by James Quinn
Ignoring the scene of horror mere feet away, he forced himself to snake forward on his belly to peer down at the charnel house that lay beneath him. It was a maelstrom of bodies and blood. The explosives, while not large, had done enough damage in a small space to decimate the majority of the patrons of the casino. A woman in a blue cocktail dress had lost most of her lower limbs and was screaming, a tall black man was spread-eagled across a chair, clearly dead, his face peppered with metal. Elsewhere, bodies were strewn at unnatural and ugly angles.
Then, at the far end of the room, the main doors to the gaming room slowly opened, causing the smoke to billow upwards in the draught. It was a dramatic entrance, almost biblical in its grandeur, thought Gorilla. He watched as three killers, armed with stubby-looking machine-pistols, moved in formation, spreading out across what was left of the large gaming room. Gorilla noted with a professional eye that they looked alert and precise. One man was guarding the exit door, ready to move or kill, while the others scattered around the room, looking for any survivors, fingers off their triggers but barrels pointed and ready.
Then, through the black smoke of the fire, another figure emerged. One that was tall, slender and masculine and, like his cohorts, dressed in an expensive business suit. His face was covered in a black balaclava which completely hid his identity and in his hand he held a Russian-made Tokarev pistol.
He gave a murmured order to his tame gunmen and they set about moving among the dying and the wounded – executing them one by one. Single bangs reverberated around the room, followed by screams, followed by more shots.
The tall figure carefully made his way through the abattoir of bodies until he reached what was left of the centre gaming table. He reached down with one leather-gloved hand and lifted back a quarter of the wooden frame. Beneath it, disfigured but still very much alive, was the body of the Hungarian. The man was panting deeply; his body was hyperventilating and his clothes were covered in the blood and fleshy remains of his blonde escort. The hooker had taken the brunt of the blast.
The tall figure crouched down and carefully, almost lovingly, wiped away with a gloved finger a smear of blood that had coagulated in the Hungarian's eye.
“I… I told them nothing. I swear…” said the Hungarian, through blood-encrusted lips.
The assassin gazed down at the burnt and broken man and said clearly, “Colonel, you did well to survive our little booby-traps. However, it is of no consequence. To betray me is to court death… and death has found you.”
There was a moment of understanding on the Hungarian's face. The massacre in the casino had been carried out purely in order to get near to him and kill him. The assassin took a small, match-box-sized device from his jacket pocket and carefully placed it onto the Hungarian's forehead. He then squeezed the side of the box to activate the device and stood well back. The amount of explosives inside the box was small, minimal; it wouldn't even have blasted open a lock on a door.
But against a human head it was devastating. One moment the Hungarian was staring back at his killer in horror, the next, there was a pop and the Hungarian's head had blown apart, leaving a bloody pulp from the neck up.
Game on, thought Gorilla, as he raised his weapon, took a bead on the nearest gunman below him and fired, taking him out with a single, clean head shot. The killer dropped. Gorilla quickly turned his aim to the man nearest to the doors. The H&K barked three more times as he put rounds into the killer's chest.
The final gunman was in position behind a marble pillar, but, with the execution of his team members, he had quickly sprung into action, darting for cover. It was only the tall assassin who remained stock still. He simply raised his weapon and pointed it in the direction of where the shots from the balcony had been fired from. He held his fire as, from that position, he wouldn't have been able to see the person shooting down on him anyway. Instead, he simply held the weapon in place, finger ready on the trigger in case a target presented itself.
He looks like he doesn't care if he could be killed or not. That's some control, reflected Gorilla. Seconds later, he heard the heavy pounding of footsteps on the staircase that led to the upper balcony.
Gorilla knew what was coming. He was ready. He simply rolled onto his back, braced his feet against the floor, knees bent, and punched out the H&K two-handed along the length of his body, between the 'V' made by his thighs. His trigger finger was ready.
A figure wearing sunglasses and business suit emerged at speed towards the top of the staircase. Gorilla just had enough time to make out the shape of an unidentified machine-pistol before he fired, taking out the front of the gunman's cranium. The killer slithered to the floor and Gorilla heard the sickening thuds of his body rolling slowly back down the staircase.
With the last gunman down, Gorilla rolled onto his stomach, then nimbly jerked his body up so that he was kneeling, protected behind the stone balustrade. He risked a glance and just in time caught the back of the tall assassin moving out through the service exit. As an afterthought, the man discarded the balaclava over his shoulder and went on his way, out into the night.
Gorilla Grant was up and running, hitting the staircase, taking the steps three at a time, one hand guiding him on the handrail and one hand holding the H&K out front as a precaution. He hit the lower floor running, dodging in and out of the bodies and heading for the same service exit that the assassin had used. He shoulder-barged the exterior door open, his weapon up and searching for targets.
The service exit led out into a side street at the rear of the Casino. He led with his pistol up and ready, scanning the dark street ahead of him. Nothing. Gorilla moved quickly, expertly, knowing that time was of the essence here. He searched the corners of the adjacent doorways, but again, nothing.
