by James Quinn
“So why do we bother then, eh? If all they care about is trivia, why should we give a monkey's?” snarled Grant.
Masterman smiled. “Because if we don't, no one will. Look, take some time out. It's been a long one, this one. Both sides have taken hits. Get yourself away on a holiday. We can manage for a few months without you.”
Grant shook his head sadly. “No, I'm done, Colonel. I didn't think you'd back me on this, but I had to try. I've already left my resignation letter on your desk. I did it this morning, before you picked me up. I'm out!”
Masterman looked shocked and spoke in his best Commanding Officer's voice. “What do you think this is, a bloody golf club that you can march out of anytime you feel like it? You're an officer of this Service; you have a job to do!”
“Not this time. You can lock me up, you could even kill me, but you can't make me kill anyone I don't want to.”
Masterman's face flushed with anger. “What about the people in Scotland, in Loch Lomond? Have you thought about how your actions will affect them? If you're not a part of the Service, neither are they. I can't promise protection for them if you leave.”
Grant smiled. He knew Masterman was better than that. “But you will though, won't you, Colonel? You will, because you're a good and decent man and you love them just as much as I do.”
Masterman gave him a hard glare. Damn him, he was right! Of course he would look after the people up north. They had all been through so much together, had forged a bond and besides, Grant had watched his back, and he Grant's, many, many times. Some debts just couldn't be ignored for expediency's sake. “Jack, Jack…”
But Jack Grant was already walking away, past Masterman's car and out into the country lane.
Just let him go, thought Masterman. He'll be back. He's just on a long, long leash.
Book Eight: Checkmate
Epilogue
The Congo - September 1965
Marquez staggered out of the bar, worse for the amount of drink he'd taken that night. Cognac; a cheap brand that rotted the guts. It was awful, but better than nothing in this godforsaken steaming hell pit. He checked his watch; almost midnight.
His bleary eyes searched around the deserted roadside for where he had left the jeep. He staggered one way and then the next, before his memory kicked in and he saw it across the pathway. He sucked in a lungful of air, in the hope that it might sober him up. Doubtful, he thought, as he lumbered towards his ride home.
He fell into his vehicle, rummaged around for the keys. He started the engine of the two-seater jeep, heard it cough and rumble, and then he pulled away from the ramshackle provincial bar. Really, it was just a hut with an ice box, he thought. The drive was a ten-minute journey and considering the amount of alcohol he'd put away that night, it would be a miracle if he didn't crash the jeep before making it back to his house.
He'd been down here, keeping a low profile, trying to blend in, for almost four months. The Congo, once a country he'd worked in and loved, he now hated with a vile passion. The heat, the people, the flies, the life! Circumstances, and lack of options, had made this the place he'd returned to and for that, he wished he had never taken the last contract, met Mr. Knight or ever worked for the Americans. Fuckers! Double-crossing fuckers!
Following the killing in Rome, he'd moved quickly; the money that he'd been promised for the full terms of the contract had been non-existent and so he had quickly spent his remaining financial resources on escaping the heat.
He'd heard through the grapevine that there was an open-ended hit contract out on him; who the paymaster was, he didn't know. The CIA or KGB, it mattered not. What did matter was that he had to move.
The first hint of a threat had been the burning down of his business and home in Luxembourg. He'd missed the arson attack by two days. That had been close. Recognizing that he needed to get out of Europe undetected, he'd visited his tame forger in Antwerp and paid over the odds for a new passport. The Belgian forger had been surprised to see him, but had nonetheless 'run up' a set of new papers for him.
He had fled Europe with a suitcase full of cash, which would help him buy his way into a semi-secure lifestyle in the Congo. He'd taken former General, now President Mobutu, at his word and asked for asylum and protection.
The President had, of course, not seen him personally, but had nonetheless stuck to his word and allowed Marquez to remain and begin a new life. And what a life it was. Hell would have been a better term. Long days, even longer nights, living in a ramshackle, prefabricated house on the outskirts of Uvira, miles from anywhere. Terrible food, even worse liquor, and aside from the occasional dalliance with one or two of the young boys from the nearby town, precious else left for him to do.
He had tried to muscle in on several smuggling operations, less for the money, but more to keep his mind occupied, but thus far, he'd been frozen out. The warning had come down from the top; the President runs all operations in the Congo: keep away unless you want to visit one of the torture cells and then get kicked out of Africa. So he sat and waited and drank and despaired. His lot in life set, eternally.
