by L J Morris
Danny Kinsella was sitting in a wooden, kitchen chair with a terrified look on his face. Opposite him, lounging on the sofa, was Frank McGill. He was dressed in jeans and a non-descript black, leather jacket. In his gloved hand was a silenced Glock 19.
He beckoned Carter into the room. ‘Come in, Simeon. Take a seat.’
Next to Kinsella was another kitchen chair. Carter took off his coat and sat down.
‘Nice to see you, Frank. I wasn’t sure if you were back in the country or not.’
McGill held his arms apart, palms up. ‘Well, now you know.’
Carter patted Kinsella’s forearm. ‘It’s okay, Danny. Frank isn’t going to hurt us, are you, Frank?’
McGill held up his Sig. ‘What makes you so sure?’
‘Because you’re not a psychopath, Frank. Some people might think you are, but you’re not. You don’t kill innocent people.’
‘You don’t know me that well, Carter. I will kill someone who hurts my family, they deserve it. They aren’t innocent.’
‘Danny hasn’t done anything to hurt you or Sinclair.’ He turned to Kinsella again. ‘Why don’t you go and make us all a coffee, Danny?’
Kinsella didn’t move – he just stared at the armed madman on the couch. Unlike Carter, he wasn’t used to dealing with situations like this.
McGill gestured with his head towards the kitchen. ‘Go on, Danny. You’re in no danger. I’ve got no quarrel with you.’
Relieved, Kinsella gladly left the room and disappeared into the kitchen leaving the two men to it.
When the kitchen door closed, Carter looked at McGill. ‘So, Frank. What is it that you want? Revenge?’
‘If I was just out for revenge, you’d be tied to that chair.’
‘Well, I should be thankful for that at least. Although, I imagine if I don’t help you, I could still end up on your shit list.’
McGill leant forwards, his elbows on his knees. He appeared a little more relaxed, or maybe he was exhausted. The past months catching up with him. ‘I want you to get Sinclair out of prison, and home, like you promised. That’s all.’
‘That’s what I want too, Frank.’
‘Then do something about it. You told me she would come home, you lied. Worse than that, I told her she’d be fine. You made me a liar.’
‘No one wanted it to end like it did. It was …’ He hated himself for it, but he was about to use Lancaster’s phrase from earlier. ‘Unfortunate.’
McGill visibly flexed at Carter’s use of the word and sat up straight. ‘Unfortunate? You fuckers abandoned her again.’ He slid forwards on the couch and pointed at Carter with his Sig. ‘I told you what I would do if you double crossed her.’
Carter had the same feeling that he’d had when he first met McGill: that this was a man who would kill him at the drop of a hat and not lose any sleep over it. ‘It wasn’t a double cross, Frank. If she’d landed in Belize, she’d be here, with us, now. As soon as the Mexican authorities had her, it was out of our hands. They wanted to parade the recaptured prisoner. They had an election coming up.’
‘Well, I’m going to put it back in your hands.’
Carter didn’t like the sound of that. The last thing he needed was McGill going off on a one-man crusade; a loose cannon. ‘What do you have in mind, Frank?’
‘Once I’d left the island I went over to Mexico. I wanted to see what I could do for Ali. I’ve spent the last two months scoping out the prison. I’ve found a way to get her out but I need equipment, weapons, and some backup.’
‘Okay, Frank. I can help you to get organised but I have another option for you.’
McGill sat back in his seat, relaxing a little. ‘And what would that be?’
‘We let the diplomatic process run its course first.’
McGill shook his head. ‘Where would that get us? It hasn’t done any good so far.’
‘I appreciate that, and I understand if you don’t trust any of the civil servants and politicians, but they are on our side and are doing everything they can. The Americans are putting pressure on the Mexican government. The foreign secretary herself is pushing for Sinclair to serve out her time here.’
‘She shouldn’t be serving time anywhere after what she’s done.’
