At first, Connor was nervous she would get into a relationship, and these fly by visits would have to end. As time had gone on, he could see she was both intensely focused on her career as well as free spirited. For those reasons, he hoped she wouldn’t go for a long-term relationship for a while.
Stanton hadn’t let it show to Costner, but he had shared his fury. He couldn’t fathom why Bruce had chosen to kill Hardcastle in the manner he had either. The MI5 chief—already having to defend McQuillan—had received no prior warning.
He knew why Costner came to him directly. The PM’s adviser didn’t want to ever interact directly with Bruce McQuillan.
Stanton recalled his first meeting with Bruce McQuillan. It had been the week after his appointment to the head of MI5, and the meeting took place at MI6 Headquarters, Vauxhall Cross. He and Costner flanked Miles Parker, the head of MI6 at one side of a huge oak table. Parker cut a towering tall and statuesque figure mirroring the fortress-like Vauxhall Cross itself. Bald with a commanding voice, Parker cast an intimidating presence to most.
The inimitable Scotsman had walked in with two brown folders under his arm. He had extended his hand over the table at Stanton.
“Good to meet you Mr Stanton,” Bruce had said.
Stanton had felt the strong grip.
“You too Mr McQuillan”
Bruce had taken his seat in front of the trio.
“Apologies for being late here,’’—he had said, skimming a folder to Parker and one to Costner— “these are for you two. The contents are for your eyes only.”
Parker had stared at Bruce for a few moments before picking up and perusing the folder. Costner had followed his lead. The seconds passed, Stanton felt a change in the atmosphere without knowing why.
Parker spoke quietly with a quiet edge to his voice, “Where did you get this from?”
“I had my unit work it up.”
The temperature in the room seemed to cool.
“Are you fucking insane?” Parker had asked.
Bruce’s eyes hadn’t wavered from Parker’s. “I think it’s the smartest thing I have ever done. My unit and I have always been expendable to this…committee. As soon as the risk outgrows the reward, we’ll be thrown onto the fire Miles. And don’t insult my intelligence by claiming any different…or you Mr Costner.”
Stanton’s mouth opened a little.
Whatever was in those folders somehow had the potential to damage the two men he sat beside. This Glaswegian had just threatened two of the most powerful men in the country.
The tension had been surreal.
With his meeting with Morris still fresh in the mind, Stanton hadn’t been sure in that moment whether McQuillan had been smart or insane.
“What do you want?” Parker growled.
“I will now report to one man; that man will be Mr Stanton here. Other than that, I don’t want anything. Just know that if there’s any attempt to expose my unit from Vauxhall Cross, Westminster, or an unknown source in the media, the content of those folders will leak. Or if there’s an attempt of blackmail on your part or even heaven forbid, an attempt on my life originating from any man in here, the contents of those folders will be released to all and sundry,” Bruce announced, his voice clear and confident.
The words hung in the air.
When Henry Costner finally spoke, the shock was evident in his voice.
“You expect us to continue to fund The Chameleon Project without even reporting to us? That, excuse me for saying, is absurd.”
“You can cancel the funding now. In fact, I suggest you do. I will fund my unit myself.” answered Bruce, while displaying a shit eating grin. “See, it’s not all bad, you can tell the treasury to expect more money. Maybe the NHS will profit.”
No one spoke.
When Bruce McQuillan had stood up, Parker and Costner had moved back an inch.
“A pleasure, gentlemen. Mr Stanton, I will be in touch shortly,” Bruce had said before turning and leaving the room.
“Don’t take the tea bag out too quick, it tasted like bats’ piss last time. I will trade you in if you keep missing the required standard,” said Connor with the ghost of a smile.
Grace turned as not to let him see her smiling. She thought back to how they first met as she made the tea.
After five years of medical school she’d earned a first-class honours degree in medicine; two years of foundation training and another couple of years of core surgical training followed.
Back when she met Connor, she’d just begun her six years of paediatric specialisation training to finally become fully qualified.
