Racing Through Darkness
Page 34
“I hope you sent Michelle my best,” Bastian remarked, snubbing the butt in an ashtray.
“Didn’t you quit?” Mercer asked, annoyed by the intrusion, as he tucked the gun in the holster at the small of his back.
“That was yesterday. Depending on how tonight goes, I’ll reconsider quitting again tomorrow. But in the event we all bloody well die today, then there’s no reason I should torture myself in these final hours.” He studied Mercer, looking for cracks on his impassive exterior. “Jules, you can’t go on like this. She’s gone. You need to move on.”
“I have. Now are we going to get to work?”
“No.” Bastian Clarke had been an intelligence analyst. He knew his way around a gun and could hold his own in a firefight, but his real skills came with reading marks, hacking surveillance, and predicting enemy movements. He was also Mercer’s best friend, second-in-command, and the only person not afraid to mouth off. “Hans and Donovan don’t want you on-site. Not today.”
“Who’s in charge?”
“Today, I am,” Bastian said, watching as Mercer stalked across the room. “Under normal circumstances, you barely have the rage under control, and with it being Michelle’s birthday, any problem we encounter will turn into a bloodbath.” Bastian lit another cigarette and exhaled. “Maybe you’re okay with the killing, but we’re not mercenaries. Minimal collateral damage, understand?”
Mercer grabbed the cigarette from Bastian’s mouth and smushed it into the table. “If I’m going through hell, then so are you.”
“Deal.” Bastian flipped open the dossier they compiled on the kidnapped child, Louisa Hamberson, and skimmed through the information. Mercer had spent the entire week negotiating with the kidnappers on the parents’ behalf, and finally, the two parties agreed on a location for the exchange. Typically, these matters were civil. But sometimes, the human element could get greedy or the package was damaged, and things would turn ugly fast. “It’s still your op, Commander. So why don’t we work on the exit strategy together?” Bastian offered as consolation.
Julian rubbed the bridge of his nose. He needed an outlet to escape. The woman from the pub didn’t help, visiting the cemetery only exacerbated the situation, and working on a mission he wouldn’t be a part of would just add to his feeling of impotence.
“Figure it out yourself,” he barked, storming out of the room and slamming the door.
Since he was stuck in this godforsaken city for another day, he should at least see if any progress was made on finding his wife’s killer. It was the only thing that mattered, and despite his best efforts and the efforts of his team and numerous private investigators he hired, no one was ever caught. The police probably still believed he was to blame, and on those sleepless nights when his past haunted him, he wasn’t sure that he wasn’t.
Two
“Rubbish,” Mercer snarled, exiting the police station.
He was in a worse mood now than when he arrived. He spent hours at the police station, impatiently waiting for the detective inspector assigned to Michelle’s case to make time to see him. It was a cold case now, but it was the same man who conducted the initial investigation two years ago. After an eternity, the man summoned Mercer to his desk. Silently staring, he sized up Mercer like he was the prime suspect back to gloat. It was sickening. This detective was a moron, and it was no wonder Michelle’s killer was still walking free. If it wasn’t for tonight’s planned recovery, Mercer would have shown the incompetent bastard exactly where he could put his nightstick. But he couldn’t jeopardize the current op or expect any of his teammates to waste their time bailing him out of jail for assaulting a police officer. Instead, he procured copies of the police reports and left without resorting to physical violence.
Returning to his hotel room, he sat at the table and flipped through the pages. It was old news. He read the same information hundreds of times, but he couldn’t help himself. Maybe one of these days there would be a new notation or crime scene photo that would lead to the assailant’s identity. And until that day came, Mercer was condemned to read and reread the file.
After the fourth perusal, he closed the folder, sick to his stomach and trembling. He wasn’t an investigator. His skill set involved precision shooting, tactical response and rescue, and stealth espionage maneuvers. But surely, he must be more competent than the mentally impaired sows that worked for the London police.
“I’ll figure this out. I will find that bloody motherfucker,” he whispered, pushing away from the table.
To distract himself, he disassembled and cleaned his handgun, reviewed Bastian’s plan for the exchange, and phoned the Hambersons to make sure the money was ready to go. Hans and Donovan were performing the retrieval, and Bastian would remain outside to monitor the situation and provide any necessary cover support. It was a good plan. Unfortunately, it didn’t involve him.
Hundreds of push-ups and sit-ups later, Bastian phoned. The exchange went off without a hitch. Hans and Donovan had safely negotiated with the kidnappers and exited with Louisa. Her parents were thrilled to have their daughter back alive and unharmed.
“I’ve made travel arrangements,” Bastian stated. “After I collect our fee, we’ll head to Heathrow. I don’t see any reason for us to stay in this bloody town another night.”
“I agree. Where are we going this time?”
