What a terrible year!

Dear friends, oppos, and readers

I must apologise for my lack of posts and general lack of motivation. It has been an awful year, no worse for me than others and terrible for many. My deepest condolences to anybody that has loved and lost someone. Covid 19 has ruined many and made fortunes for many others, so 2020 has sort of represented how strange life is? Who would have thought that this virus that killed so many would skip from animal to human in a Chinese wet food market that had the reputation for just about eating anything, how could it have appeared? Nature really does rule the natural world?

Well, I suppose that’s something that only future historians will know. A good coronavirus is only effective when shrouded in mystery and protected by lies. And the Chinese, a civilization that was producing silk garments when we were dressed in goatskins are well used to psychological Warfare. A quote from Sun Tzu:

The supreme art of war is to subdue the enemy without fighting.

Not at all suggesting that this was intended, just really Fuxxing convenient and advantageous to a highly developed culture competing with our own?

Anyway, that’s history, and the legacy of eating bats of the non-cricket type is now history, we hope!  What a strange fxxxed up world? The last year has been personally disastrous for me. Though my own fault. I’ve managed to fxxk things up terribly with my own personal life, so a fountain of knowledge I’m definitely not. That is why I’m feeling a bit like that great man ‘Terry Waite’ felt after being locked up by Hizbollah in Lebanon in 1987, although Spain isn’t that bad! All self-diagnoses are good though, it’s the way we all improve and develop,  but I’m a very old bootneck and still bastard learning. That’s the bad side, what about the uplifting positives!

A government imposed a period of self-reflection also had some positives, because life teaches us that there is always an element of ‘Ying and Yang, (to go a bit Chinese again?).  So what has an old warrior learned:

The grass is never greener.

Your best mates stick with you.

You can fight through or get tagged on the assault, fate will decide, turning back isn’t an option?.

Family is the most important thing.

I love the Royal Marines.

I love my children, all of them.

And what have I achieved in my self imposed exile from Belfast and everything I love.

Some positives- my new book is with the editors and ready to go. It’s the third and final in the trilogy and called ‘An Evil Shadow Falls’. I think it’s my best yet and involves an ISIS nuclear bomb plot and  Samatha Holloway and her team’s task to stop it. It starts in Canada and ends up on a stormy night in the mid-Atlantic just before the 20th anniversary of 9/11.

Hey, and my Spanish is greatly improved.

Feliz Navidad!

The following is an extract of the start of the book. if you want to sample some chapters just let me have an email and I will fire them off to you!

I hope you enjoy them, please let me know? If you haven’t read the previous books, please give them a go.

Available on my web site or at Audible or Matador books. Both previous books are available as audible books.

A Shadowing of Angels

A Falling of Angels

By W.T. Delaney

I hope you enjoy the extracts.

Have a wonderful Christmas and a happy and healthy New Year. I’m sure 2021 will be harryhoofing for us all!





Abbottabad, Pakistan



He looked down at his most treasured possession and couldn’t quite believe how something so small could be so deadly.  The atomic cone of death was only four inches wide and eight long, but it enabled a Pakistani Army NASR Vengeance 4 battlefield tactical missile to deliver a nuclear strike of 0.5 to 5.0 kilotons.  He took the device, cradled it in both hands, and closed his eyes as he tried to envisage its awesome power. It made him feel reverential as if he were handling something sacred. The denseness of the nuclear material made it unusually heavy, but that was truly outweighed by the awesome responsibility of being chosen by God to use it.  The radiation did not worry him, as the explosion would kill him along with thousands of the infidels, and he was dying anyway.  He smiled; I am going to take the war to the Yankee unbelievers’ doorstep. 

Chapter One


Canada, two months earlier


 It was always the same dream. The man who had tried to kill her was staring into her eyes like a lover at climax, but it was the polar opposite of love. She held his gaze and felt pure hate reflected back at her, felt his evil slowly start to seep into her soul. It was like swallowing an ice cube that was slipping frostily towards her heart. The hate was hard, cold, and unyielding. Her fear seemed to swirl, solidify, and take form. It was as if she had become its ideal host; the shadow had found the room and made itself comfortable inside her. And then the evil shadow became apparent, like a flickering ancient movie image projected onto the bedroom wall. Her fear fed it and gifted it an amorphous translucent shape made up of the faces of the dead – her own personal body count.  The shape darkened and solidified as its claw-like tendrils reached out to claim her.

There was the white-bearded old man from Helmand dispatched with a double tap. There was the boy with the petrol blue eyes and the AK 47 whom she had tagged with a three-round burst, centre mass, and dropped into the choking dust of Helmand.  And there was the Satan-eyed murderer with the combat knife. She had killed him with a head shot as he had attempted to decapitate Connor Cameron in Mosul.

       An over-pressure of fear broke over her and she panicked, turned and fled, terrified and alone. She ran from the wraith-like vapour that chased her; her fear fed the shadow that grew and gained strength until she could feel it reach inside her.


