To Kiss A Kringle (Southern Sanctuary Book 13)

by Jane Cousins

  To Kiss A Kringle

  Southern Sanctuary – Book Thirteen

  Jane Cousins

  Copyright © 2019 All rights reserved by the author. Do not copy or re-distribute. Do not host on any website that offers this book for download without the express permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction.

  Front cover design; Fiona Jayde

  So many people to thank this time around. Without them I wouldn’t be here. The Cheshire Fire and Paramedic Crews. The Cheshire Police accident response team. The Helivac Crew. All the staff at the Aintree Liverpool Hospital: Surgeons, ICU nurses, and support staff. Everyone on the Trauma ward, a special shout out to the nurses, physios and the janitorial staff. All the staff at the Countess of Chester Hospital. Especially Angela, the physios who helped me take my first steps and all the nursing staff, you guys are superstars. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart.

  And to my family and all my friends who showered me with love and made sure I didn’t have to take the journey alone.

  Prologue - Cullen

  Lester Cullen, known to everyone, including his parents, as Cullen, was being followed. Damn, and they were good. Very good. Six on foot, backed up by one vehicle disguised as a black cab. Brilliantly anonymous, you couldn’t throw a fifty pence piece without hitting a black cab in central London.

  Anyone else… anyone ordinary, would have failed to pick up on the tail before it was too late. But the very last thing Cullen ever claimed to be was ordinary.

  Of course his bosses just presumed he was some freakish mathematical genius who studied patterns and could detect and interpret the slightest of anomalies. It’s what had led to his current position at the clandestine MI12. A Branch with more secrets than MI5. Rumoured to exist and not exist, often in the same breath.

  MI12 handled only direct threats to the royal family and those sitting members of parliament. Maintaining the stability of the status quo was their top priority.

  Employees of MI12 didn’t just operate in the shadows, they were the shadows. On any given day they might prevent an assignation attempt. Thwart the tabloids intent on exposing an MP’s salacious sex addiction. Or ensure the royal Corgis had been given their quarterly heartworm pills.

  Nothing, no one, was allowed to rock the boat, unless MI12 top brass permitted it.

  Cullen walked on, neither slowing nor speeding up. Using multiple available reflective surfaces to keep tabs on those stalking him.

  They’d picked him up the moment he exited Brecker House, which should have been impossible. He’d joined the stream of those exiting work at exactly 6.14 pm. Not too early to be considered wagging work. And not so late as to be noteworthy by any of the security guards. Ideally, he should have been deemed utterly and completely ordinary. Just one more faceless - fancy-pants - working drone in a three piece suit, leaving the exclusive twelve storey building that housed lawyers, doctors, insurance agents and two investment banking firms.

  Cullen worked very hard at being perceived as average. His three piece suit was always dark, or sometimes, during a rare hot spell in summer, a light grey. The suits were always expensive, but understated. Paired with sensible cufflinks and a muted tie. His black hair was short, but not military short. Never messy. And never noticeably needing a trim. Nothing that would ever draw the casual eye his way.

  He wore gold rimmed glasses, though he didn’t need to. But he found glasses to be a marvellous device for hiding the direction of his gaze, and very useful if he needed more time to study an anomaly. A man stopping to absently clean his glasses, no one looked twice.

  For that matter, very few people looked twice at Cullen, until now.

  Damn, there was only one explanation. MI12 had a mole. A traitor.

  Cullen sifted through the short list of people who knew his face and were privy to the intel regarding the location of his office. It was an extremely exclusive list. To his colleagues he was codenamed The Professor. Communicating with them via a series of layered, very private, very secure, encrypted messaging boards.

  Less than a handful of people in senior positions knew that Cullen had an office in the heart of Kensington. That he trolled the nearby Members Only Clubs at lunch time and after work. Invitation only clubs, where the majority of Members of Parliament and their next level down staff chose to eat, socialise, and gossip. The perfect hunting ground for a man like Cullen, who was looking for secrets. Looking for just the vaguest hint of imminent disaster.

