Retaliation Read online

  “We’re in the clear. Brody’s death was an accident. It simply looks like he took a tumble.”

  Again, the sick grin. “Sure, he did.”

  Bastian studied Mercer, knowing the commander spoke the truth. “What do you know about Colin Flynn? Why did you send Shepherd to infiltrate the faction?” Bastian asked.

  “Flynn’s an arms dealer by trade. But he started making noise years ago. He and his people bombed a few churches. We attributed over a dozen deaths to his faction. That’s why we sent Owen in to keep tabs on Flynn. Since he went under, there’s been only one other bombing. The device detonated prematurely and killed Flynn’s wife and two small children. Since then, he’s been quiet.”

  “We’ll need Shepherd’s report on that incident,” Mercer said.

  Partridge nodded. “I’ll get you the files we have on Flynn.”

  He picked up the phone again, and while he was speaking, Mercer turned and rested his palms on the desk. The hint of gold foil caught his eye, and he slid some papers around in the tray to reveal a shiny, expensive piece of stationery in Partridge’s inbox.

  “You said Flynn might be planning an attack. Any idea what his target might be?” Mercer asked when Partridge put the phone down.

  “During Owen’s last check-in, he said Flynn was planning an attack. He didn’t have time to give us details. He said he would tell me more during his next check-in, but we lost contact. We haven’t spoken since. It could be anywhere. Or anything.”

  Mercer thought for a moment. He and his team didn’t have the resources to take out an entire faction, particularly one as well-armed as Flynn’s. Ignoring his instincts, Mercer said, “Flynn is stockpiling munitions. Guns, grenades, bombs. Whatever he’s planning has the potential to be massive.”

  “How do you know this?” Partridge asked.

  “The crates are in his basement.”

  Partridge stared in horror. “Since Flynn’s exhibiting signs of paranoia, a body on the property might force him to move the materials or rush the timetable for his strike. We need surveillance teams to sit on his compound.”

  Mercer dropped into a chair beside Bastian, flicking his gaze to the tray. “You do realize a team is already monitoring Flynn’s movements.”

  “What team?” Partridge asked.

  “My team.”

  Partridge scoffed and relayed his request up the command chain. When he hung up, he looked at Mercer and Bastian, as if confused why the two men remained in front of his desk. “Well?”

  Mercer bristled but forced his emotions to remain in check. “Why Flynn?”

  “What?” Partridge didn’t comprehend the depth of Mercer’s question. “He’s a terrorist.”

  “Then why haven’t you done anything to stop him?” Mercer asked.

  “We need evidence. Proof. And it’s Northern Ireland. There are dozens more out there just like him. You’ve seen what happens, the kinds of things they can achieve. You know shutting down one cell won’t stop the problem. That’s why we placed Shepherd on the inside. Even if we shut down Flynn, his rival, Mathias Murphy would step up and take over. It’d be trading one problem for another.”

  A knock sounded at the door, and an assistant handed the files to Partridge. The operation runner flipped through the stamped folders before holding them out to Julian, who ignored the gesture. Bastian took them, finding several details blacked out.

  “What about dead drops?” Bastian asked. “You said Shepherd hasn’t tried to make contact. Do you have anyone actively monitoring them, just in case?”

  Partridge rubbed a hand down his face. “Yes, but there’s been no communication.”

  Mercer stared at Partridge. “You sent me into the lion’s den. Did you honestly believe Shepherd was being held at Flynn’s compound?”

  “That was our best guess. Owen’s told us about meetings, about men disappearing into the house, screams coming from locked rooms, and Flynn returning with bloodied knuckles. It made sense, particularly since we don’t have eyes inside, and the last time surveillance spotted Owen was when he was entering Flynn’s compound.”

  “Did Shepherd ever give you names or descriptions of these men who Flynn allegedly tortured?” Mercer asked.

  “No,” Partridge stared out the window, “but a few of them were Flynn’s own guys. Colin doesn’t put up with liars or thieves. And he’ll make an example out of anyone who crosses him.” Partridge leaned forward, pointing at a folder, and Bastian handed it to him. “These are hospital reports. These two men supposedly had an accident in the men’s room, but according to our intel, Flynn did this.”

