WAR TO THE DEATH 

 Gerald Ray's mother escaped death when she fled from Franco's henchmen during the Spanish Civil War. Her parents had already been murdered for expressing anti-nationalist views. Gerald has written a book containing the atrocities committed by 'The Sons of Tyranny', a gang of Franco's thugs. Now he is on their death list. Caroline Carson is a TV reporter investigating the bombings at Madrid's railway station. She becomes aware of the death threat on Gerald. Their mutual attraction causes them to follow a trail of intrigue and drama to find his grandparents' final resting place in the Basque country.

   SAMPLE EXTRACT

Clouds scud across a half moon. Out in the bay there's a light, nothing more than a dot really. In the gloom I can't see the boat. At my feet is a travelling bag containing a couple of shirts, change of underwear, socks, shaving things, not much else. Then, from the seashore, a torch light flashes on and off, three times. It's our agreed signal. Time to go. I pick up the bag and head for the shore.

'We're going to have to hurry,' Macklin says when I reach the shoreline. 'The coastguard cutter is about.' Macklin was the one who'd flashed the torch. He was sitting in the stern of a tiny dinghy, bobbing up and down on the water, like a cork.

'That's all we need,' I reply.

He beckons me to get on board. Between the outcrop of rock I'm standing on and the dinghy, a churning chasm of water sloshes menacingly. For a moment I stand still, breathing heavily. Then I make a move and stumble clumsily, nearly turning the little craft over as I get on board.

'Steady on man, for Christ sake,' Macklin says. 'You'll have us in the drink before we start.'

'Sorry. Not much good on boats,' I say.

'Now's a fine time to tell me that.' He grunts, says no more and begins rowing. The boat is anchored out in the bay, a cabin cruiser about thirty feet long.

'Are you sure it'll get us there?' I had asked.

'She'll get there all right,' Macklin said. It was his boat and we'd negotiated a fee in the bar.

'That's a lot of money,' I replied when he told me the price.

'I have to get back as well,' he'd grumbled. 'I'm the one who's taking the risk. If I lose my boat I've lost everything.'

'I thought you said there wouldn't be a problem?'

'There shouldn't be, but you never know with the sea. That's my price. Take it or leave it.'

I was in no position to argue. He was the only one I could trust, as he didn't gossip. He was Scottish and couldn't speak much of the language. He had his boat and he fished. When he wasn't fishing, he drank whisky and mended his nets. Then he was usually too bad tempered to converse, so nobody bothered. Which made him my best bet.

We were on the South East Coast of Spain. How had it got this crazy? Why was I putting myself through all this? Those were the questions I posed to myself as I awkwardly clambered aboard the boat.

Now when I look back I can see clearly that a trail had been set out for me. Not a wide open trail, like a road or a highway. It was more akin to the narrow, twisting, rugged tracks of the Western Highlands of Scotland where I have a home. I wouldn't have wanted it any other way, for therein lies the tale I am about to tell.