‘I know, but if we get her transferred here, we can release her ourselves. Lancaster will bend over backwards to get her home as long as we stay in his good books.’
‘That sounds like you’re trying to threaten me, Simeon. Blackmail me at least.’
‘You haven’t been in this game as long as I have, Frank, but you must know how it works. We do something for him, and he does something for us.’
McGill hated this kind of shit. He just wanted people to do what they had promised. None of this tit-for-tat, you scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours, bullshit. ‘Ali has already risked her life for him. Time he paid her back.’
‘Leave that side of things to me. I know my way around the political maze.’
Danny Kinsella came through the kitchen door with a tray of mugs. ‘Is it safe to come in, or do you guys need a little more time?’
McGill looked at Carter. Deep down, he knew Simeon was doing everything he could to help Sinclair. McGill was just looking for someone to transfer the guilt to. He’d always told Ali that everything would be fine, and it wasn’t. He’d told her that she would come home, and she hadn’t. The guilt he felt was causing him physical pain. He unscrewed the silencer from his weapon and put it away. ‘It’s okay, Danny, you can come in now.’
Kinsella placed the tray on the table. ‘Help yourselves to milk and sugar.’
McGill put two sugars in his black coffee and sat back in his seat. ‘So, what’s this “something” Lancaster wants me to do to keep me in his good books? I’m assuming it involves me getting dropped in the shit again.’
Carter stirred his own coffee. ‘You do thrive in that environment, Frank.’
‘And, if I agree to do this, you’ll do everything possible to bring Ali home?’
‘I give you my word.’
McGill thought for a moment, whatever happened, he needed Carter’s help to get Ali out of that prison. ‘Okay, let me see the details.’
Carter picked up the brown envelope and threw it across to McGill. ‘Have a read of that and tell me what you think.’
THE END
Bonus Content
Ali Sinclair returns, with Frank McGill and the rest of the team, in Hunting Ground. A high octane, race against time to stop the conspiracy and bring down Vadim. The following is a teaser to whet your appetite.
Hunting Ground: Prologue
The stained enamel bath in the derelict apartment was full of water that had been brought up from the river. The bottom of the bath was covered in a layer of rocks and the sediment, moss and algae that floated on the water’s surface was now mixed with blood and hair.
Justin Wyatt was strapped to a board that was balanced at the tap end. He’d lost count of the amount of times the board had been tipped up and his head had impacted on the bottom. How many times had he held his breath until his lungs were crying out for air. Breathing in water and falling into unconsciousness only to be brought back up again.
He broke the surface, vomiting the filthy water back out of his body and gasping to breathe. His face was swollen, and blood streamed from his nose. They had shouted at him over and over, ‘Tell us what you know, and we’ll let you live.’ He doubted that.
Two hours ago, he was breaking into an office with a stolen key card, looking for some information, following up a tip. He needed some sort of evidence to back up the story he’d been told. He’d been naïve, though. He knew there was a risk and he was prepared for that, but he thought that, if he was caught, he could talk his way out of it, pretend he was a burglar. The company was respectable, at least on the surface. He assumed they would just hand him over to the police.
He couldn’t have been more wrong. The story he had been told, everything he had found out, was t
rue. The conspiracy he’d uncovered was far too big to be derailed by someone like him. Now, he was sure he was going to die. His priority now was to keep his mouth shut, to protect the ones he loved. He just hoped he’d left enough of a trail for them to follow, the ultimate treasure hunt. He would bring these people down one way or another. That would be his greatest achievement, that would be his legacy.
He tipped back into the water again, his head smashed into the bottom of the bath and blood clouded in front of his eyes. He couldn’t take much more of this. Surely, he’d be dead soon. His vision darkened but, again, he was brought back up, coughing and spluttering.
There was no questioning this time. Instead, one of his captors was on the phone. ‘Yes, sir… No, sir. We don’t think he knows anything… He would’ve told us by now… We’ll do a background check on him and find out who he is, who he lives with. If he won’t talk, maybe they will… Yes, sir. We will. It’ll look like suicide.’
