Papal Return E-Book

Gene Tooms

• Herausgeber: Gene Tooms
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

An elite bounty hunter... ...an International Wildlife Poacher. They’re the least of each other’s problems. After a seven months hiatus, Fugitive Recovery Artist Alex Pope is contacted about a simple but extremely lucrative job. A job right in his backyard. Something 'straight-forward' that would get him back in the groove of things. At least, that’s what it seems like when he takes it on. What's the difference between a hit-man and a recovery agent? One is paid to kill the target. The other is supposed to bring the target in alive. For the recovery agent, mixing the two could be extremely bad for business. So far, Pope’s record has been impeccable…but if he’s not careful, this ‘simple’ job could be the one to sink him. In more ways than one. *** You'll love Papal Return—the first book in the no-frills new Alex Pope Action Series—because of the tight action, interesting settings and different lead character. GET IT NOW!

Leseprobe

PAPAL

RETURN

An Alex Pope Action Thriller

GENE TOOMS

PAPAL RETURN, Copyright © 2018 by Gene Tooms. All Rights Reserved.

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No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review. 

Cover designed by Gene Tooms 

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s extensive imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. 

Gene Tooms

Visit my website at www.GeneTooms.com

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

TWENTY-FIVE

TWENTY-SIX

TWENTY-SEVEN

TWENTY-EIGHT

TWENTY-NINE

THIRTY

THIRTY-ONE

THIRTY-TWO

THIRTY-THREE

THIRTY-FOUR

THIRTY-FIVE

THIRTY-SIX

THIRTY-SEVEN

THIRTY-EIGHT

THIRTY-NINE

FORTY

FORTY-ONE

FORTY-TWO

FORTY-THREE

FORTY-FOUR

FORTY-FIVE

FORTY-SIX

FORTY-SEVEN

FORTY-EIGHT

FORTY-NINE

FIFTY

EPILOGUE

DEAR READER

REVIEWS

READER’S GROUP

NEXT ALEX POPE

PAPAL PLUNDER

EXTRACT

Dear Reader, I have a mailing list – details about joining are at the end of the book.

The Reader’s Group gets updates about release-day pricing and other goodies. Also, when you sign up, you get your free copy of

PAPAL ORIGINS

delivered directly to your device.

PROLOGUE

––––––––

FROM: NWjr < Noahjr112>

Sent: Thursday, March 08, 2018 14:11

To: NW_sr

Subject: RE: Situation with C

Father. The ‘professional’ my contact recommended has also failed. SC has some Nigerian security muscle - no match for what we paid. (The remains have been identified, no link to us of course.)

We’re 8 days from the meeting in Cape Town, what do you propose?

ON MAR 08, 2018 AT 16:11, <N.W_sr> wrote:

I am fully aware of the date. Amateurs playing at this game always get weeded out. Two attempts to take out a grease monkey like Cheng is one too many.

There’s another option. A group called SCOUR. Check with Grete for their details. Cheng technically has open warrants in Australia (confirm this first!!!).

Open a reward for his apprehension, make up a reason we want to do this. Spin it, put up a huge bounty, but run it by me first before you go ahead.

Maybe this will bring out someone that’s a match for him. It’s still a long shot.

You can work out the details, I’m sure.

ON MAR 08, 2018 AT 16:15, < Noahjr112 > wrote:

Yes father, of course. I will speak with Grete, and keep the name clear as far as possible.

(P.S. I’m pushing off for the meeting tomorrow, docking in Cape Town on Tuesday.)

––––––––

ON MAR 08, 2018 AT 19:22, <N.W_sr > wrote:

Let me know; if we have no confirmation by Thursday next that SC is off the table (IF THIS FAILS AGAIN!!!) you must proceed, ironically, with the Nigerian proposal. You know my feeling about them, but if nothing else, everything this family has was built on a long view.

That said, I’d rather be rid of SC, regardless.

Make sure you clear this email exchange.

