Retaliation

by G. K. Parks

  “Why don’t you bunk down in the guestroom?” Mercer suggested. “I’ll let you know when we’re ready to move out.”

  Donovan ignored the comment and stood behind Bastian, swirling the scotch around in the glass. “What’s on Flynn’s hard drive?”

  “Bomb schematics. A veritable array of targets.” Bastian blew out a breath. “Shit.”

  “Speak, Clarke,” Mercer practically barked.

  “He’s an arms dealer. We know as much from MI5’s records, but it’s not just handhelds. According to this, he has a couple of fifty cal machine guns he’s planning to unload or has already unloaded. Lots of Teflon rounds, armor piercing, and hollow points,” he scrolled down the page, reading off more equipment and types of weapons, “but the real kickers are the chemical weapons.”

  “Chemical? As in?” Mercer waited. It could be anything from nerve agents to lung toxicants.

  “Sarin, chlorine gas,” Bastian swallowed, “and VX.”

  “Bloody hell.” Mercer rubbed a hand down his face. “You said he had a list of targets. What about a timetable? When is he planning the attack?”

  “How widescale?” Donovan asked, his drink downed in a single gulp.

  Bastian continued to work through the intel. “There’s no way to tell. But I don’t think he’s selling the WMDs. I think he’s planning to keep those for his own use.”

  “Like the pressure cooker bombs,” Mercer said.

  “With the proper disbursal method, he could load one of those up with sarin, VX, or even the chlorine and increase the death toll exponentially,” Bastian said.

  While Bastian continued to search for details on the terrorist plot, Mercer analyzed the target list. But the locations Flynn had scouted were all popular public places. And the research Flynn had performed was nothing more than checking online tourist sites. None of the locations were personal. None of them spoke of a political, religious, or social agenda.

  “It could be fearmongering,” Donovan suggested as he dug into MI5’s files for any hint as to when or where Flynn would strike. “He could detonate one device and hold the city hostage until they meet his demands.”

  “What are his demands?” Mercer asked, glancing at Bastian. “Did you find a manifesto?”

  “No.” Bastian crunched on a piece of ice from his glass. “These files are broad, vague. The only detailed information I found are the spreadsheets. They appear to be business in nature. An inventory of the items he has for sale. Prices. A list of incoming shipments. Apparently, he’s waiting on a few crates of MAC-10s. Do you think FedEx is delivering?”

  “No.” Mercer’s mind drifted to the boathouse Hans had scouted, the secondary location Flynn had fled to after his SUV exploded. “He must be getting illicit shipments from overseas. Probably from the Russians. They still have some influence in Afghanistan, even though they officially pulled out in the ‘70s. But those connections still exist. And with the weapons caches that have been delivered as the war continues, private dealers have made millions selling off the artillery that’s been left behind as various nations have recalled their troops.”

  “I’ll make some calls and see if I can track down Flynn’s source.” Donovan grabbed a phone and went into the other room.

  Mercer stared at the pages in front of him, not seeing any of it. His thoughts were on the items in the basement. Flynn’s laboratory, that’s what one of the bodyguards had called it. Now Mercer knew why. “Shepherd must have found out. If he’s still alive, we need to find him. We have to stop this.”

  “Maybe it’s not as bad as it seems,” Bastian said, even though he’d finished the ice and was now chewing on his fingernails.

  “Don’t be a bloody optimist. It won’t serve any of us.”

  The front door slammed, and Mercer spun. Hans held up his palms. “Only me.”

  “What do you have, Hans?”

  “Not much, I’m afraid. Grace hasn’t spoken to her husband in nearly a year. She said one day Owen just cut ties. He told her he didn’t love her and never wanted to see her or the boy again. The few times they’ve communicated since has been mandated by the courts or necessary for their custody agreement.” Hans licked his lips. “Owen said he didn’t want to have anything to do with Harry. He set up a trust that pays child support and alimony, but he has no contact. He wants nothing to do with them.”

  “When did this occur?”

