by G. K. Parks
“What about the internal leak at Palace Barracks?” Mercer asked. “If Partridge is involved, he’ll tip Flynn. And we won’t have a chance of stopping this.”
“It’s a gamble, mate,” Donovan said. “It could go either way.”
“Fuck.” Bastian tapped the pen against the tabletop like he used to do with his cigarettes.
Mercer stared at him. “You’ve been on the inside. You know Partridge better than the rest of us, and you know the situation inside MI5. I’m leaving it up to you. You make the call.”
Bastian scrubbed a hand down his face, dropping the pen and removing the lighter from his pocket. He flicked the Zippo open and closed repeatedly as he worked through the various ramifications. “It’s not just the government officials. It’s their protection details. The place is going to be crawling with agents and police. Why didn’t MI5 inform us? They must be providing security, along with the local police force. It’ll be nearly impossible for Flynn to sneak the device inside.”
“Even though they asked for our help, they haven’t informed us of much of anything,” Mercer said.
“Regardless, an attack on the theater will take out half of Ireland’s governing body and the men responsible for raiding Flynn’s compound and killing his family. This is what he wants. This is his endgame,” Donovan said. “That has to be it.”
“No,” Mercer shook his head, “this is just the beginning. The first wave of his attack.”
Bastian squared his shoulders. “Killian’s going to talk. He doesn’t know what day or time it is. We’ll use that to our advantage.” He swallowed. “But to be clear, this is a gamble. We’re betting everything on the theater being Flynn’s target. If we’re wrong, Killian will realize it immediately and we’ll have no chance of gaining his cooperation.”
“Then we better be right.” Mercer settled in behind the computer. “Use Alana. Tell him whatever you have to. She’s the only leverage we have.”
“Aye.”
Hours later, Bastian emerged from the makeshift interrogation room. He glanced bleary-eyed out the window. The sun was starting to rise. Donovan and Mercer hadn’t looked up from their research, but despite their best efforts, they weren’t any closer to stopping the attack.
“After a shower, I’m heading to Palace Barracks. I’m going to tell them an attack is imminent and to have a rapid response team ready, but I’m not divulging any hard details. You’re right, Jules. We don’t know who we can trust. As soon as we have verification of Flynn’s target, you let me know, and I’ll have units move in. It’s the best we’re going to be able to do. We move too soon, and Flynn will change his play. But if we move too late.” Bastian turned his head to the side, seeing no reason to finish the statement.
Mercer nodded, watching his friend disappear down the hallway. He and Donovan exchanged sullen looks. They’d failed missions before, but those occasions were few and far between. And those were the ones from which the team never truly recovered.
Donovan pressed the radio. “Hans, anything to report?”
“Nothing. Flynn and his cronies are sloppy drunks. They managed to drag themselves home a few hours ago. There’s been no movement since.”
“Return to bravo site. We’re T minus twelve hours.”
“I’m on my way.”
“Twelve hours?” Mercer asked.
Donovan shrugged. “The show starts at six. Figured that would be the best time to do it. You should get some sleep, commander. You’re on point.”
“I’ll sleep when this is over. We don’t have the time to waste.” Mercer stretched and circled the room, stopping in front of the interrogation room door. “Are we sure he won’t talk to me?”
“At this point, you might as well give it a go. We’ve got nothing left to lose.”
Thirty-two
Killian wouldn’t break, even though Mercer would have broken half the bones in the man’s body had Donovan not dragged him out of the interrogation room. It didn’t matter what they did to Killian; he wouldn’t give up the terrorist’s plans. And they didn’t have the weeks or months it would take to convince him otherwise.
“I’ll do whatever it takes to convince Flynn to trust me. Once I know when and where he’s going to strike, I’ll radio. Bastian said MI5 will be prepped and ready. We’ll probably need to coordinate evacuations with the local police.” Mercer glanced into the closed bedroom. “We’ll need her connections.”
“I’ve contacted our friends back in London. They’re aware of the situation. Mobile medical teams are prepped and ready to move out,” Donovan said.
