Contents
Copyright, Legal Notice & Dedication
GET BOOK TWO FOR FREE
PART ONE Ghosts of the Past
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
PART TWO Forming & Storming
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
PART THREE Into the Fire
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
PART FOUR Double Cross
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
PART FIVE Redemption
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
PART SIX Devil's Chariot
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
PART SEVEN Enemies of the Future
Chapter 19
Copyright © C.J. Somersby 2016
Cover Design Copyright © Matt Davis 2016
First Published in 2016
Legal Notice:
C.J. Somersby has asserted his moral right to be recognized as the author of this work.
All rights reserved. No part of this ebook may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission from the copyright holders.
This novel is a work of fiction. The characters and events portrayed are purely the product of the author's imagination. Any relation to actual persons living or dead is purely and entirely coincidental.
www.cjsomersby.com
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All inquiries: [email protected]
To Roz; for her photography skills, love, and constant support,
To Natalia; for putting a face to the name,
& to Andrew & Luke; for coming through on the props at extremely last-minute notice.
PART ONE
Ghosts of the Past
Chapter 1
As soon as he saw the checkpoint, James knew they were in trouble.
Illuminated by the headlights, the gunman stepped into the road and raised his arm for the bus to stop. The driver uttered a low curse in Belorussian and brought the vehicle to a halt. James reached across from the passenger seat and grabbed the driver's shoulder. “What are you doing?” he asked in a low, urgent whisper.
The driver glared at him from the corner of his eye before shaking James' hand loose from his shoulder. “What do you want me to do?” he asked in heavily accented English. “This is rebel territory; they command here.”
James sat back in the chair, his mind racing. The gunman was not alone; five other armed men stood around the improvised checkpoint that crossed the road, the candy-striped barrier pole shining in the bus' headlights. Beyond the checkpoint, James could see a pair of armored cars looming in the darkness, their guns aimed at the patch of road where the bus was now sitting. There was no way out.
The gunman swaggered forward. He wore green military camouflage and his face was hidden by a black balaclava. As he walked, he swung a rifle in one hand as if it was a toy. He motioned to the driver to cut the engine, who hastily complied. The engine shut down with an unhealthy rattle that was then replaced with the ticking of cooling metal. The gunman stepped up to the driver's side window and tapped on the glass. The driver hastily rolled down the window and the gunman glared in, his cold eyes squinting out from the holes of the balaclava. He spat out a few words in Russian, and the bus driver looked over at James. “He wants our papers,” the driver said.
James smiled at the gunman and nodded a greeting, trying to seem casual. The gunman just stared back, his expression hidden but his eyes hostile. James reached out for the documents he had already lain out on the dashboard, moving deliberately and slowly. The rebels were twitchy when it came to outsiders, and he did not want to be peppered with bullets because he had moved too fast. He handed his passport and travel visa to the gunman, and the bus driver did the same. The gunman muttered a few extra words to the driver and retreated a few steps from the bus. The driver leaned over to James. “He says that we wait now,” the driver said, his voice wavering.
James nodded slowly. “Just stay calm,” he muttered. The gunman was conversing on a hand-held radio, presumably talking to his superiors. James wiped a few strands of hair from his sweat-covered brow and turned to gaze out the window. He was getting too old for these kinds of errands; now pushing forty, he had hoped to be already retired. However, trust triumphed over age in his line of work, which was why he was sitting in a decrepit bus in the far flung reaches of eastern Europe. The Belorussian countryside was shrouded in darkness, the rolling fields and forests reduced to menacing silhouettes that promised nothing but danger. He reached out and rolled down his window a few inches, moving his arm slowly so as not to unnerve the armed men in front of them. The cool, night air was welcome on his face, and he took several deep lungfuls whilst trying to slow his pounding heart. He could hear the first birdsong of the approaching dawn. Had it not been for the distant rumble of artillery fire, James would have found the noise of nature relaxing.
The gunman was listening to someone on the radio, the low rasp of static making his eavesdropping impossible, even if James had spoken the language. The gunman returned to the driver's window and handed back the documents. He gestured towards the rear of the bus and barked another order. “He wants to look inside,” the driver translated.
James nodded at the gunman to show his agreement. Slowly, he opened the passenger door and stepped out onto the road, gravel crunching underfoot. Several of the men at the checkpoint raised their weapons, and he raised his hands to show he was unarmed. Then he turned and walked towards the rear of the bus, feeling their eyes boring into his back with every step.
The gunman was already there, glaring at James with suspicion. He pointed at the rear doors of the bus and spat out a word. James did not speak Russian, but he got the intent. He reached out and unlatched the door, allowing it to swing open under its own weight. The gunman pulled a torch from his jacket pocket and shone it through the doorway.
