by Tony Kent
From the start Dempsey had been the top of his selection group, and by a distance. Before long his scores were rivalling even those of the most recent outstanding recruit. James Turner’s own scores had been among the most impressive in the regiment’s sixty-year history, and so Dempsey was quickly proving to be something very special.
Whether he would pass selection was a foregone conclusion by the end of his first month, itself a rare achievement in the world’s most rigorous military programme. But still his successes had grown and soon the question became whether he would pass out with scores that eclipsed even James Turner himself. It was not a question that concerned Dempsey; no such motivation was needed for him to push himself to the limit, and so he was one of the few not disappointed when he ultimately fell short. While he had surpassed Turner in a number of areas, he could not quite match him in others and – when all accounts were in – the older man had the edge. But coming so close was enough and Dempsey had been earmarked for specialist deployment.
Taken out of the usual stream from the moment he passed selection, Dempsey had found himself assigned to the SAS’s most covert wing. A section whose very existence was unknown to even regular members of the regiment. The Chameleon Unit.
The Chameleon Unit included just ten operatives, every one the best of the very best. They specialised in the most dangerous and the most secretive operations undertaken on behalf of the state, deployments where they often acted without a team and, if detected, without the diplomatic support of their government. Selection was a rare honour for any man.
The nature of the work meant that each man usually deployed alone, but still the ten members were a unit. On the few occasions that they acted as a team, their effectiveness was without parallel. This was especially true of Dempsey and Turner.
Each man had heard little but the other’s name during Dempsey’s selection. It was only natural that they would gravitate to each other after deployment. It was less inevitable that they would become friends, but they did. In the years that followed Dempsey learned more from Turner than he had from his entire military service, making him ever more skilled at what he did. It was a friendship forged on the battlefield, so close that Dempsey’s loyalty to his comrade almost matched his loyalty to his country. Until that loyalty was tested.
Seven years had passed but now, as Dempsey let his memories flow, it felt like only yesterday.
Deployed alone, he had arrived in Colombia with a single task: the termination of Nestor Murillo. The country’s leading drug producer, Murillo had flooded Britain’s streets with high-quality, low-priced cocaine. His disposal was considered a top priority.
Dempsey had found his way into Murillo’s secure compound undetected. Once inside, he had set about his business: identify his point of exit; set diversions in place to deter potential pursuers; remote detonation C4; smoke grenade tripwires; concealed head-height razor wire; and, finally, settle upon the ideal location for a single kill shot.
Dempsey knew his job. Knew how to faultlessly camouflage himself and his weapon so a guard just feet away would have no idea either was there. Knew how to wait undetected, without movement, for as long as it took. Days if necessary. These skills could only be honed over time and even then there were few who could perfect them. Dempsey was in that number.
Almost thirty-six hours had passed before the shot presented itself. A shorter time than Dempsey had expected, but he had been ready.
Murillo had been in the compound throughout, but always in crowded company. Such numbers created risk. The likelihood that one of the crowd would wander into the path of Dempsey’s bullet was not great, but it was enough. One shot. There would be no time for a second. So he had waited.
The ideal target-point was the side-window to Murillo’s own office. Dempsey had to assume that every window in the property was reinforced, which affected his choice of ammunition. To ensure a safe flight path through the window he selected a coated and tipped bullet, designed to rip through Kevlar and steel.
When Murillo had finally returned to his office and took his seat, his head was planted firmly in Dempsey’s crosshairs. This time there had been no crowds. Dempsey had been able to tell from Murillo’s movement that there was at least one other person in the room, but now – with Murillo sat behind a desk – the odds on inadvertent interception were acceptable. It had been time for Dempsey to act.
Dempsey had been through his ritual thousands of times before. And yet, unlike Turner, each time his efforts and actions were conscious. He’d concentrated hard, forcing his heart rate to a minimum and bringing his breathing to a virtual stop. The killer was ready.
He’d felt his right index finger caress the sensitive trigger. A movement that had always preceded instant death. But not this time. This time he’d pulled his finger away when he’d seen the movement of shadows across from where Murillo sat, indicating that the second person was approaching the desk. The risk that the room’s second occupant would unwittingly enter the line of fire was – for the moment, at least – too great.
Dempsey’s eye remained just inches behind his scope. The opportunity could not be missed. As soon as the guest stepped back, and there was no chance of the shot being intercepted, Murillo would die.
It was this determination that would change Dempsey’s life. Because, as he took his first short breath in anticipation, he saw a sight that made him choke down the oxygen. There, on the opposite side of Murillo’s desk, reaching out to accept a brown A4 envelope from the Colombian’s outstretched hand, stood James Turner.
Dempsey’s mind was racing before he could consciously register what he was seeing. What was Turner doing in Murillo’s compound? And what the hell was in the envelope he had accepted? There was a very obvious answer: Turner would not be the first operative to stray from the path. But Dempsey would not accept the obvious. Not without proof.
These thoughts flooded his mind in an instant. Just as quickly his discipline suppressed them. No matter how unexpected it might be, Turner’s appearance could not be allowed to derail his assignment. Dempsey would finish the job. The new problem would wait.
