The Terminate Code: A gripping, page-turning, action adventure revenge thriller, with a fast pace, and a terrifying twist in its tail ! (Hedge & Cole Book 2)

by Kevin Bradley

  ‘As the receiving country was Cyprus, the language software assumed the word Ochi (pronounced “ohi”) was the Greek word for “No”. Anyone who knows basic Greek will be aware of certain everyday phrases such as Ne for Yes, Ochi for No, and Yassus for hello, etc. However, a smart young Cambridge graduate, who had only been at the Cheltenham centre for two months, picked up that it didn’t make any sense for a Turkish man to be using a Greek word. He sent the recording for further voice analysis.’

  Docherty hesitated.

  ‘Yes. And what?’ Cole was getting frustrated. He wanted to know where this was going.

  ‘The voice analysis concluded that it wasn’t a Greek word after all. It was a name that the Turk was saying. An English name.’

  ‘Ochi. That’s not English,’ said Cole.

  ‘Oxley. The man was talking about Oxley. They wanted an address from him. An address no one is supposed to find. And what happened shortly after this incident?’

  Cole had gone white. All the blood had drained from his face.

  ‘Oh my god,’ was all he could manage to say.

  ‘My thoughts exactly,’ said Docherty.

  He was quiet for a moment while his old friend was lost in his own thoughts. After a while, he looked across at Cole and smiled as he spoke.

  ‘The good news is that we have located our friend in North London, the one who made the call. We have had him under surveillance. He will be getting a visit very early tomorrow. I do hope that we don’t inconvenience him too much.’

  Chapter Twenty One

  The white van pulled up quietly on a street in North London. It was six o’clock in the morning, and there was very little other traffic on the roads. There were a few commuters trying to get to the office early, along with the odd delivery van. It was a warm morning, but it was due to be overcast for most of the day, quite typical for the time of year.

  There were six men in the van, including the driver. They were all specially trained members of the Anti-Terrorist unit of Scotland Yard. All of them wore black uniforms, and were heavily armed.

  On the side of the van was advertising for a well known plumbing supplier. To the casual observer it looked like it was making an early morning delivery of building materials.

  The van parked two doors down from the target house. Without any kind of delay, five of the men jumped out, leaving just the driver remaining in the front seat. The first man out of the van was carrying a heavy duty sledgehammer, and he knocked the front door of the house aside almost as if it were made of tissue paper.

  His colleagues ran past him, shouting and making as much noise as they could. It was a ploy that they often used in early morning raids. The noise of the team entering the premises hopefully served to confuse and frighten whoever was about to be apprehended.

  The Turk was the only person in the house, and he had only just leapt out of his bed when two of the team surged into his bedroom. Before he could say anything he was hit with the nasty end of a taser gun. The officer who held the safe end of the weapon was smiling as he fired it, although no one would have known, as his face was hidden underneath a black mask.

  The Taser, or Conducted Electrical Weapon as it is properly named, fires two electrodes at its victim. The initial electrical output of the device can be as high as fifty thousand volts. Someone struck by a taser will experience extreme pain, and over stimulation of the nervous system. This completely disables the intended victim.

  The small, wiry man now knew exactly how that pain felt. As the electrical current began to course through his body, he immediately dropped to the floor, He was shaking and convulsing wildly, and a small amount of frothy spittle had appeared near his mouth. One of the officers knelt down and handcuffed the man. As the electric effect had nearly died down, he was searched thoroughly, before being dragged downstairs. He was then taken outside and bundled into the back of the van.

  The six man team were all now back in their vehicle. The front door of the house was still hanging off its hinges, but that was now someone else’s problem. The Turk was lying on the hard metal floor. Two of the anti-terrorist team had him pinned down by means of resting their black, reinforced boots on various parts of his torso.

  Up to this point in the operation, no words had been exchanged between any of the team members, or the Turk. But he spoke now. It wasn’t immediately clear what he was saying as his speech was not easy to understand. It was slurred slightly. There was a gap in his mouth where his two front teeth should have been, but were long since lost.

  ‘I want to see my lawyer. I have a right to see my lawyer. You can’t do this to me. I am a British citizen.’

  No one replied. The six man team remained completely silent as the van drove off.

  The man on the floor lay still for a while, but then became restless again.

  ‘Where are you taking me? I am a British citizen. I know my rights.’

  The officer sitting next to the driver turned slowly backwards to face the Turk. He spoke with disdain in his voice.

  ‘Let’s all be clear about one thing. As of now, you are no longer a British citizen. Your personal details have been completely eradicated from every possible database in the country. You have no driving licence record, no address, and no credit reference. No nothing. It’s as if you never existed. You belong to Her Majesty’s government now. No one else either knows about you, or cares about you. So shut up about seeing a lawyer.’

  The van fell silent. They drove on through the deserted streets.

  Ten minutes later there was a clear, well manicured voice on the driver’s two-way radio. It was on loudspeaker.

  ‘Do you have our man? I repeat. Do you have our man?’

  ‘Yes, confirm that,’ replied the driver. ‘We’re on our way home now.’

  ‘Don’t come home. I repeat. Don’t come home. Please divert to Section Thirty Three.’

