The Newsmaker (Volume One Book 1)

by Tom Field

  What they saw once they were inside did not look like a working garage at all. Directly in front of them there were two top of the pile Range Rovers with the window’s blacked out. Ward doubted very much that they would have the original engines tucked under the hood, and knew without asking the question that a massive upgrade of power and speed would have taken place.

  To the right there was a work bench that stretched at least thirty feet along the side wall and was covered in weapons. There was every conceivable firearm that the Seals liked to use, laid out in a neat line.

  At the far wall directly in front of them were countless items of communication equipment. Everything was extremely neat, tidy and organised, and Ward was in no doubt they were already tested and ready for use.

  To the left of the interior was a communal area which was simply a kitchen sink with very sparse coffee making materials on a table next to it, a refrigerator to the right of the sink in desperate need of a clean, a TV that wasn’t on and a radio that was playing some music that Ward was convinced sounded like the old eighties band Culture Club. There was a small table with six chairs around it and an old beaten armchair which was placed to the far right corner of the table, in a position where the person seated there could hold court.

  At the table were six of the most fearsome and individually skilled men that Ward had ever known.

  Once all of their individual skills were put together, they became an unstoppable force.

  The most startling thing about this group of people was that they all looked the same. They all sported short, cropped brown hair, all stood about six foot tall, and all had the wiry, athletic build about them that all Special Forces operatives throughout the world possessed.

  The Special Forces world is no place for the steroid induced muscle men that think their size makes them tough. If they stated they were all brothers, a person would not disbelieve it, and in essence, that is exactly what they were.

  At the end of the table nearest the armchair, sat McDermott’s son, Paul. He was his father’s son without a doubt. He was thorough to the extreme, and always radiated a calm about him. He was the heir apparent and the day when he was going to take over the team was looming ever closer.

  Opposite him at the other end was Lloyd Walsh. He was the team’s explosive expert and he had detonated and defused more explosive devices than anyone else that Ward had ever known.

  The two seats nearest to them seated Danny Wallace and a guy simply known as Wired. Wallace was the telecoms expert of the group and could set up communications systems in any place on earth, no matter how remote.

  Wired was the team member who had always interested Ward the most. He was psychotic to the extreme, in relation to his violent manner. Ward had once seen him attack two guys pointing handguns at him while he was unarmed. He beat them to death with unnerving ferocity, and continued to beat them both long after they were dead; until the team had pulled him off and secured him with cable ties to a pole until he had calmed down and regained his composure. Ward always felt that Wired could not cope in the real, every day world, and that being part of the team was the only thing that stopped him from becoming America’s biggest mass murderer. He seemed to enjoy killing.

  For Ward it was a necessity, a means to an end, but for Wired it was like a drug. But McDermott handled him well, and he always seemed to keep him under control.

  But he was definitely not wired correctly, hence the nickname.

  In the two seats opposite sat Adam Fuller and The Fringe. Fuller was the complete Seal but he was the quiet one of the team. The Fringe was a guy obsessed with eighties music. He played it at every opportunity and the team seemed to find this a useful tool in their resting periods. That explained the Culture Club music playing Ward thought, and at the same time laughed at the irony of this group of lethal killers listening to a guy sing, “Do you really want to hurt me?”

  In the old armchair sat McDermott. He was into his fifties now but still he looked fearsome and incredibly fit. His cropped hair was now completely grey but his eyes were staggeringly alert. His face bore the marks of years of battles and missions, he had a scar running down his left cheek where he had been stabbed in the face a few years ago, and he looked exactly how anyone would imagine a battle-hardened Navy Seal veteran to look.

  “Hello Gentlemen,” Ward said as he approached the group.

  “Hi Stranger,” McDermott replied and the team all turned around and nodded.

  “Lawson, you OK?” McDermott asked and Lawson nodded back to confirm he was.

  “You had a look at what I sent you?” Ward asked McDermott.

  “Yes we have. We discussed it this morning,” he replied, looking at his whole team as he spoke, “How do you want to play it?”

  “We kidnap this guy and get what we want from him and then kill him,” Ward said.

  “What’s his name again?” Danny Wallace asked.

  “Martin Walker,” Ward replied.

  TWENTY SEVEN

  Lawson looked at Ward and frowned.

  “Walker?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t understand?”

  “I knew when we were back in London when we first visited them there had to be someone from UKBC news involved,” Ward said.

  “Really? I mean Walker, how?” Lawson asked again.

  “How what?”

  “How did you know so soon that he was involved?”

  “Ergonomics,” he replied.

  Lawson looked confused.

  “It’s all a question of the position that you take,” he added.

  “I’m totally lost now. I mean why anyone from the network would want to kill people doesn’t make sense, for what gain?” Lawson asked with a frown.

  “I think the best way to get the answer to that is to ask Walker,” he replied.

  “I will. He was using Beglin all along? I’ll beat it out of him,” Lawson said aggressively.

  “You won’t be there.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Because I need you to do something more important.”

  “What could be more important than that?” Lawson enquired.

