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

  Below the beta members were the ‘gophers’ – those who served the higher members across the whole spectrum of the American administation, from local police to journalists, and from speech writers to special forces operatives, all doing the work of the Alumni without even knowing who it was they were working for.

  Mancini was proud to be a beta member, one who actually knew what was going on, and was delighted that he would now get his chance to meet the elite members of the core group.

  It was they, after all, who were giving him his chance of redemption.

  3

  Manipulation of people was a skill that Hansard had developed very early on indeed, long before his career in military intelligence had even started. It was something of an innate quality, and one which his privelaged upbringing and education had then honed to a razor’s edge.

  With Mancini, the man had been recruited by Hansard many years ago, whilst still in the United States Army. Back then, Ellen Abrams had been a Senator who had campaigned for the right of American women to fight with men on the front line of battle. She had finally got enough agreement up on Capitol Hill that a special working group was put together to test the feasibility of such an arrangement.

  Private Rebecca Maria Mancini, younger sister of Stephen, was part of that feasibility study, and after graduating near the top of her infantry class, was sent at Senator Ellen Abrams’ recommendation to the front lines of Iraq.

  She lasted three weeks before she was killed, and Hansard had met with her brother soon after, stoking his hatred of Abrams – for Hansard had already foreseen that she would one day be President.

  Hansard had then brought Steve Mancini on board to his programme, encouraging him to leave the Army and join the Secret Service, where Hansard’s connections helped him to quickly climb the ranks, with the aim of one day being on the Presidential detail.

  But Hansard’s manipulations had not ended there – he had also ensured the painful break-up of Mancini’s marriage by setting up his wife to have an affair, which further increased his hatred of women.

  And then as the years progressed and the time came closer, Hansard arranged for an after-works Secret Service party to leave Mancini drunk in the arms of a street hooker.

  Mancini went privately to a clinic soon after, and then for a second opinion after that, but the verdict was unanimous – Stephen Antonio Mancini was HIV positive, with a bleak outlook ahead of him.

  Not wanting to let the Service – or, indeed, his three estranged children – know about it, Mancini went straight to Hansard and asked for his help. Hansard agreed to help hide evidence of the disease from the doctors at Mancini’s annual Secret Service medical – an easy task, as there was no actual disease in the first place, Hansard having paid the orignal doctors to provide false reports – and to cover it up after his death, which Mancini now fully embraced.

  For instead of crawling away to die quietly in a hole, Mancini would be going out all guns blazing.

  4

  Mancini once again thanked his lucky stars for Hansard’s help throught the years. Hansard had given him something to live for after the terrible death of his sister – revenge on that bitch Abrams, that fucking bitch who sent his little sister out to that shit hole to die.

  But little Becky hadn’t just died, Mancini reminded himself – her legs had been blown off when her platoon had been ambushed up in the northern badlands, and then she had been dragged, still alive, by a four-wheel-drive through the streets of a grotty little town as an example to others, before being beheaded with a long-bladed knife. The footage, filmed by the terrorist group behind the atrocity, never made it on to US television – that bitch Abrams had managed to cover up the whole incident to protect herself, although she never pushed the whole ‘women on the front line’ crap any further afterwards – but Mancini had seen it on the internet, with his own eyes.

  And then after his bitch of a wife had cheated on him, Hansard had been there for him, supporting him through it.

  And now he was HIV positive, Hansard was going to cover the whole thing up, so that his kids would never know – and they would be set for life too, each of his three children set to receive ten million dollars upon his death.

  For he would surely die on this mission, Mancini knew. He would put a bullet through the back of the head of that bitch Ellen Abrams, and he would then aim his weapon at others, and his Secret Service buddies would have no option but to gun him down.

  But what a way to go!

  5

  Hansard stood at the head of the conference table and held up a hand for quiet.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he announced grandly, ‘the time is nearly upon us. I realize that most of us need to be elsewhere tonight to prepare for tomorrow’s events, but I have a special guest with us here, someone who should make us realize what sacrifice really means.

  ‘I know you all know of this man – his name, and his role in the proceedings – but I think it is important for us all to see him, here in the flesh, a member of our group who believes in our aims and ideals so thoroughly, so totally, that he is willing to make the ultimate sacrifice.

  ‘Ladies and gentleman, I give you the man who will willingly die for these beliefs tomorrow; I give you Stephen Mancini, the man who will kill the President of the United States of America!’

  The gathered members of the Alumni roared their appreciation as Mancini entered the room, and Hansard watched the scene with calculating eyes.

  He saw the spirits in the room lift as they saw the patriot who would lay down his life for them, saw the Alumni draw strength from him just as Hansard had known they would, for there was simply nothing as powerful as a human sacrifice. They cheered, they applauded, they whistled, and Hansard knew they would remain strong, and would see it through to the end.

  And then he studied Mancini, a man who had lost his sister, his wife, his children, and now his health, who was being given the chance for redemption, to prove himself as a true patriot, and Hansard watched the man’s private joy as Mancini saw the men and women gathered in the room and realised for the first time the true power of the Alumni. He watched the adulation from the elite group wash over Mancini, and the man seemed to grow physically larger from the attention, swelled with pride at his importance to the group’s plans, and Hansard knew Mancini would not let him down.

