Absence of Mercy

by Joe McCoubrey

  “Makes no difference. One way or another I’m going to kill you. I owe you for the lives of two good friends who deserve better than to watch from above as you get yourself some cushy cell with three square meals paid for by the very people you tried to blow off the face of the earth. It’s not going to happen, Carl.”

  Devon nodded in appreciation of Doyle’s words. As much as he wanted to play a primary role he had to admit the big fella was making a decent job of putting Stratton firmly in his place.

  Stratton switched glances between the two men, deciding immediately that the feral look on Doyle’s face meant he would have to deal first with the ex-SAS man. He had read the dossier on Doyle. By any standard it made for some pretty impressive reading, including the time he had spent fighting the IRA alongside Devon. Talk about being between a rock and a hard place!

  Stratton inhaled deeply, looked up at the bright blue London sky, and a newfound surge of resignation washed through him. What the hell? He had had a good life, one with few regrets. He thought about all the things he had accomplished, particularly his early days as a paid assassin for the British Government. It was a pity he would not be around to see this country brought to its knees, but others would come forward to take his place and finish his mission.

  Finally he thought about his mother and about Manfred Stelling, the only two people he had ever really cared for. He looked forward to seeing them again.

  His hand moved in a blur of motion and he smiled as his fist wrapped around the butt of the Walther.

  That was as far as he got.

  Doyle opened fire, his first two bullets slamming into Stratton’s forehead. A fist-sized exit hole appeared at the back of his head, his eyes already closed by a death spasm that sent the body backwards onto the concrete.

  Doyle wasn’t finished. He walked forward, firing continuously into the lifeless torso. By the time Devon sprinted to stop him, he had loosed off another five shots, all of which had found their target.

  The two friends looked down in silence at what was left of Carl Stratton. Across the expanse of waste ground the blare of a dozen sirens could be heard rolling over the rooftops as the first of the response vehicles screeched to a halt on the Lambeth Palace Road and signalled a fitting end to London’s high state of alert.

  Devon put his arm around Doyle’s shoulder. “I’m glad to see you, big man, although I had things covered.”

  Doyle snorted. “Yeah, you left yourself unarmed while that bastard was planning to fry your ass with a concealed weapon. What were you thinking about? That was the oldest trick in the book.”

  Devon stepped away, reached around to pull a Glock from behind his back, and waved it in Doyle’s face. “You don’t think two can play at that game?”

  The two men burst out laughing and hugged each other in a tight embrace.

  Chapter 50

  THE MAN WHO stepped out of a taxi and made his way up a small flight of concrete steps to the door of an upmarket townhouse in Cheltenham didn’t rate a second glance from the resident population. Dressed in a John Lewis three-quarter-length wool overcoat, buttoned over a Saville Row suit he looked a lot like the doctors, lawyers and successful businessmen who usually strode the pavement outside this crescent-shaped Victorian corner of real estate that was the domain of the mega rich.

  If push came to shove he could have measured his bank account against many of the property owners. Unlike them, however, he had accumulated his wealth during a life of crime, a career that was littered with dead bodies rather than underscored by successful business deals.

  The same could be said of the man he was visiting, an underworld fixer who had grown fat, physically as well as figuratively, from the misery of others. They were a perfect match.

  Dragan Boskovic swung a small attaché case in his right hand as he reached the landing on the top step. Before he had a chance to press a small amber-lit button recessed into the wall, an electronic beep sounded and the door rolled noiselessly inward. A voice boomed from the interior of the house.

  “Third door on your right at the end of the hallway.”

  Boskovic’s leather-soled shoes made a sharp echoing sound on the parquet floor as he walked forward to pause in the open doorway. In one corner of the room he could see a large, florid-faced man wedged into an armchair that seemed to be straining under his immense weight. A small coffee table was littered with plates of leftover delicacies.

  Boskovic thought briefly about telling the man to stay away from the chocolate biscuits and get some exercise. Instead he said simply: “Did you get everything I asked for?”

  “It wasn’t easy. This was a rush job which incurred more expenses than I’m used to. You do realise I have to protect my profit margins?”

  “Yeah,” Boskovic retorted drily. “I noticed your fee was larger than normal.”

  “Speaking of which?” The bushy eyebrows rose to emphasise the question.

  Boskovic held out the attaché case and watched in amusement as his host swept a chubby arm across the coffee table, sending an array of crockery onto an expensive Persian rug. He grabbed at the case, and used his thumbs to push two lock-bars. The lid sprang open to reveal neat stacks of twenty-pound notes crammed into the interior.

  “I will do you the courtesy of not counting it.” He closed the case and reached under a cushion to retrieve a small brown envelope. “The address is inside along with a key. The vehicle was purchased brand-new and has been modified to your specifications. Everything you asked for is neatly stored away in a box in the interior. The van is parked on level three in a multi-storey car park. We chose a spot away from the security cameras. I believe that concludes our business.”

  Boskovic grabbed the envelope, tucked it into his coat pocket, and turned without saying another word.

