Defender: Intrepid 1

by Chris Allen

  The waters pulled at Sutherland as he dived for Halls. Chuck kept the chopper directly above. With the spotlight on them, he guided Sutherland toward her, floating face down.

  *

  Morgan landed on the deck of the Sea Ray with a boom, the impact shuddering first through his knees and then jarring his body. The enraged Victor Lundt could scarcely believe his eyes.

  “You fucker, Morgan! I should have known!” he screamed through the rain. “Won’t you ever die?”

  “You’ve had your day, Lundt,” Morgan spat. “It’s over.”

  Lundt reached for a long-handled, serrated grappling hook and coiled his reptilian fingers around it. Thus armed, he hurled himself at the Intrepid agent, thrusting the weapon with erratic, maniacal stabs. Morgan dodged and swayed against the attack like a drunken sailor traversing his ship in rough seas. The seesawing of the deck worked in Morgan’s favor, making it almost impossible for Lundt to find his target. When a crash of waves pelted the decks and Morgan lost balance, Lundt made contact – the point of one of the three curled blades bit into the back of Morgan’s leg, its razor-sharp metal point slashing through his flesh. Morgan howled but rolled away in time to avoid another stab. A massive anvil of water fell upon the boat, dropping Lundt to his belly and Morgan to his back. Lundt dropped the grapple, shook his head and launched at Morgan, fists thrashing.

  The two fell in a death struggle, entangled, each fighting to subdue the other within the eerie darkness that swam across the decks. Fists and feet flew in a frenzy of uncontrolled violence while all around pitiless winds shrieked, rain pounded and huge waves crashed, threatening to capsize the boat as it careened pilotless across the harbor. Lundt had his hands clasped tight around Morgan’s throat, thumbs clawing for the windpipe. But Morgan had waited too long for this moment. He knew that by night’s end he would have blood on his hands – Lundt’s. Swift retribution for the thousands Lundt’s guns had killed, for the young fellow in the park, whose only mistake was to get in the way, and for Morgan’s friend, Sean Collins, doing his duty only to be betrayed in order to save Lundt’s miserable skin.

  At that moment, Morgan had no conscience. There were no rules out here, no police, no judges or juries, no Intrepid, no General Davenport, no control. Morgan was an animal with a blood lust, just like Lundt.

  It was the only way.

  ‘Shock! Stun! Blitz!’ The mantra of one of his old unarmed combat instructors rang in Morgan’s memory. Shock! In one rapid, skilled movement, Morgan freed his arms and struck inward, hard and fast, with cupped hands at Lundt’s exposed ears. The impact was sudden and powerful, and Lundt instantly released his grip on Morgan’s throat, dazed for a precious speck of time. It was all Morgan needed. Stun! Back on his feet, he grabbed Lundt’s shirt front with one hand and drove the other in a closed fist straight for Lundt’s throat. The blow connected, driving Lundt backward into the cockpit, gasping for air. Morgan followed. Blitz! He was upon him in a second, and struck at Lundt furiously, over and over until the man yielded. With savage intensity, Morgan continued to punch and kick the stupefied, bloodied figure back into a corner against the control panel.

  Another mighty wave struck the Sea Ray, scattering them across the decks.

  Lundt clawed back to his feet, using the wheel to drag himself up. Morgan was crouching, hanging onto the ropes around the camping gear, the SIG Sauer P226 in his hand.

  “You’re finished, Lundt,” Morgan shouted over the storm. “You’ve exceeded your shelf life.”

  “Who do you think you are?” Lundt spluttered through bloodied lips and teeth, looking about him, probing the rain and estimating the distance to the shore. “You think you’re saving everybody, but you’re not. The ones I work for, they’re still going to do what they do. If they don’t do it this time, they’ll do it next time somewhere else. And they’ll keep doing it. I told you before, they’re too big for you. You can’t be everywhere!” Lundt was laughing. In the darkness, out of Morgan’s sight, he was reaching around behind his back. “You self-righteous prick.” With that, Victor Lundt pulled the Walter P99 from the holster on his belt.

