by Tom Benson
Hartley was physically fit, and in a straight fight would have been competition, but this was no ordinary adversary. Phil’s first punches had been made with the raw power of hatred. Hartley was outmatched in skill and incredible malevolence.
When Hartley fell to his knees, Phil pulled him to his feet, his strength fed by adrenalin. Hartley stumbled backwards to the wrecked van, both eyes swollen, and closing. Phil rained blows on him mercilessly. Hartley’s face was being pulped, and Phil stopped. He was breathing like a bull, and perspiration dripped from him.
“You don’t remember me, Hartley. You murdered my parents.” Phil hammered a sequence of punches into the man’s ribcage, and a rib cracked. “You shot them in the street, you cowardly piece of shit.”
As Hartley doubled up, he coughed blood, Phil held him by the blood-soaked, torn shirt, and punched him repeatedly in the ribs and face. Hartley slid down the side of the van, and as his face dropped level to Phil’s waist, the final punch shattered the gangster’s cheekbone.
“You’ve fucking killed him,” MacDonald gasped.
Phil turned like a wild man. His face was red with rage, and his hands and face were covered in blood splatter from his victim. He glared at the solicitor. Standing beside MacDonald was Lawrence Metcalfe, the MP. Neither man was armed.
They were both cowards.
From the tree-line one hundred metres away, behind the two trembling men, came Annabel with a Sako sniper rifle cradled across her arms. She was in a one-piece Gillie suit, and her hair was kept in place by a camouflaged hat. She pulled off the hat, stuffed it into her camouflaged outfit, and shook her hair free.
The two suited men turned to see what had caught Phil’s interest. Metcalfe smiled.
As Phil stood there, close to exhaustion, he assessed the two men to his front. Neither of them looked as if they belonged in the scene of carnage.
“You’re the solicitor,” Phil said, looking at MacDonald. He turned to the other man. “Who are you?” Dave said he’d recognised this man, but Phil wanted to hear the name.
“I’m the one person who could help you. I have a lot of clout.” Metcalfe said.
“I asked what your fucking name was, arsehole.”
“Well - now Chameleon has seen my face, maybe she could tell you who I am.” He turned and nodded towards Annabel before turning back to face Phil.
Phil’s brow creased, and he squinted as he looked from Metcalfe to Annabel, and back.
“I’m sorry,” Metcalfe said, grinning. “Didn’t you know who she was? Perhaps she doesn’t know my face, but she’ll recognise my voice.” He half-turned and addressed Annabel. “Well, do you know my voice, my dear?”
Phil stared beyond the two men, to the woman he had trusted with his life—and who had saved it repeatedly within the past hour. He was confused and angry.
Annabel was staring at Metcalfe, her eyes like slits, her jaw clenched.
Rachel regained consciousness as Flannigan was securing her wrists to a metal shackle on the deck of his boat. Her head was bruised, and broad tape covered her mouth. She focused, brought a knee up, and caught the kidnapper in the ribcage.
He gasped and fell backwards. When he got up onto his knees, he grinned at her as he saw her struggle to free her wrists. Flannigan was a sailor. She wouldn’t be undoing those knots without help. He crawled across the deck to kneel alongside her.
“You’ve got such a pretty face,” he said as he traced a fingertip over her cheek. Without losing eye contact, he lifted his hand and swiped her hard with a backhand motion. Rachel’s head was thrown to the side by the power of the blow, and her face hit the deck. Tears flowed from her beautiful eyes as she stared up at him.
“Those are tears produced by pain—not fear.” He stroked her body which was encased in her leathers. “Rest assured my feisty one, you will learn to cry through fear. I’ll teach you.” His gaze locked onto hers, as he moved his hand down the jacket towards her legs. He licked his lips as his fingers reached her waist.
Flannigan stood up, and steered away from the mooring, causing the boat to vibrate as the power was applied. The vessel wasn’t built for speed and crept slowly out into the middle of the channel. At this point, the River Clyde became much broader, but several boats were in the area. As he had done with Amy in the car, Flannigan checked his bearings and spent time drinking in the sight of his captive.
