Seven of Swords (The Seventh Wave Trilogy Book 3)
Page 1
Seven of Swords
Lewis Hastings
Contents
By Lewis Hastings
Are you a thriller seeker?
Note on the Seventh Wave trilogy
Prologue
Part Four
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
Part Five
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Part Six
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Part Seven
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
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This edition published in Great Britain in 2020
by Hobeck Books Limited, Unit 14, Sugnall Business Centre, Sugnall, Stafford, Staffordshire, ST21 6NF
www.hobeck.net
Copyright © Lewis Hastings 2019, 2020
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in this novel are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Lewis Hastings has asserted his right under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
All rights reserved. No parts of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the copyright holder.
A CIP catalogue for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 978-1-913-793-18-0 (pbk)
ISBN 978-1-913-793-17-3 (ebook)
Cover design by Jem Butcher
http://www.jembutcherdesign.co.uk
Printed and bound in Great Britain
Seven of Swords logo © Russell Budden
Created with Vellum
By Lewis Hastings
From the Seventh Wave trilogy:
Seventh
Seven Degrees
Seven of Swords
The fourth Jack Cade novel:
The Angel of Whitehall
Autobiography:
Actually, The World Is Enough
Are you a thriller seeker?
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Note on the Seventh Wave trilogy
My most detective-worthy readers will note that the number seven features in my writing; I met ‘her’ on the seventh and the trilogy is in seven parts. When I started the story there was only one book. Then it grew, and grew, so if you are finding yourself immersed in this book and wondering why there is a Part Four without a Part One, or Two, or Three…Now you know, you might want to park this one up and start with Seventh (Parts One and Two), then move on to Seven Degrees (Part Three) and then return to this book. Case solved…
Lewis
Give me the child until he is seven
and I will give you the man
Aristotle
Prologue
London, 2nd January 2015
Another British Christmas had come and gone. As it did every year and would continue to do so for as long as people were allowed to celebrate it without feelings of guilt in my green and pleasant homeland.
There had been an economical snowfall as I recall – just enough to create delight and chaos all at once, but not quite enough to cause concern at the leading bookmakers, who secretly prayed for rain on Christmas Day, instead of having to contend with an obscene, weather-based pay-out for a traditional but rare white Christmas.
People were ambling back to work and what they classed as normality; boxes had been stowed in lofts, decorations carefully wrapped and stored, until September, possibly early October, when the chaos would all start once again. For this year, I was glad it was over.
Don’t misunderstand me, I have always enjoyed Christmas. Without children it could never be as magical as I perhaps wanted it to be – I guess that’s where the nephews and nieces made good on their promise to lighten my bank balance, for the must-haves of the silly season.
What I missed most about the season of goodwill – other than the rare opportunity to overly-embrace a girl under the mistletoe was the weather. Crazy, I know.
Now I found myself living in the southern hemisphere where the weather is arguably more clement and yet I missed, no, yearned for those dark mornings and darker evenings, where the wind could slice you in half and the air of a December night find itself so chilled that one’s breath could fracture as it exits the safe haven of the lungs.
There is also something ethereal about the tranquil and silent state that the mere threat of a snowfall brings.
And mist – or fog – I never really understood the difference. I missed the…fog. Not for the green-grey Dickensian spell that it casts upon the streets – of London in my case – but for its ability to allow you to progress at a slower speed than society and life normally and currently demands. Whether on foot or in a car, you have to slow down, to watch out for the others; sound is enhanced at the expense of vision, and normally the whole experience can best be described as strangely comforting.
At least I find it to be a place where I can actually be alone.
Judging perfectly where that person will head and passing, without words, stepping, drifting into the veil until only stifled footsteps give away the presence of another approaching human is a subliminal thing.
It happened to me only weeks ago.
I had walked out of Scotland Yard – the ludicrously iconic home of the Metropolitan Police, an organisation that periodically over the preceding ten years had become my professional foster parent.
It hadn’t been a long day, or even week. It had been months of getting up early and heading home late. Of losing weight. And sleep. Of gaining ground and losing more. Two forward, three back, sometimes four.
As the albeit unwitting leader of the team that named itself Breaker, after the police operational name targeting a crime syndicate, I had been offered the chance to head to London and offer some expertise in the area of Eastern Europe. They, ‘The Met’ and as such my unintended new employers had seen fit to promote me – the street cop from the east Midlands of England.
It made no sense, but no one challenged it. It became apparent that I had friends in high, or possibly low places.
I was actually keen to retain my rank of sergeant – the best job in any force. But someone, in some place, thought differently.
In my cynical mind, there was always an agenda.
That was ten long years before. December 2014 had proven to be a cathartic month. I was able to succeed in what the Buddhist tradition preaches – the Third Noble Truth – the art of letting go. And it felt good. I had closed the office door behind me, taken the many flights of stairs and braced myself as I walked into the brightly lit, festive night air.
I had walked away from a career as a police officer. It was actually as easy as that.
Being independently ‘wealthy’ helped, of course. The money that had come my way in a drunken foray in Hong Kong had provided a future income, and selfishly I had no one to share it with. Until she arrived into my life and brought with her the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. And now, they had a Fifth, and it was called Greed.
The criminal syndicate who called themselves the Seventh Wave had been dissected, imprisoned and disrupted – but their successors were waiting for the call. In the world of organised crime there is always someone willing to take a risk, to fill the void.