Wyatt didn’t want to die, but he didn’t want anyone hurt because of him. The man put the phone down and walked back into the bathroom. He looked at Wyatt then nodded to his accomplice. Wyatt, once again, plunged into the water, his head bleeding, his lungs screaming. He didn’t have the strength or the will to fight anymore. He stopped holding his breath and slipped into oblivion. This time, he wouldn’t be lifted back up.
Hunting Ground: Chapter 1
Callum Porter walked along the rain slicked pavement of Rue Saint-Joseph, from the tram stop on Rue du Pont-Neuf, towards his apartment in the Carouge district of Geneva. He’d moved into the Swiss city’s “little Italy” shortly after he landed the job at the bank and was quickly accepted as part of the community. He’d always loved it here. It had a different atmosphere to the rest of the city. The shops, the architecture, the bars that came to life after dark. It was safe and clean, compared to other cities he’d been in, and only a 10-minute ride to the city centre. Perfect, until now. The last few days had been a blur. Every sight and sound conjuring up memories that stabbed at his heart.
His apartment was on the top floor of a three-story building which was set back from a tree lined side street off the main road. He quickened his pace as the rain started to come down again and soon turned into the apartment block and up the two stone steps into the entrance hall.
Inside the building’s traditional architecture, was a modern design with clean, minimalist lines and glass and chrome trim. Water ran from Porter’s rain coat as he unfastened it and left small puddles on the faux marble floor. He walked over to the mail boxes which ran along the left-hand side of the entrance and checked for any deliveries. As usual, it was empty. He didn’t receive much mail; he did most of his business online. The single lift in the foyer was on the opposite wall to the mail boxes but he preferred to use the stairs that were next to it. The only time he used the lift was when he had some heavy shopping to carry. He walked across the foyer and climbed the stairs.
On the third floor, the door to the stairs opened onto a single long passageway with doors on both sides and a window at either end. His apartment, 317, was half way down on the left. Simple glass and chrome wall lights switched on as he approached to light his way. There was no-one else around and it was quiet, his neighbours would still be making their way home too. He pulled out his door key, slid it into the lock and opened the door.
The inside of the apartment carried on the minimalist décor of the rest of the building but, here and there, were items of furniture that didn’t quite fit in. Things that Porter had picked up in the antique shops and street markets in Carouge. An old wooden set of drawers jutted out into the hallway, spoiling the simple straight line that led from the front door to the kitchen. On the left-hand side of the corridor was the door to the single bedroom. Inside it was a free standing, pine wardrobe, next to the built in one, which cut down on space and made the room look cramped, but he preferred the eclectic look.
Opposite the bedroom door was the entrance to the living room where a well-used leather settee had replaced the more angular, modern couch that was there when he moved in. Two brightly coloured, seventies chairs made up the rest of the suite that was arranged around a well-used wooden coffee table.
Porter stepped into the living room and switched on the light. He let out an involuntary yell at the sight of a man standing next to the window. Porter’s fight or flight response was screaming at him to turn and run. ‘Who…who are you? What do you want? I don’t have anything. Get out of my flat.’
Frank McGill held his hands out, palms up. ‘Calm down Callum, I’m not here to hurt you. I’m here to help.’ He motioned towards the couch. ‘Have a seat.’
Porter’s mind, again, screamed for him to run, but his legs wouldn’t move. He had the feeling that this intruder would only chase him down anyway. He looked at McGill. This man spoke with authority, he was obviously used to taking charge in situations like this and used to imposing his will, violently if necessary. Porter took two steps to the right and sat down.
McGill was unkempt. He wore black leather boots, blue jeans and a faded green combat jacket. His hair was messy, and he had a few days growth on his chin. No one would pay him any attention, he wouldn’t stand out in a crowd on the street. He looked homeless, the kind of man that most people ignored as they rushed about their busy lives, unaware of the plight of people who lived on the street. If asked to describe him later, Porter would have said everything about him looked average. Average height, average build, no striking features, not memorable at all.
