Retaliation

by G. K. Parks

  “Only if they fire first.” Picking up a rock, Mercer threw it at the rear window with enough force to break it. The glass didn’t shatter, but it cracked, causing the two men to spin around in their seats. The passenger exited the car, looking around for the person responsible. The driver, a man with jet black hair, joined him, and they circled the car. “They won’t be distracted long. Let’s move.”

  “What is it with you and property damage?”

  The two security specialists went down the sidewalk and up the steps to Lara Shepherd’s flat. To save time, Donovan used a bump key, and the door opened instantly. By the time the men gave up their search for the person responsible for breaking the rear windshield, Mercer and Donovan were safely inside Lara’s flat without anyone being the wiser.

  The exterior of the building, along with the rest of the neighborhood, was worn and old. Mercer expected to find peeling paint and cracked plaster, but the apartment was pristine. Even the walls had a fresh coat of bright white paint.

  “Told you it was clean.”

  “Any indication how recently she had the work done?”

  “No hits on her credit card for any services. And I don’t recall any recent trips to the hardware store.” Donovan went into the kitchen. The appliances were dated, but they appeared as if they’d never been used. “How exactly does Bastian even gain access to a person’s credit card information? Isn’t that a major privacy violation?”

  “Don’t ask.” Mercer went into the bedroom. The closet had an adequate amount of practical clothing. Trousers, blouses, a few smocks, and several pairs of shoes. They were all the same size, indicative that they belonged to a single resident. Lifting up one of the shoes, Mercer examined the sole. No scuff marks or signs of wear. Everything was new. He went into the bathroom to find a collection of toiletries and makeup that had rarely or never been used. “Check the pantry.”

  “Are you feeling peckish?” Donovan quipped. He opened the cabinet. “We have protein bars, snack mix, bottled water, and canned goods.”

  “And the fridge?” Mercer stepped into the kitchen.

  Donovan gave him an odd look and opened the door. “She hasn’t been shopping lately.” The only items inside were condiments lining the inner shelves.

  “Check the expiration dates.” Mercer examined the rest of the cabinets and the closets.

  “Nothing’s expired.” Donovan turned to watch Julian conduct his own search. “You do realize I already did that.”

  “She doesn’t live here,” Mercer said. “It looks like she could, but she doesn’t. She’s never worn any of the clothes. I doubt she’s used any of the items in the bathroom either. If something untoward had occurred here and the items were replaced, it would have been a bloody massacre.”

  “You don’t think someone repainted and purchased new items?”

  “Why go through the trouble?”

  “To conceal the crime, be it a murder or an abduction.” Donovan glanced out the window, but the men in the green car were still waiting outside.

  “They wouldn’t have bought new clothes or toiletries. They would have taken whatever she needed or disposed of anything covered in blood spatter. Doesn’t this look familiar?”

  Donovan scrutinized every nook and cranny. “I don’t think we’ve encountered a scene like this before, mate.”

  “No,” Mercer clarified, “not a scene. This is what we do. The way we set up our safe houses. Check for a false back. Maybe she used this place to stash something important.”

  “If that’s the case, why would she have this flat listed as her primary address? It would completely defeat the purpose,” Donovan argued, even as he tapped against the walls and other solid surfaces.

  But his words fell on deaf ears as Julian returned to the bedroom and practically ripped the room apart. Beneath the area rug covering the floor around the bed, Mercer discovered a loose floorboard. He pried it up, expecting to find some kind of hidden secret, but nothing was inside.

  “It’s a slick,” Donovan said from the doorway. “Any idea what it contained?”

  Mercer felt around inside and examined the dust that coated his fingertips. “It could have been anything.”

  “Do you think Owen hid something away?”

  Before Mercer could answer, the front door slammed against the wall, likely leaving a blemish against the blinding white. Donovan aimed into the hallway, and Mercer glanced out the window. The men were no longer in the vehicle.

  “Toss out your guns. And come out slowly with your hands in the air,” a gravelly voice announced from the other room.

