The Mercenary Of Urga Action Adventure Excerpt

The Mercenary Of Urga Excerpt [from the preface]

“I damn well hope so,” said my cousin Brian when I told him that as far as I could determine, no further documentation existed on our family’s nearly two-thousand-year-old assassination business. “You’ve already ruined the reputation of family members, both deceased and living.”

“I’m not sure any of them had much of a reputation to begin with.”

“That’s as may be, but we’ve come to a firm decision regarding your status, and I’ve been tasked to tell you not to expect any invitations to future family gatherings. These include—” he pulled out a folded scrap of paper from his pocket “—weddings, birthday parties, confirmations, bar mitzvahs, births, funerals, and sundry events.”

“What sort of ‘sundry events?’” I asked.

“I don’t know,” he replied, folding the paper and putting it back in his pocket. “I’m only telling you what we all agreed to on the Zoom call.”

“To which I was not invited,” I said, with what I thought was justifiable indignation.

“Well then, a Zoom call is probably one of the things included under ‘sundry events.’” He stood up and, without even offering to split the check, walked out of the restaurant.

I sat for a moment contemplating just what an ungrateful bunch of swine certain members of my arbor familiae were. The Tailor of Riga, the first book in the Tales of the Sica series, had injected a little excitement into their otherwise-mundane lives when I first published it a few years ago. I didn’t expect a tip of the hat from any of them, but I certainly wasn’t expecting the tip of a boot—a threat made by more than one irate relative. And the business end of a boot was the least of the violence promised if further stories emerged. All this from family who claimed never to have killed anyone.

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The Mercenary Of Urga Excerpt 2

There was no question in Leon’s mind that Churchill was a snob with little time for anyone who didn’t match him in courage, wit, or wisdom. But Churchill had been made aware of Leon’s abilities by Smith-Cumming, and in Leon he recognized the traits he saw in himself. Not all of them, heaven forbid. No one could match the well-roundedness of the great Winston Churchill.

“When did you first realize that so many young men—underage boys, as Sir Mansfield put it—were missing?” Leon asked Churchill, who was still upset at walking into the dining room and seeing his cousin, Clare Sheridan, at the same table as the Russian Lev Kamenev. According to Churchill, Kamenev was supposedly in London for peace talks with the British government, but he suspected the Bolshevik was really trying to dig up dirt on Churchill by having an affair with Clare.

“You may recall,” said Churchill, glaring across the room at his cousin, who was doing her best to ignore him, “and then again you may not—I’ve no idea of your knowledge or interest in the machinations of government— that my first task as Secretary of State for War was the demobilization of our troops as they returned from Europe. That was a bloody mess, I’m ashamed to admit.”

“I’m sure you did your best, Winston” said Philip Sassoon, trying to placate his friend.

“I always do, Philip. But there are occasions when one’s best is simply not good enough. Not often in my case, but it does happen.”

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The Mercenary Of Urga Excerpt 3

It was not a big camp, and Leon didn’t imagine there could have been more than eight hundred soldiers plus their horses and a few camels. He looked around to see if there was a bigger tent for the baron, but he didn’t see one. At the end of the camp on a small hill was a group of soldiers in Cossack uniforms huddled around an open lean-to. Sitting at a table in the middle was a thin man with red hair, a short beard, and a big, bushy moustache. He stopped writing in a leatherbound book when he saw Leon and Chuluun and waved his arm for the Cossacks to move back. Then he fixed Leon in a stare that was even more terrifying than that of Rasputin. “Come,” he said, pointing at a camp chair next to the one in which he was sitting. “Come sit, Mr. Mercenary, and tell me why I shouldn’t just kill you[1].”

“Because,” replied Leon, “I’d kill you first.”

With a roar the baron shot to his feet, knocking over his chair and making a grab for his saber, which lay on the table. Von Ungern-Sternberg was fast, but his hand hadn’t touched the hilt of his saber when he felt the tip of Leon’s sica rip through his long coat and prick the muscle that protected his liver. The Cossacks ran forward but the baron yelled for them to stop. Then he began to cackle like a demented witch until his eyes, which were like blue ice, filled with tears.

“General Biskupsky was wrong about you. You are not just a mercenary; you are the Lord of Mercenaries. That’s what you shall be known as from now on.”

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