PROLOGUE Robert Shapply stepped from the white stretch limo. "That will be all tonight, Charlie." "Very good, Congressman. I'll pick you up tomorrow at seven A.M." The uniformed chauffeur had been unusually quiet tonight. He closed the door and walked to the driver's side. For just a moment he seemed to stop and survey the area, looking up and down the tree-lined street, then he stepped in and started the car. As he pulled slowly away from the curb, Shapply could hear the increase in the volume of the limo's stereo. The heavy backseat reverberated down the block. The same type of music that the congressman and his wife were working to ban. At one time he's championed the performers who produced the vile music. Songs about violence, rape, drugs, and whatever else was evil in the world. Now, he was about to bring them down. His transformation would be complete. He had been part of the sin and corruption, the prodigal son. He'd come home to not only make amends but to rid the world of corruption. But there was Barbados. Only three other people knew about it. Three other people in his life knew and one was threatening to expose him. Possibly it was time to confess it all. Make a tearful, heartfelt confession and throw it on the pile of all his other sins. What was it that his brother-in-law said? The Reverend was fond of saying "Just ask, and he will call a gathering of angels to watch over you." Maybe it was time to ask. Shapply watched the disappearing automobile, then turned and walked up the brick steps, his hand lightly brushing the ornamental railing that led to his Adams-Morgan townhouse. He stumbled over something, looked down and saw the scuffed boot as it swiftly kicked his feet out from under him. Landing hard on the steps, he struggled to get up and felt the cold steel barrel of a gun pressed against his temple, forcing his head onto the rough bricks. His eyes focused on the boots and a hint of faded blue jeans. The congressman started to speak a the boot swung back and kicked him full force in the face, cracking his expensive capped teeth and catching the end of his nose, snapping the cartilage and plastering it flat against his cheekbone. Blood spurted from his mouth and nose and he fought to catch his breath. Through the agony he found himself thinking only one thought. How could he face the television cameras looking like this? The barrel of the gun pressed harder against his skull and he watched in horror as the book swung back one more time and drove into his groin. The sharp pain paralyzed him, shooting into all parts of his body as he struggled for consciousness. A wave of nausea overwhelmed him and he vomited, the retching causing even more pain. This time he thought about his life, and wondered if there was forgiveness for unspeakable sins that had never been confessed. Gasping for air, he reached for his crotch as the boot heel stomped on his hand, cracking the bones like toothpicks. "There has to be some suffering. In just a minute now I'll put you out of your misery." The voice was calm, as if the man were trying to comfort him. Another kick to the stomach, and Shapply vomited all over the boots. "You little fuck!" Now the voice was agitated. "Should have just done this to begin with." That voice. Through the sickness, the pain, and the terror, he recognized the familiar voice. A roar filled his ears for a fraction of a second, and then he heard no more. © Don Bruns Read reviews of Barbados Heat. Order Barbados Heat from Amazon, Barnes and Noble, or an independent bookstore.