McGill sat down, opposite the couch, on one of the seventies chairs. He sat forwards, elbows resting on his knees. ‘You don’t know me Callum, but I’ve been watching you for a few days now. Whenever you left your office for lunch, when you were on your way home, I was there.’
‘I never saw you, how is that possible.’
McGill smiled. ‘It’s what we do for a living, son.’
‘Who is we? Your obviously British. MI5, MI6?’
McGill nodded. ‘Something like that, but you don’t need to know the details.’
‘I don’t suppose you’ve got any ID. you can show me.’
McGill raised an eyebrow. ‘You’re gonna have to trust me. The people I work for aren’t big on ID.’
‘What do you want from me? I haven’t done anything, I just work in a bank.’
McGill pulled a black and white surveillance photo from his jacket and placed it on the table in front of Porter. ‘It’s not you we are interested in, Callum. I came here to speak to this man.’ McGill pointed to the photo. ‘Can you tell me who he is?’
Porter picked up the photo and sat back on the couch, staring at it. After a few seconds of silence, he took a deep breath and let out a sigh. ‘His name’s Justin Wyatt.’
McGill could sense that the man in the picture meant something to Porter. ‘We need to speak to him, Callum, it’s for his own safety. Do you know where he is?’
Porter looked around the flat as if he was checking for anyone who might overhear them. Checking for more intruders. ‘How did you find me? We weren’t public about our relationship.’
‘We tracked down Justin by identifying you. Do you know that he contacted the British Consulate?’
‘He told me that he was planning to talk to the authorities in case something bad happened, but I didn’t know he had.’
‘He made an anonymous phone call. He gave enough detail to get us interested and said he had more. He didn’t want to give up too much as he swore there was a mole in the British Government.’
Porter couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He always assumed that Justin was blowing his stories out of proportion. He thought the trouble he might get into would mean arrest, maybe imprisonment. ‘But, if it was anonymous, how did you know it was him?’
‘We traced the phone he used to make the call to the Consulate and scanned through CCTV images of the area. We didn’t know his name, but he was the only person to use the phone in that timeframe. You showed up in o
ther CCTV images with him and we put two and two together, you were easier to find. You weren’t trying to hide in the way he obviously was.’
‘And then you were sent to find me? To find Justin.’
McGill nodded. ‘We were hoping to leave you out of it. I asked a few questions, hung around in the right areas. I followed you for a few days, hoping to see you together and I could follow him, but you never met up with him again.’
Porter looked down and ran his fingers over the image in the photo. He was struggling to speak, he would never get used to saying it. ‘That’s because he’s dead.’
McGill let out a sigh of frustration. ‘I’m sorry about that, Callum, I really am. What happened? Can you tell me about it?’
‘They found his body in the river. He’d been washed downstream and dragged along the riverbed and rocks. They had difficulty identifying him but found his wallet near-by.’
‘How did you find out about it?’
‘They put a small report in the paper. A few sentences on page eight. They said he jumped. They said he killed himself.’
McGill could hear anger in Porter’s voice. ‘But you don’t believe that, do you, Callum?’
Porter felt at ease with McGill. He was glad to be finally unburdening himself. Telling someone else his secret. ‘The night before his body was found, he told me he was going to break into some guy’s office. He was convinced that he was involved in something big, something that would change the world, he said. He was looking for evidence. I thought he was exaggerating.’
‘Did you tell anyone that? Have you spoken to the police?’
Porter’s face was ashen. ‘No, I was too scared. They might have come after me next. Besides, like I said, we always kept our relationship secret. It’s still frowned upon in some circles. I didn’t want to attract attention.’
‘It might already be too late for that. We found you. They will too, sooner or later.’
