Defender: Intrepid 1

by Chris Allen

  *

  When Ari eventually returned to the villa, she was radiant, Morgan thought, lightly sun kissed and full of stories of her sightseeing and adventures in the markets. Calm, composed and contented. Happy. Morgan felt the same. He’d lost hours lazing by the pool, swimming, sleeping and reading, and it had done him the world of good, but in spite of his best attempts to be useful, Ari had ordered him to remain on the other side of the kitchen bench, out from under her feet, as she unpacked groceries and stocked the shelves of the cupboard and fridge. Morgan did as he was told, got them both a beer, and assumed the role of spectator, sipping on a cold Corona.

  What a spectacular woman, he thought.

  CHAPTER 36

  BARCELONA, SPAIN

  Out on the balcony, with the golden lights of Barcelona reaching out to gild them softly, Morgan and Ari were luxuriating in the peace and beauty of the distant skyline.

  She was wearing a long silk dress with a colorful animal print design. A single strap snaked around her neck from her breasts and her tanned skin was bare to the small of her back. The material hugged her body tightly to the hips, before falling to her feet, flowing and rippling as she stood against the balustrade. She was looking out across the sparkling diamonds of the city with a champagne flute in hand, a gentle breeze tugging at her hair, blowing flaxen wisps across her cheek and lips.

  God damn it, thought Morgan. Incredible.

  “You know,” Ari began, gently pulling away fine strands of hair from her mouth. “I can’t think of anywhere I’d rather be right now.”

  “That’s a relief,” said Morgan, shaking himself back from the distraction of her. “I thought you might have been ready to trade me in.”

  “Don’t worry, you poor thing.” She smiled up at him. “I’m not doing that just yet, but I’ll let you know. Anyway, I’m serious. After all that’s happened, I can’t believe we actually made it through.”

  “I know what you mean. It certainly makes you appreciate the simple pleasures in life,” Morgan added.

  They fell into a comfortable silence.

  Morgan took her by the hands and drew her closer to him. Ari responded, wrapping her arms around his waist and resting her cheek against his chest. They stood quietly, enjoying the serenity and intimacy that had so naturally developed between them. Then Morgan lifted Ari’s face to his and, looking into her eyes, he kissed her and she kissed him back, slowly. A gentle energy connected them, shielding them in the tranquility of the moment and distancing them from the trauma of Malfajiri.

  Morgan felt the pain in his body subsiding along with his self-control but in the same instant he felt a shift in her body. Gently, she turned from him, hanging onto the balustrade. She paused there for a while, looking out at the city in silence and then sauntered over to a large sofa at the far end of the balcony. She looked back at him and patted the seat beside her.

  Morgan poured her another champagne and glass of red for himself, and joined her on the sofa. As he sat, she leant into him, melting her body comfortably against his.

  “You know, Alex,” she said softly, while he absently allowed his fingers to dance through her hair and drift across her cheek. “I’m in serious danger of falling for you. You should know that.”

  “I don’t blame you,” he answered smartly, then instantly tensed his body as she rammed a well-aimed elbow into him, narrowly avoiding the damaged ribs.

  “It doesn’t mean you’ve got the green light, mister,” she said, sounding a little tipsy. “You need to give me time. I mean, I’m not like you, not used to all this mayhem. There’s been so much that’s happened. I mean, it’s been less than a week.”

  “I understand, Ari,” he said, meaning it. If she needed time, he’d wait. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Where on earth have they been hiding you?” she whispered breathlessly.

  She nestled into Morgan’s chest and, within a few minutes, they both fell into a blissful sleep.

  *

  The scream woke Morgan instantly.

  Ari!

  Disoriented, he ripped the Sig Sauer automatic from beneath his pillow, leapt from the bed, tore open his door and sprinted down the long corridor to her room. His bare feet banged heavily against the wooden floor, echoing throughout the far reaches of the eerily silent house. Brilliant blades of orange light from the narrow cracks around Ari’s doorway sliced into the blackness of the hall like the first rays of sun breaking through a thunderhead-filled sky. Muffled sounds came from inside the room. A struggle? Christ! What the hell?

  “Alex!” he heard her cry. “Alex!”

