Everand Logo

Welcome to Everand!

  • Discover millions of ebooks, audiobooks, and so much more with a free trial

    Only $11.99/month after trial. Cancel anytime.

    With The Angels
    With The Angels
    With The Angels
    Ebook456 pages7 hours

    With The Angels

    By Robert Reynolds

    ()

    Read preview

    About this ebook

    First there was Bond, then there was Bourne and now there is Banks.

    Former intelligence officer Tristan Banks thought he had left Afghanistan behind him but with the theft of a prototype bomb from a top secret government research facility his past has come rushing back to haunt him. Enlisted to recover the weapon and with the aid of the bomb's designer, the beautiful Doctor Meghan Patrick, Tristan must embark on a dangerous mission to hunt down old enemies and confront who he has become. Their journey tracks the terrorists-for-hire from the old world charms of Europe to the frozen heights of the Hindu Kush as they test their physical and mental limits against the brutality of their adversaries. Can Tristan settle old scores and recover the bomb before it's used to start a war? Can Meghan Patrick avenge the death of her mentor without losing herself in the process? Find out in the exhilarating new novel "With the Angels" the first in the Tristan Banks series of adventures.

    Written in a style between that of the intense geo-political intrigue of a Tom Clancy novel and the swashbuckling romp that is a Clive Cussler, Dirk Pitt story this 120,000 word commercial spy thriller takes the reader on a fast paced adventure as Tristan and Meghan track down the bomb and pay the cost of revenge.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherRobert Reynolds
    Release dateJun 14, 2013
    ISBN9781301530724
    With The Angels
    Author

    Robert Reynolds

    Based in Calgary, Robert is an emerging author who spends his days working in the oil and gas industry but has been a big fan of the spy thriller genre ever since his childhood when he read one of his grandfather's original James Bond paperbacks from the late 50's. He is married with a young daughter and when he's not day dreaming about dangerous adventures in exotic locales he enjoys running and other outdoor pursuits.

    Read more from Robert Reynolds

    Related to With The Angels

    Related ebooks

    Thrillers For You

    View More
    View More

    Related podcast episodes

    Related articles

    • Article

      Cruel Means, Bitter Ends

      Nov 10, 2021

      “In order for this speech to mean anything to me, I’ll need to dispense with the usual demagoguery and, instead, make an attempt at honesty. With this in mind, there is one thing I have to make clear. I’m not in this race to serve your interests, but

      12 min read

    • Article

      The Rapture Module

      Aug 10, 2022

      Tucker had to do a double take: The spreadsheet returned the correct result. He could have sworn he had made a mistake—his finger slipped—but the cell displayed the number he thought he wouldn’t see. It occurred to him that this was the first time he

      13 min read

    • Article

      Rent Arlington Hall’s Brain: The implant would make him a brilliant pianist for 24 hours.

      Jan 15, 2015

      Eight Hours To Go Thorne hesitated. The clinic’s storefront consisted of a glass elevator that went only down. Below the earth, into the unknown. A sign on its door read in elegant silver script: “Rent a Brain Today, Genius Guaranteed.” Thorne could

      14 min read

    • Article

      Pleasure Palace

      Sep 1, 2022

      Pleasure Palace
      15 min read

    • Article

      How to Write a Dynamite Last Chapter

      Oct 10, 2022

      When I was a newer writer, I bought a drink for a famous old novelist at the hotel bar after a long conference day. When he’d consumed half of it, I asked him for advice on crafting good, satisfying final chapters. He snapped, “Your ending depends on

      9 min read

    • Article

      Cut And Run

      Oct 9, 2023

      The earth shook violently as the enormous metal monster closed in. It was 100m away, 50, 20 … then it was on me. As I watched its giant steel tentacle, with its whirling, screaming blade, stretch down towards me, I was conscious less of the fear of a

      2 min read

    • Article

      Behind The Scenes

      Oct 18, 2021

      Behind The Scenes
      8 min read

    • Article

      Shelf Life

      Sep 2, 2021

      Shelf Life
      4 min read

    • Article

      In Praise of Darkness

      Aug 15, 2018

      HEATHER LANIER is the author of the nonfiction book Teaching in the Terrordome as well as two poetry chapbooks. Her essays have appeared in Salon, the Sun, Fourth Genre, Brevity, and elsewhere, and her TED talk on the incomplete stories we tell ourse

      8 min read

    • Article

      Garth Marenghi: ‘Many Writers Cite Me As An Influence ... And I Will Be Suing Them All’

