Retaliation Read online

  Retaliation

  A Julian Mercer novel

  G.K. Parks

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and other concepts are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, places, establishments, events, and locations is entirely coincidental.

  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 express written permission from the author.

  Copyright © 2019 G.K. Parks

  A Modus Operandi imprint

  All rights reserved.

  Print ISBN: 1-942710-17-8

  Print ISBN-13: 978-1-942710-17-2

  Full-length Novels in the Alexis 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

  Whitewashed Lies

  On Tilt

  Purview of Flashbulbs

  The Long Game

  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

  Reparation

  Retaliation

  Liv DeMarco Novels

  Dangerous Stakes

  Operation Stakeout

  Unforeseen Danger

  Table of Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-one

  Thirty-two

  Thirty-three

  Thirty-four

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  One

  “The things you say to these women,” Donovan chastised. “It’s a miracle your willy hasn’t been lobbed off.”

  “Nah, mate, just my shoulder.” Hans grinned, apparently far enough along in his recovery to joke about the near-amputation. His eyes flicked to Mercer, who just entered the house. “Bas called, told us to meet here. What have you got for us this time, commander?”

  “A missing MI5 agent.” Mercer went to the closet and removed a roll of vinyl, propping it against the wall.

  “Has there been a ransom?” Donovan asked.

  Mercer shook his head. “This might not be a recovery. It might be a cleanup.”

  Hans swallowed. “Are we doing that now?” He looked around. “Does Bas know?”

  “He’s aware.” Mercer went into the kitchen and filled the kettle with water. His eyes dropped to the tile floor. For a moment, his breath caught and his throat tightened. Squeezing his eyes closed, he inhaled, waiting for the images to pass. It was done, and yet, it didn’t change a bloody thing.

  “Jules,” Donovan called, “do we have any intel?”

  Steeling his nerves and quieting his emotions, Mercer returned to the sitting room. “MI5 gave us the classified mission log and Agent Owen Shepherd’s personnel file. Our first priority is locating his sister, Lara. He reached out to her right before his disappearance. She might know where he is or what happened.”

  “Do we know where she is?” Donovan asked.

  “No.”

  “What about the wankers at the Security Service?” Hans asked.

  “They haven’t been able to locate her. She disappeared around the same time Shepherd missed his check-in.” Mercer unrolled the vinyl and with Donovan’s help tacked it to the wall. Soon, it would be covered in intel, which they could roll up and move to their base of operations. “She’s the key to figuring out what happened to Shepherd. We don’t know if he turned or he’s blown, but she’s his family. He’d want to keep her safe.”

  “Unless someone is leveraging her to use against him,” Donovan said. “Maybe Shepherd turned because he didn’t have a choice.”

  “Or whoever caused Owen’s disappearance also took revenge on his sister. Agent Owen Shepherd infiltrated a dissident republican group in Northern Ireland. Colin Flynn’s group to be precise,” Mercer said. “We can’t discount anything at this point.”

  “Bloody hell. We’re dealing with the fucking IRA,” Hans said.

  “The bulk of them went political, remember?” Donovan pointed out. “Maybe we can negotiate. He might see reason.”

  Hans rolled his eyes. “Just because most of the loyalists agreed to the accords, it doesn’t mean the rest of the bloody lot did. Flynn’s a terrorist, and we all know it. It doesn’t matter who he identifies with. The tactics are the same.” Hans ran a hand over his face. “And MI5 thinks one of theirs turned and is now helping Flynn? Those pissers are one sorry lot.”

  “They don’t know what’s going on. That’s why they hired us.” The kettle let out a shrill whistle, and Mercer went to grab it. He returned a moment later with a cup of tea. “The only thing they know for certain is Shepherd has vanished. The surveillance units haven’t spotted him, and nothing indicates he’s left Ireland. He must still be with Flynn. We just don’t know if it’s by choice.”

  “Bugger,” Hans muttered.

  “If it turns out Shepherd’s a traitor, the Security Service wants plausible deniability in silencing him. They don’t want to broadcast that one of their operatives crossed the line. It might sully their reputation.” The disdain dripped from Julian’s words.

  “That’s why they need us,” Hans said.

  “Flynn could be holding Shepherd for information, or he already killed him.” Donovan reached for the laptop and opened the lid. “This is why Lara is our priority. I’ll do what I can to locate her.”

  Mercer took a sip and put the cup down. “We’re splitting up. As soon as Bastian gets here, we’ll work out our travel arrangements. He has the file on Shepherd’s family. I’ll need you to check in with everyone from Shepherd’s past and find out what they know. In the meantime, I’ll scout Flynn’s stronghold.”

  “The hell you will,” Hans said. “You can’t go up against an entire cell alone.”

  “It’s recon,” Mercer said. “Flynn will never see me.”

  “Are you daft? I’m our recon expert,” Hans challenged.