Phil heard the codename Chameleon, and his blood ran cold. When the cocky man forced Phil to connect the name with Annabel, it felt wrong. It was a pivotal moment, and when Phil saw Annabel’s expression, he wasn’t prepared to pursue the matter with her—yet.
He gripped Metcalfe’s designer suit by the lapel and rammed a fist into the man’s solar plexus. Metcalfe doubled forward, his face pale, eyes bulging and mouth gaping as his core temperature rose and fell. For several seconds, he couldn’t breathe.
Annabel remained silent and watched her hero continue to unleash his fury.
Phil had released his grip when Metcalfe doubled over but moved in close for when the man straightened up, subdued. The politician’s mouth was working hard, opening and closing, as his brain and natural instincts reacted. Air reached his lungs, and he coughed before speaking.
“Violence isn’t going to—”
A strong and bloodied left hand gripped a lapel, and Phil’s right fist smashed into Metcalfe’s nose, which broke with a loud crack. Blood splashed over Phil’s fist and the man’s previously smart designer suit. The politician dropped to his knees, holding his face with both hands, sobbing.
Phil said, “If an explanation isn’t the next words out of your fucking mouth, you are going to resemble Hartley in the next five minutes. Stand up like a man, and fucking talk.”
“Okay, okay,” Metcalfe mumbled and staggered as he stood. “My name is Lawrence Metcalfe. I’m a Member of Parliament.” He touched his nose gingerly.
“What’s your connection to Hartley?”
Metcalfe turned sideways to look at the solicitor, MacDonald, who was staring and gasping like a worried child.
“Before I became an MP, I worked for the Foreign and Commonwealth Office and served in Kentobi, Africa.”
“What’s it got to do with Hartley?”
“I met him while on a visit back to the UK. He was the most promising underworld contact in Scotland, and we planned a massive operation to import hashish.”
“Why Scotland, when Amsterdam is the centre for routing drugs through Europe?”
“The west coast of Scotland has hundreds of small inlets and islands. It’s ideal for smuggling anything into mainland Britain.”
“Where was the hashish coming from?”
“In the mountain region of Kentobi, we discovered an ideal climate for cultivating cannabis. The place was the size of an English county. General Meterenge wouldn’t hear of it, but his Second in Command, Joseph Umbeke, was prepared to do a deal with me.”
“You made a deal with Umbeke, which meant you’d get rid of his leader, and he’d take over. You’d have the biggest hashish production in the world?”
“Yes,” Metcalfe said. “I forged documents to discredit the General, and I initiated a trade embargo. I suggested we send in Special Forces to wipe out his escort helicopter if he tried to leave his remote mansion. He’d be assured his days were numbered, and hand over power.”
“How does Chameleon fit into this?”
Metcalfe turned towards Annabel and shook his head. “Her role was my idea.” He bowed his head. “I set up a fictitious mission. She was to hit the second helicopter. I told her department a Special Forces team would shoot down the General, and she was to ensure the other aircraft went down too.”
“In other words, you used two British outfits to assassinate a foreign leader, and left us all out to dry?”
“More or less,” Metcalfe mumbled.
Annabel placed the muzzle of her automatic against Metcalfe’s ear. “Tell the man the second part of your plan.”
Met
calfe’s breathing became ragged, and he looked down at Phil’s feet. “I gave a briefing the helicopter pilot was to pretend to have a problem with his aircraft.”
“You knew an SAS team would aim to complete the task, and you wanted to leave us stranded. I gave the helicopter pilot a time limit, but we made it back in one piece. It’s why the fucking crew looked shocked when we returned.”
“Yes,” Metcalfe said.
Annabel took her automatic away from Metcalfe’s ear and slammed the pistol grip hard into the side of his head. Metcalfe howled and fell to his knees holding his damaged ear.
Phil had no intention of interfering.
Annabel pressed the muzzle of her automatic behind Metcalfe’s bleeding ear. “Get up and explain the rest, or I’ll shoot you, you fucking weasel.”
