Whipped Up E-Book

Stuart G. Yates

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

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

For Ryan Chaise, a return to the UK is a return to his old ways. Desperate to find his girlfriend, he's looking to heal old wounds and make it right.

Unfortunately, the British Security Service has something else in mind. The thought of a rogue agent on the streets is simply something they cannot allow. And then there's the problem of the people Chaise crossed back in Spain. They are out for retribution.

Once again, Chaise will need all of his skills and assets to survive. But does he still have what it takes to make it out alive?

Leseprobe

WHIPPED UP

RYAN CHAISE BOOK 2

STUART G. YATES

CONTENTS

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

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About the Author

Copyright (C) 2021 Stuart G. Yates

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2022 by Next Chapter

Published 2022 by Next Chapter

Edited by Jayne Southern

Cover art by CoverMint

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.

For my good friend, Terry Needham, who enjoyed this one first time out and to Nick who didn’t know I wrote ‘spy thrillers’.

PROLOGUE

IN THE DEBRIS OF EAST CONGO ...

For two days now, Esteban had holed himself up in the almost demolished apartment block overlooking the main highway that snaked through the rubble of this shattered suburb in the eastern part of the Democratic Republic of Congo. Highway was perhaps too exotic a word for a rutted track, interspersed with rocks and boulders and the occasional unexploded shell, which led to the still beautiful city of Bukavu. Vehicles rarely travelled its length.

Throughout the many long hours, Esteban waited, only three broken-down carts, pulled by scrawny looking oxen, had trundled by.

Alongside this track stood the remains of shattered buildings, once inhabited by a lively, cheery populace. Now, most of them dead, only piles of broken, blasted masonry remained, sad, vague memories of homes and families. Jagged twisted steel rods burst through splintered concrete, whilst next to them scorched thatch collapsed inside shattered mud-brick huts. An eclectic mix of the old and the new, devastated by a war proving impossible to win by either side.

A dog barked from somewhere in the distance, but no human activity encroached. The immediate area remained desolate. The stillness suited him; the heat didn’t. Nor the humidity which left his clothes soaking, clinging to him like a second skin. Dark grey stains of stale sweat covered the upper half of his t-shirt, and the reek of his own stink turned his stomach. He stretched out his legs as far as possible, easing out the cramps. He dragged the back of his hand across eyes burning with sweat and concentration.

He ignored the discomfort, blocking it, except for the stench. He didn’t like being dirty. He needed a shower, or better still a luxurious hour in a deep, hot bath, music softly—

Something moved.

Esteban switched off all extraneous thoughts and squinted down the sight of his Barrett-M82 sniper rifle as two figures emerged from the entrance to the underground bunker.

The entrance looked just like any other gaping hole amongst all the crumpled rubble, but Esteban knew it was there. He had always known it was there.

The first man appeared tense as he scanned the surrounding buildings. A bodyguard, an AK-47 slung across his chest, a Kevlar helmet painted dark brown with sunglasses perched above the rim. The dark green combat jacket and matching trousers, tucked into high-laced boots, completed the picture of a soldier on high alert. A big man, shoulders rounded, bare arms bristling with muscles, he moved his head from left to right, surveying the immediate area. Esteban sensed his stress level even from this distance.

Next to him, and slightly behind, the second man stood tall and angular, his camo gear hugging a hard, rigid physique. His boots glinted in the sunshine, black and highly polished, the silver automatic in its holster suspended from a new-looking ammunition belt. Bareheaded, a youthful face belied what lay behind his eyes: the cold, clinical single-mindedness, the obsessive desires, the endless capacity for violence.

Known to the world as Jimmy Spooks, Esteban did not know his real name, nor did he care. He’d waited here for days, out of sight, knowing that finally the target would appear. The only requirement patience, of which Esteban had an endless supply.

He was almost six hundred metres away. An easy shot. Jimmy Spooks, wanted by virtually every government agency on Earth. A feared warlord, deranged many said, who recruited children from as young as eight, nurtured them, taught them how to kill. And they had killed: tens of thousands of people brutally massacred in a guerrilla war many believed would never end.

Nobody even knew where to find him, this Jimmy Spooks.

Most thought he lived in the jungle, moving from one ramshackle camp to the next, a phantom, never leaving any clues as to his next stop. Special Forces scoured every tree, but nobody found any sign of Jimmy Spooks.

Except Esteban, and not in the jungle. His instincts had brought him to this area; a few interviews with barely alive locals, the handing over of American dollars, had paid off. He had what he wanted, and so had they; the promise of Jimmy Spooks’ death. Still fearful, the informers had left the country on what Esteban had given them. None believed that Esteban would succeed.

