Sentinel Five E-Book

James Quinn

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

After the Chief of the Secret Intelligence Service is assassinated, a terrorist organization plans to unleash a weapon of apocalyptic proportions and bring the British government to its knees.

A deniable team is assembled to hunt down the terrorists. Called back from obscurity to lead them is Jack "Gorilla" Grant: a freelancer with a Smith & Wesson' 39 and cut-throat razor. And he's ready to settle the score in his own, brutal fashion.

The Sentinel Five team turns their gunsights to the East, and enters a killing ground of death.

Leseprobe

Sentinel Five

The Redaction Chronicles Book II

James Quinn

Copyright (C) 2016 James Quinn

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2019 by Next Chapter

Published 2019 by Next Chapter

Cover art by http://www.thecovercollection.com/

Edited by D.S. Williams

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

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

Also by James Quinn:

A Game for AssassinsThe Christmas Assassin (Short Story)

This book is dedicated to the members and patrons of the Special Forces Club, London. It is a thank you for all their support and encouragement over the years.

“Spirit of Resistance”

A man who desires revenge should first dig two gravesAnon

Book One: The Returned

Chapter One

MELBOURNE DOCKS, AUSTRALIA – 18th JUNE 1966

The four ghosts stood, huddled in the darkness of the night, hidden behind the crates, boxes and containers that lined the dockside. Ghosts, while not an accurate description, fitted their profiles perfectly. They were men who knew how to conceal themselves in the night, they wore black Dockers coats and knitted caps, and for the past hour they had managed to successfully stay concealed from the regular workers who moved supplies and cargo onto the numerous container ships. All were armed with razor sharp commando knives and all were ready to use them to lethal effect in order to complete their mission. This job needed to be done quietly, if it was to be a successful extraction.

Their leader stood at the forefront, his team flanking him. Colonel Stephen Masterman, Head of the Redaction Unit for the British Secret Intelligence Service, lifted the binoculars to his eyes and peered at the container ship's landing ramp as he waited for his agent to appear. The man they were waiting for was a half Portuguese/half Chinese heroin pipeline smuggler by the name of Raymond Yu. Yu was a sub-lieutenant in the almost mythical Karasu-Tengu organisation and had been persuaded to sell out his employer for a one-time payment from the British. SIS wanted the 'Raven' – the man himself, the leader – Redacted. The Chief's orders were clear. “Make him talk, Stephen, use whatever damned method you wish, but get the location of the Raven himself,” the Chief had whispered at their final covert meeting in London.

Masterman had searched and gathered intelligence, and plotted and planned. But so far, his target had been elusive. Yu's leader had money, intelligence and resources and knew how to stay hidden while still being able to strike out at his enemies and kill them. So far, the Raven had assassinated four of Masterman's operatives from the Redaction unit.

First, Spence had been slaughtered in Istanbul, then Trench had disappeared off the face of the Earth in Macau, then Marlowe… then Burch. All had been aimed at penetrating and assassinating the head of the organisation, all had been killed. Now Redaction was severely depleted; the remaining two Redactors had been assigned to cover a mission in the Middle East and Masterman had been left with little option but to call in a 'favour' from his old wartime Special Forces Regiment. He wasn't expecting trouble with the extraction, but just as a precaution, he'd felt it was best to have a small number of good men backing him up. Not that they were the men he would have preferred to have by his side, but they were good, nonetheless. His ideal back-up man was no longer a player in the game. He'd removed himself from SIS several years before, when he'd retired himself from fighting the secret war. Masterman had learned the hard way with agents that things could go awry quickly, so he contented himself with the seconded soldiers from the military elite. They stood in silence for several moments more and then, in the distance, he became aware of something new happening – a car, its headlights dimmed, pulled up just short of the gangplank to the nearest container vessel. Three men got out of the maroon Ford Falcon. They were tough-looking Chinese, dressed in sombre black suits. The bodyguards.

Masterman waved an almost casual hand to his men and watched as they moved away, melting into the darkness. He imagined them creeping nearer, getting ready to launch from a concealed position to eliminate their 'dead-eye's', should Yu and his security team decide to cut up rough. Once the Special Forces team were in position, he turned his attention back to the car and saw the man he'd been waiting for exiting the vehicle. He was tall and well composed, and even in this half-light, Masterman could make out the man's half Asiatic features. Yu and his bodyguard team began to walk towards the agreed rendezvous point, just north of Pier 41. When they were twenty yards away, Masterman stepped out of the darkness and approached them.

“Sentinel?” asked Yu, sounding relieved.

Masterman nodded and held out a hand. “Please, this way, we have a vehicle waiting for you.”

