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Spies, no condoms by Incy Black

Nil illegitimi carborundum – don’t let the bastards grind you down. The bastards being anyone in authority worshiping the god of ‘red tape’, about whom I personally harbour deep-seated suspicions.

Which probably accounts for my thrill of a good conspiracy—lardy-arsed officialdom, the villain—and my cheering on of the men and woman who thumb their nose at the ‘rules’ but being smart, swallow their resounding ‘fuck off’ behind a grin—smiling crocodiles, if you like.

Hence my love affair with spies, spooks and secrets. The corruption of loyalties, the lies and deceptions, and the down right rude. Evident in one of my favorite quotes from Hard to Protect: “You stick your head any further up Butters’s arse, Berwick, and no one will be able to hear you singing Rule Britannia.” Angel, the heroine, is giving the hero a right gobful, at this point.

Whitehall and the British Intelligence Service, clashing head on, the perfect arena where the bad boys (and girls) get to behave outrageously, all respect for pretty much anything but ‘the win’ withheld. Insubordination and insolence paving the way. Must be why they call espionage ‘The Game’ because it’s fun and in it’s own way, heroic.


And who is responsible for distorting my view of what is mischievous?


Why Rudyard Kipling (Kim) and Ian Fleming (James Bond), of course. Both recognized the excitement of ‘finding trouble’, who cares that neither is now politically correct. The romance of bad boys is that they are virile, sexy, unapologetic, and defiant as all hell.

Bond with his fast cars, his smoking, gambling and drinking—dry martinis, shaken not stirred. His womanizing—not a condom in sight. The sanctioned killings—the bodies of opponents piled high. All for queen and country? My arse.

It takes a special kind of damaged to kill. A fierce addiction to adrenaline to put yourself in a position of doing so. And that in itself is fascinating.

Spooks and assassins, on the side of good or nefarious, like—or is it a need—to live as large as their stories. And long may they and their thrills clutter our pages, for they are the dash of colour in the Establishment’s grey.




 Some Black Op missions are too dark—even for him.

Volcanic hot and ambitious Special Agent Will Berwick doesn’t give a damn what his orders are, he’s not taking the enemy—the lovely, but arctic Dr. Angel Treherne—to bed. Nor will she die on his watch, most certainly not by his hand. Oh, he’ll root out her secrets. But his own way—teaching her a much-deserved lesson while he’s at it: that no one messes with his career plan just because they’re a little peeved with him.

Caught up in a tangled web of deceit and betrayal, psychotherapist Angel trusts no one—certainly not alpha-cocky, cunning Will Berwick. First he’s hostile, then he’s charming, now he wants to protect her? Why? What’s he hiding? With her life—and heart—on the line, she needs to know.

With the risks high and personal, can Will and Angel agree the dangerous choices they must make?

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