The Shadow Of Medea (Luke Temple Series Book 1)

by James Flynn

  THE SHADOW OF MEDEA

  JAMES FLYNN

  About the Author

  James Flynn is a writer and author who created the popular Luke Temple book series. The series follows our antihero across the globe under the employment of a covert government agency known only as Group 9.

  Flynn currently splits his time between London and his home in Essex, where he is creating the next action packed Luke Temple thriller…

  Follow James Flynn

  Twitter: @JamesTFlynn

  Blog: http://jamesflynnauthor.com/

  Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/pages/James-Flynn/262318733804261

  Contact: jamesflynnghost@gmail.com

  Copyright

  The sole distribution and reproduction rights for this eBook reside with © James Flynn 2011 and © MP 2011, all rights reserved. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this eBook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, decompiled or reverse engineered in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the author.

  All the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN: 978-1-908720-13-9

  eBook formatting by EBooks by Design

  www.ebooksbydesign.com

  Dedication

  I dedicate this book to L, for without someone of such beauty, courage and love I would never have reached this point in my life, let alone taken the bravest step into writing and documenting. You have been the voice of support, reason and affection on every step I have taken; in a world where I cannot exist, you give me a voice, a body and a soul.

  PROLOGUE

  The rear door opened and a giant man slipped across the back seat of the Mercedes Benz S-Class. Following him in, Prussias Latvik took the middle seat. The final seat was taken by another Russian bodyguard.

  “Driver, we need to go via the office before the airport.” Prussias spoke in a thick Russian accent. “And make it as quick as possible.”

  The driver pulled the blacked-out Mercedes away from the kerb and gently purred down Victoria Road, Kensington, leaving the large whitewashed townhouse behind. At the next junction the car stopped; after a short pause it sped straight across and threw a sharp right-hand turn. Outside the window the elegantly-fronted houses disappeared.

  “Excuse me driver, which way are we going?” Prussias stared through the central partition.

  The driver didn’t respond as he turned the car right into a small narrow street that ran behind a row of dilapidated shops; there was nothing in the alley apart from abandoned wooden crates and sodden cardboard boxes. The car skidded to a sudden stop and the doors locked automatically.

  “Driver, what the hell is…?” Prussias didn’t get to finish his sentence.

  Before his bodyguards had a chance to draw their weapons, the driver swivelled in his seat brandishing a pistol. The silenced bullet smashed the first bodyguard directly between the eyes, his head jolted back and he slumped against the window. At lightning speed, the driver turned the gun on the second bodyguard and let off two rounds into his chest, which tore through his heart and lung.

  It was all over in seconds; Prussias cowered in the middle seat. “Please, please don’t kill me. I will give you anything you want.”

  The driver didn’t say a word. His smile revealed a deep scar across his lip. He turned back around in his seat and the Mercedes sped away.

  1.

  Wednesday 13th July

  Seona Latvik snapped her head violently back as she gulped down her fifth shot of vodka. She grunted satisfaction as she and the ten people around the table slammed the empty shot glasses down.

  “More!” she screamed.

  The Marquee Nightclub on Manhattan’s Lower West Side was a club that many A-listers frequented, and to be seen there was only correct for a gorgeous heiress. Of course, with her blonde hair and money to burn she had been compared to such people as Paris Hilton, but she made sure she did all she could to distance herself from such sickening things as the celebrity world. She counted the right people as her friends; she did not fancy the spotlight in the same way that many did, and the full set of brain cells that she possessed put her ahead of most.

  “This is a great night!” slurred Caroline Waldrush in Seona’s ear. “I’ve missed you.”

  Seona had met Caroline when they were pupils at Stowe school. Caroline had been the archetypal English private school child, enrolled by wealthy parents and told that it was in her educational interest to study away from home. The system caused nothing but snobbery and bitterness. Seona had made friends with many girls like Caroline in Stowe and still counted several of them amongst her friends now at the age of twenty-five; they were fun and always available for a party.

  “Missed you too Caro!” Seona shouted over the noise.

  It had been a great night so far, she loved New York, and the American metropolis brought her to life. ‘The city that never sleeps’ was not just a cute slogan; it was absolutely true. There was no time of day or night at which New York completely shut down. The meal had been delicious, as usual,, and the heady mix of shots, champagne and Martinis were taking effect.

  Seona passed around another bottle of champagne, though it was not just any bottle; it was a Krug Clos du Mesnil 1995. To her, however, it was all the same. Her table was flanked by four Russian bodyguards, a precaution which her father made sure she took on every trip and to every party. In fact, it was actually her Uncle Peter who organised the protection when she was in the UK. Uncle Peter wasn’t her real uncle, he was Sir Peter Villier, and ever since she had moved to England Sir Peter and her father had become like brothers. Sir Peter had been a big-shot in the army, and now held some high government position which Seona didn’t recognise and didn’t particularly care about either. He had treated her like a niece and always wanted to make sure that she was properly cared for. As he always put it: There are forces in the world that wish hurt and pain on symbols and diamonds like you my dear.

  “Honey, I’m going to the bathroom, come on.” Seona strained her whisper into Caroline’s ear.