The truck would take them along the harbour to a fast boat and from there, to a safe house down the coast where Yu could be de-briefed about the Raven. After that, he would be returned to his 'normal' life without anyone the wiser. He would be back at his office first thing in the morning and one hundred thousand US Dollars richer, thanks to British intelligence.

Yu turned, said something to his security team and began to step towards his new protector when the blast of automatic gunfire took out the two bodyguards to Yu's right hand side. Bullets pounded into their heads and the two men collapsed like rag-dolls. What followed was a hiatus of terror and confusion. Masterman was aware of his Special Forces team emerging from the shadows at speed, rushing to quickly move him to safety and provide body cover. Two of them died on the spot, before they were able to reach him. The men on the dockside were running and jumping to find any kind of cover, until they were able to ascertain where the sniper was located.

Masterman crouched down behind a crate, but was clearly able to see the scene before him. He heard the chatter of gunfire again and the last of Yu's bodyguard was taken in the back, sending him sprawling, dead, onto the cobbles. Masterman, ever the soldier, looked up and was able to see the muzzle flash from the sniper's position. He could just about make out the dark figure perched on top of a block of containers, the M-16 Assault rifle in the killer's hands was even now searching around for more targets. Masterman had spent enough time under fire in his career to recognise the maelstrom of a massacre and whoever the hidden sniper was, he was good. So far, all his shots had hit their targets with no misses. His priority now was to get his agent, Yu, out of the killing zone and to safety. He caught the eye of the remaining Special Forces soldier who was concealed behind a barricade and gave the hand signal for him to get to Yu and evacuate him. The soldier nodded, took a breath and was up and running. Almost immediately, Masterman was also on his feet and moving. Two targets! No sniper, no matter how good, could take out two targets simultaneously.

Masterman ran, but before he'd taken ten paces he heard the next volley of shots as they whizzed past him and he saw the soldier go down with a shot to the head. Masterman changed direction, frantically seeking cover from the sniper and jumped the last few feet until he was safe behind an abandoned stack of pallets. He searched around for an escape route… nothing… and then he remembered the car that Yu and his bodyguards had arrived in. If he could get Yu to make the mad dash to reach him behind the pallets – a little over twelve feet – then there was a chance that they could make it to the car and escape.

Masterman held out a hand, beckoning towards the man he'd been sent here to extract. “Come on, move, damn it! It's your only hope!”

Yu looked at him with fear. The men who had initially come to save him were now almost all dead and he had been compromised, betrayed, somehow! Masterman was aware of the shots getting closer, the rounds ripping the wood away from the pallets and then deflecting into the granite of the quayside. Yu closed his eyes for a moment and then, as if he had made a monumental decision, lifted himself to his feet and stood straight up, his tall frame elongated and his hands up in the air in surrender. He turned in the direction of the hidden sniper and called out. “I did not speak, I told them nothing! I would never betray the Karasu, I would—”

There was a cacophony of automatic fire and he was flung back onto the floor, his chest and face a mass of explosions as bullets ripped him apart. With his agent dead and his team massacred, Masterman ran for the escape option of the car. He almost made it, and if he'd been ten years younger, he probably would have. He was almost within touching distance of the driver's side when he heard a CLANK as a small metal object landed underneath the car. A grenade, he thought. The sniper was trying to flush out his hidden targets with grenades and—

The explosion decimated the car, sending shards of metal and debris outwards and Masterman experienced intense pain as metal from the vehicle tore open his back, the fire from the explosion scorched his face and the force of the blast lifted him, throwing him into the dark, cold water. Suddenly, his world was filled with blood, fear and blackness. He kicked out, pushing himself upwards, taking in a huge lungful of air when he reached the surface. He kicked again and swam away from the dockside shootout, putting distance between himself and the quay. Over to his left, he heard another explosion in the water. It was another grenade, but so far away, it had no chance of hitting him. The sniper must have lost his bearings, going for a lucky pot-shot rather than a targeted aim, he thought. It was in the last moments before his consciousness began to slip away when Masterman saw a dead man, a ghost; a man he knew had been dead for the past six months. He knew the man was dead, because Masterman himself had sent him on the mission he'd never returned from. The dead man stood high on the containers which had provided his sniper position, his rifle hefted one-handed as he began his descent. He took one more look around the area of devastation, perhaps to convince himself that there were no more survivors, and only then carried on climbing down the ladder.

“Trench… Trench… Trench,” Masterman mumbled, as if convincing himself he'd witnessed an illusion. But this was no illusion. A dead man had come back to life and almost killed him. Masterman stared in disbelief, even as the freezing cold water begin to move his injured body further away from the dockside, drifting out along the harbour wall. And then he thought on the situation no more, as darkness overtook him and he drifted further and further away.

