by G. K. Parks
“Time,” Julian said. “I have to go. Flynn might wonder what’s taking so long.”
“Give me a sec.” Bastian went out the door with Hans and Julian on his heels. He made quick work of the SUV’s GPS tracker, shorting it out by overloading the secondary electrical system. “Flynn will assume it was damaged in the blast.” Bastian glanced around. “I’ll wipe nearby camera feeds. No one will know we were here.”
“What about the gas leak?” Mercer asked, eyeing Hans.
“Work orders have been issued. Paperwork is backdated and timestamped an hour ago. Flynn won’t be the wiser.” Hans rotated his shoulder, probably sore from carrying the heavy blocks, and raised an eyebrow at Mercer’s bleeding side. “And you were worried I wasn’t field ready. It looks like you ripped a stitch.”
“Staple,” Julian corrected. “It’s easy to do when you can’t exactly fight back.” Julian climbed into the car. “Stay out of sight.” He tapped his ear. “I’ll keep the line open so you’ll get immediate updates. Let’s put this to bed.” He glanced back at the pub. “Thirty seconds, gentlemen. Get clear.”
Putting the car into drive, Mercer headed down the street. He was a block away when he heard the boom. He didn’t stop, but he scanned the damage in the rearview mirror.
The entire front of the building had blown outward. The windows shattered, raining shards of glass into the street. The front door had blown clear off, smacking into a parked car and triggering the noisy alarm. Mercer could only imagine what the interior must look like. There probably wasn’t much left of the bar, nor the refrigerator door. Hopefully, it was no longer recognizable, but Mercer couldn’t worry about it now. The explosion would be enough to appease Flynn, even though the lack of casualties would be very disappointing.
A crowd gathered around the scene; cell phone cameras aimed at the destruction. With any luck, no one had noticed his teammates or the cinderblocks. Mercer didn’t care if they spotted the SUV or even noted the plate. In fact, he’d prefer if someone stopped Flynn before it was too late, but deep down, Mercer knew that wasn’t possible. If it had been, he and his team wouldn’t be here now. And after what just happened, Flynn would rapidly escalate. Mercer would have to force Flynn to divulge the details of the attack. Only Mercer and his team could stop Flynn now.
Thirty
Mercer paced the main level of Flynn’s compound. The bombing had left him antsy and frustrated. He tried to block out the jitters and focus on the voices coming from the floor above. Flynn was making preparations for Kevin Aglin’s and Duffy O’Brien’s funerals. And from the sounds of it, Flynn had completely forgiven Alana. Maybe bombing Murphy’s pub had put Colin Flynn in a good mood.
“Julian,” Flynn said as he made his way down the steps, “I didn’t realize you were back.” He glanced around, but the usual bodyguards weren’t around. “How did it go?”
Mercer bit back his disdain. “Fine, I suppose.” He waited a beat, as if reconsidering his words. Would it be better to tell Flynn up front that the bar was empty, or should he wait for Flynn to find out on his own?
“No trouble, then?”
“None. The place was practically a ghost town. I suppose now it’s a morgue.”
Flynn cracked a smile. “I’ll remember this.” He clapped Mercer on the shoulder, eyeing the wet stain on his shirt. “It looks like you have little hope of properly healing.”
Mercer glanced down. His mind was so focused on the mission he didn’t notice the sting. “Must have happened lifting the box.”
“Get that taken care of and get some rest. You’ve earned it.” Flynn reached for a set of car keys. “I’ll pick you up later tonight, after I pay my respects.” Flynn called up the steps for Alana to hurry, but Mercer grabbed his shoulder before the terrorist could walk away.
“If there are other targets you want to hit, I can scout ahead. Make sure we’re in the clear.”
Flynn’s gaze rested on Mercer’s hand. For a moment, Julian wondered if he overstepped and Flynn would lash out, but instead, Colin smiled. “No worries. It’s been taken care of. Everything is set.”
Mercer forced his face to remain neutral, but the muscles in his back tightened. “You mean the first wave is ready? The bombs are in place?”
