Assault Force. Don Pendleton

send them screaming out the door as if they thought he was some psycho, gibbering to himself. Somehow he found himself at the wet bar, building another double whiskey. He cursed the violent trembling in his hand, then one whispering Slimder assured him it was just the shakes from too much booze. One down the hatch would get him right. What the hell was this next urging? he wondered, as he gulped the drink. Twitching, he gazed into the darkening expanse of the Mediterranean, the voice sounding as if it called to him from the sea.

      I can’t stop you. Do what you must if that’s what you really want.

      Do what? Jump over the rail? Give all this up? It was twelve stories down. It would all be over before he knew it, mashed to gooey nothing like the parasite…

      Breathe slow, concentrate. Drink some more whiskey, the voice commanded.

      And it faded. Thank God for the warm elixir flooding through him, drowning the voice. Hell, he thought, embracing the slow return of silent reality, any number of things could have caused all this maddening anxiety and agitation. He drained the glass, then reached for the half-empty bottle. All the pills he consumed just to heave himself in and out of bed these days. All the coke snorted. All the Viagra swallowed when he needed help in the pinch. All the booze required just to keep him standing some days.

      No wonder he was going crazy.

      Then he heard the two recently divorced thirty-something women giggling from the couch. How sweet life was, he thought, back to beautiful blissful reality, watching as they loaded more rock into the glass stem. Taut, tan bodies, a lot of flesh showing, what with the halters and miniskirts. All these years, a pudgy little slob like him, and he could only dream. But now…

      He’d met them in one of the hotel’s many bars and just a few hours earlier. They were staying at the hotel indefinitely, looking for action now that they’d shed the hubbies and kids. Starting over like he was, from Topeka or Iowa or some such godawful place he’d never have to see. Buying them drinks, plying them, then flashing cash—he never left his suite without at least twenty grand walking-around money. A stroll through the shops, big spender that he was buying the girls a couple of mink coats ordered through one of his many bogus credit cards. His personal coke supply sealed the deal, now he just needed to push the envelope some.

      “James, why don’t you come over here and join us? It’s your stuff, hon.”

      “Yeah, you look like you could use one.”

      James, not Jim, or the always loathsome Jimmy. Hon to boot. His stuff. His Presidential Suite, the Eden Suite they called it. Lush tropical vegetation, flower garden around a small pond in the living room, live exotic fish optional if he wanted to dump one of the tanks. He was the new Adam, all right, only blessed with two Eves. Paradise adorned with gleaming white marble and gold trim, he had to keep the lights turned low or the blinding brightness would all but obscure such a heavenly view.

      “James, did you order room service?”