LETHAL SCORE

by Mannock, Mark

  Mark Mannock

  LETHAL SCORE

  A NICHOLAS SHARP THRILLER (2)

  First published by Shotfire Books 2020

  Copyright © 2020 by Mark Mannock

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  Mark Mannock asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  First edition

  This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy

  Find out more at reedsy.com

  For Sarah

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Epilogue

  Afterword

  About the Author

  Also by Mark Mannock

  Chapter 1

  As the flames danced, they washed his eyes with fire. It was impossible to read him or see into his thoughts, but I could feel the dark inferno of his gaze.

  “You have come here to pay respect, brother. I appreciate that.” The voice was raspy, deep.

  I waited for him to say more. He didn’t.

  The silence of the desert night was punctuated only by the sound of the fire between us, crackling like muted gunshots. I stared at him, transfixed. His long hair, thick and gray, matched an endless beard that framed his dark and weathered skin. A lifetime of wear.

  I could feel the intensity as he drew me deeper into his soul.

  Then he spoke again. “Your eyes speak of pain. I wonder if perhaps you live in the shadow of regret?”

  I didn’t answer. Back to the silence, the darkness, the flames.

  He stood, I followed. He reached his hand over the fire for me to shake; his grip was firm.

  “I think your music brings a calmness to your life,” He said. “We appreciate you sharing it with our culture and our people.”

  The old man paused, as if deciding what to reveal. A flicker of confusion. “You live with hope, yet death walks beside you … but of course, I think you know that.” Another pause. “Good luck, my brother.”

  With that, the Elder turned and left.

  I looked around, seeking to regain some control, some normalcy. Several people sat around the campfire with us, but they had all retreated into silence when the Indigenous Elder had looked directly at me and spoken. Now the conversations slowly resumed. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Jack Greatrex, my oldest friend. He was smiling in the kind of way that said, “I told you.”

  Next to me, Patrick Jay leaned over and said, “We go now.”

  With those words we headed across the sand to our four-wheel drive. The Australian outback is unforgiving country. By day it can be exhilarating and powerful; by night, as we saw it, it was a theater of mystery. I climbed into the front passenger seat, took a deep breath, and closed my eyes.

  My thoughts still focused on the Elder. How could a man I had only met for the first time, for just a few brief minutes, possibly sense so much about me?

  It seemed I was to be a part of the desert’s mystery.

  From the back seat, Greatrex’s voice broke through my thoughts.

  “Nicholas, you were never going to sort this by running.”

  “What made you the keeper of all things wise?” I asked. He could tell there was no malice in my voice.

  “Among other things, a bullet in my shoulder.”

  Jack had taken a hit when a situation we were involved in had ended badly on the Isle of Wight in Southern England. A world away from here. He had killed the man who shot him.

  Greatrex continued: “Nicholas, people like you and me can’t plan who we are. We don’t choose which part of us is real and which isn’t. That’s decided by circumstance and the way we react … in the moment.”

  Too damn wise for my taste, but despite my occasional fondness for reckless behavior, I knew he was right, as was the Elder. I knew I would have to learn to accept it. “The moment.” A musician lives in the moment, a soldier lives in the moment. For that matter, so does a killer.

  We would just have to see what “the moment” would bring.

  Chapter 2

  Six months later …

  The massive stone walls surrounding the room were covered by enormous tapestries, each capturing a moment from the estate’s tumultuous past. We were shrouded in a rich cocoon of past conflicts. I looked up from the ten-foot black grand piano as rays of light from the high windows danced enchantingly, defying the room’s shadows while my fingers caressed the keys.

  The chamber already rumbled with the deep and haunting drone of Patrick Jay’s didgeridoo, resonating through our bodies like a tremor from the earth’s core. The piano’s melodic lilt added another layer, softening the mood, infusing it with pathos. Then the final sonic brushstroke: Aislinn Byrne’s voice soared high, bouncing from the tops of the cavernous walls, raising the emotional stakes. As her pitch climbed, her tone cried for all humanity. If hope was a sound, this was it. We were in the presence of an angel.

  We were in the final rehearsals before our European tour began. The album I had recorded in Australia with New Age legends Aislinn Byrne and Patrick Jay Olden had been unexpectedly successful. Our music had somehow connected with an audience seeking to disconnect from an over-paced world. The record company had planned a tour, a different type of tour. Instead of playing the summer New Age and alternative festivals, we were to tour the great opera houses of Europe in winter. The plan was to let the acoustics of these buildings be our ally, and their magnificent history and architecture be our backdrop.

  Rehearsing at Cuillin Castle, overlooking Loch Alsh in the Scottish Highlands, was a transcendent experience. The lake’s tranquil waters were as calming as the high castle walls were imposing.

