ALL ACTION THRILLER BOXSET: THREE MURRAY MCDONALD STANDALONE THRILLERS

by Murray Mcdonald

  “Literally that.” Butler didn’t have time to argue with her or explain. He just needed to get to the president. He escaped her hold and made off at a jog.

  “You won’t get anywhere near the president,” she warned.

  Butler looked back and smiled a smile that suggested otherwise. Swanson was a sworn officer of the law and Butler was, only hours earlier, the subject of a top priority manhunt and arrested by her within spitting distance of the White House. What if there were some massive conspiracy and Butler was in fact the lone gunman? Whatever the case, something was most definitely going down and Jane Swanson was not the type of person to miss out. She picked up the pace and fell in behind Butler’s steady jog just as he began to slow to a stop.

  The small diner that sat at the park’s entrance had a TV set that flashed a picture of an American Airlines Boeing 777.

  “So are you going to tell me what you uncovered?” she asked when she eventually caught up with him.

  Butler ignored her question, walking into the diner, his full attention on the TV screen.

  “That’s the new US ambassador to China,” he explained to Swanson as the screen filled with James Marshall’s photo.

  “Can you turn that up?” he commanded rather than asked of the waitress, who although unhappy by the order, did as she was told.

  “…just to confirm, reports suggest that American Airlines AA187 from Chicago to Beijing has crashed in Mongolia, all on board are presumed dead…”

  “Holy fuck!” exclaimed Swanson, reading the news scrolling across the screen. Two hundred and forty-one passengers had been on board along with the ambassador. The news had floored Butler who fell into a seat and placed his head in his hands, his head shaking slowly.

  Swanson placed a reassuring hand on his back. “Was he a good friend?” she asked.

  “Who?” replied Butler looking up into Swanson’s face.

  “The ambassador?”

  “Never met him.”

  “Your reaction, you seemed--”

  “Terrified is the word you are looking for,” replied Butler sincerely, staring into her eyes.

  Swanson began again to feel uneasy around Butler, as that was most definitely not the word she had been looking for.

  “I can’t believe they have actually started!” mumbled Butler to himself as he got up.

  “Will you, for the love of God, just tell me what the is going on?!” shrieked Swanson through clenched teeth. Patience had never been one of her strong points. Butler looked her in the eyes before taking her hand and leading her outside. The clatter of the helicopters filled the air. As they began to move down the sidewalk, Swanson pulled back; she wasn’t going any further without more information.

  “Just get me to the president and I’ll tell you everything.”

  “I’m taking you anywhere near our president. How the hell do I know you’re not part of all of this? Perhaps Chan and Smith are the good guys!”

  “They tried to kill you!”

  “Perhaps I just got in the way and you are so dangerous they took the risk.”

  “They released me!”

  “To eliminate you off the grid.”

  “I don’t have time for this,” contested Butler, watching the first wave of choppers head towards central D.C. “You’ve read too many spy novels.”

  “Or not enough perhaps,” Swanson countered.

  “With or without you, I’m going to save our country, or at least damn well try,” announced Butler, turning and running towards the center of D.C.

  The first shot parted his hair. The second burned his scalp. He had no intention of finding out where the third would hit. Butler stopped in his tracks and turned to Agent Swanson, who had assumed the classic shooter’s stance and was screaming, “FBI! Stop or I’ll shoot!”

  “You did shoot!” he protested, raising his hands in surrender.

  “I hadn’t finished, you stopped before the you,” she smiled.

  The sound of police sirens cut through even the helicopters above. The diners had witnessed the action and despite the majority filming the scene, some of the diners had actually used their cells to make a call.

  Butler knew he had seconds to make his move. He walked closer and within striking distance. Swanson kept the pistol leveled at him but he was certain she wouldn’t shoot him, certainly not in cold blood. She felt she had the upper hand, the gun pointing at him, his hands raised in surrender. What she had failed to comprehend was just how quickly Butler could turn the tables. His arms were within a distance that would allow one swift motion, knocking the pistol’s aim from him as he spun into her body and with one quick flick of his wrist, snap her neck.

  His only decision was whether she was necessary collateral; he certainly no longer had time to entertain the authorities.

  Chapter 11

  Barvikha Castle

  Russian President’s Private Dascha

  Outskirts of Moscow

  Captain Pyotr Bulinov couldn’t help but feel some envy at the world that filled their view. The ultra exclusive Barvikha, home to the political elite and the oligarchs, was a playground for the rich and beautiful. The low-level helicopter flight along the length of the River Moscow would bring them in behind the treeline that sheltered the president’s dascha from prying eyes. The speedboats and cruisers that lined the banks were more than a lifetime’s salary to him. The homes not even worthy of a dream, they were so far beyond his and his men’s reach.

  He had no idea what to expect. The Defense Minister’s orders had been simple: Deal with whatever you find. The president and the premier had been unreachable for over an hour. Landlines, cell phones, emergency contacts, bodyguards, private secretaries – all had been tried and none had answered. With little or no intelligence, his solution was that every available member of the Special Operations Service at his disposal was loaded into the two MI-17 helicopters. Fully armed, the sixty elite soldiers were the best the Russian military had to offer and a formidable force. In exercises, the SOS joked that only when Alpha had a three-to-one advantage was it even close to being a fair fight.