  But Morgan saw the movement. He fired without hesitation and kept on firing, as he had in training down in the Pit with Rodgers just a couple of days before. And as in his session with Rodgers, every one of his rounds found their mark, hitting Lundt’s chest directly over the heart. Lundt cried out in shock and pain, but still managed to fire two rounds just as another huge wave hit the Sea Ray.

  *

  Sutherland grabbed Halls under her arms and lifted her semiconscious body as high as he could, trying to keep her head out of the water as he struggled to swim back toward the winch harness. Chuck was above them, the searchlight isolating them in the stormy harbor. Sutherland could see the bright orange harness being lowered to them. He reached for it, floundering as wave after wave sought to take them both under. Sutherland grabbed desperately at the harness and then, with another crushing wave, he lost it.

  “Jesus!” he exclaimed, punching a fist onto the churning water. “Hang on, honey. We’ll get you out of this.” But the harness remained elusive. Halls, unconscious, was a dead weight in his arms, while the pain of his injured knee tore at him with every kick he made to keep them both afloat. A crushing wall of water fell upon them, followed by more in rapid succession. He hungrily gulped down oxygen at the first break in the onslaught. Halls was almost torn from him, but Sutherland held fast. Finally, after several more attempts, his right arm was through the harness again. Exhausted, he held on with everything he had left, and launched Halls safely through its yoke. Then forcing himself in and holding on tighly to her, Sutherland gave Terri the thumbs up.

  An explosion rocked the PolAir BK-117.

  Lundt’s gun had missed Morgan but both rounds slammed directly into the gas bottle at the back of the boat.

  Chuck was forced to pull hard to starboard to avoid the monstrous fireball that erupted skyward, threatening to envelop them. The sudden maneuver dragged Sutherland and Halls through consecutive walls of waves that hit them hard. Sutherland gasped as gallon upon gallon of water was forced into him. Struggling to hang on, he thought that he’d lose Halls, but his grip was so tight around her that he was more in danger of breaking her bones.

  Up on the chopper, Terri scrambled back to her feet after having been punched to the floor by Chuck’s rapid change in direction. When she saw the harness disappearing into the waves, her heat sank. “Oh, Jesus!” she cried. But as quickly as the sea had risen, it fell away and Sutherland and Halls appeared. Terri began the winch, dragging their limp bodies up to the safety of the cargo bay.

  With Sutherland and Halls aboard, Chuck immediately swung the chopper back around and headed straight down to the burning wreckage of the Sea Ray. There was no sign of Morgan.

  “Where’s Morgan?” yelled Sutherland from the cargo hold, cocooning Halls in blankets.

  “You don’t want to know, sir,” replied Terri from the door, her concern clearly reflected in her expression. “The boat’s blown to pieces. Better do another sweep, Chuck,” Terri said into her headset, then looked at Sutherland. “We’ve got to hope he’s still alive.”

  “Alex,” Halls croaked from behind them. “Morgan! Is he here?” Just the mention of his name had brought her back to life.

  “Tell him to search all the way out to the edges of the wreckage, Terri,” said Sutherland. “He’s down there somewhere.” She nodded and relayed the message to Chuck.

  They had been searching for almost twenty minutes, finding nothing but debris, and Chuck reported that he was low on fuel. The Sea Ray had been reduced to kindling.

  “There,” came a feeble voice from the port-side window.

  Sutherland turned to find Halls huddled against the cargo hold door on the opposite side. With blankets still wrapped tightly around her, she was resting her tired, beautiful face against the Perspex. Tears were welling in her eyes.

  “There’s a man down there,” she said.<
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  EPILOGUE

  TO THE BRAVE BELONG ALL THINGS

  CHAPTER 64

  BELGRAVIA, LONDON

  There was nothing quite like a peaceful Sunday afternoon in London. It was rare for them to have time alone in the townhouse. Normally it was only their weekdays spent in the city, but lately Abraham seemed to have so much going on that weekends in London were more frequent. Of course, the children were happy to stay on at home in Exeter. Their university friends were down there and, these days, they would only ever venture up to London for shopping, or if they had something particular to do.