ONE

UPSIDE DOWN, BLOOD pooling in my head, breathing getting harder—little tremors now threatening the balance I tried to keep. My eyes would be bloodshot after this, but my shoulder brought the most grief. I held out.

I shifted my weight onto the left arm, taking some pressure off the right. I extended the fingers of my right hand, focused the tension in my core and poured all my balance to the left arm.

The group of young men around us cheered as I balanced all my weight on only the one arm, lifting the right straight out to the side. Across from me, also upside down, looking my way, was a young man called Stephen. Or Steven, or Steve, or Stefan, I never completely got it—the guy was a mumbler.

Surrounding us were twelve other people, all students on campus, most at least fifteen years my junior. We trained here after hours—three times a week, starting at 21h00. Scaling walls, running narrow ledges, jumping from roofs. Tumbling, climbing, pulling ourselves up places that were technically illegal to be in, or at least frowned upon, though tacitly ignored by campus security. It had proved fantastic rehab for my shoulder injury.

It was a warm and clear Johannesburg evening, one of the last of fall. Stephen—or Steven, or Steve, or Stefan—a blonde young engineering post-grad of about 24, had been one of the original members of the free-running group. He had been away for a couple of months doing video shoots and the like for some social media account with a group visiting from the UK. He didn’t know me, so the group goaded us into a showdown today. Basically, you do as I do. Whatever one does, the other should try to match or outdo.

So far, we had stayed together on the running and jumping and crazy drops. It then became more technical, more gymnastic—both of us realizing this would get tougher. I had matched his planche pushups, he matched my jumps onto and across the ridiculously designed—and narrow—stairwell railings.

We had finally ended up on the campus library roof—a perfectly flat extra space, and challenge, to get to after hours. We didn’t usually go up there and technically it was not possible due to various gates and the architecture of the place. But what was the use in training these things if you let gates keep you out?

The Stephen, Steven, Steve, Stefan-guy had style, I had to give him that; his moves were all designed to look good on camera. Mine had evolved from having to evade or chase down assholes with guns in urban settings. Function above form for me. Always.

My friend, Jason, kept time for us. We’d been holding the handstand for two minutes at that stage and I saw the fatigue build as his body slowly started to sag into his shoulders. When I moved onto only the left arm, he smiled the smile of someone knowing this would be the make or break minute. Fatigue is fatigue. From the corner of my eye I saw Jason, the other ‘old man’ of the group, smile at me. He kept on giving us a time update every ten seconds now. My focus was slipping. The kid shifted his balance to his right arm as well, to mirror my position. I took a deep breath in to stabilize and moved back to both arms. If he couldn’t do something like that, I would win this competition. A silly, adolescent competition—irresistible, in other words.

I slowly lowered my body again, folding in half, still not falling, still balanced on only the hands. I opened my legs in a wide straddle and lowered them down, one leg on each side of the hands, hovered there for an excruciating eight seconds before finally sitting my butt down on the cold cement. Some of the kids, jumping up and down and clapping hands in excitement came to stand by me, slapping my back, laughing.

Steve, I think his name was Steve, held his balance firm on his right arm only, brushing the rooftop surface with his left fingertips. His blonde hair drooped all over his face. I don’t care who you are but holding a handstand this long fatigues the hell out of anyone. If he didn’t get that single-arm balance soon, he would crumble.

A grunt escaped his throat. It meant he was at the edge. A feeling I knew well—that place where everything is concentrated on one physical point. The whole body tries to fight the mind, to bring it down.

He made it. He lifted his left arm, he straightened his whole body out, he brought the left arm close in to his side. He looked like Superman flying straight down with an open palm. He held it there for a couple of seconds—nine by the group’s count as led by Jason—then placed the other hand back on the concrete and folded himself in half like I did. And then, arms and shoulders vibrating almost out of control, face red, he slowly raised himself back up into another handstand. Like a gymnast—not gold medal standard, but excellent for this situation. Everybody cheered, including me. He dropped back out of it, eyes as bloodshot as mine felt.

