The Citadel E-Book

John Reinhard Dizon

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

Beschreibung

Great Britain is called upon by the American President to help neutralize an international terrorist threat.

Escalating tensions within the Russian Federation lead experts to believe there is a conspiracy to destabilize its Western rivals: a mysterious arms smuggling gang is suspected of bringing weapons into the US for a series of terror attacks.

Shanahan and Gawain are teamed with EUROPOL agent Lucretia Corcosa in an effort to infiltrate the ring, and assassinate its leaders. They are drawn deep into the world of arms trading, Corsican mob and Russian espionage.

Soon, the three have to confront the most dangerous enemy they have ever faced: The Citadel.

The Citadel is a standalone novel, and can be enjoyed even if you haven't read other books in the series.

Leseprobe

The Citadel

The Standard Book 2

John Reinhard Dizon

Copyright (C) 2018 John Reinhard Dizon

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2019 by Next Chapter

Published 2019 by Next Chapter

Cover art by Cover Mint

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.

Chapter One

The Hole in the Wall restaurant in Dublin was a centuries-old pub that had been lavishly refurbished along its journey into the 21st century. A sign above the entrance announcing the Mc Caffreys Lounge and Bar gave credit where due, and the family-owned business was all about Irish hospitality toward tourists and locals who streamed through its halls. It was early evening along Blackhorse Avenue, and two groups stood on opposite ends of the sidewalk for a short while before signaling they would meet inside. They had reserved tables and were sure their business discussion would be drowned by the lively crowd.

The lovely waitress with the tight-fitting 'Keep Calm' souvenir T-shirt was wary of the situation as she arrived to take orders at the three tables in the rear corner. The six black-leathered men were grim-faced, one man at each table on either side of the corner where the other four were seated. This smelled of a gang meeting but she knew far better than to call attention to the scene. She knew of men who had their faces bashed in for such indiscretion.

“Jack feckin' Gawain,” the leader of the four-man team grinned, his lieutenant staring across the table at their guests. “How the mighty have fallen. Ye know, Mickey Donahue has it in the back of his mind this whole thing is a set-up, and I can't say I blame him. I'll tell ye, Mc Namara, if anything at all goes sideways on this deal, yer the first one to go, right before yer entire family.”

“Hey, blow it out yer ass,” Daniel Mc Namara grumbled. He was a tall, stocky man with a large skull that earned him the name Bobblehead. “I got people standin' behind me as well. They cleared him before they put him together with me, you should know that. Man's got a right to earn, everyone knows that. Maybe the Raghead's got a problem with him but we don't. He sets up shop in East Belfast on commission, it's extra income for all of us. You already know that.”

“You got questions, you ask me, I'm right here,” Gawain glared at them. He was a powerfully-built man with close-cropped dark hair and ruggedly handsome features, his dark eyes as agates. “I've got as much to worry about as anyone here, even more. If I go back inside I'll never see the light of day again. I got the Brits and the peelers so far up me arse, I fart Union Jacks. They gave me parole for takin' somebody out for 'em on condition I went clean or left the UK. I'm still here, and my buffers are so thick they can't touch me with a pole. I got no choice but for it to stay that way.”

“Yeah, we heard,” Malice scowled. He was one of the two captains of the Donahue Gang, the biggest meth dealers in Dublin. “We also heard that Jackie Raghead thinks you did in one of his guys to get yer pass. Nobody gives a piss about a Prod (*Protestant) gettin' smoked, but doin' hits for the peelers, now that's a big two-way street.”

“Ye know I'm not tellin' ye who I did in, that'd sign me own death warrant. If they could prove Raghead to be right, I'd be in the harbor right now. He made the beef just to move me outta the picture, and everyone knows it.”

“Besides, he did the work for the Brits, not the peelers,” Danny insisted. “Look, I thought this was all sorted out. You want us to walk out and start over some other time?”

“Nay, this shite is happenin' tonight. It's all set up. I answer to the Big Mick on this. I just wanna make sure everyone knows where we all stand. If anything goes wrong, Danny, there's people goin' into the ground behind ye. Ye'd best keep it in mind.”