Elsewhere, the search continued. No one uncovered any clue as to Jimmy’s whereabouts, nevertheless, they carried on searching in all the wrong places.

Rumour had it the Russians were out there, the French. Certainly the Americans. The British had kept their distance, none of this anything to do with them.

Except they had employed Esteban.

He shot Jimmy Spooks in the forehead, the high-calibre bullet blowing off the back of his head as it exited his skull, a plume of blood following bone and brains. The guard jumped with shock but before he could even turn, Esteban shot him in the throat. A snapshot, the man ducking low. Jimmy Spooks, the main target, lay dead but Esteban didn’t want anyone to know what had occurred here, or how. He hit the guard a second time, just above the left eye, as he pitched backwards to the ground.

Before the blood had even started to congeal, Esteban slipped away from his hideaway, unseen and unheard.

The hum of the air conditioner proved a faint distraction as he sat in the exquisitely furnished office just around the corner from St. James’s Park. It was what he had always imagined Edwardian to be; soft, plush leather chairs, deep-piled carpet, hand-woven wallpaper hyphenated by watercolours of rural scenes. All of them genuine. All of them worth a small fortune.

Beyond the wide, deep desk, a large green door opened and Harper entered. He barely looked at Esteban as he sat down and picked up the manila file in front of him. He tapped the photograph of Jimmy Spooks and pressed his lips together.

“Good work.”

Esteban shifted position in his chair, the heat inching up from his shirt collar, feeling uncomfortable. Although he loved the opulence of this room, the intensity of the occasion disturbed him a little. He would much rather be on the other end of a gun than have to sit here under this man’s gaze. “Thank you.”

Harper flipped through the file. “Everyone is up in arms, of course, shouting State-endorsed murder, but no one can prove anything, not even those snoopers from the various television channels.” He smiled. “All in all, a most professional and satisfactory outcome.”

Esteban said nothing.

Harper slapped the folder shut and pulled out another. He turned it so Esteban could see the face.

“This man. He is returning to the UK, at our behest.”

Esteban frowned.

Harper ignored him and carried on. “An incident, in Spain. Didn’t go too well, and he rather took things into his own hands, with a little too much enthusiasm. Caused us some concern. Still does. He’s what might be termed a rogue.”

“A rogue? What is that?”

“Someone who works alone, without orders. For the most part it goes fairly smoothly, but ...” He shrugged. “Sometimes, like now, we have problems. It is an inherent trait of the beast itself.”

“Pardon?”

“The beast – the rogue. It is in his make-up to be difficult, unpredictable. Often, giving so much freedom to an operative can lead to ... excess.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Do you need to?” Harper leaned forward, clasping his hands together in an attitude of prayer. “We’ve recalled him, and now we want to try to slow him down a little. Give him the opportunity to conform. But, I’m not so sure.” He chewed at his lip. “This is where you come in. You are to be his shadow, his invisible nemesis.”

Esteban’s frown grew deeper.

Harper raised his eyes for a moment before he continued. “Follow him wherever he goes and target him. Make his routine your routine. Be fully prepared, Esteban, because when he goes off the rails – and I believe he will – I want you to be there and to kill him. Understood?”

“Absolutely.” Esteban flicked open the file and read the information, which was scant, and gave no hint why Harper thought this man so dangerous. He closed the file and stared at the photograph, paper-clipped to the cover, the face of a hard-jawed man of indeterminate age. “Who is this man? His name?”

“His real name is of no importance.” Harper sat back in his chair and let out a long sigh. “The name he lives by now is Ryan Chaise.”

ONE

He stood at the top of the aircraft steps and took a moment to look around. The grey sky matched his mood, and the fine drizzle didn’t help either. Not for the first time he wondered about the rightness of his actions.

Coming back home.

There was Linny, of course. She figured largely in the decision, rather more than the coercion perhaps. Being told what to do was not something that came easily to Ryan Chaise.

The air stewardess touched his arm and smiled. She beckoned him to continue; some disgruntled passengers wanted to disembark as quickly as possible. Lost in his thoughts, he hadn’t noticed. He gave a nod of apology and descended. Overhead a plane soared into the sky, all around the noise of jet engines and the smell of kerosene invaded his senses. The steel steps clanged under his shoes, each one sounding like a death knell. Back home. Blighty. He sucked in a breath, hating it as much now as he ever did.

He’d been in the Costa del Sol for a long time, building up a comfortable little niche for himself selling real estate to the ex-pats. He’d done well, managed to earn enough to buy a beautiful villa, which Linny loved. Life was good, at first. Everything came tumbling down when he became involved with gangsters and drugs. None of it of his own making, but that hadn’t prevented Linny from leaving him.

She was sick of the lies, she’d told him. Sick of the way he kept his past so secret. She’d never understood; how could she? He’d created a protective layer of deceit and for a few years, it had remained intact, with no hint of who he really was.