  He burst through her door, gun up, ready to fire.

  The bedside lamp was on. There she was. Beautiful. Frightened. Sitting bolt upright among the pillows with the top sheet clutched protectively to her chest. Her hair was ruffled above naked shoulders, eyes and mouth agape. Morgan scanned the room: windows, dark corners and recesses. His radar in overdrive, the gun barrel traveling in perfect unison with his eyes.

  Nothing.

  Nothing?

  “Ari,” he said, still scanning. He stepped into the room, urgently wrenching back curtains, tearing at empty shadows. “What is it? I heard you scream.” He dropped flat to the floor, straining to see through the black void beneath the bed. “Are you OK?”

  “I … I had a bad dream,” she whispered, embarrassed, “… and I must have screamed in my sleep. I woke myself up.”

  “A bad dream?” Morgan said from the floor, rolling onto his back. He let out a deep breath and began to shut down from attack mode. He picked up a pair of her pajama shorts and a singlet that had fallen from the bed and got to his knees.

  “Yes,” she replied indignantly. “Then I heard all that booming along the corridor coming straight for my door and you come bursting in here with a gun. It startled me. Where were you? Why am I in here alone?”

  A smile slowly began to creep across Morgan’s lips. “A bad dream,” he said again. Clutching at his ribs, he got to his feet and walked over to her. He sat down on the edge of the bed inches from her, smiling, and handed over her discarded sleepwear, which she snatched from him. He placed the gun discreetly behind the lamp on the bedside table. Her adorable pout was trying hard to gestate into a smile but she was holding on tight.

  “Are you OK now?” he asked.

  “I suppose so,” she answered coyly. “Where were you?”

  “Well, we both fell asleep outside. I woke up a bit later. It was getting pretty cool, so I thought the chivalrous thing to do was to put you to bed. I grabbed a spare room down the hall.”

  “So, how did I end up naked?” Her admonitory tone belied her real thoughts.

  “That, my dear, is a mystery to me,” Morgan answered honestly.

  There was that smile, he thought. Ever so slight.

  She held his gaze and sensed the raw energy of the adrenalin-induced rush slowly subsiding throughout his body; it was intoxicating. This was the other side of Morgan, the dangerous side she’d witnessed so vividly in Malfajiri. His presence was magnetic and she could barely contain the urge to tear the T-shirt from his body. She allowed her eyes to wander across his heavy shoulders beneath the stretched white cotton fabric and down the contoured expanse of his arms. A fine sweat had broken across his brow and his breathing was deep but controlled.

  “Oh God,” Ari whispered softly. “Stay with me.”

  “Ari,” he began, “there are a thousand different reasons why I shouldn’t.”

  “I know.” With tantalizing authority, Ari pulled at his T-shirt, tugging it over his head before throwing it to the floor on the far side of the room. She pushed her fingers through Morgan’s hair. They gazed at each other, their breathing betraying them. The big house wrapped them in a cloak of warmth and confidence. Nothing else mattered any more. “But there are a thousand other reasons why you should.”

  “Perhaps … if I slept over there on the …”

  She drew her soft hands across his body, explorin
g, reaching for him and pulling herself closer.

  “Is this going to be OK?” she whispered in his ear as her hand brushed over the bandaging of his chest.

  “I think so,” he answered. “But, be gentle. I’m fragile.”

  “Of course you are.”

  Their eyes locked above illicit grins. Ari turned the bedside lamp off and the ambient glow of the moonlight streamed in through the windows.

  Morgan leant into her, gliding his fingers over the soft skin of her face and neck. He drew her to him easily and kissed her, feeling that delicious electricity as her breasts pressed against him. Her back arched and her slender legs stretched beneath the covers. Morgan pulled the sheet away, ran his hands along her thighs, and then slid her closer. He kissed her slowly and deeply. Her tongue flicked and teased in his mouth. They explored each other in oscillating waves of intensity and tenderness, savoring the caress of skin upon skin. The urgency of discovery grew with every touch and breath.

  Abandoning all her fears and uncertainty, Ari reached for Morgan, pulling at the waistband of his boxers.

  “Let’s get you out of these.”