“Excellent!” I conceded with a broad smile. “I just hope you can do that fifteen years from now too,” I joked and shook his hand, followed by one of those one-arm bro-hugs that happens sometimes. Inside I felt relieved, unsure if I would have been able to come up with something else to trump him with.

Then, two new beams of light cut across the rooftop. The bright flashlights were for show, as there was plenty of illumination coming from overhead, the moon full and bright. But, I reckon campus security all over the globe liked to relish in at least some drama to their presence.

We all played our part and cleared the roof, some running down one of the three fire escapes, the others taking some more daring routes with the help of the massive trees hugging the library. Two even made their way down the north side, through one of the side windows of the library itself. Me and Jason made our way past the guards, greeted them cordially and took our time down the stairs where they came from. They were both a bit older than us still, only doing their jobs, with no energy to chase a bunch of fit adolescents around a university campus.

Jason was a friend of mine from high school, from way back when we aspired to have our band conquer the world. Or make movies and conquer the world. Or create a world changing website and conquer the world. We didn’t do any of that. Our paths diverged wildly after things happened at the end of school. My fault of course. And Bin Laden’s. But mostly mine.

The stout rugby player with a build suited more to power lifting than any attempt at free-running, ran a successful tow truck business around town. With eight trucks and ten drivers servicing most of central Johannesburg, he did well for himself. Trying to be an honorable company in one of the most derided industries on earth was a tough call, but he pulled it off, every night. Not exactly conquering the world, not in the Elon Musk kind of way. But he had a wife and two kids and a house in a nice suburb—and he was very proud of the business he had built. This training was a welcome night off for him, from both the business and the family.

His customized V8 Toyota truck waited for us in the parking lot, the tow hook dangling under a street lamp. The truck was a hit amongst the youngsters usually, many of them staying after training to listen to the engine growl or whatever. Mostly though it was to catch a lift with us to wherever in the inner city they had to get off at. Jason gladly obliged. These were good kids and they couldn’t all afford to pay for extra transport at night.

When we got into the truck, bodies now cooled down, sweat evaporated but still hanging in the nostrils, I noticed my phone had eight missed calls and as many voice messages. Also, a single text waiting on my attention. All from the same number, all spaced over the previous hour.

I was surprised to feel my body flush with excitement and my heart rate increase again.

The calls and messages originated from international dialing code 506, Costa Rica. Probably from Clarence Deeley, owner of SCOUR.

TWO

THE MESSAGE SIMPLY read: “Urgent. Pot.C. Xpct callback. 1hr. CD.”

Urgent. Potential Contract. Expect a call-back within the hour. Clarence Deeley.

Deeley always used instant communication like he was a telegraph operator from some nineteenth century gold rush town. The message delivered at 21h51, it was 22h19 now, giving me 32 minutes or so to get some privacy. I didn’t listen to the voicemails yet, knowing they would probably just be the same info or Deeley complaining about me not answering.

Jason said, “Who’s that from, a girl finally?” We were waiting at an intersection, under an overpass for the main highway cutting through this part of town. He reached forward and turned down the radio chatter, pointing his chin at the phone in my hand, eyes laughing. His drivers were doing well tonight, it sounded like. Middle of the month, Monday night. People go out and get into plenty of fender benders.

“No. It’s something else... I didn’t expect to hear from this guy so soon. Someone from work.” I tossed the phone in my bag and zipped it up.

“Ah, work,” he replied, and I could hear him italicize it. Work. I haven’t been working, in the strict sense of the word, since being back in South Africa. Or seemingly gainfully employed, since I looked him up seven months ago. “You gonna tell me what you actually do for a living? Where you really got that shoulder busted up?” He looked ahead, driving like a pro, easily maneuvering the large truck in the narrower streets of the suburb I lived in.