“The United States. We fly into O’Hare and should arrive by the morning.”
Bastian coordinated their jobs. He had connections to insurance firms and private security agencies, so Mercer didn’t bother to ask why. He simply agreed, assuming it was another kidnapping and ransom case.
Disconnecting, Julian showered and packed, disassembling the heavy artillery and placing it inside the checked bag. He hoped that airport security wouldn’t confiscate or question the items likely to set the metal detectors abuzz. He couldn’t wait for approval or to send them through the mail. It was time to leave London. And he swore he wouldn’t return home again until he knew the identity of his wife’s killer, and then he would track that man down and leave him bloodied and broken to die slow and painfully.
Bastian received their compensation and arrived at the airport, money in hand. The four men boarded the plane, exchanging few words. But from the worried looks Bastian tossed in Mercer’s direction, it was obvious he believed the sooner Julian was away from the EU, the better off he’d be.
The four ex-SAS had been a team for a number of years prior to Julian Mercer’s forced retirement. But after his breakdown, Mercer’s superiors believed he was a liability. He couldn’t control his rage, and he failed to exercise the proper precautions in ensuring his own safety. When he was forced to leave, his team followed suit. Their loyalty wasn’t to the Crown, it was to Julian. Even now, as he became increasingly unstable, the three of them were determined to keep him from coming completely unhinged. If work was something he needed to focus on, then they would find more job opportunities.
Situated a few rows away from Bastian and Mercer, Hans and Donovan exchanged a look. They never expected to become kidnap recovery specialists. Mercenary work was something they were better trained for, but it was too slippery a slope. Wet work was costly. And after years of carrying out government-sanctioned hits and black ops missions, maybe it was time to earn back some cosmic brownie points. Balance was important, or so Bastian insisted.
Hans Bauer was a reconnaissance specialist, and Donovan Mayes was an expert at long-distance tactical resolutions. They both favored a more simplistic approach to crisis management, but they were adjusting to civilian life easily enough. They were each a decade younger than Mercer, who recently hit forty, but not remotely as damaged and jaded. They hadn’t seen nearly as many devastating attacks and wars, nor did they come home to find their wife choking to death in a pool of her own blood after being stabbed repeatedly. Although it was Julian’s pain, it sometimes felt like something they all shared. Grief was a burden no one was free from carrying.
As they h
urtled through the sky, Mercer stared out the window into the darkness. At some point he must have fallen asleep because when he opened his eyes, the pilot was announcing they arrived in Chicago. Stretching in his seat, he realized it was his first dreamless night since arriving in London.
“Morning,” Bastian commented, gnawing on a drinking straw. “I’ve made room reservations at a four-star hotel since these insurance blokes are picking up the tab. We have a meeting scheduled for this afternoon.”
“Fine,” Mercer replied, the amusement over Bastian’s nicotine deprivation very obviously played across his face. “And you were worried about how well I was keeping it together.” He snorted and dug out his passport as the plane made a final approach before landing.
* * *
“That was a complete waste of time,” Mercer remarked as he and Bastian exited the meeting. The insurance firm wanted to hire specialists to remain behind a desk and crunch numbers before issuing payouts for ransom demands. It was corporate bullshit, and not something any of them were equipped to handle. Hans and Donovan had taken off in pursuit of their own devices, leaving Mercer and Bastian to devise their next course of action. “Now what? I’m sick of being dragged across the globe for frivolous reasons.” He squinted against the bright sunlight that filtered into the lobby.
“Fine. Our next move is up to you. It’s your call,” Bastian said, stopping at a vending machine on the way out of the insurance building. He offered the snack bag to Mercer, who declined, before shoving his hand inside and devouring a fistful of pretzels. “We’ll go wherever you want.”
“That’s the bloody problem.” Mercer had taken another stab at the police file before coming to the meeting, and it left him frustrated and irate. “You’re constantly on my back. Just give me some room to breathe. I don’t need a babysitter following me around. Do you think I’m going to blow my bloody head off? Because I promise if that was my intention, I’d have done it by now.”
“You want some space. Here’s your space,” Bastian yelled, taking a step back. “You know where to find me whenever you’re done having a hissy fit.”
“And stay away from the nicotine,” Mercer called after him, “because it makes you even more insufferable than usual.” Bastian made a rude gesture and then stormed down the street, heading for Chicago’s rail system, the L. “Good riddance,” Mercer huffed. He finally had the reprieve and privacy he wanted, but now he had to figure out what to do with it.
He moved throughout the city on foot with no destination in mind. It was unfamiliar territory but easy enough to navigate. The sun set almost an hour ago, and the air had a slight chill to it. His stomach growled, and he stepped into an Irish pub for a pint and some sustenance.
