Search and Destroy

by James Hilton

“What’s to think about? We need to expose him quickly. I want my life back.” Andrea felt a flare of anger.

  Danny sat back, looking her full in the face. “Guys like this are protected. If we make any mistakes we could be on the run for the rest of our days.”

  “Protected, how?”

  Danny pointed to the masked man, frozen on screen. “Look, this guy has killed before and probably after this film. That obviously wasn’t his first murder. Serial killers build up to that level of intricacy, usually over years. And you don’t stay undetected and have a political career by leaving things to chance. This guy will have power and connections. The fact that he could initiate a hit against you proves he’s powerful. He, or someone close to him, initiated and funded the Trident teams that have been after you. They’re well-trained men. They cost a lot of money.”

  “I hate them.” Andrea clenched her fists.

  “They’re not on my Christmas card list either.” Clay had produced yet another bag of Cheetos. An orange handful hovered between the bag and his mouth. “But don’t forget, those mercenaries really believe that you have stolen intel. That you’re an enemy of the state. They’ve received that mission brief from their controller at HQ. So that means either the company knowingly accepted a false brief or someone in the intelligence services created the false info trail and used it to sell the story.”

  Exasperated, Andrea ran her fingers through her hair. “So we go straight to the nearest news network and show them the video. The media loves to bring down stars and politicians, they’d snap this up in a moment, surely?”

  Clay and Danny shared a glance, then Clay shook his head. “I get where you’re coming from, but your friend worked for a big newspaper, didn’t he?”

  “The Herald.”

  “Right. He knew what he had, would know better than most what would happen if the video came out. And they got to him anyway. I don’t think you’d be safe even after it hit the news.” Clay laid a hand on Andrea’s shoulder. “Depending on who this guy is and who he’s linked to, you’d still be a target. Even if the man in the video was put on trial, there’s still a chance that the contract would remain active. He wouldn’t want you around to testify or fill in any of the blanks. And there are two men on that tape—don’t forget the one behind the camera. We have no way of identifying him, so we should concentrate on the guy in the mask, but we really don’t know how far this thing goes, or how many people are involved.”

  “What am I supposed to do?” Andrea’s voice was full of a desperate fury. “Run for ever? Lie down and die? Turn myself in and hope for the fucking best?”

  Danny rose from his chair and wrapped his arms around her in a comforting embrace. “Easy girl. Clay isn’t saying we’re beaten. We just need to think this through very carefully. One wrong move and these operatives will have us. Let me look into this guy some more, then we’ll decide together how best to proceed.”

  Andrea rose and rubbed the tears from her eyes. Tears of anger and frustration. “I want to see that smiling psychopath pay. Do it.”

  Danny seated himself in front of the laptop again and logged on to the motel’s Wi-Fi, then loaded a search engine. He started by entering the name of the school in the news clip: Newtown Central Academy in Brentwood Hill, one of the newer London developments. Clearly the fundraiser had worked: the new sports centre included a swimming pool, a gym, and a set of four all-weather playing fields complete with the latest incarnation of AstroTurf and halogen floodlights.

  Danny smiled to himself. When he was a kid you felt lucky if you had a decent-quality football to kick around the streets. The new generation didn’t realise how good they had it.

  The school website gave no real information on the fundraiser. He clicked the back button and selected another of the search results. This took him to a feature on the school by a magazine called Greener Living. His heart rate quickened when he saw the gallery of photographs. He clicked through scores of images of the day’s celebrities, recognising a female sprinter who had been the star of the previous Olympics. A couple of football players and a local boxing champion also made an appearance.

  Then he saw the smiling man. He was posing with the school swimming team, twenty or so children smiling into the camera around him. Danny’s eyes flew to the description line beneath the photograph. His mouth twitched into a tight smile.

  “His name is Stewart Strathclyde.”

  Clay and Andrea were on their feet in a moment, each peering over one of his shoulders.

