by Jon F. Merz
Raider X
A Harrison Thatcher Thriller
Jon F. Merz
Copyright © 2021 by Jon F. Merz
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Contents
Disclaimer
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
Reviews
About the Author
The Lawson Vampire Series
The Lawson Vampire Origins Series
Also by Jon F. Merz
Disclaimer
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Chapter 1
Two things occurred to Thatcher as he stood against the wooden post with his hands tied behind him. The first was that it was much colder this early in the morning before the sun had done little more than peek over the horizon and he wondered briefly if he ought to have used the latrine before being marched out.
The second was that the eight men holding rifles twenty paces away looked a hell of a lot scarier than he would have ever dared imagine.
He supposed that was the reason for the blindfold they offered. Thatcher had turned down the officer with a smile. He still couldn’t get over the absurdity of the situation. He was about thirty seconds away from being shot by a firing squad.
Thatcher had never seen an execution before. He’d heard stories, of course, about how after being riddled with the large caliber bullets, the officer in charge would administer the final pistol shot to the heart, what the French called the coup de grace.
Thatcher figured the phrase meant “overkill,” since he doubted that one small pistol round would hardly be needed after the riflemen had done their job.
He thought about the brick wall immediately behind his post. Did the firing squad ever worry about ricochets?
Probably not.
He wondered how it would feel when the bullets pierced his body. Was it like getting stuck with a really big hypodermic? Or lanced with a hot poker? Would it even register or would it be over so fast that he didn’t even know he was dead?
This was what it boiled down to, he supposed: the worry of death rather than the actual feat itself. By that time, things were too far along to give much of a damn. But the anticipation, well, that was something else again.
The captain of the guards looked young. Probably the son of some wealthy aristocrat. Another year would possibly find him either dead or leading troops against the Germans. Already their war machine was grinding along and chewing up land across Europe, killing thousands every single day as they gunned toward England. This time around, they just might succeed.
Thatcher wondered what would happen if they did conquer Britain. Would they open the prisons up and let criminals go?
Doubtful.
Thatcher almost grinned. One way or another, his fate seemed to be tied to the same post his hands were. And it wasn’t exactly the thrilling glamorous life he’d thought he might lead when he first got mixed up in crime.
What was the hold up? Why wasn’t the captain barking out orders? Thatcher’s bladder was full. He could tell. He thought about politely informing the captain of the situation.
“Pardon me, old chap, but when you come by to hoist my carcass, there’s liable to be quite a spot of piss on the ground and covering me as I’ve got the full tank, you see.”
Better leave it a surprise. And besides, his bladder wasn’t the only thing about to let go. Death was the greatest plumber of all time. No clogs left in the pipes when the Grim Reaper got through with you.
The sun continued to climb and Thatcher felt momentarily thankful for the bit of warmth that seemed to settle down on his shoulders and face.
“Ready!”
The barked command startled him. That’ll teach you to go daydreaming, Thatcher, he thought. Especially when you ought really to be focused on other important things like the end of your bleeding existence.
The guards looked serious now. Thatcher could see the grim expressions on their faces. He wondered if many of them had done this before. Maybe this was a new training exercise for the British Army to make sure its soldiers could kill a man before they went to war.
At least it was a convenient way to get rid of the criminals like Thatcher.
The captain seemed to have found his calling. Thatcher could see the seriousness on his face. Was he enjoying this? Did he realize that Thatcher was about to die? Did he care?
“Aim!”
Apparently not. The rifle barrels looked like eight black eyes staring into Thatcher’s very soul. He’d already had a priest come to his cell to hear his final confession. Thatcher wasn’t a man of the church, but he did believe in covering all his bets. After all, who knew what waited on the other side?
He would have asked for a cigarette if he smoked. He could have stood there puffing away on the thing while they shot him. Cool as ice it would have been. And it would have kept him in good stead with the lads back in Luton who’d gather at the pub.
“Good old Thatcher,” they’d say, “he went out in style, he did.”
And then they’d toast him with a quick pint before getting back to darts.
But no cigarette burned between his lips. Just an acidic taste in his mouth. Bile, most likely, he reasoned. The old stomach’s gone and churned some up for me one last time.
The captain seemed to be looking his boys over once more. Those Enfield rifles must have been getting heavy. He’d give the command soon and that would be it. Harrison Thatcher, dead at last.
“Ready to die, then?”