“Motorcycle accident, man. I told you.” Jason usually didn’t push the topic, but he did that night. Maybe he sensed things were about to change again. Our friendship, which we picked up after fifteen years of nothing, had been an easy one to just continue, but he knew I had been hiding a lot.

After several minutes of silence, he continued, “You also got the scars on your arms from falling on some kitchen knives maybe, right? Working on a cruise ship, right? And the spots on your sides and leg, those are from burning yourself with marshmallows in Canada or something.” Actually, getting shot in Norway.

“Jason, listen,” I started. The clock on his dash read 22h38. We were slowly pulling up to the street where my uncle’s townhouse was. I knew he was trying to finish this conversation first.

He interrupted again, not looking at me, just keeping his gaze straight ahead, a large tattooed arm leaning on the steering wheel. “Are you going to leave us all again? I mean, are you gonna just disappear into thin air? Leave Uncle Dave too? Like seriously, I don’t wanna get mushy here,” I was sure he was about to. When I joined the legionnaires all that time ago I told no one. Only Uncle Dave got some post cards now and then.

“I don’t have lots of friends, Alex, like real real friends. I’ve known you for thirty years, and you’re my brother.” He was still not looking straight at me while saying this. “If you go again, just tell me and I’ll know, and it’ll be okay, okay?”

I didn’t say anything just yet. We pulled onto the driveway and I got out at the security gate, keeping the door open.

22h43. I leaned back in.

“Okay, I’ll tell you. But can we do this tomorrow afternoon some time? Over a beer?” That wasn’t really fair, I had no idea what Deeley had to tell me, if I would even be in town tomorrow.

He still didn’t look at me, but the big man was mad. His instincts had been right at least.

“Tomorrow we have Emma’s recital at school. But I’ll meet you early on Wednesday if you want...after work.” Emma was his daughter of ten.

We agreed, and I closed the door. He gunned the V8, roaring down the street, waking countless dogs and sleeping neighbors. Like every Monday. I went inside. Uncle Dave was asleep, but always kept the lights on.

It was 22h49 when I plopped myself down on the bed in the guest bedroom. The same room I occupied since Hong Kong—and also the last three years of high school.

THREE

HALFWAY THROUGH THE minute of 22h51 the phone rang. I was lying on the bed in only my underwear, chewing away at a protein bar. I swallowed it down with a mouthful of water and answered.

“Pope, who is this?” I knew who it was.

“Cut the shit Alex, it’s Clarence.” His voice sounded clear. Gruff from thousands of cigarettes and cigars smoked over decades. But strong.

“I know Clarence, I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon.” It was just before 2pm on his side.

“Yes, I thought it’s about time you got off your ass again and make me some money. How are you doing, all healed up?” He had a thick Bostonian accent. From the sound of it, he had a cigar in his mouth as we spoke.

“Well, I haven’t maimed or killed anybody in about a year, so that’s good. But the doctor’s happy, the implant is fine, I’m feeling pretty good...” And bored as hell.

“Kid, that arm won’t be perfect ever again. But I’ll take Alex Pope’s pretty good over most anybody else’s perfect every day.” He was trying to butter me up, and I told him so.

“Just being serious, these large American outfits are taking all the good new blood before I can get to them. It’s gotten quiet these past few months...but I saw this new thing come along and I thought you could help me with it, on two fronts actually...” he trailed off, ever the manipulator.

In the background were noises from what sounded like the ocean. Along with it music playing that could only be beach bar music.

Clarence Deeley had ‘retired’ to Costa Rica many years ago, setting up a bar for expats and western tourists right on the beach in Manuel Antonio. I’ve visited it a couple of times and every time it struck me as the ideal setup to settle down in. Maybe I would take Uncle Dave there one day for a beer—and so he and Deeley can shoot the military breeze about the good old days. Deeley lost an arm in Iraq in ’91. But he never really left the military life after that. He had—and maintained—plenty of contacts in the private sector after Desert Storm—which he exploited at first, since everybody wanted to do something for a fresh amputee.