      Oct 29, 2022

      Horror writers don’t come much more elusive than Garth Marenghi, AKA “the dream weaver”, AKA the “titan of terror”. The author (who bears an uncanny resemblance to comedian Matthew Holness) is best known for his 1980s hospital horror “dramamentary” G

      6 min read

    • Article

      The Chair of Opportunity

      Jan 10, 2023

      Taylor put his clothes back on and waited in a well outfitted room. It was far posher than any doctor’s office he’d ever been in and he wasn’t sure why he’d been given a physical, much less one more thorough than any he’d ever had before. When they’d

      10 min read

    • Article

      Notes From The Struggle

      Nov 10, 2022

      “That’s the thing,” my friend Tomas said. “They always get it wrong. Every time, they get it wrong. They always get the wrong people. Once we get out of this,” he spread his arms and shook his head, as if to say—This colossal fuck-fest of a mess we’v

      15 min read

    • Article

      Movement and Flow

      May 10, 2019

      A FEW YEARS AGO my mother had a phase in which every three or four months something would short in her heart or brain, and she’d slump to the floor. Whatever did this left no trace; we guessed some kind of seizure. By the time I’d find her in the eme

      11 min read

    • Article

      The Sinking City

      Sep 17, 2019

      The Sinking City
      2 min read

    • Article

      Who’s There?: Every Story Is a Ghost Story

      Aug 18, 2021

      Not all writing is cursed, but surely all of it is haunted. Literature is a catacomb of past readers, past writers, past books. Traces of those who are responsible for creation linger among the words on a page. The post Who’s There?: Every Story Is a

      16 min read

    • Article

      The Wrong Side Of History

      Oct 10, 2021

      As blood pumped from the gash on his neck and the world before his eyes darkened, Senator Arnold McCoy’s last conscious thought was to wonder if being assassinated was enough to put him on the right side of history. It was his birthday. Surely, he co

      27 min read

    • Article

      The Trouble Gene

      Jul 1, 2020

      One clear thing about trouble—it can set you back to zero, a personal cone of silence. And reading, writing, listening allow entry into that troubled solitude; you disappear into it regardless t of the time or place you really are in, be it bed, kitc

      12 min read

    • Article

      A Liturgy of Language: On Don DeLillo’s ‘The Silence’

      Oct 15, 2020

      The end will take us all by surprise, but that there will be an end is not surprising. DeLillo is the laureate of this unsettling truth. The post A Liturgy of Language: On Don DeLillo’s ‘The Silence’ appeared first on The Millions.

      4 min read

    • Article

      Control

      Sep 30, 2019

      Control
      6 min read

    • Article

      Second Chance

      Jun 23, 2022

      Second Chance
      3 min read

    • Article

      The Bargain

      Dec 10, 2022

      “Which one of you owns G2V3889?” Cygnus glided through a luminescent star field suspended in the center of an otherwise dark, oblong studio, then turned in a slow circle to survey the twenty Agents surrounding him. “Come on, speak up.” Vega shuddered

      16 min read

    Related categories

    Reviews for With The Angels

    0 ratings

    0 ratings0 reviews

    What did you think?

    Tap to rate

    Review must be at least 10 words

      Book preview

      With The Angels - Robert Reynolds

      With the Angels

      Robert Reynolds

      Smashwords Edition

      Copyright 2013 Robert E. Reynolds

      License Notes: This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this ebook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

      Ebook formatting by www.ebooklaunch.com

      This book is dedicated to my loving wife, your patience and encouragement made this possible.

      Ohh… And to Google. I don’t know how books got written before you.

      Table of Contents

      Prologue

      Chapter 1: North Of Sixty

      Chapter 2: She Came With A Bullet

      Chapter 3: Smash And Grab

      Chapter 4: 690 00’ 10N 1340 40’ 00W

      Chapter 5: Hidden Asset

      Chapter 6: Banks. Tristan Banks.

      Chapter 7: Where To Start

      Chapter 8: Membership Has Its Privileges

      Chapter 9: Back In The Barg-E Matal

      Chapter 10: House of Cartier

      Chapter 11: A Visit From CIA

      Chapter 12: The Pirates Of The Service Industry

      Chapter 13: Fun With Plastic Bags

      Chapter 14: What Has She Become?

      Chapter 15: A Terrorist Tête-à-Tête

      Chapter 16: A One Night Stand To Regret

      Chapter 17: Afghans Can Be Touchy

      Chapter 18: A Lesson in Loyalty

      Chapter 19: Truth Serum & Electric Shock

      Chapter 20: Back In The Barg-E Matal II

      Chapter 21: Sheep & Shepherds

      Chapter 22: Captivity

      Chapter 23: Sex Is Power

      Chapter 24: Chase To The End

      Chapter 25: Saying Goodbye

      Dear Reader

      About the Author

      Prologue

      Detonation in three… two… one… Dr. Patrick lifted the plastic cover shielding the initiator and pressed down on the red switch firmly.

