SAS Para-Ops: MEGA SET – SAS Para-Ops Books #1, #2, #3, #4, #5 & #6
By Casey Christie
COPYRIGHT
This ebook boxed MEGA set is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, downloaded, distributed, leased, licenced or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publisher, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law
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Version 1.0
Published by House of Christie, 2016
Copyright © Casey Christie, 2016
All rights reserved
Casey Christie has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patent Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work
This novella collection is a work of fiction
In some cases true life figures appear but their actions and conversations are entirely fictitious. All other characters and descriptions of events are the products of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons or locations are entirely coincidental
These books are sold subject to the condition that they shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which they are published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser
First published in Great Britain in 2016 by
House of Christie
About the Author
Casey Christie is an international security consultant and the founder and managing director of Concept Tactical Worldwide. He is a former reserve member of the South African Police Force where he served in crime hot spots in Johannesburg, winning numerous police awards for outstanding service. He is SWAT certified, accredited in First Aid and government licensed in the United Kingdom as a bodyguard. Casey was trained in close protection and surveillance by former members of the British Army's elite Special Air Service (SAS).
Casey has a proven track record, having provided security for Royalty, politicians, corporate executives, Hollywood and television celebrities and private individuals.
He is the author of the action and adventure crime thriller, Night of the Black Bastards and the non-fiction self-help title, Be Your Own Bodyguard in South Africa, and regularly contributes articles on security related matters to various newspapers and magazines globally.
Casey is based in London.
Visit the Concept Tactical Worldwide website http://www.concepttactical.com
SAS Para-Ops: MEGA SET – SAS Para-Ops Books #1, #2, #3, #4, #5 & #6
Table of Contents
About the Author
Book One - SAS Para-Ops: Many Dead Bankers
Book Two - SAS Para-Ops: Shadow Sniper
Book Three - SAS Para-Ops: Gunfighters
SAS Para-Ops #4: Sniper Fight!
SAS Para-Ops #5: Sniper’s Prayer
SAS Para-Ops #6: Survival
Book One - SAS Para-Ops: Many Dead Bankers
ONE
Canary Wharf. One o’clock lunch. Thousands of workers stream down and out of the massive buildings housing the headquarters of the world’s biggest and most powerful banks. Suited and booted. Tired and wired. Money made and money lost. It’s time for a pint and a bite to eat.
Canary Wharf tube station is buzzing. Throbbing with people. Dozens of individuals a minute ride the escalators from the depths of the Jubilee Underground Line through to the top of the moving stairs and out of the station entrance into daylight and under the hulking structures of the cluster of the Canary Wharf skyscrapers and the famous LED stock market ticker on the Thomson Reuters building.
There investment banker James John waits for his family - his wife and their three beautiful daughters. Today is a good day for James and his household. A large deal he has been working on for over a year has just come to fruition. His bonus will be a big one. It will allow them to climb out of the pit of debt they now find themselves in. A nice holiday and presents for the kids. So today they will celebrate. The kids, the twins both aged twelve and their little sister aged nine, have all taken the day off of school. Special like. To be with daddy on his big day!
He waits patiently scanning the crowd for his loved ones as they emerge from the station entrance. Finally there they are - easy to spot against the automatons that work the square mile in their grey and black suits, unkind and uncaring; Bankers, money is their business. Easy to know why he loves them so, his family that is, not the bankers. His wife is a stunning brunette of Italian blood, smooth olive skin. His daughters a powerful counterpoint to their striking mother, all flowering blondes, fair English skin, glowing bright, happy energy. Today will be a good day he thinks to himself and he smiles.
They see him and in moments are closing in on their daddy. He leans down and rests on one knee. Opens his arms, his youngest squeals in delight.
“Daddy!”
CRACK!
CRACK!
CRACK!
The sound of a whip, unleashed, again and again, another and another.
What’s going on James thinks to himself?
He turns around to face the direction of where the whip is being lashed, to see the lashing whip and its master and the reason for a public flogging.
He sees clearly now that it’s no whip. But what then? He squints his eyes against the sideways London light and through the throng of the human herd and makes out four small figures, female figures, children perhaps, no they are bigger than that, small men? Dressed in black, all black, dark combat gear? All wearing balaclavas, in Canary Wharf?
A woman screams, and then another, and another.
“Keep quiet you silly women, I’m trying to see what’s going on?” James says to himself half-heartedly.
Guns? Are those guns in their hands? Machine guns.. Is one of them pointing that thing at me?
He feels something thud against his chest, his chest? Then he feels hair, human, soft beautiful aromatic hair, strawberries.. his little one. He had bought her the special shampoo the night before. She smells heavenly. She is his heaven. He turns, holds her tight and stands on his feet. He finally realises what is going on. And he knows what he must do. He must save his family, he must get them to safety! Fast!
CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!
But what is he holding, it’s not his Vicky, his lovely, wonderful little love Victoria. What is it? He holds out straight armed in front of him to examine it from a distance. He sees his little Vicky’s body. Her face, her legs, her arms her eyes but..
It’s, she’s not, her, there. He looks to his right and now sees and hears the screaming woman. It’s Adona, his bello bella, his wife. She is screaming but it’s more of a moan, filled with pain, sadness, madness and shock! Angry, she cries.
In an instant his eyes swell with tears. He chokes as his throat fills with emotion. He knows what’s happening but denial is safe. For the time being denial is safe.
“What’s wrong my love, my beauty, why do you cry?” he barely mutters
She falls to her knees. Her children in her arms. Either side, limp. Dead, or dying. Dead.
He drops to his knees, both of them this time, the body of Vicky still in his arms, but held at a distance. He quickly realises and pulls her close into his chest. He looks at his wife, speechless, for what can he say?
Her eyes widen, large and instantaneously empty. The light in them, that indefinable light vanishes. Blood trickles out of the side of her mouth. Adona slumps backwards. Her children’s carcasses lie either side of her own. They are all gone. The important parts have left their bodies. Bodies which were shut down so cruelly by 7.62mm rounds of an AK47 Assault Rifle.
CRACK! CRACK!
James is still there though. On the floor outside Canary Wharf tube station. People scatter around him, people scream. Men and women scream and run and hide and die.
For a moment he is caught in limbo. No longer here nor there. Dead or alive. He breathes but he is empty. Moments pass and he waits. He waits for the bullet to pierce his body. He smiles, he knows he will see his loves again. He happily waits for the reaper’s round. He waits but it does not come. More moments pass and his mood changes from happiness to great anger. He places the body of Vicky with her sisters and mother and he stands. He knows what he must do. And he knows that he will do it.
He turns. His mind tells him that by now his family’s killers will be far, or at least further from here. In the Shopping Centre perhaps? But no. Standing directly behind him he sees one of the small figures dressed all in combat black. Weapon at his side.
His right hand holds the machine gun but then what is in his left hand
What is he pointing at me? James thinks to himself.
It’s a handheld high definition video camera streaming live to the internet.
“A camera? You are filming this?” spits James.
He can see the small figure smile. Beneath the ski mask he can see the killer of his family contort its wicked face into a smirk.
James’s blood boils. He will kill this coward. He will kill this sadistic malevolent being. Every muscle in his body tenses, adrenalin known only to those who witness death and whose own life is under mortal threat, surges through his body. Tunnel vision, no more noise, no more sound, he goes deaf as a result of the epinephrine. He charges at the terrorist with all his might, with all his power. He will kill and meet death head on. Fighting on his feet. Roaring to avenge his family.
He charges hard and fast and true, powerful and good. He has no fear. He feels no pain..
He feels no wound as his futile attempt to reach the killing, cowardly, terrorist comes to its obvious end as the merchant of death lifts his weapon of destruction and fires the tumbling rounds of doom into James’s body. Once, twice, again, one more, five, six… nine bullets later and James is dead at the feet of one of the twelve terrorists who now attack London. Attack London at its financial core.
London and it’s Canary Wharf are under terrorist attack.
TWO
Fifteen minutes earlier..
Mark Andrews sits at the All Bar One restaurant situated opposite the entrance to the Canary Wharf tube station. He’s a divorced 31 year old retail bank manager. He was once a big, strong, good looking man. Not now though. Well he’s still big and good looking, under the flab, but more overweight than just clean, good big. Not fat as in obese but he has a belly, a fairly large belly, and the beginnings of a double chin. He is naturally big boned and stands at 6 foot 2 inches. He used to play 1st team rugby. He used to like being alive. His hair is thinning and greying. He still has his piercing baby blue eyes though. And they still attract as much attention as when he was the old Mark.
He doesn’t know it but those baby blues of his are the reason he sits where he now sits. Mark is waiting for his first girlfriend since his nasty divorce from the woman he now simply refers to as The Demon Whore.
He waits, quite excitedly, which is very unusual for Mark, for Amelia Brown. He loves her. He really loves her. Adult love. Mature love. Something he had not known when he had married The Demon Whore. How could he have known real love at the tender age of nineteen? Married at just twenty two.
“You young lust struck fool!” he mutters to himself before bringing the cold pint of Grolsch beer to his lips.
Now he remembers just why he was so lust struck! The Demon Whore was and still is incredibly, strikingly beautiful. Sexy and she knows it! That’s part of the problem. Marriage wasn’t enough for The Demon Whore. She demanded more, you see she liked the male attention, loved it in fact. And loved it as much in the bedroom. In Mark’s bedroom. With other men. With bankers, with anyone. Even Mark sometimes. Even afterwards until Mark walked in on The Demon Whore and his best friend. Doggy style with another couple. In his bed.
