Chameleon - A City of London Thriller

by J Jackson Bentley

  “No,” Dee protested. “Christine and Tom can stay. They can hear whatever it is. They’re family as far as we’re concerned.” Dee smiled at Christine, whom she had only known for a few hours but who had done so much since the shooting.

  The doctor was hesitant.

  “OK, whatever you say. I have to tell you that another reason you will want to rest up is that you’re pregnant.”

  Josh went white and Dee’s eyes opened wide in astonishment.

  “Yes. I wondered if you knew. I guess I have my answer now,” the doctor blushed.

  ***

  The pretty dark haired nurse pushed her stainless steel trolley past the trooper on guard outside Barry Mitchinson’s room. The trooper was deep into an old Reader’s Digest.

  “Would you like me to bring you a drink when I finish my rounds, honey?” The deep languorous southern drawl was as sexy as it was out of place.

  “Yes please, ma’am,” the trooper answered, remembering his manners.

  “Sure thing, hon. Give me five minutes.” The nurse pushed her trolley into Mitchinson’s room.

  “Mr Mitchinson, you seem to have slipped right down the bed. Let me sit you up and plump those pillows.” The casual banter was loud enough to carry to the trooper, as it was meant to do.

  The nurse sat Barry up and plumped his pillows as she said she would. Then, quite unexpectedly, she withdrew what looked like a perfume atomiser and squirted it liberally in his face. He was paralysed. When the nurse looked right into his frozen features, he knew he was about to die.

  “You are going straight to hell, Guv,” Gillian Davis whispered, still smiling like the southern belle she was playing.

  Gillian’s paralysing spray did its work, but this time the mix was a little stronger than usual. Barry tried to move. He couldn’t. He tried to breathe. He couldn’t. He tried to panic. He could do that. It took an agonising three minutes for him to black out, and five minutes for his heart to stop. By the time the monitor alarm sounded and the crash team arrived, it was too late. Barry was dead, his face frozen. His eyes, dead as they were, still expressed terror.

  The Chameleon was back in her street clothes by the time the trooper suspected foul play. Her dark wig had been discarded, and her soft brown eyes were back to their usual blue. In minutes she was walking back towards her car, parked a block away.

  “They can never see past the uniform,” she chuckled to herself.

  As Gillian had predicted, when Steve Post interviewed the trooper later, all he could extract from him, by way of description, was she was a tall dark haired nurse with soft brown eyes. ‘She looked like half the nurses in the hospital,’ he said apologetically. Despite his best efforts, the hospital could not confirm for Steve that Barry Mitchinson’s death was anything but the result of his injuries and a failing heart.

  ***

  Perhaps it was the pressurisation or the poor administration of drugs during the transfer, but in the sleek Lear Jet, thirty thousand feet above the Atlantic, Rob Donkin woke up. His eyes flew open, but the attending male nurse had dozed off in the comfortable leather seat next to the white leather covered bed.

  The lighting was subdued. Rob had no idea what was going on. He couldn’t remember anything. Where was he? Who was he? His heart began to race as he realised that he could not move. He could not feel his limbs at all. He knew that he was not breathing, but somehow he didn’t need to. It was as if his lungs were filling automatically. He could see and hear engine noise, but there was something in his mouth that would have prevented him from speaking. In fact, he could feel it in his throat. He tried to gag but his gag reflect didn’t work. Later he would hear that his voice box no longer worked anyway. He lay unblinking for minutes. He was scared. No, he was terrified. He was confused. He tried to close his eyes. He couldn’t.

  The travelling nurse woke up with a start as his chin hit his chest. He blinked himself awake and looked down at his charge. Donkin’s eyes were open. The nurse dropped in a few tiny droplets of liquid and closed the paralysed man’s eyes. Then, looking more closely, he could see that the man seemed to be crying. It wasn’t possible, he thought; comatose patients don’t cry. He persuaded himself that he had overdone the eye drops.