  CHAPTER 37

  LONDON

  SIX WEEKS LATER

  Oblivious to his surroundings, Gregory Cornell headed south past the Houses of Parliament, along Abingdon Street toward the Victoria Tower Gardens. Although desperate to look like a man in control, his gait betrayed him.

  Cornell kept the collar of his overcoat turned up, constantly tugging it around his face. It was an involuntary gesture to withdraw from prying eyes, of which he knew there were many. He had no choice. His only option was to make the call.

  Suddenly, Cornell felt a heavy shove that sent him stumbling across the pavement.

  “Sorry, bud,” came a shocked but friendly voice. A young American couple had come from out of nowhere, blindly flicking through a fistful of novelty postcards. The young man was quick, a linebacker type, grappling Cornell easily with one arm and hoisting him back to his feet.

  “Really sorry, man. You OK?” The young man continued to attend to Cornell, steadying him and straightening his overcoat.

  The aggrieved Cornell lashed out, pushing him away. “Bugger off!”

  “God, I’m so sorry.”

  The apology was ignored and Cornell scuttled off. He could hear the couple’s laughter as they headed off in the direction of Trafalgar Square. He pushed his way through the tourists and locals on the footpaths of Westminster.

  Far behind him now, the young American man took a phone from his pocket, dialled and, speaking in a distinctly East End accent, said: “Yeah, guv, I got it on him. You should be picking up sound soon. Dave’s covering him on foot.” A pause. Listening. “Yes, guv. He’s still got the other tail. Same two we spotted yesterday; two blokes … No, not today, but we did get some shots of her late yesterday. She was sitting a few tables away from him at his local in Richmond … that’s right, at the Duke.”

  Cornell made a sudden change of direction, as he’d been taught to do, through Great College, Cowley and then Great Peter Street. He carried on along Marsham until he found a public phone. He fumbled with a pre-paid card and tapped in the number he’d memorized. At the other end, the number began to ring.

  “Yes?” came the clipped answer.

  “I need … help.”

  “Who’s speaking, please?”

  “It’s me …” he began, then cursing and correcting himself, said very quickly, very quietly: “It’s Pisces! Pisces! It’s regarding our … mutual friends. Recent events. Need to see you.”

  “That’s not possible, I’m afraid.”

  “I need to meet with somebody. They’re onto me, I know it … I can’t … I have to get out. Have to get away. Somewhere. Anywhere. Fast. Please …”

  “Very well. Will be in touch soon.”

  “Hello? Hello?”

  The line was dead.

  “Blast! Blast!” Cornell cursed as he slammed the phone back into its cradle twice. He stormed from the booth. Directionless, he started along Horseferry Road, and then stood for a moment on the approach to Lambeth Bridge. His faculties finally returned and he scampered north, back to the Foreign Office.

  *

  Abraham Johnson slipped the phone back into his coat pocket and let out a long, controlled breath through pursed lips. Damn him!

  “Are you quite alright, sir?”

  “Yes. Yes, I’m fine. Thank you.” He shifted awkwardly at his window looking out onto Whitehall. “Please proceed. No, wait.” He ran a hand across his unfashionably slicked hair. “Get Miss Halls on the phone.”

  *

  Cornell was hurrying back along Whitehall. He had tried to be careful. He’d stopped himself from calling many times because he’d been told only to call the number in absolute emergencies. He didn’t even know the man at the other end, the one who called the shots. Cornell had passed on the information he’d been required to when he had received his last instructions. He’d given every detail he had access to concerning Namakobo’s whistle-stop visit to London. They’d made their move and that was to be the end of it as far as Cornell’s involvement was concerned. It wasn’t his fault that they hadn’t killed Namakobo. He just wanted his money. Wanted to be done with it.

  Fifty feet behind him, a solidly built man with slightly graying hair and a cheerful face sauntered casually along Whitehall, snapping pictures of various buildings and statues, George – Duke of Cambridge, Alanbrooke, Slim, Montgomery and the Cenotaph among them. Keeping his distance from Cornell, Senior Constable David Ingham was one member of a team that had been following his movements that day. Over the past few weeks, the teams had changed on a daily basis. And although Cornell, gripped by paranoia, suspected he was being watched, he had not managed to identify any of his newly acquired companions.

