Chimera Code (Jake Dillon Adventure Thriller Series) Read online

  The ship was a ghost, deserted. Almost...

  The figure moved out into the twilight from somewhere in the bowels of the ship, wearing a tight-fitting black garment and a rolledup balaclava. Gloved hands wrapped around a rusting rail and the man looked up, gasping as the wind rocked him almost off his feet and over the side of the rail.

  He grinned and revelling in the wild roller-coaster ride feeling, pulled out a cigarette and shouldered his MP5 submachine gun as he searched for his lighter.

  “You’ve got more chance of falling over that rail, than you have of lighting that thing.”

  “You may be right - but then again you may be wrong, my old son.” The accent was broad east end of London. Pulling free the Zippo lighter, he cupped the cigarette in an attempt to defeat the torrential rain that was beating down. Miraculously, the end of the cigarette glowed, a bright spark against the gloom. White smoke swirled around the young man’s face and he inhaled deeply, closing his eyes and enjoying the nicotine rush.

  “Pete, this is the most shite gig, man.”

  Pete merely nodded, turning his back on the stocky muscular man with the heavily scarred complexion and gazing out into the black churning waters. “Go get us some strong coffee, mate? And check on our North Korean friend while you’re at it.”

  The thick-set man - recently recruited to Scorpion 4 - stomped off down the gangway to the lower level which had been converted back to sleeping and living quarters as well as the galley for the duration of their stay.

  Pete took his time smoking his cigarette, gazing out over the rolling waves of the South China Sea that hid the bright lights of Hong Kong. He wondered idly what it would be like, working on a tanker, living on a ship so big that you need a scooter to get from one end to the other. His mind drifted; he pictured the tanker carrying many thousands of tons of crude oil, the speed and force that it would cut through the ocean and the vast amount of distance needed to stop a ship that was so big. And he thought about himself: Pete; twenty-five year old Scorpion veteran; two tours of Afghanistan and then head hunted by a spook from MI6 to join one of the Government’s most secret and elite units and given one of the softest gigs ever devised by the shadowy Scorpion planners. To protect Zhu De Chung, anticommunist rebel sympathiser and professor of mathematics at the Peking University, Beijing, China. Zhu De was a hunted man - he was hunted because of the highly classified secrets he held. Pete was simply tired; and he wanted to go home. Wanted to be far away and preferably out of this game. He had been killing people far too long and just wanted a quiet life.

  Pete laughed to himself, and leaned out over the rail. It moved under his weight, the metal creaked, the noise lost in the wind as he gazed down into the black water far below. His fear of drowning, close at hand.

  The quiet life. I thought only old men got tired, his inner voice taunted him.

  I thought you were a professional soldier. A fighter - not a quitter

  - you wussy.

  He had seen enough blood and gore in Afghanistan to last most men a lifetime and then some.

  Levi was right; he thought as he moved to the stairwell and braced himself against the wild wind. This really is a shit gig; a full five man team locked away on this cursed rusting pile of scrap metal for a whole ten days with Zhu De, a slightly crazy North Korean professor. He had defected from the communists and now wanted sanctuary in Britain, but while this was being organised, he had to be hidden away and baby-sat.

  Pete flicked his cigarette butt over the rail and went down the stairwell to the lower deck gangway. The howling wind and rain beat against the slab side of the tanker and the emergency lighting that had been rigged and hung untidily from the low ceilings swayed and thrashed around with each fearsome gust. He sauntered on towards the galley and canteen, his boots hammering the metal, his torso twisting and turning to fit through the narrow watertight doorways.

  “Wakey, wakey, you lazy bastards. You got that coffee on?” Pete grinned as he stepped into the canteen. The smile was immediately wiped from his face. There were dead bodies strewn across the floor, blood pooling on the rusting metal. Blood was spattered up and across the walls, across the stainless-steel worktops, dripping from the low ceiling. Levi was sprawled on his back over a table, mouth slack, dead eyes staring as the flickering fluorescent tube above him flickered over his corpse.