  Mercer read the reports. Unless the men were hit by a car that crashed through the wall of the men’s room, this was no accident. Mercer put the folder down, looking up just in time to see a disconcerting look in Partridge’s eyes. “Is Shepherd a coward?”

  “How dare you insult my friend and a respected member of this agency.”

  Mercer snickered. The question was far from an insult compared to most of his other thoughts. “So what is it then? You believe Shepherd woke up one day and decided to turn his back on everything he ever knew?” It wasn’t a question.

  Partridge had been adamant that Mercer clean up the mess should he find one. And the SAS wouldn’t have even considered the possibility until all other avenues had been explored if Partridge hadn’t suggested it during their initial briefing.

  “What else could it be? We haven’t found a body. And Owen hasn’t made contact. By now, wouldn’t we have heard something?”

  “Not necessarily,” Bastian said. “The dossier you gave us on Flynn, is that everything you have?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why do you think Shepherd turned?” Mercer asked again. “Does it have to do with his wife? Fear for his own safety? Or is Colin Flynn just that charismatic?”

  “Being surrounded by fanatics spouting dogma might have made him change allegiances. It happens. Sometimes undercover operatives can’t separate themselves from their covers. They become friendly with the enemy. Shit happens. The only support they have undercover comes from the inside. They band together. It’s not that dissimilar from Stockholm Syndrome.”

  “But you said Shepherd was upset the last time you spoke. He was acting erratically,” Bastian pried. “What exactly did he say or do?”

  Partridge shrugged. “Shepherd is normally calm, soft-spoken, not easily excitable. But the last time we spoke, he was jittery, frantic. He said something happened to Flynn. That Flynn was going to retaliate.” Partridge’s eyes darted back and forth. “The transcripts should be in that folder. You can read his exact words for yourself.”

  “But you don’t know what happened or who Flynn intended to target?” Mercer asked. The story was making less and less sense.

  “No.”

  “I don’t believe for a second Shepherd didn’t give you those details.” Mercer grabbed the transcript and skimmed through it. “This can’t be all he said.”

  “That’s it.” Partridge stood. “Now, if there’s nothing else, gentlemen, I have to get a team briefed and ready to monitor Flynn and his known hangouts.”

  Mercer opened his mouth to voice another accusation, but Bastian gave him a sharp look. For once, Julian took his friend’s advice. “Let us know when they are ready to move out so I can recall my team,” Mercer said.

  Partridge stood and shook Mercer’s hand. “I expect you’ll find Shepherd swiftly. With an attack imminent, we’ll need whatever intel he can provide.”

  Mercer gave a tight nod and strode out of the room. Partridge was a paper pusher. Either he screwed up and was covering his own arse, or he was simply incompetent. Still, Mercer found it hard to believe that two years of undercover work resulted in such thin files and no mention of what’s happening. What was Shepherd really doing on the inside? Could he be a double-agent? Or did Partridge bury the real reports and transcripts?

  Six

  “I want Hans out of there now.”

  “Jul
es, we still have a mission,” Bastian reminded him.

  Mercer sunk onto the couch. The dull ache in his chest had turned into a constant burning. He coughed again, feeling as though he were choking. After clearing his airway, he took a few deep breaths, and the pain eased. Hopefully, that had been the worst of it.

  “Have you spoken to your contacts at Thames House?”

  “Not since they handed us this assignment.”

  “That needs to change. We’ll take the first ferry back.” Mercer glanced out the window, watching the slow rise of the sun. The storm had stopped almost an hour ago, and now as the sun’s rays met the wet pavement, every flat surface cast a blinding orange reflection. “I’m recalling Hans. I don’t want him getting seen. He’d be outgunned in a firefight. You and I both know his shoulder can’t handle the recoil of the long guns. If something were to happen.” Mercer stopped, rephrasing the thought. “I can’t let anything else happen to him. To any of you.”

  “We do this for a living,” Bas reminded him.