  Caroline tilted her head very slightly away from the guy she was chatting with. “I’ll come later sweets, I am busy with Ben,” she winked.

  Seona straightened her hair, moving unsteadily over to the arched stairs and began the ascent to the bathroom. The giant wall clock indicated that it was approaching 2 a.m.

  As she confronted herself in the mirror Seona could almost make out two reflections; one seemed imperfect to the point of hideous, and the other seemed to radiate a beauty that she admired. Her startling blue eyes were tinged red from where the drink was taking effect and her skin seemed paler than normal under her long blonde hair. Sighing, she opened a cubicle, placed herself onto the toilet with the lid down and locked the door.

  As she closed her eyes, the world started to swirl around her, causing her to drop her head into her hands, taking the weight of her drunken thoughts.

  Seona’s father, Prussias Latvik, had been hugely successful during the gas boom in the old Soviet Union and had made billions with his company Exlit Energy, but all of the wealth in the world had not been able to stop Seona’s mother dying of a cancerous tumour when she was six. A year later her father had moved them to England.

  She hated everything about England, and Stowe school epitomised her hatred, but Prussias Latvik craved to mix wit
h the upper echelons of what he perceived to be a civilised culture. It was fake and putrid as far as Seona was concerned. In Russia, a man in a suit would happily sit with a man wearing rags. Not in England, where money allowed her father to socialise with anyone he wanted, and the only people he wanted to be seen with were the upper crust of society. Even after gaining her Double Masters in Law from the University of London, her father hadn’t wanted her to actually put it into practice – Proper ladies do not work was a favourite motto of his.

  She felt a strong sense of unease, something she just couldn’t put her finger on; she put it down to tiredness, having only arrived in New York the previous evening for her yearly summer visit.

  Before she had a chance to adjust her thoughts to the swirling world the entrance to the bathroom crashed open and Seona heard footsteps thump in. Those feet did not belong in any pair of Jimmy Choos or Manolo Blahniks; the steps belonged to a man. As she rose and burst out the cubicle door to confront him, she was halted in her tracks.

  Ben Long was six feet tall, and wore his shoulder-length bleached blonde hair unkempt. It was apparently called the ‘messy’ look but Seona had always thought this to be ironic as people took longer preparing the messy look than a tidy one. Ben was the son of some American politician; she had never spoken to him until earlier that night, and hadn’t taken much notice of what was flowing from his Vaseline-greased lips, just another bland money puppet, and she had seen the full range.

  “Thought you’d gone, gorgeous,” his Boston accent whined out the words, as his green eyes wandered up and down her silk-clad body.

  “What the fuck are you doing in here? Are you blind as well as dumb? L-A-D-I-E-S. Sound it out prep boy!” She was surprised at how angry she felt at the intrusion.

  “Now, now, sugar, no need for the insults. I’ve been watching you all night, and you are very, very hot.”

  Not losing her edge, “I thought you were talking to Caroline?”

  “Nah, she’s not my type. But you definitely are.”

  Seona arched her eyebrows. “You mean I have a pulse?”

  “Fun loving, yeah. I saw you chatting to that group of men outside Koi. You like fun and I think we could have a lot of fun.” His cream v-necked jumper pulled tight as he stretched his arms around her waist, pulling her close.

  “Get the fuck off me! You’re making me want to throw up, don’t make me break your discount teeth!” She struggled free of his grip, slapping him in the face and pushing hard on his chest to give herself space to turn and head for the door. “As if I’d do anything with you, no one is that…”

  Seona felt her neck wrench as a force hurled her through the cubicle door, smashing her legs into the toilet. In a split second Ben was stood over her, pressing down hard on her mouth with his hand; he closed the door with his foot, locking it with his free hand.

  “Who do you think you are?” Seona could feel his breath on her cheek; she lashed her limbs out trying to wrestle free.

  “No bitch tells me what I can and can’t fucking do!” blurted Ben. “If I said we’re going to have fun, then we’re going to have fun. Count yourself lucky.”

  Seona was shocked at how powerful he was, ripping at her dress with his spare hand. She couldn’t even turn her head far enough to let out a scream. He placed the majority of his weight onto her thighs, pinning her legs hard onto the cold floor. She let out a muffled scream as the pain shot the full length of each leg.

  He had dispatched part of her dress, unravelling the wrap-around section, and now he was sickeningly running his palm slowly up her inner thigh. With her last push of energy Seona managed to slip her neck far enough back to clamp her teeth around the meat of his hand.

  “Bitch!” he screamed as the flesh was torn.

  “Help!”

  But Ben was now enraged and with a movement that seemed as swift as it was solid, he struck her squarely across the face, knocking her head back into the bowl of the toilet. The blow had dazed her; mixed with the alcohol she felt the energy leave her limbs, all she could muster now was a single tear as Ben’s hand tore at her knickers.

  In her haze, Seona saw the door fly open. She could see Ben’s eyes widen in shock as he removed his hands from her body and turned to face the intruder. He was picked off the floor and carried out of the cubicle.