“Tonight!” Danny protested. “I've gotta go back and clear it with my people! I'm just on authority to seal the deal, not move ahead on it.”

“There's nothing to clear,” Malice insisted. “We're movin' this across the border from Dundalk up to Armagh. It's gotta happen tonight, our connections with the Gardai guarantee they can keep the road clear until midnight. You need to make sure we get through those biker bastards past the border on the 177. Once we hit Armagh, we switch trucks and bring the merchandise into Belfast. It's a thousand for each of ye, plus it'll assure us yer both sound.”

“I've got nothin' on tap fer tonight,” Gawain sat back in his seat as the waitress brought a round of beers to the next table. “Your call, Danny Boy.”

“The pipes, the pipes are calling,” the lieutenant, Venom, crooned mockingly.

“Feckin' comedians,” Danny snarled. “Okay, I gotta make me call.”

“No way,” Malice retorted. “We got fifty thousand ridin' on this shipment. Call gets intercepted, all of us are goin' up the river, and it's the Mick who takes the bath. No phone contact until we hit the border. Both sides probably have agreements not to intercept each other's transmissions out that way.”

“What th' feck,” Danny grew upset. “Ye don't think I had anything else besides this goin' tonight? We were just supposed t'get sorted out and get set for a run.”

“Schedule change. Run happens tonight, are ye in or out?”

“An' what happens when we get to Belfast?” Danny asked as they passed out the mugs.

“Ye call yer friends an' tell 'em we're in town.”

The men finished their beers and headed to the parking lot, the four Irishmen leading the way for Jack and Danny as the two escorts followed them out. Malice pulled out his remote control, activating the car alarm on his late-model minivan. The emergency lights flashed as the eight men climbed into the vehicle and pulled out of the parking lot. Within minutes they cruised onto the highway and were en route along the R132 North towards the M1 to the Northern Ireland border.

“So you were contracted by the Brits to take out some enemy of the State,” Malice asked, passing a joint to Gawain as they sat face-to-face on the seats lining both walls of the comfortable van. “You sure they don't have ye on call in case a need arises in future?”

“Are ye questionin' Danny Boy's intelligence, him bringin' me out to meet up with you fellows for a chat like this?” Gawain took a deep drag of the joint as Venom opened up a small baggie of crystal meth.

“Not at all, fella, it just seems a waste that they'd put ye in trainin' for that sort of work an' then just let ye walk free and clear once all was said and done,” Malice replied.

“Aye, and they know I had a proclivity for such work, or they wouldn't have asked me in the first place. It wasn't like they'd culled H-Block for a babe in the woods.”

“Your reputation precedes ye, Magic Jack,” Venom snorted a line of meth before passing the switchblade and the baggie to him. “Maybe ye'd see fit to make a couple of fellows disappear for us now and again, for the right price.”

“Take care, brother,” Danny scowled. “Jack's with us now, it's not right for ye to be recruitin' from our crew, and everyone knows it.”

“Settle down, Danny Boy,” Malice replied. “We know how things are. Ye know we send fellows out in pairs to handle those kind of chores. If you and Jack make a good show of yourselves tonight, there'd be no reason why we wouldn't invite you both back.”

“You all know I'm with Billy Shamrock, I can't wander off and take contracts without his say. I do appreciate the offer, though, and I will keep it in mind if I'm ever forced to go South for whatever reason in future.”

“An' you're with Shamrock too, I take it,” Malice looked at Gawain as his eyes bulged from the lightning shot of meth that hit his brain pan.

“Shite,” Gawain blinked, his eyes watering. “That's some good stuff. Aye, well, I'm with Danny, and he's under Mick, so that's the beginning and end of it.”

“So let me get this straight,' Danny passed the joint to one of the gunmen. “You brought us along to make sure you can get from Dundalk to Armagh. Why the hell didn't you let Billy Sham know what was on before we got here? We could've had an escort awaiting.”

“It all happened too quick,” Venom explained. “We'd come here to talk just like we said. Only our cook got a big batch completed and the Mick didn't want it sittin' idle in one spot. He made a decision t'move it and the job got dumped in our laps. Look, we know Billy Sham's got the cash t'make th' buy, an' I'm sure he can move it just as quick as he can take possession. Ye've got enough tweakers in East Belfast to unload it on in less than a day, at worst. We don't foresee any problems, but if some cowboys out of Armagh decide to try a carjack, it'll avoid a lot of bloodshed if you can defuse a situation.”

