Thunder

  “You’re insane, Mercury!” he yells, voice croaking. “Fucking INSANE!”

  I smile as I close the knife, and tuck it into my jacket. Then I calmly unscrew the suppressor from my Browning and stow both pieces into my zipper pockets as well.

  Propped on the dashboard of the boat’s simple wheelhouse are two belts and a ripsaw. One of Jack’s favourite ripsaws. Great for carpentry. Not for much else. I throw these items into the footwell in front of Deuce. The belts are for makeshift tourniquets. You can’t knock me for not being considerate.

  “What the fuck’s this?” he howls. “What kind of fucked up shit is this! Fucking DIY boat repairs?”

  He’s heaving against the handcuffs again. That’s not gonna work.

  “See ya,” I say, and jump overboard.

  “YOU’RE INSANE!” he roars, and continues ranting as I swim casually away, following the rope that leads away from the stricken vessel. I can still hear him shouting as I reach the little inflatable dinghy that waits for me at the rope’s distant end.

  I climb into the tiny rubber craft, fish out my knife, cut myself loose, and settle down to make myself comfortable. I can see him searching around for me in the darkness, but doubt he can see either me, or this little craft, against the moonless black backdrop of wide ocean.

  The shouting stops.

  I watch as he scans around him. See him fruitlessly trying to use his one moveable leg to quell the flood pouring in through the bullet-holes.

  I’m sure he can work it out.

  He scrabbles around, and I see him brandishing the saw.

  Well done, Deucey-boy. Now the choice. Which first? Leg or arm?

  A scream of pain rips across the gentle swell.

  Leg, it would seem.

  The boat continues to sink lower in the water. I can hear him sobbing, see his shoulder moving back and forth. It’s a wonder he’s still conscious.

  I see him shuffle around again, and hunch over to place the blade onto his arm.

  The boat sinks lower. He hasn’t got long.

  I smile and lounge back against the inflatable’s side.

  He screams again. A pitiful, sorrowful, sound.

  “DEUCE!” I yell, and his head lifts in shock at the sound of my voice. I see his face spinning round, his white hair in stark contrast to the dark, wet, background. “Good effort!” I yell, and lift the radio detonator up, and waggle it playfully.

  He must’ve spotted it because he flings himself back to his fleshy carpentry with surprising vigour and I’m laughing as I press the first button...

  The boat is sitting so far down in the water that the flash starts just under the surface, casting a bright blue line of almighty fire beneath the wave tops. The four claymore charges were positioned inside the hollow fibreglass shell, one in each corner of the inset seating area, facing inwards and, above their flash-flame, a mist of dark shrapnel converges around his mutilated torso and he vanishes amongst this sudden host of tiny black-metal piranha. The noise is more of a crump than a bang, but earsplitting all the same, and the dinghy rides up dramatically on an expanding circular shock wave.

  I don’t take my eyes off the action for a moment. I cling onto the dinghy’s rubber handholds, and ride my little chariot over the resulting watery roller-coaster. There’s no way I’m going to miss a moment of this.

  The top half of the boat has turned itself into fibreglass snow which gently swirls around the flaming hull. It continues to burn, even as it sinks quickly beneath the surface. Perhaps both sets of charges went off at the same time? I wasn’t sure whether they’d trigger each other, but I press the second button anyway and, good as gold, quite far below the surface, a second flare lights the deep.

  Shit.

  That’s bigger than I thought it’d be.

  Jack never did show me how to use C4.

  A deep booming sound rises from below, making my guts compress, and I feel the dinghy lifting underneath me. The green-blue tinted, underwater, flare of light flashes out in a moment, and the starlight-sparkled dark surface of the water starts to rise.

  It’s like the sea is boiling. Weird eddies and whirlpools dance randomly across the surface as it flexes upwards like some inflating balloon, then suddenly the whole space in front of me erupts skyward into a colossal geyser of hissing spray, and tiny pieces of metal rain down amongst the salty downpour, and the dinghy sprints backwards as it surfs the deep bow-wave cutting outward from the centre. Even the ocean is rushing to get away.