He had been seconded to Leeds General Infirmary for ten weeks. The Ministry of Defence initiated a short-lived scheme to send Royal Marine team-medics to hospitals for hands-on training. There was something about him that she loved. He was a paradox in many ways. His being a Royal Marine had piqued her interest but no more than that. His manner attracted her first; men could be intimidated by her, but this wasn’t the case with him. He’d no airs or graces, a razor sharp dry wit and a unique way of observing things. He seemed so confident in himself too, and was by far the smartest of the thirty or so Marines that had passed through.
One day, he came into the common room and found her reading ‘Emma’ by Jane Austen and quoted one of her favourite lines, verbatim—‘Silly things do cease to be silly if they are done by sensible people in an impudent way.’ That he had read it surprised her, although he’d told her to keep it a secret, with a wink.
On another routine Saturday night at the hospital, an irate Muslim male had been gesticulating to a lady, presumably his wife but only spoke Punjabi with bits of broken English. The man’s speech had reached an angry climax when Connor appeared, talking to him rapidly in the man’s native tongue.
More surprising was the way he had the man laughing within seconds. This allowed the nursing staff to deal with the lady, who had been suffering from gallstones. She had a sharp insight into another side of him whilst on the shift commonly known as ‘Mad Friday’—the last working Friday before Christmas. This night was always notoriously busy on the A&E ward, and Grace had been on shift.
Her adrenaline had spiked upon hearing male voices shouting, swearing and berating one of the staff nurses outside her workroom. It wasn’t in her nature to simply wait for security to arrive as one of her colleagues was being bullied. Besides, she’d seen the two security guards on shift tonight bottle it on more than one occasion—Were there any real men anymore?
Grace came to the aid of the staff nurse trying to calm three drunken and agitated males who looked to be around their early twenties. One of the men held his torn T-shirt to his head. All three had muscular chests, biceps and shoulders. Their ape-like hunch suggested a lack of attention to the training of their back muscles.
However, they were all big strong men, particularly the ginger who stood tall and had been easily fifteen-stone in weight. Of the cronies flanking him, the one on the left had his lip permanently curled in a Neanderthal show of aggression. The blood from his scalp soaking the T-shirt. The last of the trio was relatively short but had huge, almost cartoon-like, steroid inflated muscles. The plunging, U-shaped neckline of his T-shirt exposed the deep line of his pectorals. This image went hand in hand with his gelled blond hair, and the ear stud glimmering against his unnaturally tanned face. His whole manner reminded Grace of an angry strutting peacock.
Her professional demeanour and lack of openly displayed fear were usually enough to calm situations like these. However, the trio’s concoction of drink, drugs, and insecurity mixed into a dangerous combination.
The three men crowded both women quickly, issuing saliva spraying taunts and threats, most of which were sexually themed. Before Grace— no stranger to violence— could react, it happened.
Connor appeared from seemingly nowhere to the ginger’s flank, punching him with a combination of such speed and ferocity that the big man spun and reeled back as if on skates. The fury
of the onslaught left his two companions stunned for a moment. The big man collapsed to his knees facing away from Connor. A knee smashed into his temple, sprawling him unconscious, like a puppet with its strings cut. Connor turned, wearing an expression of focus as the bare-chested man rushed flailing at him. Connor’s head shot in the protagonist’s face like a cannon. The impact toppled the thug as the steroid abuser reached up to restrain Connor. Just as the balloon-like arm wrapped around the neck, Connor gripped the wrist with both of his hands.
Repeated head-butts slammed into the pocket Hercules’s face, smearing pain and panic across it. Connor took the gripped wrist behind his opponent’s back, wrenching his arm in a hammer lock between his shoulder blades.
Screams followed the dislocation of the shoulder.
The man’s feet were whipped from beneath him by a foot sweep. The stamp to the head cut off the wails. The shaven headed assailant had managed to stand shakily. He ran away, blood streaming from his shattered nose.