  “Thirty seconds!” announced the pilot.

  Pyotr gave his men the signal, his helicopter would go in first, the second would await the order should backup be required.

  The helicopter jumped into the air before slamming back down. The pilot had just gone up and over the trees in one swift motion. Even before the helicopter’s wheels had touched down, the doors were open and the troops flooded out. When the last man’s boot left the chopper, it spiraled up and away. Pyotr’s men had already fanned out and secured the area. So far so good, he thought. The building showed no signs of any damage, no firefight, although it was eerily quiet.

  “Chopper two stay in position, over,” he radioed to his backup chopper.

  The line remained quiet. No response.

  Pyotr tried again. Nothing.

  Pyotr signaled for his number two to make the call. There was no response. Both shrugged. There was nothing else they could do. Their mission was to ascertain the whereabouts and/or condition of the Russian leaders.

  The next step was to infiltrate the seemingly empty building. As they neared the front door, he began to feel uneasy.

  ***

  Dmitry Simonov, the defense minister watched as the picture on the screen jumped upwards and then fell back to the ground. The view from the SOS team member’s helmet camera made the small group watching from the Intelligence Room feel queasy as they experienced every bump and movement in real time. The view of the unblemished castle, thirty miles to their west, offered a momentary cheer of hope. Visions of a war-torn castle had been their worst fear. As the camera’s guide exited the helicopter, the screen went blank. The feed ceased.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Dmitry, turning to the technical team.

  “We have no idea, sir,” replied the operator after a few tweaks to ensure everything was in order.

  “Get me Captain Bulinov,” he barked. His n
erves had held well but the pressure was mounting.

  After a few minutes of scrabbling around and a number of ‘Captain Bulinov, come in’ calls, the operator again shook his head in despair.

  “Try the other chopper!” The Defense Minister’s voice trembled slightly.

  “Chopper Two, come in.”

  “Chopper Two,” came the prompt reply.

  “What the hell is happening?” asked Dmitry angrily, not entertaining any pleasantries.

  “We are holding out of sight and awaiting orders,” announced the pilot of the second chopper, somewhat bewildered by the defense minister’s tone.

  “You’re holding out of sight and we’ve just lost all contact with the rest of your team!” he screamed into the radio.

  As the second team’s communications appeared intact, a second helmet camera was activated and the screen jumped to life once more. The inside of the MI-17 showed thirty troops preparing to enter the action. Another massive bump on the screen pre-empted the door opening and the troops rushing out of the metal tube. Once again, as the helmet camera moved out into open ground, the feed died.

  “What the…” screamed Dmitry, throwing his coffee cup against the wall, just inches from the screen. The cup exploded into a million pieces. The screen stayed blank and the speakers remained silent.

  ***

  Pyotr raised his hand and his men froze. The main door lay slightly ajar. There was no sign of any guards, nor for that matter, any fighting or disturbance. He raised three fingers and motioned forward. The front three troopers rushed ahead, securing the door and the hallway beyond.

  He motioned to his troops, and said, “go, go, go,” into his throat mic. With no response, he had no option but to send a trooper scurrying around the building in an attempt to coordinate the move. Hitting hard and fast from all angles simultaneously was their normal plan of attack but without comms it was proving difficult. He had no idea what bullshit equipment they had been supplied with, but he was damn sure going to find the useless bastard that had made it and give him a piece of his mind.

  Despite their high profile and rather unorthodox arrival, surprise was still on their side. It had been a matter of seconds from wheels down to entry and with no resistance in sight, Pyotr felt confident the building would be secure in less than a minute. Although the plan was as far from ideal as perhaps possible, the defense minister had left him no option. They did not have time to plan anything. There was no time to wait for darkness or skydive soundlessly from high altitude, opening their chutes at the very last second. All the hostage rescue situations they planned for were thrown out the window. Their only mission was to uncover the president and prime minister’s situation as a matter of urgency. Time was the critical factor. Get your men in a chopper, fly straight to the castle and storm it. It was that simple, with no room for negotiation. He had tried, but the defense minister had been adamant and, based on how well Pyotr knew him -- which was very well -- he was a very worried man.

  The sound of the backup chopper landing only added to the catastrophic fuck-up that was the most important mission with which he had ever been tasked. Pyotr ignored his backup and pushed on. The ground floor was clear, the second floor likewise. Only the top floor and main bedrooms were still to be cleared. Pyotr signaled to five men and led them up the final set of stairs. None of the men had any comprehension just how critical the next few minutes were in the history of the world. A slaughtered president and prime minister would in all likelihood start a war that would very surely change the world forever.

  Pyotr raised his hand and everyone froze silently. The slow rhythmic beat of a bass drum could be heard through the solid double doors ahead. The first sign of any life was a welcome sound. Pyotr pressed forward and the men prepared themselves to take the room.