  As quickly as it appeared, the water spout loses its battle against gravity, and collapses down on itself. Slowly the dinghy drifts to a halt, and like a pebble splash vanishes into a flat-calm pond, soon there is only the scattering of fibreglass fragments to betray that anyone has ever been, or died, here.

  With a satisfied sigh, I reach down and pull my vessel’s tiny paddle out of the dinghy’s Velcro straps, and begin to propel myself slowly back toward the island.

  ~~~~~

  London

  Greere slammed his cellphone down on the table in frustration. Ellard’s phone continued to go straight to voicemail. Doubtless the thieving bastard was too busy pilfering to bother to report in. It shouldn’t have taken him long to get the job done. On the other hand, perhaps he was busy making sure the bodies had been dealt with properly?

  All Greere wanted to know, was that Tin and Mercury were dead.

  Ellard’s earlier call had done nothing but raise his expectations that they were alive. “I’m there,” he’d said. “Someone’s home. I’m going in on foot in a few minutes. I’ll call you back when it’s done.”

  Then Ellard had gone dark. Greere had pottered around in the office, and then killed an hour or two halfheartedly cruising a couple of pubs and clubs. Then he’d come back here, alone, to his empty apartment.

  Ellard’s call had been hours ago.

  ~~~~~

  Copenhagen

  It took me a long time to paddle my way back to the island. I finally hit shore, near to the northwestern tip of the Kolpos, cut loose the dinghy, and stood and watched as it drifted gently off along the shoreline and out to sea. Then I’d walked back to the villa.

  When I got there, I still couldn’t make myself go into the house. The doors had stood open, the windows had remained smashed out, and our possessions were in there... Unprotected...

  But Jack was also in there...

  And I couldn’t face seeing what had become of him.

  Maybe when I’m finished?

  I’ve got something I have to do first.

  While Deuce had been hanging around in the barn, I’d used the time not only to prepare for our little boat trip, but also to put a few things into one of the frame-packs Jack and I kept in the storeroom. I reused my trick of borrowing the hollow tubing to hide my stilettos.

  Vengeance and the guns, I’d already decided, would have to stay behind.

  I will arm myself properly later.

  So, in the darkest hours of the most dread night, I’d made a brief detour into the barn, where I collected up this bag, a generous supply of hard cash, Deuce’s notebook and the hire-car keys. The keys had tumbled conveniently from his pocket as I hauled his unconscious body up into the air. Then I deposited my Browning, silencer, spare magazines and everything else I didn’t need, from my jacket’s waterproof pockets, into the strongroom, closed its heavy metal door, and went straight out, down the lane, to where Deuce had left the car.

  Then I’d driven to Mytilene.

  Now I’m sitting at an almost empty departure gate in Copenhagen Airport, waiting for my next connection. I’m taking the scenic route. Partly for expediency. Partly so I can use different identities for different legs. I’ve been through a number of different airports over the last forty-eight hours.

  I rummage in the rucksack to find Deuce’s phone and notebook.

  Yep. The PIN code is neatly listed toward the bottom of his passwords page.

  The phone fires up and I search for his call list.<
br />
  Perfect.

  Ace’s number is listed as – you guessed it – Ace. I’d expected it might take me a little longer to find him. And to think Deuce had the gall to call me a ‘fucking amateur’...?

  There’s another number too.

  The only other recent one on the device.

  Incoming call. The day before? Deuce would likely have been en route.

  He hasn’t given this number a name tag.

  Is there someone else involved?

  I need to know.

  Here’s as good a place as any.

  I press dial...

  English ringtone...

  “Deuce?” A deep male voice answers, a strangely familiar voice. It’s almost like I’ve heard it before, somewhere. But I can’t place it. Maybe I’m imagining things?

  “No,” I grunt.

  The line sits silent for a second. Then the voice says, “Mercury.” It’s not a question. It also sounds as if the man is smiling.

  “Why?” I ask. I need to keep this quick.

