SAS Para-Ops: MEGA SET - SAS Para-Ops Books #1, #2, #3, #4, #5 & #6

by Casey Christie

  “Good work for being alert but look at you, you’ve been hit you fool” said Ronald while pointing to the man’s bleeding arm.”

  “Don’t worry about me boss. The Lady needs our help.”

  “John?” said the Head of Security.

  “We need to get him in there.” The Captain pointed at Jack.

  “There’s a small window to the dressing room’s toilet around the corner” said the Security Officer.

  “Will he fit?” said Taylor.

  “Yeah I think so, he’s small enough.”

  “Take me there. Captain, kill the lights to that room” said Jack and moved off with the security officer.

  “We’ll have to shut down the entire backstage area’s power supply.”

  “Then do it!”

  Ronald got on his radio to the venue’s control room and ordered the power switched off.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Katsu Takahashi produces two Czech made 9MM CZ75 B pistols with extended ammunition magazines from an ultra-thin cleverly tailored silk tactical body armour vest hidden underneath his suit jacket. He bends on one knee in the sprinter’s start position and readies himself for combat.

  The power to the backstage area is cut and the entire area goes pitch black.

  Katsu Takahashi, the Gunfighter from Japan, begins his assault.

  Takahashi runs and uses the security officer’s proffered hand lift as a platform to jump through the small bathroom window, shattering the glass, hits the toilet floor and rolls through the open lavatory door to the centre of the dressing room of the world’s most famous diva, The Lady.

  The little Gunfighter uses his enhanced intuition training and mind pictures the exact positions of all the occupants of the room. He senses directly in front of him The Lady tied to a chair. A terrorist, standing over and behind her, carrying a short sword. To his left and right the Gunfighter detects extremists each carrying silenced SMG-PK Sub Machine Guns. Behind him he feels a fourth and final fanatic move.

  He hears the frightened and panicked breathing of The Lady’s road manager, make-up artist and stylist coming from underneath a dressing table. And finally Takahashi mind maps the lifeless body of the fat bodyguard – he has nearly been decapitated.

  The only light in the room is the small red flashing LED of the terrorist’s HD camera set up to capture The Lady’s execution.

  “Is that you, Takahashi?” said the sword wielding terrorist standing behind The Lady.

  “Yes it is, Eltanin.”

  Takahashi hears the back-up generators of the O2 begin to power up and he knows the emergency lights are about to turn on.

  Before the light can fill the room the four terrorists lie dead, a single bullet wound to each of their foreheads. In 0.6 of a second the nimble Gunfighter has loosed two Full Metal Jacket rounds from each of his pistols. He killed his enemies using the deadliest cross position. Arms extended left and right firing one round each into the extremists’ heads. Then in a singular smooth movement his right arm came forward and his left arm, bent at the elbow, pointed behind, killing his enemy to the rear.

  The Gunfighter, Katsu Takahashi, satisfied that all threat has been eliminated, walks over to where the Lady is tied up. Loosens her restraints, makes sure she is okay and heads for the exit, removes the large stage prop on which the large bouquet of flowers was brought in and used as a Trojan Horse, opens the door and leaves.

  The Lady is safe now and the show must go on.

  The End

  Book Three - SAS Para-Ops: Gunfighters

  In 1940, during World War II, Winston Churchill called for “specially trained troops of the hunter class, who can develop a reign of terror down the enemy coast.” This led to the formation of the British Commandos.

  The Commandos were selected from volunteers among prevailing servicemen and went on to spawn other specialist fighting forces including the Special Boat Service, the Parachute Regiment and of course the SAS, the UK’s and perhaps the world’s most famous elite military force, the Special Air Service.

  And most interestingly with regard to the story you are about to read the No. 10 Commando, an Inter-Allied force, was formed - With troops of soldiers from The Netherlands, Poland, France, Norway and Belgium. Most of these brave fighting men then went on to form the foundation of their own countries special forces once the war had ended.

  International cooperation within the dark-ops or black-ops special forces arena where missions are launched against a common enemy is not uncommon. And perhaps the most deadly of fighting units are never publically named – There existence is top secret, they officially don’t exist and they are entirely expendable.

  For decades the actuality of a top secret site in the Nevada dessert was officially denied. In August 2013 the existence of Area 51 was finally acknowledged by the US government.

  This is the story of a daring SAS Para-Ops mission that never happened.

  This is a work of fiction.

  Prologue

  The small column of five horses with heavy laden saddle bags and one horse-drawn cart moved slowly up the incline of the mountain slope. There was rich foliage on either side of the rough path. The air was humid, hinting at a storm. Bird song embellished the atmosphere.

  But things were not as serene as a first glance might suggest. This was bandit country, high in the hills of Japan.

  At the head rode a Samurai with a sword at his side. At the rear, just ahead of the cart, a second Samurai sat astride his steed. He too had a sword draped over his back.

  The bushi warriors were part of a convoy protecting royal wealth. They were accompanied by two soldiers, one of whom had two silver pistols slung low in holsters on either thigh.