“So you think if a carjack team comes against us, I'll just have 'em wait a mo' while I get Billy Sham on the line, eh?”

“Aye, something like that,” Malice managed a chuckle.

They crossed the Dundalk Western Bypass onto the Newry-Dundalk Link Road, then took the B113 into Jonesborough where they began heading south away from the highway. Both Jack and Danny grew apprehensive but said nothing. The streetlamps gave way to dimly-lit country roads, and soon they found themselves bouncing along poorly-paved dirt paths towards a desolate farm area.

“I hope you fellas aren't actin' the maggot,” Danny's eyes darted from window to window. “There doesn't seem to be a damn thing out this way.”

“We've got a place out here, we're about five minutes out,” Venom replied.

Eventually they cruised up to a gateway set within a wire fenceline, and one of the gunmen got out to unlock the entrance. The van rolled in as he relocked the gate and hopped back in, slamming the van shut as they continued towards a shadowy farmhouse ahead. Once again they veered off the dirt road towards a gravel clearing upon which sat a grain silo. The driver pulled alongside it, and both Jack and Danny breathed sighs of relief as the team humped out and headed for the silo. There were far too many stories of gangsters having been taken for one-way rides for reasons unknown to anyone but the gang boss ordering the hit.

“Aw reet, it's all here,” one of the gunmen announced as he opened the silo door. He pulled out six suitcases from the silo, passing them along to his cohorts as they loaded them into the minivan.

“Are ye blootered, man?” Danny protested. “What've ye got there, a half million worth of product? If the peelers take us down with this, they'll put us away for the rest of our lives!”

“You don't know what's in the cases, so don't feckin' bother t'ask,” Venom replied. “All you two are doin' is catchin' a ride with us. Everyone saw ye leave th' pub with us, ye've got yer alibi.”

“Now, I can't tell ye how feckin' relieved that makes me feel,” Danny was sarcastic.

It took them a few minutes to load the suitcases into the vehicle, and they were soon on their way back along the dirt road back to the highway. The team was somewhat more cautious, peering out the windows to make sure there were no other cars in the area. They cruised back onto the Newry Bypass as it coursed into the M1 heading north to Dundalk.

“So are ye goin' into Dundalk?” Gawain wondered.

“Nay, we'll stay on the M1 and switch off to A1, then take the A28 to Armagh. When the M1 changes to the N1, we'll have Danny call his people and get us some backup. I don't want t'take the chance of the Brits or the Gardai pickin' up a call from a Southern number along th' border, it might raise a red flag. Can't be too careful.”

They saw the signs indicating the northeast turnoff towards Dundalk, and continued on to Newry along the A1. Only when they approached the exit road leading into town, they saw some bikes parked along the access road that began gunning their engines.

“Aw reet, keep yer eyes peeled,” Malice warned the driver. “If the drunken bastards're out showin' off, they're liable t'cut in front o' ye.”

“Aye, I'm watchin',” the driver grunted.

Their worst fears were realized as the bikers began cruising onto the highway, causing the minivan to slow down to allow them passage. The driver cursed and swore as they continued along at 45 MPH, blocking both lanes so that the vehicle had no way to pass them by. At once they began hitting their parking brakes, and the drug runners knew there was trouble ahead.

“What kind o' hardware ye carryin' here?” Gawain demanded.

“We got Sterlings with silencers,” Venom hesitated. “Look, fella, if the Brits are in the air, we're gonna get fecked.”

“Ye shoulda thought about that before ye picked me up,” Gawain reached under Venom's seat and pulled out the submachine gun. “I go back inside, I'm in fer life. I'm not riskin' me freedom on yer bullshite alibi.”

“Feck it all, Jack,” Danny's eyes widened. “What're ye gonna do!”

Gawain reached over and threw the door open, then hopped outside with the weapon concealed behind his leg.

