The Long Game (Alexis Parker Book 16)

by G. K. Parks

“Bugger.” She ran her hands up his pectoral muscles, her fingers tracing the various scars that littered his chest and arms. “How’d that happen?” she asked.

  He looked down, trying to be polite, but completely bored now that their romp was concluded. It had been adequate but not something he had any desire to repeat. Hell, he wasn’t even sure what her name was. It seemed trivial and unimportant, so he couldn’t be bothered to take note of it.

  “Thirty-two caliber bullet.” His tone was matter-of-fact.

  She stepped back, maybe shocked or perhaps turned on. Another detail he couldn’t concern himself with. “What’d you say you do?”

  “I didn’t.” He brushed past her and back into the room. He found his shirt on the floor and put it on. Her belongings he carried to the chair closest to the balcony and dropped them off.

  “You’re an asshole,” she snapped, tugging on her shirt and pants. She shoved her underwear and bra into her purse and stomped to the door.

  “Thanks for the lovely shag,” he retorted as the door slammed, rattling the dresser. “Birds.” Fastening his watch, he glanced at the rumpled bed and felt the familiar hollow void. Maybe the reason he neglected to notice he was in London was because the city brought back the pain.

  Picking up the untraceable cell phone, he dialed the only number stored in its memory. After the second ring, Bastian Clarke answered. “You’ve scared off another one?”

  “Bas,” Mercer was losing his patience, “is everything set?”

  “Yes, sir. We move in tonight to collect the package.”

  “I’ll see you at the rendezvous point at ten. There’s something I have to do first.” Mercer took out his wallet, opening the tiny sealed compartment and slipping his wedding ring back on, and then he went downstairs, bought a bouquet of yellow roses, and hailed a cab.

  Remaining out of sight, Mercer waited for the elderly gentleman to finish uttering a few quiet words. The rain had picked up and sluiced through the frigid air in sheets. Another obvious indication he was home. Sure, other parts of the world got rain, but it always felt different in England. Perhaps he was nostalgic. After the man left, Mercer swallowed, bolstering his nerves.

  “Michelle,” he put the flowers down, “I’ve missed you.” He played absently with the silver band on his finger, no longer accustomed to wearing it. “And I’m sorry.” The grey marble slab stared at him, unyielding and harsh. “Your dad still visits on your birthday, I see.” He blinked back the tears that threatened to fall. He was a soldier, a trained killer. He wasn’t supposed to be emotional. “This is ridiculous. I’m talking to a bloody piece of granite.” The anger hit hard, as it always did, and cursing whatever deity might be listening and mocking his pain, he kissed the top of the gravestone like always and stormed back to the waiting cab. The sooner this job was concluded, the sooner he could leave. Then maybe it wouldn’t hurt so much. He could focus on the job and not the excruciating emptiness.

  As the taxi meandered through the streets, he stared at his ring, wondering why he kept it and why it felt imperative he put it on before visiting his wife’s grave. “Old habits die hard,” he mumbled to himself.

  The cabbie glanced at him in the rearview mirror but didn’t comment.

  Each time Mercer returned from a mission for the SAS, he always put his ring back on before walking through the front door. It meant he was home and that he belonged somewhere. To someone. It was his lifeline, a tether to normalcy, but with Michelle’s final breath, he had lost his footing.

  Over the last two years, his team, particularly Bastian, had tried to act as his moral compass, but often, it seemed it would be easier not to have to worry about such hindrances. When the four of them were employed by Her Majesty, there were no ethical quandaries, just orders. But ever since being forced into an early retirement from the Special Air Service and becoming a personal security specialist, the lines were quickly blurring. If things continued like they were, eventually there would be no more lines.

  The cab halted, and Mercer paid the man, exiting without a word. He trudged back up the steps to his hotel room, planning to spend the next few hours reviewing the building’s layout and memorizing the plan and at least one contingency. Opening the door, he drew his Sig and pointed it at the intruder. The scent of cigarette smoke tipped him off that he wasn’t alone. Constantly on alert, he was trained to decimate anyone who stood in his way or posed a threat.

