SKELETON GOLD: Scorpion (James Pace novels Book 3)

by Andy Lucas

  ‘Thank you, Mr Smith. You have done a good job and deserve my gratitude.’

  ‘That is very kind of you to say,’ beamed Smith. ‘I always try to do my best and working with a large team has been helpful in getting the base cleared so quickly.’

  ‘So I see.’

  ‘And you have been very generous with my fee, Miss Roche, which gives me the hope that I can work with you again on future projects.’

  ‘Sadly, that cannot happen,’ replied Josephine, steeling her mind for what was to come.

  She looked into the man’s trusting eyes, noting the redness brought about by tiredness and alcoholic celebration of a job completed. She nodded to Garner with a slight smile, who stepped forward and whipped out an automatic pistol from a hip holster. Smith’s expression had only just begun to move to one of puzzlement before the gun discharged a single bullet squarely between his eyes. The force of the shot flung his lifeless corpse backwards, sending it crashing down onto the hard sand.

  Simultaneously, several further shots rang out as the additional team of ‘workers’ went about their duty and despatched every single one of the original dig team. The mercenaries, masquerading as extra help, had planned for this moment meticulously, so the murderous act was over within seconds.

  Stepping out onto the blood-soaked sand as the final echoes of gunfire were lost on the light breeze, Josephine called back into the helicopter for Fiona to join them, which she did. She had no problem with her employer’s ruthless need to remove witnesses from the illegal acts that ARC engaged in but she did feel a moment of regret to see Smith’s body laying twisted on the red, wet sand. She had recruited him herself and felt he could have been useful in the future. Sighing, she moved on, not sparing the body another glance. This was just how Josephine worked.

  As her team collected up the bodies of the murdered men, dragging them away into the desert for a mass burial, Josephine frowned at the rising heat. She needed to get on with the matter in hand. Moving forwards, she stepped across to the main building. Believed to be the research block, it was the one building in the complex that had no windows at all.

  Garner and Nash each produced a powerful flashlight before Nash tested the door. It was firmly locked, as the unfortunate Smith had said. One hefty shoulder barge popped it open cleanly, exposing the insidious, musty darkness beyond. Even though Josephine knew that she faced nothing more frightening than darkness, a strange sense of unease gripped her before she forcibly shrugged it off.

  ‘Lead the way,’ she instructed her bodyguards, who dutifully stepped inside, sweeping the path ahead with brilliant beams of light. Josephine and Fiona stepped in behind them and moved inside.

  17

  The English summer drizzle was a depressing change from the warmth of the African sun. After their failed recce of the ARC facility on the Namibian coast, they had relayed the events to Doyle McEntire. In turn, he had issued an immediate order for the team to return to the UK. Pace, Sarah and Hammond had just stopped off, enroute to London from a private airfield in Wokingham, selecting a quaint country pub called The Wayward Inn to grab some lunch, where they now tucked into fish and chips as they watched water dribbling down the misted, Victorian-styled window panes.

  McEntire did not know any more than he had discovered previously but his instincts were telling him that something sinister was going on and he had no intention of putting his people at unnecessary risk. He was so concerned that he sent an armed security team to meet them at a military airfield farther north along the Namibian coast, where the ship was allowed to moor offshore so the team could make a short helicopter trip inland. A relaxing flight in one of the company Falcon jets and the team was back on British soil.

  ‘I think I prefer being on a ship with a dead body hidden in its freezer,’ grumbled Hammond, slicing into a succulent fillet of fish that steamed delightfully. ‘Interesting that McEntire pulled us out so quickly.’

  ‘He must have had his reasons,’ said Sarah, sipping at a glass of cider. ‘I know you both said that you didn’t think the body and ARC were connected but my father obviously feels differently.’

  ‘He pulled us out so we wouldn’t muddy the waters,’ decided Pace, forking the food around his plate with little interest in eating it. ‘There might well be a link between ARC and something illicit but it may not have anything to do with the corpse.’

  ‘What will happen to the body anyway? asked Sarah. ‘Did any of us find out before we boarded the helicopter?’