  As Pyotr placed his hand on the door handle, the building burst into a cacophony of ringing phones, landlines and cell tones filled the air. Pyotr, like his men, tuned out the ringing and turned the handle. The door opened and swung freely, Pyotr waited for his men to rush past but none moved. They all stood frozen to the spot. Pyotr swung his head to see and gasped. “Oh dear God!”

  ***

  “We’ve got comms!” screamed the operator a little too loudly at the Defense Minister. When the screen burst into life, Dmitry forgave the outburst.

  “The president’s cell is ringing now!” clamored an intelligence officer, bursting into the room. Her job, like others, was to sit and hit redial continuously until something happened. A chorus of shouts from across the room echoed a similar message, phone lines that hadn’t been connecting suddenly were.

  The helmet camera from the SOS trooper beamed back the images from the castle. They watched in Moscow as the hand moved towards the handle and the momentary look around which was explained as the speakers burst into life, with ringing phone lines at the castle.

  The door began to open on the screen, and the defense minister, who was not a religious man, prayed to God that everything was okay.

  ***

  Former KGB colonel and SVR Officer Sergey Petrovich watched as the SOS troopers neared the head of the stairs. The tiny pinhole camera with a fisheye lens was the only piece of electronic equipment capable of emitting any type of signal through the wall of jammers that he had erected. He watched the trooper’s hand move towards the handle of the president’s master bedroom door, and hit the kill switch. Nothing visibly happened. Not that he expected it to. The jammers were buried around the castle grounds, deep enough that the chorus of small explosions that destroyed every component of the jammers’ existence would be undetectable other than to the native ground dwellers. Moles were going to have a bitch of a day.

  With his job complete, he closed his laptop and turned his attention to the twelve highly skilled bodyguards who had joined him on the private jet bound for the Caribbean. A new life awaited them all - monies they could only have dreamed and a lifestyle they had all had to watch from the fringes. The many months of planning to ensure that all the men on duty that day were party to his plan had not been easy. Even then, he was amazed at how well it had worked. The president and prime minister’s guards had literally just walked off their posts and joined him at the small airport, leaving their leaders fully exposed to the world around them.

  “Na zdorove!” he raised his glass of champagne and joined the rest of the men in a round of celebration.

  “Na zdorove!” they chanted in unison.

  ***

  Pyotr tried desperately to shut the door but it was too late -- the helmet camera had seen the worst and the scene would have been recorded for posterity.

  The sight of the Russian president being ridden by a young woman with a strap-on to the rhythmic beat of the bass music was not one that Pyotr ever wanted to reimage again. He averted his eyes only for them to fall on the Prime Minster on the other side of the room with another two young women, one of whom looked too young, certainly younger than Pyotr’s sixteen-year-old daughter. Anger raged instantly and it was only thanks to his trooper that he managed not to shoot the Prime Minister himself.

  As the doors began to close, the president became aware of the intrusion.

  “What the hell!” he screamed, attempting to regain any semblance of dignity.

  ***

  As the scene played out on the screen, Dmitry Simonov issued a dictat, “Nobody leaves this room!”

  The sight before him as their country lay on the brink of war sickened him like no other. A sight that, if leaked, would damage the reputation of one of the world’s greatest ever nations and a nation that he loved above all else.

  “Get me a private line with those buffoons!” he demanded, his voice trembling with rage.

  After a heated thirty-minute conversation during which the president and the prime minister pleaded innocence and claimed that some type of drug must have been used on them, it was clear there was no option but for them to resign. The defense minister would maintain control while urgent elect
ions were organized.

  As he composed himself for his next call, Dmitry wondered where the guards were, why the comms didn’t work, why two men that barely tolerated each other would be partaking in an orgy together. None of it made any sense but they were where they were.

  His call went straight through to the ambassador, who listened without a word while the defense minister explained the situation. When he finished, the ambassador remained silent.

  “Hello?”

  “I’m sorry but are you kidding me?” asked the ambassador eventually.

  “I’m most certainly not!”

  “You want me to tell the Americans, while they believe we have all but declared war on them, that you, the defense minister, have removed our elected leaders from office and taken control?!”

  “It’s not like that,” he argued, realizing how it could be construed incorrectly.

  “The nukes will be flying before I end my call,” the ambassador said, exasperated at the stupidity of his colleague.

  “So what would you suggest?” Dmitry asked more timidly, realizing just how much he had gotten carried away.

  “Get President Chernov on the phone to the US president as a matter of urgency!”

  Chapter 12

  The White House

  Situation Room

  “Mr. President, we have the Russian president on the line,” the Secretary of State said, hiding his excitement well as he passed the call across.

  “Mr. President,” boomed Jack in his most authoritative voice.

  “Mr. President, I am so sorry I have been uncontactable. We have had some communication difficulties,” replied Ilya Chernov, the president of Russia.

  A wave from the back of the room alerted Jack’s attention. He turned and looked at a note held up to him; it read ‘stress’.

  Jack knew the analysts would be all over the phone call, and a stress analysis was obviously suggesting something was very amiss.