  “I hope you sent Michelle my best,” Bastian remarked, snubbing the butt in an ashtray.

  “Didn’t you quit?” Mercer asked, annoyed by the intrusion, as he tucked the gun in the holster at the small of his back.

  “That was yesterday. Depending on how tonight goes, I’ll reconsider quitting again tomorrow. But in the event we all bloody well die today, then there’s no reason I should torture myself in these final hours.” He studied Mercer, looking for cracks on his impassive exterior. “Jules, you can’t go on like this. She’s gone. You need to move on.”

  “I have. Now, are we going to get to work?”

  “No.” Bastian Clarke had been an intelligence analyst. He knew his way around a gun and could hold his own in a firefight, but his real skills came with reading marks, hacking surveillance, and predicting enemy movements. He was also Mercer’s best friend, second-in-command, and the only person not afraid to mouth off. “Hans and Donovan don’t want you on-site. Not today.”

  “Who’s in charge?”

  “Today, I am,” Bastian said, watching as Mercer stalked across the room. “Under normal circumstances, you barely have the rage under control, and with it being Michelle’s birthday, any problem we encounter will turn into a bloodbath.” Bastian lit another cigarette and exhaled. “Maybe you’re okay with the killing, but we’re not mercenaries. Minimal collateral damage, understand?”

  Mercer grabbed the cigarette from Bastian’s mouth and smushed it into the table. “If I’m going through hell, then so are you.”

  “Deal.” Bastian flipped open the dossier they compiled on the kidnapped child, Louisa Hamberson, and skimmed through the information. Mercer had spent the entire week negotiating with the kidnappers on the parents’ behalf, and finally, the two parties agreed on a location for the exchange. Typically, these matters were civil. But sometimes, the human element could get greedy or the package was damaged, and things would turn ugly fast. “It’s still your op, Commander. So why don’t we work on the exit strategy together?” Bastian offered as consolation.

  Julian rubbed the bridge of his nose. He needed an outlet to escape. The woman from the pub didn’t help, visiting the cemetery only exacerbated the situation, and working on a mission he wouldn’t be a part of would just add to his feeling of impotence.

  “Figure it out yourself,” he barked, storming out of the room and slamming the door.

  Since he was stuck in this godforsaken city for another day, he should at least see if any progress was made on finding his wife’s killer. It was the only thing that mattered, and despite his best efforts and the efforts of his team and numerous private investigators he hired, no one was ever caught. The police probably still believed he was to blame, and on those sleepless nights when his past haunted him, he wasn’t sure that he wasn’t.

  Two

  “Rubbish.” Mercer exited the police station.

  He was in a worse mood now than when he arrived. He spent hours at the police station, impatiently waiting for the detective inspector assigned to Michelle’s case to make time to see him. It was a cold case now, but it was the same man who conducted the initial investigation two years ago. After an eternity, the man summoned Mercer to his desk. Silently staring, he sized up Mercer like he was the prime suspect back to gloat. It was sickening. This detective was a moron, and it was no wonder Michelle’s killer was still walking free. If it wasn’t for tonight’s planned recovery, Mercer would have shown the incompetent bastard exactly where he could put his nightstick. But he couldn’t jeopardize the current op or expect any of his teammates
to waste their time bailing him out of jail for assaulting a police officer. Instead, he procured copies of the police reports and left without resorting to physical violence.

  Returning to his hotel room, he sat at the table and flipped through the pages. It was old news. He read the same information hundreds of times, but he couldn’t help himself. Maybe one of these days there would be a new notation or crime scene photo that would lead to the assailant’s identity. And until that day came, Mercer was condemned to read and reread the file.

  After the fourth perusal, he closed the folder, sick to his stomach and trembling. He wasn’t an investigator. His skill set involved precision shooting, tactical response and rescue, and stealth espionage maneuvers. But surely, he must be more competent than the mentally impaired sows that worked for the London police.

  “I’ll figure this out. I will find that bloody motherfucker,” he whispered, pushing away from the table.