The bus was loaded with cardboard boxes, each stamped with a red cross and a list of contents stenciled in the local language. The gunman shone the torch over one of the boxes to read the list, and then swung it around the rest of the bus. Large bottles of water caught the torchlight and lit up like beacons, the movement of the liquid casting strange shapes on the boxes that surrounded them.
The gunman grunted and lowered the torch, seemingly disappointed. He glared one last time at James and jerked his head in the direction of the road, muttering something in Russian. James nodded and walked as calmly as he could manage back to the cab. He climbed back in and glanced over at the driver. “I think we're good,” he said.
The gunman had returned to the checkpoint and was waving at another man by the barrier pole. The barrier began to lift and the driver started the engine again, sighing with relief. He put the bus in gear and started to creep forward slowly.
That was when it all went wrong.
James saw the gunman reach for his radio, evidently receiving a new message. The gunman looked at the radio intently and then his eyes flicked up to the bus, narrowing within the eye holes of the balaclava. He turned and shouted to the man by the barrier, who hastily began to drop the pole again.
The driver swore and stamped on the gas pedal. The bus leapt forward with a roar, surprising the armed men. The driver swung the
steering wheel sharply, almost lifting the vehicle onto two wheels. The bus veered around the barrier pole and crashed through a set of bushes by the side of the road. They roared past the two armored cars, taking their crews entirely off-guard as the bus slid back onto the open road behind them.
“What are you doing?” James shouted, grabbing the driver by the collar in panic, his other hand gripping tightly to the handrail above the door.
The driver shrugged off James' grip violently. “I'm not going back to a labor camp!” he shouted above the straining of the bus engine.
There was a clattering noise from the rear of the bus, as if they had suddenly been caught in a hailstorm. James realized with gut-wrenching terror that the noises were bullets. The gunmen were shooting at them. “You're going to get us killed, you fool!” he screamed, ducking as low as he could in the seat.
“We'll lose them in the woods!” the driver shouted back, his voice tight with fear and denial. He pushed the bus as hard as it would go, the engine screaming in protest.
Then the armored cars opened fire.
Recovered from their surprise, their gunners had spun the turrets of the war machines around and were now firing away with heavy machine guns. The thunder of the guns was almost deafening, drowning out the sound of the bus engine even inside the cab. The gunners aimed low, shredding the bus' tires and bending the rear axle with the force of the bullets. The bus tipped, crashing onto its side and sliding off the road. It tore though the undergrowth for several feet before coming to a halt against the trunk of a tree with a jarring crash. The countryside lapsed into silence once more, the absence of sound almost as deafening as had been the intense gunfire.
James groaned. He had momentarily blacked out when the bus tipped, and his head throbbed painfully. It took a moment for him to realize that he was sideways, hanging forward against the straining seat belt. He turned his head slowly to look at the driver. The man was dead, a bullet having punched right through the rear of the cab and into the back of his neck.
Through the daze of his injuries, James heard approaching voices, and was dimly aware that he was supposed to do something if this situation occurred. His memory was hazy, and James reached up to his forehead to find blood. He frowned in concentration, trying to remember whatever it was that was important to do before the gunmen got to him. Something to do with...but try as he might, James could not remember.
The gunmen arrived a moment later. He heard the cab door being wrenched open and felt someone grab him beneath the arms. They unfastened his seat belt and hauled him out of the bus, laying him on the floor. He curled there in a fetal position, dazed and terrified at what was happening. He heard them speaking to each-other in low tones, their intent indecipherable. He expected at any moment to feel a gun barrel against his head.
For a long time James just lay there, lapsing in and out of consciousness. At some point he awoke to find a bandage had been applied to his head. The next thing he remembered was the sound of an engine and a pair of dazzling headlights. Someone climbed out of the vehicle and spoke to the gunmen in curt Russian for a few moments. Then James felt himself being lifted to his feet, two people supporting him under his arms. A man was standing in front of him in a smart military uniform, very different from the generic camouflage of the others. His face was also uncovered, and he smiled kindly from below a peaked military hat, his dark eyes and thick mustache making him seem like a kindly, older relative. “Relax, my friend,” he said, his English heavy with a Russian accent. “No harm will come to you, as long as you give me what you're carrying.”
James opened his mouth to reply, but the world became hazy and he gave up, drifting away from the mustached man's face into dark, blissful unconsciousness.
Chapter 2
The man and the woman faced each-other, both sweating profusely. The high ceiling of the room created a cavernous feel, with every sound magnified far beyond its original volume. Tall, west-facing windows caught the dying rays of the sun, repainting the white-washed walls in a bright, fiery orange. The only sound was labored breathing as the two opponents fought to regain their breath, knowing that the lull in fighting would not last long.
Eventually the man came forward, his stance low and his arms tight to his sides. The woman started circling, gradually allowing him to close the distance, her dark green eyes watching every slight movement to judge when the strike was coming.