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”
Hans looked up from the maps. “I’ll continue to scout Flynn’s other known locations, and any place I find marked with his clover and spade insignia. I’ll radio in any suspicious movement.”
“Just be careful, Hans. Don’t let them see you.” Mercer palmed a set of keys. “Do the best you can. It’s been an honor, gentlemen.”
“Jules, don’t,” Donovan warned.
Mercer nodded tightly and left the flat. So much for a typical recovery. He considered everything he knew about Colin Flynn and the vast amount of progress he’d made infiltrating the faction in such a short amount of time, but it wasn’t enough. None of it would mean a damn if Flynn carried out the attack. Shepherd must have known what was coming. He must have had details, and those details led to his demise.
While Mercer showered and changed, preparing for the hell that was to come, one odd thought remained on his mind. What did Flynn do with Shepherd’s body? It hadn’t been discovered. Maybe the undercover MI5 agent was buried at sea or cremated. Hell, he could be buried somewhere on the grounds of Flynn’s estate for all Mercer knew, but obviously, Flynn had a way of disposing of bodies. And Mercer didn’t know what it was.
“What does it matter?” he mumbled to himself. He had to focus on the matter at hand.
When Mercer emerged from the bathroom, he found Flynn waiting. “Where have you been all night?” Flynn asked. He wore a dark suit and sunglasses, either to hide the tears or to deal with the hangover. Possibly both.
“I couldn’t sleep. I thought I’d try to track down that traitor, but I didn’t have any luck.”
“Don’t say his name. I can’t think about that right now.” Flynn took off his tie, rolled it up, and shoved it into his pocket. “No more misery. The rest of the day is a celebration, a tribute to the ones we’ve lost. We’re finally going to take action. We’re going to get justice.” He wrapped an arm around Mercer’s shoulders. “Car’s waiting. I hope you’re ready.”
“One minute.” Mercer slipped out of Flynn’s grip and holstered his Sig. He put an extra two clips in his pocket and grabbed his phone.
“Expecting trouble?”
Mercer shrugged. “It never hurts to be prepared.”
“Aye.”
Colin prattled on about the injustices in the world, the plights he had faced since boyhood, and the more recent tragedies he suffered. Mercer made the appropriate comments and offered sympathetic platitudes, but Flynn didn’t hear any of them. He was driven, caught up in his own world. Unfortunately, that didn’t include exposing his master plan.
“Where are we going?” Mercer read the unfamiliar street signs. “I thought we were going back to your house.”
“No reason. Alana’s there, and I don’t want to bring any of this near her.”
“How is she?”
Flynn’s right shoulder inched up several inches. “Upset. Her only remaining living relative abandoned her. He’s the reason we buried two friends, two of our brothers-in-arms. He lost his way, and he betrayed us. She may never forgive him or forgive herself for not seeing it.” Flynn shook his head. “We’re not talking about this.”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to bring it up.”
Flynn turned, offering a smile. “It’s okay. Right now, we’re preparing to ride into battle. I hope you’re ready, Julian.”
“What’s the plan?
Who’s the target? Are we striking against Mathias Murphy?”
“No, mate. We’re aiming much higher. We’re hitting the aristocracy and the pricks they hire to keep us in line. The bastards who force us to comply with their orders and their will. The ones who took away our liberties, killed our families, our friends, destroyed everything we held dear.”
Mercer was familiar with the rhetoric, but grandiose speeches and flowery words didn’t answer the question. “And the target’s location?”
“We’re going to spit right in their fucking eye.” Flynn stopped the car outside a condemned machine shop. “Now we collect our tools.”
Mercer followed behind, keeping an eye out. Several of Flynn’s lieutenants were already waiting inside, and his personal guards were watching the door. Each of the men was armed to the teeth. It’d take an army to break in here.
“Bloody hell,” Mercer said, sounding impressed. “This is incredible.” He watched what looked like an assembly line build the pressure cooker bombs, but these weren’t chemical weapons. These were basic incendiaries, filled with metal fragments and rat poison. They’d inflict plenty of damage but nothing compared to what a nerve agent could do.