  “Right before Owen went undercover. He burned his bridges, mate. He has no reason to come home. I’d say it’s possible he switched sides.”

  Mercer wondered if Hans was thinking clearly. Hans’ own sordid past with a missing father and abusive step-father might be coloring his perception of the situation. “Or he did all of that to protect his family in case his cover was compromised.”

  Hans let out a derisive snort. “Why are you giving this bloke the benefit of the doubt at every turn? Owen Shepherd’s a piece of shit. He abandoned his family. He abandoned his post. He probably sold out his bloody country.” That answered Mercer’s question.

  “Where’s his sister, Lara?” Mercer asked. “Did he sell her out too?”

  Hans remained quiet for a time. “I don’t know. Maybe they planned something together. Maybe they both want to stick it to the Crown. Maybe they went over to the dark side.”

  “Find proof.”

  “You mean aside from that scrap of paper?”

  “Yes. Did you bring it to the police?”

  “DCI Yancy promised to have someone print it for you. We’ll know tomorrow who’s touched it.” Hans practically laughed. “I never thought I’d live to see the day a bobby was indebted to us.”

  “Desperate times.” Mercer pasted a printout of Flynn’s inventory on the vinyl sheet and highlighted the chemical weapons. “Regardless of your feelings, we need to find Shepherd. There’s a good chance Colin Flynn is planning a chemical attack.”

  “Bollocks.”

  Ten

  Mercer took a step back. “This isn’t right. What is going on?” He reached for his phone and chartered a helicopter. They didn’t have time to wait for the next ferry, nor did they have six hours to waste on the commute. “We’re leaving in thirty. Pack up and grab whatever gear you think we’ll need. Make sure you have full blackout. We’ll need stealth. Donovan, you’re coming with us. Hans, I need you to stay here and keep us apprised of the situation. Let me know what the bobbies find, and whatever you do, do not engage.”

  “What if they engage with me?” Hans asked cheekily.

  “Don’t let them.” Mercer met his eyes. “I’m serious.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Hans waved Mercer away, wondering how Bastian managed to pull off so many tasks simultaneously while the rest of the team was in the field.

  With their bags in hand, Mercer, Bastian, and Donovan left for the helipad. Chartering a private flight was costly, but Mercer wasn’t concerned about the money. They didn’t have time to make the long, slow trek back to Belfast, and taking a commercial flight required too many extra steps regarding their gear.

  “We might have asked MI5 for a lift,” Bastian mumbled as they loaded the bags into the back and climbed into the chopper.

  “No time.” Mercer slid into one of the seats and strapped himself in, a flood of memories from his days at the SAS ran through his mind. At least they wouldn’t be rappelling down or jumping from this helicopter.

  Bastian exchanged a few words with the pilot while Donovan settled in, put some earbuds in, and closed his eyes. They’d have to refuel in Manchester or Liverpool before crossing to Ireland, but they should arrive in just under four hours. Once they landed, Mercer wanted to hit the ground running. They had to find those weapons and stop the attack. It was possible Flynn had no immediate plans to strike, but given Shepherd’s rushed and upsetting final communication, Mercer decided it was best to err on the side of caution. They needed answers. Hundreds of lives depended on them. This was no longer about MI5’s deceit. This was about stopping a terrorist attack.
r />   Mercer closed his eyes. He had to rest now. It might be his last opportunity until the mission ended.

  Mercer emitted a strangled groan. He jerked awake, his breath coming in heaving gasps. Bastian grabbed his shoulders and pushed him back against the seat.

  “You’re okay,” Bastian said.

  Mercer blinked, swallowing and nodding. “Aye.” Bastian released him, and Julian blew out a slow breath. He peered out the window, seeing a few yellow lights in the distance, a stark contrast to the pitch black. “How much longer?”

  “Twenty minutes.”

  Mercer nodded, glancing to his left. Donovan remained completely motionless, his eyes closed. The sound cancelling earbuds and white noise giving him some much needed tranquility. Mercer wondered if the younger man was asleep or deep in meditation. It didn’t matter either way.