Ten minutes later, he saw the prison cell that was his house. The headlights illuminated it momentarily before he remembered to jam on the brakes and stop. He leaned forward in the driver's seat, felt it creak and groan, to remove the keys from the ignition, whilst with the other hand, he fumbled for the latch to open the door of the jeep.
The volley of shots when they came were silent, but powerful. From below him, it sounded as if someone was playing a rapid drum beat on a biscuit tin lid and then his chest, bizarrely, opened up and sprayed a glutinous mass of blood and tissue over the interior windscreen. He looked down to see the ragged remains of his shirt and the cascade of red where his sternum had once been. Then the pain was everywhere; front, back – all over. He screamed, but couldn't move, and eventually, even the scream subsided and his speech was gone, replaced by an unhealthy gurgling sound from his butchered chest.
The second volley was aimed higher. The same rapid drum beat as it ripped out his throat and jaw. Less pain this time, but certainly more blood as his body slouched sideways, finally coming to rest upon the steering wheel of the jeep.
The silence of the African night returned once more.
* * *
Gorilla quietly eased himself out of the cramped space of the Jeep's luggage compartment. He'd covered himself with an old blanket to hide his body shape. Resting in his hands was a silenced, Sterling sub machine gun that he'd bought on the black market. He stretched, feeling the knotted muscles and joints click and contract, his shirt and linen trousers saturated with sweat from his prolonged confinement in the rear of the Jeep.
He stepped over the side, and his boots crunched on the dusty plain of the African roadside as he walked around to the driver's window to inspect the result of his work.
Gorilla removed the ear protectors and goggles which had been so necessary when he'd fired the silenced Sterling from his hidden position behind the driver's seat. Even with a fully suppressed firearm, the shock waves and noise from the weapon would have been enough to blow out his eardrums and damage his eyes in such a confined space.
He had tracked this man across Europe, first as part of Operation MACE, and now on his own ticket of revenge, to Africa. It was good to have the hunt settled once and for all. He narrowed his eyes, as he almost forensically, ran them over the gloomy bloodbath inside. The shots had taken out a large portion of the man's chest and throat… not bad. It had been messy, but quick.
It had been a private operation on Gorilla's part, and although he had officially resigned from SIS three months ago, he knew that if Masterman were to find out he was in Africa and hunting Marquez, he would have quickly been arrested and dropped down a very dark hole somewhere. So he had, carefully, slowly, set about tracking down leads and pooling resources.
Determined to send a message to the Catalan that he was marked; Gorilla had visited the man's antiques shop with the a
partment above, broken in and petrol-bombed it. He knew that Marquez hadn't returned for many months; Gorilla just wanted the man frightened and on the run.
The first breakthrough had come when he'd re-visited the forger in Antwerp, following a tip-off from a friend in the Belgium SIS Section. The forger had been frightened and apparently received a recent visit from the Catalan killer. Dumont needed to see the little gunman who had a penchant for shooting up wine goblets. Urgently!
Marquez the fugitive had needed a new passport to get him out of Europe! The rest had been a mirror image of MACE; tracking the 'flagged' passport had led him to Africa and the Congo. The rest had been patience, bribes and watching.
Gorilla dug into his trouser pocket and retrieved his habitual cut-throat razor, flicking it open one-handed, until the lethal blade shimmered in the African moonlight. He grabbed the head of the dead man in the Jeep, turned it to the right and placed the razor blade behind the nub of the man's ear. With one powerful cut the ear came away in his hands.
The ear would be his proof of a kill. The CIA had put out an open-ended hit contract on Marquez following the operation in Europe. The man had become too much of an embarrassment and could not be allowed to live.
Gorilla had no intention of collecting the $15,000 bounty on the killer's head. This was personal. It was payback for a brave and beautiful young woman who he'd loved, and yet had ultimately failed to protect. He would send the ear to an old man in England, a father, with a simple note attached: 'Payback for Nicole'.
What had QJ/WIN said, when they were battling to the death in Rome? 'This is my game and I always win.”
Well, not this time you don't sunshine, thought Gorilla. He dropped the Sterling and began to walk away, calling back over his shoulder as an afterthought.
“You lose. Game over.”
Dedication
This book is dedicated to John.
He is a soldier, a statesman, secret warrior, philanthropist and mentor to many. Some people that we meet in our lives leave a lasting impression and go on to inspire us with their words of kindness and encouragement. John is such a person, but no matter how many times he asks me to call him by his Christian name, something in my psyche instantly compels me to treat him with the respect of a senior officer and call him “Sir.” It just seems the right thing to do.