  ‘The ship was being sent across to one of the McEntire Corporation’s private port facilities in the Canaries. The body will be transported to a secure morgue inland and they will try and find out what killed him and, more importantly, identify him.’

  ‘For now, I am just annoyed that we weren’t able to start hunting for that damned submarine. We were in the right area, with all the right equipment,’ bemoaned Pace.

  ‘Treasure hunting getting into your blood?’ Hammond asked. ‘That’s fatal.’

  ‘Not if you know where you are going and actually find what you’re searching for,’ he shot back.

  They were seated at an alcove table so there was nobody nearby who could overhear them. They discussed the situation openly but were mindful to keep their voices low.

  Lunch was followed by coffee, which seemed to taste even better as it was sipped against the background patter of the rain on glass.

  ‘Forget about the gold for now,’ suggested Hammond. ‘It’s been lost for nearly a century so a few more weeks won’t make any difference.’ He took a sip of his coffee. ‘There is obviously more to meets the eye with ARC and I guess, knowing McEntire as I do, that our next job will be to find out what’s going on. And if the McEntire Corporation does need to get involved,’ he cautioned, ‘then it will clearly be an issue that relates to national security.’

  ‘But what?’ asked Pace. ‘On the face of it, it is a legitimate business successfully meeting a dire need for humanity.’

  ‘The McEntire Corporation has an impeccable business façade too, from which to hide behind as it goes about its arguably dirty business,’ reminded Hammond. ‘Many sacrifices have been made, including lives lost, to keep its secrets. With the right help, businesses can cover up practically anything.’

  ‘Which I only became aware of with this whole Race Amazon fiasco that you barely survived,’ she ruffled Pace’s hair lovingly. ‘I am Doyle McEntire’s daughter and was, until last month, his personal assistant. Even I didn’t know what the company actually did.’

  ‘That’s because it is a real company, with real products and real employees,’ argued Hammond, chuckling. ‘The British government has invested for many years, as has your father, to make sure that the multi-billion annual turnover is genuine and that the international reach can be explained. Doing business in all corners of the globe, in so many industries, is the perfect cover for the necessary security operations we need to run.’

  Pace was still carrying the bruises from his many recent brushes with death in the rainforest and his fingers instinctively rubbed at the healed bullet wound on his chest, through his shirt, that had started it all for him. Minding his own business, walking into town, he had happened upon a street robbery. A group of children had been mugging a young couple in broad daylight, at knifepoint. Intervening, he had been stunned to see one of the young girls pull out a revolver. He was even more surprised when the she had shot him, barely pausing beforehand.

  Luckily, he had survived and his amateur experience with a video camera had led Doyle McEntire to involve him in the Race Amazon charity run, as a video diarist. Great money, a fresh start and he had met Sarah McEntire. They were the good bits, he mused; the rest had been utter hell.

  ‘Where does this leave us?’ Sarah’s question snapped him back into the present. ‘I half expected Baker to turn up at that African airfield when my father sent his security people. Maybe it was just a precaution?’

  ‘Maybe,’ agreed Hammond. ‘Baker is hi
s top security operative and he is doubtless already up to his neck in some far flung corner of the world, fighting bad guys as we speak.’

  ‘How wrong you are,’ came a familiar voice from around the brick pillar separating their alcove from the main lounge. The voice was followed by an equally familiar body that stepped into view, with a reproving look on his face. ‘You know the rules about discussing company business in public, Hammond. I am surprised at you.’

  ‘Baker, you old devil,’ said Hammond, ignoring the criticism. He knew they had been speaking too low for anyone to hear and that Baker was making assumptions, for effect. ‘Great to see you.’

  ‘Agreed,’ said Pace. ‘Only, why are you here? This isn’t coincidence. Are we in trouble? Do we need to get out of here now?’ The seriousness in his tone cut through the alcove like a well-swung scythe.