  CHAPTER 38

  CAPE TOWN, SOUTH AFRICA

  The clatter and bustle of the busy kitchen carried harmlessly across the empty expanse of darkness that separated predator from prey.

  Just a few short steps away, a couple of oblivious domestic staff prepared the evening meal, while a lethal creature sat quietly in the shadows, watching their every move.

  They had been in clear view for the hour or so he had sat there, scrutinizing their behavior to the last detail. The chef, a young man in checked pants, fussed over the preparations, as he did every night, ensuring that the final details were perfect. Another man appeared, somewhat older than the chef and, judging by his standard of dress, responsible for the household. He entered and exited the scene, continuing a familiar pattern of domestic duties.

  From a surveillance perspective, Maxwell Turner’s regimented routine was a gift. If an enemy had a desire to pinpoint him, day or night, the chances were better than even that he could.

  Lundt felt as though he’d done this kind of thing a thousand times before, sitting in darkness, analyzing the patterns of an enemy’s activity. “Time spent in reconnaissance is never wasted” – advice that had been drummed into him all those years ago as a young soldier always found its way back to him.

  When the evening meal got underway, the chef was pottering around in the kitchen, no doubt ready to respond to last-minute requests. After a while he came outside. He sat smoking and lazing around by the back door until the butler emerged from within the house, joining him for a smoke and announcing irreverently that His Lordship had released them for the evening.

  Lundt maintained his scrutiny of the two, as they stamped out their cigarettes and set about cleaning the kitchen. Choosing his moment, Lundt slipped swiftly past them and into the house undetected.

  That had been at 1945 hours; it was now 2100.

  Lundt waited patiently for the sounds of activity to die down, signalling the departure of the staff and the opportunity to confront Turner alone. He was already familiar with the layout of the house. It was all too easy.

  At 2110, he eased himself from the refuge of an empty walk-in robe located in one of the plush
guest rooms on the second floor. With delicacy and practiced handling, he turned the knob and smoothly opened the door. He stepped into the bedroom and, with a sweeping gaze to take in his surrounds, was at its doorway in a second. With the soft light of the hallway brushing his rigid features, he stepped out, walking hard up against the wall on the balls of his feet, senses on full alert, tingling and alive across every inch of his body. He froze for seconds between each movement, straining to listen for the slightest threat of discovery.

  The Malfajiri operation had fallen apart. Lundt was exposed. Tying up loose ends was essential to his survival.

  CHAPTER 39

  FARNHAM, SURREY

  Walking out of his home at 10 Truro Road, on the outskirts of Farnham, and into the cold, gray morning, his breath forming frosted swirls about his face, Alex Morgan realized how much he’d prefer to be running rather than heading straight to London. He’d missed his early morning run through town – up the hill past Farnham Castle and out along the back road to Odiham and Fleet. He took a moment on the doorstep savoring the icy morning air stinging his nose and ears. It had been over two months – before Malfajiri – since he’d last been able to strap on the trainers and pound some miles around the village.

  Whenever he was at his modest semi-rural sanctuary, he enjoyed the comfortable familiarity of a morning run. But these past weeks, as he recuperated under the watchful eye of doctors and physiotherapists, there’d been no running. Of course, he’d suppressed the pain when he had been with Ari, wanting to make the most of the time they had together, not knowing how much more there would be.

  Much had happened since his return from Africa, including the funeral service for Sean Collins. It had gone well, as well as any funeral can, but it inevitably became the usual rounds of “I’m very sorry”, “He was a good man” and “You should be very proud of him”. The fact was that Collins had been brutalized, tortured beyond recognition, dismembered and burned, and his scraps thrown into the grounds of the British embassy in Malfajiri. Of course, nobody at the funeral knew that; they’d been fed some bullshit about an IED in Afghanistan. So during the service and the drinks afterwards, Morgan kept to himself as much as possible, only occasionally engaging with some old familiar faces from the Parachute Regiment, all the while struggling with an irrepressible frustration that he hadn’t hunted down Lundt for selling out Collins. But that trail had gone stone cold.