To his surprise, the place was crowded with young adults. This part of town didn’t seem that trendy, but maybe he was mistaken. He took a seat at the corner of the bar and waited patiently as the world continued spinning around him. After he ate and could no longer tolerate the infernal racket of the pub, he stepped outside. Glancing around, he spotted a sign for the L.
Waiting on the platform was a collection of various people. Subconsciously, he assessed the group, determining who might pose a threat. The three adolescent men, probably in their late teens, appeared particularly interested in the bags an elderly couple was holding. Mercer took a breath, debating if he would intercede if circumstances presented themselves. It wasn’t his problem or his business, but the thought of getting to knock some punks around did hold a certain appeal. Continuing to watch out of the corner of his eye, the men lost interest in their prize and moved away from the platform. Probably for the best, Mercer thought, leaning against a support pole and waiting for the train.
Fifteen minutes later, the train came, and he boarded, taking a seat in the back corner. As he neared his stop, the brakes squeaked, but there was another unmistakable squeal. It sounded like a woman screaming. Peering through the glass of the subway car, he was positive the sound didn’t originate from the train. As the brakes fully engaged and the doors opened, he cautiously stepped outside. No one else reacted as if they heard anything amiss. Maybe Bas was right, and he was losing it. Walking a block toward the hotel, his eyes darted back and forth, searching for danger, as he strained to hear any other cries for help.
By the time he reached the hotel, he was certain he must have hallucinated the entire event. Had he been thinking of Michelle and not realized it? Entering through the revolving door, the lobby was empty. He went up to his room, unlocked the door, and stepped inside. He was alone.
Settling into bed, he shut his eyes and forced his mind to go blank. His breathing slowed, only to be kick-started by another blood-curdling scream. It was muffled and must have come from somewhere outside.
Getting up, he peered out the window. But it was too dark, and the alleys were too dimly lit to see from this height. Reacting, he grabbed his gun and opened the door. He exited the hotel and turned down the street. Half a block later, he heard it again and took off at a fast clip, heading straight for the sound. Rounding a corner, he found a woman on the ground, covered in blood and holding a man in her arms. No one else was in sight.
“Miss,” Mercer spoke softly, his gun still poised in front of him, “are you okay? Who did this?”
Spotting the gun, she screamed. This time it was nonstop and deafening. Before he could quiet her hysterics or evaluate the condition of the prone man, flashing lights and sirens pulled up behind him. The police ordered him to drop the weapon and surrender. Despite what Bastian might think, he didn’t have a death wish and complied. Before he knew it, he was booked and thrown into a jail cell.
“Bollocks,” he muttered, knowing his team would never let him live this one down.
* * *
It was early morning before the police officer opened the cell door. The woman Mercer attempted to rescue finally managed to give her statement to the officers. And although they were still suspicious of a British citizen running through the streets with a Sig Sauer, Julian had the proper paperwork and documentation, so they couldn’t hold him on anything.
After collecting his belongings and being given numerous stern looks by everyone in the squad room, Mercer was free to go. As soon as he stepped outside, he spotted the woman from last night. In the morning sunlight, he realized she couldn’t be older than twenty-five.
She gave him a grim smile. “I’m sorry you were arrested,” she muttered. “After everything that happened, I saw the gun and thought they came back to finish the job.”
Something about the woman piqued his interest. This was new. Different. And obviously dangerous. It could be fun.
“Who?” he asked. She hesitated, watching him pensively, not trusting the man who had so conveniently shown up to help. Mercer dug through his wallet and pulled out his business card, handing it to her. “Maybe I can offer some assistance.”
She read the card and then looked up at him. “Personal security specialist?” Considering her options, she walked away without another word.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
G.K. Parks is the author of the Alexis Parker series. The first novel, Likely Suspects, tells the story of Alexis’ first foray into the private sector.
G.K. Parks received a Bachelor of Arts in Political Science and History. After spending some time in law school, G.K. changed paths and earned a Master of Arts in Criminology/Criminal Justice. Now all that education is being put to use creating a fictional world based upon years of study and research.
You can find additional information on G.K. Parks and the Alexis Parker series by visiting our website at
www.alexisparkerseries.com
Full-length Novels in the Alex
is Parker Series:
Likely Suspects
The Warhol Incident
Mimicry of Banshees
Suspicion of Murder
Racing Through Darkness
Camels and Corpses
Lack of Jurisdiction
Dying for a Fix
Intended Target
Muffled Echoes
Crisis of Conscience
Misplaced Trust
Prequel Alexis Parker Novellas:
Outcomes and Perspective: The Complete Prequel Series
Assignment Zero (Prequel series, #1)
Agent Prerogative (Prequel series, #2)
The Final Chapter (Prequel series, #3)
Julian Mercer Novels
Condemned
Betrayal
Subversion