  Thirty minutes later he squatted inside a Peugeot Bipper van and studied the contents of a large wooden box. He spent less than forty seconds reassembling the components of a lightweight Russian-made Dragunov SVD sniper rifle, finishing the assembly by screwing a six-inch telescopic sight into the barrel arm and sliding a pouch of ten 7.62mm cartridges into a rectangular magazine slot.

  He changed quickly into workman’s overalls, pulled back a divider partition, and clambered into the front compartment. He shoved the key into the ignition slot, his mind already focussed on what lay ahead.

  Professional pride had brought him back to London. When the bomb he had planted in Mike Devon’s house failed to do its job it was the first professional failure of his career. In his profession such things are not tolerated. The world of the assassin is a small marketplace, where reputations dictate fees and where there was no room for excuses. He needed to put things right.

  Deep down he knew there was also a personal dimension to his decision. He had watched Devon through his binoculars shortly before booby-trapping the front door of his house. He had marked his target as a highly-capable individual, someone whose death would mean more than all the others that had gone before.

  He turned the key, eased the van into the arrowed exit lane, and prepared for the short drive to Charterhouse Street, home of LonWash Securities.

  Beer bottles clinked together as a dozen men raised a toast in a cubicle at one of London’s fashionable pubs. The sombre mood of the funeral they had just attended - their second in two days - was lifted by the age-old soldiers’ tradition of celebrating the life of fallen comrades.

  General Sir John Sandford led the eulogies. Two weeks after his discharge from hospital he was back in full swing, determined to honour the men who had made the ultimate sacrifice in defence of their country. He stood proud and erect as he raised a half-filled whiskey glass towards the ceiling.

  “Gentlemen,” he began, “let’s not forget that but for the efforts of Dave Carpenter and Bob Mortimer this city might well be a wasteland today. Heaven knows how many hundreds of families have been spared from grieving for loved ones. Those of us still standing are here because of the unselfish determinati
on of two great warriors, men whose names must remain concealed from the public they served, but whose dedication and example will shine forever as a beacon for every man and woman who chooses to pick up a weapon and stand to post.

  “These are men who make democracy what it is. History has taught us there are always heroes ready to step up to the plate. I’m reminded today of the words attributed to the eighteenth-century philosopher, Edmund Burke, who said: The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing.”

  The General paused momentarily. “Evil did not triumph simply because we had men of courage prepared to do what was necessary. I give you Dave Carpenter and Bob Mortimer. I give you two good men.”

  When the toast was completed, Sandford remained on his feet waiting for the noise of celebration to settle down. “There are two more things I need to report. You will be glad to hear that Bill Carlisle is making a full recovery. Indeed I had a deuce of a job keeping him away today, but he’ll be back to work within a few weeks.

  His words were greeted with another round of cheering. He signalled for quiet. “The second thing I have to tell you is that I met with the PM yesterday and he has asked me to convey his thanks and gratitude to all of you. Our role in the events of the past few weeks has naturally been airbrushed from official records, but the highest compliment that can be paid is that we have been given a green light, not to mention an increased budget, to continue doing what we do best.”

  Later, as the group spilled out onto the pavement, Devon and Doyle walked with Sandford towards his chauffeur-driven limousine. “Mind giving us a lift back to the office? There’s something I need to discuss with you,” Devon told him.

  The men settled in the spacious rear interior of the Rolls-Royce Phantom, the General sitting opposite his two senior operatives. He waited until the car eased into the traffic flow before speaking. “Let’s have it, Mike. I know there’s something you need to get off your chest.”

  Devon had rehearsed the speech on a dozen occasions over the past few days, but skipped his well-prepared preamble. “I’m not sure I want to continue. I’ve been doing this for a long time and I need a break. I have a wife and son to consider, two people who need me at home doing a regular job rather than running around the world risking my neck and putting their futures in jeopardy. I want a normal life and I think I’ve earned the right to have a crack at it.”

  The words came as little surprise to Sandford. He had known for some time of Devon’s desire to be taken out of the firing line and had been preparing for the moment of truth. “Listen, my boy, I respect you too much to spin you a line of waffle. There’s no argument that you have earned the right to do whatever is best for you and your family. I will not stand in the way of that happening.”

  “Thank you, sir, I appreciate your understanding.”

  Sandford leaned forward. “However, I do have a proposition for you. Take a month off, go visit your friend Claude in the South of France, and come back here to a different role within LonWash. Come back as my successor.”

  Devon stared wide-eyed at his boss. “Your successor? I don’t understand.”

  “Let me explain. The PM wants me in a more central role within the COBRA anti-terrorist committee. I have to admit that being the co-ordinator for all the agencies is something that appeals to me. I will finally get the opportunity to put a few much-needed reforms into practice, as well as being able to watch out for the interests of LonWash. We could do good things between us.”

  Devon shook his head. “I’m no diplomat. I can’t see myself running around acting as a buffer in the way you do, Sir. It wouldn’t work.”

  “Nonsense!” The General’s retort was louder than he intended. “You let me worry about all the political handholding and backslapping. That’ll still be my job. Your job will be to see that LonWash is honed into a lean, mean fighting machine ready to face up to the new challenges coming over the horizon. Best of all, you get to do it on a nine-to-five basis and go home to your family every evening.”