  Cullen studied the norms, so that he would be able to recognise anomalies, no matter how slight.

  An MP losing a few pounds. Ding, ding, the man was courting a new mistress. Better let the team know to perform a deep background check on her… or, considering the Minister in question, it might be a him.

  The faint, fleeting grimace that meant a Senior Secretary was thinking of backstabbing his Minister. The man’s phone records and emails would need to be scrutinised thoroughly.

  Or looming health problems for a notoriously gluttonous Minister who refused his usual second helping of pudding. That would require one of their MI12 specialists to indulge in a little breaking and entering. Though the man was so good at his craft that no one at the exclusive Harley Street Doctor’s clinic would ever know their offices had been breached.

  Cullen bit back a wry smile, his codename, The Professor, was misleading. It pigeon-holed him as a man who relied solely on his mind, trading on only one viable commodity, his intelligence. But Cullen was so much more than that. Something he had deliberately hidden not just from his superiors, but everyone outside of his family.

  Turning right into a one way street that was bordered by a tall brick and wrought iron fence on one side, Cullen set about ending this farce. If he wanted answers as to who had betrayed him. Who wanted him dead. Then he needed to study the lackeys his enemy had sent up close.

  Huh, amusing, they, with their superior numbers, no doubt assumed in this scenario that they were the predators, and he was the prey. Foolish, foolish dead men walking.

  Six combatants, no doubt armed to the teeth… technically seven, if you counted the man masquerading as a cabbie driver. Who right at this moment was probably cursing the peak hour traffic, as he tried to drive down some very busy parallel side streets, in an attempt to cut Cullen off, and keep up with the rest of his team.

  The squad would be armed. Guns with silencers and knives, potentially tipped in poison, depending upon their country of origin. Cullen was thinking they were of European extraction, gauging from the colour of their skin and the way they moved. And they were big guys, although most men could be considered big when compared to Cullen, who just cleared five-foot-eight.

  You worked with what you had, he couldn’t change his height, so he used it. Let his enemies underestimate him at their own risk.

  The evening sky was still blue over head. The beginning of Autumn not far away but the sun wouldn’t set yet for another hour or so. The garden behind the high fence off to his left was lined with trees. Their heavy boughs full of leaves drooping over the pavement, providing some much needed shadows.

  Cullen catalogued his weapons. He wasn’t a field agent. There was no gun or knife training in his official background, though he was proficient at using both. Tonight though, all he needed was his wits, his handy pocket watch with its thankfully sturdy chain, and his platinum, steel-tipped fountain pen.

  He deliberately slowed his pace, allowing his pursers to catch up, to bunch up. It was a narrow foot path, with parked cars to his immediate right, the fence to his left. The deliberate close quarters meant Cullen need not be afraid of the pursuit team overpowering him
en masse.

  Senses shifting into hyperawareness, Cullen was acutely conscious of the soft slap of rapidly approaching footsteps. The way the one on the right limped ever so slightly, his heel hitting the pavement fractionally harder, favouring his left leg. The wind was coming from a north-westerly direction. There was an elderly couple exiting their home further up the street, across from the park. They were British, they could be counted on to ignore the imminent bloodshed.

  Three, two, one. He dodged suddenly to the right, as if to cross the narrow road. His pursuers wouldn’t immediately panic. Two of the six man squad were pacing steadily up the right hand footpath. Everyone would naturally presume that they would take point. But Cullen didn’t cross the road. He ducked low, raced back down the street, past three parked cars and then dashed out behind the two nearest members of team hit squad.

  As he had noted, they were big men, not just tall, but with solid, muscular builds. Cullen factored their exact height and weight into his approach. The moment his foot hit the pavement he knew what he had to do.

  Increasing his speed marginally he dashed behind the men, leaped high, his foot landing on top of the lower brick part of the wall, he sprung back and up. His own weight and flexibility had been carefully factored into his trajectory. Looping the chain of his pocket watch around the throat of the man closest, even as he jabbed the second man in the jugular with the razor sharp tip of his fountain pen.