  She managed to rest up against the toilet, turning her eyes toward the scuffle just in time to witness Ben get punched so hard in the face that his head almost came clean off his shoulders. Blood spattered the walls of the bathroom, and he slumped limply on the floor.

  Seona’s vision cleared and she realised that her saviour was in fact one of her bodyguards.

  Delicately standing up, she took a few steps out of the cubicle and looked down on Ben, curled into a heap. She wasn’t sure he was alive, let alone conscious; he would need to contact his dentist for some replacements and she hoped he knew a good plastic surgeon.

  She wanted to collapse into a ball on the tiled floor, but the bodyguard calmly ushered her out of the bathroom, gently walking her down the stairs past her table and out of the rear exit.

  A blacked-out 4x4 waited with its engine humming. The back passenger door opened and she shifted across the seat, trying to pull her ripped dress around to cover what little modesty was left. The wheels lurched as they sped off, screeching past the waiting photographers, vultures waiting for their prey. In the back, Seona felt a wave of emotion roll over her and, for the first time in a very long time, she wanted to speak with her father.

  2.

  David Mulberry pulled his black turtleneck a little higher; the summer weather was abnormally cold and the early morning air was damp with drizzle. The dark corner of the car park where he stood was partly blocked by a row of fir trees separating the block of flats to his left. It was eerily quiet, even the cars on the road had died away. A group of teenagers broke the silence as they walked into the KFC adjacent to the car park entrance for breakfast. Mulberry instinctively stepped deeper into the shadows. The impulse to cancel the meeting and walk away from the whole thing had been strong on the drive from his home in Bow to this small corner of Deptford. It seemed a strange place to meet but that was exactly why it had been chosen, it was obscure enough to avoid suspicion and prying eyes.

  Just as yet another urge to walk away rose in his stomach, the maroon-coloured Sierra pulled into the deserted car park. It had several dents in its side and looked very well used. Mulberry could see the front licence plate was ever-so-slightly off-centre and the original plates had obviously been replaced. The headlights were flicked off before the car stopped; it sat motionless. Then the driver’s door swung open.

  The familiar bald-headed man leaned out, then rounded the car and opened the passenger door. The signal was clear: he wanted Mulberry to get in.

  “Are we on?” The bald man asked in a thick South African accent.

  “Yes, the team is ready and in position.”

  “Good Mr Mulberry, very good.” The South African’s patronising tone held an air of menace.

  “He is asking for a lot.” Mulberry didn’t try to hide his irritation. He had spent the last six months of his life setting up the operation and selecting the team.

  “That’s why you’re getting paid a lot of money.” The muscles in his arms were bulging through his t-shirt.

  “Here’s the file.” Mulberry tossed a string-tied blue folder onto the South African’s lap. He had spent his whole career setting up covert teams for sensitive operations around the world, but they had been legitimately sanctioned by government intelligence agencies, and this job was far outside those sanctions. It was private and, taking into account the target, it was more than likely business-orientated. It had unsettled Mulberry from the start that he did not have any proper contact names for his employers; the person sat next to him was to be called Aegeus.

  “I’d better receive the money promptly,” Mulberry warned.

  A crooked smile broke out on Aegeus’s face, ther
e was a scar splitting the inside of his lip. “We will deposit £50,000 into your account as a down payment. When you deliver the package to us the first £300,000 will be transferred, then as agreed the final £4 million will be transferred in stages over the next six months.” Aegeus put his arm around Mulberry’s headrest. “That’s providing everything goes to plan; he will not tolerate any failures.”

  Mulberry shifted uncomfortably in his seat, this was not somebody to argue with. “Well, it’s on foreign soil. I have warned you both of the dangers.”

  “As I say, Mr Mulberry ... he does not tolerate failure.” With that, Aegeus sat back in his seat. The meeting was over.

  Mulberry headed for the same corner of the car park that he had previously occupied. The Sierra pulled away and turned right towards Greenwich. He didn’t want Aegeus seeing what car he drove, although it was a reasonable bet that he already knew. He didn’t seem the type to take chances.

  The rain was falling hard; the short walk back to the car was accompanied by a heavy wave of thoughts. It seemed likely that the job was industrial espionage which is why the rewards were so lucrative. His position had been exploited to the maximum to organise the operation. He clenched his hands tighter around the steering wheel at the thought, but it was finally time to take what was rightfully his – a life of luxury instead of rolling around in the dirt protecting his wealthy country.

  The team were now in place, and the nature of the job meant that only one man could possibly lead the team. Luckily for Mulberry, he had got that man to accept his mission.

  3.

  He strolled into the brightly lit station and Sarah came running over. They were the only two people in the large arrival hall. He wanted to say something but Sarah pressed her lips tightly to his.

  He took her hand and began walking towards the stairs leading up and out of the station. They had only managed two steps when the crack of a gunshot echoed around the empty expanse. Suddenly, Sarah’s hand was no longer in his. Bullets began to flash around the station, the sounds of fizzing velocity and the sharp clangs of metal against the walls; he couldn’t see any gunmen but the bullets kept coming. Panic gripped his heart, Sarah would be hit any second.