  Pete didn’t move; slowly, very slowly, he unslung the MP5 and flicked off its safety. He quickly scanned the room, first to the left. His breathing had become unconsciously labored through clenched teeth and he could taste bile in his mouth.

  What the fuck screamed his brain.

  Gavin was dead, trailing backwards off a bench, blood covered fingers clasping the webbed strap of his MP5. Chris lay face down against the iron-studded flooring. And Slider, arms fully outstretched, face contorted in wretched agony, a wide gash across his throat, looked unseeing up at the ceiling.

  Come on - focus. You must think...

  There had been no sound of gunfire; the Assassin - Assassins

  - had used silenced weapons. The poor fuckers - Levi and the others - hadn’t even known what had hit them. And that meant the Assassins were - quick!

  Something raced across the edge of Pete’s vision and he instinctively pulled back. Silenced bullets sprayed through the open doorway and up the iron wall, splashing white hot sparks that burnt his face. Pete hit the deck, rolled onto his front and squeezed the trigger of his own weapon. The gangway on the other side of the doorway was filled with a deafening roar of gunfire, and ricochets peppered the stairwell with hot bright metal flashes as Pete picked himself up and sprinted for his life in the opposite direction.

  His booted feet pounded along the gangway and the blueprint of the oil tanker flickered back into his brain; gangways, ramps, stairwells, containment tanks, derricks - all now seemed a blur and Pete halted, slowed his breathing, and took a quick glance behind him. He stepped sideways behind a doorway and waited, his breathing suddenly calm, his professionalism kicking him into - reality.

  Nothing, no sounds of pursuit, and… the black-clad figure glided into view, its attention focused on something ahead, it sensed rather than saw Pete at its side. The head, no more than twelve inches from the levelled MP5 submachine gun, snapped left - and Pete found himself staring into the ocean blue eyes of a killer...

  He squeezed the trigger.

  Everything happened at once; the world seemed to explode as the Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine gun hammered in the confines of the gangway. The Assassin was snatched and thrown up against the iron wall and drilled with the entire magazine of bullets whose impacts held the body upright, dancing and twitching, until the ‘dead man’s click’ reverberated in Pete’s brain and abruptly brought with it a sudden echoing silence. Pete pulled out a fresh magazine from his jacket with gloved hands covered in brain and gore, trying not to look at the pulped goo that covered his arms, trying not to gag on the cordite reek that filled his nostrils and throat.

  The corpse slithered to the metal deck and lay in a crimson pool of its own blood.

  He firmly clicked the fresh magazine into place, and then breathing slowly and heavily through blood spattered lips - looked left and then right. He was temporarily deaf from the thunderous roar created by the weapon and could only hear a ringing in his ears. What the fuck is going on, he thought.

  He stepped over the corpse, then headed towards the steep stairwell ahead. Warily, firmly gripping the rail, he climbed towards the night. Outside the rain was still pounding, driven by the high winds off of the South China Sea. Above, Pete could see nothing but darkness and the diagonal slashes of sheeting rain.

  Carefully, and with all his senses on full alert, he pulled free his Matrix G8 communicator and, placing his forefinger on the biometric reader to activate the device, initiated the emergency mayday signal. But instead of the usual flicker of blue lights the G8 failed to respond. Pete stared at the futuristic looking device in disbelief. Since joining the Scorpion unit a G
8 had never failed him. Unlike conventional civilian devices the Matrix G8 had been developed by Government boffins exclusively for the Scorpion units. These compact devices encased in titanium do not conform to normal rules of physics; signals can bypass electromagnetic interference, and the devices allow nearly always instantaneous communication at the most extreme distances from any point on the planet without the need for satellite links.

  “Bollocks.”

  He drew in a deep breath. Calm, whispered his racing mind. Focus.

  Zhu De Chung: Pete knew that he had to reach the North Korean. Had to protect him; save him. Get them both off thisdesolate rusting graveyard.

  The only escape craft that the squad had were inflatable ribs, moored at the stern of the tanker on the starboard side. But the most pressing question now was:

  How many Assassins were onboard?

  Had he killed the only one? Or were there more waiting for him?