  The pack-horses were carrying a variety of valuables, food of many kinds, ammunition, gold and also some jewellery which was being brought to mark a major family celebration in a remote village.

  There were two people in the cart, one very old, one only a teenager.

  The old man with a long and beautifully tended silver beard and hair was a revered mystic, known simply as Tenzo. At the age of five he had foreseen a flood and his family had sought refuge on a hilltop and survived. Although his eyesight was failing now – he was 95 years old -- his psychic vision had never been more acute. He could perceive auras and sometimes even glimpse through the interstices of time.

  Seated next to him was his grandson, Katsu, aged 16, holding the reins. He was a fine looking youth with black hair worn long and coiled around his neck. He was slender with a lean muscularity. His eyes were well apart and his facial features were clearly defined, giving him an expression of alert attention.

  For five years Katsu had been training as an acrobat with a traditional circus – he had rejected the Samurai way as he wanted to move on with modern times, he was clumsy with the sword and had been shunned by his peers. He had just graduated with great honour and was on his way to visit his mother for a brief respite before returning to the city and the life of a wandering circus entertainer.

  The old man turned his head to left and right, assessing the environment. Then he focused on the young boy.

  “Katsu” he said, his voice little more than a gentle purr, “you discomfit me.”

  The boy was instant, concerned attention.

  “Why Grandfather?”

  “You are not content. And you should be, you graduated with distinction. Your tutors say you have truly remarkable expertise. You should be happy. Why are you not?”

  “How do you know these things!” said the teenager with a hint of pique.

  “Never mind. I know. Answer me.”

  The boy hesitated, then spoke in a rush of words: “I suppose it’s that I don’t want to spend the rest of my days risking my life in a circus tent just to amuse some fat rich people stuffing themselves with cakes.”

  Tenzo was silent.

  “And I somehow don’t think that is my Destiny. I sometimes have strange dreams, of another time, of another me. And whe
n I wake I am deeply discontented with what I am doing now.”

  “Yes” said the old man, “Perhaps is a previous life or a life you may still have to live.”

  The procession rounded a bend and came upon a level and wider stretch of the mountain path.

  The old mystic suddenly cried out: “Danger, Great danger! His voice was suddenly powerful and penetrating.

  The soldier on the leading horse pitched from the saddle as he was riddled with bullets.

  The soldier in front of them grasped his two pistols and was bringing them aloft when he was bludgeoned from his saddle by a bullet which entered his right ear, the exit wound deadly. His body lurched to the left from the horse.

  The teenager leaped from the cart and caught the two pistols as they were still in the air and as his grandfather looked on, amazed, Katsu danced from the back of the horse to the next packhorse.

  The stuttering whiplashes of gunfire filled the air and Katsu was weaving and leaping from horse to horse.

  But as he moved, his guns were spitting death, first to the left, then to the right, then both to the left and the right simultaneously as he moved like a dancing dervish across the backs of the frightened animals.

  His grandfather saw the young boy’s peaked cap spin from his head, nicked by a bullet.

  How can he be shooting to left and right while he is looking straight ahead, thought his grandfather but even as he wondered, he knew the answer.

  Katsu’s guns roared again, once to the left and once to the right, and there was silence for a second but there was a rustle in the undergrowth and Katsu took a flying leap high into the air from the back of the first horse and fired once.

  Then there was silence, except for the whinnying of the agitated horses.

  Katsu had landed on his feet, like the acrobat he was, knees bent, but he also had his smoking weapons at the ready as he crouched in anticipation.

  His grandfather spoke now: “There are no more. You have done your work.”

  The teenager moved across to the corpse of the soldier whose guns he had taken and removed the twin holsters from his body and put them on. He holstered the silver weapons and stood over the dead man. He bent his head and said solemnly: “I salute your soul. We are one.”

  Then he went and stood before his grandfather. He offered him his hand and the old man took it and descended from the cart.

  Katsu went immediately to the lead horse and calmed it and pacified the others with pats and soft words.

  Then, together, they walked around the scene of the battle.

  The grandfather stopped at each corpse and recited from the rituals of death, paying respect to the departed souls.

  There were nine dead bodies, seven of them bandits. Six had bullet wounds in the centre of their foreheads. The seventh had been shot in the top of his head---from the height advantage Katsu had gained by leaping in the air.

  They walked some distance from the carnage and stood in a shaded area, deep in thought. After the gunfire, the murmuring of the bush began to return, rustles, creaks, the chitter and trills of birds.

  “So,” said the grandfather, taking his grandson’s hands in his own and peering into his dark and glowing eyes. “All has been revealed.”

  Katsu’s face erupted in a teenage grin, all light and energy.

  “Yes!” he said. “Now I know.”

  “How” asked his grandfather, although he already knew, “did you think you could do that?”

  The smile vanished from the boy’s face.

  “I don’t have to think. Or aim. I just know. This is what I am, what Destiny means me to be.”

  He stood there in the serene forest, dappled in sunlight, and dropped his hands to the pistols at his side.

  “I am not an acrobat.

  “I am a Gunfighter.”