Nothing about his life as a covert killer in Iraq, the follow-up operations in Bahrain, Kosovo or Pakistan. He couldn’t reveal anything. He’d signed the papers, and the men in grey suits had him under their thumbs.

The shit hit the fan in Spain when he’d killed one of their own. Since then he had become an undesirable, a threat. They’d recalled him, leaving few options other than to acquiesce. The alternative meant death – his own.

He went through the various exits and down an endless stream of corridors. When he finally arrived at the passport desk – or should that be control, he wondered – he felt tired and hot. Some idiot had put the heating on.

A smiling security guard in navy blue uniform guided him towards one of the queues. Hundreds of people milled about. Britain, gripped with paranoia over terrorist activity and the continuing pandemic, had up-graded its passport controls. Chaise couldn’t work out whether it had more to do with illegal immigrants than bomb threats.

The politicians vied to hit the right nerves; preventing anyone not ‘British’ from trying to enter the country was always worth a few votes, with Eastern Europeans in particular blamed for the nation’s ills. Strange how all the hotheads kept quiet when a ‘white Anglo-Saxon’ committed an outrage. None of them grasped the simple truth that good and bad resided in everyone, regardless of colour or creed.

He took a breath, sick to the back teeth of such thoughts. He’d never been able to get inside the heads of racists, nor did he wish to. His own troubles monopolised his time now, chief amongst them being how to get in touch with Linny.

Finally, his turn arrived and he stepped up to the little cubicle. Chaise presented his passport and the customs officer scanned it. She stopped, pulled a face and studied her monitor. He knew what would come next. He watched her turn to a colleague standing with arms folded some way behind her. She motioned him to approach. An exchange of whispered comments, followed by a quick glance towards Chaise. The colleague stepped away and pulled out his mobile.

Chaise stood and waited, his breathing shallow and controlled. This was what he’d expected, but it irked him nevertheless.

After a short while, two more uniformed men arrived. These were a different species: big, serious looking, with automatic rifles strapped across their chests. Another brief exchange and they came up to him, one on either side. “Can you come with us, sir?”

Stupid question. Chaise shrugged, accepting there was little gain in taking the men apart. He nodded to the customs clerk and went wherever the men with guns wanted to take him.

He didn’t know how long he sat in the tiny, clinically-clean room in which they’d deposited him. Before leaving, they’d taken his watch, trouser belt, wallet and passport. He wore slip-on shoes, otherwise, he felt sure they would have taken the laces from them as well. Now, alone, he sat and waited. Lacking a window, the room felt claustrophobic, with nothing but a small table and the strip light for company. In the corner, high up, a security camera. A little green light blinked underneath the lens. Did that mean it was operating, or not? Chaise didn’t really care. He closed his eyes and slept.

When the door flew open, he woke with a start, turned around. Two men came in, one of them moving behind the opposite side of the desk. He sat down, dropped a manila file on the top and leaned forward on his knuckles. He didn’t look happy. “My name is Commander Mellor,” he said.

This revelation failed to impress Chaise. He merely gave Mellor a blank stare.

The Commander scowled, somewhat put out by Chaise’s lack of reaction. “I have a message,” he said. “From London.”

“Where are my things?”

Mellor blinked. “What?”

“My things. My passport, my watch. Why did you take my watch?”

Mellor shook his head. “Didn’t you hear what I said? I have a message for you, from Control.”

A heavy silence descended. Chaise looked from Mellor to the other man and back again. “And?”

“You’re a surly sod,” said the man positioned against the wall. Chaise gauged the distance and knew he could be at his throat before anyone could react fast enough to stop him. He noticed the man had a gun in a hip holster, and he filed it for later. He might need it.

“Don’t waste your breath, Simms,” said Mellor, his eyes narrow. “Our Mr Chaise doesn’t like authority, do you, Mr Chaise?”

“Why don’t you just tell me what the message is, then give me back my things.”

“We keep the passport.”

“Like fuck you do.”

“Listen, Chaise, you’re here at the behest of Her Majesty’s Government. You don’t make the rules, Chaise – we do.”

“So tell me what the rules are.”

“We have a flat for you. Simms here will take you, help you settle in. Someone will be in touch. Until such time, you stay quiet, keep your nose clean. You crossed the line over in sunny Spain, now it’s time for you to toe it.”

“Jesus, where the hell did they find you?”

“I told you, Chaise, I’m a commander in the Royal Navy. You’d do best to remember that.”

“And you’d do best to remember that I am also a commander ... at least I was, last time I checked.”

“London wants you to stay at the flat, keep low. They will want to talk to you about a few things. In particular, why you killed Embleton.”