  Rob Donkin could feel the tears on his face but nothing else. The strain of trying to remember something, anything, drained him. His mind closed down. It could take no more; he would try to make sense of what was happening later, maybe.

  Chapter 75

  Vastrick Security Offices, Nr 1 Poultry. London, England.

  3 months later.

  Josh Hammond laughed at his own joke as Dee frowned. She was beginning to show now, and she had that glow of health that men often overlook in their pregnant women.

  “I’m just your comedy sidekick,” she scowled as she took another bite of her sandwich.

  They were lunching in the conference room at Vastrick’s London HQ; Tom Vastrick had joined them for this new daily routine.

  “There’s no need to come for lunch every day, Josh,” Tom said. “We have her tied to a desk for the foreseeable future. We won’t let her out of our sight. I promise.” The two men smiled, and Dee frowned. She felt pretty good for a woman with several healed bullet holes and a missing rib, and couldn’t understand why she needed coddling.

  Tom left the room.

  Josh leaned over and kissed his wife tenderly. She kissed him back, and for a moment it all got heated and passionate.

  “Sex in the overnight cot?” he suggested playfully. “After all, you’re already pregnant.”

  “Too busy, Josh. I need to finish early tonight. We have seats for the match.”

  Josh groaned. It looked to him as if the Hammers, his beloved West Ham United, were destined to be relegated to a lower division, and he had a season ticket so he could witness the final death throe. Dee saw the despair in his face and tried to take his mind off the subject.

  “The Posts emailed this morning. They’re coming over to London in the summer to visit.” She looked out of the window at the torrential rain and hoped that the weather would behave itself for their visit.

  Josh left. There was still concern in his eyes, although he had trained himself not to show it. He had work to do at his own office less than half a mile away. In this weather he would be soaked covering half that distance. Nonetheless, he shrugged as he stepped out onto Queen Victoria Street, and quickened his pace.

  ***

  Dee returned to her office and tenderly touched the photograph of her husband. Despite the fact that she loved her career, she loved her husband more. Sometime soon she would leave all of this behind and find some other career, preferably one which didn’t involve being shot regularly.

  As she spun her chair around to look out of the window, her eyes caught sight of the beautiful leather bound set of books on her shelf. She lifted the first in the series and opened it. On the title page of Clara Campbell and the Spectral Schoolboy she read the dedication;

  “To Dee Hammond, with all of my affection, and thanks, for keeping Katie safe. J Jackson Bentley.”

  For a few moments she was lost in thoughts and immersed in memories. She was oblivious to her surroundings when she heard a familiar voice behind her.

  “The book is OK, but that girl who plays her in the films is brilliant.”

  Dee spun around, then leapt from her chair as Katie Norman ran to her and hugged her wildly. Katie stepped back and rested her hand on Dee’s stomach.

  “If I’m not the godmother I’ll want a damn good reason why not.”

  They both laughed and hugged again.

  Epilogue:

  Presidential Rally, Capital Square, Richmond, Virginia. USA.

  One year later.

  The first black President of the USA was in Democrat territory. Despite the Democrats having lost one of its key Senator positions to the Republicans, in the form of Senator Denton Miles III, the President was convinced that the state would be his, come the election. Nevertheless
, he felt that there could be no harm in telling the folks that he appreciated their support, and so he was due to appear on the podium in Capital Square in less than an hour.

  Harvey Quince addressed his armour clad Special Agents in the foyer of an office block overlooking the square. Quince had taken over as SAIC, special agent in charge of the field office, after Steve Post had transferred to Florida to become SAIC in Tampa.

  “OK people. We know what we have to do. The Secret Service is in charge, and we’re here to do their bidding.”

  “Yeah, right!” one anonymous agent called out, to laughter from the rest. Quince ignored the heckling and continued.