  Mercer slammed the cup on the table. “I’m taking point. If you have a problem, you can piss off.”

  “Pish,” Hans mumbled, but he didn’t say anything else to the contrary. He studied Julian for a moment, understanding the commander’s hesitation, particularly in light of recent events. “You need back-up support. I’ll be careful. No one will see us, let alone touch us. Going alone is sloppy, and you know it.”

  “What’s sloppy?” Bastian asked, startling his teammates by slipping in through the back entrance.

  “Jesus.” Donovan’s finger
tensed over the trigger. He placed the firearm back on the table and glared at Bastian. “You need to learn to knock, mate.” Donovan clutched his chest dramatically. “I’m having flashes of giving your eulogy. Bastian Clarke was not a very bright man, but he was a dear friend.”

  Bastian held up two fingers in a v. “Hardy har. Since you’re so jumpy, I take it Jules has caught you up to speed.”

  “Aye.” Donovan reached for the file, searching for details on Lara Shepherd. As soon as he found her last known address, he grabbed his coat. “According to this, she resides in Islington. Interesting choice given her brother’s profession. I would have figured she’d live in a safer neighborhood.” He eyed his gear and checked the contents of his pockets. It was hard to be prepared when he had no idea of the actual situation.

  “Here are some area maps and security cam footage.” Bastian passed a second folder to Donovan. “I went ahead and ran the basics. I also checked police records. No calls have come in from her address or any of her neighbors. We have no reason to believe anything foul is afoot.”

  “Except for Shepherd’s disappearance,” Mercer said. “Initial assessment?”

  Bastian shook his head. “Looks clear. No reason to assume the worst.”

  “You think she ran?” Donovan asked.

  “Too soon to say, mate.” Bastian dug his computer out of one of the bags and flipped it open. “If she ran, Owen told her to. I’m going to figure out how he did that. According to her phone logs, she received a call from a public landline that lasted less than two minutes a few days before she and Owen vanished. It might be something.”

  “Keep digging, Bas. Donovan, you and Hans go to her flat. Question her neighbors. See what you can dig up,” Mercer ordered.

  Hans made a move to stand, but Donovan held up his palm. “It’ll be faster and less obvious if I go alone. With two of us, people might mistake us for coppers. And in that dodgy neighborhood, even the hint of the police will keep anyone from cooperating.”

  Mercer nodded, and Donovan left without another word. Bastian watched the younger man disappear. His eyebrows knit together in consternation. Normally, they didn’t split up this quickly. Something was up.

  “Is Donovan feeling okay?” Bas queried.

  “I think he’s afraid I’m not at my best.” Hans rotated his shoulder, wincing. “Two more months of rehab is overkill. I’m field ready now.”

  “Hans, you should sit this one out.” Bastian looked to Julian for support. He knew the commander wouldn’t jeopardize their teammates, particularly after Hans and Donovan had been captured and nearly killed during their last mission.

  “I can handle it,” Hans insisted.

  Mercer stared at the recon expert. “Can you handle a rifle?”

  Hans didn’t answer. His shoulder couldn’t presently withstand the recoil of a long gun, and the entire team knew it.

  “Fine, you can assist, but you better tell us when you can’t.” Mercer took a final sip of tea and returned the cup to the kitchen. He gripped the edge of the counter and stared at the tile floor. “Forgive me, my love,” he whispered, “but it looks like I’m leaving on another mission.”

  Two

  Julian Mercer remained at his post, a crumbling staircase which led to a basement shop in the center of Belfast. It was just after midnight. The cold rain had soaked through his clothes hours ago, leaving his boots soppy and his toes numb. He fought against a shiver as water ran down his back.

  He stared through the icy fog of his breath. His eyes fixed on his target. Colin Flynn was practically IRA royalty with his entourage of bodyguards and lieutenants. Mercer couldn’t help but wonder if the mission had already been compromised. Did Flynn know MI5 was monitoring his every move? Or were these IRA wankers really that oblivious? Honestly, Flynn was powerful enough that he probably just didn’t give a fuck. Flynn controlled most of Belfast. No one was daft enough to make a move on him. The terrorist was untouchable. He’d proven it time and time again.

  To date, the bastard had made more people disappear than most Vegas magicians. And Owen Shepherd might simply be another name to add to the ledger. Flynn owned the police. They never investigated these cases, and if they did, the details were kept quiet. MI5 had proven ineffectual in stopping Flynn. That’s why they sent Owen Shepherd undercover to infiltrate Flynn’s rank and file. Obviously, that did not go as planned.

  MI5, Mercer scoffed at the notion. The Security Service was the reason Julian was here. He didn’t trust them any more than Colin Flynn, but he would fight on their side, at least until he found proof they were responsible. Then he’d see them burn to the ground.