  “I need you to get back to Nicole-Louise’s and Tacklers and help them to dig out everything you can on Walker.”

  “Seriously, is this for real?”

  “Which part?”

  “There is a known FFW bomber on the loose who has a vendetta against the West and you think the person behind it is a news editor? It seems completely far-fetched,” Lawson said, almost dismissively, “I suppose Dr Death will appear and confess to being the leader of a worldwide criminal gang next?” he asked sarcastically.

  Ward ignored his contempt.

  “All you need to do is to go back to Park Avenue, work with them to find a financial link between Walker and Fulken, and then ask Beglin exactly how she was told to report on the Louvre bombing by her editor and producer.”

  Lawson nodded and then shrugged. Clearly feeling disappointed.

  “Once you have that, can you let me know?”

  “Yes I will but you are barking completely up the wrong tree here, I’m sure of it.”

  “Why is that?” Ward asked.

  “Because Walker is not behind this, I know it,” Lawson replied as he turned to leave.

  I know it too, Ward thought to himself but he will lead us to the person who is.

  With Lawson gone, McDermott looked at Ward,

  “Why have you told him we are going to kill this Walker guy?” he asked.

  “Because I want him to look at this with urgency,” Ward replied, “Lawson is one of the best operatives either side of the Atlantic but he works better under pressure. If he thinks he has a point to prove and that I am wrong, he will prove it. I just need him to prove it quickly.”

  “So, we take this guy and just get one piece of information out of him and then let him go?” McDermott asked, “Isn’t that risky?”

  “It’s meant to be,” he replied, “If he re
acts how I think he will react, then he will lead us to the real people we are chasing, and they lead us to Fulken.”

  “OK. You said in the briefing you sent me that this guy has a bodyguard?”

  “What about him?”

  “Do we take him out?”

  “Try not to. Maybe just set Wired loose on him for a few seconds.”

  Wired turned around and Ward saw his eyes genuinely light up in anticipation.

  “OK. So the next question is where is he now? He could be anywhere,” McDermott said.

  “We know exactly where he is.”

  “How so?” McDermott asked.

  “Because The Optician is watching him for me and when I call, he will tell me where he is.”

  As soon as he mentioned The Optician, all six of McDermott’s men either turned and looked at Ward, or lifted their heads up to confirm that they had heard his name.

  Everyone was afraid of The Optician.

  Ward took out his phone and dialled the number. The Optician answered immediately,

  “About time,” he said.

  “Just briefing everyone here,” Ward replied, “Where is Walker now?”

  “I’m looking at him through my scope. He is on the 14th floor of the offices on 6th Avenue.”

  “Is he alone?”

  “No. There is a guy sitting there with him. He looks reasonably trained but nothing to be worried about.”

  “OK. I want you to watch him. I am going to call him now and when he finishes the call, I want you to tell me what happens.”

  “OK,” The Optician replied and hung up the phone.

  Ward dialled the number from the business card that Walker had given Lawson back in London the first time they had met.

  The Optician watched Walker pick up his cell phone and put it to his ear.

  “Hello?”

  “Is this Martin Walker?” Ward asked, feigning his best American accent.

  “Yes,” Walker replied.

  “I just want to know if you can or you can’t find time to have a one on one interview with a budding news editor.”

  “I can’t,” Walker replied.

  “Can I ask you ten questions about being a news editor in a big corporation?”

  “No,” Walker responded.

  Ward hung up the phone and then called The Optician back.

  “Tell me what you see?” he asked.

  The Optician watched as the other guy in the room approached Walker’s desk and stood in front of him. He could see an exchange of words and then the guy lunged at Walker, grabbed his hair and then slapped him hard around the face. Walker then cowered in his chair before the guy pulled out his cell phone and made a call. The Optician watched as the guy then approached Walker again and handed him the phone. After a one minute conversation Walker handed the phone back to the guy who put it in his pocket and sat down. The Optician relayed all of this to Ward as it happened.

  “What do you make of that?” he asked.

  “He’s being forced to do things he doesn’t want to do.”

  “What did you say to get the guy to slap him like that?”

  “It’s not what I said; it’s what the other guy heard.”

  “What did he hear?” The Optician queried.

  “Yes. I can’t. No,” Ward replied.

  “I don’t get it? What did he hear?” he asked again.

  “He heard, yes it’s me, I can’t talk, and no it isn’t safe.”

  “Clever you,” The Optician said.

  Ward hung up the phone.

  “Are we ready to move?” McDermott asked.

  “Yes we are. Let’s go.”

  McDermott got up from the old armchair and the six guys at the table immediately stood.

  “Paul and Fringe you come with us,” he said pointing to Ward, “The rest of you in the other vehicle.”

  Within ten seconds, everyone was sitting in the Range Rovers watching as McDermott used a remote control to raise the high-speed roller shutter doors and drive speedily out.

  They parked fifty yards down from the USBC News building.

  “How are you going to get him outside so we can take him?” McDermott asked.

  “The oldest trick in the book I was thinking,” Ward replied.

  “Which one, it’s a big book?”