  ‘No. Easy,’ Baker soothed, secretly pleased to see all three of them immediately alert and scanning the virtually empty pub for signs of danger. ‘McEntire sent me to fetch you. He had trackers fitted in all the cars of key personnel, including yours, to keep tabs on people and make sure we can get to anyone that might be in trouble quickly. I traced you here. There is nothing to worry about, that we know of,’ he added slowly. ‘Just to be on the safe side, here.’

  Baker had an innocuous rucksack over his shoulders, which he slipped off as he sidled around and seated himself in the alcove next to Sarah. The rucksack moved down into his lap, below the table top and out of sight of any prying eyes. A deft movement and the zipper opened. Without taking his eyes off his companions, one hand delved inside and slipped each of them a small Colt .25 automatic, easily fitted into his palm.

  Standard McEntire operational issue, these guns resembled small children’s toys but they were very effective at close range, and lethal with the hollow-point ammunition that sat inside their clips. Often featured in popular adventure fiction, in reality they were a mainstay of the world’s secret services and came into play far more often than even the most imaginative thriller novelist could conjure. Typically tucked inside a purse, or strapped discreetly to an ankle holster, they were a back-up weapon but they would offer the team some protection until they got back to London.

  Hammond had worked with Baker for years, so slipped the gun into the inside pocket of his jacket without batting an eyelid. Although new to the covert world in which he now operated, ex-RAF helicopter pilot James Pace also accepted the weapon as if he had just been slid a packet of cashew nuts to accompany his drink, similarly pocketing it inside his own jacket. Sarah fumbled her gun initially, swore beneath her breath, and then managed to slip it inside her black leather shoulder-bag.

  ‘Do we need to fill you in about what happened?’ asked Pace, fully expecting the answer to be negative. He was surprised when Baker nodded.

  ‘I only got back in last night. Been sorting out a little mess in the Balkans for the past fortnight. McEntire gave me some headlines but he was keen that I got myself over here to watch your backs. Something about lost gold and a dubious African company, specialising in desalinisation of ocean water? Sounds hardly the type of problem we usually get involved with.’

  So they filled him in quickly and quietly, leaving nothing out except their own varying theories. Baker’s eyebrows had risen discernibly as he learned about the dead body in the sea.

  The pub was beginning to grow busier so they decided it would be better if they got on the road again. Pace settled the bill with a particularly flirtatious barmaid, batting away the innuendo and suggestion with good-natured humour, before they all walked brazenly out of the front door.

  Crunching across the gravel car park, Pace operated the car’s central locking remotely when they were still ten feet away from his Landrover Defender. He was in the lead, flanked slightly behind by Sarah and Hammond. Baker had already set off in a different direction, making for a grey Ford saloon parked in a different row.

  For a second, Pace was back in the darkest rain forest, in the middle of the night, as the jets had screamed down and unloaded their payload of munitions on top of them. A familiar, sickening, breath-sucking explosive wave erupted from beneath the car and swallowed them whole, flinging them backwards like rag dolls, helpless in its fiery fingers. The dull thud of the sound wave hit them a split-second later, deafening them and jarring loose whatever sense they had left.

  Two things happened next. As the pall of black smoke spiralled skywards and a lethal rain of molten metal, shorn bolts and razor-sharp metal shards fell across a fifty-foot area, multiple cannonades of shattering pub and car windows added to the terrifying confusion, accompanied by the screams of injured pub patrons and staff.

  Next, although the stunned McEntire team were oblivious to it as they struggled to drag themselves up onto all fours, shaking their heads to clear the fog, five masked gunmen popped open the rear doors of a dark blue Renault Traffic panel van that slewed into the car park, throwing up a curtain spray of painful gravel as it skidded to a halt a few feet from the burning wreck.

  The figures advanced, dressed from head to toe in black, wearing flak jackets, helmets, goggles and carrying the familiar terrorist stalwart; Kalashnikovs. They moved with professional purpose, zeroing in on the stunned targets, lifting their weapons to finish a job that shouldn’t have needed to be finished.

