RACE AMAZON: False Dawn (James Pace novels Book 1) by Andy Lucas Page A
Authors: Andy Lucas
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settle outstanding credit debts on furniture and his television set.
One final call to the local garage to settle the remaining debt owed on his car and he was finally clear, free forever more from the fear of receiving demanding letters and having to struggle hard to pay them.
The feeling of relaxation didn’t last long because the race preparations soon began in earnest. Early the following morning, which dawned warm and bright, he was being poked, prodded and generally pulled about by a very eminent Harley Street doctor. There weren’t any further X-rays needed but the twenty or so he’d already suffered were examined thoroughly once again.
He spent several hours daily, that first week, with the same doctor. Not only were there constant tests; blood, urine and saliva, but also exercise regimes conducted on a range of machinery, slowly designed to grow more demanding. He was pushed harder every day and would probably have felt better by the end of the week if he hadn’t been subjected to a series of tropical inoculations as well.
Apart from deadly wildlife, the Amazon basin apparently had more than its fair share of dangerous diseases though Pace knew from his background reading that the diseases the invading Europeans took into the jungle with them had been immeasurably more devastating on the indigenous Indian population than anything they’d contracted themselves from the jungle. An estimated population of nine million was reduced to a little over two hundred thousand in barely one near-apocalyptic century.
So, just in case the environment sought vengeance, he was jabbed. He worked so hard to get fit that the weeks literally flew away from him. As his strength grew, so did his confidence.
The final five days before Pace was due to take the flight with Hammond were largely logistical in nature. The press reports on his involvement spread like wildfire. It had been almost embarrassing to watch the evening news and to see his face splashed across the screen in time to praising words from the newscasters, over and over.
He managed to give nineteen interviews during those initial weeks; eight for live television, the rest for the tabloids. The media, to his surprise, didn’t find a cruel word to say about him and the publicity boom McEntire predicted fell neatly into place.
Of the McEntire clan he saw nothing until the night before he was due to leave. He learned from Hammond that Doyle McEntire was in Australia, brokering some deal or other but he’d not heard a word from Sarah either.
She just turned up at his flat, in a re-run of their first meeting, at a shade after eight o’clock. Pace was half expecting someone from the firm to contact him and was delighted to hear her familiar tones crackle over his intercom. His packing (new clothes all, and most still in their plastic jackets) was done and dusted and two expensive new suitcases sat by the front door. There was nothing left for him to do so a visit from anybody was a nice distraction.
Sarah looked even more beautiful than he remembered. She was wearing a pair of black jeans with a sleeveless, lacy white top. Her hair was worn down this time and was longer than he’d imagined; falling thickly several inches past her shoulders. Her appearance was simple, sexy and unfairly gorgeous. She was not blind to his reaction and the knowing smile playing at the corners of her mouth as he invited her in made him feel a little foolish.
From the moment she sat down the atmosphere was completely different from before. She carried no briefcase and immediately wore a relaxed smile. Pace was happy to agree to her suggestion that they go out for a drink to celebrate his last night in England, although his own jeans and sweatshirt precluded visiting anywhere sophisticated, not that there were many places in his local area that rose to such standards.
It also meant he could keep his new walking boots on, which had been stuck to his feet for
One final call to the local garage to settle the remaining debt owed on his car and he was finally clear, free forever more from the fear of receiving demanding letters and having to struggle hard to pay them.
The feeling of relaxation didn’t last long because the race preparations soon began in earnest. Early the following morning, which dawned warm and bright, he was being poked, prodded and generally pulled about by a very eminent Harley Street doctor. There weren’t any further X-rays needed but the twenty or so he’d already suffered were examined thoroughly once again.
He spent several hours daily, that first week, with the same doctor. Not only were there constant tests; blood, urine and saliva, but also exercise regimes conducted on a range of machinery, slowly designed to grow more demanding. He was pushed harder every day and would probably have felt better by the end of the week if he hadn’t been subjected to a series of tropical inoculations as well.
Apart from deadly wildlife, the Amazon basin apparently had more than its fair share of dangerous diseases though Pace knew from his background reading that the diseases the invading Europeans took into the jungle with them had been immeasurably more devastating on the indigenous Indian population than anything they’d contracted themselves from the jungle. An estimated population of nine million was reduced to a little over two hundred thousand in barely one near-apocalyptic century.
So, just in case the environment sought vengeance, he was jabbed. He worked so hard to get fit that the weeks literally flew away from him. As his strength grew, so did his confidence.
The final five days before Pace was due to take the flight with Hammond were largely logistical in nature. The press reports on his involvement spread like wildfire. It had been almost embarrassing to watch the evening news and to see his face splashed across the screen in time to praising words from the newscasters, over and over.
He managed to give nineteen interviews during those initial weeks; eight for live television, the rest for the tabloids. The media, to his surprise, didn’t find a cruel word to say about him and the publicity boom McEntire predicted fell neatly into place.
Of the McEntire clan he saw nothing until the night before he was due to leave. He learned from Hammond that Doyle McEntire was in Australia, brokering some deal or other but he’d not heard a word from Sarah either.
She just turned up at his flat, in a re-run of their first meeting, at a shade after eight o’clock. Pace was half expecting someone from the firm to contact him and was delighted to hear her familiar tones crackle over his intercom. His packing (new clothes all, and most still in their plastic jackets) was done and dusted and two expensive new suitcases sat by the front door. There was nothing left for him to do so a visit from anybody was a nice distraction.
Sarah looked even more beautiful than he remembered. She was wearing a pair of black jeans with a sleeveless, lacy white top. Her hair was worn down this time and was longer than he’d imagined; falling thickly several inches past her shoulders. Her appearance was simple, sexy and unfairly gorgeous. She was not blind to his reaction and the knowing smile playing at the corners of her mouth as he invited her in made him feel a little foolish.
From the moment she sat down the atmosphere was completely different from before. She carried no briefcase and immediately wore a relaxed smile. Pace was happy to agree to her suggestion that they go out for a drink to celebrate his last night in England, although his own jeans and sweatshirt precluded visiting anywhere sophisticated, not that there were many places in his local area that rose to such standards.
It also meant he could keep his new walking boots on, which had been stuck to his feet for
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