“He was about to rape my girlfriend.”

“Well, that’s as maybe, but London will need to get it all straight, with no misunderstandings on either side. Until then you do as you’re told.”

“I need to find her. Linny. My girlfriend. She left. That’s the only reason I’m here, not to answer questions or kiss the arse of anyone from Control.” He stood up. “Now, if you’ll give me my passport, I’ll be on my way.”

“Sit down, Chaise,” said Simms, sounding bored. “You heard what the Commander said; you’re coming with me to your new flat.”

“No,” said Chaise and looked deep into Mellor’s eyes. “Tell London that I’ll be in touch, when I’m ready, not before.”

Mellor straightened and tapped his finger on the cover of the manila file. “It says in here you can be difficult.”

“Does it really? Where’s my passport?”

Mellor reached inside his jacket. Chaise spotted the gun.

The passport fell to the desktop. “I’ll do a deal,” said Mellor. “You can keep the passport, if you go to the flat.”

“I’m going up to Liverpool,” Ryan said quietly. “To find Linny.”

“London won’t allow that.”

“London can kiss my arse.”

Simms moved, reached for the gun at his hip. He probably thought it would intimidate Chaise, cause him to rethink his approach.

The elbow hit Simms under the chin, snapping his head back, stunning him. In one easy movement, Chaise twisted behind him, locked Simms’s arm, wrenched the gun free, and pointed it directly at Mellor, who sat and gaped, everything happening too fast for him to react.

“Now,” said Chaise, applying more pressure on Simms’s wrist. The man squealed, Mellor closed his eyes and sighed. “I want you to put all my things on the table then take off your shoes and trousers whilst Mr Simms and I go for a little drive.”

“You’re being bloody stupid, Chaise.”

“It’s in my nature. So is killing people who don’t do what I ask.”

It took only a few moments for Mellor to comply. With his few belongings secured, Chaise left the airport with Simms. In one hand he held his suitcase and Mellor’s bundled up clothes, in the other the trim Walther automatic relieved from Simms. Simms himself didn’t appear too happy and spent most of the stroll across the car park rubbing his swollen wrist.

When they reached the car, Simms handed over the keys and Chaise hit him very hard in the solar plexus. The man folded and fell to his knees, groaning loudly. Chaise pushed him aside, opened the car door, threw his bag in the rear seat and slid in behind the wheel.

On the way out, he saw Simms in the rear-view mirror, still down on his knees, taking time to recover. For a moment, Chaise thought that perhaps he should have killed him. The man would almost certainly come looking for him. But it had been a bad start to the day. Chaise didn’t really want it to become so much worse.

TWO

By the time Chaise reached the motorway, Simms was back at the airport interview room. He found Mellor still there, looking sheepish.

“Well?”

“He took the car.”

Mellor nodded and reached for his mobile. He punched in a few numbers and waited, arching a single eyebrow towards Simms and motioning for him to sit down, before he spoke into the phone. “He has flown.” He listened, winced, switched it off and steepled his fingers. “Don’t suppose you got my trousers back?”

“No, sir. He kept them.”

“Maybe he liked the colour.”

Simms’s face registered not a flicker. “Maybe. He also took my gun.”

“That was to be expected. I’ll need you to go out to Burtons or somewhere and buy me another pair. Brown will do. I’m a thirty-eight waist, twenty-nine inside leg.” He pulled out some banknotes from his wallet and pushed them across the desk to Simms.

“I’m going to kill him when I find him.” Simms put the money into his pocket.

“No, you won’t.” Mellor leaned forward. “You’ll do your bloody job, understand? He’s gone, just as we planned. He doesn’t know we’ll be watching his every move, and that’s good. It’s worked. He’s duped.”

“He hit me, and nobody does that.”

“This is not a suggestion, Simms. It’s an order.”

Simms stiffened. “Yes, sir. Sorry.”

“If he steps out of line, then you can do what you need to do.”

Simms allowed himself to relax, and a tiny smile fluttered around the edges of his mouth. “Let’s hope he does.”

“Just go and get me the trousers.”

Not so very far away from where Mellor and Simms sat, in another small office a few metres from Westminster Palace, Harper rapped his fingers on the telephone receiver for a few moments before he buzzed his secretary. “I’m going to see the Minister.”

It was a short walk through the underground corridor linking Harper’s office to Whitehall. He enjoyed the few moments of solitude along this subterranean system Winston Churchill ordered built during the Second World War. It had served its purpose then, and still did, especially when the rain beat down as it did today.

The secretary barely glanced at him and pointed her pencil towards the Minister’s door. Harper stopped, straightened his tie, and went through, giving a tiny knock as he did so.

