The Shadow Of Medea (Luke Temple Series Book 1)

by James Flynn

  Mulberry picked up a file and walked it over to a filing cabinet located within the wall. He had never quite seen the point in such gimmicks, as with many things within the building it seemed as though function had lost out to form. His office was clinical, he assumed people in the ‘know’ would call it modern, yet he just didn’t feel comfortable in it at all. The walls were a light cream colour, and the floors were laid with a thin hard carpet that was a single shade of blue.

  As he re-took his seat he picked up the sandwich and took a bite. It tasted as bland as ever, and he wished he had the time to head out of the office to grab lunch.

  He hadn’t been able to focus on anything for the last two weeks, it was a relief that Temple was about to be removed from the equation.

  Mulberry stood and walked back over to the large viewing window.

  Temple was ex-Group 9, a division that virtually no one on the planet knew about; it was unknown even to the mighty Sir Peter Villier. The decision had been made to keep top-ranking officials out of the loop for plausible deniability. Top brass had a history of high turnover.

  However, Mulberry knew Group 9 well. Five years ago, he had been a senior intelligence officer within MI6, and was flown to a secret meeting, taking place in a lone farmhouse in northern Germany. A handful of intelligence service operatives from Europe’s power five – France, Spain, Germany, Italy and the UK – had gathered to lay out plans for an ultra-covert new unit. The threat to Europe was growing and the aim was to assemble an elite team to protect Europe and her interests. This unit would have two operatives from each nation, and they would be selected from a range of skillsets. They were not looking for battle-hardened veterans, but a younger age set, with more cerebral credentials; an ability to think, to blend, to be creative and to operate under extreme stress. Weapons and combat skills could always be taught. They were to be modern operatives for a modern world.

  Mulberry was one of only a handful of people who knew how lethal Temple was, what Alex Rowland was capable of. That was who Luke Temple had been when Mulberry had first encountered him lying lifeless in a hospital bed after a deliberate overdose. Mulberry had seen to it that Alex Rowland would never recover; Luke Temple was born.

  Staring out over the river, Mulberry shook his head at the memory. He was amazed what they had gotten out of the men; they were trained beyond training, in cultural-expertise, urban warfare, Middle East crisis training, industrial espionage, cross-country infiltration, counter-terrorism.

  Another large tourist boat chugged past the SIS building, glistening in the sun. Mulberry rubbed his eyes for stress relief. Group 9 was stopped as quickly and suddenly as it had been conceived. Funding had ceased six months previously when the cover company – financial risk assessors Nissell and Randall – was folded, casting Temple out into the wilderness.

  Mulberry had known straight away that Temple was the man to ensure the success of his plan. He was a man who needed objectives and targets, several psychological profilers agreed. Without them Temple would return to the darkness that had led to Alex Rowland’s demise. Mulberry had offered him what he needed.

  The silver-framed photo of his wife and son felt cold in Mulberry’s hand; he couldn’t help but smile at the picture. They were the reason he was doing all of this, he wanted to be able to give them their dreams, anything they wanted, rather than an empty chair at a dinner table. Mulberry had been focused and dedicated his whole career, which allowed him to reach where he was now. But at what cost? He was missing his son growing up, or at least all the important occasions, and his wife had to convince friends that she actually did have a husband and that he wasn’t a figment of her imagination.

  Sipping the tepid tea, he was also thankful that Sir Peter had gone out of the country. After his speech on the South Bank, Sir Peter had said that he would be travelling on business. If things continued to go to plan then the cargo would arrive in England in the next twelve hours, and he would feed Sir Peter the lie that things had gone extremely wrong and the terrorists had grabbed Seona Latvik before they could make their move.

  The sandwich had lost its appeal and he threw it back onto the small tray, taking another sip from the rapidly cooling tea. He was barely able to keep his mind from walking through the next few days ahead. These would be the last when he would have to give everything for nothing. Too many double-crosses and secrets had poured through his fingers for him to believe that he was providing a service to his country. A country that he no longer believed in. Money was the master of the world. And he wanted his share.