He had a simple choice – left or right? The right led into a warren of side streets that made up the bulk of the buildings in the centre of Nice. The left led to the seafront and the beach. His reasoning told him that it should be to the right. After all, the assassin could get lost in the mazelike streets relatively easily, especially in the dark. But… there was something nagging at him. Call it a gut instinct, and Gorilla Grant liked gut instincts; they had kept him alive on many occasions.
He paused for a second, slowed his breathing and listened calmly. Nothing… nothing…. nothing… and then there it was – footsteps moving at speed. In the distance for sure, faint, but heading off to his left, to the beach, to an escape route.
His instincts took over immediately. He removed the old magazine from the H&K and slammed in a full one. A quick check to ensure that the weapon had a round in the chamber and he was off, running as fast as he could, determined to catch his quarry.
The speedboat that was waiting for the assassin was a Phantom Venom 4-seater. It was small and it was fast and Gorilla knew that if the tall assassin reached his escape vessel, he would be gone within seconds.
Gorilla had made it to the end of the dark side street and he burst onto the brightly lit main seafront. The first thing that he was aware of was the small number of passers-by coming to look at the smoke drifting up from the casino windows and, in the distance, the blare of sirens. The second thing was the dead DST bodyguards strewn over the official vehicles. Then his eyes sought out his target, the tall assassin. The man, his features still hidden to Gorilla, was walking calmly and purposefully down onto the beach and towards the waiting speedboat that was bobbing in the surf.
No fucking way, sunshine, thought Gorilla. You may think you have control of this, but I'm here to spoil your day.
Gorilla sprinted across the road, ignoring the late-night revellers who gawped at the sight of an armed man running at night, and jumped down onto the sand no more than twenty feet away from the assassin. Gorilla had the H&K P9 up and aimed. He had the back of the unknown assassin in his sights. He was lined up and ready when suddenly, the assassin did the strangest thing. It was almost as if he knew that Gorilla was there – almost as if he was expecting him. The assass
in turned and threw what Gorilla thought was a grenade.
Gorilla instinctively flinched and dived off to the side, landing hard on the sand, trying to avoid the inevitable shrapnel from the explosion. But this was no grenade that could kill and maim. At the last minute, Gorilla was aware of a small black object, the size of a soup can, landing mere feet away from him. Then instantly, there was a loud bang and a flash of blinding white light and, for the second time that night, Gorilla Grant's hearing and senses were temporarily knocked out. It was a stun grenade; non-lethal but effective, designed to disorientate, nothing more.
Seconds later, the tall figure was standing over him, a silhouette against the white of the moon. The voice, when it spoke, was surprisingly deep, cultured and accented, like that of a European gentleman addressing an underling. Its tone was kind but authoritative.
“I understand that you are the new me?” said the assassin.
Gorilla, his hearing starting to return but still fading in and out, managed to make out the words, “the new me”. What did that mean? He flicked his head around and saw his H&K P9 lying on the sand next to him. If he was fast, he could reach it. He felt sure he could. He could end this now!
“I don't take too kindly to people trying to take my crown. It has been earned over many years and it is not for you to take, Gorilla Grant,” said the assassin. Gorilla inched his hand along in the sand… inches away from the pistol… within reach, really… but his eyes never left the outline of the tall man standing above him.
“Young upstarts must be taught a lesson. So here, let me be your teacher for tonight.”
The shot was fast and literally came out of nowhere. Gorilla had been aware of the flicking of the elbows, a single flash as the gun barked, and then the pain in his hand. The pain was searing and he lost his mind and howled – whether in fury or agony, even he did not know. His hand! The bastard had put a 9mm sized hole in the back of his hand! Gorilla knew instantly what that meant. Small arms specialists like him with mangled hands were done, over, retired. Dead.
Through tear-filled eyes, he glared at the assassin above him. “Come on, you bastard, just finish it. You've taken my hand so finish me off for good. Bullet to the head. Just get on with it,” said Gorilla, snarling.
The assassin stared for a moment longer, as if unsure what to do, then lowered the gun and slipped it beneath his jacket. He remained staring down at his prey, considering the bloodstained man before him. The moment of calm was broken by the inevitable blare of police and ambulance sirens in the streets above, heading to the carnage at the casino. The assassin picked up the discarded H&K P9 and threw it wildly behind him, out into the surf.
“Try to follow me and you die, Grant. You have my word on that,” he warned.
Then slowly, calmly, he began to walk out into the surf, the water lapping around his waist as he reached the boat. A second figure rose and held out a hand, hoisting the assassin over the side and into the body of the vessel. There was a gunning of the engines as it started to move away from the shore. The figure of the assassin stood proud, unafraid and in silhouette against the dark moonlit night.
Why didn't he kill me? wondered Gorilla. He had no answers. All he had was agonising pain and the realisation that he had been bested. He could do no more than watch as the speedboat began to gather pace and within seconds, it had disappeared into the night.
Chapter Two
LeGrand Clinic, Switzerland – July, 1973
The LeGrand Clinic was ideally nestled amidst the breathtaking mountains and basked in the clean air of the Swiss Alps. It was a private clinic that offered in its literature, 'the best in top musculoskeletal rehabilitation, healthy aging and holistic repair'. It was one of the finest private hospitals on the planet and its clientele were composed of the rich and the privileged who paid for exclusivity and cutting-edge medical treatment.