  “You can get one of your guys inside to activate the fire alarm and then when they are on the street, we take him.”

  “Whatever happened to being creative?” McDermott asked with a smile.

  “I think after this, everything that we are going to do is going to revolve around being creative.”

  “You two can deal with the alarm activation,” McDermott said to Paul and Fringe without turning around.

  “We’re on it,” Paul replied as they both stepped out of the car and headed towards the building. Ward watched Paul carefully.

  “He’s itching to take over from you,” he said to McDermott.

  “I know, and in about six months’ time he will do,” he replied.

  He then spoke into his microphone,

  “Get out in the street and wait for the people to start streaming out,” he said, “Once you have eyes on the target grab him and extract him immediately. Wired, you focus on the bodyguard if he comes out; do not let him engage any of our boys. Danny, you have the car in motion and rolling as soon as you see they have him. Are you all clear?” he continued, and then nodded at Ward once he had confirmation that everyone knew their part to play.

  A minute later, Fuller, Wired and Walsh walked past the car as Ward and McDermott watched, and two minutes after that, the alarm could be heard ringing out inside the building and the first of the employees began the evacuation out onto the street.

  Ward watched as people ran down the steps into the open. Twenty became fifty and then became a hundred and still people flocked out.

  He noticed the crowd leaving the building beginning to thin and then he saw Walker walk down the steps with his bodyguard holding his left arm.

  Not in support but in detainment.

  He watched as the car driven by Wallace rolled slowly past them and then Wired approach Walker and jabbed his right fist hard into the bodyguard’s neck. His grip released immediately and he fell to his knees clutching his throat. Almost as soon as he had let go of Walker, Fuller and Wired stood in front of him. Within seconds, Paul and Fringe were behind them and Walker was boxed in.

  They moved forward towards the car and Wallace stopped right in their path, Wired stepped ahead and opened the door and climbed in, and Walker was put in with Walsh climbing in immediately after. Fuller climbed into the front and the car moved forward and drove off. Paul and Fringe walked back to Ward’s car and climbed into the back and McDermott pulled quickly away.

  The whole extraction had taken no more than fifteen seconds from the moment Wired had hit the bodyguard and crucially, not one of the evacuees had noticed a single thing.

  Ward was suitably impressed yet again by the standard of their work.

  “Very impressive,” he said.

  “Did you expect anything else?” McDermott asked.

  “No I didn’t,” he replied, “Are your boys aware how I want him ready?”

  “Yes they are.”

  “Then you had better slow down,” he said, “They need at least five minutes at the garage to prepare him before we get back.”

  McDermott had slowed down accordingly, and by the time they arrived back at the garage, they were pretty much exactly five minutes behind the first vehicle. He drove in and parked directly opposite the other Range Rover.

  They stepped out of the car.

  Walker was tied to a chair in the middle of the garage floor and he had a hood over his head. He was twisting his neck side to side, desperately trying to pick up the smallest of sounds, to establish where people were positioned.

  He was blind to the fact that after Paul and Fringe had joined them; all six of the team were sitting back at the table in exactly the same position
s that Ward had seen them in just over an hour ago.

  Ward handed McDermott a piece of paper and leant against the car as he watched him casually stroll up to Walker,

  “You are in a lot of trouble Mr Walker,” McDermott said.

  “Who, who are you?” Walker replied, sounding petrified.

  McDermott looked down at the piece of paper in his hand and started to read,

  “I am going to ask you a number of questions. If you answer them correctly, we will take you back to work,” he said very slowly

  “I don’t know anything,” Walker pleaded.

  “Wrong answer,” McDermott said, and he slapped Walker hard around the head with his right hand, open palmed, a shot that must have caught Walker full on the left ear, the hood he wore offering very little protection against the blow. Walker rocked on his chair.

  “You don’t know what I am going to ask yet,” McDermott ad-libbed, “I might have asked you the name of the Queen of Britain, in which case I am pretty sure you would know the answer. So you answer my questions and you live, if you lie you die. Understand?” he asked, pulling the hammer on his gun back as he spoke, making as much noise as possible.

  Walker knew instantly what the sound was.

  “I understand,” he whimpered.

  “It’s just three questions,” McDermott said, looking down at the piece of paper.

  “OK.”

  “I want to know the name of your source who told you about the arranged meeting on Hubert Street, so give it to me.”

  “I don’t know it,” Walker replied.

  McDermott looked at Ward for an indication of what do and Ward made a push sign with his hand, and so he used his left hand to slap walker on the right hand side of his head. Walker screamed a high pitch scream, and started moving his head left to right, bracing himself for the next blow. He was now completely disorientated and did not know when, or on what side, the next blow would come.

  “I want to know the name of your source, last time I am going to ask,” McDermott said in a calm voice.

  “I don’t know his name,” Walker stuttered, he sounded as though he was crying.

  “Wrong answer,” McDermott replied and as Walker went rigid and dipped the right hand side of his head into his neck, his natural survival instincts anticipating the next blow being in the same place as the last shot, McDermott raised his right foot and stamped his heel hard down on Walker’s left knee. Walker screamed in agony.