  After Mercer killed Thomas Vogel, the man who murdered Julian’s wife, Michelle, MI5 swept the details under the rug. The police had nothing to investigate, and the matter quietly disappeared. However, Mercer knew the real reason MI5 had taken such precautions. It wasn’t to protect Julian. It was to protect Vogel.

  It was a cover-up, plain and simple. Some powerful people knew what Vogel was, what he did, and knew about the team he ran, but since Vogel had been a decorated SAS operative, the powers that be turned a blind eye to the unsanctioned killings. And Michelle became another of his victims. Had MI5 acted swiftly, none of that would have happened. Michelle would still be alive. Julian’s life and career would not have been destroyed, and he wouldn’t be here now, standing in the frigid rain, paying back a favor he didn’t believe he owed.

  Vogel killed Michelle, but he was only able to do so because other powerful men allowed the crazed killer to run amok. And Mercer would see that they pay. Right now, he didn’t trust anyone in government or the military, that included all of MI5. And since the Security Service forced him to assist, he’d use the opportunity to his advantage. The fact that they wanted to turn his team into a group of mercenaries, not that dissimilar from Vogel, made his stomach turn. Mercer and his teammates might kill, but they weren’t killers.

  They were kidnapping and ransom specialists, not cleaners. So, as far as Julian was concerned, this proved his assumptions about MI5’s complacency in Vogel’s actions. Now Julian just needed the names of those in the know. His team didn’t know of his personal vendetta or his real reason for agreeing so easily to the Security Service’s request, and they need never know. Ever since they left the Special Air Service, they walked a fine line between security specialists and mercenaries. This one case, so out of the norm but necessary due to recent complications, could change everything. And Mercer would be damned if he let it. They would not turn into the thing they despised. He wouldn’t let that happen to his brothers.

  “Bollocks,” Mercer inwardly swore.

  Colin Flynn surrounded himself with the best — the most loyal and the most ruthless. Nothing was more dangerous than a true believer on a mission. And the pub was bursting with true believers, so Mercer held his position in an alcove across the street. He’d stay here all night if it meant locating Shepherd.

  Boisterous guffawing filled the streets as the pub door swung open. It slammed shut, muting the sound as two of Flynn’s men went to get the car. Two down. Mercer glanced at his watch. It was nearly three a.m. The usual time for Flynn to call it a night.

  Mercer watched as Flynn’s men performed their ritual check. As long as nothing appeared out of place, they would give Flynn the all-clear. That’s what they did every night. Predictability would be the terrorist’s death but not tonight. Tonight was merely a warning shot.

  Mercer waited for the two bodyguards to get close to the car, a high-end SUV that screamed for attention and respect. Everyone knew it was Flynn’s car and not to touch it, but if it belonged to any other plonker, the vehicle would have been stripped before the engine even had a chance to cool.

  “In position?” Mercer’s voice echoed in his own comm, and he cringed. The weather was wreaking havoc on their equipment.

  “Affirmative,” Hans replied.

  Pressing a button on the detonator in his pocket, Mercer watched the SUV eru
pt in a ball of flame. The force of the blast knocked the bodyguards off their feet. One of them, the stout one with the ginger beard, caught fire. The flames lapped at the back of his jacket and along his left arm. He screamed, surely from surprise and not pain since he wore far too many layers for the fire to have gotten to his skin so quickly.

  But Julian’s attention didn’t remain on the blaze. Instead, his eyes were drawn to the pub door. Two more of Flynn’s men stepped outside to investigate the commotion while the IRA commander remained inside the pub, staring out the frosted front window and across the street.

  Mercer took half a step forward, just enough for the streetlight to illuminate his silhouette. He wanted Flynn to know this was no accident. Turning on his heel, Mercer vanished down the dark street. He just taught Colin Flynn an important lesson – actions have consequences. No one was untouchable, not even the head of an IRA faction. At the end of the block, Julian climbed into his car.

  “Keep him in your sights and don’t get spotted. We need a location for his safe house,” Mercer ordered. “Do not engage. I repeat. Do not engage.”

  Giving the rearview mirror a quick glance, Julian started the engine and drove a few blocks before turning on the headlights. Flynn and his crew were occupied at the moment, but Mercer didn’t want to risk being spotted by one of Flynn’s overzealous followers. It was imperative Julian get to his destination without being tailed.

  Killing the engine a few streets away from Flynn’s compound, Mercer checked his gun and put on the mask. He wore full blackout gear. The black mesh mask allowed Mercer to see out and breathe but prevented anyone from seeing him. It was a bit of a hindrance but, in this situation, a necessity.

  Julian screwed a suppressor onto the end of his gun. He had a knife in his pocket, along with a garrote. Based on MI5’s intel, Flynn had at least two guards inside his home at all times and six others guarding the perimeter. It would be best to do this quietly, if possible. Grabbing the jammer, Mercer locked the car, hoping this would be a simple in and out.