Did he kill them? Did he at least beat the living daylights out of them? Did he scream and shout, throw a few things in anger. Rant and rave?
No.
He simply left and never came back. The Demon Whore engaged the services of a big shot, big city lawyer, who raped Mark for nearly everything he had. Not actually, only figuratively. Left him near homeless though.
Anyway life went on for Mark. Our Mark.
He worked and he worked hard. And he didn’t really know why he worked so hard but his job kept him going. It kept him eating, sleeping and breathing. Even though it was a daily 2 hour commute in and out of the Square Mile from where he lay his head at night.
He drank too. He drank a lot. Of alcohol that is, not milk. So much so that he got himself into an AA programme. But yes, he still drinks, but doesn’t consider himself a drunk. Who does? In truth he joined the AA programme as more of a social thing than anything else. Like a club to meet new people. And that’s exactly what happened. He met the two most important people he now knows at that AA club. Wonderful Amelia and mysterious John Taylor.
THREE
Mark checks his wrist watch and drains the last of his pint. Amelia should be with him momentarily.
He receives a text message on his Blackberry. It’s Amelia.
“Running late. Missed my station on the DLR. Getting off at West India Quay instead. Should we skip lunch & watch a cheeky movie instead? It’s dark in there xxx”
“Always running late Amelia” Mark thinks to himself and shakes his head. “And you never stick to the plan.” He smiles as he knows this is just one of the reasons he loves her so.
He replies: “Okay babe. But only because it’s dark in there x ;) I’ll just finish my drink and head over. What should we watch?”
Mark swiftly gets the attention of the waitress and orders another pint and the bill.
Amelia responds: “Cheeky bugger. I dunno, I’ll surprise you. Just get here and bring your game face Sexy Eyes! x”
It’s lunch hour now and Mark notices the hordes of people starting to emerge from the massive buildings around him. It’s Mark’s one day off yet he still chooses to come into the Wharf. He likes it here. It’s always buzzing and people always seem to have a purpose here. It’s very clean too. Usually he would get to the cinemas via the DLR but now he’s trying to lose weight he decides he’ll walk it. Around the buildings, over the road, past the fountain and over the water on the pedestrian footbridge into the Quay through the shopping complex, over the road and then into the Cineworld next to the Fitness First. An enjoyable and scenic ten minute walk. Amelia had shown him the route a week before.
Mark’s Blackberry makes a noise once more. This time it’s a message from John. Mark has saved his number in his phonebook as The Tailor.
“Mark, Are we still a go for this evening. 2000hrs at the Boisdale?”
“Roger that drill sergeant!! 2000hrs on the dot” reads Mark’s reply.
Mark laughs out loud at the speech patterns of The Tailor. He still thinks he’s in the army! But what exactly do you do now my friend?
“And bring an extra liver. For tonight we drink!” is the quick reply text.
“I may just be a civi John but I can hold my own! And the jazz don’t forget the jazz mate!”
“I live for the jazz mate. Out.”
FOUR
The waitress delivers Mark his pint and the bill. He pays her immediately and gives her a very generous tip - Why not? He’s happy. He’s actually really happy. The waitress who can’t be a day over
20 takes the money and accepts the substantial tip without a word and walks away. Mark thinks nothing of it until she turns on her heel and walks back to the table.
“Hey mister, I’m off after the Bankers have their lunch, wanna wait for me to finish and then grab a couple of drinks with me and my friends – there’s gonna be some great jazz tonight playing around the corner?” said the waitress.
Mark’s lost for words. He is gobsmacked by what he hears, not least because earlier on he had admired the young lass’s beauty but had admonished himself thinking “She’d feel sick if she even knew I thought she was beautiful.” Not so it now seems. He feels his face turn red.
The young waitress, a fiery red head, perceives his shock and shyness and attempts to add some levity to, what she realises, is a very straight forward proposition.
“You can be our.. chaperone?” She says with a cheeky smile.
Her device works and the chubby man smiles.
Mark feels his embarrassment pass and his cheeks cool as though an air conditioning unit has just been switched on above his head.
“I would love to, I really would. But I am meeting my.. girlfriend .. at the cinema now. We’re going to watch a movie” he finally says.
“You’re going to watch a movie at the cinema? Imagine that. Of all the places to do such a thing” quips the redhead.
Mark feels his face begin to flush once more but fights the urge to retreat within himself once again. After all this young lady is his junior by at least ten years.
“Ah but you see we’re really not going to watch a movie at all in the cinema. It’s the privacy a show house provides that we really require” he says with a wink and a smile.
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