  “The ground level team will be carrying automatic weapons and will be on voice activated communications on channel 1, that is a multi service channel so no comments about our colleagues in the CIA, Secret Service or Homeland Security.” There were murmurs as the ground team dispersed. The SAIC was now addressing just four people holding sniper rifles. All were armoured and helmeted. They each wore green and grey camouflage paint to dull the sheen from their cheeks and noses. All four were expert marksmen. Only one was a woman; Special Agent Gillian Miles.

  ***

  It had been a hard year for Gillian. Despite being the daughter of a future Presidential candidate, she had endured hours of grilling over what Fox News had called ‘The Junk Yard Shoot Out’ and the unexpected demise of Barry Mitchinson. Nonetheless, she had been cleared for work on a consultancy basis for those Law Enforcement Agencies who needed a sniper. After rigorous training with the FBI at Quantico, and much to the distress of Steve Post, pressure from the DoJ, Department of Justice, gave Gil Miles a shot at an agency probation. The probation period ended with top marks and glowing recommendations from everyone who thought Denton Miles III might be the next President of the United States.

  So it was that six months earlier, Gillian Miles stood proudly to attention as the Director of the FBI pinned her badge on her lapel in the presence of her proud father and Elizabeth Chase Miles. The passing out parade gave way to a boozy celebration, and Special Agent Gillian Miles had a photograph taken holding her personalised and embossed leather wallet, which when opened showed her shiny new badge below her commission.

  ***

  There were only three high buildings with a true line of sight to the podium, and Gillian was stationed on the highest. In the week before the address was to be given, an anonymous email had been received by the Secret Service saying that Omar Al Madawi, a Syrian sniper loyal to President Assad, had sneaked into the USA by ship. It was immediately dismissed by the CIA, who claimed to know where he was, but despite their claims the tall buildings were emptied and FBI snipers occupied their rooftops.

  “Rules of engagement are as follows,” a senior secret service agent read out to the snipers.

  “Unless the life of the President is in clear and imminent danger, you must first seek voiced authority to fire. Acknowledge.”

  “Yes, sir!” the agents barked in unison.

  “Take your positions and radio in.”

  ***

  Gillian’s perch was ideal. She could cover the roofs of the other two buildings, and she could see all windows facing the podium except the ones in her own building, which were covered by others.

  “Skybird in position,” Gil said into the throat radio as she held it to the surface of her skin.

  “Roger that, and position secured, radio silence in five minutes. Switch to emergency channel if necessary,” a distant voice responded.

  Gillian had been delighted when she discovered that her favoured M107 Snipers Rifle was also the preferred tool of the Richmond Field Office. She secured the bipod and traversed the square, looking the whole time through her sights. The cross hairs on this model were different from her own scope; hers had a simple cross with a small circle in the centre. These cross hairs had one vertical line bisecting two horizontal lines. The target was to be placed on the central vertical cross hair between the two horizontal lines.

  “We are live.” An anonymous voice chirped through the radio static as Hail to the Chief rang out from below; it was played well by the National Guard Band, as far as Gil could tell from this distance.

  The President took the podium and was raising and lowering his hands, palms down, in an attempt to quieten the applause. Eventually the noise died down and the President began to speak, praising the good people of Virginia, telling them how they had helped bring America out of recession.

  There was no apparent threat from the lower buildings, and so Gillian Miles sighted on the President. She turned a thumbscrew ever so slightly to adjust focus, and the President came into focus. Even from this distance, Gil could sight the cross hairs over her President’s throat. Securing the rifle in position, she tore off her microphone and threw it across the roof.

  Gillian Miles smiled as her finger traced the hair trigger, the cross hairs still set on the President’s Adam’s apple.

  “The Chameleon is back in business!” she said out loud, just before a loud retort echoed around the square.

  THE END

  J Jackson Bentley writes both fiction and non-fiction books and has been a published author for over sixteen years. He now works as a Legal Consultant in the UK, the USA, the Middle East and the Far East. His spare time is spent writing at home in the UK and in Florida. Married with four grown children he is currently writing a new thriller set in Dubai and he is compiling a book of short stories.