Flynn smiled. “Glad to see you were paying attention. Why? Did you want to deliver the bombs yourself? I thought you didn’t want to get your hands dirty.”
“I’m just offering to help. You paid for my service.”
“I see. That’s why you’re loyal? Because of the money? I thought you were coming around to the cause.”
“I might be.”
Flynn clapped him on the shoulder. “Excellent. You’ll have time to prove yourself. The first wave won’t begin until after I lay my brothers to rest. There will be plenty of work for you to do after that.”
As had become the norm, Mercer wondered if all of this couldn’t come to an end with a single bullet. He could do it. Right now, he could do it and probably escape before anyone realized what happened. But the faction would continue to exist even without Flynn. It might even last long enough to carry out Flynn’s masterplan before eventually devolving into chaos, when the members turned on one another or were captured by the authorities. Maybe that was a risk worth taking, but Mercer shook the thought aside. There were too many unknowns, and he made a promise to find out what happened to Owen Shepherd. He would keep his word.
“We’ll discuss the details later.” Flynn offered his hand to Alana, who had just come down the steps. “I’ll give you a ride back to the inn, Julian.”
Mercer nodded and followed them out of the house. Flynn dropped Julian off, and Mercer returned to his room, put a few new stitches in his side, and waited another twenty minutes before leaving. He radioed his team, informing them of his impending arrival, and headed for the safe house.
* * *
“MI5 and Interpol are all over the bombing,” Bastian said. “They know Flynn’s behind it, but they have no proof.”
“Did you inform them of our involvement?” Mercer asked.
“Not yet. Partridge is suspicious. I’ve been ducking his calls.” As if on cue, the phone rang again. “That’s the tenth time in the last two hours. I’ll have to speak to him soon.”
“We’re going to need all the help we can get. Flynn is planning three waves.” Mercer pointed to the map. “I don’t know the order of his strikes, but they will be coordinated. He might have already delivered the devices. He wouldn’t give me a straight answer. All I know is he said he wanted to wait until after he buries his mates.”
“The funerals are tomorrow morning. That doesn’t give us much time,” Bastian said.
“Have you gotten anything out of Killian?” Mercer jerked his chin toward the feed. “Has she tried waterboarding or electrocution?”
“Not yet. Please, don’t give her any ideas.” Bastian reached into a bag and pulled out a handful of crisps. He popped one into his mouth and chewed. “We need to come clean about our involvement. If the authorities find out we planted the bomb before we tell them, it’s going to look like we switched sides. And we know MI5 already has their hearts set on identifying a traitor.”
“It’s catching,” Mercer remarked. “Fine. As soon as she steps away, we’ll brief her, and let her call it in.” Mercer watched the woman work. Despite the concussion, she remained focused and unyielding. “I’m having trouble believing she’s retired.”
“So am I.”
A few minutes later, Donovan opened the door, and he and Lara stepped out. Once the lock was secured in place, Mercer told them what happened, concluding with, “Which is why we blew up Murphy’s pub earlier today.”
“Bloody hell.” Lara studied each of the men in turn. “Who are you people?”
“Security specialists with an emphasis on K&R and asset retrieval,” Bastian quipped. “But as you can see, we’re now deep in uncharted waters.”
“Jules,” Donovan said, “you realize you might have just sta
rted a war.”
“It started the moment I shot Aglin and O’Brien.”
“Are you sure Flynn doesn’t know you evacuated the area first?” Lara asked, adding, “Are you sure you got everyone clear and there were no casualties?”
“None reported,” Bastian said. “And no one knows we were there. MI5 will be vigilant. I imagine they might discover trace evidence. We need to get ahead of this. We were hoping you might do us a favor.”
She thought for a moment. “I suppose.”
Mercer handed her a satellite phone. “Go ahead and call it in.”
While she spoke on the phone, Bastian read his text messages and played the voicemails from Partridge. “I left an anonymous tip that a turf war was brewing from one of our unregistered burners. Partridge wants us on top of this. He wants to know what kind of progress we’re making and where you’ve been for the last few days.”