Metcalfe sobbed and staggered to his feet, feeling the cold pistol pressed to his ear. This woman was capable. “The next part of Chameleon’s mission—”
Phil’s phone buzzed, and he held a hand up to silence the blubbering MP. “Hello,” Phil said and looked directly at Annabel as he listened. “Right. Well done, Jake. You and Amy stay together. Check the house over for any captives, and gain access to the cellar.” He closed his eyes briefly. He dialled a number and listened. No dial tone. He shook his head.
“Who are you calling?” Annabel asked.
“Shark—”
“Get back to Jake. He’ll have a better signal.”
Phil called Jake and told him to relay, “Abort the call. A colleague is onboard.” Jake repeated the message, received confirmation from Phil, and hung up.
As Phil slipped his phone away, he glared at Metcalfe. “The woman behind you suggested more information. Apart from using her to kill the General, and the helicopter crew to ditch us, what was the last part of your plan?”
“Chameleon’s second task was to ... to—” He half-turned towards Annabel.
Phil said, “To do what, you slimy bastard?”
“She got a last minute call to say two of you were to be terminated. She was to shoot you, and another member of your team.”
“The Kentobi soldiers would find two dead, catch the two survivors, and have somebody to blame?”
“Yes, and she should’ve been captured too—”
Phil punched Metcalfe on his recently broken nose. While Phil was considering hitting the politician again, there was another call from Jake. There were no bodies in the house, and the cellar was empty, but it had been lived in recently.
Rachel’s body was rocking gently as the boat cruised slowly out into open water beyond the Clyde estuary. An occasional splash of seawater sprayed her leathers and bruised face. She waited until Flannigan was concentrating on steering the boat before taking a better look at her bindings.
An opportunity would come. As the boat sailed into open water, it had a different motion. It brought back vivid memories of the trip with her Uncle Eric. Rachel kept her eyes open to prevent the memories from becoming too strong. She concentrated. The perverted sailor’s voice brought her back from her reverie.
“I’m glad to see you’ve calmed down. For a minute, I thought you were in a trance.” He reached down and ripped the gaffer tape from her mouth. “Shout, and scream if you like.”
The kidnapper knelt down and stroked the soft skin of Rachel’s face. As his fingers got close to her lips, he lifted his hand away. This one had spunk and might have his fingers.
He licked his lips. “Yes my girl, you are going to be a sweet conquest. I might feed your predecessor to the fishes. She’s ended her usefulness.”
Flannigan stood up to check his craft was on the correct bearing as it skipped gently over the low swells. A small blue and white pleasure cruiser caught up, sailing parallel on the same bearing, fifty metres to starboard. Three fishing rods were standing in brackets, in the back of the twenty-one-foot boat. The muscular young man at the helm waved. Flannigan waved back and reached for his binoculars.
For the next few minutes, Rachel tried to see who her captor had been waving at. The boat rose and fell as it chugged along, and she caught glimpses of a blue and white boat with a small cabin. It sparked a memory. Flannigan was focusing his binoculars and didn’t notice Rachel straining to see the other craft.
When she got a good look, she recalled seeing the distinctive colouring before but had no idea where. It wasn’t from the terrifying memories of her ordeal with Uncle Eric.
Ironically, Flannigan’s constant need to talk provided the answer. As he focused on the other vessel, he muttered. “Who would call their boat, Per Mare, Per Terram?” He laughed.
Tears rolled down Rachel’s face when she remembered where she’d seen the boat with the strange name. It had been a photo, on an office wall in a garage, beside a calendar showing Miss July, stretched out on a Kawasaki motorcycle. She had asked what the name meant.
‘By Sea, By Land,’ Mike had been proud to tell her—the motto of the Royal Marines.
Flannigan put down his binoculars and unsheathed a sharp knife from his belt as he moved toward Rachel.
“We’re on a nice steady course now, and our young friend is going fishing. It’s time to get a better look at my prize.” He knelt beside his victim. Tears were rolling down her cheeks. What a beautiful sight.
It took Flannigan ten minutes of hard work to cut through the seams of Rachel’s leathers, and pull the material away from her. He gripped her ankles and pulled her body straight to appreciate her. Her hair was spread out around the deck under her head, and her white T-shirt was pulled tight and tucked into her close-fitting Daisy Dukes. Now minus her boots, her feet were encased in white socks.