  “Why what?” asks the man, calmly.

  “Don’t play dumb,” I growl, anger is flaring up inside me.

  “I genuinely have no idea what you’re talking about, Mercury. Where’s Deuce?”

  “All over the place,” I answer truthfully. “Why?” I ask again. “What was the point? You know who I am so you must know why?”

  “Where’s Tin?” I detect a hint of, what sounds like, genuine concern in his tone.

  I frown to myself. Like he doesn’t know! “Gone. Code 14, you bastards!” I spit. Partial mission success. It hurts even to say it in code. I need to end this call soon. I don’t want them to trace the call and, besides, I’m at risk of losing my head and shouting. In this public place, though I’m nowhere I can currently be overheard, that wouldn’t be smart.

  The line stays silent.

  “I’m coming,” I growl. “Code 40.” Agent in transit toward objective.

  “Good luck, Mercury,” the voice says quietly. Strangely, it doesn’t sound like a threat. For some inexplicable reason it sounds like he means it?

  The line goes dead.

  He’s cleared down.

  Which is also odd... No backtrace then...?

  I turn Deuce’s mobile off.

  ~~~~~

  London

  Greere scanned the Eastern Mediterranean security feeds. Nothing.

  He shook his head in frustration. It was unlikely that even an incident of the magnitude of the earlier Hungarian debacle would filter out from the sleepy island of Lesvos. It was almost pointless him looking, but look he did. He needed to do something.

  One thing was certain. The moment his errant agent deemed fit to report in he’d fucking well give him what for...

  The office door mechanism opened with a metallic clank and he jolted round from his screen.

  Deuce surely couldn’t have come back without calling in?

  It wasn’t Deuce.

  “What are you doing here, sir?” he asked carefully.

  ~~~~~

  Sentinel watched as Greere slid one hand across to his keyboard, and toggled his screen blank. “Nothing much,” said Sentinel flatly. “I have a meeting over here. Thought I’d pop in on my way to it.” He sauntered further into the room so he could see over the small partition to Ellard’s workstation. It was switched off. “Any word from Tin or Mercury yet?” he asked casually.

  “Nothing, sir.”

  “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re pleased that they’re missing,” he observed. “Where’s your sidekick? On a day off? Do you know, I’ve never actually met him in person yet? Seems strange doesn’t it?”

  “Not really, sir. You’re usually far too busy to come over here.”

  Greere was fishing too. Sentinel had never been in this office before. At least, not when Greere or Ellard had been here. He smiled flatly, “So where is he?”

  “On leave, sir. Family crisis or something,” said Greere. “I’m covering his duties.”

  ‘Lies come so easily to us’ thought Sentinel ruefully. ‘At times it gets difficult to remember where fiction ends and the truth begins.’

  Greere’s cellphone suddenly sprang into life behind him and Sentinel watched as Greere span toward it. Such a slime-ball. Since his conversation with the PM, Sentinel couldn’t help but wonder whether the recommendations and citations he’d received about Greere, before he employed him into his team, hadn’t also been coerced or, more likely, motivated by other unit commanders looking for a convenient way to rid themselves of this insidious wretch.

  ~~~~~

  ‘At last!’ thought Greere. It was Ellard’s cellphone number.

  “Yes,” he said curtly. Sentinel thought his caller was on leave. He’d need to be careful with what he said. “Where have you been?”

  ~~~~~

  “Busy,” I say.

  ~~~~~

  Despite the warmth in the room, Greere felt his face go cold.

  It wasn’t Ellard.

  ~~~~~

  “You should see all the little goodies your dog has been collecting, here in his kennel,” I rumble. “It’s like a veritable Aladdin’s Cave. Did you know about it?”

  “Perhaps,” says Ace.