* * *

ASHDOWN FOREST, ENGLAND – 19th JUNE 1966

The elderly spy was dragged through the woods by strong arms. His dressing gown had spilled open, and his bare feet were cut and blistered from having been pulled and pushed along the earthen floor, after his slippers were lost somewhere deep in the forest long ago.

He knew not what his captors looked like. They were hooded, resembling something from a nightmare, and only slits in the black balaclavas revealed their intense eyes. He knew they were strong, certainly; capable, definitely. They had, after all, killed his police bodyguards, who were a perpetual adornment at the front of his private residence in Royal Tunbridge Wells. Then they had killed his wife, as she lay beside him in bed. He'd watched as they covered her with a blanket and silently inserted a long slim blade through the woven material… once, twice… and then she'd stopped moving. He'd been beaten, manhandled down the stairs and out into the cold of the night. Then there had been the drive, pushed into the boot of an anonymous car and driven at speed to who-knew-where. Judging by his surroundings, and the distance they'd travelled in the vehicle, he guessed he was somewhere deep within the maze of Ashdown Forest. His old spy skills, at least, hadn't failed him completely.

He'd been lifted from the car like a sack of potatoes and pushed deep into the darkness of the night, hands manipulating him, pushing him closer to his fate. The woods grew steadily thicker, the night mists rising from the ground giving his surroundings an ethereal quality, until eventually, just as he thought he would pass out from fear and exhaustion, they'd entered a small clearing. The area was no more than eighteen feet wide, and lit by a small paraffin lamp. And there, waiting like a patient executioner, was the man who had ordered that the elderly spy be hauled from his bed in the dead of night and brought to this place of horror. He was slim, fit looking, and dressed in a dark suit. His short-cropped hair and hard scowl gave him the look of a man used to getting his own way. He was the Karasu.

“The Raven, I assume,” said the old man, weakly. His guards pushed him to the ground, so he was kneeling directly in front of his captor. The cold wet soil swiftly soaked through his thin pyjama trousers and he shivered.

When the Raven spoke, it was with a power and authority that belied his small frame. It was a voice which didn't shy away from issuing violent demands. “There has been much bloodshed in our underground war… but it is not unexpected. Our business takes a heavy toll in lives.”

“I understand that when you set out for revenge, you should dig two graves. Isn't that the proverb?” murmured the old man. He grimaced as the words filtered past his split lips.

The Raven ignored him, instead reaching behind his back to the scabbard which rested there. In one smooth and silent motion, he withdrew a gleaming, single-edged Ninjato sword. He held it up to carefully examine the blade's profile and then, satisfied, he lowered it to his side. “I have dug many graves, for many people. You dared to challenge me, dared to challenge my organisation. It is inevitable that I would destroy anything that stood in my way. You must surely have known that,” he said.

The old spy nodded, resigned to his inevitable fate. “It is my job, my responsibility, to stop mad men. You were just the latest in a long line.”

The Raven nodded, accepting the old man's final words. “And yet the Kyonshi will rise and grow, despite your attempts to destroy them. It is of no importance now. You have failed and the time has come for you to reap what you have sown.” In one superbly fluid motion, the Japanese man torqued his body around and let fly with the razor sharp assassins' sword. A trail of silver flashed against the blackness, a whistle of steel against air, and then the head of Sir Richard Crosby, the Chief of the Secret Intelligence Service for the past twenty years, flew into the night.

Chapter Two

ARISAIG, SCOTLAND – SEPTEMBER 1967

The small fishing village of Arisaig was looking particularly beautiful that morning, as Jack Grant emerged from his front door and took in the scene before him. Lights danced in the tiny cottages which were nestled along the coastline, breaking up the still-lingering darkness. The last vestiges of summer clung to the village and at that time of the morning, fog was still rolling in onto the land from the sea, giving the scene an ethereal quality. To Jack Grant, it always appeared as if a painting had come to life. The rain and the wind swept through the leaves into the gutter outside the small house. He turned up the collar of his waxed outdoors jacket and tucked his head down, so that his bearded chin burrowed deep into the top of his old, roll-necked jumper.

For the past year Jack Grant, a one-time member of the Secret Intelligence Service, had been working as the right hand man on his brother-in-law's fishing boat. He had left his old life behind, changed his appearance as best he could and settled down to the mediocrity of mending nets, fixing motor engines and hauling fish to market. While he was in no way contented, he satisfied himself with the fact that he was where he should be, with what was left of his family around him. This morning was the same as any other morning. He was up by five-thirty am, having breakfast while the rest of the family either slumbered on, or began to stir ready for work and school. Today though, he was driving down to Fort William to pick up an engine part for Hughie, his brother-in-law. Actually, for Hughie's aging boat, The Tempest.