 Sam screamed herself awake and instantly knew:

The ghosts of the past are back, and they have just kicked and clawed their way back into my soul.

          She was awake now, pulse racing, breathless, with wide eyes still seeing the faces of all the dead she had sent to Hell. Her past haunted her, especially that last mission.

           It had now been a year since the ‘Weeping Willows’ ambush, when the team had substituted a bullet-riddled and anonymous corpse for a living terrorist whom they had snatched for interrogation. The dead man was simply known in intelligence circles as an SNU FNU, or surname unknown, forename unknown, and he had died a year earlier than the Weeping Willows incident, in unrecorded circumstances that had a similar profile to the man that they were beginning to hunt. The CIA had supplied the body, of the same approximate age, weight, and ethnicity of the man it was meant to replace, a Tier One target known as ‘Objective Cyclone’. The team had finally managed to untangle the living terrorist mastermind from the bloody mixture of him, his weapons, and his comrades, and he had been snatched in a ‘rendition operation,’ an Americanism for the arrest of an active terrorist for the purposes of interrogation.

         It had been organised by MI6 and the CIA, using Sam and her team of ‘Spartan Operatives’ consisting of former British Special Forces soldiers. Nobody would mourn the loss of Objective Cyclone, or miss him, because this particular terrorist had twice been reported dead. First, in a US airstrike in a dusty little village in Syria, and more recently in what the British and international press had come to call ‘The Spean Bridge Massacre’, when the SAS had ambushed an Islamist terrorist ASU (Active Service Unit) near Sam’s cottage in the highlands of Scotland.

       But the operation had forced Sam and her husband Nigel from their beloved croft cottage and into permanent exile. They were now under a death threat, or ‘fatwa’, and therefore had been incorporated into an intergovernmental resettlement package usually used for blown MI6 agents. The press had ensured that they couldn’t safely stay in Britain. They had been ‘outed’ in several papers and news channels when directly linked to the killings in what the locals at Spean Bridge called ‘The Weeping Willows’. The official inquest into the deaths had exonerated the SAS and concluded with a verdict of ‘Lawful Killing.’

        DNA samples, harvested from a backstreet garage containing the target’s car that had identified Objective Cyclone, had then been recycled for use by the Scottish coroner’s office.  The name of Jassim Emwazi had thus been officially recorded as one of those killed in the ambush, and EMNI (ISIS’s security service) therefore thought that their future plans were safe, as Cyclone had taken their operational secrets to the grave with him. The small highland croft and the ‘Weeping Willows’ were now the scene of an annual all-night vigil, organised by London-based political activists and Islam4UK, to commemorate the four terrorists they called Martyrs, accompanied by the inevitable counter-protests.

The operation’s objectives had been brutal, and its violent conclusion still deeply disturbed her.  It was the most unethical job that she and the team had ever been involved in; they had snatched a British-born terrorist from mainland Britain for interrogation by the CIA. It was a job Sam and the team had been given because they provided the ultimate firewall for the security services. It had been a deniable operation.

Canada had been kind to them; they lived in a beautiful rambling house, and the resettlement package had been generous.  Nigel worked teaching surveillance techniques to a Canadian Special Forces unit known as JTF2 or the Joint Task Force Two, based in Ottawa. Everything had seemed blissful to begin with, but things had now started to unravel.  The pressures of just living apart for a lot of the time had started to take their toll, and Samantha spent long periods with only her traumatic memories for company. The covert nature of their existence was also problematic. The small rural community in which they lived was curious about the newcomers, and that curiosity brought an element of resentment when it could not be satisfied.

Last year’s global lockdown because of the Coronavirus had brought further problems. Her feeling of isolation was exacerbated by her husband’s increasingly long trips away; she felt both isolated and homesick. They had also tried for a baby and failed; that was the one thing that they both desired and it was still just tantalisingly out of reach. Sam had been five weeks pregnant when she had lost the baby and it had broken her heart.  But she hadn’t told Taff; she felt that the burden was her own to bear, as she rationalised that this seemed to be the payback for all the lives she had taken on behalf of her country.

Maybe there was a God?  Some all-powerful omnipresent being that thought that human life was too precious to be reproduced inside a killer?

 Her moods had started to spiral into depression, with each day increasing her unhappiness. But maybe she didn’t deserve happiness; perhaps the terrorist with the hateful eyes had cursed her?

The last operation had been a time-bomb on a very slow fuse. The truth about an Anglo-American operation of such complexity, with such a wide circle of knowledge, could not remain a secret forever. The team had known this at the very beginning and had only agreed to get involved because they accepted that it was the only way that the future carnage planned by ‘Objective Cyclone’ could be stopped, while also knowing from bitter experience that former soldiers could very easily be sacrificed on the altar of political expediency in the future.

She closed her eyes, and for one fleeting moment wondered what was happening to the man they had snatched. She tried to recall his face, but all she could remember was the terrified look in his eyes.


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