  Strathclyde was not hard to find. Alongside the predictable Facebook profile and Twitter feed, there was an official .gov website, the bio page detailing his humble beginnings in the coastal town of Margate, his education at the University of Cambridge. Danny sneered. “Funny, there’s no mention of torture or murder in his list of achievements.”

  “So who is he, exactly?” Andrea asked.

  “Apparently he is currently serving as Junior Minister for Environmental Affairs.”

  “What the hell does that mean?” asked Clay. He had never been impressed by the pomp of British politicians, finding them every bit as insincere as their American equivalents, just with plummier accents.

  “It says that he ‘promotes health and well being in communities both urban and rural’.” Danny’s voice dripped with sarcasm.

  “So now we know who he is. What do we do next?” asked Andrea. She stared at the image of Strathclyde, suited and smiling.

  30

  Topcat roused himself from a light sleep. His neck felt stiff despite the overpriced memory foam pillow his doctor had recommended. Rubbing his eyes, he lifted his tablet from the bedside cabinet, loaded a news app, then set it down again. No developments since the coverage of the Apostles’ bodies being found in the desert. He had more confidence in the Presidents. They would put this to rest.

  His mouth was dry and he headed to the en-suite bathroom for a glass of water. He stopped and turned as the satellite phone rang. It was Matthew’s number.

  A voice he did not recognise—cold and angry. “Are you the man in charge?”

  “Who is this?” But Thomas Carter felt he knew the answer already. “Are you the one who killed my men?”

  “If you’re the one that sent them, then yes.”

  “Who are you?”

  “A concerned citizen. Listen up. I did end it for your men, but it was self-defence. They came out of nowhere and started shooting like bullets were on special offer. You’re targeting a civilian woman under incorrect intelligence. Now, you either know it’s a false flag operation, or your mission brief was compromised so you’d do somebody else’s dirty work.”

  “The intel was sound. And I’ll tell you something for nothing: you’re a dead man walking.” Carter felt his face flush red at the audacity of the caller. Who does this cockroach think he is?

  “Cut the crap. The flash drive that your men were after doesn’t contain any knock lists, nuclear secrets or diagrams of spy satellites—any of the crap you were probably told. What it does have is a snuff film showing a Member of Parliament murdering a young woman. Now that you know that, you’ve got one chance: call off your teams or I’ll kill every last one of them, then I’ll come for you. I’ll cut your fuckin’ heart out.”

  Carter gritted his teeth, furious. But not too furious to ignore the Scottish accent and the equal measure of venom and intelligence in the words. “The intel was sound. The mission is justified and you’re the one who will be spilling his guts when my boys get hold of you.”

  “Stewart Strathclyde, Junior Minister for Environmental Affairs.”

  “What?”

  “You heard. That’s the man on the video. So forget the bullshit about government secrets. Drop the mission or I’ll drop you.”

  Carter was about to respond when the call was terminated. He sat back on the bed, his mouth drier than ever. Forgoing the water, he hurried downstairs to the living room, opened the drinks cabinet and poured himself a large brandy. He swirled the
dark amber liquid around the glass then took a long gulp. He went over the call again in his head. Why would the caller give him a story like that? What had that bastard Banks got him into?

  What about this Stewart Strathclyde? Minister for Environmental Affairs, he’d said.

  It would be tricky to locate Banks at this hour. Carter sat at his computer and loaded a search engine.

  Clearly Strathclyde was fast becoming one of those annoying celebrity politicians, as concerned with grinning into the camera as his policy statements. Carter had no love for hierarchy, unless he was at the top. He stared intently at a picture of Strathclyde, tall and darkly handsome, dressed impeccably in a tailored Savile Row suit and shaking hands with an African bishop. Could this man be a killer? Doubtful. But why would the man on the phone bother with such a ruse if there was no truth to it? All he had needed to do was issue his threats of retribution. The mystery Scot had already proved capable of dealing death when provoked.

  Know your enemy better than you know yourself and you will never lose a battle. He knew he was paraphrasing to himself but believed in the old adage.

  Why would the man feed him that story?