The Home Secretary sat reading a file as Harper entered. He’d been in this room many times, having served under several ministers, some of them vagaries of international affairs, others couldn’t give a damn. This particular one fell somewhere in the middle, a man with an agenda, out to make his mark. So Harper sat, looked around the modern, Spartan room, and waited. And waited.

“This Chaise is quite a character,” said the Home Secretary at last. He took off his reading glasses and folded them very carefully. He held them in both hands as he stared hard at Harper. “You think you can control him?”

“I believe so, Minister. But we have the back-up, just in case.”

“The idea of somebody out of control, roaming our streets is not a comfortable one, Harper.”

“I know sir, that is why we—”

“Nor is the idea of employing … what word did you use ...?” He flipped open the file and scrolled down the tightly printed words using the ear-stem of his glasses. “Yes … using a freelance.” He slapped the manila folder shut. “I don’t like that, Harper. I want our own people for this type of work, not outsiders.”

“He’s very good, sir. He took care of dear Jimmy for us.”

“Yes, but dear Jimmy was shot in a Central African backwater, not on the streets of Britain. I don’t want any unpleasantness if this all gets out of hand. We’ve had enough of answering awkward questions in the House, and God help us if some over-ambitious journalist got hold of this. I would prefer us not to be likened to Mossad,Harper.”

Harper shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the next. “I doubt it will come to that, Minister.”

“So why hire this Esteban individual in the first place?”

“Insurance, Minister. You can never be too careful with the likes of Chaise.”

“One of the best it says here,” he stabbed at the file with his index finger. “And now he feels hard done-by. We need to reassure him, not alienate him.”

“I’m keeping a close eye on him, Minister. I’m confident things will not get out of hand.”

The Home Secretary narrowed his eyes, taking note of Harper’s tone when re-using his own phrase. He grunted. “If they do, you’ll use this Esteban?”

“That is the plan, yes … but …” he spread out his hands, “… I think everything will be all right.”

“I can’t take the risk, Harper. I want our best man on this.”

“Esteban is our best man, sir.”

“No. For all the reasons I’ve mentioned, it simply is not acceptable. I’ve been talking to MI6.”

Harper’s face drained of colour. “Minister, I’m not sure if that’s such a good—”

“They have provided us with an operative, and he will be working undercover to shadow Chaise. He’s already on his way to Liverpool where he—”

“Minister, I really must object to—”

“I’ve given him carte blanche, Mr Harper. He is good, low-key, and experienced. Most importantly,” he gave an oil slick of a smile, “he is answerable to me. But I’m not an autocrat, Mr Harper. Naturally, you can continue to keep your man on the ground, so to speak, but all operational decisions will go through this office, and then to my man. I want that clearly understood. Your job is to ensure these instructions go down the line, Mr Harper. I will not tolerate any unsanctioned actions from officers ignorant of my wishes – or who claim to be. All clear?”

“Perfectly Minister. Is the Prime Minister aware, sir?”

“I’ll ignore that rather inane question, Mr Harper.” He stood up and wandered to the window and, hands behind his back, stared out across the expanse of Horse Guards Parade. “All being well, as long as we remain in the shadows this Chaise character will be unaware of our close proximity, and simply live a normal, quiet life. But if he should begin killing people, Mr Harper ...” he turned, “… in that instance, we could use Mr Esteban. Until then, we keep it very much under wraps and out of sight. Agreed?”

“It was never my intention to use Esteban in any other way but to—”

“Are we agreed, Mr Harper?”

“Yes, sir. Absolutely.”

“Good. I want weekly updates, Mr Harper. I shall pay you the same courtesy.”

The interview was over.

Harper went out and closed the door behind him. He leaned back against the woodwork and let out a long breath. What he’d experienced was akin to the worst excesses of Adolf Hitler’s administration, when he ordered two or three different departments to do the same job, with each remaining in ignorance of the other. Hitler would then sit back and enjoy the ensuing chaos.

Harper wondered if the Home Office operated in a similar way, because this plan would lead to disaster, and Esteban was out there, difficult to contact depending on his location. Part of the beauty of using freelancers such as Esteban was that they were anonymous, invisible. Whoever this agent from MI6 was, he had better be careful, because going up against Chaise and Esteban was not something to be advised.

“Are you all right, Mr Harper?”

It was the secretary with the pencil, with which she was drumming her perfect teeth.

Harper sighed and shook his head, “No. I most definitely am not.”

THREE

When Frank came through the door of the club, two couples writhed around the small stage. He gaped. Johnny Stokes watched intensely, his eyes glued on the bald, skinny black guy who had a cock as big as Frank’s forearm. The girl beneath him had her knees pressed back against her breasts as the guy drilled her with long, deep thrusts, rotating his hips to grind into her. Covered in sweat, her moaning constant and very loud, Frank thought she sounded in pain.