  “The hell we will.” Donovan edged around the corner, but the men had taken cover behind the kitchen counter. From this angle, he couldn’t get a bead on them. “What do you want to do, commander?”

  More than anything, Mercer wanted to know who they were. From the commands they uttered, they didn’t sound Irish, but they could have taken care to disguise the telltale brogue. They weren’t coppers. The bobbies always announced themselves, usually before issuing orders.

  Unfortunately, Mercer and Donovan only had their side arms handy. The flash grenades and other nonlethal artillery were in the car. Silently, Mercer signaled for Donovan to remain on standby as he made his way to the door. He stepped into the hallway. He had no intention of complying with their demands, unless the men gave him a good reason, and at the moment, Mercer couldn’t come up with any acceptable excuse to surrender his weapon.

  One of the men watched him from behind the counter. Only a tuft of black hair poked up above the muzzle of his handgun. From this distance, it appeared to be a nine millimeter. Mercer didn’t take his eyes off the weapon trained on him.

  “Drop the weapon,” Black Hair instructed.

  Mercer took half a step forward. “What do you want?”

  “Drop your weapon. And get on the ground.”

  Just as Mercer stepped past the corner, where the hallway opened into the living room, movement caught his eye. Mercer jerked back just as the second man swung an assault rifle like a baseball bat. Julian felt the whoosh of air as the rifle narrowly missed. Before the man could swing again, Donovan fired.

  The assault rifle dropped to the floor, and the man crumpled to his knees. A pained yelp escaped his lips, and Black Hair opened fire. Running at a crouch, Mercer shoved Donovan back into the bedroom and slammed the door closed. Remaining low to the ground, the former SAS operatives dragged the dresser in front of the door.

  “That won’t hold them for long,” Donovan said as bullets shredded the wooden door. He helped Mercer lift the mattress off the bed and stand it up in front of the dresser. It absorbed the bullets, stopping the spray from peppering the room and its occupants. “I said we’d go out with a bang. I didn’t realize it’d be quite this literal.”

  Mercer went to the window, but it was nailed shut. He aimed at the glass and turned his head away. He fired twice and dove through the broken window. He rolled and came up in a crouch. Donovan at his heels.

  A woman and her child stood across the street, staring with bewildered fascination. Mercer ignored them and darted toward the parked car.

  “Keep an eye out.”

  “Copy.” Donovan kept his gun at his side, but he’d return fire before anyone even had the chance to blink.

  Mercer found the doors to the sedan unlocked, and he scanned the interior for any indication of the shooters’ identities. He didn’t find anything, but from the half-filled bottles and sheer amount of takeout containers, they’d been sitting on Lara Shepherd’s flat for days, if not weeks. He popped open the glove box.

  “Jules, we have to move,” Donovan said, firing in the direction of the men. They retreated behind the metal front door. Donovan’s bullets made a loud clang as they impacted against it.

  “Fine,” Mercer tucked the registration slip into his pocket, “let’s go.” He darted across the street. Once he made it across, he provided cover fire, allowing Donovan to follow. As Donovan raced down the
street toward their waiting car, Mercer shot out two of the sedan’s tires. It would be enough to stop them from following.

  “Julian,” Donovan called frantically.

  Mercer turned and ran down the street. He jumped into the car, and Donovan drove away. Mercer turned in his seat, watching the two men emerge just in time to see their departure.

  As soon as he was convinced they weren’t being followed, he pulled out one of the RF readers Bastian kept in all their vehicles and checked for trackers. The car was clean. The two men hadn’t seen Mercer and Donovan arrive, so they didn’t know to check the car.

  “Who do you think they are?” Donovan asked.

  “Definitely not police.” Mercer pulled out his phone and dialed the direct line to report the shooting. Someone, probably the woman, had already notified the authorities, and units were on the way. Mercer disconnected the battery and tossed his phone out the window as they continued down the street.

  “They can’t be IRA. They didn’t have the accent, and if they abducted Lara to use as leverage, they wouldn’t be casing her place,” Donovan surmised.

  “That leaves MI5,” Mercer said.

  “But why would they open fire on us? That’s insane.”