“That’s part two.” Flynn patted Aaron on the back. “Make sure you create two concentric circles. They’ll clear the area. So a hundred meters around. That’ll take out the perimeter. The remaining five will wipe out those who make it to the hospitals. No one’s getting lucky today. Make sure the timers are synced. We’ve estimated the response times. A half hour after the initial blast, and two hours afterward. They shouldn’t be expecting that.”
“Yes, sir,” Aaron replied.
Mercer rubbed his ear, surreptitiously activating his radio. “So you’re planning to take out the first responders and the survivors at the perimeter? And whoever makes it past will meet their fate at the hospitals? That’s brilliant.”
Flynn smiled, enjoying the adulation. “You haven’t seen the best part.” He led the way past the two dozen terrorists and up a back staircase. Mercer eyed the rusty metal chains and the heavy equipment. “You and I are going to set all of that in motion.”
They continued along the metal walkway, turning and moving along the upper level to an office with a rusted door. The first thing Julian noticed was the stench, a combination of human waste, sweat, and fear with overtones of fetid meat and copper. He breathed through his mouth, hoping not to gag.
Colin opened the rusted door with an ear-piercing squeal. An aluminum box sat on the worktable. The reinforced interior housed the VX canister and the delivery system. “This is what’s going to make everyone come running.”
“Chemical warfare? Are you sure about this?” Mercer asked. “VX permeates. It lingers. This is your home. You want to destroy it? Destroy your people? Make everything unlivable?”
“I’m not talking about nuking the place,” Flynn retorted. “They’ll get it cleaned up eventually. But they’ll never forget. This is how I choose to make my stand.” His eyes narrowed. “Are you with me?”
“I’m here, aren’t I?”
Flynn didn’t seem particularly pleased with that comment, but he nodded. “Very well. I’ll give you the rest of the details on the way. Right now, I need to get this armed. I hired an expert. He should be here any minute.” Flynn picked up the case and gestured at the door.
Mercer stepped out of the office, the stench increasing exponentially. One of the chains hanging from the ceiling shuddered, and Mercer watched it curiously. He went around the side of the office, shocked to find the chain wrapped around a man’s stomach.
Mercer moved toward the body, and it moved. “Shit.” He jumped back, surprised. The man was filthy, covered in sweat, grime, blood, and his own filth. He was barely recognizable, but Mercer would know him anywhere. Owen Shepherd. “Who is he?” Julian took a step forward to feel the man’s racing pulse.
“He’s a dead man.” Flynn eyed the disconnected IV needle and the nearly empty bag of sugar water hanging from the side of the office. “Don’t concern yourself.”
Mercer squinted. “I recognize him. He’s an MI5 agent. How did you capture him?”
“I didn’t. He came to me.” Flynn placed the case gently on the floor and reached for his gun. “I kept him alive for answers, but I don’t need him anymore. I should shoot him.”
“No. Let me interrogate him. I told you what became of my wife. How these pricks let that psycho bastard kill her. I want to know who’s responsible. I bet he can give me a name.”
Flynn rubbed his forehead with the side of his gun. “You have until the device is ready. Then you put two in his head. Is that understood?”
“Thank you, sir.” Mercer pulled a knife from his pocket. “Let’s not waste time.” He sliced a shallow cut into Shepherd’s cheek, and the man, who’d already been through far worse than anything Julian could imagine, screamed through the duct tape covering his mouth.
Flynn chuckled, hefted the case, and made his way down the steps. Mercer glanced around, but the office and the slatted metal walkway blocked the view from downstairs. Julian pressed his radio.
“I’ve located Shepherd. Do you copy?” he whispered.
He waited, but he didn’t hear a response.
“This is team leader. Is anyone reading this?” he asked.
He examined the restraints. Shepherd’s wrists were bound together with a cable tie, as were his feet. The chain was looped and hooked around his waist, holding him up. His feet dragged on the floor, but the man was too weak to stand.