The massacre hadn’t been pretty or well-choreographed, but it had been awesome to Grace in its ruthless vehemence. Connor’s eyes made contact with hers as he began to control his breathing, and she felt a jolt through her body.
He said, “I am sorry. I let the dark side take hold of me.”
Grace had sneered, “Don’t be silly. They deserved it.”
He shook his head. “No…you don’t understand,” looking into her eyes, “I have never read Jane Austen in my life. I just noticed you reading it and googled a quote from it…”
He gave her a great smile, and she couldn’t help but laugh.
She had become aware of the murmurings from shocked patients and staff. They were surveying the wreckage of two bloodied, comatose men and so she began to usher them away. She watched Connor rifle through the pair’s pockets and remove the wallets. He looked at their driver’s licenses before slipping them back.
As the ginger began to regain consciousness, Connor gripped his hair, cranking his neck and whispered into his ear. She saw the man’s eyes get wider and he began to nod.
The hospital security was now on the scene and seemingly confident enough to take charge of the docile men. The bloodied pair reminded Grace of a black and white picture she’d seen of shell-shocked victims of the London Blitz.
When questioned, Grace told the Police that the men attacked Connor first. The staff nurse who witnessed the attack followed her strong, confident lead. She was startled to learn that the two men never denied it. Just what had he whispered in that man’s ear? she wondered. Charges from either side never came.
After that long night, Grace fell into her bed, wired. She stroked her pussy to the most intense orgasm she’d had in years thinking of Connor Reed.
8
“How’s he doing so far?” Bruce asked Jon Pepper.
Pepper was the chief instructor of the training programme Connor Reed was undertaking.
They sat in Pepper’s office in London; Jon on a leather swivel chair behind his desk with two unmarked files on it, and Bruce across from him on the plush, black sofa. It was a medium sized room with a filing cabinet on the side. The computer stood on the desk and a couple of photos were set at an angle so only Pepper could see them. The great bay windows held a picturesque and hypnotic view of urban London; the congested traffic on the roads, hurried people and large, dominating buildings all on display.
Pepper, a few inches shorter than Bruce, had been until recently, a rail-thin man. Middle-age had filled out his frame more as the years passed. Flecks of grey permeated throughout his black hair, and he wore horn-rimmed glasses.
“Good so far. He’s picking up the finer technical points of each subject well, and his weapons handling is of the level you’d expect from an experienced Royal Marine,” answered Jon.
“Can you give me an approximate timescale for when the lad can go operational under supervision?”
“You know a lot of this training is continuous, but I estimate, given the pace he’s learning at, he’ll be ready in a couple of months, not including any operational specific training.”
Bruce didn’t know why the young apprentice so fascinated him. He’d seen so many recruits with more impressive credentials. There had been experienced soldiers from the SAS and SBS, expert MI5 or MI6 field agents, but none had intrigued him like the young Yorkshireman. He realised then the reason was that the Marine had worked completely alone in kidnapping Hardcastle. The level of audacity had been impressive, especially from one that seemingly had no formal experience of that sort of venture. His capture had been down to a twist of fate too. He couldn’t have anticipated Hardcastle would be under surveillance.
Bruce knew the level of daring had to do with something in his background and that was also a worry—he didn’t yet know what it was. Connor might be the type to go off the reservation—he already had once. However, Bruce wasn’t a shrinking violet himself.
Jon Pepper had also overseen the intelligence workups on Connor, and Bruce was hoping he could flesh out his background.
“What about this lassie he’s been seeing?” asked Bruce.
“Grace Templeton: a trainee surgeon at the Leeds Royal and General. Adopted at seven after being rescued by social services from her abusive mother who was a drug addict. Father unknown. She was adopted by an Andrew and Rebecca Templeton, who lived in the affluent area of North West Ajax of Durham. He was an architectural engineer who was away working in the Middle East a lot. Her Mother was a hair dresser who owned shops in and around Newcastle, three of which she owned before she met Templeton.”
“You said her dad worked in the Middle East. Could he have been swayed by an anti-West ideal, when working there?”