Hopefully, we can climb the stairs to the Special Forces Club again soon for a dram or two.
As a way of saying thank you for all his help and guidance over the years A Game for Assassins is in his honor, I hope he approves, for without him there would be no Masterman.
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank the following people for all their contributions and advice;
Mike Smith of Advanced Armament Corp, USA for his expertise on all weapons suppressed and for his fascinating insight into the SDK 'Gestapo' Rifle that Marquez uses.
To my old friend, science fiction writer, Daniel Webster for all his help and encouragement over the years and for helping me find Gorilla's favorite tool of the trade, the S&W '39. Phut – Phut – Phut!
To John Nuttall, for sharing his knowledge of the Cornish Coast and for his advice on all things 'boat' related. Any errors are mine and should in no way be attributed to John's excellent advice.
To my 'Scottish Editor', Claire Piercy, for advising me on the correct way that those north of the border converse. I owe you a dram.
To the fantastic LE Fitzpatrick for saving the day at the last moment with her magical skills of proofreading and formatting to make this book the best that it can possibly be.
To Rachel Graves, for putting to work her contacts and for guiding me through the fascinating world of forensic pathology and science.
The staff at the British Embassy in Vienna for all their help with getting the details of the old Embassy correct.
To 'Ned Brockman' former agent of the old Federal Narcotics Bureau (and later its renamed manifestation, the Drug Enforcement Administration) for all his help in guiding me through the type of operations that the DEA excels at. I was lucky enough to meet up with 'Ned' for lunch in London and I think it's only fair that next time, I pay!
And last, but not least, to 'Lulu' for writing the last line of the book. I couldn't have done it without you. xxx
* * *
QJ/WIN and WI/ROGUE were real agents recruited to work for the CIA in the 1960's. Their identities have never truly been revealed, and I have taken liberties with the backgrounds and operations that they may have been involved in during this period of history.
The character of Jack 'Gorilla' Grant is one I hope the readers will take to. He is the very antithesis of James Bond. He is a working class spy.
He is based, if he is based on anybody, upon a number of people that I know or have known. Some worked, and continue to work, in the secret world and some don't. I stole a piece of each of them and melded them into both a physical and personality-based profile.
Of Grant's SIS work name, 'Gorilla', I was searching around for a codename for my spy/assassin. I toyed with many, all, I admit, sounding a bit too gung-ho, macho, Roman Godlike or predatory animal. I wanted something almost banal, but that also conveyed a workmanlike approach to the job that Jack Grant has to do. None seemed to reflect the almost casual disdain that Grant has for such frivolities better than 'Gorilla'; after all, he's a worker, but he's got better things to worry about than what people call him… and anyway, what's in a name?
J.Q
London, 2015
About the Author
James Quinn spent 15 years in the secret world of covert operations, undercover investigations and international security before turning his hand to writing.
He is trained in hand to hand combat, and in the use of a variety of weaponry, including small edged weapons, Japanese swords and hunting bows. He is also a crack pistol shot for CQB (Close Quarter Battle) and many of his experiences he has incorporated into his works of fiction.
When the mood takes him he likes to indulge in a good single malt whisky or expensive Kentucky bourbon.
He lives in the United Kingdom and travels extensively around the globe.
http://jamesquinn.webs.com/
If you enjoyed “A Game for Assassins”
watch out for the forthcoming Jack “Gorilla” Grant book
Sentinel Five
The Chief of the Secret Intelligence Service has been assassinated and the government brought to its knees.
A disavowed team is assembled to hunt down the terrorists and called back from obscurity is the 'Gorilla', a freelancer with a Smith & Wesson' 39 and a cut-throat razor, who is ready to even the score.
But in a game where power players, traitors, and terrorists work hand in hand, sometimes the most serious threats come from within.
The Sentinel Five team turn their gunsights to the East, to Asia, and enter a killing ground of death.
Dear reader,
Thank you for taking time to read A Game For Assassins. If you enjoyed it, please consider telling your friends or posting a short review. Word of mouth is an author’s best friend and much appreciated.
Table of Contents
Book One: Enter the Assassins
Chapter One
Book Two: The Rules of the Game
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Book Three: Counter-Attack
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Book Four: By Way of Deception
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
&nb
sp; Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Book Five: Black King, White Queen
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Book Six: Shadow Moves
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five