twenty-one days earlier. Was it a coincidence that this woman stood in the same spot today? He did not believe in coincidences. They did not happen. He rattled off in his head the names on the tombstones that he passed, without looking at them. He remembered in perfect detail from the same fleeting glimpse he had three weeks earlier. That’s what he did. A tall concrete monument: “Sacred to the Memory of Sir John Bent. KNT, Obiit 13 August, 1857, Aetat 64 Years” A slightly smaller monument to Joseph Cunard, who died on January 20th, 1865 and another with a thick concrete cross above it, James Dunwoody Bulloch, "died 7th of January, 1901." Beneath the concrete cross was a large inscription: “An American by Birth, an Englishman by choice.” Kayne liked that, but thought the same thought as he did last time. He preferred “An Englishman by birth, an American by choice.”
He had investigated Bulloch further, always fascinated by anything with an American connection, even tombstones. He had read that Bulloch was sent to England by the Confederate States Government as one of their chief secret agents and that he was never pardoned in the general amnesty that came at the end of the American Civil War. So Bulloch decided to become a British citizen and remained in Liverpool, where he became a very successful cotton importer and broker. James Bulloch died from cancer and cardiac failure. Natural causes. Kayne had wondered if even back then, natural causes covered murder.
As he approached the park, a side gate to the cemetery was open, and he darted between the heavy ornate iron gates that had long since been able to close. As he passed by numerous ancient tombstones, he instinctively slowed his pace, then he noticed a lone dark figure ahead. He had seen this figure before. Coincidence? In deference, he slowed his pace more, as, through the pouring rain, he identified it was a young woman, dressed in black from head to toe, stood in front of a tiny gravestone. She seemed oblivious to the torrential rain.
Kayne quickly calculated in his head. He had taken this route only once before, exactly twenty-one days earlier. Was it a coincidence that this woman stood in the same spot today? He did not believe in coincidences. They did not happen. He rattled off in his head the names on the tombstones that he passed, without looking at them. He remembered in perfect detail from the same fleeting glimpse he had three weeks earlier. That’s what he did. A tall concrete monument: “Sacred to the Memory of Sir John Bent. KNT, Obiit 13 August, 1857, Aetat 64 Years” A slightly smaller monument to Joseph Cunard, who died on January 20th, 1865 and another with a thick concrete cross above it, James Dunwoody Bulloch, "died 7th of January, 1901." Beneath the concrete cross was a large inscription: “An American by Birth, an Englishman by choice.” Kayne liked that, but thought the same thought as he did last time. He preferred “An Englishman by birth, an American by choice.”
He had investigated Bulloch further, always fascinated by anything with an American connection, even tombstones. He had read that Bulloch was sent to England by the Confederate States Government as one of their chief secret agents and that he was never pardoned in the general amnesty that came at the end of the American Civil War. So Bulloch decided to become a British citizen and remained in Liverpool, where he became a very successful cotton importer and broker. James Bulloch died from cancer and cardiac failure. Natural causes. Kayne had wondered if even back then, natural causes covered murder.
As he got closer to the young lady in black, he now clearly recognized her from before. He scanned the small inexpensive tombstone that she stood transfixed by, freshly inscribed. The woman was deep in her own thoughts. Nobody could ever pretend to be so totally anguished and heartbroken as the woman’s facial expressions clearly evoked, even through the thin black veil covering her fragile ashen face. She was drenched from the cold rain and oblivious to it.
As if in slow motion, Kayne passed her as she raised her head and her sorrowful eyes stared straight into his. Hers were as dark and soulless as his.
In a flash, he saw the pretty face of his departed mother, smiling in a frayed old black and white photograph. Then another image flashed before him of his beloved mother lying dead in a cold bleak bedroom on a stark white sheet, the lower part of her body completely covered in dark blood, with a newborn baby struggling to breathe, crawling over her dead body. An image he had never actually personally witnessed, but an image that had been graphically embedded in his brain by Kayne’s heartless, drunken, hateful father who, at every opportunity, blamed Kayne for his mother’s death. Kayne was born at the exact moment his mother had died. His first kill. He wiped the rain from his face and the image vanished. The young woman’s face returned.
As if seeing a ghost herself, the young woman watched Kayne get closer, within a couple of feet, clearly hoping that the grim reaper had come for her too. Disappointment clear on her face as she realized it was just a man. A man with a deep scar on his face and dark soulless eyes. She shivered as a chill enveloped her whole body.
When he had passed her three weeks earlier, there was just a wooden cross and a recently filled mound of earth, barely four feet long, same black clothing. Now, as he passed, he saw the headstone: “John Michael O’Brien, beloved son, Born December 31st, 1956, Died December 10th, 1962,” That is why she was back again today, today was her deceased son’s birthday, he would have been six years old. Just like Kayne’s own older brother, Abel, who was so brutally murdered by their father, exactly three weeks before his sixth birthday, on New Year’s Eve many years earlier. Kayne knew that the same fate had befallen the young John O’Brien, his tiny corpse lying dead only a few feet away from him. Kayne knew that John O’Brien had also been killed by his own father.