      She monitored her computer screen for a few seconds but nothing happened.

      Frustrated she swore. Wait a second Meghan. She felt a gentle touch on her arm. Her supervisor Dr. Moore pointed at some dials on the control panel. The core temperature is starting to rise. A voice from the back of the room chimed in, Magnetic field strength is building. We’re at three kilo-teslas and climbing. There was a brief pause as the scientists checked the gauges on the control panel. The voice called out again from the back of the room, five kilo-teslas and climbing…

      A cheer went up in the control room. The test was proving successful after all. She checked her computer screen to confirm. They had just created the strongest magnetic field ever made by man. Today was a big day for her research. Just a few more kilo-teslas and her experiment would be a complete success.

      Seven kilo-teslas and climbing…

      That was odd. Her calculations had predicted that seven kilo-teslas should have been the maximum field strength. Meghan raised a quizzical eyebrow at Dr. Moore who took another look at the control panel. Core temperature is rising too quickly as well, he responded to her unasked question. Shit, we better shut it down she replied.

      Worried now, she called to the back of the control room. Increase power to the containment field. An unseen hand turned a dial and the lights dimmed as the power drained away. His eyes fixed on the gauges now, Dr. Moore spoke again. It’s not working Meghan, core temperature is going super-critical.

      FUCK she yelled in frustration as the room went black.

      ***

      A thousand kilometers away, Corporal Benning slapped the side of the radar station’s main screen. The system had redundancies built into it and was supposedly reliable but this was the second time in the month that it had unexpectedly shut down. Benning made a note to run diagnostic tests but he’d have to restart the generator again first. He grabbed his mitts and toque off the counter and headed to the door. Outside he couldn’t help but notice that every time the station went down the northern lights seemed extra bright.

      ***

      Torres paused in front of the tall, ornate wooden doors. The palace guards remained at attention, making sideways glances at the man nervously in the muggy heat. Lost in a daze, Torres studied the intricacy of the coat of arms carved across the doors, his eyes unblinking as he gazed blankly straight ahead. The gold leafed lions holding the crimson shield stared back at him mimicking his look. Despite the heat and humidity of the tropical afternoon, a slight shiver ran up his spine. He pulled himself together and a tight smile drew across his lips. This would be a very big step, he thought. If it worked, it would change his country’s (or even more accurately, his) place in the world. And if it didn’t, well, it was best not to think about that.

      Sir ?… The young guard on the right, a new recruit barely out of high school, whispered tentatively. The second guard, a grizzled old timer, shot the first a menacing stare. Torres didn’t respond, still lost in thought. There was still time to withdraw; the pieces weren’t all in motion yet.

      The younger man made the slightest of shrugs to his partner as an exasperated look flashed across the veterans face. Ahemm… Colonel? Torres stirred slightly as if awakening. Sir, are you alright? What? Yes. Yes… Of course! responded the Colonel brusquely, finally leaving his thoughts and focusing on the guards. El Presidente is expecting me.

      With that, Torres smiled at the guards, straightened himself and adjusted his silk Hermes tie. Committing himself, he pushed open the heavy door and slipped inside.

      Outside the men exchanged baffled shrugs.

      The old man sat at his large antique desk, studiously reading a few pages lying flat on the wine coloured leather blotter before him. He didn’t bother to look up as Torres entered the office; he merely grunted and made a waving motion to the gilded Queen Anne chairs in front of the desk.

      Torres eased himself down and took in the room. This time he stayed focused on his surroundings. A large Cohiba smouldered lazily in a heavy crystal ashtray on the desk. A thick rope of oily smoke coiled slowly to the ceiling where it was spread by the gentle but steady current coming from the revolving ceiling fan. Torres looked again at the desk. He had been in this office many, many times but had never really paid that much attention to it. He relaxed back into his chair and patiently waited for the senior man to finish with his papers.

      Torres took a moment to admire the seat of power as he waited for El Presidente. The desk really was a thing of beauty. Rumour had it that it was made at the same time as the great doors to the office. Well over a hundred and twenty five years ago now. The mahogany had come from a war ship sunk at Hispaniola during the Anglo-Spanish war of 1655. Joaquin Crespo had ordered the doors and desk especially made from the wood to act as a reminder of the defeat their fore fathers had suffered at the hands of the British Empire when the presidential palace was built in 1884. Torres never had paid much attention to history so he didn’t know if the rumour was true or not but he admired the desk all the same.