  The castle belonged to Antonio Ascardi, the billionaire social media entrepreneur. Among his many interests, Ascardi owned Vittoria Records, the record company that had signed and recorded us. As the music subsided, I drew a deep breath and relaxed into the stillness of the moment.

  “Bravo, bravo! Every time you three perform, it is different, a new exploration. I feel my pulse slow and my senses rise when I hear your spirited song. Bravo!” Our mellow silence had been shattered by Antonio Ascardi’s booming voice and thundering handclaps echoing from the back of the room. We hadn’t
even heard our host walk in.

  I glanced at him. The entrepreneur’s straggly long dark hair surrounded a neatly trimmed goatee that gave him the look of an artist, a bohemian. He wore his dark suit casually, with a white open-necked shirt, informally formal. His tanned skin in the middle of a Scottish winter conceded a level of wealth that allowed him to travel anywhere in the world at any time. The formality of the man’s language was a nod to generations past, the era of Cary Grant and the heyday of the Riviera. Yet for Ascardi, his parlance sounded as natural as breathing. I was aware that underneath the mask was a brain with a technical prowess a world ahead of its time. Antonio Ascardi was an old-time raconteur thriving in a hi-tech world, a dichotomy that belied his relative youth.

  I knew the man had a reputation as a maverick and an original thinker. Most of the world’s media had labeled him a genius. Nearly a third of the planet used one of Ascardi’s media platforms as their go-to social media site; unsurprisingly, the entrepreneur’s success had seen him reach billionaire status by the age of thirty-five.

  “Hello, Tony.” Aislinn seemed slightly besotted whenever Antonio Ascardi was around. “It’s lovely to see you.”

  Patrick Jay and I nodded.

  “I’ve just returned from London. The final pieces are in place. This tour will be an innovative experience for these old opera houses and the audiences who fill them, a lavish musical banquet to be consumed, savored and remembered.”

  Antonio Ascardi was never short of a word.

  Two hours later we were gathered in the castle’s dining room. The wooden table before us had been scarred and scuffed by revelers who had feasted here for centuries. Ascardi was at the head of the table, holding court. I couldn’t imagine Antonio Ascardi sitting anywhere but the head of the table. Aislinn and Patrick Jay were seated down one side, and Jack Greatrex and I sat down the other. There was space for twenty more. After two weeks of rehearsal, Greatrex had joined us to get the gear sorted and packed up for the tour crew arriving in the morning.

  Spread before us were numerous bottles of ridiculously expensive wine from Ascardi’s cellar and an array of cordon bleu food prepared by his chefs.

  “I will of course join you for some of the tour, Aislinn, but I fear other business commitments will tear me away soon enough.” Coming from Ascardi, this was more like an announcement than a conversation.

  “I do hope you can stay with the tour as long as possible. It’s lovely having you with us.” Aislinn, the besotted one.

  “It must be difficult, Tony, to keep everything running smoothly with such a diverse business empire to oversee.” I felt that I should make some contribution to the dinner talk.

  Ascardi pursed his lips and stared down at the food on his plate before responding. “Yes, Nicholas, you’re right. It can be taxing to have so many people clambering for your attention. It certainly wasn’t the case when I began back in Rome as a simple programmer with the glimmer of an idea. Now I almost hunger for a world where there is less responsibility … and accountability.”

  I heard Greatrex grunt next to me. He had taken a dislike to Antonio Ascardi almost from the moment they met, several months ago. Nothing since had changed his mind.

  Ascardi continued. “Nicholas, I believe you aren’t traveling with the main group for the whole tour.”

  “No,” I responded. “I’m looking for a little downtime. I’ll be in each city for the performances well ahead of time.”

  “Ah, Nicholas Sharp, the lone wolf.”

  “Yes, I suppose so,” I responded quietly.

  The real reason for my forced independence was that I was perpetually restless and a mite conflicted. That night in the Australian desert, across the burning fire from the old Indigenous Elder, still troubled me. We had been there to launch the album in the most inspiring “New Age” atmosphere we could think of: Uluru and the desert outback. Among the celebrations, I hadn’t counted on being spooked by such a confronting prophecy. I knew I should let it go.

  My state of mind had also impacted my “on again, off again” relationship with a beautiful woman back in L.A. who deserved better. Currently, Kaitlin Reed and I were “off again.” It was for the best.

  Ascardi ignored my response and continued to hold court. “Well, as you know, we begin the tour at the Festival Theatre in Edinburgh. There will be plenty of media there to get the ball rolling. Due to pressing business commitments, I will have my helicopter fly me down to London while you folks do some interviews and then catch the train—first class, of course. Our second show will be at the London Opera House three days after you arrive.”

  Patrick Jay spoke for the first time. “I think we all appreciate the extended breaks between shows, Tony. This is so different compared to the music industry’s usual ‘time is everything’ approach to touring.”

  We all nodded in agreement.

