STOP AT NOTHING: 'Mark Cole is Bond's US cousin mixed with the balls out action and killing edge of Jason Bourne' Parmenion Books

by JT Brannan

  As he first glimpsed the huge fences surrounding the massive complex, he was reminded of training exercises years ago when he and his men had been engaged on a joint exercise with the British Special Boat Service, the SEALs’ transatlantic cousins. They had been charged with infiltrating the main ferry terminal to leave dummy explosives, as part of an anti-terrorist programme ordered by the Ministry of Defence. Needless to say, it had been a simple enough task, even with security on full alert.

  Now, in the freezing cold of the December morning, he once again approached the fence line with the aim of breaking in. It was ridiculously simple – Cole strolled for less than five minutes around the perimeter before he saw a long stretch of fence in an obviously underused area. He crossed the road after checking that nobody was around, and vaulted the broken-down six-foot chain-link barrier in one fluid motion. And that was it – he was in, completely undetected. He once again marvelled at the people who ran security at such establishments. The area was so big it was simply uneconomic to protect it properly all the way round, and so security was strengthened only at key points, such as the area immediately around the terminal itself. This would at least give the impression of security for the passengers and that, Cole reminded himself, was what it was all about – the perception of safety in the mind of the public. Anyone involved in the business itself knew that there was no foolproof way to protect against a determined intruder, and so seldom even tried. Such resolutely unsecured areas as the point through which Cole had entered were proof positive of that.

  Now he kept to the shadows as he advanced through the compound, moving through the massive storage zones and cargo areas. Whenever passing someone was unavoidable, he merely straightened himself up, nodded at the person and said ‘Morning!’, as if he had every right in the world to be there. And, as always, nobody ever questioned him. Because at an establishment where over ten thousand people were employed, many on temporary contracts, who would know that he didn’t belong there? Cole had long since accepted the truism that when ignorance was mutual, confidence was king.

  At a little before seven in the morning, the first faint rays of dawn only just starting to penetrate the dark winter gloom, Cole arrived at his destination. Even at this early hour, Car Park Four was a hectic cacophony of activity. The next Sealink ferry was scheduled to leave at eight a.m., and already the long queue of vehicular traffic was spread for half a mile along the icy concrete approach-way, the lead cars creeping onto the ramp that connected the mainland to the huge passenger ship that lay floating quietly in the dark waters of the Strait of Dover, the lights from the upper floors struggling to break through the freezing fog that constantly lingered over the English coast.

  Cole identified where the cars were feeding from, and made his way across the car park towards the starting line. He waited in the shadows, observing the scene for some time, until he saw what he was after. Nearby, a man and a woman in their mid-twenties, two young children in tow, approached their car. It was a smallish Toyota hatchback, and as the woman put the two kids into their seats in the back, Cole saw the man talking to her impatiently, before stomping to the driver’s side and slamming the door. Probably stopped off in the main terminal building for a bite to eat and a visit to the toilet for the kids, and now he was pissed off about the surprisingly long queue to the ferry. Ah, the joys of family holidays, Cole thought cynically, as he started his own approach to the small vehicle.

  He advanced on the car from the cover of the line of parked automobiles to the left, crouching low to avoid detection. He waited patiently just yards from the Toyota, and used the time to take off his shoes, removing his socks and wrapping them around his hands before putting the shoes back on his bare feet. He ducked low as all the doors were finally secured and the harassed father got the engine started. Instants before the car moved out to join the traffic, Cole rolled in one smooth motion underneath the chassis, clamping his protected hands around the cold metal front suspension struts and heaving himself from the floor, feet twisting around the rear struts.

  He adjusted position slightly as the car moved forwards, making himself as comfortable as possible. It was a shame that he had to get into position so early – ideally he would have liked to pick a car nearer to the front – but by the time the cars were in the queue, there were large expanses of bare concrete to either side of the line, and his approach would have been easily spotted. As it was, nobody had seen him latch himself to the underside of the Toyota; and nobody, he was confident, would check underneath the car. It was unlikely that anyone would even look inside the boot, even at the security checkpoints just before the boarding ramp. A young family in a small hatchback simply did not attract attention; Cole wondered if they’d even be asked for their passports.

  No, Cole decided as he relaxed all but the necessary muscles, nobody would find him. He would be decidedly cold and uncomfortable for the next forty minutes or so, but it would be no worse than many other things he had done, and actually more pleasant than some. But by eight o’clock, he would be safely aboard the Sealink ferry, undetected by Hansard’s agents, and the first leg of his journey to meet his family would have begun.

  5

  Albright was sitting on the hard deck of the yacht as the sun rose in a brilliant golden hue above the shimmering Caribbean Sea. Such beauty was lost on him, however; his attention was instead concentrated on the small mirror in his hand. The light sea breeze had whipped a lock of blond hair across his forehead, and it needed immediate adjustment. His comb was halfway through the procedure when he felt a tap on his leg. He looked next to him at the prone body of Art Michaels, still in position stretched out in front of his surveillance equipment.

  Albright’s mirror snapped shut, and he got up onto one knee. ‘What is it?’ he asked.