  However many there were, they had killed five members of a Scorpion Unit. It had to be more than one. Hadto be. Which meant - the game was not yet over.

  Pete gingerly peered over the edge; the tanker, at eye level, was a rusting bucket of twisted metal, slippery like ice, stretching away into apparent infinity. Pete glanced along the gangway, towards theforward deck and the storage tanks, which seemed to descend into nothing.

  It’s not far.

  But not far is always too far when someone is firing hollow point bullets at your heels.

  What to do? Run or sit tight?

  Pete crept up to the open doorway until he was crouching on the platform; the rain stung his face and the wind howled as it drove into him, finding its way into his tight military clothing, and soaking him to the skin. His eyes followed every contour that the weak gloomy light could reveal. He searched for every possible sniping position. He racked his jangling brain for the best place to lay an ambush.

  He decided it would best to move around to the other side of the ship. This might allow him the time to sneak down to the lower deck where Zhu De’s quarters were located. Hopefully, the fucker would be there, waiting, ready to sprint to the safety of the boats... Pete smiled to himself, craving the nicotine hit of a cigarette.

  He suddenly froze to the spot, more out of instinct than anything else.

  And then it was there, his worst nightmare.

  Cold metal, pressing against the back of his skull.

  “Fuck,” he whispered.

  He started to turn, but a hard warning jab stopped him. Slowly, he crouched and placed his MP5 on the deck.

  “Get up and move.”

  Pete started to walk... everything ahead of him was starting to blur and he realised that he was weeping - not from fear, fear was no longer an option, but from sheer frustration. Of all the ways to be caught, of all the fucking ways to die.

  The crack echoed dully against the howling wind.

  A limp lifeless figure toppled over the rail and disappeared into the black boiling cauldron of sea far below.

  Ocean blue eyes watched coldly as it fell.

  And, in the next instant, the Assassin was gone.

  * * * Buenos Aires - Argentina: The air was so still and the heat so intense it felt as if it were pressing down with a force that was almost physical. The robust contours of the scarred government building glittered in the sunshine. It stood defiant and majestic against the elements themselves. The recent bombing had left one of the front wings between floors six and thirteen now exposed, water cascaded down the side of the building from the sprinkler system, and trailing cables hung from what used to be service shafts. The Argentine Ministry of Defence building was wounded, torn, betrayed. To the people of Argentina it was a symbol of their world gone berserk.

  Flint squatted, the heat from the mid-day sun pounding his tropical fatigues; he listened to the radio and glanced at the Matrix G8 in his hand. Blue LEDs flickered. A voice in his ear said, “They’re on the move.”

  Flint crawled forward, then glanced down, checking the magazine of the AMSD OM 50 Nemesis 12.7mm sniper rifle. He repositioned himself, peering from the rooftop of the building towards the other side of the harbour. The government building was hazy in the heat, the harbour spread out before him like the stage set of an enormous theatre. Flint reached out and steadied himself on the narrow parapet

  - he felt the usual tension flowing through every muscle and sinew of his body. He felt alive. He pushed a small electronic button just above the trigger guard of the rifle and placed his forefinger over the large touch-screen of the G8; a tiny red light illuminated and a click as the rifle synchronised with the device. For a brief moment Flint watched the scope automatically rotate and focus; then he placed his eye against it and the world seemed to become very clear.

  The building had been evacuated except for a small number of officials who had been taken hostage by the terrorists. The scene was rendered in a blue purple tint; he zoomed the scope quickly forward, until he could see even the finest details of the building, each bullet hole and shrapnel scar. Then he pulled back and swept round to the right along the harbour front, searching for the 4x4s and power boats that he knew were coming.

  “You in position, Flint?” said the gruff Yorkshire accent in his ear.

  “In position - all systems synchronised and itching to go, Gordie.” Flint said smiling, picturing the small wiry man who had the fiercest looking crop of red hair he’d ever seen. He shifted his weight, sighting on a distant skyscraper and a rooftop position that he knew Gordie had secured for himself. He raised a thumbs-up, and he returned the signal. “Is Jacko synchronised?”