The fifty room private clinic (complete with state-of-the-art hospital facilities) boasted a Five Star restaurant, well equipped fitness room and a movie theatre and was set amid well-manicured lawns complete with heated swimming pools. In the background, the magnificent snow-crested Alps stood like a guardian to protect the recovering patients. It was a relaxing haven in an otherwise turbulent world and all serviced by an attentive and professional staff.
Jack Grant sat on the open-air terrace, wrapped in a quilted winter ski jacket. LeGrand staff had provided all of these (for a fee) to ensure the safety and comfort of the clinic's clients. A half drunk cup of dark roasted coffee sat on the table before him. His mirrored sunglasses reflected the vista of the nearby mountains and his stillness could have appeared unnerving to the casual observer. He looked like a wealthy businessman taking a moment to reflect upon his recent medical misfortunes, but glad in the knowledge that he had found sanctuary at the LeGrand.
In truth, he was bored. Jesus, this place was numbing his brain!
The past four months had been an exercise in frustration for him. Since his last mission that had ended with the shootout on the beach in Nice, Jack Grant had been mothballed by the SDECE. As far as the French were concerned, he was a busted contract agent – literally and figuratively. His gun hand was shot to hell, hence the series of operations and subsequent physical therapy here at the LeGrand, and he suspected that the reason that they had kept him 'out of the way', here in the clinic in the Alps, was because they were seeing if he had lost his nerve. They wanted to see if the Gorilla was a man who could still offer them something.
The only good thing was that the French had agreed to pick up the tab and get him fixed up with the best surgeons in Europe. They obviously still rated the Gorilla's worth in that sense. After all, every agent has a fuck-up from time to time. It's normal; it's part of the game. The most important thing is that they can come back from it. After all, a gunman and intelligence agent who can't do the job any more would quickly find himself out of work… or worse.
There was no retirement plan in this game, no later life benefits. You worked and worked and retired under your own steam, or you ended up dead. Not that he was planning on retiring any time soon; he had too many good years left in him, busted gun hand or not. And he certainly wasn't planning on leaving the business in a wooden box, either.
He drained the last of his coffee and got to his feet. He had had enough of staring at fucking mountains for one day, so he decided to walk across the gardens and back to his suite. He took his time and ambled. He was in no hurry to return to his luxury room overlooking a stream. In a very real sense, it had become his cell. He felt trapped here and wanted to get back to his own life, his own apartment in Paris… to get back to the work he did best.
He spoke to his daughter twice a week, calling her private boarding school in Hampshire. Since his sister had passed away two years ago, Katy had been even more determined to have her father, her family, around her as much as she could. Grant had stepped up to the mark and between them, they had reached a happy medium. It wasn't perfect, and it wasn't the life that he truly wanted for her but, for the moment, it worked.
Katy still thought that her father was an executive for one of the big oil companies, travelling all over the world, and he was happy to let her carry on believing that. They had the odd weekend away at the end of term, sometimes at his apartment in Paris, sometimes over to the USA, occasionally to Spain for a beach break.
He was extremely proud of her and always enquired after how she was doing at school, what she liked, who her friends were. So far, her big things were science, David Bowie and horse-riding, but not necessarily in that order of importance. They had formed a bond over recent years that he never thought would have been possible; the gruff, world-weary dad and the pretty thirteen-year-old. God, he missed her.
He walked past the reception, nodded to the receptionist and glanced over several brochures in the card holder. Apparently, a Card Club was being held that night – jeez! He was seriously thinking about organising an escape club to see if they could make it over the border!
A few more nods to the 'inmates' and then he climbed the immaculately vacuumed staircase to his room. It was that time of the day when guests were out walking in the hills, strolling in the grounds or visiting their medical practitioners in the clinic, so, for Grant, it was a peaceful time when he didn't have to communicate with people for communication's sake.
As he approached the door to his suite, his sharp, trained eyes noticed that something was amiss. He stood in front of the classically furnished white door and inspected its edges. His eyes stopped upon the corner by the hinge. The small piece of tape that he had fixed to the edge of the door was snapped. It was his own private version of an intruder alarm. He would always fix it in place after the housekeeping staff had completed the daily round of laundry, making the bed and cleaning. So, by 8.30 a.m., the 'intruder alarm' was always in place. And so far, in all of his time here, it had never been broken. Until today.
His hand instinctively reached for the pistol that wasn't there, either on his hip or in the shoulder holster underneath his arm. He scolded himself and clenched his fist in anger. He knew that something wasn't right. Was it an old operation that had come back to haunt him? Was the SDECE's security leaky and the enemy had finally penetrated it to eliminate one of their best operatives? Whoever it was, they had made a clumsy attempt at entering and had been found wanting. Well, bad news for them!
He placed the key in the lock and readied himself to take down whatever was waiting for him in the room. As the key turned, his hand grabbed the handle as he simultaneously pulled and pushed. He burst in, key in his hand, ready to flail and slash and stab.