The more he watched, however, the more he realised her cries were those of pleasure.

His gaze shifted to the other couple, and the girl bouncing up and down on another guy’s cock. She seemed bored and he didn’t appear very interested either, both of them going through a well-rehearsed act. She had difficulty keeping his flaccid cock inside her.

Frank stepped up behind Johnny and breathed into his ear, “What the fucking hell is going on here?”

Johnny, who wore a grey flannel suit, with a satin shirt also in grey, and a bootlace tie, almost jumped out his skin, upturning the stool on which he sat in his surprise, stood up and gaped at his boss. “Jesus, Frank, you scared the fucking life out of me.”

The girl under the black guy screamed, “I’m gonna come, I’m gonna come,” and Frank noticed Johnny was close to doing the same, his erection tenting his trousers. “I asked you what the fuck is going on.”

“I’m auditioning, Frank. Live sex show.”

“Oh shit, I’m gonna come!”

Frank glanced towards the stage and at that moment, she orgasmed, arching her back, going into some form of fit, legs thrashing, arms flapping around as if she were trying to fly. The black guy gently withdrew his enormous member and she squirted all over him.

“Get rid of them.”

“But, Frank, I—”

“Now.”

Johnny immediately clapped his hands twice. “Okay, okay, thanks everyone ...” He went up to the black guy and said something to him as the other ‘performers’ gathered up their clothes and crossed the dance floor towards the exit. The girl who had orgasmed so demonstratively took her time, looking shaken and breathing hard. “You, darlin’,” said Johnny with a lewd grin, “This Friday, eleven o’clock.”

Frank didn’t give them so much as a glance as they trooped out. He went around the far side of the bar and poured himself a whisky. He drained it in one and poured a second. “I asked you to do something for me, Johnny, not conduct some sort of private peep show.”

“Frank, I told you, it was a—”

Frank held up his hand, “Yeah, you said. An audition. I’m not interested, Johnny, I just want to know what you’ve found out.”

Johnny took a handkerchief out of his breast pocket and dabbed his forehead. “Not a lot, sorry to say.”

With great care, Frank put down the glass on the counter and rotated it three hundred and sixty degrees, “You better not be joking, Johnny, because I want to know where that little shit is and I want to know now.”

Johnny looked as if a wasp had stung him, his face twisting up in discomfort. He shook his head, “He’s gone.”

“Gone? Gone where?”

“Back to the UK.”

Frank took a few seconds to mull over the news. His voice held a hint of menace when he said, “And his girlfriend?”

“The same. He’s left Spain and has gone looking for her.”

Frank thought for a moment, chewed his bottom lip, then gave Johnny his finest Clint Eastwood, “Well, you get yourself over there and fucking well find them.” He picked up the glass and studied it. “I want him dead,” he yelled and brought down the glass with a solid crack on the counter. It was a heavy glass and didn’t smash, which was fortunate for Frank’s hand.

“But what about the club, Frank? Who’s going to look after everything?”

“I couldn’t give a flying fuck about any of that, Johnny. That bastard is responsible for the murder of my wife and I want him dead, his girlfriend dead, and anyone who knows him or even looks at him across a crowded room dead. I want his head on a silver platter, delivered to me in a fortnight, or I’ll fucking have you killed too.”

“Frank, you can’t—”

“I’ve sorted it. You fly over there and you’ll have all the help you need. You find him and you kill them both. You do the girl first, and you make sure he sees and knows why. You understand?” Johnny nodded without a word. “You ask her friends where she’s gone, and then you go and do it. I’m holding you personally responsible for this, Johnny, so you better not make a balls up.”

“I won’t, Mr Leonard, I promise.”

Frank nodded and fixed himself another drink. He took a few deep breaths before staring Johnny straight in the face. “Now, before you go, you tell me how the black guy managed to make that girl squirt.”

FOUR

Colin Brace often spent Friday afternoons in the public library. He had never completely embraced new technology and despised the idea of seeking out information on the Internet. Instead, he preferred to scour through encyclopaedias, maps and other reference materials to find what he needed.

The librarian was a pleasant-looking woman of around forty-five, with a trim figure and sparkling eyes. One of the main reasons for Colin visiting the library was not only to use books but to see her. He gained a lot of pleasure knowing she would be behind the desk, usually with her spectacles perched on the end of her cute nose as she studied the computer screen. A little thrill of expectation always ran through his tummy as he bounded up the steps to the reference section. Today, however, she was not there, and at once he felt deflated.

“Where’s Miriam?” he asked.

The sour-faced replacement looked up from her work and frowned. “Sick.”

Shocked, Colin swallowed down his concern, “It’s not … you know …”

She gave him a filthy look and an emphatic, “No.”