He climbed into the battered and mud-splattered Land Rover, rumbled the engine to life and headed out of Arisaig. The drive was slow and carefree, with Grant taking in the stunning vista of the mountains which sheltered the village from the harshest of Scottish elements in any season. He'd been driving for no more than ten minutes when he spotted the vehicle following his old Land Rover.

He'd sensed it, before he'd seen it. A prickling of his skin, his senses trembling, the hairs on his arms standing on end – all were alerting him to the fact that he was being watched, observed, assessed and evaluated by persons unknown. Whoever it was, he was useless at vehicle surveillance. Driving a bloody big show-off car like a Jag made him stick out like a sore thumb in the rural environment. The only people who had flashy cars around here were the 'bookies', and gangsters from Glasgow, and they didn't tend to be visiting small fishing villages at five in the morning in Jack's experience. “Okay, sunshine,” he muttered to himself, his eyes never wavering from the rear-view mirror. “Let's see what your game is.”

Grant had watched the Jag's headlights, throughout the hour's drive down to Fort William. It had turned out to be so easy. Drive into the centre of town, dump the Land Rover and go about his business. It had taken him less than ten minutes of dragging himself around the stores and streets, before he'd identified his 'watcher', and then another five before he'd procured the name from his mental list of faces. Jack Grant recognised the face; a senior officer in Berlin, from bloody years ago. An Intelligence Corps Captain, attached to agent running. Penn, that was it. Jordan Penn, Jordie for short. Nice bloke. What a shame. Well Mr. Penn, thought Grant, nice bloke or not, I'm about to spoil your day.

* * *

Jordie Penn, former Captain in the Intelligence Corps, and now private security consultant to the rich and famous of Mayfair, had already had a pig of a day. He'd been on the go since three am. Jack Grant, his target, was routinely up and out early and therefore, he'd needed to be up at least several hours earlier, lying up in a spot along the route. He'd sat freezing his backside off in the Jaguar, trying not to let the windows steam up. He couldn't put the heater on, because that would mean turning on the engine and possibly alerting someone, so he'd had to leave the driver's window open to stop the condensation… and it was arse-numbingly freezing. Bloody hell!

Penn had enjoyed the drive up and through the Scottish mountains the previous day. He had taken in the majestic views of the Glens and the hills and had gloried in their ruggedness. He'd witnessed the clouds merging into, and hanging low over, the mountain peaks like some kind of camouflage. They were, he was sure, one of God's finest achievements. But it was the rain and the cold that was crucifying his part in the surveillance.

He had seen Grant – God, he had resembled a dishevelled fisherman – climbing into the Land Rover and heading off along the main arterial route down through the mountains, past Ben Nevis, and into Fort William. It had been slow going for Penn in the Jaguar, trying to keep Grant's vehicle in sight, while remaining unseen. Once they hit Fort William, it had been easier. More people, even at this early hour of the morning, had helped him to blend into the surroundings. Not that Jordie Penn was any kind of expert at hostile surveillance, far from it. His forte had been running a pathetic bunch of displaced persons as agents in post-war Berlin. So shadowing a target, even on UK soil, was something way outside of his remit. But… since his recruitment to this new operation he'd been doing an awful lot of things outside of his usual job description. The order had been given from the 'boss', so he was determined to see it through. “Follow him Jordie, get him on his own, then make the approach… bring him back into the fold,” had been his brief the previous evening.

So Penn stuck to Grant as best he could. Up and down the high street, watching where he went. It was on his second tour of the same street he'd been down less than five minutes ago, when Grant made a sudden lurch into an entryway between two shops. It was probably the access road for deliveries. Penn took his time and peered into the concrete walkway, before he cautiously followed his target. The laneway brought him out into a courtyard, full of small industrial units. Several workers glanced up and scowled at him, before carrying on with their work.

“Where the bloody hell did he go?” Penn muttered, as he started to walk back out into the street. He was halfway along the laneway when he saw the dishevelled fisherman he'd once known in Berlin and… he was coming straight at him at speed! He exhaled sharply with the impact and Grant's fist tightened at the Intelligence Corps regimental tie at his throat. Pushed backwards, his feet were kicked out from under him, and his back hit the hard ground with not inconsiderable force. Above him, the furious face of Jack Grant glared down, his fist drawn back and ready to pound his face into a bloody pulp.