  It took two point five seconds longer than anticipated to strangle the first man. Thick necked bastard. Cullen wasn’t worried as he retrieved the pocket watch chain and dropped the body beside his colleague. The one feebly struggling on the pavement, clutching his neck as his life blood slipped away.

  Cullen re-jigged his plan, adding an extra hop over the slick pool of blood. He was nothing if not adaptable.

  The two men on the left hand side of the pavement had a clear, unobstructed view of the attack. So they were now moving in fast on his position. Hands full of weapons, angry, intent.

  The two men on the opposite footpath still had yet to realise what was going on. Cullen needed to keep it that way for just a little longer.

  Stabbing and twisting the pen into the lock of the parked car next to him, Cullen had the car door open just in time. Crouching low as bullets thudded dully into the upholstery. He’d chosen the Peugeot deliberately, the French manufacture was renown for their solid framework. And it had been a reasonable guess to presume the hit squad wouldn’t be packing armour piercing bullets. Too much risk of collateral damage and drawing attention to themselves.

  Thankfully the shooter was enough of a marksmen not to shatter the window. The gentle puff of the firing silenced gun however, was probably loud enough in this quiet street to alert the remaining two men on foot that their plan was compromised and their target in motion.

  Cullen knew from the rapid slap of footsteps that the shooter and his colleague were closing in fast on his position. He didn’t have the luxury of waiting for the shooter to run out of bullets. Besides, he was a professional hitman, he’d be packing spare ammunition.

  Cullen rolled backwards, crouching in the gutter momentarily, centring his breathing. Go. Foot on bumper, step up onto the boot of the car, one more step, onto the roof. Throw the fountain pen at the man furthest away, the shooter, bullseye… hmm, or should that just be eye? No one ever challenged Cullen to darts twice.

  Leap straight at the closest man, the one holding the knife. Wrap his legs around the man’s neck, grab his head and yank it forty-two point three degrees to the right. Crack. They hit the pavement hard, but the dead man took most of the impact. Cullen retrieved his trusty fountain pen, and turned to face his final two opponents.

  Three minutes later Cullen continued walking along beside the peaceful park, at a pace neither too slow nor too fast. He didn’t try to hide the bodies, nor did he bother to wipe off the gore from his fountain pen just yet. He had a black cab to catch. One more body to drop tonight and then… Bloody hell, then he needed to leave town. He’d been compromised. Betrayed.

  There were only three potential possibilities as to who could have sent a Russian hit squad after him.

  He knew they were Russian, not that any of them were carrying ID. No phones. And they’d cut all the tags off their clothes. Smart. But they hadn’t bothered to brush their teeth.

  A quick check had revealed the whiff of Old Russo-Baltique vodka on two of the men’s breath. A third was a smoker, a uniquely harsh mix of nicotine, definitely Belomorkanal, a Russian brand. And the reek of cabbage from another indicated he’d been eating golubtsy. Cullen hoped he’d enjoyed his last meal on this earth.

  Russians? He would need to think on this. Work the angles. Stay alive. He couldn’t risk putting his family or people he acknowledged as acquaintances at risk.

  He needed to disappear for a while.

  Seven dead Russians in an exclusive suburb of central London and a soon to be missing top MI12 analyst? His branch, the entire secret service community, would go on the hunt for answers. Muddying the waters. Hmmm… and it would certainly give who ever was behind this pause for thought.

  Disappear to where though?

  Cullen ran the probabilities absently even as he raised his hand to casually flag down a familiar black cab. He needed somewhere isolated. Somewhere he could blend in. Somewhere he could think… work out who was behind this attempt on his life and plot retribution.

  Hmmm, what had Great-Uncle Dougal always said? If he ever needed a safe place he should look to the Sanctuary… no, that wasn’t right… the Southern Sanctuary. Of course Great-Uncle Dougal was a ladies man, drinker and carouser of the worst sort. Which just made the idea of re-locating to the Southern Sanctuary that much more intriguing.