  He switched his attention to Alan Doyle. “You will take over as senior operative in place of Mike.”

  Doyle shot forward in his seat. “With the greatest respect, sir, you’re out of your mind. It’s a total non-starter and there’s nothing you can say that will change my mind.”

  Sandford smiled. “I thought maybe the prospect of working permanently alongside a certain red-haired ex-CIA agent was something you would relish.”

  Doyle’s reply was almost incoherent. “Do you…are you…is this about Agent Horgan…she’s back in America….we haven’t seen her for two weeks…and…and what do you mean by ex-CIA?”

  Sandford slapped Doyle’s knee. “I spoke to Agent Horgan before she was recalled for a thorough debrief. Seems she likes it here, and likes it even more when she’s working with you. I’ve pulled a few strings and she’s now a full card-carrying member of LonWash Securities, if you’ll have her, of course. Her flight from Washington landed just over an hour ago.”

  Doyle looked across at Devon. Both had wide-eyed stares, each lost in his own thoughts about what had just happened. The interior of the Rolls-Royce was engulfed in silence for the last mile of the journey back to Charterhouse Street.

  Chapter 51

  CHELSEA HORGAN was grateful for the taxi driver mistakenly dropping her off at the lower end of Charterhouse Street. The half-mile walk would do her good. She needed to get her circulation rebooted after a seven-hour flight, but most of all, she needed time to rehearse what she was going to say to Alan Doyle.

  She had experienced a whirlwind of mixed emotions over the past few weeks. The prospect of uprooting her life had caused a few sleepless nights until finally she had contacted General Sandford with an answer to his offer of a new job. The work being done by LonWash appealed to her sense of independence and the desire to be at the cutting edge of the fight against international terrorism. Unlike the Bureau, she would not be hamstrung by the paperwork and chain-of-command petty infighting that had characterised so many of her assignments. The constant glare of Congressional oversight was setting the Bureau back fifty years at a time when it needed to be at its operational peak.

  The LonWash operation was a different kettle of fish. She admired the way the agency saw what had to be done and went full-tilt after it. It was a place that would challenge her full range of abilities, somewhere she believed she could actually make a difference. In the end it was a challenge she could not walk away from.

  She had convinced herself it was for all those reasons she had decided to take the job. Deep down she knew the tipping point was Alan Doyle. He had gotten under her skin. Her time back in America had been empty without him. She was in love with him. There, she had finally admitted it.

  She was pretty sure he felt the same way, but what if he rejected her? What if actually working together led to a wedge being driven between them? Could their feelings for each other cause a mission to be compromised? Would the Agency frown on a relationship the same way the CIA did?

  The only way she would know was by having a heart-to-heart with Doyle. She would look him straight in the face and tell him what was on her mind. She was trained to read reactions. She would spot a hesitation. She would know if there was future for them.

  Her thoughts seemed to bear down on her as she walked along Charterhouse Street, pulling a wheeled suitcase behind her. She took no notice of a dark-blue Peugeot van parked at the kerbside less than four-hundred yards from the LonWash entrance ramp, although her attention was drawn to a familiar silver-coloured Rolls-Royce that was approaching from the opposite end of the road.

  She watched as it purred to a stop and disgorged two instantly-recognisable figures. Her heart soared at the sight of Doyle, standing, as he always did, slightly on his left side, as if to hide his prosthetic right arm.

  Dragan Boskovic came alert instantly at the sight of the Rolls-Royce. He moved onto his knees and rested his head against the side of the tripod-mounted Draguno
v, his right eye sliding over the telescopic sight, already pointed through the vehicle’s tinted rear window. It was a window that was not made of glass, but from a special compound of sugar, the sort used by movie special-effects teams. It would disintegrate on impact and cause no deviation to the intended trajectory of the bullet.

  He was less than two hours into a vigil that he believed would probably stretch into days. This was a job for a patient man, and Boskovic prided himself on being the very essence of patience.

  He knew he would have to go through this ritual every time a vehicle came anywhere close to the LonWash building. It was better to be prepared than to miss a golden opportunity. If Devon was in any of the vehicles it would likely slow before making the turn into the ramped entrance. He would have less than a second to make the shot. It was all the time he would need.

  His ammunition had been reconfigured to armour-piercing capability. The heavy-duty round would burrow through reinforced safety-glass and find its target.

  He was ready for all eventualities, but not the one that now presented itself. He could scarcely believe his luck when the big car stopped at the entrance and his target stepped out alongside another man he didn’t recognise. The target even waited there while he appeared to carry out a conversation with someone still in the vehicle. This was too easy!

  The crosshairs inched across to Mike Devon’s head. It was a full sideways view, with the axis of the scope’s two lines resting neatly on Devon’s left ear. All he needed to do was squeeze the trigger.

  Horgan was about to wave her left arm to get Doyle’s attention when she noticed the small movement of the Peugeot van. It was no more than a miniscule rocking motion, but it was enough to catch her attention. Someone was moving inside the vehicle!

  Horgan was on the pavement directly midway along the van. She didn’t know why her danger-radar had kicked in, only that something wasn’t right. She stared ahead at Doyle and Devon, her emotions frazzled by indecision.