  26.

  It was the high-pitched tweeting of birds that drifted into Luke’s consciousness first. The right side of his face was cold; his curly hair felt damp, his eyes slowly opened. He was lying face down. It took only a few seconds for him to get his bearings but he felt the muscles in his arms pulling tight where they had been tied behind his back. His legs were free and the blurriness cleared to reveal that the he was lying face down next to the passenger-side door.

  Luke flicked his head further round and noticed that under the S80 he could see another set of wheels; the other car was parked at an angle with its nose facing back out onto the country road.

  “How’s the head?”

  The voice came from behind Luke, it wasn’t Bobby’s, it was a British accent. As he leaned his neck back and turned his head toward the voice, he couldn’t believe who he saw.

  With his arms folded across his body Razor was staring down at Luke. He was sporting a wry smile across his face.

  “Surprised are we, Leon? Or should I say Luke?”

  The grogginess was finally dispersing and Luke knew that things were really starting to go downhill, fast.

  “No answer?”

  This was bad, Razor’s jovial tone that had lightened the briefings had disappeared, and been replaced with an edge of superiority. How the hell does he know my name? Are they working for themselves? Luke managed to manoeuvre his body into a sitting position against the frame of the door. He scanned around and saw the top of Bobby’s head as it bobbed up and down at the rear of the other car; he assumed he was shifting Seona. The fact that Razor knew his name was incomprehensible, his name was buried deep in some very dark places.

  At that point the most unexpected of memories flooded over Luke. He was sat in a cold caravan in Clacton-On-Sea with Sarah, rain lashing the roof. Whenever he used to return home from a long stint away, Sarah always wanted to run away with him to some remote part of the country. She claimed she got him when they were alone. They used to spend a week cooped up in a little caravan in rain or shine, just the two of them. She stood there in one of his jumpers, her wavy blonde hair hanging down past her shoulders, giggling at him attempting to cook something on the world’s smallest hob. He fought the memory back.

  Luke scanned around. “Where’s Lennon?”

  “He felt a bit travel sick, so I gave him something to help with the pain.” Razor’s dark eyes were glinting, and Luke knew that Lennon was out of the equation.

  “And you think that the body won’t raise questions?”

  “Don’t you worry; he won’t be found anytime this century; he has taken a cruise.”

  So Razor had dumped him in water, presumably the Hudson, and the chances were that he’d never get found. He now knew they weren’t going to spare him. He had to act.

  “You know a lot about me. A lot of people must be interested in our target?”

  “People like to protect their investments.” Razor shifted his bulky six-foot frame slightly towards Luke. “And they also understand there has to be wastage.”

  Luke heard Bobby slam the boot shut. Bobby strolled over to Razor and threw him the keys.

  “All tucked up like a pretzel.” Bobby grinned at Luke.

  “Well Lukey, it’s been a pleasure.” Razor turned to walk away, before warning Bobby, “Don’t do it in the open.”

  ***

  Rain started to lightly fall, it felt cool on Luke’s skin, yet the
humidity still hung all around. As the tyres screeched away, the whole operation had become a nightmare.

  Bobby walked closer to Luke. “Up you get.”

  “Come move me.”

  Bobby pulled out the Browning. “Let’s just do it the easy way, man.”

  Luke was trying to put together some form of plan, but it didn’t look good. His hands were tied and Bobby held the pistol. He knew all he needed was for the American to get close to him.

  “Walk in front. We’re going behind the bushes, my man.”

  Luke walked past Bobby, the American keeping the pistol trained on him. He led him around through the muddied entrance to a dirt track that led off into the distance.

  “Go right, dude,” Bobby spoke quietly.

  Luke veered right and started walking parallel with the hedge, the road was blocked from sight, and the ground was soggy from the morning dew and fresh rain.

  Bobby walked him for a few hundred metres down the hedgerow away from the road.

