Hell's Choir (NICHOLAS SHARP THRILLER SERIES Book 3)

by Mark Mannock

  Mark Mannock

  Hell’s Choir

  A NICHOLAS SHARP THRILLER (3)

  First published by Shotfire Books 2020

  Copyright © 2020 by Mark Mannock

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  Mark Mannock asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  First edition

  This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy

  Find out more at reedsy.com

  For Simon

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Epilogue

  Afterword

  About the Author

  Also by Mark Mannock

  Chapter 1

  Now

  There wasn’t a sound. None at all. That was the trouble.

  I coaxed my eyes open. An army of pain rampaged through my head, probing for more nerves to torture.

  According to the blazing sun penetrating the window, it must have been morning. I’d been unconscious for at least ten hours. I’d put up a good fight the night before, but in the end, I was outnumbered and outclassed.

  Now it was the silence—and the pain—that woke me.

  Forcing myself out of bed, I threw on a pair of jeans and padded over to the hotel-room door. What I saw in the corridor was surprising—or rather, what I didn’t see was the issue. No people, no housekeeping staff, no cleaning trolleys. Nothing. Midmorning in a busy international hotel. Something was not right.

  I retreated into my room, tossed down some aspirin to calm my exploding head, put on a shirt and a pair of shoes, then headed back out into the passageway. There could be an innocent explanation, only somewhere in the back of my mind I feared otherwise.

  The soft carpet cushioned underfoot as I strode toward the elevator area. I pressed the down button; it lit up. Reassuring. Eventually the elevator arrived. I stepped in and pressed G. Surely there’d be people on the ground floor who would know what was going on.

  The elevator clunked to a stop. As the doors opened, I gazed expectantly across the crowded lobby—except that it wasn’t. Not a soul in sight. There should have been guests, there should have been hotel staff behind the reception desk, and more than anything else there should have been Secret Service personnel at every door.

  Shit.

  Without thinking, I closed the elevator door, immediately pressing the tenth-floor button. Jefferson Blake had the entire floor reserved for his immediate entourage. Until that point, it hadn’t occurred to me that Secret Service agents should also have been manning each elevator, ensuring that no one exited at Blake’s floor. They weren’t there. They weren’t anywhere.

  On the way up, I felt my nerves tense. Still, I prayed for a simple, logical solution. Maybe a bomb-threat evacuation. Fire alarm drill that I’d slept through? That could be it.

  The light above the elevator door lit up the number ten. The ascending motion stopped. The doors slid open. As I looked across the hallway, I heard a sharp intake of breath. It was mine. At that same instant, any hope of a relaxing morning disappeared.

  There were two Secret Service agents in view, both lying awkwardly on the floor. Taking three steps over to the first agent, I kneeled down and placed two fingers on his neck to check for a pulse. There was none. Without standing up, I turned and leaned toward the other agent, a woman. She was dead too.

  A coldness enveloped me. It was a familiar feeling, the same as I experienced as a US Marine scout sniper when I laid eyes on a potential target. A professional needed to drain the emotional charge out of the moment. I was no longer a professional sniper, but some habits never leave you.

  My Marine training took precedence over any instinct for survival as I charged along the corridor toward Jefferson Blake’s room. I rounded the corner leading to his sealed off area and saw the four agents that should have been guarding his room splayed on the ground. I bolted passed them. There was no time to stop to check their health status. My primary concern was Blake.

  The double doors of his suite smashed against the walls as I shoved my way through and raced down the short corridor that led to the principal living area. Two more agents were lying prone on the couch. Dead.

  I scanned the rest of the room. A sprawling array of lounges and luxurious armchairs dominated the two separate sitting areas. Floor-to-ceiling windows ran the full length of the far wall, overlooking the city skyline. I almost smiled at the black grand piano perched extravagantly in the far corner. Almost. This was the most expensive and luxurious accommodation that you could find in the city of Khartoum, although that thought bore little relevance at that moment. Apart from the dead agents, there was no one else in sight.

  The cold numbness continued to surge within me as I hurried from room to room, searching. I discovered two more bodies in the study; one slumped at a desk, the other on the carpet —probably departmental aides. At any moment, I was expecting to find Jefferson Blake’s body.

  I found no one else. Blake had disappeared.

  Then the unimaginable hit me. I wanted to be wrong, but there could be only one explanation.

  Someone had just kidnapped the vice president of the United States of America.

  I double-checked each section of the suite before returning to the central room. Pulling my cell phone from my pocket, I sat on a couch. The one furthest from the dead agents. I dialed a number, but the line was dead. I was halfway through dialing a second time before I realized there was no signal. Funny—I’d used my cell in this room two days ago. I stood up and walked around. There was no signal anywhere.