  They had used enough Semtex to destroy a Challenger tank, which is why they had waited by the car park entrance, expecting the blast to completely level the area, including the pub. Though stunned to see the blast limited to the Landrover itself, with very little serious blast damage to the pub, they wasted no time in reflection – the marks had to be eliminated and they needed to get clear before the authorities responded. With no sign of resistance from the targets, the killers took a moment to line up for head shots.

  This was a mistake.

  Baker was used to reacting instantly to sudden changes in the field. He had just reached his car when the bomb went off. Instinctively his fingers operated the remote boot release and his hands had already closed around the AR-12 automatic shotgun before the heat of the blast warmed the back of his jacket. He sensed the van driving fast into the car park, passing behind him, intent on its prize.

  Years of training and Special Forces operations had hardened him against natural human reactions to shock and allowed his body to act smoothly and efficiently. Spinning around he thumbed off the safety catch as he moved, quickly assessing the scene.

  He saw at once that Pace, Hammond and Sarah had survived. They looked a little bloody but they were all scrabbling to their knees, bodies swaying with the typical nauseating disorientation caused by a close proximity detonation.

  The assassination team was good, moving in purposefully but it was too engrossed in the helpless victims to notice him. Knowing the shotgun was loaded with anti-personnel slugs, Baker grinned as he lined up on the nearest black-clad figure. Their flak jackets might stop the actual projectile but the force from one of these shells; basically just a heavy single metal slug rather than buckshot, would shatter ribs and break spines. Not that he needed to test it on the first man, who took a blast to the head that removed it cleanly.

  The automatic mechanism of the AR-12 worked flawlessly and Baker blasted another three of the attackers lifeless within the blink of an eye. The remaining assassin had time to swing his own weapon around and fire, panicking, from the hip. The staccato burst from the Kalashnikov shot harmlessly past Baker’s left shoulder, with one bullet nicking his jacket sleeve. His own shot was bang on target, taking the assassin full in the chest, throwing him five feet backwards. The bullet-proof flak jacket did its job and caught the slug but the force shattered his sternum and sent eight broken ribs piercing into his lungs, liver and diaphragm. He died within seconds, drowning and choking on his own blood, incredulous at having the tables turned so completely, so fast.

  The driver of the van, who was similarly dressed and armed, hadn’t expected that he would even need to leave his seat until he wat
ched the carnage unfold in his door mirrors. The whole thing was over in less than ten seconds but he was already out of the driver’s door and rushing around to the back of the van just in time to see the last of his team take a virtually point-blank shotgun blast to the chest.

  His nemesis was facing away from him, still sighting his shotgun on the mid-air flight of the corpse, as the driver brought his own Kalashnikov up. Obviously some sort of security agent, the driver surmised, he was clearly good to eliminate the entire team but he had no chance now. He was about to die too.

  Gunfire sounded again, this time high-pitched cracks, and two simultaneous red holes appeared in the driver’s forehead. The .25 hollow-points chewed up the inside of his skull before exiting out of the back, carrying with them a large welter of red and grey matter. The driver was dead before his knees even began to buckle.

  Baker spun around on his heels and watched the body fall backwards against the rear bumper of the van before it sagged forward and collapsed in a lifeless heap on the gravel-strewn ground. Turning back, he noted both Hammond and Pace with smoking guns in their hands. Hammond was kneeling up in a shooter’s stance while Pace had only managed to shoot from lying prone, on his stomach. Both had recovered their wits enough to draw and shoot accurately, for which Baker was extremely grateful. Even Sarah, bleeding heavily from a nasty cut on her hairline, was sitting up and struggling to find her own gun inside her bag.

  Not wanting to still be around when the police arrived, Baker managed to help them all up and get them into his car, throwing the shotgun back in the boot. As he screeched out of the car park, he saw some people coming out of the pub, staring and pointing at the dead bodies and burning car.

  Baker knew they had about ten minutes before the description of his car would be out on the police airwaves. Of course, he could make a secure call that would make it all go away but that always came at a price and was only used in a dire emergency. The cuts and burns the team had suffered looked superficial so Baker opted to head directly for a nearby McEntire safe house he knew of.