He found me in a hospital in Paris after I had a technical run-in with the law. Technically, the run-in had been with a group of Romanian drug and people-smugglers. However, the consequences of that run-in precluded me from being able to extend my service for another contract with the Foreign Legion. It would also have precluded me from entering Europe or most other countries. He managed to get charges scrapped—provided I joined his group. I did.

“Tell me,” I said, curious.

He did. “Simple job, at least to my eyes. There’s this Chinese guy in town...your town to be precise.”

I sat up. I’ve never been too keen on taking a job in South Africa, much less Johannesburg itself. It’s just always been a bit close to home. It didn’t mean I wouldn’t, I just always avoided it.

“Okay, there are many Chinese people in town,” I said.

“This guy’s a poacher. Goes by the name of Samuel Cheng. He’s technically wanted by almost everyone that has any kind of special animal in their country. The only real warrant out on him is from Australia though.”

“They don’t give rewards, if it’s Australian government,” I said. “Unless they changed in the last seven months.” Most governments wouldn’t put up fugitive recovery rewards for poachers or traffickers unless the people involved were huge political fish or guys at the very top.

“It’s not government. But let me continue.” Deeley was trying to sell this but personally I didn’t need to be sold on nabbing a poacher.

“He’s been strongly involved in rhino horn recently. They think he’s the main guy getting the shit out of South Africa and on into China. Then, get this, using that as currency for supplying some of those wannabe militant assholes up in Central Africa with all sorts of other weapons they can use to kill their people.”

The way it goes, apparently.

“So why is he not arrested by anybody?”

“You need to ask? Same way these things always go. Multiple countries and jurisdictions and treaties. No real leadership. Many governments and politicians simply don’t think it’s a big enough thing to spend resources on. Vietnam and China allow the ivory to flood in so their men think they can get better boners...”

He paused for effect, proud of his little joke.

“Nobody, apart from Australia, has any warrants open for his arrest. And that only dates from ’97 for smuggling kangaroo infants to Mexico.”

Rhino poaching from Southern Africa has gotten to be huge business. There have been reports and stories of poachers caught with equipment that could deck out a special forces platoon for a small country. The more local authorities clamp down on countering these poaching efforts, the rarer the product becomes in Asia, which hikes the price, which again makes it more lucrative to the foot soldiers coming in to get more animal parts. Bigger risk, bigger reward. Demand remains constant. Product becomes scarcer. Price goes up. Economics 101.

“Let me guess, nobody wants to spend money on getting him out for a twenty-year-old warrant, right?”

I heard Deeley sip on something. Beer, by the sound of his lips smacking afterwards.

“It’s one of those things where everybody knows he’s doing this, but just sort of hanging around until an American or Brit or something gets caught in the crossfire. Nobody really gives a shit about animals or poor people living in some central African country. If it’s not on CNN, it doesn’t happen...” Harsh, sure. Also, true.

“Okay, who’s the punter? Who’s putting up the reward?” When privates put out these rewards, we always had to be careful; they weren’t always good for the money.

“It’s complicated, but follow along,” Deeley explained.

There was a very wealthy Australian family who had one of their sons running for public office. According to the brief they simply wanted to be seen fronting the money to apprehend him and bring him ‘to justice’, using the current environmental climate as platform. Getting Cheng apprehended and hauling him in front of the courts would keep the candidate in the press and on television for months. Nobody would know, presumably, how or why he got back into Australia.

It sounded straightforward as far as motives went. The family representatives had come directly to SCOUR—instead of putting it out on the open market. Presumably through some contacts Deeley maintained somewhere.

“They’re putting up a million dollars flat on his head, if delivered on time and on their terms,” Deeley finished.