  I used the in-house phone to dial Jack Greatrex’s room. It rang for a solid thirty seconds before a sleepy and exasperated voice answered. “What?”

  “It’s me, you need to get up to Blake’s suite right now,” I said, the agitation in my own voice evident.

  “What I need is sleep.”

  “Jack, trust me, you want to be here, now,” I replied.

  “All right, if you say so, Nicholas. Will I need a pass to get through the Secret Service people?”

  “That won�
�t be a problem,” I said. “Just get here.”

  Five minutes later, I’d rechecked each room twice more, searched under every bed and in every closet space. I was in the bathroom splashing some water on my face when I heard, “Holy crap.”

  I walked into the central room to see Greatrex staring at the two dead Secret Service agents on the lounge. The big fella appeared fatigued, bordering on disheveled. The preceding evening had been tough for both of us. On the other hand, the view confronting him was one hell of a wake-up call.

  “Blake?” he asked.

  “Nowhere to be found.”

  “Holy crap.”

  “You said that,” I pointed out. “I’ve been downstairs, the lobby is empty.”

  “Secret Service?”

  “Gone, no sign of them—at least none that are alive,” I responded.

  I studied my friend across the room, his forehead furrowed, eyes glowering. Greatrex and I had been to hell and back a hundred times over in the Marines and since. Frequently it was because of him that I made it back. Unsurprisingly, the concern on Greatrex’s face mirrored my own.

  Neither of us had any notion of what was going on here, but as the shock of the situation subsided, I knew one thing for certain. We were sure as hell going to find out.

  I picked up the phone, pressing zero for an outside line. “Nothing,” I said, hearing the long drone of a dead phone line. “No way to call out.”

  “We need to get downstairs and out of the building if we are going to make any sense of this,” declared the big fella.

  “Yeah, we do,” I replied. “Only, the thing is, we don’t know who’s behind this, or if they’re still here.”

  “But we’ve got to make contact with someone in authority. We can’t deal with this alone.”

  “Too damn right,” I replied.

  I led the way out of the suite, past the dead Secret Service people, toward the elevator. We needed to call in the troops, but for the life of me, I couldn’t figure out whose troops they should be.

  Chapter 2

  Seventy-Two Hours Earlier

  Although a formal occasion, the crowd that packed the ballroom of the Al Gasr Hotel in downtown Khartoum were letting their hair down. People swayed and danced in time to the pumping music. I knew it was pumping because I was playing it. I leaned forward and ripped into a solo on the Hammond B3 organ. A rotating Leslie speaker converted the organ sound from a playful puppy into a howling wolf. It was the staple keyboard sound for any rhythm and blues band, and that’s what we played: classic American rhythm and blues.

  As I finished my solo, P.D. Bailey strolled casually up to the microphone. For a man in his late seventies, he played and sang with the energy of a twenty-year-old. The old bluesman had been around forever. He’d performed with Muddy Waters and B.B. King, sharing more joy and more pain in a lifetime of the blues than I could even imagine. P.D. Bailey: an American icon. It was an honor to share a stage with him.

  I knew the other players in the band felt the same. As I watched Brian Pitt on drums, and Barry Flannigan on bass; they seemed to morph together as one driving, pulsing, rhythmical beast. I’d played with them both before; they were fantastic, inspiring musicians in their own rights, and yet their combined power on this stage, with P.D., ascended to a new level of ferocity.

  The room was bedazzled in an assortment of color. Conservatively dressed Westerners faded into the background against the bright, lurid shades and patterns worn by our African hosts.

  The fact that we were even here indicated a miracle in itself. Over the last twelve months, Sudan had evolved from a land burdened with internal conflict to a county with an increasingly stable democratic government. To ensure his position, and silence the nay-sayers, the new Sudanese president had opened up his country to the benefit of trade and cultural exchange with the outside world. His aim: to highlight the dynamism of democracy in the eyes of his people.

  We were part of a political and artistic exposition that had brought powerful politicians, successful business people, and a variety of talented performers from across the world to Khartoum. From the Sudanese government’s perspective, this was to be a tear-the walls-down moment.

  Standing on the stage, I could see the Sudanese president chatting amiably with the head of the American delegation, Vice President Jefferson Blake. The towering VP loomed over his African counterpart, their eyes locked in warm engagement. Skeptics had suggested Blake’s leadership of the US team to be a contrived stunt; they professed that he was only here due to his African American heritage. But Blake hadn’t been VP for long so hadn’t had much of a chance to prove himself; he’d been seconded to the position when his predecessor became embroiled in a serious financial scandal. Jefferson Blake wasn’t a career politician and was therefore untarnished in the eyes of the American public. Besides that, his outstanding military record had only added to his credibility.