“Owen,” Mercer whispered, “I’m a friend. MI5 sent me. I’m here to help.”
Shepherd blinked a few times, his eyes wild and fearful, like a wounded animal. He’d been beaten nearly to death and starved, left to soil himself and rot in his own filth. Mercer moved closer with the knife, and Shepherd cringed, letting out frantic, pathetic mewls.
“Shh. I won’t hurt you.”
Shepherd shook, struggling to find his footing and stand rather than remain slumped forward with the chain supporting his weight. He didn’t believe a word Mercer said.
“Your sister, Lara, she came to find you. We’re working together. We captured Killian. She’s interrogating him now.”
At the mention of his sister’s name, Shepherd stopped struggling. His previously unfocused eyes found Mercer’s.
“That’s better. Listen, I’m going to get you out of here.” Mercer hit his radio again, but it wasn’t working. As gently as possible, he tugged on the tape. “This will hurt, mate. I’m sorry about that.”
Shepherd squeezed his eyes shut, tears dripping down his cheek. He could barely speak. His mouth and throat too dry. His skin bled from the tape. “Grace?”
“Your wife and son are safe. They were moved into protective custody as soon as they lost contact with you.”
Shepherd nodded.
“I’ll get you back to them. I promise.” Mercer tapped his radio again. “Bloody thing won’t work.”
“It’s the metal. Interferes with the signal.”
Mercer cut the bindings from Shepherd’s hands.
“Leave me,” Shepherd managed, nearly choking on his own tongue. “Flynn, the VX, you have to stop him.”
“I will.”
“If I get away, he’ll know it was you. I have to stay here. You have to kill me.”
“No one’s dying today, except Flynn and his faction members.” Mercer shoved the folded knife into Shepherd’s hand, along with his cell phone. It had a weak signal, but it was still a signal. “Palace Barracks is compromised. Do you know the source of the leak?”
“A janitor.”
“Are you sure?”
“That’s what Flynn said. I actually saw him right before Flynn put two in his head.”
Mercer thought. Maybe it was true. Maybe it wasn’t.
Shepherd made a feeble attempt to grab Mercer’s hand. “Flynn has a van. Costume design. It’s on the list at the theater. He has an ID. No one will stop him. He’s
going to get inside. He intends to release the VX behind the stage. It’ll wipe out the actors and front rows. When the ones near the back run out and call for help, he’s going to blow up the first responders. Then the hospitals.”
Mercer nodded. Even now, barely coherent, Owen Shepherd was still a man on a mission. And Julian wouldn’t let this be his last. “As soon as we clear out, call for help. Tell them what you told me. Can you do that?”
“Yes, sir.”
Mercer looked up at the chain and the frail, starving man. “Cover your ears, and remain completely still until we’re gone. All our lives depend on it.” Mercer pulled his gun and fired twice. The bullets tore through the rusted metal wall of the office. Without missing a beat, Mercer turned on his heel and went down the steps.
“Filthy wanker,” Mercer spat. “Didn’t even remember his own bloody name.”
Flynn smiled. “I’ll have someone clean up the mess tomorrow.” He waited for a man to finish securing the wires around the canister. He handed the bomb technician a stack of cash, exchanged a few words in Serbian, and locked the case.
Mercer looked around the room. Most of the faction had already left, probably to move into place and plant their own devices. Flynn barked a few more orders to the stragglers about where to rendezvous after the deed was done.
“Come on. We have to switch vehicles.”
Flynn led the way back to the car and secured the chemical weapon in the boot. Mercer caught a glimpse of the countdown timer. It’d be a miracle if the device didn’t detonate prematurely on the way to the theater.
Thirty-three
Flynn drove the van to the loading dock and smiled at the man at the guard station. He held out the fake ID. “Busy night?”
“You caught the last minute rush. Show’s about to start. You’re cutting it close.” The guard handed back the ID and pushed a button. “Go straight. Security’s tight tonight. They need to sweep the van.”