  Jacko only spoke over his comm-link when he had to. From his position on board a motor launch belonging to the Argentine Navy, which was conveniently moored directly opposite the Ministry of Defence building, his reply was self-evident as he stuck up two fingers in the V sign. Flint’s comment was a derisory blow below the belt.

  Flint moved his own sniper sight back to focus on the Ministry of Defence building. Jacko was there, all in black, ready and steady. He had opted for the most dangerous position out of the three, on the water itself, and despite being well concealed Flint still shivered involuntarily. But then, he thought, Jacko was a wild fucker, untamed. Some said he was mentally unstable; Flint decided that you had to be to do the job and that Jacko probably was more than most.

  “Game on, boys.”

  The words came from the ground support soldiers, Argentinean Anti-Terrorist Special Forces led by a swarthy captain named Santiago, who were waiting in the wings as the scene unfolded. They were monitoring the suspected terrorist vehicles from vantage points around the Puerto Madero area. The Scorpion 3 Unit was positioned as sniper support.

  “Three target vehicles on route: Range Rovers, three occupants. ETA zero three minutes. Over.”

  Flint waited. Every few seconds he glanced at the army issue chrono watch strapped to his wrist.

  * * * Jacko spent the limited time going through his drill, checking his weapon, scope focus, Matrix G8 synchronisation. “Fucking heat,” he muttered as he wiped away the sweat from his forehead, and shifted his weight slightly to ease the cramping in his muscles. The boat was gently rocking with the swell from a passing craft, this meant that he would have to rely on his expertise and experience when aiming.

  Gordie swept the area with his scope. Through the audio link he was listening intently to the ground soldiers tailing the suspect vehicles.

  The tip-off had come from an extremely reliable source: an ex CIA agent turned international techno-weapons dealer who was in the process of negotiating his way out of a firing squad for crimes against the Argentine regime. He had given them masses of information about terrorist funding activity in South America - he had contacts all over the planet and was well positioned to know about such things. So far everything had checked out fine and the Argentine Government was feeling confident about the outcome of this latest outrage. Eight terrorists of South American origin had taken over the building and
taken hostage a senior computer systems analyst and his personal staff of four assistants who had been working for the Argentine Government on a top secret project. They appeared to have got hold of a full set of blueprint plans of the entire building and, had known exactly where and when to plant the bombs for maximum damage. At least one hundred people had been instantly killed by the first explosion which had torn out three entire floors and another seventy when the second and third charges had detonated, taking out another three floors and completely destroying them. Shortly after the explosions, the terrorist leader had come on-line and had made his demand. Three Range Rovers to be left outside of the main entrance to the building, each to be loaded with twenty-million US dollars in gold bullion. There was to be no negotiation and if the demand was not met, they would blow up the rest of the building and kill the hostages, one by one, live on the Internet for the entire world to witness.

  “Fucking terrorists,” snorted Gordie, and swept the area with his scope one more time.

  No Range Rovers approaching.

  Come to think of it, no ground support soldiers, either.

  “GS leader, confirm status. Over!” Gordie was using the standard issue radio comm-link to raise, Santiago.

  No response.

  “GS leader, come in. Over!”

  Again, no reply.

  “You there, Flint?” This time he spoke into the G8.

  “Yeah, I’m here.”

  “You see anything?”

  “Not even a fly having a shit.”

  “Something’s very wrong,” came the quiet West Country accent that was Jacko’s rarely heard voice; both Flint and Gordie felt the tiny hairs on the back of their necks stand up and a shiver run down their spines. And yet their G8s were still picking up the chatter of the pursuit vehicle that was following the three Range Rovers. “Heading south towards the harbour area, down La Rabida Norte, heading towards-”Gordie scanned the area once more through the rifle scope. He sensed rather than felt a movement of air beside him, a mere fanning of the intense heat - and then the garrote was around his throat before he knew what was happening. His gloved hand, instinctively and with a lightening quickness, came up under the cheese-cutter wire as his eyes suddenly widened and searing pain sliced into both sides of his neck, he felt blood flowing freely down under the collar of his fatigue jacket and body armour as his rifle clattered noisily onto the concrete rooftop.