  ‘We’ve got movement,’ Michaels replied. ‘Mrs Cole is getting some things packed up in the children’s rooms.’

  Albright stood up abruptly. ‘That’s it. They’re on the move. Keep watching,’ he ordered as he moved quickly towards the wheelhouse, punching a number into his secure cell phone as he did so.

  Michaels tried to listen to the conversation as Albright left the deck, but only caught the beginning. ‘Sir, it’s Albright. They’re on the move, and – ’

  The door slammed shut, cutting off the rest of the dialogue. Moments later, however, he felt the throb of the engines as they started up, and soon saw the breaking of the waves ahead as the big yacht started heading for shore.

  He could simply hope that the order was still only to follow and observe.

  6

  Sarah took the bags and started packing the car. She could see the yacht out to sea, further out to the west but about three kilometres closer than it had been earlier. They had obviously started their approach, circling in on the location in as subtle a way as they could manage.

  Sarah had started fastening Amy into her child seat in the back of the Range Rover when her daughter looked up and saw her staring over the roof of the car. Caught out, Sarah smiled sheepishly. ‘What is it, Mommy?’ Amy asked.

  Sarah smiled at Amy reassuringly, even though her heart rate was increasing exponentially as she watched the yacht move slowly towards the house. ‘There’s nothing to worry about, honey,’ she reassured her, checking her watch. Almost seven o’clock. She prayed it would work, whilst at the same time fighting the urge to gag as she thought about what she had done. She had always considered herself to be mentally strong, but the fact remained that theory was one thing; practise, especially when people could die, was something else altogether.

  She checked her watch again and returned to the boot, pulling down the tailgate as hard as she could. As she did so, the sharp bang all but completely covered up the low, muffled whump that came from a few short kilometres offshore.

  As she opened the driver’s side door, the children noticed the smoke and low-level flame on the nearby horizon. ‘What’s that?’ Ben asked, pointing.

  ‘Ooh, pretty!’
Amy said, giggling.

  Sarah looked back over her headrest and smiled. ‘Just some early New Year fireworks, that’s all. You’re right though, Amy. It sure is pretty.’

  Two twelve-kilo limpet mines would not be pretty for the men on the yacht though, she was sure of that.

  But her children were safe again, and that was all that mattered.

  7

  It was only a short while later that Sarah found herself scanning the small departure lounge at Owen Roberts International Airport, senses alert. She was no professional when it came to counter-surveillance, but her husband had developed the natural instincts that she did possess into a passable approximation. He had taught her the basic skills of the trade, and now she was following routines that Mark had made her practise many times in the past.

  To avoid detection, they might ordinarily have taken the family yacht the 400 kilometres across the Caribbean to Miami. But there was now the danger that they could be attacked at sea, because even though she had disabled one enemy vessel didn’t mean that there weren’t more.

  It was therefore decided to revert to the secondary plan, and so the family had taken the island hopper from Cayman Brac to Grand Cayman, and then stayed at the airport to get a direct flight to Miami.

  Sarah finished her inspection of the varied commuters, and finally turned her attention back to Ben and Amy. ‘How about some ice cream?’ she said as calmly as she could, trying to hide the adrenalized pumping of her heart, which had been working overtime since the explosion near her house.

  The fact was that there were simply not that many ways to leave the Cayman Islands. Even if there was nobody watching here, it wouldn’t take a genius to figure out that they would be connecting with Miami. They were even using their real names and passports, at least for this initial part of the journey.

  Sarah knew that Miami would be where the real work would start, and where their counter-surveillance would have to be operating on overtime for them to get clear of anyone waiting for them. Se only scanned the crowds at the airport out of habit, and just in case an attack was made. She thought that such an attack would be highly unlikely however, especially in such a crowded, security-conscious place such as an airport.

  Besides which, Sarah had a feeling that if there had been orders to kill them, they would have already been carried out. But the yacht had only started moving when it became apparent that the Cole family was leaving. It therefore seemed that the men’s orders had been to follow, perhaps with the hope that the family would lead them to Mark.

  Sarah grimaced internally. If that was their plan, then she’d have to make bloody sure that they weren’t followed in Miami, for everyone’s sake.

  8

  The passenger information came chattering over the secure connection onboard the private plane Albright had chartered that morning.

  He scanned down the list, seeing what he needed – Mrs Sarah Cole, Ben Cole, Amy Cole, Flight 983 to Miami International; leaving in just under an hour and getting in at 1305 local time.

  Albright allowed himself a satisfied smile. He had guessed right, and the small Gulfstream jet would get him to Miami a full two hours before his quarry, giving him time to liaise with Hansard’s men there, and to set up their surveillance operation.

  Still smiling, Albright snapped open his small compact, the mirrored glass of which was now cracked down the middle. As he examined himself, the smile vanished. His hair was a mess, dark with sweat and salt water, and his eyes were puffy and bruised, his jaw line swollen. Cuts crisscrossed their way across his tanned face.

  Most of the men from his detail were dead – only two others had lived through the devastating explosion, and they were both in intensive care. But as he stared at himself in the broken mirror, he didn’t feel lucky.