“Tell him I’ve been ill. He might believe it,” Mercer said. “You need to go back. Tomorrow, all hell will break loose. We’ll need the support. We need MI5 and every other agency on alert.”
Lara concluded her call. “But they’re in Colin’s pocket. We can’t trust anyone.”
“Not all of them. Maybe a few. At least one. We need Killian to answer our questions. He can tell us what Flynn has planned and what’s become of Owen.”
Hans dragged a folding table and a large bucket into the room. Over his shoulder was a towel. “Kidnapping has become our specialty as of late. Though, this one isn’t paying off. Where do you want this, darling?”
Lara took the towel from his shoulder. “Leave it by the door. The threat is more effective than the actual torture. Men will say anything to get the pain to stop, but getting Killian to admit to lies won’t answer our questions.” She spotted a sealed syringe in Hans’ shirt pocket and pulled it out. “This ought to help sell it.”
Bastian watched her disappear inside. A moment later, she appeared on the screen and injected the saline into Killian’s neck. Then she began to set up the tools of her trade. “Does anyone else think she’s enjoying this a bit too much?”
“Leave her be.” Mercer understood the need for answers and the desire for vengeance. A new thought entered his mind.
Seeing the disconcerting look on Mercer’s face, Bastian frowned. “What now?”
“I think I have an idea.”
“Balls,” Bastian muttered.
Mercer knocked on the door and waited for Lara to step out of the room. “What?” she hissed, annoyed by the interruption.
“Tell him about the bomb. Tell him Colin’s already enacted the first wave. It’ll come in three waves. I don’t know what they are or what it means, but it’s something.”
She nodded. “He’ll take joy in that. I’ll use that as the basis for the torture. He might just let something slip because he’ll think it’s already done. Brilliant.” She ducked back into the room and closed the door. First, she’d convince Killian the drugs would make him unable to resist her questioning. The mental manipulation would start to wear on him, and then she’d tell him Colin’s plan was already underway and a success. It’d explain her rage and anger. And combined with the torture she planned to implement, he might just speak, believing it to be an act of defiance rather than succumbing to her will. And then they’d have him.
Thirty-one
Killian didn’t crack. Lara went at him for hours, until she was sick and dizzy, but he remained strong and stoic. Donovan brought in high-powered flood lamps and blasted German death metal through the speakers, hoping sleep deprivation and sensory overload would loosen Killian’s tongue.
“At least it’s soundproofed,” Hans mused, watching Killian cringe. “I’m all for rocking out at the clubs, but I’m not in the mood to party.”
“You better get going,” Donovan said, and Mercer nodded.
“I’ll keep in radio contact. Let me know if anything develops on your end with Killian or the blokes in military intelligence.” Mercer tucked the radio into his ear, performed a soundcheck, and went out the door.
He arrived at the inn thirty minutes before Colin Flynn. Mercer cut it close, but he wanted to stay at the safe house as long as possible in the hopes Killian would shed some light on the matter. Since he didn’t, Mercer would just have to get the intel directly from the source.
Flynn wasn’t pleased. He stalked the small room, blowing out a frustrated breath. Mercer poured a drink and pushed it across the table. Wordlessly, Flynn picked it up and swallowed.
“Mathias Murphy is still alive,” Flynn finally said. “He’s one lucky bastard.”
“What are you talking about?”
Flynn let out another huff. “There was a gas leak inside his pub, so he wasn’t there.”
Mercer considered the information. “No wonder there was such a huge explosion.”
A small smile crept onto Flynn’s face. “He won’t be opening shop anytime soon, but he should be dead. That bastard’s luck is going to run out.”
“Is he the target of the first wave?” Mercer asked.
“No, I have a much more valuable goal in mind.”
“What is it?”
Flynn poured another drink and assessed Mercer. “You’ll know in due time.” After finishing the whiskey, he put the empty glass on the table. “It’s been a knackering day. Tomorrow morning won’t be much better, but I won’t let Kevin and Duffy’s deaths be in vain. By this time tomorrow night, everyone will know who controls Northern Ireland.”
