BLOOD DRAGON by Freddie Peters (books to get back into reading .TXT) 📕

The high-profile case had costed people’s lives and Phelps, a whistleblower who had come forward to expose his employer’s questionable dealings with the Middle East, had paid a dear price.

Pole ignored the clock and let Ferguson reveal his suspicions. For a man who did not suspect any member of his team, he had a particular view on each and every one of them. Perhaps it came with the territory, in an environment that handled extremists and in which each officer was equipped with high performance firearms.

Ferguson’s team is doing a room by room sweep. On the ground floor a couple of targets are hiding in a place that controls the bottom of the stairs. The rattle of submachine guns is insistent. Ferguson has spread out his men … three of them are looking for the back door. Another crawls forwards on the floor and throws two phosphorus grenades into the room.

Shrieks …

The man dispatched to the back of the house finds a way in.

Gunshots … the room at the bottom of the stairs is clear. Ferguson’s team climbs the stairs and methodically cleans up each room as they enter.

Shots … screams … more gunshots … the sound of boots.

Pole is watching the screen from the safety of the control van, in which two operators are following the assault.

“Officer down.”

“Shit.” Harris swears as each room is cleared.

Pole does not utter a word. He is used to violence but not of this magnitude.

Ferguson’s team is now on its way to the second floor. They ascend the stairwell without encountering resistance. The first door they try is locked.

A machine gun burst and the door explodes into splinters.

The window is open, a man in white robes is about to jump, a gun in his hands. A burst of bullets stops him before he can escape. His body hesitates and then collapses back into the room.

Harris leaves the van before the operators can protest. He runs towards the backyard, pushing on his earpiece to keep it in place.

“They are in the backyard.” he shouts. “Don’t shoot … don’t shoot … my guys are in the backyard.”

Pole should perhaps have paid more attention to Ferguson’s ramblings, but the memories of Henry Crowne’s escape a year ago still disturbed him. It had been carnage and he understood why … none of the people who had been terminated, as Ferguson put it, would have given a second thought to planting a bomb in the middle of a crowded street, but the ferocity of the attack had left him numb for some time.

“Shall we fix a date for a debrief?”

“Excellent plan, three days from today?”

“Make it two. The head of C-T command is getting impatient.”

Pole agreed. No need to drag his feet just yet.

Ferguson was at the lifts and as he stepped into one of them, he turned around.

“I’ll be asking for a list of all the mobile phones that have connected into or around my team’s office at the time of the case …”

Pole gave Ferguson the thumbs up as he disappeared behind the closing doors.

“Fuck.” Pole clenched his jaw. His MI6 burner phone would certainly show up in the logs and around his office at the critical time.

* * *

Jack crossed the road and stood in front of Nelson’s column in Trafalgar Square. Steve Harris had been right, and he had forgotten it until now. The Citadines Hotel was not only perfect for work, it was also the perfect place from which to enjoy London. He had an extra 30 minutes to spare before making his way to meet Harris.

He moved to the middle of the square, his eyes running over the façade of the National Gallery. An imposing building dedicated to culture, perhaps a little less impressive than the Smithsonian, but he was of course biased.

The pools were filled with water but the fountains were not playing. In the top lefthand corner of the square, Jack noticed a splash of vivid blue. He had heard about the famous fourth plinth. Trafalgar Square was renowned for this large stone pedestal that stood below the National Gallery. Jack looked at his guidebook. It was fun to be a tourist for a while.

Circa 1840, the fourth plinth had been left without a sculpture as construction of the square had slowed down. It had remained so until recently when the space had started to be used to display contemporary, often provocative, sculptures specially commissioned from leading artists. Jack made his way towards the spot. A five-metre-tall cockerel in bright blue stood there proudly.

Jack smiled … it looked a little mad, but he liked it. The search on his phone gave some details. The cockerel was, according to the artist Katherina Fritsch, a symbol of regeneration and strength. It was also rather humorous that on the place that celebrated the battle of Trafalgar a large cockerel, an icon to the French, should appear to defy Nelson himself. As if Napoleon had come for a visit.

Jack moved on, climbing the shallow stone stairs that ran along almost the entire side of the square. He fished out a couple of pound coins he had managed to save for a tip which he gave to one of the floating Yodas that inevitably attracted tourists to the place.

Jack made his way through the backstreets of Soho to the pub where Harris had suggested they should meet. In Covent Garden Jack again checked the address of The Lamb and Frog, a traditional Georgian pub with a reputation as one of Charles Dickens’ watering holes and for its former (at least Jack hoped so) bare knuckle fighting.

Harris had suggested a mid-morning meeting followed by lunch. Jack stopped at the top of the narrow lane. A few yards away in the distance he could see the name of the pub in faded yellow letters written over an old wooden shield.

Flower baskets of cyclamens