  Still, Mercer picked up the radio; his own had been damaged either in the storm or when he took that tumble from the tree. “Pull back. We’ll meet at the ferry.”

  “Already on my way,” Hans replied.

  Hans started to offer additional details, but Mercer interjected, “Wait until we have a secure line.”

  “Aye, commander.”

  “What do you think is going on?” Bastian whispered. He fingered the crumpled note from Flynn’s compound. “Odd, isn’t it?”

  Mercer gave Bastian a sideways glance but didn’t offer any suggestions or possible explanations. “We have much to discuss.” He jerked his chin at the laptop. “Have we made any progress?”

  “Still working on it. Flynn’s serious about his security. This will take a while.”

  “Pack up. It can finish elsewhere.”

  After collecting the files and a few belongings, Mercer stepped into the outer office. Bastian grabbed his computer bag and other peripherals and joined the commander a moment later. While the two men waited for the lift, Bastian chatted with the secretary. Mercer studied the plaques and framed photos on the wall. Aside from a few commendations for exemplary service, the items were of little interest. Nothing indicated Owen Shepherd had been anything other than a dedicated professional. Dedicated professionals didn’t allow their allegiances to flip-flop. There were only two reasons Shepherd would change sides. He was threatened or blackmailed. And since he remained missing, possibly presumed dead, Mercer’s blackmail theory didn’t hold much water.

  The elevator dinged, and Mercer stepped into the car. Bastian bid the woman goodbye and joined him inside. Once out of the building and safely past the gate, they checked for a tail and switched cars. Bastian swept everything for surveillance devices, finding their belongings and the vehicle clean. Then they went to meet Hans at the ferry.

  “Is the op over?” Hans asked, settling onto the bench beside Julian. The younger man nodded to Bastian, who fidgeted with the strap on his bag and drummed his fingers along the railing. “Did you find our missing agent?”

  “Not yet. We’re taking a detour.” Out of habit, Mercer turned to look for their missing fourth member, unaccustomed to Donovan not being with them.

  “Have you heard from Donovan?” Bastian asked.

  Mercer shook his head, as did Hans.

  “Hopefully, he’s having better luck than we are.” Bastian took a seat across from them, his back to the water.

  “How did it go?” Mercer asked, focusing on Hans.

  “Flynn holed up in an abandoned boathouse for most of the night. At daybreak, he left there and headed for a flat. A woman answered the door. She seemed friendly. I’d guess that’s his mistress. Probably wanted to make sure she was safe after we blew up his ride.”

  “At least we know of two more locations Flynn uses. There might be something there worth investigating,” Bastian mused.

  “I scouted the perimeter but didn’t get a chance to check inside. It’s hard to observe and track at the same time, but I got photographs of the buildings and some shots of several faction members.”

  Mercer reached for the digital camera and scanned the photos. “Good work. Did you notice any bombs or weapons?”

  “None.” Hans rubbed his shoulder. “No sign of Shepherd either. But it’s hard to see much from the outside. Anything could be in there. Or anyone.”

  “We’ll go back and check,” Mercer decided.

  Bastian moved away from the railing and leaned closer to his comrades, keeping one eye peeled for possible interlopers. “How’s the shoulder, Hans?”

  “Wet. Sore.” Hans stretched. “Otherwise fine. You know I would never compromise any of our lives. I can handle this. I’m in tip-top shape.”

  “Probably about as fine as Jules.” Bastian pointedly looked at Julian, who conveniently ignored the remark.

  “We have bigger problems.” Mercer uncrumpled the list and handed it to Hans. “That came from Flynn’s compound. I spotted the same stationery on Partridge’s desk. Did you see anything like it at the pub or Flynn’s other two locations?”

  Hans shook his head.

  “I noticed that too,” Bastian agreed. “But it was in Partridge’s inbox. We don’t know where it originated. I don’t believe it was his. I believe someone left it or had interoffice mail deliver it to him.”

  “Until we know how it arrived on his desk, we can’t speak freely in front of him. He can’t be trusted.” Mercer stared into the horizon. “No one at the Security Service can.”