  Albright had been lucky, however, the main bulkhead in the dive room protecting him from the full force of the blast. He’d managed to get out of the yacht through the immersion chamber, and had found one of the SDVs just below, blown free from its mooring under the bow by the explosion.

  He had piloted the machine to shore, calling in the emergency and making straight for the airport, shrugging off the superficial injuries he had sustained. The other men were pulled from the wreckage by a rescue team just twenty minutes later, which was considerably too late for most of them.

  It did not take long for Albright to figure out what had happened – he knew the effects of mines as well as anyone. He also knew that he had made a potentially fatal error – he had underestimated this woman, Sarah Cole.

  As he snapped the compact shut again, disgusted by his appearance and deciding that he would take a shower and clean himself up at Miami International before anything else, he thought about Sarah, and knew for a fact that he would not let himself make the same mistake again.

  9

  Cole’s back touched down on the cold metal floor of the second-level parking zone, his muscles at first relaxing, before cramping up agonizingly. He had been clinging to the Toyota’s chassis for over an hour, and although he had adopted the most comfortable posture available, he had known that muscle cramps would be inevitable. And so he knew he just had to lie quietly and ride out the pain.

  As his mind cleared, he considered his options. The car had been parked for the last twenty minutes, and Cole had still waited, suspended underneath the car, until all the passengers on this level had left for the comforts of the lounge above. He had only let himself slide down to the floor when he could detect no further presence in the parking area – no radios, no doors shutting, no children shouting, no drunkards singing. All was silent, and he was now free to move around the huge vessel like any other passenger.

  The lure of a cold beer at one of the bars was certainly tempting, and yet he hesitated to move. Going above to the public areas would certainly be the more comfortable option, but it would not be the wisest. Although he had boarded the ferry undetected, he knew Hansard might have men stationed on all boats leaving port, including this one. Cole didn’t know whether his old boss would have had the time, or the manpower, to launch such an operation; it didn’t seem likely, but he simply could not afford to take the chance.

  As his muscles eventually began to properly relax and feeling started to return to his limbs, he considered another of his options. He could access the service areas, and hide within the operational bowels of the massive ship. It would certainly give him room to stretch out, whilst keeping him away from other passengers, and possible agents. But the chances of a crew member stumbling upon him were too great, and then the options would be to either succumb to arrest, or silence the crew member, and Cole wanted to avoid that at all costs.

  And so he decided on his third and final option – just stay exactly where he was, keeping himself as warm and mobile as he could, and leave for France underneath the same car he had come in on.

  Cole considered briefly the possibility of being found under the vehicle, but thought it unlikely. The cars were densely packed and, even lying on the floor, it would be almost impossible for someone standing up to see him. A child perhaps, but he didn’t think it likely that parents would let their children wander around the parking area. If anyone did happen to bend down further, he could just pull himself back up underneath the car anyway, and then someone would really have to be looking in order to see him.

  A drink, some food, a new set of clothes – all these things would be nice, but they could wait until he was in France. He had been hungry, thirsty, cold and wet before, and he adjusted easily to the discomfort. He had gone through the infamous Hell Week during SEAL training when he was just eighteen years old – five and a half days with only four hours sleep, exercised for twenty hours a day in the freezing cold mud and water of Coronado, running over two hundred miles with his buddies, more often than not carrying an inflatable boat over their heads as they did so. This would be a walk in the park in comparison.

  As he started to roll from one shoulder to the other, flexing his arms to
get some mobility back and start the blood flowing again, he wondered about his family. Where would they be now? Plane or yacht, he decided, headed for Miami. They’d have to work hard there, he knew, to avoid being followed. Cole didn’t think Hansard would kill them; not yet, anyway. They were too valuable alive, and Cole knew Hansard would be trying to follow them in the desperate hope of finding him.

  It would be tough, but Cole thought Sarah would be able to lose their tails; the route Cole had planed for them was good, and they had practised the drills many times.

  He thought about Ben and Amy, wondering how they were doing, whether they realized things were bad, or whether Sarah’s brave face was convincing them that it was all just a fabulous adventure.

  He snapped himself out of his reverie instants later; he couldn’t afford to lose his concentration for a moment. If he was killed or captured, he knew Hansard would have no more need for Sarah and the children; and so maybe he would kill them to tie up the loose ends, or maybe he would just let them go, but Cole couldn’t afford to take the risk. He had to keep himself safe, if his family was to have a chance.

  10

  Ten minutes later, Cole was glad that he had kept his senses alert. Noises, but faint – footsteps? He listened closer, tuning himself totally to the environment.

  Two men, moving slowly, methodically. Doing what? Cole listened harder as he pulled himself up again under the Toyota. Checking cars; they were checking cars! Cole cursed silently. He didn’t know whether it was a routine security patrol, ordered to makes extra sweeps to check for the ‘escaped terrorist’, or whether they were Hansard’s own men. If they were the latter, Cole was under no illusions that their orders would be to kill him; Hansard wanted him dead, so why bother with arrest, or other half-measures? No, he had to assume that the men were armed agents, intending to silence him. It would mean quite a drastic change of plan, but Cole was an adaptable man; he had learnt early in his career the veracity of the claim that ‘no plan survives contact with the enemy’.