Jack Grant snarled. “Well, Mr. Penn, you better tell me what you want bloody quick – or you'll be picking your teeth up with broken fingers!

* * *

Penn had been dragged to his feet and wisely, he talked… quickly. He obviously knew of Gorilla's reputation for violence and he was wise enough not to test it. “Someone wants you to attend a meeting. Now. Thirty minutes' drive from here. A private meeting.”

“Who?” snarled Grant, dusting the dust from Penn's jacket.

“I can't say. But it's a meeting you'll want to attend. It's a 'friend'.” His face had flushed under the sudden onslaught of violence from the smaller man, but he was slowly regaining his composure.

A 'friend' was an informal name for members of SIS. Grant was intrigued, but he was more than determined to play hard to get, at least until he had more solid information. “Piss off. You think I'm going to just walk into a trap? You've been at the whisky, sunshine.”

“I was told to tell you it was relating to your old offices, back at Pimlico,” said Penn reasonably.

“I've been out of that for a wee while now, I don't know anyone there anymore.”

“Nevertheless, my employer has taken great steps to keep this meeting secret. He's respecting your privacy, and your family's security.”

At the mention of his family Grant's demeanour grew even more aggressive and he glared at Penn, fury invading his face. “How long for?”

“A few hours, no more, then you can return to your village,” said Penn.

Grant weighed up his options and then issued a warning. “Any funny business and I start breaking limbs. Yours will be the first, Penn. Just so that you know. For the record… you understand?”

They travelled back in convoy, Penn leading the way in the Jaguar and Grant following close behind in the mud splattered Land Rover. The route from Fort William took them northwards, almost back to where Grant had started from that very morning in his tiny fishing village. Penn suddenly turned sharply to the left a few miles before the village, negotiating the Jaguar down a private road that was little more than a track. Less than half a mile away, through the fog and the rain, Grant could make out a large mansion house in its own private grounds. It was isolated and protected by the mountains standing guard around it on the banks of the Loch. Grant knew what it was immediately. Inverailort House was something of a legend within the quiet communities and villages in the Lochailort area. During the war, it had been one of the first Special Training Centres for the sabotage service and any number of fledgling Special Forces groups. Its grounds and rooms had played host to all kinds of nefarious black arts; small arms training, silent killing, explosives and sabotage.

Now though, the building was vacant and obviously in need of some repair. Even though the post-war years hadn't been kind to it, the house still stood formidably against the fierce weather and the elements. They parked directly in front of the main doors and Penn led the way up the stairs to the main doors. He produced an iron key from his pocket, turned it in the lock, and pushed open the large wooden door. The main reception hall was bright and airy, but with the look of a place used infrequently. The main staircase divided the hall into two large corridors and Grant estimated the mansion must have anything between ten to fifteen large rooms at its disposal.

“We go this way,” said Penn, ushering Grant down one of the grand corridors. The smell of mould and mildew filled Grant's nostrils. They carried on for a good twenty feet, past heavily-curtained windows, until they reached what had once been the main dining hall. It had definitely seen better days. The wood was warped and cracked, there was an overwhelming smell of dampness and moisture, and darkness permeated the room making it appear smaller than Grant suspected it actually was. The heavy curtains in this room had been drawn shut and the room was poorly lit by faded wall sconces. It reminded Grant of a dour church he'd been made to visit when he was a boy.

He heard Penn close the door behind them and he stepped further into the gloom. Grant took only a few faltering steps before he heard the sound of rubber tyres squeaking on the dusty wooden floor. He made out a wheelchair at the far end of the huge dining table, and watched as it slowly pivoted to reveal the silhouette of a man. The darkness disguised the features of the man's face, but Grant would have recognised the voice anywhere. In truth, he'd suspected who had summoned him, even before they left Fort William.

“You look like you haven't shaved for a month,” said the voice. It was deep, basso, commanding and in control. It was the man he'd fought side by side with, and the man he'd killed for.

It was the Colonel. Masterman. It was Sentinel.

Chapter Three

It had been a little over two years since they'd last met, at the funeral for a former Redaction team member who had been killed during an operation in Rome. Masterman, once a large and powerful man, now resembled a broken scarecrow. His frame had lost all of its bulk and his body was contorted at unnatural angles, almost as if he was wracked with pain whenever he moved. His complexion was pale, and sickly. The Colonel looked like a man ten years older than his true age. Except for the voice and of course, those eyes, which still held the familiar bombastic fire.

Masterman, to his credit, took the shock and surprise on Grant's face well. “I had a run in with some flying lead and explosives. It ripped apart most of my back, damaged my spine and broke one of my legs. Not to mention what it did to my face.” Masterman raised one hand up to the scar tissue running across his face.