  “As you know, Patrick, I spend a lot of effort and resources pursuing alternative solutions to the world’s problems. Communication, of course, but also the environment, education, and medicine. I am a great fan of Carl Honoré’s book In Praise of Slow. I believe the world is moving way too quickly and that we are rapidly losing our ability to take the time to appreciate our environment and the people around us.”

  Patrick Jay looked up in surprise. Greatrex let out a gurgling sound as he nearly choked on his food.

  Ascardi took another moment to look around the table. His face seemed etched in sincerity, while his broadening smile spoke of understanding. “I see you are all a little surprised, that a man who thrives in the world of technological media would have such a point of view. I began my career—I suppose you could almost call it an obsession—in social media in the hope of improving people’s lives through stronger, more modern, and impartial channels of communication. The established media is biased and always with an agenda.” Ascardi seemed to stumble for a moment, pausing reflectively. A second later he seemed to cast whatever he was thinking away with a casual wave of his hand. “I have in fact dedicated my life to challenging the populace to think about how we live and how we may extend the fading life of our planet.”

  Philanthropist for the greater good.

  “My social media platforms, streaming services, recording companies, and other interests are all dedicated to this dream.”

  “Not to mention enjoying the billions of dollars you’ve made from ‘promoting the dream,’” added Greatrex.

  “Fair point, Jack,” said Ascardi, ignoring the jibe. “I have been fortunate in that my aspirations for mankind have aligned with my ambitions in business.”

  Greatrex made no response.

  At that moment Ascardi’s butler, Harris, leaned over the entrepreneur’s shoulder to replenish his wine glass.

  “No, no, no,” gesticulated our host as he held his hand over the top of his glass. He looked directly up at the butler and spoke in a quiet but firm voice. “I have told you, my friend, we do not move on to the 1982 Chateau Latour until we have completely finished the ‘90. To drink the ’82 first, with its powerful and densely layered tone, would impede our ability to savor the beautiful subtlety and finesse of the ’90. You must learn to get this level of detail correct.”

  Ascardi then looked up, shrugging his shoulders sheepishly.

  “Please accept my apologies. I do tend to over-focus on detail—an occupational trait, I’m afraid.”

  I said nothing, but the reaction spoke of the man’s character. Our host was obviously a complex individual.

  In moments of deep thought, songs frequently popped into my head, as if to steer my thinking. Out of nowhere, while observing our host smiling across the table, Eric Clapton unexpectedly downloaded himself into my brain. The song: Strange Brew.

  By midnight I was in bed. My eyes were closed, but the relief of sleep evaded me. Probably too much expensive wine and maybe even the company of some dogged ghosts from experiences past. As I dozed, a noise disturbed me—voices in the courtyard below. I was about to roll over and ign
ore the sound, but my inquisitive nature got the better of me. I got out of bed, padded over to the window, and looked down. The figure of Antonio Ascardi swaggered below. He spoke in an animated whisper, but I couldn’t make out his words. The second person stood in shadow, but even in the half-light I was certain it was a woman. Her figure was too curvaceous and slender to be male. There were more words, a kiss on the cheek, and then the woman turned away and walked over to a sports car across the courtyard. I couldn’t make out her face in the darkness, but as I watched her walk to the car and climb in, I was struck with a feeling of familiarity. I had seen that walk, that body language, somewhere before.

  Nicholas Sharp, stupid man who’d had too much high-priced wine to drink. I laughed at myself as I climbed back into the luxurious four-poster bed.

  Chapter 3

  A clear blue winter sky framed the stark, snowcapped Scottish hills as we departed from the castle early the next morning. Aislinn and Patrick Jay joined Ascardi in his helicopter. They were flying directly to Edinburgh. Jack and I would go by car. Not only was there not enough room for us in the chopper, but also, after a recent experience with a helicopter that hadn’t ended well, we now traveled by other means where possible.

  The drive weaved past the tranquil waters of several highland lochs glistening in the morning sunlight, complemented by endless panoramic vistas. Glancing at the Google Maps display on the dash, I realized we weren’t far from the Isle of Mull. You could almost hear the distinctive call of the bagpipes in Paul McCartney’s “Mull of Kintyre” echo across the waters.

  I had met McCartney once, backstage at one of his shows. It was an honor. He had just been rehearsing with a pipe band who were to perform with him that night. He told me that when he wrote that classic melody for Kintyre, he had invited a local piper up to his house to try it out. The bagpipes were so loud that the crockery on the kitchen shelves started shaking.

  Powerful sound, powerful country.

  We were heading south, down the A82 through the Glencoe Valley. The sky had transitioned from a clear blue to an ominous gray. The hillsides on either side of the road were sparse and steep, towering up into the clouds. Our hired black Audi A5 was stripping back the miles as we flew down the bitumen. The bold Scottish countryside was as polarizing as the Californian desert. People seemed to either love it or hate it. It was in my blood on my mother’s side.