The voice in his ear made him jump. He turned his head, aware that the rifles still hadn’t moved. Staring him in the face was a man he’d never seen before. Thatcher couldn’t help but marvel at how a free man would willingly choose to stand where he stood.
Before Thatcher could say anything, the man smiled and nodded across the yard. “Looks to me as though the lads down there are all set to squeeze their triggers and send you off to the netherworld. Probably taking up the slack on them now even as we speak.”
Thatcher managed to swallow. “And yet here you are.”
“Here I am.” The man looked around the yard as if he were appraising a home for sale. “Rather a lovely morning, I’d say.”
“I’ll withhold my opinion for the time being if it’s all the same to you, mate.”
“Indeed.”
Thatcher shifted. The rifles still hadn’t mov
ed. “You need something then, sir?”
The man looked back at him. “You want to live Thatcher?”
“Excuse me?”
“I said, do you want to live? Or are you one of those self-pitying fools who reckons his time is all but used up and wants to get sent off on a one-way down the River Styx?”
“I’d rather live.”
The man nodded. “Bit late to make that kind of decision now though, isn’t it? After all, you chose to kill that poor blighter when you had the option of letting him run.”
Thatcher frowned. “I’m an innocent, man, sir. I didn’t commit that murder.”
The man’s eyebrows jumped. “That so? Then I suppose you most definitely aren’t the man I’m looking for. I’d best let those chaps down the range get their work done. I expect they’re rather hungry for breakfast.”
He started to move away. Thatcher cleared his throat. “And just what kind of man were you looking for, sir?”
He turned back and walked closer to Thatcher this time until Thatcher could smell the coffee on his breath and see the yellowed teeth in his mouth.
“I’m looking for a man who can kill. My file told me that was you, Thatcher. But if you’re an innocent man, then perhaps there’s been a mistake on my part. Good day.”
He turned and started to walk away. Thatcher’s heart hammered inside his chest. A man who could kill? What was that about? Why now? Why here?
“Sir!”
The man stopped but didn’t turn around. Silence draped itself over the courtyard like a wet blanket. Even the birds seemed to be listening.
Thatcher’s voice sounded distant. “I couldn’t let him run.”
The man turned around. “Why not?”
“He would have gone straight to the police. I couldn’t risk it.”
“So you made your decision.”
Thatcher nodded. “Not my proudest moment, sir. I’ve never claimed I enjoyed killing, not even to my best mates. But when the time came, I felt I had to do it.”
“And you did.”
“Yes.” It felt weird hearing himself confess it. He hadn’t even done that with the priest last night. But here he was blathering away to a complete stranger like they were two old gals gossiping about the latest scandal.
The man walked back toward Thatcher. “Think you could do it again?”
“Excuse me, sir?”
“You heard me. Could you kill again?”
Thatcher’s heart hadn’t stopped pounding. His head hurt now with all these questions. And throughout this brief exchange, those damned rifles still hadn’t moved.
Thatcher looked the man in his eyes. “I could.” He swallowed the bile that had been reaching up toward his mouth. “If I had to.”
The man continued to stare at him. Thatcher stared back.
After a moment, the man smiled ever so slightly. “You interested in a job, then?”
“A job?”
The man frowned. “Mind you if you say yes, the first thing we’re going to have to work on is you answering questions with more questions. It’s bloody annoying.”
“Just how long is this job, sir?”
The man smiled. “Is that a yes?”
Thatcher glanced back at the captain and the guards. He could see their frustration. He grinned this time.
“It’s a yes.”
The man nodded, turned, and waved to the captain. “I’m afraid we won’t be needing your services this morning after all, Captain Wakefield. You and your men are dismissed.”
The captain’s face fell, but he recovered himself quickly, barked out two more commands and the squad marched away, their boots stomping in perfect rhythm.
Thatcher stood there watching his executioners move off. He remembered to breathe and soon his face felt flushed.
The man came back and stood in front of Thatcher. “My name’s Stanley Hewitt. You and I are going to be fast friends, we are. And boy, do I have a job for you.”
Chapter 2
Two hours later saw Thatcher freshly shaven and dressed in the rumpled dark gray suit he’d worn at his trial. He sat next to Hewitt as a grim-looking driver who looked as though he could easily tear the head off a lion without blinking drove them into London.
Hewitt noticed Thatcher giving the driver a steady look. “He’s my bodyguard. It’s his job to stop anyone who might have designs on harming me.”
Thatcher shook his head. “Why would anyone wish to harm you?”