      It was a beautiful piece. Solid and tasteful with just a hint of flare, you could see your reflection in the shine left by over a century of careful polishing. It was powerful, a leader’s desk. The legs and edging were an intricately carved masterpiece of lions, gryphons and arms. Like a schoolboy at Christmas, the Colonel couldn’t wait until the desk was his. And he had every confidence that it would be soon.

      The old man shifted his weight uncomfortably in his chair and a small squeak of flatulence sounded in the quiet room. The septuagenarian grunted again and turned a page over on the desk, muttering under his breath. Torres crossed his legs at his knees, his foot bouncing impatiently in the air and scanned the rest of the room.

      His eyes came to rest on the heavy bookshelf standing against the wall across from him. Trotsky, Mao, Marx, Che… . All the great communists seemed to be represented. Torres wasn’t really a socialist at heart, and neither, he suspected was El Presidente. But socialism was a means to an end. It kept them in power and provided they kept control of the military and media it would continue to do so for a long time to come.

      The Chinese model worked well and they weren’t ashamed to copy it. Free markets, not free speech. Besides, the power of U.S. democracy was waning. The people didn’t want a Starbucks and McDonalds on every corner; Hummer’s and HappyMeals clogging the roads and their arteries. This was Latin America after all. Life was lived with a certain lust and flair but without the gaudy commercialism of those to the North. The people wanted schooling, basic health care, paved roads and lower crime. And this Torres mused; he could give them, provided of course he got what he wanted.

      El Presidente sighed and put down the page he was reading. He took off his glasses and rubbed his temples. I’m tired Abeirto he wheezed, I’ll be glad when you take this headache off my hands. Suddenly animated, Torres’ father-in-law shook the report he had been reading emphatically. United Nations! More like United Criminals!… These bullies and bastards won’t be happy until we are grovelling at their feet again. Who are they to tell us what to do with our resources, who we can trade with or what our people need!… These son’s of whores…

      Torres could see El Presidente’s rant forming like a storm cloud over a quiet bay. The old man’s faculties were still there but Torres sometimes wondered how much longer they would last.

      Bueno dias, Papi said Torres, cutting short the old man’s diatribe. I have news. Instantly, the old man’s look sharpened as he stopped his rhetoric and sat back in his chair. He reached for the smoldering Cohiba and took a long pull as he studied Torres’ face with dark and narrowed eyes through the hazy smoke of the cigar.

      So the operation will go ahead? El Presidente asked in slow deliberate tone. Yes, we’ve come to a final agreement with the contractors. It will take them a few months to put everything in place. If we are in agreement I will make the arrangements for their advance.

      The old man considered a moment weighing the news.

      So it will be December then? Yes replied Torres, the operation will start Christmas day.

      El Presidente grunted a sardonic laugh. Today is born our saviour…

      It will be a new beginning Papi, one where Banana Republic will have a much different meaning

      The liver spotted octogenarian took another drag on his big cigar, his eyes shrewd and calculating. And the General? He is still on board?

      Torres was quick to answer. Zheng has confirmed they will move to repatriate Taiwan as well as use their position on the Security Council to block any joint action against us.

      The old man closed his eyes for a second. Torres’ plan was a good one. Perhaps it was something he should have done himself years ago but as the years crept up on him the fire of the revolution died down inside him. It was time to pass the torch down to his successor. Torres was a bold man, perhaps to bold but if the gambit worked his son-in-law would soon be leading one of the most powerful nations of the world.

      The old man opened his eyes and spoke. May god have mercy on us then eh Abeirto?

      Relieved Torres smiled. After all the time he had spent strategizing and planning his gamble was finally going to happen. God helps those that help themselves Papi. He replied with a wicked grin.

      Chapter 1: North Of Sixty

      The wind screamed across the frozen lake making ice crystals dance as the gusts carved the snow banks into sculpted waves. Damn its cold! swore Merat as the blowing ice stung the mercenary’s face. Bracing against the wind, Merat picked up the powerful binoculars and scanned the horizon in the crimson dusk.

      It was amazing what you could buy over the Internet these days, mused the mercenary. The 4th generation night vision binoculars could be used under all light conditions. Just a few years ago this technology was restricted to military personnel only. Now anyone with a credit card and a personality disorder could pretend they were an army sniper.

      Merat loved it. Although still pricey, it was much easier to get equipment these days. A few clicks of a mouse, some hacked credit cards, a few false named drop boxes and pretty much anything from boots to tanks could be had. Well not exactly. Tanks were still hard to come by. But Merat had plenty of other sources for small arms and heavier weapons.