“Aw reet, eyeryone outta the van,” the leader of the biker team called over, jacking a shotgun as he brandished it in plain view. It was as a signal causing the other three bikers to produce their weapons and jack shells into their chambers. “Keep yer hands where we can see 'em or we take out your windshield. No one has t'get hurt.”

Gawain responded by whipping out the Sterling and opening fire on the bikers. The silencer reduced the explosions as a series of pops as the bikers fell screaming from their motorcycles to the ground. He walked over and sprayed each man in the face, causing their brains to splatter across the pavement before he returned to the van.

“What th' feck did ye just do!” Malice was aghast. “Th' feckin' road's still blocked, an' th' first motorcar that comes along'll call the peelers fer sure!”

Gawain replied by opening fire into the minivan. The gangsters screamed as the automatic rounds ripped into their bodies, though the fusillade lasted for less than half a minute. As a precaution, Gawain peered into the van before firing shots into the backs of the front seats.

“Have ye gone feckin' mad, Gawain!” Danny screamed, wiping the gore from his face that had spewed from the torn heads of the men on either side of him.

“You two,” Gawain pointed the Sterling at Malice and Venom, sitting next to the dead man draped across their laps. “Ye can buy yerself time by clearin' that road.”

“Ye crazy son of a bitch,” Malice gasped. “We'll never make it t'Armagh. Ye just fecked us all, ye sick bastard.”

Gawain stepped aside, keeping the Sterling trained on the gangsters as they stood the bikes up and rolled them off the road. He then motioned them into the front seats after they pulled the dead men out of the van. Malice gunned the engine and the minivan continued along the way to Armagh.

“What's yer move now, ye sick fecker?” Venom asked hoarsely. “The peelers'll have an APB out as soon as they come across that shite. They'll take the cases, and when the Big Mick finds out what happened…”

“Shut th' feck up an' keep drivin'.”

The minivan barely traveled ten miles before helicopters were swirling around the skies above the highway. They saw a convoy of emergency vehicles coming in from South Armagh, and one of the helicopters proceeded to shine a spotlight down on their vehicle.

“All right, pull over,” Gawain ordered.

Malice did as he was told, parking the van off to the left side of the road and cutting off the engine. With that, Gawain pulled his Glock-17 from his ankle holster and fired shots into the backs of the heads of both men in the front seats. Danny stared in horror as Gawain unbuckled his holster, rubbed it down to erase his prints, then tossed it into the front seat.

“Now then,” Gawain pointed the Glock at Danny's face as they heard the police vans screeching to a halt and barking orders over their loudspeakers. “Here's the deal. There are no witnesses to what happened back there, and no witnesses left in here. These bastards were the only survivors besides us back there, and you managed to pull your hideout before they finished us off here.”

“What hideout?” Danny croaked. Gawain rubbed the Glock off and tossed it to Danny just as the van doors were thrown open by the riflemen surrounding the vehicle.

A few hours later, on the other side of the European continent, the man known as William Bruce arrived at a chateau outside of Propriano on the island of Corsica. He was met at a private airstrip by a limousine and driven to the meeting place by a team of three black-suited men. They spoke little English, though appeared jovial and exchanged small talk among themselves. The man seated alongside him offered him a cigarette and a drink from the courtesy bar, both of which he politely declined.

It was generally acknowledged that Gilles 'The Hammer' Marotte had risen to the top of the Corsican Mob by default. At a time when American and Sicilian Mafia overlords were rejecting offers to take control of their Families due to Government crackdowns, Marotte could not resist the temptation in ascending to the throne of the Corsican Mob. Known as a cutthroat in all phases of Mob operations, his path was littered with corpses along his way to the top of the volcano. He was now in control of one of the most powerful factions of organized crime in Europe, and was faced with a major issue that had to be resolved this evening.

William was escorted through the massive pillars supporting the portico leading into the palatial estate overlooking the hill-covered terrain. The three men brought him to where four plainclothes armed guards led him across the marbled patio to the massive wooden doors leading to the enormous lobby area. They continued down a long carpeted hall to a great study hall that resembled the interior of a museum. It was here where Gilles Marotte awaited.