  So it was that Lydia Johnson found herself satisfied after a magnificent lunch and ready to wile away a couple of hours with a novel while Abraham buried himself with yet more work. He had been particularly agitated over the past few days, glued to the news, the telephone and his computer. She knew better than to press. It was always work, always hush-hush. Anyway, they would have a cocktail together at five – that was her rule on Sundays, no matter what – and then bridge with the Powells, before a light supper at any one of their favorite restaurants.

  Richard, the butler, had set out a tray with her tea in the sitting room, returning to the basement to conduct his weekly inventory of the pantry. Lydia had just retrieved the novel from her bedside table and was looking forward to a nice cup of tea when there was the shrill sound of the front door bell.

  “Oh, really!” she said aloud, exasperated. “Now, who could that be?”

  She answered the door herself.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Johnson,” said a very distinguished man. He was tall and impeccably dressed, and had a gray beard trimmed with military precision. Another man was with him. “I’m terribly sorry to impose upon your Sunday afternoon.”

  Lydia Johnson was taken aback. His face was familiar, but not sufficiently so to warrant an immediate recollection. Summoning all of the charm and dignity that only the finest upbringing provides for just such a socially awkward circumstance, Lydia gave a captivating smile, buying time as she trawled through her memory for an answer. Yes, there it was. But why the dickens was he here?

  “General Davenport,” she answered graciously. “Not at all. How delightful to see you again. Are we expecting you?”

  “I’m afraid not. Is Abraham in?”

  “Yes, of course. Do come in.” Lydia Johnson eased the door open to allow Davenport and his colleague to enter. She affected all the congeniality she could muster, while her heart leapt to her throat. What on earth? Davenport entered courteously. But the man with him was not introduced. He was solidly built and, like Davenport, well dressed. He was handsome, she noted, but the eyes suggested that a dangerous creature lurked beneath the surface. There was evidence of bruising around his left eye and cheek, and she could see surgical plaster below the cuff of his right sleeve. His silence and proximity were menacing, and Lydia felt her voice waver as she called for her husband. “Abe?”

  Abraham Johnson entered the hallway and saw Davenport and Alex Morgan standing in his foyer.

  “Nobby? How nice!” But Johnson’s face betrayed him.

  “Abraham,” Davenport replied curtly. “Might we have a word?”

  “Yes, of course. This way.” Johnson reluctantly gestured toward his office. “Darling, perhaps you might ask Richard to rustle up some coffee.”

  “We shan’t be staying, Mrs. Johnson. Coffee won’t be necessary.”

  Lydia Johnson nodded obediently at the general, gave her husband a troubled look, and vanished toward the back of the house.

  Davenport and Morgan sliced through the residence like an invading armada sailing through the waters of a vanquished enemy. Johnson was pulled in their wake into his own office.

  Davenport took a seat on the luxurious claret leather sofa, and gestured Johnson to take a place directly opposite him. The direction nettled Johnson, but he took his place. Morgan closed the door and remained standing by it, his face impassive, cold.

  “Now, what’s this all about, Nobby?” Johnson asked, trying to remain composed. “I mean, surely we could have met at the office—”

  “I’ll not mince words,” Davenport began. The civility had left his voice. It would not return. “Your boy made quite a mess in Australia, Johnson. I’m sure you know perfectly well why I’m here.”

  “I’m sure I do not,” replied Johnson defiantly. “My boy? What on earth …?”

  General Davenport remained silent, but drew a number of items from a battered brown leather satchel and laid them out on the coffee table. He described each in turn.

  “Transcripts of intercepted telephone conversations between you and Messrs Cornell, Turner and, of course, Lundt. The recordings have been through the usual digital voice pattern recognition examination and confirmed to be you and your confederates. Mr. Turner was found murdered in South Africa, but had seen fit to leave a rather detailed epitaph with his lawyers, to be opened in the event of his death – a premonition of some sort. Copies of that document and various items of correspondence detailing your actions on behalf of the Renegade Group, notably interests in diamonds and rutile mining operations in Malfajiri. These were retrieved from a USB confiscated from Mr. Turner.”

  “Purely circumstantial, general,” Johnson hissed. “You’ll never be able to make any of it stick.”