  Hansard held his glass up high, and everyone did the same.

  ‘My friends,’ he announced, satisfied at last, ‘the next time we meet will be in a different world.’

  6

  Cole had still not opened his eyes fully, and the nearby guard was unaware that his prisoner was awake, as he continued to tap away at his laptop computer.

  It appeared that Cole and the guard were the only people on board, save for the flight crew safely ensconced in the cockpit. The electromagnets were essentially unbreakable, which accounted for the guard’s lack of interest. He would have been told how dangerous Cole was, but being secured so tightly would give the guard the false confidence that it was a pure baby-sitting job.

  It wasn’t going to be the most comfortable of tasks, but Cole relaxed his body and carried out the first phase of his plan.

  7

  Markus Schoenhoffer stopped typing, sniffing the air of the cargo area. The plane was damn cold – a problem with the cargo areas of military transport aircraft, and one that he was resigned to – and the low temperature tended to make scents carry.

  The job was an easy one, Schoenhoffer reflected. The prisoner was extremely dangerous, but he was both sedated and securely locked into position. The police officer was going through night school to earn his masters in criminal psychology, and the three hour flight would give him some peace and quiet to get the next chapter of his dissertation done; it was due in by the start of the next term, and he had been struggling with finding the time to write it.

  But what was that smell? He sniffed the air again, and then he was sure. Urine. The prisoner had pissed his pants! Of
all the inconsiderate …

  Schoenhoffer put the computer down on the cold metallic floor and got up out of his seat, stretching as he did so. He approached the seated man carefully, keeping his distance. The smell reminded him somewhat of camels at the zoo, and he wondered briefly if the toxicity was somehow related to the sedative the man had been given.

  He sighed. The job was supposed to be easy, but he couldn’t very well sign the man over to his compatriots in Washington with piss all down his legs. In the current climate, there would doubtless be allegations of abuse or neglect, or some other such horse crap.

  He was also worried about the effect of the liquid on the electromagnets securing the man’s legs. He didn’t know much about how the system worked, but was pretty sure urine and electricity didn’t mix. He was also sure that the system was very expensive, and didn’t want to be responsible if it broke.

  Schoenhoffer knew there was only one thing for it, however unpleasant it might be; he would have to use a pair of his own trousers, pulled from his overnight bag, and change the man.

  It should be fairly easy, Schoenhoffer figured. There were two switches that activated the magnetic clamps, one controlling the wrist clamps and the other the ankle clamps, and they could be operated independently of one another.

  He would just disconnect the leg clamps, take off the man’s trousers, clean him up, and then put on the fresh pair – it really was like baby sitting, after all. He would then re-secure the clamps, and go back to his dissertation.

  It would be unpleasant but nothing to worry about. After all, the man was still unconscious.

  8

  Cole heard the guard approach, and the sharp intake of breath as he saw the wet patch around Cole’s crotch.

  Cole then heard him pulling something from his bag, muttering curses as he did so. Probably new trousers, Cole figured. He had known the guard would not want the embarrassment of signing over a prisoner covered in piss.

  His only concern would have been if the guard had not noticed; he knew that scents carried in cold, confined atmospheres, but there was no guarantee it would be picked up. Cole would then have been forced to do something that definitely would be smelled by the guard, and he was extremely happy that it hadn’t come to that.

  He sensed as the man came closer, and felt him reach over his head, hearing the click of a switch. The electromagnets. Cole hoped that one switch would control both ankles and wrists, but was not unduly surprised to find his arms still fastened in place. It would make things harder, but not impossible.

  He felt the guard kneel down in front of him. Not yet. The man’s hands pulled the shackles apart wider, creating space to remove Cole’s legs. Not yet. The guard then pulled Cole’s lower legs free of the magnetic clamps. Now!

  Cole’s legs shot up instantly, wrapping themselves tightly around the guard’s unprotected neck in a judo technique known as sangaku jime – the triangle choke.

  Cole’s eyes were open now, and he watched the guard’s own eyes go wide as the oxygen to his brain was effectively cut off, Cole’s right leg cinched tight over his left, his hamstrings contracting as they cut off the blood supply at both sides of the man’s neck.

  It took only seconds for the man to slump relaxed, unconscious. Cole kept it tight for another few seconds, just to prolong the period of unconsciousness but several seconds short of death, and then released his grip, the guard falling in a heap on the floor.

  Wasting no time, Cole shuffled forward on the seat of his chair, creating some space to move in, before rocking his legs back over his head, his body concertinaring in the middle, shoulders and back hunched against the chair backrest.

  The switches were based on a panel at the back of the headrest, which was where Cole had felt the guard reach earlier, and he tried to jab towards the unseen buttons with his toes.

  His first effort failed, and his second, but on his third attempt, his body cramped, his ribs aching, he managed it; there was an audible click, and he felt the tight metal around his wrists loosen as the shackles fell open.