He sighed in relief and leaned forward. “I need some books about Spain.”

“Geography section,” the woman said and pointed in a vague direction. He bristled, knowing if it were Miriam behind the counter he would have lingered longer, asked her to accompany him in his search, her scent filling his nostrils, stirring his loins. But this woman brought no such urge and so, without another word, he went over to the bookshelves and found what he sought. He pulled down several large books.

One other person sat in the huge reading room, immersed in a newspaper, and Colin had no problem finding an empty table. He put down the selected volumes and sifted through the contents.

The hours drifted by and, with the desired information gathered, he returned the books to their places and went out, giving only the briefest of nods to the librarian.

Once outside, Colin scanned the grey, featureless car park before getting into his old, battered Clio.He took a route out of the busy town and headed towards the river and an anonymous-looking brick blockhouse some five miles away.

The sign said ‘Her Majesty’s Customs and Excise’, the worn, battered sign echoing the tired, uncared-for exterior of the building. He paused and peered up at the closed-circuit camera before running his security card down the sensor on the wall beside the door, which gave a small sucking sound and whispered open. He stepped inside.

At a cramped desk, a pair of brutish-looking security guards nodded and waved him forward. They knew him well. Without a word, Colin went down the narrow dimly lit corridor and took the last door on the right into a large, gloomy, airless space, weak lights casting insipid pools onto the floor. As he walked on, sensors flicked on the ceiling lights and he stopped and winced at the sudden glare. The padded room, partitioned by a low wall with a narrow entrance between, was deathly quiet.

Colin stepped through the gap and peered down to the far end where life-size targets of various sizes waited, suspended by thin wires. Most were of men holding Kalashnikovs.

“Hello, Colin,” said a voice.

Colin squinted and saw Norfield, the armourer, emerging from a dark corner busily cleaning the cylinder of an old but dependable Smith and Wesson hammerless snub-nose. He checked his watch and smiled. “Aisle three, please.”

Colin took off his jacket and draped it over the back of a chair. He wandered to aisle three to a trestle table with several firearms laid out: two automatics, a six-round magnum and a .38 calibre Colt. A pair of earphones hung from a hook and Colin put them on. He checked the magnum was loaded, brought it up, and fired off four quick rounds.

Even with the ear protection, the noise was tremendous. As the cordite dispersed, he squinted down the aisle to the cardboard figure some twenty-five metres away. At four bullet holes, neatly spaced around where the heart would be.

Without a pause, he moved to the Colt, checked it and went through the same operation, followed by each of the automatics. His ears were ringing by the time he’d finished. He glanced sideways to find Norfield at his shoulder, who handed over the tiny snub-nosed gun. Without a word, Colin squeezed off two rounds at another target. Then, he pulled off his earphones and gently put the gun on the table.

“It’s untraceable.”

“So it should be.” Colin smiled. “It’s crap compared with the others.”

“Yes. But it’s yours.”

Colin sighed and picked up the gun and weighed it in his hand. “When was this made, eighteen hundreds?”

“Nineteen fifties. It’s a good gun which won’t let you down and packs one hell of a punch.” Norfield reached across and pressed a button on a small console against the wall. A tiny electric hum and the target drew closer on its metal line. When it finally stopped some six feet away, Colin saw where the two bullets from the snub-nose had obliterated the area around the head. “Nobody will be getting up from that.”

Colin grunted.

Norfield produced a shoulder holster and two cartons of bullets. “Not that you’ll need this many, I shouldn’t wonder.”

“I’ll need a back-up.”

“Sorry, Colin. The powers-that-be have been pretty strict about that. If you are arrested, all they will find is the Smith and Wesson. Nothing else.”

“I always have a back-up.”

“Not this time. Sorry.”

Colin shrugged, took the shoulder holster and put it on. Then he reloaded the snub-nose and dropped it into the holster. In a flash, he drew the gun and aimed it directly towards the target. He grunted again and returned the gun to its holster.

“It’s smooth and virtually indestructible,” explained Norfield, watching Colin moving over to where he had thrown his coat.

Colin pulled on his jacket and flexed his shoulders a few times. “It feels fine. Can you notice anything?”

“Nothing. Nobody could tell it was there. That’s one of its advantages. And because it’s hammerless, it won’t snag whilst being drawn. It’s a good gun, like I said.”

“All right, I believe you. I still prefer a Glock.”

“That’s because you’re an ignoramus, Colin.”

“That’s because I’m careful. And that’s why I’m alive.”

Norfield smiled and moved to clear away the assorted guns from the table. He watched Colin shuffle towards the exit. An old man, knocking on the door of sixty. Yes he was still alive, but Norfield couldn’t help wonder for how much longer.