  Either way, as I watched them laughing together, it was obvious that our new vice president and Sudan’s leader seemed to be getting along well. That had to be positive for both countries.

  We’d flown in the day before. The vice president and his entourage had landed sometime after us on board Air Force Two. The Sudanese government had put on an impressive show to welcome them—I’d seen it on television. Our band had arrived earlier on a privately secured A-330, along with a variety of other musicians, business types, and diplomats, to considerably less fanfare. As our plane descended, the iridescent morning light had flooded Sudan’s flat, arid landscape with subtle hues and deep shadows. I’ve seen my fair share of desert landscapes in the Middle East in times of conflict. I liked this one better.

  Descending the stairs of our plane, the searing African heat had wrapped around us like a warm, restrictive blanket. Our feet had barely touched the scorching tarmac, when an excited-looking Sudanese man came bounding over. He looked to be in his mid-thirties and was dressed in neat, casual Western clothes. His eager face and ferocious smile did more for international public relations than a thousand welcoming speeches. The man held a sign. It read: P.D. Bailey and entourage. The smiling Sudanese seemed to recognize P.D. and called out, “marhaba, Welcome, Mr. Bailey, sir.”

  He then walked up to P.D., and shook his hand vigorously before waving us all over to a waiting minibus. As we climbed on board, the coolness of its air conditioning provided a genial sanctuary from the blazing heat. I sat next to Jack Greatrex. Jack had come along to look after our gear and do our sound.

  “Well, here we go,” I announced.

  “It’s nice to be here just for the music,” he said.

  I couldn’t have agreed with him more. Recently we’d had enough ‘extra-curricular activity’ to last us a lifetime.

  Our new host stood at the front of the bus and introduced himself as Jumaa Al Fadil.

  “I am excited to welcome you all to Khartoum,” he announced in unfaltering English. “This is a significant time for our country, and it is an honor to share our culture and our famous Sudanese hospitality with you. It is equally an honor to have the great P.D. Bailey and his band of talented musicians perform here. We now travel to the Al Saddaga resort where I’m sure you will be most comfortable and most secure. Vice President Blake and his entourage are also staying at this hotel. The staff there will be on hand for any requests or needs you may have.

  Speech over, Jumaa Al Fadil bowed and offered us a cheeky grin. You had to like this guy.

  An hour later, ensconced in our new luxury accommodation, Jack Greatrex and I shared a quiet Scotch as we lounged comfortably on the balcony of my room. We had invited Jumaa to join us. He accepted our invitation but declined to sit or to drink any alcohol. He stood with a Coke in his hand, leaning on the iron railing.

  We eyed the sprawl of the growing metropolis. Like so many developing cities, Khartoum was a mixture of traditional brown earth-and-stone buildings combined with some examples of powerful modern architecture—new money. In the distance, we noticed two particularly d
istinctive and majestic-looking structures.

  “What are they?” asked Greatrex, gesturing.

  As Jumaa leaned over the railing, he waved toward the horizon and declared, “The structure on the right is the old presidential palace. The British built it during their time of, er… great influence. You can see that from its architectural styling.”

  “What about the building on the left?” I asked.

  “Oh, that is the new presidential palace,” said Jumaa. “That was constructed by the Chinese and opened in 2015.”

  “The Chinese?” I questioned.

  “Yes, the Chinese worked closely with our former president, Omar al-Bashir.”

  Jumaa paused for a few seconds and then continued. “Fun fact—they opened the new palace exactly one hundred and thirty years to the day after the British governor of Khartoum was beheaded on the steps of the old palace.”

  “There’s some food for thought,” I said. “I guess they call that ‘Concrete Diplomacy’.”

  “I think they call it sending a message,” responded Greatrex. My friend paused a moment and then added, “Oh well, thank God we’re here for the best of reasons. No beheadings on our agenda.”

  In silence, we sat there taking in the vast and varied view. I thought about the shows ahead of us, the chance to perform with the great P.D. Bailey and the company we were keeping. Where else would you want to be?

  Forty-Eight Hours Earlier

  The young girl at the reception desk smiled warmly as I inquired about her recommendation for a good local restaurant. Before she could respond, an assertive voice behind me interrupted.

  “Mr. Sharp? Mr. Nicholas Sharp?”

  I turned around to see a man the size of a small mountain dressed in a somber gray suit. He had an earpiece embedded in his right ear and from the bulge in his coat it was clear that he carried a weapon. I wasn’t alarmed. He may as well have been wearing a sign that said, I’m with the US Secret Service.