  To distract himself, he disassembled and cleaned his handgun, reviewed Bastian’s plan for the exchange, and phoned the Hambersons to make sure the money was ready to go. Hans and Donovan were performing the retrieval, and Bastian would remain outside to monitor the situation and provide any necessary cover support. It was a good plan. Unfortunately, it didn’t involve him.

  Hundreds of push-ups and sit-ups later, Bastian phoned. The exchange went off without a hitch. Hans and Donovan had safely negotiated with the kidnappers and exited with Louisa. Her parents were thrilled to have their daughter back alive and unharmed.

  “I’ve made travel arrangements,” Bastian stated. “After I collect our fee, we’ll head to Heathrow. I don’t see any reason for us to stay in this bloody town another night.”

  “I agree. Where are we going this time?”

  “The United States. We fly into O’Hare and should arrive by the morning.”

  Bastian coordinated their jobs. He had connections to insurance firms and private security agencies, so Mercer didn’t bother to ask why. He simply agreed, assuming it was another kidnapping and ransom case.

  Disconnecting, Julian showered and packed, disassembling the heavy artillery and placing it inside the checked bag. He hoped that airport security wouldn’t confiscate or question the items likely to set the metal detectors abuzz. He couldn’t wait for approval or to send them through the mail. It was time to leave London. And he swore he wouldn’t return home again until he knew the identity of his wife’s killer, and then he would track that man down and leave him bloodied and broken to die slow and painfully.

  Bastian received their compensation and arrived at the airport, money in hand. The four men boarded the plane, exchanging few words. But from the worried looks Bastian tossed in Mercer’s direction, it was obvious he believed the sooner Julian was away from the EU, the better off he’d be.

  The four ex-SAS had been a team for a number of years prior to Julian Mercer’s forced retirement. But after his breakdown, Mercer’s superiors believed he was a liability. He couldn’t control his rage, and he failed to exercise the proper precautions in ensuring his own safety. When he was forced to leave, his team followed suit. Their loyalty wasn’t to the Crown; it was to Julian. Even now, as he became increasingly unstable, the three of them were determined to keep him from coming completely unhinged. If work was something he needed to focus on, then they would find more job opportunities.

  Situated a few rows away from Bastian and Mercer, Hans and Donovan exchanged a look. They never expected to become kidnap recovery specialists. Mercenary work was something they were better trained for, but it was too slippery a slope. Wet work was costly. And after years of carrying out government-sanctioned hits and black ops missions, maybe it was time to earn back some cosmic brownie points. Balance was important, or so Bastian insisted.

  Hans Bauer was a reconnaissance specialist, and Donovan Mayes was an expert at long-distance tactical resolutions. They both favored a more simplistic approach to crisis management, but they were adjusting to civilian life easily enough. They were each a decade younger than Mercer, who recently hit forty, but not remotely as damaged and jaded. They hadn’t seen nearly as many devastating attacks and wars, nor did they come home to find their wife choking to death in a pool of her own blood after being stabbed repeatedly. Although it was Julian’s pain, it sometimes felt like something they all shared. Grief was a burden no one was free from carrying.

  As they hurtled through the sky, Mercer stared out the window into the darkness. At some point he must have fallen asleep because when he opened his eyes, the pilot was announcing they have arrived in Chicago. Stretching in his seat, he realized it was his first dreamless night since arriving in London.

  “Morning,” Bastian commented, gnawing on a drinking straw. “I’ve made room reservations at a four-star hotel since these insurance blokes are picking up the tab. We have a meeting scheduled for this afternoon.”

  “Fine,” Mercer replied, the amusement over Bastian’s nicotine deprivation very obviously played across his face. “And you were worried about how well I was keeping it together.” He snorted and dug out his passport as the plane made a final approach before landing.

  * * *

  “That was a complete waste of time,” Mercer remarked as he and Bastian exited the meeting. The insurance firm wanted to hire specialists to remain behind a desk and crunch numbers before issuing payouts for ransom demands. It was corporate bullshit, and not something any of them were equipped to handle. Hans and Donovan had taken off in pursuit of their own devices, leaving Mercer and Bastian to devise their next course of action. “Now what? I’m sick of being dragged across the globe for frivolous reasons.” He squinted against the bright sunlight that filtered into the lobby.