Their leader was once again in a fortress – this time with no hope of acquittal. He had something I wanted, and vice versa. We were connected, inexorably, and there was only ever going to be a painful conclusion. For now, our only point of difference was that I was free to roam the globe, and he was backed into a corner and brooding. With his connections, hidden wealth, influence and lust for revenge – and an avaricious nature I had never managed to understand, he was beyond dangerous.
Sitting in a putrid, poorly lit cell, he was a caged animal.
And he blamed me for all that was wrong in his life.
I prayed every night that he would never survive his incarceration.
Technically, having walked away from the United Kingdom, from policing and from the problem itself, I was no longer able to legally pursue the group that had caused me and others so much anxiety. That was until a woman from a government department in London had approached me and made it quite clear just how much I was needed – “Forget rank, forget your past, build a team of people you trust and send me the bill,” she had said. Or at least words to that effect. I chose to interpret them in a way, which for once, suited me – and my agenda.
“You work for me now and whether we like it or not, those people that keep you awake at night hold the aces and we need them back, nicely tucked away in their box before the damage is irreparable.”
“And should I decide to say no?”
She smiled. “You won’t Mr Cade. It’s not in your interest, and it’s certainly not in mine. And, for the record, I will do absolutely anything to keep you onside.”
Those who I thought of as enemies had actually become allies, and conversely some of the very people I knew I should have faith in were to become my most dangerous enemies.
‘Keep them close, Jack.’
It was on that December night in 2014 that my life collided with one of those people that instinct said I could always trust. She appeared through the mist on a much-travelled walkway across the Thames. Our eyes met and for a brief second, we were unified once more.
There was a visible scar.
On her exquisite features.
Mind over matter. I had wiped the blood from her face.
She was dead. I saw her die – watched the life ebb from her eyes. I knelt on that unforgiving tarmac surface and I held her hand up until the point where instinct said I had to go – now. As much as I had denied it, I knew they were back, hunting me in my adopted home and though it tormented every sinew I had to close her eyes and let her go.
The figure on the bridge, in the mist, simply could not have been the girl that walked brazenly into my beach-side life on that cloudless day and allowed me to stare through the thin veil of her summer dress and into her life. But it was her. I knew it.
Her scarred hand delivered a message that night, in the sodium-lit haze, on that bridge, in that city – succinct. Its instructions were clear, it said:
‘I am alive, Jack. Come and find me. But be careful who you trust. With love.’
She didn’t hear my reply, which was even more laconic.
‘I’m on the way. And you – Elena – have some questions to answer.’
Part Four
Chapter One
Winter – Pazardzhik Southern Bulgaria
Pazardzhik is a city situated on the banks of the Maritsa River, southern Bulgaria and the capital of the province.
To the north and alongside Road II37 – The Trakia Highway – on the edge of the city, bordered by agricultural fields, is a faded, cream and peach-walled structure. Its outer walls adorned with posters that depict men employed in various trades, which appear conventional until closer inspection reveals that each male is a prisoner, repairing a wall, or amusingly, using a high-profile power tool to give the impression he has just broken down the walls of his cold and characterless cell.
Advertising had taken on a new stance in this part of the world.
The Bulgarians had a sense of humour. That much was true.
Sitting at intervals alongside the II37 are towers, and barbed wire and palisade fence tops, designed to tear human flesh on contact. To the north west, a river and another to the south. A long-forgotten car dealership occupies the boundary to the east and a petrol station – the first indicator of life beyond the walls, its yellow and blue insignia and a brightly lit canopy marking it out as the only beacon on what was otherwise always a depressing drive out of the city.
An unmarked side road off the Trakia Highway reveals a different vista, gone are the pastel shades of peach and magnolia that so depict the outer margins of the city. Grey, featureless and towering walls of stone exist among an outer cordon of off-white metal panels, the inner boundary topped by a walkway along which guards patrol. More wire.
In the foreground rusting hulks of abandoned machinery lay dormant, never to serve man again. They had a purpose once. Like the inhabitants of the building. Once.
At the heart of the structure is an ostensible three storey building, flanked by an administration block. To the north, a solitary, bright yellow security office, large enough for one or two in the winter. A rudimentary barrier of red and yellow provides a minimal divide between those at liberty and those, not.
On the face of it, to a passing visitor or enquiring mind, Pazardzhik Prison is like any other. A place outside of which society deems itself to be safe.
A sign in blue Cyrillic lettering greets visitors. Its meaning is a mystery to a western eye and with a degree of flexibility might say, ‘Welcome to Pazardzhik Prison.’
A more reasonable translation might be, ‘Pazardzhik – The Lock.’
The lock. There are no romantic similes. The word conjures up polished steel, cold brass, a metallic depriver of liberty. The end.
For those entering its walls the words probably say, ‘Welcome to Hell.’
Inside, much further inside in fact, those same scanning eyes might land upon other faded and red-painted letters, high over the door of the most notorious wing, clinging for life, to the distempered and flaky white walls: Живей с мечмирай от меча.
Loosely translated, it read: Live by the sword. Die
by the sword.
No one could remember who had written it up there, or how he got there, out of sight of the guards, but he did and he would forever be a folk hero. It was a male, for this was a place inhabited only by the male of the species where women were welcomed for only one reason.
No one could name the artist, for he died in his cell, a cold and solitary death. Ice on the walls. Even the damp mould had frozen.
And no one would ever remove his work, least of all the deputy commissar who saw it as a double-edged sword indeed. Remove it and cause a riot, allow it to stay and remind the men of its meaning every day.