by James Quinn
Not that it had been a complete waste. There had been a few positives. Trench had left a message in their emergency dead letter box, saying he'd taken care of Masterman at his home and that his next stop was Scotland, to finish off Grant and his relatives. Good man, that Trench. Perhaps he could be used at some point in the future, for quiet, unofficial wet work.
The other achievement was when that buffoon, Hart; the previous incumbent in the role of C had been sacked. Of course, he'd been helped on his way with a little judicious back door pushing by Thorne and his collegiate at the Joint Intelligence Committee. Really, it was inevitable; Hart wasn't up to the job and he had to go… he'd been a good 'straw man'. But who could take on the position at such short notice? Step forward Sir Marcus Thorne, respected Intelligence bureaucrat, former SIS officer and Deputy Chairman of the JIC. His position had been confirmed in an emergency session several days earlier. So not the top spot just yet, but a step or two nearer. One day, he'd be in Downing Street.
Thorne moved further up the incline, stopped and turned to admire the view. God, it was fantastic. The breadth and depth of the mountain range took his breath away. He waved to his police bodyguards and beckoned them to move across to meet him on the far side of the hill. It was one of the perks of his new position as Chief of SIS – twenty-four hour police protection. Sir Marcus Thorne, the new C, turned one final time to study the magnificent vista of rolling hills and mountains that lay before him. He smiled to himself, feeling safe and secure.
And then he fell…
* * *
Carter, the older of the Special Branch bodyguards was the first to see Sir Marcus fall. He turned and called to his younger colleague, Sergeant Martins. “Tony! Bloody hell, the Chief has slipped and fallen! Come on!” Both bodyguards made their way up the slope of the hill at speed, to the crest of the Tor where the body of their principal lay, not moving. It was only when they reached the prone body that they saw the extent of their VIP's injuries. He'd been shot in the head. The wound had been caused by a large calibre bullet, judging by the damage to Sir Marcus's temple. His head resembled a pumpkin which had been pulped with a hammer.
“Where did the shot come from!” Martins asked, fumbling for his revolver.
“Keep down! It must have been a sniper. Must have had a silencer on it. They could be anywhere!” Carter shouted.
“But there's nothing here! Not even a tree line for over five hundred yards!”
“Well then, they must be a bloody good sniper, mustn't they? For fuck's sake, call it in Tony, call it in right now!”
Martins fumbled with the radio that connected them to the Jaguar parked down on the main road. “Ghost man is down. Repeat, Ghost man is down! For God's sake… someone has assassinated the Chief of the Secret Intelligence Service!”
Epilogue
KAI TAK AIRPORT, KOWLOON BAY, HONG KONG – APRIL 1968
The elderly grandfather shuffled his way across the concourse of the airport terminal, his black lacquered walking stick tap-tap-tapping on the tiled floor as he made his way. The freshly laundered black suit and blue shirt he wore had been delivered to his door that very morning by an anonymous courier; the dark reflective sunglasses he'd provided himself.
He was paid a handsome monthly stipend by the men who represented the Raven and his organisation, and the money had helped pay off the debts from his gambling addiction. For this money, all he had to do was… nothing. Just sit and wait until the call came for him to provide a 'service'. Exactly what that service would be, he didn't know and he wasn't foolish enough to ask questions, especially if it threatened his monthly fee. Along with the suit and shirt, a plain white envelope that contained some basic written instructions and a single key had been delivered. His orders had been to travel to the airport and make his way to the lockers which could be hired by the passengers who came and went. His key was numbered seven, a good omen, he thought. Good for luck and success. From there, he needed to retrieve the items in the locker and take a taxi back to his apartment to await further instructions. It was a simple enough job.
The locker key weighed heavily against his trouser leg as he slowly made his way towards the wall of passenger lockers. The concourse was always busy; it was, after all, one of the busiest airports in all of Asia. The grandfather stopped and appraised the row upon row of lockers until he spotted 'his' one. He felt in his pocket for the key and calmly pulled it out into his hand. There was no need to look around for signs of surveillance. He wasn't a young Triad thug, or a drug smuggler, or a criminal. He was an old man who no one paid any attention to. He approached the locker, inserted the key and turned it. He didn't know, of course; could not know, in fact, that there were a dozen others like him; people of no consequence, nobodies – men, women and children who would be the Raven's final revenge in the event of his demise.
They would even now be opening lockers and cases at airports and train stations in London… Rio de Janeiro… Berlin… Saigon… Lisbon… Cairo. They would snap open the lock, hear the faint pop of the atomiser as it emitted its lethal spray and then their bodies and minds would be plunged into a journey of madness and fury. The grandfather pulled open the locker door and peered into its darkness, felt a gust of air and atomised liquid puffed into his face. He caught the full force of it as he inhaled. He wiped his hand across his face to clear the moisture from whatever had sprayed him and coughed, once, then twice, before he finally recovered his composure. Not an unpleasant aroma… it smelled like almonds. Sweet and comforting.
Without warning, his body was abruptly wracked with pain and his walking stick fell to the floor. He heard it clank as it dropped onto the tiles. A fever rapidly rose in his body, heating his skin unbearably, and his eyes started streaming. When he reached up to wipe the liquid from his cheeks, he was shocked to discover it was blood. He turned to face the people around him in the airport… men and women with luggage, children carrying toys, pilots on their way to their next flights.
Then he experienced a rush of strength… anger… hunger!