  Mercer thought, but nothing about the experience made sense, least of all the slick in Lara’s bedroom. Slicks were hiding places used by covert operatives. They held valuable items, money, passports, fake IDs, basically anything one would keep in a go-bag. “Do you think those men are seeking intel Shepherd might have hidden at his sister’s place?”

  “Do you think Owen would keep something at her home and jeopardize her safety?”

  “Maybe he didn’t have a choice. Since his divorce, he doesn’t have a place to live. He was undercover when the proceedings were finalized. He doesn’t have a flat of his own.”

  “But what could he possibly be hiding that would warrant a shootout?” Donovan watched two police cars zoom past them. “Bullets bring the police. Everyone knows that.”

  Mercer fished the scrap of paper out of his pocket and read the information. “We need to determine who those men are. That should lead to figuring out what they are after.”

  “I tagged their car. I don’t know if it’ll be much help, but it was the best I could do on such short notice.”

  “If it moves or they send someone to collect it from police impound, we’ll know about it. It might lead to something. But let’s hope we get answers before it comes to that.”

  Nine

  “We should have performed an R&R.” Mercer stifled a growl.

  “We didn’t have time. There were witnesses,” Donovan said. “We did the best we could.”

  “A retrieval and rendition would not have solved the problem,” Bastian said.

  “At least we’d know who those men are and what they want.” Mercer stalked the confines of the study. “They could be working with Flynn or MI5. They might even know where Owen is or what became of Lara.”

  Donovan watched the commander pace back and forth. “They wouldn’t have come quietly. And the lady and her son were witnesses. The bloody bobbies would be all over our arses before we even found a place to conduct the interrogation.”

  Bastian bit down on a pen cap, breaking the plastic in half. “From what you said, I don’t think Flynn sent them.”

  “They have to be MI5 then,” Mercer said.

  “But why would they fire on us? We’re on the same side. They would have identified themselves,” Donovan argued.

  “Could be a few bad apples. Perhaps Shepherd identified an internal leak.” Mercer tapped the photograph they took of the gold stationery since the actual item was being delivered to their police contacts.

  “Now you’re just jumping to conclusions.” Bastian let out an exasperated sigh.

  “Whoever they are, they’ve been trained,” Donovan said.

  “It’s doubtful they’re MI5, but the car is registered to a ghost. That doesn’t help us determine who they are.” Bastian gnawed on a shard of the broken cap. “The photo you took doesn’t match anyone in MI5’s records, and I’m not getting any pings in the criminal database either. I don’t know who these blokes are, but their mugs aren’t in the system.”

  “Are you sure?” Mercer leaned over Bastian’s shoulder. “Doesn’t facial rec normally take days?”

  Bastian resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “I entered additional parameters to speed up the process. I’m looking for connections to Shepherd, so I’ve narrowed the search to only include men who fit the description and are also known associates of Colin Flynn or somehow connected to MI5.”

  “They could be lowlife crooks from one of Shepherd’s previous investigations,” Donovan offered. The firefight had left him anxious, and he hadn’t stopped moving since they returned to home base. He stared out the window, watching traffic outside. “I don’t think they have any idea who we are.”

  “They wanted to question us,” Mercer said. “That’s why they told us to toss out our weapons.” He replayed the event in his mind. Donovan fired first, an automatic reflex to someone attacking a teammate. “They aren’t MI5 or Metropolitan Police. I doubt they’re Interpol agents.”

  “They didn’t identify themselves.” Donovan stepped away from the window and studied the intel again. “The good guys don’t usually open fire without provocation.”

  “You provoked them,” Bastian pointed out.

  “After they tried to bash in Jules’ skull.”

  “They pinned us in the bedroom, Bas. They blocked the exit. They would have come in hot had we not escaped,” Mercer said. “Aside from the elite tactical units, policing agencies do not respond like that.”

  “Even if they were an elite unit,” Donovan said, playing devil’s advocate, “we aren’t terrorists. We didn’t have a hostage. For all they knew, we were nothing more than burglars. That was too much firepower to throw at a couple of thieves.”