Grant eased himself into a chair; he could feel his legs trembling with shock. “Jesus, Colonel, you should have let me know, I would have come—”

Masterman interrupted, clearly not interested in any pity or remorse for his plight. “Pah, you had enough to deal with. I understand that now – you'd been through a rough operation. It hit you harder than you liked to admit and the best thing for your sanity was to give yourself some air to breathe, away from the death and the killing. Not that we didn't miss you, Jack. Many a time we could have done with your pistol skills, to assist us in halting a bit of trouble.”

“What happened? Was it a mission?”

Masterman nodded, wincing with the movement. “I was ambushed by a dead man, or at least, we all thought he was dead.” Masterman paused and Grant suspected he was using the extended silence, to decide how much to tell him. Finally he said, “It was your old team mate, Trench. We had word that he'd been taken out during an operation several months before in Macau, and I had no reason to doubt the information. Until I see him sitting in a sniper's perch, shooting down my security team and killing my informant in Australia.”

For a moment Grant couldn't take it all in. Trench gone rogue! What the hell had been happening in the year since he'd left the Service?

“I never trusted the bastard, but to his credit, he was a damned good Redactor. Trench is working for some very bad people, it seems, and they're the reason I need you back in the game and operational,” Masterman added.

“What? Me! I'm out of it, Colonel,” spluttered Grant.

“Our country is under attack,” said Masterman. “And the average man and woman on the street haven't even got a clue about it… yet. Besides you're never completely out of it… not in our game.”

Grant stared at Masterman, trying to assess if his old comrade was serious. Masterman, Grant knew, wasn't prone to bouts of melodrama. He saw the fear in the other man's eyes and spoke. “Alright. Tell me everything.”

“It started with an investigation,” Masterman began. “The Chief had personally involved himself in the smallest details of the case. He judged it to be of such significant threat to the nation, that he took charge of it himself. The details, even now, are still hazy and unclear. I received a package a week after C was killed, containing copies of the evidence he'd accumulated. Sir Richard was a careful man and it seems he feared he would be a target for assassination. He had evidently chosen me to pick up the mantel and carry on the fight… little did he know, I'd been taken out of the game as well.”

Masterman glanced down at his damaged body, pausing for a moment of reflection before he carried on. “It seems the Chief had been approached directly, by a former agent from his old wartime network, someone who had been part of an operation during the war in Asia. You know how it is; sometimes old agents pop up and try to make themselves useful again. Most of the time they're just after cash, needing a hand-out and missing the workings of the intelligence game, but according to the information I inherited; this agent was unique. This man had become aware of an organisation, one that if not controlled properly, could have been a threat greater than anything we've faced so far.”

“What kind of organisation? Terrorist?” asked Grant.

Masterman shook his head. “Not exactly. It borders on a private intelligence network, subsidised by the use of mercenaries for hire, private assassins and illegal arms deals in the region. All to the highest bidder, I might add. There were even rumours that they'd waged a war with several Yakuza clans in Japan, but the Yakuza fought back by forming an alliance. It was a close run thing though, and the gangsters were lucky to make it out alive.”

“So what was the information about?”

“Just rumours at first, talk of extortion, terrorist actions, the usual rubbish that we get all the time. But this one was a bit different… there was talk of a weapon, that if unleashed could have been devastating,” answered Masterman.

Grant cocked his head to one side. “A weapon. Explosives? Missiles?”

“No. A biological weapon, something we hadn't seen before and way beyond anything our experts have at the moment. Even now, the details on it are a tad vague. The Chief communicated secretly with his former agent and requested more details. What he discovered seemed to shock him into action. According to his private diary, he immediately ordered the agent to come into protective custody and make himself known to the SIS Head of Station in Hong Kong.”

“And did he?”

“No. The agent never made it. He was found with his throat slit, the day before he was due to meet with the Head of Station. Someone had gotten to him first, before we could question him in more detail. In the months following this event, the Chief's patience appears to have grown short and he targeted SIS resources at finding out more about the people behind this organisation, and the possible whereabouts of the bio-weapon.”

Grant frowned. Whatever this bio-weapon was, it had been enough to have the Chief of the Secret Intelligence Service frightened. The whole situation seemed rather seedy and totally un-British. Since when did the SIS back down against terrorists? Something didn't add up. “What about Redaction? Couldn't you have sent the boys after them?” he asked.