Hewitt chuckled. “Wartime, Thatcher. London’s got a problem right now. German Abwehr agents are scattered throughout our lovely island home and they’ve been paying particular attention to my organization as late.”
Thatcher turned to watch the rest of the world pass them by. “Which organization do you work for? SIS?”
Hewitt showed a small smile. “You’ve heard of them?”
“Rumors mostly.”
Hewitt shook his head. “I don’t work for SIS. Damned fools have nearly ruined everything in Europe. Had two of their best captured by the Nazis at Venlo in the Netherlands last year. Took the Germans about two months to dismantle their networks. Awful state of affairs for them, I think.”
Thatcher wondered about trying the door handle and rolling free. How far he could run before he was captured? His hand was close to the handle. It wouldn’t take much to grab it and lever it open. He knew how to roll from a moving car thanks to a circus performer he’d known some years back who used to jump and run from trains. Probably the same principles applied.
Thatcher felt his heart thumping hard again. He tried to grin. Show his interest. “So, if not SIS-?”
“SOE,” said Hewitt. “Stands for Special Operation Executive. We were created initially to help partisans in the countries the Germans have grabbed, to organize them into some form of a coherent saboteur group. Some of our operatives parachute into these areas and get things cracking. It’s dangerous work, mind you.”
Thatcher didn’t mind danger provided he was the one who determined when he got involved in it. And the job Hewitt seemed to be hinting at seemed less like something Thatcher wanted to be involved with.
The door handle was mere inches away. Thatcher looked forward and saw a small jam of traffic. This would be it, he’d grab the handle and heave himself out. Before the beast in the front seat could do a thing, Thatcher would be blocks away.
Hewitt seemed oblivious to the machinations of Thatcher’s mind. He sat there puffing away on a pipe, filling the car with odious smoke.
They passed Grovesnor Square and Thatcher could see the source of traffic. An old woman crossing the street. Car horns blared trying to get her to move. She ambled along at her own pace.
The car slowed.
Thatcher steeled himself.
As the car stopped, Thatcher lunged for the door handle and yanked it back.
Nothing happened.
Hewitt turned ever so slowly in his seat and regarded Thatcher. “Did I forget to mention this car’s a bit different from some of the ones you’ve probably ridden in? Jeremy here thought it might make better sense to not enable the doors in back to be opened from within. You understand, don’t you? We didn’t want you doing a runner without hearing us out first.”
Thatcher slumped back into his seat with a sigh. “You’re going to parachute me into Europe?”
Hewitt smiled. “Oh heavens no. We’ve something far more special in mind for the likes of you.”
“That’s good. I rather hate airplanes.”
Hewitt looked at him. “Indeed? And how do you feel about boats?”
“I don’t know a damned thing about them.”
“Excellent.” Hewitt pointed ahead of them. “Here we are. Save your questions and I promise they’ll be answered soon enough.”
The car drew abreast of a small office building. Baker Street. Thatcher saw the number 64 on the door. “Ah, I see it now. You’re Sherlock Holmes then. Am I to be Dr. Watson?”
Hewitt’s door opened first. Before h
e got out, he stared at Thatcher. “Mind yourself here, Thatcher. Don’t fuck about.”
Hewitt walked around to his side and so did his bodyguard. Thatcher noticed Jeremy stayed ahead and to Hewitt’s left side.
Then Thatcher’s door opened and Hewitt’s smiling face beamed into the interior. “Let’s go.”
Thatcher let Hewitt lead the way. This time, Jeremy stayed behind them. Probably more to keep me in line than protect him, thought Thatcher. But any thoughts of running had deserted him when he noticed the telltale outline of a pistol underneath Jeremy’s overcoat.
A uniformed guard who probably had no idea what he was guarding inside the building held the door open for them. Hewitt strode inside.
Contrary to the bustling city scene outside, the inside of the building was as quiet as a library. An opaque white marble floor led up to a dark brown mahogany desk that Hewitt shouldered Thatcher up to. Behind it, an older woman sat staring at them. She might have known who Hewitt was, but she gave no indication of it. Her voice was business only.
“Gentlemen, please place your identification papers on the desk in front of me.”
Thatcher noticed one of her hands stayed out of sight. Hewitt and Jeremy both placed their papers open. The woman’s eyes looked them over. She regarded both of them and then nodded.
“Thank you. Nice to see you again, Mr. Hewitt.”
Hewitt collected his papers and smiled. “And to you, Mrs. Henshaw.”