  “But there was nothing in the flat worth stealing,” Mercer pointed out. “Whatever was hidden in the floor was already gone.” Mercer thought for a moment. “But they didn’t know that.”

  “Or they were after us and not the contents of the empty slick.”

  Bastian clicked a few more keys. “The tracker you placed on the green sedan shows it was moved to a police lot. Since it’s part of an active crime scene, the bobbies will examine every inch of it. They’ll find something.”

  “What about the shooters?” Mercer asked. “Are they in custody?”

  “No arrests were made.”

  “But I shot one of them,” Donovan said. “That would have hindered their escape.”

  “Not bloody well enough,” Mercer muttered.

  “He must have bled inside the apartment. Perhaps they left a trail. Worst case, the police will collect the evidence and run the DNA. Everything you’ve said indicates these two men connect to a criminal enterprise. That means they should have records. The police will get it sorted.” Bastian opened a new window. “But I’ll check hospital records to see who’s been admitted in the last hour for a GSW.”

  “Anything?” Mercer asked impatiently.

  “I need more than two seconds.” Bastian spit out the pen cap while he typed in more commands. “I don’t see anything, but I’ll continue to monitor. Paperwork isn’t always instantaneous, but we should assume the injured shooter will seek medical care from less public sources.”

  “Bollocks.” Mercer picked up the dossier they’d been given on Colin Flynn. “The two shooters have to connect to Flynn. It wouldn’t make sense otherwise, unless Lara Shepherd has her own set of enemies.” Julian sorted through the growing pile of documents. “What do we know about Lara?”

  “She studied to be a linguist at university, but she dropped out before completing her degree. Her income is erratic and unstable. Honestly, her entire career background is a bit dodgy. It appears she works as a temp. I’ve found some old listings on professional sites. She worked as a nanny and a dogwalker. She tutored
. And has done mostly office work.” Bastian handed the paperwork to Mercer and returned to the various searches and analyses he was currently conducting.

  “Probably explains why she lives where she does,” Donovan said. “It’s unlikely she can afford a safer neighborhood. Any legal troubles or run-ins with the law?”

  Mercer skimmed the pages Bastian handed him. “None. She’s clean, but she lives on the fringe. Not quite off the grid, but not really on it either.” Placing the papers on the edge of the desk, Mercer blew out a breath. “Those men have no reason to watch her place, unless they’re after her brother.”

  “I’d say that’s a safe assumption, Jules.” The computer at the end of the desk beeped, and Bastian checked on the progress. “Brilliant.” He smiled. “We’ve broken through Flynn’s encryption.” He clicked a few keys. “There’s a lot to assess.”

  “What about the stationery? This gold paper stock can’t be that common. Have you found anything on it?”

  “I’m not a bloody octopus. I only have two hands.” Bastian shoved a computer toward Mercer. “Start searching. Your fingers aren’t broken.”

  Donovan intervened before Mercer could say a word. “Hans started looking into it.” Donovan opened a few recent files. “We have the manufacturer and distributor.” He turned the computer around for Mercer, who dropped into a chair and read the information.

  “Make a note,” Mercer said to Donovan, “we’ll need to check records for these shops.” He listed three stores in Belfast that sold that particular item. We’ll need purchase orders and possibly surveillance footage. It can’t be a coincidence Flynn and Partridge both use the same posh paper. I want to know what the connection is.”

  “So do I,” Donovan agreed.

  Bastian whistled, pushing away from the desk. “I need a drink.”

  “Make that two,” Donovan said.

  Bastian poured, and Mercer watched the tactician’s hand shake as he reached for the offered glass. The worst part about firefights was coming down from the adrenaline high. It led to jitters, nausea, and inevitably the entire human body shutting down for a few minutes or hours to rest. It was always the best and worst part of any op. If the mission was a success, it meant some much deserved rest. But if things hadn’t gone as planned, it left one vulnerable. No one was immune to it, but there were ways to stave off the effects for as long as possible. However, since they weren’t in any immediate danger, Donovan deserved the opportunity to unwind and probably sleep for a few minutes. They’d be back in the field soon enough.