Inching his crosshairs back towards Murillo, he could feel his heart race. It was the opposite of what he would want before a shot, but it could not wait. Not now. The kiss of pressure needed to unleash the rifle’s lethal cargo was minuscule; Murillo would never know how little muscular effort went into his death. But then Murillo would never know anything more. The Colombian was thrown from his seat as the glass of his office window shattered around him. No second shot would be necessary; the hint of grey in the blood splatter on the wall behind his seat confirmed that.
Dempsey was not a man who admired his work. In normal circumstances just a glance to confirm the kill was all he took. But this day was far from normal. His eye stayed behind his scope as he took a last look at Turner. His friend – the man he had thought was his friend – was rooted to the spot. The cream linen suit he had chosen to wear in the Colombian heat was stained with the blood of the man who had died just feet away. Turner did not seem to notice. Instead his eyes were fixed firmly upon Dempsey’s chosen hiding place. He already knew – perhaps by instinct alone – from where the shot had come.
For a moment Dempsey felt as if their eyes had met. As if Turner could see through the foliage and camouflage. It was hypnotic, broken only when Turner turned and Murillo’s office began to fill with men. Those men would shortly be hunting their employer’s assassin. A hunt that would perhaps be led by just as skilled a killer. It was time for Dempsey to move.
His preparations did their job perfectly, taking him out of the compound undetected before Turner could even convince Murillo’s men that he had no part in their boss’s death. The job at hand was complete. Now only one thing mattered.
The next hours were, even now, a blur. Dempsey had made his way to the British Embassy in Bogotá, still struggling to believe what he had seen. But he did not allow loyal disbelief to cloud his judgement. Instead he
had made quick use of the embassy’s resources. For hour after hour he cross-referenced Turner’s periods of leave with killings thought to bear the hallmarks of military sanction. Time and again the dates matched, and finally there could be no doubt.
Turner was no longer killing for Queen and Country. He was killing for money.
The mixture of disgust and betrayal was like nothing Dempsey had ever experienced. Many times he had risked his life for his friend. Had put himself on the line in the name of brotherhood. In that time there had been sides to Turner’s character that Dempsey had chosen to ignore. With everything he had learned in the hours since Murillo’s death, those traits came rushing back to his mind.
Convinced of what he had found, Dempsey used the embassy’s resources to discover both the identity Turner was travelling under and his location. Time was against him. Turner would suspect the worst; that Murillo’s professional killer had recognised him. So he would be leaving Colombia in a hurry. Dempsey had hours at best but this was an appointment he would not miss.
Sweat streamed down his brow as he made his way along the corridor of the run-down Bogotá hotel, a regulation Swiss SIG 226 semi-automatic pistol gripped tightly in his right hand. The pulse in his damp palm was beating fast against the weapon’s butt.
Careful to mask his footfall as he crept along the deserted hallway, he moved slowly towards his destination.
Room 26.
As he reached the numbered door he adjusted his grip on the pistol. Felt its reassuring weight. Chambered a round and took a final glance along the corridor. Once he was satisfied that he was alone, he positioned himself beside the closed but insecure door. Usually he would wait to bring his heart rate down but he knew that, this time, it would not drop. The adrenaline was pumping thick and fast. Why had he not waited for back-up, he now thought. He rarely questioned himself. But then he rarely faced an equal, and the man in room 26 was certainly that.
It would not be allowed to slow him. Those doubts and fears would be swallowed. Dempsey was here to act, consequences be damned. A cursory inspection of the room’s door told him that it would offer no resistance to his muscled shoulder. With a final determined breath, he exploded into violent movement.
The door was ripped from its hinges by the force of the impact. Its weakness was expected, so Dempsey knew how quickly he would need to move. Years of training took hold at the instant of his first determined movement. He moved into the room at speed, with his sweeping arm covering every angle as his expert eye sought out immediate dangers. They were there, but to his surprise he was not met by violence.
‘Didn’t take you long, did it?’
The question came from the tall, slim man who sat in a chair at the far end of the room. A semi-automatic weapon sat comfortably on his lap. Turner had made no attempt to move at Dempsey’s entrance but he was no helpless target. He knew the intruder would only fire if under threat. A confidence that was well placed.
‘What the hell’s going on, Jim?’ Dempsey could feel his heart race uncontrollably. He needed an explanation. Any explanation. ‘What were you doing in Murillo’s office?’
‘You know what I was doing there, Joe.’ James Turner had made no effort to excuse himself. If anything, it had seemed a relief to him that he could finally be honest. ‘Don’t try to tell me you came here without doing your homework. You’ve followed the trail. You know about the others.’
‘Why, Jim?’
‘Money.’
Turner’s reply was blunt. It was obvious why. He was in a South American sweatbox, his gun pointed at the one man who might still beat him to the shot. He had reached the most important crossroads of his life.
‘A whole shit-load of money,’ Turner continued. ‘I had a choice. I could keep travelling the world, killing anyone who made our little government uncomfortable. For a poxy sergeant’s wage, Joe. With a sergeant’s pension to follow. Maybe the occasional medal, you know, to keep the fool happy. Or I could do the same job for a nice big Swiss bank account and enough zeroes to keep me and mine set for life. What would you do?’