      The mercenary admired the new night vision binoculars again. They were much better than standard issue gear. Most professional soldiers equipped themselves now anyway. When your life depends on it you tend not to rely on government procurement contracts that were awarded to the lowest bidder.

      What little light there was was fading quickly. It was about two o’clock in the afternoon but north of the sixtieth parallel the sky was a pale, vanishing, orange and violet. This time of year there was only five hours of weak daylight as the sun made a feeble effort to crest the horizon before sagging back down to nothingness.

      Merat detected movement in the distance and zoomed in.

      It was a wolf, alone and on the hunt. The magnificent grey beast cantered along the frozen wasteland of the lake, its long fur tufting with the sharp blasts of wind. Merat scanned ahead of the tundra’s top predator and spotted its prey a hundred meters or so ahead. A caribou, alone and walking with a limp, its left foreleg dangled uselessly, twisted at the knee. Merat checked the distances with the laser range finder. The wolf was closing in steadily, now fifty meters back. Suddenly the wolf broke into a run. Sensing the danger, the caribou began to gallop as best it could; its injured leg barely brushing the surface of the frozen lake but the wolf was closing fast with thirty meters to go.

      The ice on the lake was black, a giant sheet of obsidian polished to a shine by the relentless wind. The caribou skidded and fell, unable to maintain its awkward three legged run on the smooth surface. The wolf, now only a few meters away, saw its chance and lunged. Fur and blood flew as the wolf tore into the back of the caribou’s brown neck, but the wolf too was having trouble finding traction on the black ice. The wolf slid by, taking with it pieces of red tinged hide. Scrambling for its life, the caribou was the first to get back on its feet. It hopped lightly on its good front leg, momentarily frozen while it decided whether to try and run or stand and fight.

      The wolf leapt back up, suddenly more sure of its footing. The caribou had made up its mind and turned slightly to face the wolf, lowering its broad antlers. The animal knew it could run no more. It had to make a stand. Blood ran from the fresh wound on its neck and it’s heaving breath crystallized into frozen clouds as it stood panting and waited for the wolf to attack.

      The wolf began to circle and the caribou hopped frantically to keep from being out flanked. Once around, twice… the wolf slowly inched closer. Watching the drama unfold, Merat could sense the growing panic of the wounded ungulate. Seeing an opening, the grey hunter lunged for the kill but just as it opened is vicious jaws to clamp down on the caribou’s throat, a clap like thunder rang out. In Merat’s binoculars a puff of red mist floated from the wolf’s head.

      Merat lowered the field glasses and looked around crossly at the group of men standing out in the cold. The smoke was still wisping out of the barrel of the AMR-2 sniper rifle as Anatoliy, the Russian giant, slung the blued steel back over his shoulder.

      Merat fixed him a look that was colder than the biting wind. The men shifted uncomfortably in silence, the snow crunching under their boots. The Russian just shrugged and spat out Fuck wolf! in his thick accent.

      A cruel smile spread across Merat’s face breaking the tension. It was a nice shot, just over five hundred meters but Tolya, not again unless I tell you alright? Da responded a sullen and chastised Anatoliy, as the sun ended its brief appearance and sank back over the horizon.

      In the distance the wearied and bloodied caribou hobbled slowly away, spared for the moment from the bite of the wolf but not from that of the howling arctic wind.

      Alright, everybody gather round! ordered Merat now that the fun was over. The small band of men huddled closer around Merat’s black snowmobile, as much for warmth as to hear what their leader had to say. We need to go through this one more time. Any one that fucks up won’t be getting on the plane for the ride out. Are we clear?

      There were some unsettled grunts of acknowledgement; the men all knew what this meant. Most of them had seen Merat’s brutality in action before. At least any mess-ups on this job would mean a quick bullet to the back of the head rather than what could happen if Merat saved the discipline till later. Most of the men had worked for Merat before and although mistakes were dealt with harshly; reliable, efficient service was rewarded very, very generously.

      Farouq, the scarred and grizzled second in command spoke up next. Ok, everyone knows their role. First thing, Sirhan and Kassim secure the airstrip. Saleem, you go in to the main objective and take out the communications dishes and antenna next. When the comms are down you fire that flare. That’s our signal to move in. We come in hard and fast on the sleds right up to the main door. Remember all lights are to remain out and communication only through visuals on the way in. Anatoliy, you set up cover fire from that high point outside the entrance. Once we’re inside, anything that comes up to the front door or to the airstrip gets a big hole put in it from that AMR. Leave everything else ALONE. They’ll be too far away to know that anything is going on. Understand? Farouq shot a scowling glance at the Russian.