  “Photographs of Dr. Siziba arriving at and entering this very residence a week or so ago, including a very congenial photo of you both, snapped as he was leaving two hours later. They call him the Butcher in Malfajiri. Rather questionable company for the heir apparent to one of the Foreign Office’s most senior appointments, wouldn’t you say? And then there are the statements of your financial affairs, which I also have, dating back fifteen years.”

  Johnson’s features had taken on a ghostly palor. His jaw fell slack.

  “Finally, a signed deposition by Mr. Gregory Cornell, late of the Foreign and Commonwealth Office. A telling tale indeed!”

  “Alright, Davenport. How am I to sing for my supper? I’m sure not even you would be prepared to be the architect of such a scandal. You’ll never form a watertight case against me. But I’m prepared to go quietly …”

  Morgan’s fists clenched by his sides until they cracked audibly and a long hiss of suppressed rage escaped him. Heat built within his body as he stifled the urge to spring across the room and tear Johnson limb from limb. Davenport sensed it. He continued, undeterred.

  “You used your position and influence over many years to amass wealth and other considerable benefits at the cost of thousands of innocent lives. Your ability to be of influence, of course, grew exponentially as your career took you within reach of permanent appointment to your current role with, no doubt, aspirations to be appointed head of the Foreign Office itself. I once told Major Morgan here that you were driven by greed and self-aggrandizement. So, how very like you, Johnson, to consider yourself still important enough as to be worthy of a deal. The prospect of social embarrassment and damage to your reputation must be more than you can bear. However, I’m afraid you won’t be receiving any special dispensation.”

  Johnson shifted uncomfortably as Davenport continued.

  “I’m sure you’re aware that Violet Ashcroft-James has been carrying out a cull of the SIS. She has a number of officers who, like you, considered themselves above the law, no doubt because they enjoyed the support of a very senior member of the diplomatic community – support which I am glad to say has come to an end.” A small clock on the mantel of a Victorian fireplace quietly intoned 3pm. “It was only a matter of time before her investigations linked one or other of them back to you, Johnson. Now all that’s left is to follow the trail to your financial backers. But that’s for another time.”

  Davenport allowed his words to sink in. Johnson sat dead still, hands sweating, flat against his knees. His eyes darted nervously between Davenport and Morgan.

  “Victor Lundt is dead,” Davenport said, flashing a casual glance over at Morgan. “Major Morgan took care of
that, and I’ve done all I can to convince myself that I should not allow him to put you to the sword. Trust me, the thought crossed my mind, and I’m certain he would relish the opportunity.”

  “This is outrageous!” Johnson said indignantly, although his eyes implored mercy. He didn’t allow himself to even look in Morgan’s direction.

  “Outrageous?” Davenport responded, his voice calm and measured. “When I consider the devastation that has resulted from your profiteering, I would think of it more as justice finally being served. But then, we’re civilized people.

  “You know, Johnson, when I was asked to establish Intrepid, I accepted the position on the basis of my faith in the inherent good of humankind. I adopted the motto of the Celts – ‘to the brave belong all things’ – to mark our commitment to defending that faith.” Davenport fixed his stare upon Johnson and his tone became dark and foreboding. “In our line of business, we are on occasion responsible for sending brave young men and women into harm’s way. You know that. The fact that you would deliberately use your own people and others, and put them in harm’s way in order to amass your fortune and further your career is astonishing. To then suggest an out clause is beyond comprehension. No, Johnson, there’ll be no out clause for you. You’re right about one thing, though. We will be avoiding a scandal.”

  The general stood. “Mr. Cornell is currently under the protection of the Metropolitan Police, and will remain so until you have been tried and sentenced. At this moment, Chief Superintendent Hargreaves and his officers from the Special Branch are waiting outside. They will take you from here to Scotland Yard where Commissioner Hutton himself is awaiting your arrival. Once you are in his custody, the wheels of the British justice system will begin to turn. Your trial will be held in secrecy and your sentence passed accordingly. Abraham Johnson will disappear from public life, stripped of status and honors, to rot in a cell somewhere in the bowels of this island.”