“You are gorgeous.” Flannigan licked his lips. As he looked her up and down, he rubbed his crotch. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to wait until we reach Ireland.” He squatted and undid the button on Rachel’s tiny denim shorts. When he saw the waistband of the white panties, he took a deep breath. “I’m on course ... but I’d better check the boat.”
When he stood, he found himself distracted by the small cruiser. It should have been away ahead, but it was sitting in the water a few metres to starboard.
“Ahoy,” the bare-chested young man called.
“What do you want?” Flannigan said, moving along to hide his passenger from view. If his captive didn’t stay quiet, there would be at least one more body feeding the fishes.
“My name is Colin. I came close by, to let you know I saw a periscope.”
“The coastguard would send out a warning—it couldn’t have been a periscope.”
“Nuclear submarines don’t report when they go to sea.”
“Right,” Flannigan said. “Thanks, Colin. You go back to your fishing.” He heard a noise and turned to see a stocky figure in a dripping black wetsuit standing on the deck. The man’s goggles were raised up onto his forehead, and he had a Commando dagger in his right hand.
“Who the fuck are you?” Flannigan said.
“My name is Mike, and I’ve come to make a delivery.”
“Oh, yeah?” Flannigan moved sideways, towards a stowed grappling hook. “What are you delivering?”
“You, to the bottom of the sea ... you fucking lowlife.”
Flannigan glanced to his left. His prisoner was freed, and standing with his knife in her hand. She wasn’t crying.
Flannigan lunged for the hook, but the ex-Commando stepped forward and stabbed the sailor in the gut. Flannigan fell to his knees. Mike gripped the pervert’s hair and kneed his face.
“Mike,” Rachel gasped. “I think there’s somebody below.”
Mike let go of Flannigan, cut the engine, and went below. He returned one minute later, with a semi-naked blonde girl.
Rachel was holding Flannigan’s large knife. She pushed Flannigan from his knees onto his back with her foot. He winced and pressed a hand to his wound. His beautiful prisoner knelt beside him.
“Don’t forget this on your way to Hell.” She thrust the knife up between his legs, tw
isted it, and left it embedded there when she stood up.
Flannigan’s scream was of an inhuman pitch. He couldn’t reach the knife. If he could, he would have been unable to remove it. He cried and screamed as he lay there.
Colin brought the cruiser alongside. Mike helped the unknown girl, and Rachel onto his boat, and then he leapt aboard. He took the controls.
Colin wrapped both girls in heavy blankets and sat them on the rear seat together. Rachel comforted the traumatised girl, who was whimpering in a European language.
Mike applied power and steered a course away from the Margharita. “How are we looking Colin?”
“Nearest car ferry is five miles away.” Colin scanned three-sixty degrees with the binoculars. “There’s nothing within two miles, mate.”
Mike produced a mobile phone from beside the controls. “Okay?”
Colin and Rachel nodded.
Rachel urged the other girl to look toward the Margharita. It was half a mile away when Mike pressed the call button. Flannigan’s vessel exploded in a ball of flame. Thousands of fragments flew into the air.
Phil had fitted the primary device to the fuel tank and attached a series of explosives along the underside of the false decking.
As the pieces were landing on the water, Mike opened the phone, removed the card, and dropped each part into the water as they sailed toward the Clyde estuary.
Mike accepted his personal phone from Colin and dialled. “Hello Hawk ... it’s Shark. Mission accomplished. I have your colleague, plus one unknown, teenage blonde. Out.”
30. Deliveries
In American movies, it takes one gunshot, and police cars are swarming all over the place. In the hamlet of Balquhidder, there was an equivalent of such a scene. Constable Hamish Briar was parking outside the cottage-style, police station. A local farmer ran up to the car and beat on the window.
“Calm down, Dennis,” Hamish said, as he got out of the car. “Has there been an accident somewhere?”
“Gunshots ... Hamish.” Dennis, a seventy-year-old, was gasping for breath. “I heard ... gunshots ... and a bloody big explosion.”