Mercer tried to delay Flynn’s retreat with questions and sympathies, but the faction leader turned a deaf ear to Julian. The voices in his head were louder than any in the real world. Mercer followed him out of the inn and back to the car.
“Where are you going, Mr. Flynn?” Mercer asked.
Coming out of his daze, Flynn eyed Mercer over the roof of the car. “Back to the pub. My mates are waiting. Stay here. It’s not your place to join us tonight. But you will tomorrow.”
Mercer watched the car’s taillights disappear. Hans would keep an eye on Flynn tonight. Hopefully, the terrorist would keep his word. That gave them less than twenty-four hours to stop the massacre.
Mercer needed to be with his team. They had to figure this out. They had to do something to stop it. Where was Colin Flynn keeping the VX and the rest of the bomb materials? They weren’t in Colin’s basement, unless they were moved there after Colin dropped Mercer off this afternoon, but Julian doubted it. Flynn already dealt with one tragedy by keeping explosives on his property; he wouldn’t be stupid enough to do it a second time, especially with a lethal nerve agent.
“Is he talking?” Mercer asked the moment he stepped into the flat.
Donovan looked up from the reports and shook his head.
“Where’s Lara?” Mercer didn’t see her in the main room. “Is she in there with him?”
“No, Bastian is.”
Mercer turned the volume up on the monitor. Bastian pulled off a convincing Irish brogue, probably on account of his family’s lineage. If anyone could appeal to Killian’s humanity, it’d be Bastian. Mercer watched the exchange for several minutes.
“We don’t know enough. How are we going to stop this?” Mercer asked.
Donovan put the report on the table. “I don’t know.” He dissected Flynn’s dossier. “We should assume it’s a soft target. He’s not the type to run straightaway at the government with a bomb strapped to his chest.”
“He wouldn’t make it very far.”
“Precisely, so he’d do it in a roundabout fashion.” Donovan laid out surveillance photos from the six locations. “Bas compiled a list of events, ceremonies, speeches, anything that will garner a government or police presence. Those would be the best targets.”
Mercer read through the list, but they all fell flat. “Are they near any of the target sites?”
“No, but there must be at least six more strike zones, right? He has twelve bombs.”
“Eleven. We used one today.”
“Right. Eleven.”
“He could be using multiple devices at any one location to expand the blast radius. He might not have eleven targets.” Mercer sifted through the photographs. There had to be a clue somewhere in this mess.
A few minutes later, Bastian stepped out of the room. “He’s pigheaded. Despite everything, Killian still believes in Colin and the mission.”
“Flynn was going to kill him. We saved his bloody life. Doesn’t he see that?” Mercer asked.
Bastian shook his head. “He blames you for that, not Flynn.”
“Flynn trusted Killian with everything, and in turn, Killian trusted Flynn with his sister’s happiness and well-being.” Mercer looked at Bas. “Do you think you can use that?”
Bastian took a sip of water. “Yeah, I’ll see what I can do. In the meantime, focus on everything Flynn had Killian do. As Flynn’s right-hand man, he would have been given the most important assignments.”
“The theater. That has to be the primary target.” Clicking the mouse, Mercer found the schedule for the next day. “Fuck.”
Donovan leaned over Mercer’s shoulder. “That has to be the target. It’s a sold-out show. And given the actors and the performance, I’d say the crowd will be full of men and women Colin Flynn would consider HVTs.”
“Let me see that.” Bastian pushed his way to the computer and clicked a few keys. “Dammit, Partridge. You bleeding moron.”
“What?” Dread gripped Mercer’s innards as he read the internal memo. “That piece of shit. He’ll do anything to keep us in the dark. Doesn’t he realize this is connected?”
Bastian reached for the phone. “I’ll tell him there’s a threat. They need to cancel.”
“No,” Mercer said. “You can’t.”
Bastian’s eyes went wide. “What do you mean I can’t? This has to be Flynn’s target. If he releases VX in the theater, we’re talking a thousand casualties, and that’s just the people inside. Depending on the disbursal method and placement, we could be looking at a few hundred more deaths. We have to shut this down.”