A burning lump rose in Dempsey’s throat as he listened. Turner was going to try and force his hand, he realised. But he would not believe a confrontation was inevitable. The man was his friend.
‘It can’t go on, Jim. It stops here.’
‘Well of course it can’t go on now, can it?’ Turner’s response was angry. His voice rose as he spoke. ‘I was happy just doing this on the side. Making some extra money. But now I’ve got to make a choice, haven’t I? Thanks to you.’
‘There is no choice. Not after this. Jesus, Jim, these are people’s lives!’
‘No choice?’ Friendship seemed to be giving way to contempt in Turner’s voice. ‘Who the fuck are you to tell me there’s no choice, Captain?’
Turner expelled the last word with a malice he could not have hidden if he tried.
Dempsey tightened his grip on his pistol as the words hit his ear. Turner’s right hand gave the slightest flicker of movement in turn.
‘Put down the weapon, Sergeant, and get to your feet.’
Turner did not respond. Instead he glanced at Dempsey’s weapon. At his trigger finger. It was almost imperceptible, but not to Dempsey. Their eyes met again. And Dempsey knew then what had to happen. So too, he knew, did Turner. Both had lived this life. And both had survived so far by knowing how to react when bullets start to fly.
The pent-up adrenaline was released in a chemical torrent. Each man dove to his right as they opened fire, to avoid the other’s bullets. They both failed.
Dempsey had landed hard beside the king-size bed that dominated the room. Making the most of the cover it provided, he was immediately aware of two very significant facts. The first was that the bed offered no real protection against Turner’s weapon; the best it could do was conceal his exact location. The second fact was more pressing: he had been hit. Twice. The first bullet was in his left shoulder, capable of being ignored. But the other had pierced his lung. Without medical attention, it was a wound that would certainly kill him.
The effect of the blood loss came quickly. Dempsey was sure Turner had taken as many bullets himself, but still he had just moments to finish this. Raising himself to his hands and knees, he was poised for one last effort. Only Turner’s voice stopped him.
‘You still with me, Joe?’ It was not the voice of a man in pain. Perhaps Dempsey was wrong. Perhaps the shots had missed. It ripped away his last hope.
The history between the men was vast and so, despite what had passed, Dempsey tried to respond. His pierced lung prevented any sound passing his lips. Ironically it saved his life.
Dempsey opened his mouth. All that came out was blood. The lack of words was unintentional, but Dempsey knew what effect it would have. Turner would think that only death or unconsciousness would stop his former friend from answering.
He might still be right about that, Dempsey had thought. Just a few minutes early.
Seemingly confident from Dempsey’s silence, Turner had stepped out from the cover of a full-length wardrobe just as Dempsey hauled himself to the top of the bed’s mattress.
Their eyes met for a final time. Both men raised their weapons and fired, their injuries hardly slowing their reflexes. Dempsey made no attempt to take cover. It gave him the truer aim, but he received two more bullets for his trouble.
Turner was less desperate than his dying opponent and so he fired his shots on the run. It cost him a kill shot and two bullets to his own back, but it did not slow him down. Even with the impact of lead, he managed to launch himself through his first-floor window and into the alleyway below.
Dempsey had no time to contemplate the fate of the man he had considered a brother. Blood was seeping from his body. His energy was spent. He could do nothing as the room began to spin and the darkness overtook him.
Even now, seven years later, Dempsey had no recollection of the next week of his life. Later he had learned that the military back-up he h
ad not waited for had found him. They had brought him to the British Embassy, where he had drifted in and out of consciousness for five days as his body struggled to heal itself. Dempsey remembered none of this, but at least he had survived. The lack of a body in the alleyway suggested that Turner had, too.
Dempsey had been the only witness at James Turner’s court martial two months later. A pointless hearing, held in the man’s absence. Turner was convicted and dishonourably discharged, but never punished. And now, after all these years, he was back.
THIRTY-ONE
‘Can I buy you another one of those?’
Alex Henley’s well-spoken voice broke the silence and forced its way into Dempsey’s thoughts.
‘Assistant Commissioner.’ Dempsey’s tone was flat. As yet undecided if the company was welcome.
‘Same again?’ Henley ignored the unenthusiastic response.
‘Please.’
Henley had ordered a further stout – and a pint of bitter for himself – before he even reached the bar. It was hardly a fight for the staff’s attention. If Henley had not waited for the Guinness to settle he would have been back at the table in less than a minute.
‘I’ve heard what happened,’ he said, placing a full glass next to what remained of Dempsey’s last drink. ‘With the suspension, I mean. For what it’s worth I think they’re making a mistake.’
Dempsey nodded. Word of his supposed removal from the case had spread. But he would still need support in what was to follow, he realised. Support that could not come from the DDS. It occurred in that moment that Henley would make a good ally.
And an ally deserves the truth.
‘It’s actually a little more complicated than that. My suspension, it’s not what it seems—’
Dempsey stopped speaking as the nearest TV screen displayed the image of the Houses of Parliament. It was an eye-catching backdrop – less than a quarter of a mile from where they now sat – but it was not what had caught his attention.