  31

  Danny growled at the handset as he ended the call. He tossed the satellite phone onto the motel bed.

  Andrea felt a spark of hope. “Did he listen?”

  “He listened but I don’t think he’ll call them off.”

  “But—”

  “PMCs pride themselves on getting the job done.” He picked up two backpacks. “Come on, I’ll start loading up the truck. We need to get to the airport.” Andrea watched him leave, his face grim.

  “But first…” Clay moved to the bed. Andrea watched as the Texan picked up the satellite phone, opened the rear cover and exposed the battery unit. A sharp tap against the heel of his hand and the angular battery tumbled free. He tossed all three components into the trash bin.

  “Why did you do that?”

  “It’s served its purpose. And it could be used to track us. We shouldn’t have taken it at all.”

  “How do you know it hasn’t been? If the power was off…”

  “Guess we’ll find out. And soon we’ll be in the air.”

  He unzipped the duffle bag of weaponry and ejected a magazine from one of the MP5Ks. Weapons taken from men who are trying to kill me. Seemingly satisfied, he slapped it back into place. Andrea watched as he worked with each weapon, checking each magazine methodically, working the slides on the pistols. She rose and took Tansen’s Taurus in its holster from the bag and secured it to her belt, then faced herself in the wall-mounted mirror. Drawing the revolver she crouched and aimed at her reflection. “A week ago I wouldn’t have known which way up to hold this thing. I can’t believe how much your life can change in the space of one day.”

  “At least you’re still here to change.”

  She pivoted, keeping her weight low, arms locked to her line of sight the way Tansen had taught her.

  Clay’s scarred face was impassive. “If you end up in a situation where you have to shoot that thing, don’t hesitate. Just shoot. And never point it at anyone you don’t want to kill.”

  Andrea searched her soul for a moment then answered what she felt was truthfully. “A couple of days ago I couldn’t have dreamt of taking a life. But after what they did to Greg and Bruce, tried to do to us… I think I could pull the trigger.”

  “Damned right. If it comes down to you and him, put four centre mass then one in the head when he’s down.”

  “What does it feel like after?”

  “Well, I’ve only had to kill a few men, but I sleep easy at night. I took down some in Mogadishu. A couple more since. It’s like us Gunn brothers always say: ‘I never killed anyone who didn’t need killin’.”

  She clenched her teeth, visualised the bullet striking the smiling face of Stewart Strathclyde. He was the cause of all her suffering, all this death. At that moment she was sure she could do it: four in the chest, then one in the head to be sure.

  “I’m sure you’ll be fine if the time comes. But with a little bit of luck, it won’t. We’ll disappear for a while, go off the grid; Key West is perfect for it. From there we can skip down into Mexico if we need to. Mojitos and margaritas, shiny.”

  Andrea holstered her pistol, somehow comforted by its presence. She smiled. “I could go for a couple of rounds with you, for sure.”

  “A lady after my own heart. Well, I’m buying and they have some great bars down in the Keys. Those Conchs really know how to mix it up.”

  “Conchs?”

  “People in the Keys call themselves Conchs. There are two main species of Conch: freshwater Conchs and saltwater Conchs. Saltwater Conchs were born in the Keys, and freshwater Conchs were born elsewhere but have lived there a long time.”

  “Wow. I feel educated.”

  “What can I tell you, I’m a man of many diverse talents.”

  “No doubt.”

  Clay packed the firearms back into the duffle bag and hefted it onto his shoulder. “Come on. Time to get the hell out of Dodge.”

  Andrea followed him to the truck, where Danny was waiting.

  * * *

  The journey to the airport was uneventful but Danny was on edge. He phoned Tansen but the call went unanswered. A moment of unease prickled at the nape of his neck but he dismissed it. Tansen would be out in the hills somewhere, most likely on the back of a horse or reading one of his beloved Louis L’Amour novels.