      The wolf hadn’t been the first time he’d shot something just for fun and it likely wouldn’t be the last. But the big man was an amazing shot and had saved their asses on more than one occasion. It was valuable insurance having an accurate .50 calibre, armour piercing round covering you, so most of the time, Merat preferred to let the trigger happy giant be rather than find new and likely inferior covering fire. But with over four hundred workers at the diamond mine, they would have a hard enough time controlling things with their small group. No sense in inviting more people to the party. Da, Da! agreed the giant. No practice he said, just a bit too sarcastically.

      Farouq’s eyes rolled slightly as Merat took over the briefing. When we go in, there will be a lobby with the cafeteria off to the right. There should be a couple of security guards inside the lobby. Anyone standing around in there gets put down immediately. Drago, Henri, you two will cover the hall leading to the offices and the mine. Adan, Jean-Paul, you two will be on crowd control in the cafeteria. Remember, if anyone so much as blinks wrong, you make an example of them. Quick and clean. No talking or fighting with them. Merat looked up and got cold reassuring nods from the two men in return. Perfect.

      Ok, Farouq and I will come in with you two and grab the researchers. Once we’ve got them, Drago and Henri will take point and rear. Anyone in the tunnels gets eliminated, got that? Again two slow deliberate nods were given in confirmation. Merat paused and scanned the men as they all shuffled and rubbed their arms.

      Farouq coughed and spit out a chain smoker’s yellow gob of phlegm. It froze before it landed and rolled along the snow. Taking over, he raised his voice to be heard over the relentless wind. We should be about thirty minutes to get down into the mine and bring back the bomb and the stones. You guys just hang tight and keep things under control till we get back. Forty-five minutes is all the whole thing will take. We hit the front door at six forty five and the plane will be wheels up at seven thirty sharp. Farouq paused and stamped his feet to ward off the numbness creeping into them. He hated it here in this frozen hell and couldn’t wait to get back to the date palms, figs and olives of his native North Africa.

      Are there any questions? Merat asked, letting the question hang in the air like their icy breath. The men stood mute, knowing their jobs and the consequences for all of them if things didn’t go as planned.

      Farouq looked around. The weatherworn Algerian was pleased with what he saw. The men were experienced and tough. Most had seen active combat before joining Merat’s merry little band. Killing wasn’t new to them and he knew they wouldn’t panic if they faced fire. Not that he expected any.

      Security was estimated to be extremely light. The existence of the research facility was a closely guarded Pentagon secret. The labs, deep underground and hundreds of kilometres from the nearest settlement were part of the world’s most northern diamond mine. Any armaments would only make it look like there was something to guard. Better to just let it hide in plain sight and for everyone to think that diamonds were the only reason anyone would be fool enough to be up here. The security guards might be armed with some pistols and maybe a shotgun or two but that was probably it.

      Farouq had worked with most of the men before. A few of them, like Drago, Saleem and Anatoliy were regulars. They had been there in Afganistan and Sudan along with Merat and Farouq. He didn’t trust them completely but he knew he could count on them to do their jobs. They were professionals. They’d be loyal as long as they got paid and could reasonably expect another payday in the future.

      This was a big job. The biggest they’d ever done and Farouq knew that they were all looking forward to the fat payoff. Farouq knew that he sure was.

      The truth-be-told, hired mercenaries didn’t make nearly as much as people assumed. Most of them did it for political or religious reasons, making next to nothing. The professionals usually got into the life simply because that’s were fate led them. They were forgotten soldiers of vicious wars that knew nothing but the crack of gunfire and screams of the dying. There really was no other option for them. They weren’t exactly the type of people getting year-end bonuses and profit sharing or settling down into a corner office.

      It cost a lot to be a mercenary too, Farouq mused. The transportation, illegal arms, fake documents, payoffs, training … It all added up. Plus, he considered, most hired guns didn’t exactly lead virtuous lives. The gambling, girls, drugs and criminal associates on their down time usually led to prison or having to do another job. The life burned cash and lots of it.

      Merat’s group tended to be the cautious few that lay low and stashed money aside. But even they were yet to be set entirely. Simply put, there were a lot of bat-shit crazy amateurs out there that drove prices down and cost up.

      Farouq sighed.

      This job would change that. It was more than enough for all of them to walk and never do another job again. Most would come back to it, he knew. The adrenaline of the fight and rush of the kill was the most addictive thing there was. He wasn’t sure himself, if he’d be able to stay away. The last few years had been hard on him and he wasn’t a young man anymore. He daydreamed of his family and a little farm in Souk Ahras where he could grow olives and play with his grand children, but wasn’t sure if that idyll would really be enough. He would miss the camaraderie and the heroin like high of the battle.