  ‘Well, this is as good a place as any. Sorry about all this.’ Bobby chuckled. “I’ll catch a fish for you.” But instead of lifting the gun, he kept it pointed at Luke and rummaged around in his back pocket for a flip knife. “Here in America we believe in an eye for an eye … well, in this case a cheek for a cheek.”

  Luke tensed his body for action; he just needed Bobby to take one more step.

  As Bobby brought the knife up in his left hand, the pistol was lowered in his right, and Luke knew it was time.

  Luke exploded forward with his arms behind his back and drove the top of his right foot into Bobby’s crotch, feeling it hit the soft spot. The American doubled over and let out a cry of pain, causing birds to scatter from the hedgerow. Luke’s focus switched to the pistol. Bobby’s right hand had dropped low from pain, Luke kicked his leg out in a clockwise arc, smashing Bobby’s hand. The American watched helplessly as the pistol went sprawling into the grass. Luke kept the momentum by crashing his left shoulder into Bobby; he aimed just under the breastbone and heard the air expel from his lungs. The force toppled Bobby backwards and Luke went with him. Bobby was still in shock; Luke could feel him struggling around trying to get himself free, and he was very conscious of the knife in the American’s left hand. He wriggled against the tape around his wrists and rolled onto his side, trying to get his legs horizontal across his Bobby’s neck.

  It was too late; Bobby had regained his bearings and was now bringing the knife up, he stabbed hard down towards Luke’s limbs. Luke managed to move his legs, dodging the slashing blade. He jammed his heel hard down into the bridge of Bobby’s nose, smashing his glasses and breaking his nose almost in two. Bobby began slashing wildly; suddenly the blade ripped Luke’s Gore-Tex trousers but adrenaline was pumping and Luke didn’t falter, he waited for the next blow and purposefully met it with both feet colliding in mid-swing. The crack of the wrist echoed through the moist air and Bobby let out a gurgling cry as the blood seeped back into his throat from his nose.

  The knife dropped onto his chest, and Luke took his opportunity, he locked the bottom of his thighs around Bobby’s neck – there was now little resistance – then he rolled all of his weight onto his side dragging Bobby’s head back so he was facing the sky. With a final push of energy Luke squeezed Bobby’s throat until there was no more struggling. He rolled off into the mud, and there was silence.

  Luke let his heavy breathing subside before he stood up. Bobby was dead, his eyes were wide open and bulging, his glasses lay smashed across the side of his face.

  The silence accentuated the rain drops as they intensified. For what felt like an eternity Luke stood staring at Bobby. He had seen many dead bodies; he had no feelings about Bobby’s other than about how best to dispose of him.

  The passing of a car on the other side of the hedgerow brought Luke back to reality; he lowered himself to the floor so he could pick up the flip-knife with his fingertips. He manoeuvred the knife to the right angle and swung it awkwardly, after a few attempts the tape frayed and he pulled his hands apart. Without pausing for the pain in his shoulders, he continued with his task. He searched Bobby’s pockets, retrieving the car keys and the skeleton key, and then rolled him closer into the hedgerow; he stuffed him into a small natural trough that dipped underneath the twigs. He was satisfied that the American couldn’t be seen from the roadside, and the farmer who owned the land would have to be paying special attention to notice anything.

  Luke picked up the Browning and followed the hedgerow back toward the open entrance; the rain was now lashing down and bouncing off his skin. He stopped and took a last look across the open fields; the sky was menacing, a dirty grey mass stretching into the distance. A low rumble notified Luke that a full blown storm was heading his way.

  Slotting himself into the driver’s seat of the S80, Luke inserted the keys into the ignition and turned the engine on.

  What now? Think, think, think.

  One thing was driving his thoughts; how did they know so much about his personal details? In theory he could walk away, head back to Stanton and jump on the plane back to England, but what then? He knew that Bobby would be doing final checks at some point; they would hunt Luke down and he knew it. He needed a bargaining tool.

