by Jason Dean
Copyright © 2014 Jason Dean
The right of Jason Dean to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
First published as an Ebook by Headline Publishing Group in 2014
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library.
eISBN: 978 1 4722 1261 0
Cover photograph © Silas Manhood
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
About Jason Dean
About the Book
Also By Jason Dean
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Chapter Seventy
Chapter Seventy-One
Chapter Seventy-Two
Chapter Seventy-Three
Chapter Seventy-Four
Chapter Seventy-Five
Chapter Seventy-Six
Chapter Seventy-Seven
Chapter Seventy-Eight
Chapter Seventy-Nine
Chapter Eighty
Chapter Eighty-One
Chapter Eighty-Two
Chapter Eighty-Three
Chapter Eighty-Four
Epilogue
An Extract from the first James Bishop novel, THE WRONG MAN
An Extract from the second James Bishop novel, BACKTRACK
About Jason Dean
Jason Dean was born in South London in 1966. He spent many years as a graphic designer before turning his talent to writing and deciding to write the kind of American thrillers he’d always loved to read. He lives in Thailand with his wife and is currently working on the fourth James Bishop novel.
About the Book
She was attacked and left for dead.
Amy Philmore knows something is wrong as she walks home alone through Fort George Hill in Upper Manhattan. When a car pulls up and three men get out Amy runs, but is too late to escape. Now she is in hospital fighting for her life.
But her attackers are about to find themselves in even graver danger. Because Amy’s brother is former Marine James Bishop. And when you target those he loves, he will do anything to save them.
With Amy’s life hanging in the balance, Bishop takes matters into his own hands and soon uncovers a ruthless empire of criminals who will do anything to protect their secrets. Can Bishop find his way to the heart of the organisation before he is outnumbered?
Or is the predator about to become the prey?
By Jason Dean and available from Headline
The Hunter’s Oath
The Wrong Man
Backtrack
And exclusive James Bishop e-shorts
One Good Turn
The Last Quarter
For my mother
ONE
Amanda Philmore looked down at her stainless steel Rolex and saw it was 11.07 p.m. The kids would be in bed, but Gerry would probably still be up. At least she hoped so, because they really needed to talk. And it couldn’t wait until morning.
She was still the only pedestrian on Fort George Hill. Hardly any vehicles, either. This late on a weeknight the normally attractive tree-lined street looked intimidating, with few visible reminders that you were actually in Upper Manhattan.
Pulling her coat collar up against the crisp October air, Amanda gave a small sigh and began walking south. Towards Audubon Avenue and home. She could make out the top floors of an apartment block behind the trees on the other side of the street, with a few lit windows to remind her there were still a few people awake.
The thought of home pushed Amanda to walk faster. But then she heard the sound of a vehicle coming from behind and slowed a little and turned. It was a silver Ford sedan. Worse, it was the same one that had gone by a few minutes before. She was sure of it. It contained the same three shadowy shapes, and from within the same indistinguishable dance music thumped away like a giant’s heartbeat.
It was all one-way around here, so the driver must have circled round via Fairview, then Broadway, then Hillside. That single thought made Amanda pause. Because this time round the car was moving a lot slower. Almost cruising. She watched it pull into the kerb fifteen yards away and stop.
Amanda stopped, too. Not good, she thought.
She heard the engine tick over, then die. The driver’s door opened and a man slowly got out. The front and rear passenger doors opened and two more men joined him, at which point Amanda knew she was in trouble. Or would be very soon.
But one thing Amanda didn’t do was panic. It just wasn’t part of her DNA. Instead, she used what little time was left to quickly think through her options. There weren’t many.
The men barred the way north, so that was out. She could keep going south for the junction to Fairview Avenue, and then it was just a couple of blocks to her apartment building. But the interesection was over three hundred yards away.
Too far. She kept herself in good shape and knew she could run fast, even in the ankle boots she was wearing, but she was also forty-four years old. And the men looked at least fifteen years younger.
And with a seven-foot-high chain link fence barring access to the trees and residences on the other side of the street, that just left the open wooded area immediately to her right.
So only one option, really.
Without further hesitation, Amanda turned and sprinted into the foliage. Her messenger-style shoulder bag slapped against her back as she ran through the trees and up the shallow hill. She controlled her breathing and kept moving as she heard one of the men shout something, followed by a faint rustling of dead leaves somewhere behind her.