  He gave a knowing little smile but there was a new coldness in his eyes and his mystical grandfather felt a little shudder run down his spine.

  Chapter One

  Wembley Stadium, London –.

  Manchester United vs Manchester City

  Another derby day, another Cup Final. The atmosphere an electric buzz of anticipation and excitement. Red, white and blue painted the stadium in shimmering colours. Young and old gathered to cheer on the beloved teams. The beautiful game at its best.

  The significant difference this year for Manchester United and Manchester United fans worldwide is that Sir Alex isn’t in charge of the Red Devils any more, not for this game and sadly never again. In fact it’s a real test of the new Manchester United manager, David Moyes - The world is watching with bated breath. What a hard act to follow for Mr Moyes, Sir Alex Ferguson, the greatest football manager the world has ever seen.

  Forty five minutes to kick off and tens of thousands of fans from all over London and greater England and indeed the City of Manchester make their way to the famous ground.

  Chapter Two

  Surprisingly, or not, Mark Andrews finds himself at Wembley Stadium. He has no knowledge of how he has arrived here and he stands out like a sore thumb, suited and booted as all good bankers typically are.

  The diehard United fans are in a bubbling mood, looking forward to a new season and a new era under Moyes, singing, chanting:

  “Glory, glory, Man United,

  Glory, glory, Man United,

  Glory, glory, Man United,

  And the reds go marching on, on, on…”

  Andrews is caught up in the throng of the crowd being pushed forward towards the stadium under the impressive Wembley Arch, people seemingly unaware of his presence.

  “Who the fck are Man United?

  Who the fck are Man United?

  Who the fck are Man United?

  And the reds go marching on, on, on…”

  A cold chill runs down Andrews’s back, starting from the top of his head and continuing down to the base of his spine, arriving with a zing. He knows by now, he’s learnt that if he is here, in his lifelong banker’s attire and largely unaware of how he got here or why, there must be trouble ahead. But why is he aware, what has changed?

  “We do what we want,

  We do what we waa-ant,

  We’re Man United,

  We do what we want!”

  Chapter Three

  Mark Andrews slips out of his dream and awakes in a room he doesn’t recognise. He is in a cold sweat, drenched in fever. He attempts to remove the covers and get out of bed to get his bearings but his head is jerked back by tubes connected to his nose and mouth.

  His vision is a blur and he is just able to make out a small figure standing beside him; he barely hears the person speak.

  “Where Mark, where are you, what is happening?”

  “Lond, Wemb.. wem-berr, stayed, stadi, fine, foot…” replies a weak and weary Andrews before passing out.

  Before he returns to the mist he hears people around him speaking in whispered tones.

  “What did he say?”

  “I don’t know, just give him time, we have never given him such a large dose before.”

  “I need to know what he is seeing, it’s vital that I know, things have become worse, the threat is larger than we ever thought, I need to know, Reiko.”

  “Give him time John, just get out, it’s too soon. He’s bordering between reality and the mist, he is between the two places, give him time” replied Reiko.

  “I don’t have time. I have to leave, I have to return to the ops room, we transport Eltanin tonight. Please let me know the minute he wakes up” said John Taylor.

  “I will, now go, leave him, leave him be, please Captain.”

  Chapter Four

  Mark Andrews finds himself once more in the New Wembley, in a sea of red supporters standing behind the opposition’s goals.

  “We love United, we do,

  We love United, we do,

  We love United, we do,

  Oh, United we love you!”

  The City players surge forward, breaking United’s line of
defence from the right wing, the ball is crossed in and a forward player heads it into the net past a diving De Gea.

  The United fans slump in disappointment and go quiet momentarily before they realise the referee’s assistant has his yellow flag in the air. The goal is disallowed, it’s offside. The United fans sing once more.

  “That’s why we’re champions,

  That’s why we’re champions,

  That’s why we’re champions,

  That’s why we’re champions.”

  As the players continue to fight for possession and to force the ball into the opposing team’s net Mark Andrews’s attention is caught by a group of young lads on the side line near the half-way point. They look out of place and out of time. They are not in either of the competing teams’ colours or jerseys but rather a mix of other premier league teams; they look fidgety and nervous, 10, 12, 16 of them. Seemingly uninterested in the game or its outcome. They are of mixed races, white, black, Asian but all in their late teens and early twenties, the common denominator being their baggy pants and an ill disposition. They keep looking at the stadium clock or at their wrist watches.

  Mark Andrews is bumped hard from behind by a cheering fan as Manchester United are awarded a penalty.

  “How could he have touched me?” Andrews thinks to himself.

  Robin van Persie places the ball on the spot and prepares to fire but there’s a delay as a fan attempts to storm the pitch but is swiftly taken down by some alert stewards.

  The pressure builds as van Persie is forced to wait. Over one and a half minutes later, an age on the penalty spot, and the referee blows his whistle signalling that the spot kick can now be taken. Robin van Persie begins his run but stumbles and falls backwards on a slippery pitch. The penalty must be retaken. The City fans behind the goal laugh and taunt the United super striker.