“Welcome, my friend, have a seat,” Marotte came over to shake hands. He was a powerfully-built man with graying hair, steely eyes and a lantern jaw. He wore a $1,000 red satin robe and smoked with a long cigarette holder. He sat at a throne-like chair at the round table in the center of the lavishly-carpeted circular room which featured bookcases rising two stories high to a steel-framed sky dome.

“It is an honor and privilege to meet you,” William smiled, gazing out at the Olympic-sized pool beyond the plate glass windows facing the breathtaking view of the moonlit landscape. “This is a wonderful place you have here.”

“The rewards of a lifetime of loyalty and hard work,” Marotte smiled wryly as a gigantic bodyguard arrived with a tray containing a bottle of $2,000 Spanish cognac, two glasses and a small bucket of ice. He poured the bronze liquid into the short-stemmed goblets and handed one to each man before taking his leave.

“Exquisite,” William smiled after sipping from his glass. “You have excellent taste.”

“A man's taste often becomes a measure of his character: the friends he chooses, the clothes he wears, the place where he lives. No matter how lofty or humble, it is important that he chooses well,” Marotte spoke with a clipped French accent. “I believe one's choice of friends is the most important. Honorable men go with honorable men, do you agree?”

“Yes, most certainly.”

“Your friends are somewhat enigmatic. As it's written in the Bible, they are like the wind. No one knows where they come from or where they go. This European Council of yours appears to be shrouded in secrecy. Even our highest connections in INTERPOL are unable to access the classified files on their activities. It's a level of security normally reserved for military communications.”

“This is the key to our strength,” William folded his hands. “Consider the fact that our network is economic in nature and our negotiations conducted entirely in cyberspace. Our membership is comprised of speculators who invest in enterprises that are not always considered legitimate by the global community. Rest assured that if our members were exposed, the shock waves would impact the nations of the world. The benefit to you is that no one could ever prove that you had anything to do with us, because they could never prove we exist.”

“So even if you were captured and tortured, there would be little that you could divulge.”

“Sad but true.”

“Yes, I agree,” Marotte leaned back in his throne. “Of course, we are meeting here to discuss an entirely different matter. Tell me your thoughts about Emiliano Murra.”

“A very capable man,” William weighed his words carefully. “A man of honor. On a personal level, I found him to be quite sociable, one quite easy to do business with.”

“Did you ever find any reason to think him careless in any way?”

“No, not until the details surrounding his death were made known. I believe there were many things we will never know. I think the lack of knowledge will cause the reasons behind Emiliano's death to be forever obscured.”

“Did you ever discuss Enrique Chupacabra with him?”

“One thing we never discuss is opinions about business associates,” William was emphatic. “When the Council decides to do business with another group, we see their representatives as being just that. To denigrate the agent is to disrespect the association. Discrepancies are reported and resolved on higher levels. I never saw any reason to give a bad report on Mr. Chupacabra.”

“Yet it was you who put Emiliano together with Chupacabra. You never saw such a thing like this coming?”

“I had—heard rumors that Chupacabra might have been making deals on the side that were peripheral to the scope of our operation,” William admitted. “Yet from what I understood, that was—is—the nature of the drug trade. The more money you lay at the feet of your superiors, the quicker you rise within the organization. We saw no reason to anticipate any foul play or double-cross on the part of Chupacabra, and in my opinion I do not believe Emiliano had any part in anything Chupacabra might have been involved in.”

“You and your superiors are aware that one of the gold shipments had been tampered with. Tungsten bars had been substituted for gold bars that had been laundered through the Bank of Montreal by Amschel Bauer. Thanks to Bauer's wizardry, even the Mounties were unable to trace the transaction. The problem we have is that there are still people within the Colombian Cartel who suspect us of complicity in the swindle. With Bauer in prison and our trust betrayed, this grand scheme of an international crime syndicate controlling the global economy has gone up in smoke.”

“As you say, we have come together to put the matter of Emiliano Murra to rest and move on to greater and bolder enterprises,” William replied.

“Yes we have. I have a couple of questions.”

“Certainly.”

“What would cause a man like Emiliano Murra, a man who built his career on never making mistakes, to make the one fatal error that cost him his life? And, why is it that reliable sources maintain that you were the last person to see Emiliano prior to his death?”