      At least the money would be enough if he wanted that life.

      That worried him actually. The regulars he knew would be cautious. One or two would retire and a few others would squirrel it away. The rest would likely send it to their various causes. Al Qaeda, Islamic Jihad, Chechen Separatists, Basque Separatists, whoever. It was like some sort of fucked up version of the United Nations with the ideologicals. These guys didn’t bother Farouq though as he knew they’d be cautious.

      It was the new guys, Sirhan and Henri that Farouq wasn’t so sure of. Would they splash it around and draw attention to themselves or would they fade away and live in quiet luxury until the itch for the next job struck? Farouq wasn’t sure, but provided Merat didn’t eliminate the risk, he would keep tabs on them after the job. He’d have to talk to Merat about this when he got a chance.

      Alright, that’s it then. We leave in forty five minutes. Merat had to shout to dismiss the men above the wind.

      Most went back to packing their gear and warming up their snowmobiles. Anatoliy and Drago were passing a small flask back and forth, as they smoked and swapped dirty stories about women they’d had over the years. Farouq finished loading the jerry cans of gas onto his snow machine, thinking now might be a good time to talk to Merat about Sirhan and Henri but their leader had already headed into the cabin to get out of the cold.

      A moment later, Merat’s head popped out of the cabin door. Drago! Henri! I need you guys to come inside for a bit. There are a couple of more things we need to go over. Farouq, you too.

      The Algerian wondered what could be up as he finished strapping the two five gallon white and black camouflaged jerry cans to the snow machine. He stood up and stretched before lighting a cigarette and followed the two other mercenaries into the spacious cabin.

      The cabin, or more properly the private resort, they were occupying, was located on the shores of MacKay Lake, about one hundred sixty miles north east of the small city of Yellowknife, Northwest Territories. It was a rustic looking five-bedroom lodge tucked into a little cove on the north side of the lake. Although it looked rustic, the mossy pine shakes and exposed timber beams were misleading. No expense had been spared when the retreat was built. Big screen TVs, high-speed satellite Internet connection, a hot tub, professionally equipped kitchen, granite counter tops… It had the works.

      The cabin was cramped with their group of ten but they only had to be there for a couple of days and its remoteness was ideal. It was serving their purposes excellently. It could only be accessed by snowmobile or ski plane in the winter and float plane in the summer. Its nearest neighbour, that was inhabited even semi-regularly, was over five miles away. Far enough that no one would know they were there despite the noise of the snow machines or the occasional wolf shooting.

      The cabin had actually been one of the easier things to arrange. It belonged to the head of the local biker gang, Charley Harley Reid. The group’s planning and communications specialist Saleem, had met Reid when he and Merat came up to scout the mission about three months ago. It had taken a few days before Saleem could connect with the local outlaw biker scene but once Harley was able to check Saleem out through a few contacts the mercenary had with the one percenter’s brethren in Toronto and Montreal, the bear shaped biker was more than eager to act as a fixer for the strike team.

      Harley Charley mainly used the cabin as a party place in the summer and as a spot to base his little floatplane out of. Drug abuse was rampant in the little hamlets and outposts that dotted the North and a light plane was pretty much the only way Harley could effectively distribute his product. The local RCMP suspected as much but they hadn’t been able to prove anything yet. Budgets were tight, surveillance difficult and if push came to shove, the bikers could probably out gun the local police detachment.

      Besides that, the Mounties were more interested in nailing Harley for the murder of an underage prostitute then for running the drugs. That spring, RCMP had recovered the body of a thirteen-year-old girl naked from a snow bank after a local trapper had found her and called it in. The autopsy had shown third degree burns to her genitals and massive bruising everywhere else but she had died from exposure to the cold. Needless to say, the Mounties were anxious to get their man but they were having difficulties building their case.

      The pale and mutilated body had sent a crystal clear message to Yellowknife’s underworld about who exactly ran the town and no one was about to step forward with any information against Reid.

      Despite his jovial, good ol’boy appearances, Reid ran his little empire with an iron fist. Harley had been a union organizer during Yellowknife’s gold mine strike in the early nineties when a bomb underground killed nine scab workers. The strike had been long and brutally violent before it climaxed with the death of the replacement workers. Charley Harley Reid was never implicated in the crimes but the joke over drinks at the Union Hall was that he should have been the one negotiating for the union since he knew all about handling labour disputes. He was Union back then but now he was management all the way.

      Business had been down as he was laying low after the death of the girl so the two hundred fifty thousand that Merat had paid for the use of the cabin and arranging the stolen, out of province, snowmobiles was a welcome Christmas bonus for Charley.