I sat up on the bed, almost choking on another protein bar. That was a massive amount. Usually a reward, or bounty, or ‘fugitive recovery fee’, as it was called by SCOUR, was not more than half that. Except in extreme cases where the target was a massive danger to society—usually the case for exceptional governmental rewards. FBI most wanted, that kind of thing. Usually, for privates, we had to be very careful to vet the motives and targets behind putting up rewards of any magnitude. A million dollars was massive for anybody, private or not.

“A million? US?”

“Australian,” Deeley replied. That was still a lot. About seven hundred thousand US dollars.

I asked, “The catch?” There had to be a catch. Private rewards like this always had tails attached, sometimes vanity-related. People who could afford this kind of reward were used to having people jump at their command, without question.

“Nothing big. Delivery at the latest 10pm Thursday night, local time. Directly to a boat waiting off a small harbor off the West Coast of the Cape. SCOUR people to escort it to a yacht off shore where the fugitive is to be loaded onto the yacht and ways parted. At confirmation of delivery aboard the yacht, reward pays out. They supply the boat. That’s it.”

It sounded too good to be true.

FOUR

I HAVEN’T TAKEN ANY kind of assignment in seven months. Talking to Deeley like this, out of the blue, two months before my self-imposed sabbatical would end, brought back a surge of adrenaline as I lay there on the bed. My palms were sweaty again, heart picking up speed. I was already doing calculations in my head about how the split would go. Technically, I still owed SCOUR for the unsuccessful outcome in Hong Kong.

Thursday night was only seventy-two hours away. Three nights to find and extract a foreigner I’ve never heard of, knew what he looked like, where he was or what kind of security he had surrounding him.

I told him, “Clarence, you know how this sounds, right?”

Deeley lit a cigarette. People—women—were laughing in the background. The music turned up a bit. Of course he knew how this sounded. But he also knew I’ve done this kind of job before, more than once.

“I do,” he replied. “But the way I see it, is that I could get one of my best earners—that being you—back in the mix earlier than anticipated. It looks like this is just an anomalous case, in the best way. I’ll have your new handler send you the standard intel package on this Cheng character. Standard FTP transfer as usual.”

I started saying something, but he interrupted, “It doesn’t mean you’re taking the job, I know, I know. You don’t have to commit yet, but have a look at it. There’s nobody else in the country, or even region, that could take this on in time for a Thursday night extraction.”

I remained quiet to hear if he had something more to ad.

“Tell me about the new handler,” I asked finally.

“All you need to know is that I’ve vetted and auditioned her personally. She’ll call you tomorrow after you’ve had a look at the file. A million dollars Alex, a million dollars. That kind of thing comes along once a year, and never straight and exclusive to us.”

It was big, I had to admit. “You hard up for the extra money Clarence? Costa Rica getting expensive?” It was meant as a jibe, but maybe deep in my mind, the part that’s been shut off for half a year, was waking up and making connections that the conscious wasn’t at that moment. Something in the tone of his voice just made me feel like he was insisting more than he needed to.

When contractors for SCOUR took a job, it was all on them. There were only a dozen of us spread out across the globe, sometimes working together, pooling skills. SCOUR used the connections set up by Clarence and the others to find rewards set out by any parties, vetting them and then possibly tracking down the people that the rewards targeted. At least digitally.

It was up to us, the contractors, to get the person to the correct jurisdiction. In exchange for the reward at apprehension, contractors and handlers shared sixty percent of the reward, minus whatever the contract cost. Things like fuel, plane tickets, fake passports or visas, vehicles, satellite access, bribes, bullets, weapons and, sometimes, extreme and unavoidable carnage, cost a lot of money. SCOUR was not funded by any government’s taxes, nor by any intra-jurisdictional or cross-border funding scheme. It was purely a private enterprise. With great perks, if you could handle the risk.

Clarence then said. “We both need this. It’s getting harder to find tech support that can get into what these governments are putting up these days.” He always said ‘tech support’ when he meant hackers, the handlers.