  What was Aunt Mortent’s favourite saying again? When one door closes, use dynamite and bring the whole fucking building down on the bastards’ heads.

  Okay, so the Southern Sanctuary it was.

  Prologue – Patricia

  That smug, high-handed, devious, duplicitous, thieving, absconder of library books. Patricia Bennett stood on the wide porch rapping her knuckles hard against the front door. Break into her Library? Steal her books? The utter gall of the man.

  Grrr, she grit her teeth, stomping over to the nearest large picture window to peer inside. It was strange to see another person’s furniture there. Patricia had always liked this house. For as long as she could remember her Great-Great-Uncle’s brother and his wife had lived here – Gil and Celia Torrent. But they’d moved to the Marina Retirement Village about eight months ago and the interloper, known as Lester Cullen, had purchased the house with its extensive gardens a few weeks ago.

  The man sure moved fast. The walls had been painted a crisp white, the floors re-stained, now a dark wood. Ceiling fans had been added, and the furniture all looked cosy and comfortable. Leather sofas mixed with dark, teak, antique furniture.

  Patricia could only wonder how much of it was stolen, given what she knew about the newest resident of the Southern Sanctuary. Which was surprisingly not all that much.

  The District all but ran on gossip. The grapevine devotees must be practically chomping at the bit, given the lack of information that could be confirmed regarding Lester Cullen, their most recent transplant. He habitually wore three piece suits, though supposedly he was retired or semi-retired. A Banker, the grapevine said. Or a Rocket Scientist. British. Educated. That much was clear from the way the man spoke.

  Aunt Ruby, who owned the local gourmet supermarket, was happy to relate that the newcomer was a very good cook. Based upon nothing more than what was in his shopping trolley each week. Second Cousin Abel was adamant that Lester Cullen knew his way around home repairs. As he bought copious tools and supplies from his Hardware store seemingly every other day.

  All were in unanimous agreement the man was personable, polite, and, much to the dismay of the gossipmongers, very, very private. And quite clearly, at least to Patricia, the man had some sort of
weird kleptomaniac tendencies when it came to library books.

  Heaving a frustrated sigh, Patricia rested her hands on her hips. She’d come here today to have it out with the no-good ratfink and get her library books back.

  Oh, sure. She’d heard from Marta that Lester had turned up supposedly to return what he referred to as the wayward library books, twice. And though Patricia hadn’t had the opportunity to meet him as yet, she was sure he’d only returned the library books so he could mock them. Since all the original books plus more had since gone missing.

  And that story of his that they just kept turning up in his Potting Shed? What a load of bull.

  The Potting Shed!

  Whirling, Patricia stomped her way across the covered porch and down the steps. Hmm, if memory served correctly, the formal English garden was off to her right. But to her left, down the path, she’d find the Zen gardens and beyond them, the infamous Potting Shed.

  Left it was. There was no time to admire the red leaves of the Japanese maples that lined the pathway. Or the bonsai miniature forest that Gil had so lovingly crafted off to the right. Patricia wilfully ignored all the surrounding beauty, she was on a mission. Her wedge sandals sounding loud on the gravel and then on the wood of the small bridge that arched over a placid stream full of fat koi fish.

  The Potting Shed was kind of a family joke. The structure sat on a man-made island, and while the sign over the door said Potting Shed, the Torrents had never kept garden equipment in the three room structure. Instead they’d converted it into an entertainment hub. All the glass doors along the front of the structure were retractable, meaning it could be open for Summer parties or closed, and the large fireplace lit, making for cosy Winter suppers.

  Patricia recalled several marvellous parties being held here over the years. Her younger cousins splashing about in the stream. The adults chatting and laughing, either seated at the long table set up in the large front room or relaxing on cushioned chairs situated under the cover of the sloping veranda roof.