  ‘Understood,’ came back the driver’s response. ‘We’re diverting as requested.’

  The radio clicked off. The silence in the back of the van was broken as a one of the dark suited officers yelled out.

  ‘Whoopee. You, my lucky man are going to Thirty Three. You are in for a treat, that’s for sure.’

  The man on the floor tried to turn his head forward to seek out the voice that had just spoken. He couldn’t quite do it, as the boots on his back were holding him firm.

  ‘Where are you taking me? Where is this Thirty Three place?’

  ‘Well, just think of it like a sort of holiday camp.’

  Several of the other officers laughed.

  The man on the floor spoke nervously through his missing teeth. ‘I want to see my lawyer.’

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Sergeant Stevie Murton had worked for Section Thirty Three for almost nine years. He loved his job. He didn't find it particularly easy or especially difficult - he just got on with it.

  Officially the department he worked for was part of the British Army, but in reality everyone knew that it was the director of MI5 who called the shots.

  Section Thirty Three was located in a small, faded red brick building on an army base known as Robertson Barracks. This base was formerly known as RAF Swanton Morley, but was handed over to the Army in 1995, as the Royal Air Force no longer had use for the place. Since that time various regiments had been stationed there including the Light Dragoons and The Queens Dragoon Guards. The location of the Barracks, deep in the heart of rural Norfolk, near the east coast of England, was perfect for Section Thirty Three. It could carry out its work with complete anonymity.

  Sergeant Murton didn't care if the place was run by the Army, the Air Force or government spymasters. He just did as he was told. Anyway, nobody ever gave him any grief, because all his superiors knew he was the best man they were ever likely to find with his specific skill set.

  Stevie Murton made people talk.

  However, what many senior colleagues wouldn't have known was that Murton would spend many hours looking thro
ugh the files of his victims. He was an intelligent man, not a brute as some would believe. He was an expert, almost a connoisseur in what he did. The information he reviewed would hopefully tell him what would be the most successful approach he could take to achieve the right result.

  The man in the basement today was fairly straightforward, he believed.

  It was only just after nine o’clock, so Murton had a little time before he was due to start. He strolled over to the base canteen and ordered some breakfast. He took a plate and loaded it up with bacon, mushrooms, fried tomatoes, and a couple of poached eggs. He washed all this down with fresh, black coffee.

  At precisely ten o’clock he walked back over to his building and prepared himself for the task in hand. He picked up just four items from his store room, and then made his way downstairs to begin his work. He pushed open the heavy metal door which led into Room 3B, as it was officially known. Most of his colleagues referred to the room as the ‘Fun Factory’, although Murton preferred to call it simply 3B.

  There were two guards by the door, both Corporals, and Murton nodded to them as he entered. He recognised one of them, a good friend of his, Jim Barber. The other man was new to the section, and Murton wasn't sure of his name.

  Near the back of the room stood a tall, lean, man in a dark grey suit. He had a tanned face and wore slightly tinted glasses, which Murton thought was ridiculous being as the room was so badly illuminated. He nodded to him anyway. Murton had seen him on many occasions before, but strangely didn't know his name. MI5 were miserable gits, he thought to himself.

  The man strapped to the table in the middle of the room was completely naked. His wrists were tied securely above his head, and his feet were manacled to the bottom of the table. His legs were splayed apart, just had Murton had requested.

  Murton looked at the man closely. He was small, and had a thin frame. He looked like he could have done with a few good meals, Murton thought. The man’s face was bony, and he had several teeth missing from the front of his mouth.

  Murton placed his four items on a metal chair on one side of the room. The first of these he picked up was a small, clear plastic bag containing a pair of sterilised gloves. He pulled one of these over each of his hands.

  The next item he took off the chair would have appeared rather odd to his four onlookers. It was simply a square piece of hardwood around four inches in length, width and height. Those watching would probably have been unaware that the chunk of wood was made from Red Mahogany, a variety of Eucalyptus tree commonly found in eastern Australia. Actually though, that fact didn't really matter, its purpose was entirely functional.

  He held the wood in his left hand, and with his right he picked up a small, industrial type stapler. Carrying both of these, he walked over to where his victim was tied to the table and placed them down between the man’s legs. Murton leaned forward and with his gloved right hand, he took hold of the man’s scrotum and laid it roughly on the wooden block. Using both hands now, he positioned the loose skin carefully so that just one of the man’s testicles was resting on the hardwood. When he was satisfied of the correct positioning, Murton picked up the stapler and quickly stapled in two separate places through the skin of the man's scrotum into the wooden block. The man on the table winced and took in a sharp breath, but said nothing.

  Murton surveyed his handiwork, nodded to himself, and walked back towards the metal chair.

  The man on the table was starting to get very concerned. He had not quite realised what a bad situation he was in, as he hadn't been conscious for very long. The room was cold, and not very well lit. The table he was laying on was uncomfortable. He couldn't quite make out how many people were in the room, and what they were planning. He was waiting to be asked for some information. Nothing bad was going to happen to him until he refused to answer their questions, he was sure of that.