The eyes of the young woman had remained transfixed on his. He could sense that she was hoping to die, she had nothing left to live for.
As if in slow motion, Kayne passed her as she raised her head and her sorrowful eyes stared straight into his. Hers were as dark and soulless as his.
In a flash, he saw the pretty face of his departed mother, smiling in a frayed old black and white photograph. Then another image flashed before him of his beloved mother lying dead in a cold bleak bedroom on a stark white sheet, the lower part of her body completely covered in dark blood, with a newborn baby struggling to breathe, crawling over her dead body. An image he had never actually personally witnessed, but an image that had been graphically embedded in his brain by Kayne’s heartless, drunken, hateful father who, at every opportunity, blamed Kayne for his mother’s death. Kayne was born at the exact moment his mother had died. His first kill. He wiped the rain from his face and the image vanished. The young woman’s face returned.
As if seeing a ghost herself, the young woman watched Kayne get closer, within a couple of feet, clearly hoping that the grim reaper had come for her too. Disappointment clear on her face as she realized it was just a man. A man with a deep scar on his face and dark soulless eyes. She shivered as a chill enveloped her whole body.
When he had passed her three weeks earlier, there was just a wooden cross and a recently filled mound of earth, barely four feet long, same black clothing. Now, as he passed, he saw the headstone: “John Michael O’Brien, beloved son, Born December 31st, 1956, Died December 10th, 1962,” That is why she was back again today, today was her deceased son’s birthday, he would have been six years old. Just like Kayne’s own older brother, Abel, who was so brutally murdered by their father, exactly three weeks before his sixth birthday, on New Year’s Eve many years earlier. Kayne knew that the same fate had befallen the young John O’Brien, his tiny corpse lying dead only a few feet away from him. Kayne knew that John O’Brien had also been killed by his own father.
The eyes of the young woman had remained transfixed on his. He could sense that she was hoping to die, she had nothing left to live for.
TALLAHNASTY
In the novel "Tallahnasty," the story revolves around the life of an accomplished entrepreneur who sells his successful tech business and embarks on a mission to effect positive change for nonprofits at the state legislative level in Tallahassee, Florida, the state capital. With his newfound wealth, he sees an opportunity to make a meaningful impact on the community and the less fortunate people of the state at large.
At first, the entrepreneur's arrival in Tallahassee is met with enthusiasm and open arms from various nonprofits and the local community. His vision and resources seem like a beacon of hope for those striving to address social and economic issues in the state. The novel portrays his initial efforts and the positive reception he receives as he attempts to navigate the complex world of state politics and nonprofit advocacy.
However, as the story unfolds, the entrepreneur encounters the challenges and complexities of the political landscape in Tallahassee. He faces resistance from entrenched interests, bureaucratic hurdles, and the harsh reality of conflicting agendas. The initial support he received begins to wane as he strives to push forward with his ambitious goals.
"Tallahnasty" is a tale of idealism, determination, and the struggle for change in the face of a challenging political environment. It explores the complexities of lobbying, advocacy, and the clash between private wealth and public interest. The novel delves into the entrepreneur's journey as he seeks to make a lasting impact, all while facing adversity and unexpected obstacles that test his resolve.
The story ultimately raises thought-provoking questions about the dynamics of power, the role of money in politics, and the genuine potential for transformation within a self-serving system that is resistant to change.
At first, the entrepreneur's arrival in Tallahassee is met with enthusiasm and open arms from various nonprofits and the local community. His vision and resources seem like a beacon of hope for those striving to address social and economic issues in the state. The novel portrays his initial efforts and the positive reception he receives as he attempts to navigate the complex world of state politics and nonprofit advocacy.
However, as the story unfolds, the entrepreneur encounters the challenges and complexities of the political landscape in Tallahassee. He faces resistance from entrenched interests, bureaucratic hurdles, and the harsh reality of conflicting agendas. The initial support he received begins to wane as he strives to push forward with his ambitious goals.
"Tallahnasty" is a tale of idealism, determination, and the struggle for change in the face of a challenging political environment. It explores the complexities of lobbying, advocacy, and the clash between private wealth and public interest. The novel delves into the entrepreneur's journey as he seeks to make a lasting impact, all while facing adversity and unexpected obstacles that test his resolve.
The story ultimately raises thought-provoking questions about the dynamics of power, the role of money in politics, and the genuine potential for transformation within a self-serving system that is resistant to change.
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© 2024 Michael Towner
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novels, screenplays, editing
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Michael Towner
90265@tutamail.com |