“Nothing is impossible. But there’s nothing to suggest that, other than he worked there. Besides, she worked at Leeds Royal and General well before the short-lived MOD scheme sending Marines there had been contemplated. I could dig deeper, but there isn’t anything in the initial assessments that indicate anything untoward,” replied Pepper.
“Dig anyway.”
Pepper continued, “Grace has a record of various misdemeanours throughout her teenage years but managed to achieve consistently good grades. These misdemeanours include stealing a car, and apparently coercing a boy to be the passenger,”—Jon looked at Bruce as he said this, who couldn’t help but to raise his eyebrows— “there’s also a caution for common assault, and a couple for truancy issues.”
“This wild child is now a trainee surgeon?” asked Bruce.
“Apparently so, and she is highly regarded by her superiors and peers,” Pepper handed Bruce the file, “it’s all in there.”
“Now what about him?”
“An unusual background. His parents were never married nor did they live together but had an excellent rapport from what I have been able to glean. Connor took his mother’s surname but his father, if you didn’t already know, was a Greg Ryder, former head of the infamous Ryder family based in Leeds. Greg Ryder spent three years in prison over attacks made in a feud with local criminals who attacked his father Frank. Strangely no charges let alone convictions after his release, although it was an open secret he was in charge, not only in Leeds but he had at least an influence in other Yorkshire cities. Murdered in mysterious circumstances three years ago. Connor’s Uncle Derek heads the family now.”
Bruce stiffened at the news of the identity of Connor’s father. He knew all about Greg Ryder. Ryder had been undoubtedly the most dominant Caucasian crime figure in the Yorkshire area; his name featuring heavily in northern England organised crime circles and beyond. He already knew the story behind the Ryder crime dynasty but allowed the Chief Instructor to carry on, despite Pepper being mistaken as to why Ryder had gone to prison—it had been due to the possession of a firearm.
Bruce felt a piece of the puzzle regarding Connor finally slot into place.
“The Ryder family initially dealt in protection rackets, although a vast majority of their money was made from imp
orted cigarettes and stolen cars. Initially, there didn’t appear to be any direct involvement in drug dealing. They taxed the dealers who distributed inside the clubs at the management’s discretion. That changed over the years, and now they control the drug trafficking in Leeds as well as other areas of West Yorkshire.”
Bruce also knew Greg Ryder had given large sums of money back to drug rehabilitation programmes and youth support centres. He was aware this knowledge wasn’t widespread, though. It wasn’t in the best interest of law enforcement agencies to let Greg Ryder be known as a quasi-Robin Hood character.
“Here’s where it gets unusual. Connor’s mother, Rebecca Reed, is a veterinarian living in an upmarket suburb of Leeds. As a child, Connor stayed mostly with his mother but visited his father regularly. He experienced both sides of the track, so to speak. A disruptive child, but he too maintained good grades. He began boxing at around nine years of age reaching the Junior ABA Finals at fifteen.”
Jon Pepper looked at Bruce before continuing, “However, a violent incident at the age of sixteen in a local Fish and Chip shop resulted in him being sent to Borstal for eleven months. For some mysterious reason, he was still accepted into the Marines at the age of nineteen years despite his record. I am looking into that now. His service record is all in here.”
John handed the file to Bruce.
“All in all, he has an excellent service record, with two tours of Afghanistan with forty-five Commando—four-five rather. Another strange thing; apparently, he’s proficient in Punjabi, per his troop commander’s citation—although it’s a rare Afghan that speaks that language, so I am unsure how that came to light,” he said thoughtfully, and continued. “He passed the notoriously difficult sniper course and had a stint on the Navy boxing team, where he became a Combined Services Champion. He also competed for the Navy’s Judo team. There was a quick promotion to Lance Corporal, but a slower one to Corporal due to some discipline issues. His record shows he has a couple of violent incidents as well as some frankly ridiculous ones. Some would say he has been lucky to stay in the military.”
The Bootneck Page 6