      Merat was sitting at the kitchen table with a few maps spread out, studiously entering waypoints into a GPS unit when Farouq and the others walked in. Boss? Oui? Merat said languidly, looking up then taking a sip from a small tumbler of scotch. Shall we go over the details of the snatch? Mais oui, yes of course. Merat motioned the men to take a seat and then folded up the maps. Scotch? Merat offered, holding out the bottle of 1973 Glenfiddich Vintage Reserve.

      Farouq declined politely. Although not an overly strict Muslim, he avoided alcohol except in situations where it would be awkward not to take a glass. Russia and China were the worst for that. He couldn’t arrange anything for a job in those countries without a Vashe Zdorovie! or a Gan Bei!

      Drinking with the boss always had its perils. Merat was unpredictable at the best of times. Sometimes a glass or two was just a way to socialize and get to know the men. Others it was to check how committed to the job you were, whether you were reliable or a weak drunk. Still others it was a subtle form of interrogation, fact checking and digging up on things. Henri, the new man in the crew, paused wanting to see what Drago would do. Drago let the uncomfortable silence grow, forcing Henri’s decision. Scotch? Merat asked again, shaking the amber coloured bottle slightly.

      Drago let out a laugh and clapped Henri on the shoulders, breaking the tension and setting the tone. He reached for the bottle. Relax, he said gabbing two tumblers off the table and pouring. Farouq and Merat smiled as Drago handed the extra glass over to Henri. Ziveli! toasted Drago before draining his glass in a swallow and pouring himself another.

      Alright, this is what will happen once we get inside started Merat, pulling a small bundle of papers out of a camouflaged tactical assault pack. Farouq and I will go in with Adan and Jean-Paul to the cafeteria. At six thirty, almost all of the day shift should be in having dinner. Dr.’s Moore and Patrick should be at a table with about four or five others from the lab. Apparently they stick to themselves and don’t mingle too much with the mining crew. Here are pictures of what they look like. They were taken only a few months ago at the Conference on Advanced Magnetics in London so there shouldn’t be any major changes.

      Merat pulled a couple of 3 x 5 pictures from the bundle of papers. The first of Dr. Jonathan Moore showed a tall, thin hawkish man in his late sixties with thinning grey hair and wearing Coke bottle glasses that hid his blue eyes. He was wearing a worn tweed jacket and had that dishevelled, un-ironed look of academia. He was the very picture of a brilliant professor.

      The other 3 x 5 could not have been more of a contrast. Dr. Meghan Patrick was a stunning woman in her early to mid thirties. The PhD was wearing a superbly tailored pants suit that accentuated every curve of her athletic, toned body and would have looked equally at home in a board room or on a runway. The soft curls of her long vibrant red hair framed a classically beautiful face with full lips and piercing jade green eyes. A light dusting of freckles gave a warmth and charm to her fair complexion.

      An aerial photo of the mine site was unfolded next, a Google Earth logo clearly visible in the corner. Merat thought again how amazing it was the information and technology that was available to just anyone.

      Like a small ant hill on an otherwise pristine lawn, the satellite image showed the mining complex to be a single point of activity on the barren vastness of the arctic tundra. The giant cone shaped pits looked as if god himself had poked holes into the surface of the earth with his finger. The processing plant sat at the centre of it all like a spider at the centre of her web, a crooked network of gravel roads serving as threads to connect the giant pits to the plant. The accommodations building and airstrip dominated the south end of the mine site and were a community onto themselves. Fully provisioned the camp was designed to house and feed five hundred men and could go without resupply for two months on end with workers doing twenty-eight day rotations on and off site.

      The cafeteria is here. A red circle was drawn on the map. Once we have the scientists, we have two targets that we have to hit. The lab and the diamond vault. We hit the lab first. It’s our main objective. Merat paused to make sure they were clear on this.

      Drago, you and Henri will walk ahead of us, Dr.’s Moore and Patrick in between, with Farouq and me in the rear. First we go down this hallway. Another red mark was added to the map. That will take us out of the accommodations building and into the utility corridor that leads to the processing plant, then to the shaft of the underground mine. Two more red circles were drawn on the map.

      In the building that houses the shaft, there will be small control room with two operators that run the hoisting system of the mine. Drago, you will take over this room and make sure that the operators do as they are told. Merat paused again, this time taking a sip of the scotch.

      "The lab is located three thousand feet below the surface. Drago will make sure the hoist operators lower us to the correct level and hold the lift there.

      Enjoying the preview?
      Page 1 of 1