  Throwing the car one hundred and eighty degrees, he floored the accelerator and headed off. Razor had almost a half-hour head-start and Luke didn’t know what route he would be taking. The electronic clock flashed at 7.01 a.m.

  The only thing that could keep Luke alive was retrieving Seona Latvik.

  27.

  The tears had ceased, numbness gripped tightly around Seona’s mind and body. The pain was now a constant that felt as conscious as breathing. The heat and sweat a reminder that she was still alive. Part of her mind had accepted that death was coming, and she found it harder and harder to fight the despair that the dark isolation brought.

  She had not been expecting the switch that had occurred, the brief snatch of fresh air that had filled her lungs had felt like her first breath.

  It had been a strange sight that greeted her; the weedy, disgusting little American had re-appeared above her, this time without a balaclava, and she could recognise the twitchy green eyes anywhere. He now wore glasses, and the moustache reminded her of some eighties serial killer’s photograph. However, the other man who had appeared was large and brutal looking. He also had a British accent, but it didn’t belong to the masked man from the previous evening.

  The natural beauty of the fields, visible as she had been lifted out of the boot, had released Seona for a split second from her dark prison, but then she was dumped into another boot, and as the putrid American leaned over her, she let out a muffled scream in anticipation of his dirty fingers wandering over her. But this time he seemed more scared than aroused, and slammed the boot closed.

  The monotonous thudding of the tarmac brought her back to the present, moving towards a destination that she knew nothing of. She desperately wanted to know where she was heading and what her kidnappers wanted.

  Does this have something to do with Viktor? Where is my father?

  A surge of panic coursed through Seona’s body; her mind was fighting against the darkness. Summoning strength from an unknown well, she lashed her limbs out against the inside of the boot, smashing and grabbing at anything she could, screaming at the top of her lungs but all to no avail. The energy soon faded and she resigned herself back to the nothingness of her prison. She felt an intense sadness that there were people who would do such things for money; there was nothing more powerful in the world. Her mother had said very wise words to her as a young child: Never put your faith in money my dear Seona, it is the most powerful illusion that man has ever created.

  Her mother’s words took on a new poignancy as Seona lay back; all the parties, the clothes, the hotel rooms, the meaningless trips and outrageous demands. With fear came clarity; she had become what she despised. She didn’t have the energy to weep.

  28.

&
nbsp; “No new details have emerged about the gunfight which took place outside the Plaza hotel in the early hours of this morning. We can confirm that two Russians were found dead at the scene. The strong feeling is that they were part of Seona Latvik’s security team. She herself is still thought to be missing. Her billionaire father Prussias Latvik has yet to come out and make any comment about the situation. We will bring you updates as we get them.”

  Luke flicked off the radio. It was pointless listening to the reports; they were the same on all channels, even now in Canadian territory. It was obvious that the police and FBI had thrown a cloak over the incident, keeping tight tabs on what the media could release. Luke hoped they were still sat scratching their heads.

  He had encountered no problems shifting over the border. Bobby hadn’t had a chance to remove his passport from the glove box – one of his many. For his trip that day, he was John Montgomery.

  He had braced himself in case the border guards had been informed that the perpetrators from last night’s news story had tried to cross over into the luxury of Canada. Pre-9/11 you only needed an American driver’s licence to cross the border, but as with everything security-wise in the USA, it had all been tightened.

  If they had decided to search the car then Luke would’ve been in deep shit, he had an M4 rifle, and an MP5 sub-machine gun in the boot. He didn’t think they’d buy the excuse that he was using them for hunting, but he had weighed the dangers and felt he may well need the hardware if he caught up with Razor and buying weapons in Canadian territory was a time-consumer that he couldn’t afford. If they searched him personally they would have also discovered a shiny 9 mm pistol tucked in his trousers.

  Luckily the two friendly Canadian border patrol guards barely even looked at the passport, they just passed some comment about how the British folk always loved their fine country, and waved him through wishing him a great stay.