  He jumped from the chair, bending down to secure the guard. The leg strangle was effective, but the result was short-lived, and the man would soon be awake with almost no ill effects. He found the man’s bag, and used handkerchiefs, a shirt, and a leather belt to bind and gag him.

  All he had to do now was take control of the cockpit.

  9

  Cole changed trousers quickly – the new pair was not a perfect fit by any stretch of the imagination, but they would do – and pulled the guard’s Glock 17 pistol from the holster on the man’s belt.

  He set off through the fuselage, checking the gun as he went, racking the slide to put a round in the chamber. There could be up to five more people through the sliding metal door, Cole knew – the pilot, co-pilot, flight engineer, navigator and a loadmaster. On such a routine flight though, Cole would have been surprised if there was a full complement.

  He stopped to check out of the starboard porthole, and saw a vast expanse of water beneath. The Hercules routinely cruised at a much lower height than a jet aircraft, often under 20,000 feet, and it was therefore below the cloud line, giving Cole an unobstructed view.

  They had obviously already cleared the European mainland, probably Britain too, and would now be somewhere over the Atlantic. But where? He had no idea how long the sedative had laid him out, and so had no idea how long they had been airborne. The flat, lifeless seascape below gave him no point of reference.

  Cole turned away from the small circular window, just in time to see a uniformed crewman – the flight engineer? – coming through the sliding door into the cargo area, a tray of mugs in his hands.

  Cole’s weapon was up and targeting the engineer before the man could work out what was going on. A quick glance of the trussed-up body of Schoenhoffer told him everything, and his eyes went wide, the tray dropping in seeming slow motion from his hands.

  The tray crashed to the floor, and Cole had still not taken his shot. He couldn’t – the engineer was military, but not a hands-on combatant. Instead, Cole made a dive forwards, trying to get himself into the doorway before the engineer could close it.

  The engineer recovered his senses and snatched backwards through the portal as quickly as he could, reacting as if scalded. Cole was almost there, so close, his arm extending to stop the door being closed, but the man was too quick, and Cole heard the disheartening metallic scrape as the sliding door was pulled shut, then the click of the heavy lock; then the inevitable shouts as he alerted his compatriots.

  Cole’s mind raced. What would happen now? The crew would doubtless alert Andrews, who would certainly inform Hansard. And what then? Cole considered matters even as he went back to the porthole. Hansard would probably up the amount of agents that would be waiting for him at the air base, and he was pretty sure they would launch an armed siege of the plane. Other than that though, probably not a lot would alter. After all, he was going to be killed if the plane landed anyway.

  He looked out of the window, and saw the very vague, very faint outline of the coast just visible in the distance. Probably no more than an hour until they were feet dry over the United States. Shit.

  He went back to the forward end of the cargo hold and tested the door. It didn’t move an inch. Cole considered shooting it, but knew that it wouldn’t do any good – it was two-inch thick steel, and the ricochets would probably kill him.

  He paced the plane, thinking. And slowly – ever so slowly, piece by piece, it came to him. It would be dangerous, certainly. Suicidal, possibly.

  But he knew if he didn’t get to the flight deck, he would be dead anyway.

  10

  Sarah Cole eased herself down the stairs one by one. She was far from fully recovered, but the fact was that she was going stir crazy cooped up in that little bedroom.

  Also, the events of the past few days meant that she wanted her children close to her, and they had been enjoying themselves so much with Stefan’s own three
children that they had scarcely been up to her room to visit her.

  So despite the pain, the dizziness and the nausea, she had popped a couple of super strength painkillers and made the arduous trip from her bed, out of the bedroom, agonizingly across the hall, and slowly – oh, so very slowly – down the stairs, holding onto the wooden banister for dear life.

  She was also more than a little concerned about her husband, as there had still been no sign of him. As she reached the bottom of the stairs, she resolved to get Stefan to try and find out some information – it simply wasn’t sufficient waiting around, hoping Mark would either show up at last, or contact them in some way. They needed to find him.

  Sarah would take Stefan off to one side, away from his wife and the kids, and discuss it with him.

  She turned the corner into the kitchen, but it was empty. She heard voices off to the right, and followed them through the kitchen, into the dining room, and then further into the house, each slow, deliberate footstep more painful than the last.

  And then she was there, at Stefan’s own little den, a wood panelled study where he sat to write his memoirs over a bottle of night time schnapps.

  He was sitting with Ben and Amy, who were sitting in rapt fascination as he showed them a large hardback book.

  He looked up as her shadow passed over the entrance to the room. ‘Well, look who’s up!’ he said jovially. ‘Mark would kill me if he could see you! Have a seat, have a seat!’

  Steinmeier got up and helped Sarah the last few steps into the room, sitting her down in a comfortable easy chair next to the sofa where Ben and Amy were sitting.

  Her children all but ignored her, continuing to leaf through the big book, and although she had missed them and certainly wouldn’t have minded if they had run to her and covered her with kisses, she was really quite glad. It meant they weren’t concerned about her, or about the events of the past few days. They were now somewhere familiar, somewhere fun, and somewhere safe.