Masterman paused, slowly moving his wheelchair until it was directly facing Grant. He pulled out a commando dagger from a sheath on the wheelchair, and pointed it at Grant like a schoolmaster instructing a pupil who is being particularly dense. “Redaction is gone, Jack. We were decimated. All your old team mates were wiped out by agents from this organisation. Following C's assassination and my shooting in Australia, the powers-that-be decided we'd outlived our usefulness and we should be scattered to the winds.”

Grant stared at his former leader in shock. Redaction – gone? The elite of SIS destroyed? These men had been the action arm of the British Secret Service! How could all of them have been… murdered? “What about the Service? What state is that in?”

“It's a cabal,” growled Masterman. “The lunatics have taken over the asylum, the Service is being stripped to its core and the politicians are in charge and they're making a right balls-up of it. At this rate, the Russians won't have to penetrate SIS – they'll be able to read all our secrets in the newspaper.”

“Who's in charge? Who is the new 'C'?” Grant asked. He was finding it hard to absorb all the radical changes which had apparently taken place in his old Service.

“Some career diplomat, a bit of a fop in my opinion. Sir John Hart.” Masterman shrugged, his expression softening slightly. “He's not a bad man, comes from a good family by all accounts. But he's out of his depth, and hasn't a clue how bone-to-bone intelligence operations really work. He's leaning a lot on Thorne's arm and in effect, he's taking his orders from him.”

Grant's brow furrowed. The name sounded familiar, but he couldn't quite place it. Masterman helped him out. “Sir Marcus Thorne, former member of the Service way back in the bad old days, now Deputy Chairman of the Joint Intelligence Committee. He stepped in when the crisis began, helped negotiate with these… these terrorists. His advice has been invaluable. He's been put in charge of re-aligning the old SIS departments, and bringing new people up, to take over from the old guard.”

A kingmaker, thought Grant. Someone able to wield enough power to nudge the pieces on the chess board to wherever he wanted them. The hierarchy of the intelligence world always threw up such men; power hungry, ambitious, ruthless and willing to decimate a Secret Service to achieve their aims.

“So what is all this then?” said Grant, waving a hand at their secret meeting. “If Redaction is blown, what exactly is going on with all this?”

Masterman smiled, the scars on his face wrinkling maniacally like a cruel pirate. “This is private enterprise, Jack old boy. This is deniable all the way. SIS doesn't even know we exist. They think we're all retired, disabled, injured or drunk. This is about a debt of honour. This is about pure and bloody revenge.”

* * *

“Be a good chap Jordie and put the movie on,” said Masterman. Penn flicked the switch on a hidden movie projector, bringing it to life. A white light lit up the opposite wall and the inevitable number countdown began. The film started. It was dark and grainy, but clear in its detail. The footage had obviously been taken from behind a two-way mirror. What it showed was a small cell, no bigger than a standard prison cell. Except this cell had a small aperture built into one wall, which allowed something the size of a small suitcase to be pushed through in one direction. In the other corner of the cell was a young boy, no more than ten or twelve years of age. He looked like an Asian street kid, who had been imprisoned for some petty crime. His clothes were tattered and hung off his thin frame. He was huddled on the floor, his knees drawn up to his chest.

Grant looked more closely at the footage and noticed that in the bottom corner of the room, there were ventilation grills. Some kind of smoke or mist was being filtered through them and into the cell. Not in great plumes, but enough to make the small space cloudy for a few moments at a time. The boy barely seemed to notice, his head was down as if he was trying to block out his fate. While Grant watched, he began to twitch, almost imperceptibly at first, a flinch of a shoulder, a snap of his head, the shudder of a foot then an arm.

Grant turned to Masterman, a look of confusion on his face. Masterman, as if he guessed what the other man was thinking, merely pointed a finger at the footage and said, “Keep watching.”

Grant turned back to the film and saw that the boy was now bent forward on his hands and knees. His whole body was shaking and convulsing, and it seemed to be… stretching, almost as if his bone structure was extending swiftly, visibly increasing the young boy's size. Without warning, the boy launched himself head first at the two-way mirror, and a large crack appeared where his skull impacted on the safety glass. Blood poured down his face from a gash on his forehead, but still the boy drove himself forward, banging against the glass with his fists, knees and feet. The glass was actually vibrating, from the level of punishment it was taking. Still trying to process what he was seeing, Grant was stunned when the small door in the corner of the room was lifted and, rather bizarrely, a goat was pushed into the cell before the door quickly snapped shut behind it. The boy didn't seem to notice the animal at first; still too busy using the mirror as target practice. It was only when the terrified animal bleated that the crazed boy stopped and turned. In a sharp movement he twisted his body around, leaping across the cell and onto the animal.