  “I didn’t realize you were still having the nightmares,” Bastian said, pulling a piece of licorice from his jacket pocket and chewing on the end.

  “I’m not.”

  Bastian gave him a skeptical look.

  Mercer shook his head. “They aren’t nightmares.”

  Bastian clapped him on the shoulder and leaned back in his seat. “Next time you see Michelle, tell her I miss her too.”

  Julian pressed his lips together, barely nodding. They were a sorry lot.

  * * *

  “Colin Flynn’s extremely careful.” Donovan picked through some discarded shipping containers. “Or paranoid.”

  “He came here for a reason.” Mercer watched the water lap against the dock.

  “I’d say he probably came here to arm himself.” Bastian filled a vial with some dirt samples. “We blew his SUV sky high. He and his men must have retreated to this location in the hopes of setting up an ambush.” Bastian surveyed the area. “But this isn’t the most secure location. I doubt Flynn used it to hold Shepherd. Although it is secluded enough for torture, and it would be a brilliant place to dispose of a body.”

  Mercer peered into the murky water. “We’ll keep it in mind.”

  Donovan pointed to the single entry point. “Strategically, it’s damn near perfect. Unless Flynn’s attackers were coming by water, there’s only one way in. It’s a chokepoint. He could pick off his enemies as they enter.”

  “And if he was overrun,” Mercer climbed into the small speedboat, “the getaway vehicle is waiting. He’d have the perfect escape plan.”

  “But the walls are flimsy. The wood’s ancient, practically rotted. A few sharpshooters with thermal goggles could pick him off from the outside.” Bastian brushed his gloves on his trousers and eyed the exposed ceiling beams.

  “Not everyone thinks like us,” Donovan said. He joined Mercer in the boat, and the two searched the storage areas. Aside from several guns and a few bricks of C4, they didn’t find any suspicious containers or items marked with a skull and crossbones.

  Giving up the search, Mercer stepped out of the vehicle. “Whatever was here is gone now. Flynn must have moved it. He might have come here to lure out his attacker, and when that didn’t happen, he probably feared the location was compromised or feared for his girlfriend’s safety.”

  “I’d wager this is where he receives his shipments,” Bastian said. “His supplier must know about this place and probably Flynn’s routine. Perhaps, Flynn filched on a payment. Our stunt outside the pub might result in a case of mistaken identities.”

  “Flynn’s a paranoid fucker,” Mercer said. “He doesn’t know who to trust.” He gave the boathouse a final once-over. “Let’s move out.”

  They followed the route Flynn had taken the previous night, arriving at the luxury apartment building. Security cameras covered the doors. The windows were barred. And there was a card scanner on the front door. The lobby had someone working the front desk, and surely, more cameras littered the interior.

  Mercer stayed out of sight. He couldn’t afford to be caught on any of the feeds. “Does Flynn own the building?”

  “No, but he owns one of the apartments. According to the rental agreement, the tenant is Alana Reilly. She’s his paramour,” Bastian said.

  “Was he shagging her while the missus was alive?” Donovan asked.

  Bastian shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s possible, but he didn’t buy the apartment until months later. I’m not saying Colin Flynn was ever a family man, but it is a possibility.”

  “I doubt he’s learned from his mistakes.” Mercer gave the secure building another look and returned to the car. “No amount of locks or security measures will keep her safe from the monster he is.”

  Bastian and Donovan exchanged a meaningful glance. “What do you want to do, commander? It’s too late to check the stationery store. I’ll have to access those records in the morning once they reboot the system.”

  “Let’s scout a few of the marked locations from Flynn’s map. They could be targeted sites or established safe houses. It’s possible he could have stashed Shepherd at one of those locations. Since MI5 is onto him, Flynn might keep Shepherd alive in case he needs him for something.”

  “Like access to a government building?” Bastian asked.