  “I need a little more than that,” I growl. “It’s important for you. Let me guess: you have company – yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well. How nice for you to have company. I, unfortunately, do not. Your dog has seen to that. Very comprehensively. Sadly for you, I had to put him down. With animals like that, it’s the most humane thing to do...”

  ~~~~~

  Greere hunched over his desktop, painfully aware of Sentinel standing behind him, and listened as Mercury gave him Ellard’s secret address in northern France. Mercury went on to briefly describe what it looked like – just how Greere remembered it from his own little reccy. So Mercury wasn’t bluffing about being there.

  “I’m aware of that address,” he said.

  ~~~~~

  “So it’s not just us then,” I say. “Not just Jack that you’ve had followed. That you’ve planned to hunt down?”

  ~~~~~

  Greere ignored the question. “What now?” he asked as calmly as he could.

  ~~~~~

  “Seems to me, that you’d much rather I didn’t just turn myself in. I suspect that, if I was to end up in custody, I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from chattering about all the strange places I’ve been, and obscure things I’ve been doing. Goodness knows, it’ll make an interesting tale.” I’m guessing, of course. Everything might well have been sanctioned and authorised sufficiently to make my threat hollow, but somehow I doubt it. Deuce had come on his own. His mission had been as covert as every other action I’ve been involved in. Someone, somewhere, and most likely code-named Ace, was still trying hard to keep a lid on things. “I think it would be much better for us to find a mutually satisfactory way to conclude this.”

  “Go on,” I hear him murmur.

  “Meet me here. I’ll give you twelve hours to arrive. There will be no second chances. Don’t be late. Come on your own. If you don’t, I’ll vanish again. I want a fresh set of identity documents. Make sure you have some with you. You have my pictures. You can chose whatever name you like.”

  “That might be difficult,” said Ace.

  ~~~~~

  Greere didn’t really think it was difficult. Ellard had been right about the amateurs all along. What good would a new identity do for Mercury if he was left knowing about it? Besides. He had no intention of giving Mercury anything, other than a preferably slow and painful death.

  Mercury had given up his position.

  Greere needed to get this whole nightmare tidied up, and quickly.

  “You have twelve hours,” the deep voice snarled and the line went dead.

  “Are you sure you need my assistance?” Greere continued into his handset. “When...? Really...? That urgent? Okay, I’d better get moving.” He looked up at S
entinel and raised his eyebrows. “Problems with one of the shell companies,” he splayed his hands. “Nothing I can’t sort out. I probably need to get on with it though, sir.”

  ~~~~~

  Greere’s normally oily patina was speckled with beads of sweat. As it should be. Sentinel had only heard one side of the conversation. The one side that hadn’t generated a faint, yet mildly familiar, baritone reflex from the back of his cellphone.

  “I suppose you better had,” he said, and walked out.

  ~~~~~

  Sermiers

  My preparations are long complete. I have little to do, other than wait.

  I don’t know whether Ace will come alone. If he doesn’t, Deuce has thoughtfully provided me with a contingency, and I heft the suppressed sniper rifle to one side while I make myself comfortable in the edge of the orchard.

  Deuce’s place stands as isolated as Jack’s. Away from villages and towns. Set well back from the main roads. It’s also not a big spread. A couple of bedrooms, a lounge, a kitchen, a large sunny conservatory. I suspect it’s a converted farmhouse and it appears to have its own smallholding fanning out around it; including various randomly shaped fields with untended hedges and a heavily overgrown orchard which leads to far spreading woodlands.

  I’m lurking at the edge of these trees.

  From where I am, it doesn’t look like Deuce was much of a farmer.

  Europe has basked in summer-long sunshine which has baked the wild, untended fields into a parched-brown tapestry of ochre. The soil is now dry and dusty, and hard to dig. The sky remains cloudless-blue but a hot wind swirls around me, heralding the promise of a drought-breaking downpour.

  I have a good view from here.

  I can see all of the main approaches to the house.

  Ace can arrive night or day.

  I’m ready.

  ~~~~~

  Eurostar whisked him to Paris, SNCF got him to Reims, and a cheap hire car got him to a country lane about half a mile away. Greere had elected to walk from there. Now he was crouching patiently, behind a clump of withering hedgerow, studying the front aspect of Ellard’s French hideaway.