  “Fine. Our next move is up to you. It’s your call,” Bastian said, stopping at a vending machine on the way out of the insurance building. He offered the snack bag to Mercer, who declined, before shoving his hand inside and devouring a fistful of pretzels. “We’ll go wherever you want.”

  “That’s the bloody problem.” Mercer had taken another stab at the police file before coming to the meeting, and it left him frustrated and irate. “You’re constantly on my back. Just give me some room to breathe. I don’t need a babysitter following me around. Do you think I’m going to blow my bloody head off? Because I promise if that was my intention, I’d have done it by now.”

  “You want some space. Here’s your space,” Bastian yelled, taking a step back. “You know where to find me whenever you’re done having a hissy fit.”

  “And stay away from the nicotine,” Mercer called after him, “because it makes you even more insufferable than usual.” Bastian made a rude gesture and then stormed down the street, heading for Chicago’s rail system, the L. “Good riddance,” Mercer huffed. He finally had the reprieve and privacy he wanted, but now he had to figure out what to do with it.

  He moved throughout the city on foot with no destination in mind. It was unfamiliar territory but easy enough to navigate. The sun set almost an hour ago, and the air had a slight chill to it. His stomach growled, and he stepped into an Irish pub for a pint and some sustenance.

  To his surprise, the place was crowded with young adults. This part of town didn’t seem that trendy, but maybe he was mistaken. He took a seat at the corner of the bar and waited patiently as the world continued spinning around him. After he ate and could no longer tolerate the infernal racket of the pub, he stepped outside. Glancing around, he spotted a sign for the L.

  Waiting on the platform was a collection of various people. Subconsciously, he assessed the group, determining who might pose a threat. The three adolescent men, probably in their late teens, appeared particularly interested in the bags an elderly couple was holding. Mercer took a breath, debating if he would intercede if circumstances presented themselves. It wasn’t his problem or his business, but the thought of getting to knock some punks around did hold a certain appeal. Continuing to watch out of the corner of his eye, the men lost interest in their p
rize and moved away from the platform. Probably for the best, Mercer thought, leaning against a support pole and waiting for the train.

  Fifteen minutes later, the train came, and he boarded, taking a seat in the back corner. As he neared his stop, the brakes squeaked, but there was another unmistakable squeal. It sounded like a woman screaming. Peering through the glass of the subway car, he was positive the sound didn’t originate from the train. As the brakes fully engaged and the doors opened, he cautiously stepped outside. No one else reacted as if they heard anything amiss. Maybe Bas was right, and he was losing it. While walking back to the hotel, his eyes darted back and forth, searching for danger, as he strained to hear any other cries for help.

  By the time he reached the hotel, he was certain he must have hallucinated the entire event. Had he been thinking of Michelle and not realized it? Entering through the revolving door, Mercer found the lobby empty. He went up to his room, unlocked the door, and stepped inside. He was alone.

  Settling into bed, he shut his eyes and forced his mind to go blank. His breathing slowed, only to be kick-started by another blood-curdling scream. It was muffled and must have come from somewhere outside.

  Getting up, he peered out the window. But it was too dark, and the alleys were too dimly lit to see from this height. Reacting, he grabbed his gun and opened the door. He exited the hotel and turned down the street. Half a block later, he heard it again and took off at a fast clip, heading straight for the sound. Rounding a corner, he found a woman on the ground, covered in blood and holding a man in her arms. No one else was in sight.

  “Miss,” Mercer spoke softly, his gun still poised in front of him, “are you okay? Who did this?”

  Spotting the gun, she screamed. This time it was nonstop and deafening. Before he could quiet her hysterics or evaluate the condition of the prone man, flashing lights and sirens pulled up behind him. The police ordered him to drop the weapon and surrender. Despite what Bastian might think, he didn’t have a death wish and complied. Before he knew it, he was booked and thrown into a jail cell.