He fought it for as long as he could, fought the adrenaline firing around his body… his muscles contracting… his breathing increasing… All he wanted to do was to attack, kill… fight… murder. The stick… the stick could be used to smash… break bones… spear people's eyes…
He submitted to the uncontrollable urge and let the rage consume him.
He saw the innocents all around him… the food… so weak, so easy to kill, and then he ran toward them in a bloodlust.
The Kyonshi feasted. It was the Raven's final act of revenge.
Glossary
C – Chief of the Secret Intelligence Service (SIS)
CIA – Central Intelligence Agency
Dojo – Japanese training hall for the martial arts
Gaijin – Japanese word for foreigner ('Outside Person')
GCHQ – Government Communication Headquarters; British organisation responsible for electronic and communication intercepts
Giri – Japanese word meaning 'Duty' or 'Obligation'
Gwaih-Lo – Cantonese slang word for foreigners
JIC – Joint Intelligence Committee, political overseer of SIS, MI5 and GCHQ
Karasu-Tengu – A mythical half Raven/half goblin from Japanese culture
Kempeitai – Wartime Japanese secret police
Kyonshi – Japanese word meaning 'living dead' or reanimated corpse
MI5 –British Security Service responsible for counter-espionage within the UK
Ninjato – supposedly the sword carried by Shinobi assassins.
Oyabun – Leader of a Japanese clan or Yakuza family
Ronin – Masterless Samurai, freelance mercenaries with no loyalty
Saiko-Komon – Senior Advisor to an Oyabun/clan leader
Shaken – A metal throwing star used by Shinobi assassins
Shinobi – A covert agent or mercenary assassin in feudal Japan. In popular culture often referred to as a 'Ninja'
Shinobi S
hozoko – The uniform of a Shinobi assassin
SIS – Secret Intelligence Service; British overseas intelligence agency, often referred to as MI6
Yakuza – Japanese organised crime family
A message from James Quinn
I hope the adventures of Gorilla Grant will continue to enthral and entertain readers both new and old. Gorilla has, over the past year or so, slowly worked his way into the hearts of the book buyers who have come to know him. He has carved his own little niche (probably with his trusty, cut-throat razor) into the psyche of the espionage milieu and for that I am honoured, humbled and very, very happy.
The story of Sentinel Five and their murderous operation is based, if it is based upon anything, on the Japanese tale of the 47 Ronin, in which a band of masterless Samurai (Ronin) avenged the death of their late master. I have been a student of the tale for many years and always envisioned putting my own modern twist upon the story.
For the final section of the book, the Raven's Pagoda, I chose a fictional location. However, the pagoda is based, loosely, on Matsumoto Castle in Nagano, Japan. The concept of the S5 team fighting their way to the top level is taken, blatantly, from the original idea that the legendary martial artist Bruce Lee had for the story of his unfinished movie, Game of Death, in which a group of fighters have to battle their way to the top level of a mysterious pagoda. That self-contained fighting environment from Lee's vision has always stuck with me and I was desperate to have the best assassins of the age compete against each other inside its walls.
So, what next for Gorilla Grant?
Well, he's back in the 'game' certainly, and he's lost none of his skills in the intervening years between AGFA and S5. And while he still has people he cares about to protect, for now at least, they are safe.
So who knows? What would an experienced assassin do next? SIS doesn't know he's back; he's not even on their radar. So maybe he'll go self-employed, maybe even do a bit of freelancing… after all, it's a dangerous world out there and even Gorilla Grant has to earn a living and keep the wolf from the door.
I hope you'll join him when he returns.
James Quinn
London
2016
Acknowledgements
I am lucky in my books, especially during the initial research phase, to have on hand a fantastic network of contacts who can help me out with their technical knowledge, expertise and experience. Any mistakes found within the book are down to me and NOT down to the superb advice of my contributors. They are, in no particular order:
Anette Wachter, who goes by the handle of “30calgal” for all her excellent advice and knowledge in the art of the marksman (and woman) and for helping to bring the beautiful, but lethal, Miko to life.
My friend Steve Williams of Georgia, USA for all his knowledge in arming Gorilla Grant for this book and for sharing his wisdom about what would be the most lethal options for close quarter shooting work. I look forward to the day that Steve and I can just kick back and pepper a couple of targets together on a sunny afternoon. One day…
To the real Colonel “Masterman” for his guidance and help in negotiating the corridors of the secret intelligence world and for always being a supportive hand that pushes me in the right direction.
To Miika and the team at Creativia Publishing, especially my editor Debbie Williams, for all their hard work in bringing the book up to a fantastic level.
To my good friend Daniel Webster (my personal “Armourer”) who is always there with good advice and comradeship – both inside the pages of these books and in real life also. We will always have The Shard…
To Lulu, for once more writing the last line of the book (it's kind of our little ritual now) and I can't wait for the day that I can return the favour and write the last line of your book. You have all my love. xxxx
And last, but never least; to little Jack for being an inspiration to me in all he does. He is a gunslinger born and he has never forgotten the face of his father. xxxx
“GORILLA” GRANT
WILL RETURN IN
ROGUE WOLVES
About the Author
James Quinn spent 15 years in the secret world of covert operations, undercover investigations and international security before turning his hand to writing.
He is trained in hand to hand combat and in the use of a variety of weaponry including small edged weapons. He is also a crack pistol shot for CQB (Close Quarter Battle) and many of his experiences he has incorporated into his works of fiction.
He lives in the United Kingdom.
For more information check out the James Quinn Website: http://jamesquinn.webs.com
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