Without looking back, Amanda kept pushing up the hill. A few seconds later she found herself at the top with Highbridge Park surrounding her on all sides. The area ahead was dense with trees, but she knew it was less than two hundred yards to Dyckman Street on the other side. Even at this time of night, there’d be traffic there. And help.
She could hear the men behind her and continued running east. Stray branches snagged her coat as she reached into a pocket and pulled out her stun gun lipstick. She gripped the tube hard in her right hand, thankful she’d recharged it yesterday. It was metallic pink and looked incredibly real, which was the whole point. But it also claimed to deliver a million volts when activated. Still running at full pelt, Amanda reached into another pocket with her free hand and pulled out her keychain alarm. The hard plastic felt good in her hand. Like a shield. But she knew she could only set it off as a last resort.
Then something caught her foot and she tripped and fell to the ground with a grunt.
She shook her head angrily and got to her feet, her heart hammering in her chest. She was about to take off again when she detected a movement at her left. Like a shadow or something. But before she could process it, something large suddenly erupted out of nowhere and cannoned into her right side.
Amanda fell to the ground again. Quickly, she rolled onto her back and saw a human shape above her. She could smell the sickly sweet scent of marijuana. Without thinking, she flipped the top off the lipstick, jammed the end hard against the man’s hand and pressed the second button down.
There was a sharp z-z-z-t sound and a brief sliver of light. The mugger cried out and fell onto his back. He’d be out for a minute, at least. But she also knew that if he was up here already, the others would be close by.
Amanda got to her feet again. It was now or never. She pressed the keychain alarm and threw it far into the shrubbery to her left. As its shrill, piercing sound echoed through the park, she began running in the same direction as before.
She’d covered twenty yards when another shape thumped into her, knocking her off balance. In an instant, an arm snaked around her neck and dragged her upright.
She smelled hot pizza breath on her cheek and felt a hardness at her back. Which told her these weren’t just muggers.
Closing her eyes, Amanda Philmore focused all her thoughts on her children sleeping less than a mile away. As her attacker plucked the stun gun from her grip, she wondered if she’d ever get the chance to see them again.
TWO
Approximately three hundred and fifty miles away, in western Pennsylvania, James Bishop was standing in an old warehouse that had long ago fallen into disrepair. Whole sections of the walls were missing, as well as parts of the roof. The only illumination came from the dipped headlights of an SUV parked at the open entrance a hundred yards away.
There were three other men in the vicinity. Two wore dark off-the-rack suits similar to Bishop’s. The first was Seth Willard, a frail-looking blond man with a wispy beard. The second was Hector Doubleday, a stocky Latino with short spiky hair and a three-day growth of stubble. He was standing behind the rusted husk of a sedan that had been left there to rot years before.
The third man was called Darryl Foland. He had longish brown hair and wore a dirty black leather jacket and faded green combats. He was kneeling in front of Bishop with his arms wrapped around his head, scared out of his mind. As well he should be.
‘Okay, you, on your feet,’ Bishop said, motioning with the Micro-Uzi in his hand. The faint smell of gunsmoke still hung in the air.
Foland pulled his arms away and stood up shakily, his eyes watching the gun. Bishop noticed there was a damp patch in his pants that hadn’t been there before. Good.
‘This is a one-time only deal,’ Bishop said, ‘so listen very carefully. Forget Ellen Meredith exists. Forget that bank exists. You are never to come within a thousand miles of here, understand? Because if anything happens to disrupt her day-to-day life and affect the long-term case we’re building against that bank, we will track you down and deal with you. That’s a guarantee. Also, if she ever comes to us with the slightest suspicion you’ve shown a renewed interest in her, same thing applies.’
Foland swallowed and said, ‘Swear to God, you’ll never see me in this part of the—’
‘Shut up,’ Bishop said. ‘I’m not finished. I need you to understand that we won’t be coming to kill you. That if anything happens to that woman, anything at all, even if it looks like an accident, we’ll find you and plant enough shit on you to put you away for a lifetime.’
Willard was nodding his head. ‘And as treasury agents we got access to evidence rooms all over the country, so we can get hold of the sickest paedo shit imaginable, believe me. And you know what they do to kiddie-fiddlers in the pen.’