God he was fast, thought Grant. He'd spied the goat and moved across the room in a blur of movement.

Grant forced himself to watch the events unfolding. It wasn't pleasant and it wasn't easy, but force himself he did. The boy ripped at the small goat with his bare hands, manipulating it and pulling it down onto the floor before he set his mouth against the animal's throat. The boy's teeth found their target and when he bit deeply into the goat's neck, the blood flew. What followed was a cacophony of flying fur, snapping bones and an explosion of blood as the animal was ripped to pieces within seconds. There was a short cut away and the next scene revealed a guard wearing a gas mask entering the cell. He strode up to the boy, who was still pummelling the remains of the goat with his bloodied hands, and quickly shot the boy in the head with a pistol.

The scene abruptly cut away and the cell was replaced by a darkened room, possibly an office. A figure sat in shadow behind a desk, only the merest glint of light revealing him in silhouette. A single, well-manicured hand could be seen, the fingers drumming calmly on the desk. The rest of the body remained completely still, and when the figure spoke, his voice was deep and chilling. “I am the Raven, the gatherer of death, the demon of nightmares. I am here and I am nowhere. I will strike at the hearts of your children and take great revelry in the slaughter of your warriors. My legacy will be your torment for generations to come and you will learn to kneel before me, or face the wrath of my Kyonshi! The Karasu-Tengu will have his feast.” The screen went blank as the spool of film wound off and the room was once more shrouded in blackness, the silence thick when Jordie switched of the projector.

“What the hell was that? Is that the bio-weapon at work?” Grant asked, his face stamped with a mixture of anger and disgust.

“We call it Beserker,” said Masterman. “That's the codename we've given it. They call it Kyonshi, which is Japanese for living dead. We believe it's some kind of next-generation drug. It's far beyond anything we currently have. C's notes suggest that the weapon's initial purpose may have been targeted towards revolutionary-coup operations in third world countries; Vietnam, Bolivia and Cuba to name but a few. The toxin would be released in a confined space – say an office, or a high street – where it would interact with the local populace. The infected would begin to physically attack and kill their fellow citizens. As you can imagine, based on what you've seen in the film, it would cause widespread chaos and anarchy. Effectively, the country's own population would be fighting against itself.”

“That's insane! Innocent people would be slaughtered. Soldiers and secret police are one thing, but bio-weapons are indiscriminate about who they target,” said Grant.

Masterman nodded. “What we do know, is that it's still far from perfected as a weapon. The initial dose only lasts for up to thirty minutes and while it turns the subject violent, it dissipates quickly, providing the coup-plotters with only a short opportunity to take over. The fact that the virus doesn't work properly means the man who currently has control of it has decided to alter what it is to be used for. Military coup operations are out, so it seems, and bio-terrorism is in.”

“And the film? Where did that come from?” asked Grant.

“A package was hand delivered to our Embassy in Lisbon containing the film and a note with a demand for five million pounds sterling, paid into an account in Switzerland. We received it the day after we discovered that C had been murdered.”

“And if the five million wasn't paid?”

Masterman held up his hands. “Then the implied threat was that this bio-toxin, or whatever it is, would be released into a civilian crowd in British-held territories. The powers-that-be thought about it for all of an hour before they decided to pay up, bloody quick-smart!”

“What! I thought we don't work with terrorists?” said Grant.

“Ah, well yes, under normal circumstances that would be the perceived wisdom. But these aren't normal circumstances; I don't think any government in the world has ever had to deal with a threat like this before. Imagine if that was released in Oxford Street in London, or Princes Street in Edinburgh, or any of a dozen other soft targets. It would be catastrophic. So an arrangement was made to pay through deniable channels, as it were. Some friends in the banking industry made the arrangements and we simply reimbursed them.”

“So what changed? They've been paid; surely that's the end of it?”

Masterman shook his head. “It seems the only good blackmailer is a dead one. We've heard rumblings that they're coming back for a second bite of the cherry. From what I understand, another communiqué has been received by the Prime Minister's office with demands for more money. It has to stop… and soon. The money is a way of buying us time until we can find and kill this maniac and his mob. Unfortunately, SIS won't commit to fighting back and with Redaction gone, they're impotent to say the least. That's where we come in.”

Masterman handed Grant a piece of paper, containing a drawing of an evil looking, heavily-plumed blackbird, cradling an Oriental sword. Its beak was open wide as if to devour and the sword was held high as if to threaten. No, not a blackbird, thought Grant. The Karasu-Tengu. The Raven. A mythical Japanese demon, part-goblin and part-raven, which was a master in the art of single combat whether unarmed or with a sword.