  Clay pulled up to a blue hangar that stood on the perimeter of the airport. A painted logo on its corrugated wall identified it as belonging to UNCO SKY SERVICES. “The pilot is meeting us there. You guys wait here.”

  He parked the pickup and walked to the hangar entrance, rapping on the wall. A few flakes of paint drifted to the ground where his knuckles had made contact. After a short wait, a man dressed in dark-red overalls poked his head around the door and spoke to Clay. The man glanced furtively at the pickup then motioned for Clay to step inside.

  Andrea shifted in her seat. “What’s going on?”

  “Just give him a minute.”

  “You sure this is a good plan? Flying to the other side of America?”

  “Would you rather hang around Vegas and wait for those guys to get lucky? Clay’s right. We fly to Key West, then lie low until we figure how to put an end to this.”

  Andrea chewed her lip, glancing around as if expecting to see the kill squad appear from behind a parked car.

  Danny turned in his seat and pushed her shoulder lightly. “Easy.” He was rewarded with a small smile. He turned back to the hangar entrance. Clay appeared with the man in overalls, nodding agreement. Then he strode towards the pickup. Danny smiled to himself. Clay walked like a tiger. Long loose limbs that held very little tension. His casual gait gave some the impression that he was a stereotypical bumpkin, and to many, that equated to big and stupid. Many had learned the hard way that he was indeed the former and definitely not the latter. Danny rolled down his window as Clay approached. His brother leant on the sill.

  “Pilot’s just refuelling and then we’ll be on our way. We can move our stuff into the hangar.”

  * * *

  Andrea felt the tension in her shoulders ease. She and Danny collected the bags and followed Clay into the hangar. She had never been inside one before and was struck by the overpowering smell of oil and fuel and the array of high-tech equipment along the walls. A red box on wheels stood as large as a wardrobe unit with two computer screens, several coloured cables and a length of corrugated tubing hooked onto its sides. She had no idea what the purpose of the unit was. It looked very expensive so she gave it a wide berth. A small Cessna 162 sat with its engine compartment open. Andrea had flown over London in a similar model some years earlier; a birthday gift from her colleagues at a newspaper she had worked for. With space for only the pilot plus one passenger she knew that they weren’t heading to Florida in that plane.

  The man Clay had talked to waved
them over to an enclosed waiting area, formed by two large Plexiglas screens fixed into one corner of the hangar. There was a semi-circular couch alongside a water cooler and a vending machine, which occupied the space nearest the door.

  “Make yourselves comfortable. We’ll have you on your way real soon.” The man was thin, gaunt even, but looked kindly. A couple of days’ worth of grey stubble framed his narrow face.

  Clay stretched out on the couch. “Thanks, Gerry.”

  Gerry tipped a non-existent hat and flashed a wink and a smile at Andrea. The gold tooth he sported didn’t sit well with the rest of his face. She returned the smile politely but busied herself pretending to look for something in her backpack.

  When Gerry had left the room Danny leaned over and nudged her. “You know if you sleep with him you get air miles.”

  “If I slept with him I’d probably get a dose of the clap.”

  Gerry strolled over to the main hangar door, which was now fully open. This afforded a limited view of the rest of the airport and adjacent runways. He was met at the door by another mechanic, this one wearing a grey uniform. The logo on the back told he was in the employ of Flyway Air Services.

  “Who’s that?” asked Andrea.

  “Company next door I think,” said Clay.

  Andrea felt uneasy as the man from Flyway followed Gerry into the hangar, glanced at the three of them in the waiting room then said something she couldn’t hear. Gerry handed him a small plastic box that looked like something you would keep fishing tackle in. The man glanced through the window again, his eyes locked on her. Gerry was nodding.

  “I think the grease monkey likes you.”

  Andrea frowned at the Texan. “I feel icky.”

  “You journalists are so articulate.”

  Andrea poked out her tongue in way of response. When she looked up again both mechanics were heading back out into the sunlight.

  A gleaming white aircraft rolled slowly into view. The noise from its slowing engines filled the hangar. Clay stood. “I think our ride has arrived.”