‘You’ll be singing soprano the rest of your life,’ Doubleday said. ‘If you’re lucky.’
Foland’s Adam’s apple moved up and down like a golf ball as he swallowed again. ‘I hear you. Loud and clear. I’m gone, I swear.’
‘Then get lost.’ Bishop waved the Uzi. ‘Before I come to my senses.’
Foland looked at each of them in turn, clearly not quite believing it. Then he turned and simply ran full pelt for the open entrance. They all watched him go. Once he was finally out of sight, Bishop turned to Willard and said, ‘Paedo shit? Was that in the script?’
Willard grinned. ‘The idea just came to me. Worked, didn’t it?’
Bishop smiled. It had worked, all right. A few minutes earlier, Bishop had been about to ‘shoot’ Foland in the head when Willard had gripped his wrist and jerked the barrel away. Bishop’s finger had contracted on the trigger and Doubleday had immediately dived out of the way as the sound of a dozen rounds suddenly ricocheting off the vehicle carcass echoed throughout the warehouse. It had all looked and sounded perfect, just as Bishop had hoped.
Handing the prop Uzi back to Doubleday, Bishop said, ‘Real nice work. Those squibs on the car looked so good you almost had me believing it. Great sound effects, too.’
‘That’s why the studios pay me the big bucks,’ Doubleday said as he ejected the magazine and inspected the remaining blanks. ‘So we can wrap this up now?’
‘Yeah, we’re done.’
Which meant they could all go back to their normal lives until the next job, which would be mainly down to Bishop. And he might not even use the same people. That was what he liked about contracting for Equal Aid. The almost complete freedom with which he was allowed to pick and choose. But then, he’d insisted on that right from the start, or forget it.
He liked his clients too, which made a change from his old career. But that wasn’t too surprising. After all, Equal Aid was a non-profit organization for domestic abuse victims. Most could escape their predicaments with financial aid alone. But some needed more than just a cash injection, and that’s where Bishop came in.
Ellen Meredith, for example, had managed to put a long history of drug abuse and petty thefts behind her to start a new life for herself in Pennsylvania. She’d even gotten herself a job in a bank. But her old boyfriend, Foland, had recently been released from prison and tracked her down, threatening to open up her past if she didn’t siphon off some cash for him. Knowing he wouldn’t ever stop pushing and tha
t he would only get more demanding and more violent, Ellen had approached Equal Aid and asked for help.
Enter Bishop, who decided to pose as a maverick treasury agent ‘investigating’ Ellen’s bank for drug money laundering, with Ellen as his inside source. The rest was just a matter of details, preparation, and personnel. Doubleday was a movie special effects whizz Bishop had used before. Willard was a newbie recommended to him by Ed Giordano, the supervisor at Equal Aid’s Brooklyn Office. The three of them rehearsed everything over and over until they had it all down. Then earlier tonight they’d raided Foland’s apartment, knocked him out and brought him here.
Bishop was pleased with his two choices. They’d acted their parts well. To be honest, if it had been up to Bishop he would have used a real gun to threaten Foland with, and real bullets. After eight years in the Marine Corps and another six in the close protection business, he was used to being around live ammunition, but he was aware most people weren’t. But Doubleday had definitely come up trumps this time. Bishop’s instincts told him Foland wouldn’t be back after tonight’s performance. And his instincts were rarely wrong.
Rubbing his hands together to counter the chill, Bishop walked over to the SUV and pulled his cell phone from his pocket. He unmuted it and was greeted with a message telling him he had voicemail. He dialled the number and punched in his personal code.
The phone message started. ‘Bishop, this is Gerry,’ the familiar voice said. There was a pause. ‘I thought I should . . . Look, we’re at the hospital. It’s about Amy . . .’
As he listened to the rest of the message, Bishop’s heartbeat quickened. He was staring at the car, but didn’t see it. All he saw was his sister’s face. Amy. The only direct family he had left since the deaths of their parents over twenty-five years before. The main constant in his life. If he was honest, the only one.
As soon as the short message ended, Bishop, still staring straight ahead, pressed the off button and carefully placed the cell back in his pocket. In the space of a minute, everything in his life had been reduced down to one simple objective.
He had to get back to New York immediately.