FIVE

A nondescript street with a row of terraced houses on either side. Each had a red brick wall enclosing a tiny garden, a narrow path running up to the door, and a single bay window on the ground floor. Above, two more windows, one frosted. Every house the same, except for the front doors. Here, the residents exhibited some individuality by having the paintwork applied in different colours.

The one Ryan Chaise approached was blue. He looked down both ends of the street then pressed the bell.

At this time in the early evening, the sunlight bathed the houses with a honey glow, which made them appear almost welcoming. Chaise might have hoped some of this ambiance would permeate inside too, but when the door opened and a surly looking teenager stood before him with limp greasy hair and down-turned lips, hopes faded.

“Yeah?”

Chaise did his best imitation of a caring, sharing family member. “Is your mum home?”

“Who wants to know?”

“Tell her it’s Uncle Richard, come to bring a little sunshine into her life.”

The kid frowned, clicked his tongue, and disappeared down the hall. “Mum, some weirdo’s here saying he’s your uncle.”

After a moment, she emerged from the kitchen at the end of the hallway, drying her hands on a brightly coloured pinny.

Emma Bennet, Chaise’s stepsister, had been stunning once, auburn hair tumbling to her slim shoulders, dimple-cheeked, smooth-skinned. Before he drifted off to the Forces he had often fantasised over her. Now, standing with her waist thickened, her hips broad, he had to concentrate hard to find any hints of her past loveliness. Vestiges lingered still in her eyes, sparkling gold, sprinkled with flecks of green, and his stomach lurched as a wave of nostalgia hit him, making him go weak.

Her mouth dropped. “Oh, my God,” she gasped. A brief moment of shocked surprise before her face split, and she rushed towards him, tears mixing with whoops of joy.

He caught her in mid-charge and spun her round as he used to, all those decades ago. She was lighter then, and younger. Not yet a woman. As she kissed him full on the mouth, Chaise realised the child had gone, and he held her close, the years disappearing in a breath. He prised himself free of her lips and grinned. “Hi, Emma.”

She stepped away and reached inside the pocket of her pinny. She pulled out a shredded tissue and dabbed her weeping eyes. “Oh, my God,” she repeated, then laughed and sniffed loudly. “Richard. I ... I had no idea. Why didn’t you phone?”

“It was all a bit spontaneous. Sorry. Is it a bad time?”

“Bad time?” She punched him playfully in the chest. With an exaggerated wince, he made as if the blow hurt. “God, you look amazing,” and she threw herself into his arms again and he held her for a long time.

When at last she extracted herself, she took him by the hand and led him down the hallway into the front room.

The television was on, and the same teenager who had opened the door lay sprawled out on the carpet, back against the sofa, pressing the buttons of a game console. The sound of squealing tyres and crashing vehicles erupted from the screen, so loud and convincing it seemed real. “Reece, will you switch that off, please?”

Reece glared at them both, and blew out his cheeks. For a moment, Chaise thought the teenager would ignore his mother’s request, but after another loud sigh, the youth threw down the console and busied himself with pulling out various leads from the back of the television. He stomped out, face grim, eyes downcast, unhappy. Emma smiled self-consciously as she brushed off some crumbs from the sofa. “Sorry, it’s a bit of a mess.”

The room was tiny, barely big enough to contain the matching sofa and armchair crammed inside. A single radiator running along the wall beneath the window served as the only heat source. Above the television, which stood on a well-worn cabinet, hung a large painting of a Lancaster bomber flying through thin clouds, the one attempt to break up an otherwise drab and soulless interior. Chaise sat down.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” Emma said, pressing herself into him again, kissing his cheeks and mouth. More tears came, taking her by surprise. She looked embarrassed, face reddening as she untied her pinny and twisted it around in her hands. “I’m such a mess, Richard. You should have warned me.”

“Sorry. Like I said, everything was a little rushed.”

“Well,” she said, then stopped as a sudden thought came to mind and her eyes widened. “Oh God, I’m so bloody rude. That was Reece by the way. My son. He’s off sick from school. He’s a bit, you know ...” her voice faded away, “… a teenager.”

Explanation enough thought Chaise and nodded. He put his hands on his knees and gave the room another scan, a rueful smile on his face. “I’ve never had that pleasure, but I can empathise ...”

“Not sure if ‘pleasure’ is the right word.” She leaned across, clutched his hand in both of hers. “I can’t believe you’re here! My God ...” She laughed, clearly not knowing what more to say.

“I called on Great Aunt Doris, but ...” he shrugged, “… she died. I didn’t know.”

“Well, not to worry, I didn’t know either.” She sat back, squeezed the tissue in her fist. “I’ve lost touch with almost everyone. She was your dad’s sister wasn’t she?”

“His mum’s sister.”