  Murton now picked up the last of the items that he had taken from the store room. It was a tool known as a dead-blow hammer. The handle was made from heavy duty plastic and it was moulded so that the user could hold it comfortably in one hand. The head of the hammer was composed of toughened steel, but the hollow compartment within the head was filled with lead shot. This combination meant that the hammer blow could be delivered with tremendous force.

  The hammer had been made exactly to Murton's requirements by a master craftsmen based in the city of Odessa in the Ukraine.

  Sergeant Murton took a deep breath. He then walked back to the table, raised the hammer in his right hand and brought it crashing down onto the wooden block between the man's legs. Where the man's right testicle had been just a fraction of a second before, there was now just a flat piece of flesh and sinew. The testicle had been crushed by a massive force in the region of one thousand pounds per square inch.

  The noise of the testicle crushing was horrendous for those in the room. It was a cross between an egg being broken and a walnut being cracked. This sound though was nothing in comparison to the inhuman screech that came from the man on the table. It looked like all the muscles in his body had tensed simultaneously, and his arms and legs were pulling at his bonds with incredible force. His neck muscles stood out at impossible levels, and his head was trying to look down at the area between his legs.

  It was the scream from deep within his throat that the onlookers in the room found most disturbing though. It seemed like the man was beyond pain, he was suffering unspeakable and unbearable agony, and his body was convulsing madly. His scream turned to a high pitched shrill, no less loud, and it pierced deep inside the heads of those close by. The man was now tossing his head from side to side, and blood was running down the sides of his face. Such was the intensity of the pain that he had inadvertently bitten through his bottom lip, severing it completely.

  The two Corporals had been watching the scene before them closely. Barber had seen similar things before, but had nevertheless turned slightly pale. The screams coming from the man on the table were simply horrendous. The other Corporal found that that he was unable to cope with what he was witnessing. He couldn't bear to listen to the Turk any longer. He had a mouth full of bile and desperately needed to spit it out. His legs had just about gone, but he wobbled to the door, pulled it open and disappeared.

  The man in the dark glasses just smiled at Murton.

  Murton picked up his things, turned and headed for the door.

  ‘He’s ready for you now. I don't think you’ll need me anymore. Give him an hour or so and he will settle down. Good luck.’

  The MI5 man nodded in response.

  Murton left the room. He felt a wave of satisfaction wash over him. Yes, he was the best. Was there something else though? Perhaps he had a small amount of pity for the man on the table. He thought about it for a few seconds.

  No, he didn't think so.

  Chapter Twenty Three

  The Turk, now known as Deniz, was eventually handed over to Section Thirty Three’s X-team. He was still in some pain, and shaking quite badly when they came for him. The man from MI5 signed off the paperwork to say that they were finished with him.

  Deniz had admitted to making the telephone call to his friend in Northern Cyprus. He had also confessed to being involved in the incident with agent Oxley and Cole’s family. Also extracted from the Turk was exactly how the release and terminate code system had worked between him and Solomon. However, he knew nothing about the kidnapping of Cole’s wife, or why it had been carried out. He didn’t know where Solomon was, and neither did he have any contact information for him. He was simply hired for one job, and contacted at a prearranged date and time.

  The interrogation team felt sure that all possible information had been extracted. Polygraph testing had shown categorically that he was telling the truth, and he had answered all of their questions fully. Yes, they were done with him.

  The man in charge of the X-team was simply called Ray. He asked Deniz politely if he was feeling okay to travel, and offered him a glass of water.

>   Deniz took the water and drank greedily. His groin felt like it was on fire, even after the Section Thirty Three doctor had administered a decent sized dose of morphine. He felt very unwell, not surprising after what he had been through.

  They drove Deniz a short distance and then stopped by a clearing. It was early evening and the sun was slowly dropping down behind the horizon. Its dying rays bounced off a large, metal object sitting in the middle of the grassy area. Immediately underneath the object was a small concrete pad, constructed to stop the wheels sinking into the ground.

  The helicopter was an AS565 Panther, and it was painted completely black. This type of aircraft is the military version of the very successful AS365 Dauphin commercial helicopter, now built by Airbus Helicopters. The Panther is a twin-engined aircraft, with a long range capability, typically used for maritime surveillance or Special Forces troop movements.

  The rotor started up as Ray and his team approached.

  ‘We’ll have you home in no time at all,’ said Ray turning to Deniz. The Turk was pleased to hear such a reassuring voice. The last couple of days had been a nightmare for him. He desperately wanted to get away from this place. His plan was not to hang around in London, but rather just slip out of the country, and get back to his family home in Turkey.

  Ray boarded the helicopter, along with two of his team members. They sat on seats down the side of the aircraft. Ray sat next to Deniz. He smiled at him as they took off. The noise of the Panther’s rotors was deafening, so they all placed mufflers over their ears.

  The Panther had a maximum speed of around one hundred and ninety miles per hour, so the journey from central Norfolk to London, of approximately one hundred miles, could have been done in thirty five minutes or so. No one on board commented though, when ninety minutes later, the aircraft was still heading in the direction in which it had started. The X-team didn’t seem concerned, and Deniz had no idea about speed, distance or range, when you travelled by military helicopter.