  Find out more, or, follow J Jackson Bentley at:

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  You can also contact the author by email at:

  jjacksonbentley@london.com

  Excerpt from:

  Shadow of the Burj

  An Emirate of Dubai Thriller

  J Jackson Bentley

  CHAPTER 1

  Oxfordshire, England, February 10th, 6.00 am GMT.

  The black custom painted motorcycle coasted into a clearing in the trees and its rider shut down the engine. The ground crackled as the rider rolled the big bike over the frozen mud. It was still early and the frost was thick on the ground.

  The Harley Davidson looked dated but was in fact a recent model. The Sturgis Dyna FXDB, like all Harleys, looked a little old fashioned because it was low slung and the rider sat upright but close to the road. The bike appeared dirty and neglected on the surface but beneath the film of road salt and mud it was a powerful and well maintained road machine. The white and red decals on either side of the six gallon petrol tank declared it to be ridden by a “Warrior”, the Warriors being a violent offshoot of the British Hell’s Angels.

  The rider maintained his distance from the shabby trailer park that was home to the Warrior’s Oxford Chapter. He didn’t want to wake anyone in the camp, at least not yet. He removed a thick leather glove and raised his left hand to look at the cheap gothic styled watch on his wrist. On each knuckle was a letter crudely drawn in blue ink, the letters spelled out the word HATE. His hand was grubby and unwashed, black oily deposits outlined his long fingernails. It was almost 6am and the camp across the clearing was silent.

  Bricko, a nickname name derived from a crude comparison of his build to a sturdily constructed outside toilet, reached into his battered leather jacket and retrieved the tabloid newspaper he had purchased just minutes ago. He unfolded the red top newspaper and reread the headline; “Bikers Underage Sex Ring Exposed”, the words and pictures were credited to a journalist called Max Richmond. The sordid story was accompanied by grainy pictures and it claimed to expose the activities of the “Warriors, a notorious motorbike gang who modelled themselves on the “Hell’s Angels”. The big biker did not need to reread the article, which started on the front page before continuing over four more pages in the centre of the paper. He knew what it said by heart.

  Standing at around six
feet two inches tall, and with a solid stomach that hung over a straining studded belt, Bricko would have looked like eighteen stone of menace to any opposing biker gang. His long oily hair and unkempt beard did not detract from the menacing message his cold ice blue eyes sent when he frowned, and he was frowning now.

  Bricko had been living in this run down mobile home park for three months but he now knew that the time had arrived for him to move on. He knew that if he removed the Warrior motif painted on his black leather jacket and replaced it with a target he couldn’t be in more danger than he was already. With a back story that linked him to the five most wanted biker gangs in the country, Bricko would have been considered the archetypal violent and transient biker. Once he had set things in motion this morning he would have to be out of here and on the road again within the hour.

  The aging biker reached into his pocket and removed an ancient and battered ‘pay as you go’ mobile phone. The phone only registered a couple of bars and so he climbed off his bike and walked further into the clearing. When more bars appeared he dialled the number listed in the newspaper as being the ‘Crimestoppers’ confidential helpline. It took some time for the phone to be answered and when it was he heard a young woman on the other end of the line. She sounded bored and tired as she announced her first name. In her defence she had probably been manning the phones all night, dealing with drunks and hoax callers. Nonetheless, she perked up noticeably when she heard the deep bass voice that spoke with a thick Black Country accent. She had heard it a number of times before.

  “This is Bricko. You might want to take notes.” The biker knew that the call was likely to be recorded. “I’ve just seen the newspaper article about the motorcycle gang we talked about before and I can tell you that the “Warriors” are living in an old mobile home park outside Harringford Village off the B436.” He paused while the operator took notes. “But the pigs had better be quick or the camp will be empty when they get there. Tell the paper I’ll be calling for the reward money. Remember the name ‘Bricko’”. He spelled it out and ended the call.