When he was close enough, the man feigned to punch with his left arm but then struck out with his right. She saw through the trick in an instant, noting the slight lack of power in the feint as the man saved momentum for the second swing. As his right fist came towards her, she brought both hands up to her face, ducked her chin and used her left hand to redirect the punch across her body and away. She punched out with her right fist below the man's swinging arm and into the side of his torso, using the man's momentum to increase the strength of the impact. She brought her hand back as the man reeled and then struck open-palmed at the side of the man's face, sending him into a backwards stumble. A final kick to the thigh put the man on his back.
The woman stepped forward and lent over, her pale skin flushed red with exertion. She reached out with a long, muscle-toned arm and offered the man her hand. He took it and she hauled him to his feet with ease. She ran a hand through her short, raven-black hair. “I got you good that time,” she chided, although the mischievous glint in her eye gave away that she was joking. “You're getting slow.”
The man chuckled to himself, settling back into a fighting stance. “If I didn't let you win a few every now and then, it'd be bad for your self-esteem,” he retorted, bringing both hands back up to readiness.
The woman grinned and settled back into stance herself. She was just about to take the initiative for the next attack when someone patiently cleared their throat from the corner of the room, the sound echoing around the gymnasium. She glanced over at the entrance and noticed the smartly-dressed butler standing there. “What is it, Daniels?” she asked.
The elderly butler bowed his head in apology. “Begging your pardon for the intrusion, madam,” he said in a low, rasping voice. “There is a gentleman here to see you.”
The woman frowned. “I don't have any appointments today,” she said, turning back to her opponent.
Daniels the butler hesitated, glancing at the woman's sparring partner. “The gentleman is from the place that does not need an appointment, madam,” he replied.
The woman looked over at Daniels again and sighed. Bowing politely to the man, she smiled. “My apologies, Instructor,” she said. “We shall have to reschedule the rest of our session.”
The man bowed in return. “Not at all, Alex,” he replied. “I know that your line of work can be rather short-notice. I shall arrange with Daniels for our next appointment.”
The woman smiled and turned, following Daniels out of the gym. The plain, white-washed walls were replaced by carpeted corridors and oak-paneled walls. Large windows along the corridor looked out onto vast, neatly-kept gardens that stretched for almost an acre in each direction. When they arrived at their destination, it was a vast library that spanned two floors, crammed with leather-bound volumes on varnished oak bookshelves. A pair of red-leather reading chairs stood in front of a crackling fire, and the unexpected visitor reclined in one of them. Daniels, a stickler for tradition, insisted on pausing at the door. “May I present Alexandria Thorne,” he announced, before then moving to the side of the room.
The man stood up as Daniels spoke, a strained smile on his face. He wore a well-tailored suit that did little to hide his thin frame. His eyes were narrow and black, and his lips were thin and pale. “Alex Thorne; I never thought I'd see you again,” he said, his upper-class English accent highly pronounced.
Alex stepped forward, not returning the smile. She was still sweating from the gym, and was about to ask Daniels to provide a towel when she saw him already approaching with one. She took it and smiled in gratit
ude at his usual foresight, dabbing the towel to her forehead. “Generally speaking Edward, you don't expect the person who fired you to show up at your house unannounced,” she replied. She let a little bit of her East London accent bleed through her usually refined speech, knowing that a snob like Edward would find it irritating.
If Edward was affected by her words or tone of voice, he did not show it. He continued to smile in that strained manner, as if seeing a colleague he did not particularly like at an office party. “Oh come now, Alex; you're too emotional,” he said, his tone slipping into the condescending. “Water under the bridge and all that.” He made a point of looking around the huge library. “And you've hardly done badly out of the situation, have you?” he added.
Alex slipped into the chair opposite the one from which Edward had just risen. “Daniels, a bottle of water please,” she said aside to the butler, purposefully not offering Edward anything. Once Daniels had left the room, she lent back in the chair and crossed her palms on her lap. “So what can I do for the Ministry of Intelligence?” she asked. “If memory serves, we did not part on the best of terms.”
Edward sat back down in his own chair, and lent forward in a manner that Alex thought over-earnest. “We have a chance to change all that,” he said, clasping his hands together in front of him. “I have been authorized to remove your black mark with the Ministry and put you on our approved list for independent agents.”
Alex raised an eyebrow. Daniels appeared at that moment and handed her a bottle of water. She nodded her thanks and took a long swig, buying herself time to think. “What's the catch?” she finally asked, resting the bottle on the chair's arm as she spoke.
Edward shrugged. “We need you to do a job for us,” he replied with nonchalance.
Alex snorted with laughter, catching Edward by surprise and leaving him looking confused and irritated. “You haven't changed a bit,” she said, shaking her head, her tone turning bitter. “First you sack me for unproven allegations and trash my name with all the major intelligence agencies, and now you want me to do you a favor.”
Eastern Shadows: Alex Thorne Book One (Alex Thorne Action Spy Adventures 1) Page 1