  “Jules,” Bastian grumbled, “you’re being paranoid.”

  “Is he?” Hans asked. “A terrorist shouldn’t use the same letterhead as MI5.”

  “Precisely,” Mercer agreed. “Partridge isn’t telling us everything. Even the newest files are redacted. That’s why we’re heading home. Our friends at Thames House might have a different story to share.”

  “Plus, we need to pick up Donovan. His presence will make it easier to follow and surveil.” No one spoke, and Hans cocked a confused eyebrow. “Unless you’re thinking about throwing in the towel.”

  “No.” Mercer blew out a breath. “But I do have a new assignment for you. When we arrive in Liverpool, Bastian and I will head to Thames House. Our contacts there should be able to shed light on these redacted files and give us additional details on Agent Shepherd and Mr. Partridge. I need you to assist Donovan. It's been four days. If he doesn’t have a lead on Lara Shepherd by now, tell him to come home.”

  “Okay.”

  Mercer studied the other man, seeing the slightest indication that Hans favored his left side. “Once that’s done, I’ll need you to remain at home base. Bas already started decrypting Flynn’s hard drive, but it’s going to take time. Get started on that, and we need every drop of intel you can find on Grace Shepherd and Harry, Owen’s ex-wife and son. Aside from Lara, they are his weak points. If Flynn discovered Shepherd was a traitor, the faction might go after Owen’s family. Honestly, they might have already done something to Lara. It would explain her disappearance. Shepherd would have known his family would be leveraged against him if his true identity was discovered. It might have been the reason for the estrangement and divorce. I’m wagering he had contingencies in place. Find out what they are.”

  “You think the divorce is a ruse?” Bas asked. “Isn’t that a tad extreme?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Isn’t the Security Service guarding his family. That’s SOP in these types of situations,” Hans said. “Shouldn’t that be enough of a contingency?”

  “You mean like how they kept an eye on Lara?” Mercer asked.

  “I shouldn’t be stuck at home base. I should be out tracking,” Hans protested.

  “In case you haven’t been paying attention,” Bas said, “Jules is off on another of his paranoid tangents.” But despite the dig, Mercer saw the same fears reflected in Bastian’s eyes. They were just downplaying the possibility of an internal breach, on
e that had probably existed for quite some time, to sideline Hans without making it obvious. Mercer made it clear his teammate’s safety was of the utmost concern, and Bastian would assist him in protecting Hans.

  “What about Flynn and whatever he’s planning?” Hans asked. “We aren’t leaving that up to MI5. No one with posh stationery like this should be taken seriously when it comes to security matters.”

  “We’ll see how it goes at Thames House before making a decision.” Mercer leaned back and closed his eyes. “We have two hours until we arrive at the port in Liverpool, and with traffic, probably a four hour drive back to London after that. I suggest we rest while we can.”

  * * *

  Thames House held the London branch of the Security Service, and Mercer turned and looked out the window at the river. It was overcast, making the glass slightly reflective. Without turning away from the window, Mercer watched someone in a suit enter the outer office with a file box containing intel on Flynn’s faction and pertinent mission logs. He handed the items to the secretary, nodded a greeting to Bastian, and disappeared out the door.

  “Is that it?” Mercer asked, not bothering to turn around.

  “Yes, sir,” the secretary said. Bastian signed the form and took the box, frowning as he skimmed the tabs. “Is there anything else I can do for you, Mr. Clarke?”

  “No, love, I appreciate this.” Bastian looked up at her, offered a final smile, and flicked his eyes to the door.

  Without another word, he and Mercer left the MI5 offices. Stepping outside, the two former Special Air Service operatives automatically scanned the area for potential danger, even though there wasn’t any to be found. As they headed down the street in the direction of their waiting vehicle, Bastian leafed through the classified files.

  “Not here,” Mercer said.

  Bastian shut the lid and tucked the box safely against his side, resting his hand over the top. “Do you think Hans made it back to home base yet?”

  “Let’s hope so. I don’t want him running around half-cocked with Donovan.”