  “Perhaps.” Mercer sighed. “We should split up to cover more ground. Stay in radio contact. Should you encounter any resistance, notify us immediately. Let’s move out.”

  Donovan nodded and climbed behind the wheel of another car.

  Ever since the Good Friday Agreement, Belfast had become a relatively safe city with low crime rates and lots of tourism, but the RIRA and CIRA remained active in the region, and Flynn’s faction was no different. For the most part, their paramilitary activities had been contained or prevented by policing agencies, and Julian wasn’t about to let that change. Colin Flynn wanted to destroy everything, starting with Owen Shepherd.

  “We’re looking for a needle in a pile of needles.” Bas hunkered down and used the scope to scout one of the locations from the map. “This one doesn’t look any different from the last two.”

  “Donovan, anything?” Mercer asked.

  “I can’t tell, but I’m not seeing any guards.” Donovan squinted into the binoculars. “Wouldn’t Flynn have guards keeping Shepherd detained?”

  “Not necessarily,” Bas replied. “We don’t know the state of his hostage.”

  “Or Owen’s whereabouts or what’s going through Flynn’s mind.” Mercer glanced at the time. Flynn would be at the pub. It was the only place he routinely went. “Donovan, keep searching. Run through the rest of the locations. If you don’t find Shepherd, we’ll pass the locations on to MI5 anonymously, so the Security Service can monitor the area. We’re already spread too thin.”

  “Aye.” Donovan’s tone held the slightest question, but he wasn’t going to second guess Mercer in the field.

  However, Bastian didn’t have the same qualms. “I thought we didn’t trust them.”

  “We don’t, but I have a plan.” Mercer tucked the scope away and headed for the car. “Meet me outside the pub, Bas. I’ll need you set up in the parking garage across the way to watch my back.”

  Just as Mercer approached Flynn’s bar, the phone rang. He hit answer, knowing there was only one person who would be calling.

  “What do you have, Hans?”

  “Yancy called. The prints came back on that paper stock. Colin Flynn definitely touched it.”

  “No shit.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s the only identifiable print the coppers managed to pull.” Hans sounded just as frustrated as Julian felt. “And it gets worse from here.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Well, the tossers who fired on you and Donovan, they’ve gone to ground. The police are still processing the scene, but they have no leads.”

  “What about blood?”

  “They’re running it through the system, but it’ll be a few days.” Hans hesitated, and Mercer sensed there was more bad news. “The police released the vehicle. Someone with government credentials showed up and took possession.”

&n
bsp; “Bollocks.”

  “It wasn’t MI5.”

  Despite Hans’ insistence, Mercer couldn’t fathom any other possibilities. The men who shot at him, who were staking out Lara Shepherd’s apartment, had to know Owen and his assignment. Everything about this screamed conspiracy.

  “Who was it?” Mercer asked.

  “DCI Yancy is working on it.”

  “Tell him to work faster.” Mercer fought the urge to hang up, wanting to make sure Hans had finished relaying the updates.

  “I’ll keep you apprised.”

  “Brilliant.” Mercer tucked the phone away and slammed his palm against the steering wheel. “Balls.” He’d just have to take matters into his own hands.

  Mercer peered out the window, watching a few stragglers wander the streets. Drinking was a daily event, and it would be hours before the pubs emptied. However, Mercer didn’t feel like waiting. He just hoped the patrons at Flynn’s pub were mostly faction members, or things might get awkward and complicated.

  He left the rental car parked on the corner and walked around the neighborhood, assessing vantage points and possible terrorist strongholds, but it was just a small commercial street with a few rundown pubs and shops. The location was perfect to avoid attracting attention, and tonight, that would work in Julian’s favor. He circled a few more times and returned to his car.

  “Bas, where are you?”

  “Just pulling up.”

  “I’m going inside. Follow my cues. And let it play out.”

  “I don’t like the sound of that,” Bastian said, but he did as Mercer asked.

  Julian waited forty-five seconds, and then he entered the pub and looked around. It was fairly subdued. Quiet compared to the other neighborhood pubs.