Whipped Up

Prologue

PROLOGUE

IN THE DEBRIS OF EAST CONGO ...

For two days now, Esteban had holed himself up in the almost demolished apartment block overlooking the main highway that snaked through the rubble of this shattered suburb in the eastern part of the Democratic Republic of Congo. Highway was perhaps too exotic a word for a rutted track, interspersed with rocks and boulders and the occasional unexploded shell, which led to the still beautiful city of Bukavu. Vehicles rarely travelled its length.

Throughout the many long hours, Esteban waited, only three broken-down carts, pulled by scrawny looking oxen, had trundled by.

Alongside this track stood the remains of shattered buildings, once inhabited by a lively, cheery populace. Now, most of them dead, only piles of broken, blasted masonry remained, sad, vague memories of homes and families. Jagged twisted steel rods burst through splintered concrete, whilst next to them scorched thatch collapsed inside shattered mud-brick huts. An eclectic mix of the old and the new, devastated by a war proving impossible to win by either side.

A dog barked from somewhere in the distance, but no human activity encroached. The immediate area remained desolate. The stillness suited him; the heat didn’t. Nor the humidity which left his clothes soaking, clinging to him like a second skin. Dark grey stains of stale sweat covered the upper half of his t-shirt, and the reek of his own stink turned his stomach. He stretched out his legs as far as possible, easing out the cramps. He dragged the back of his hand across eyes burning with sweat and concentration.

He ignored the discomfort, blocking it, except for the stench. He didn’t like being dirty. He needed a shower, or better still a luxurious hour in a deep, hot bath, music softly—

Something moved.

Esteban switched off all extraneous thoughts and squinted down the sight of his Barrett-M82 sniper rifle as two figures emerged from the entrance to the underground bunker.

The entrance looked just like any other gaping hole amongst all the crumpled rubble, but Esteban knew it was there. He had always known it was there.

The first man appeared tense as he scanned the surrounding buildings. A bodyguard, an AK-47 slung across his chest, a Kevlar helmet painted dark brown with sunglasses perched above the rim. The dark green combat jacket and matching trousers, tucked into high-laced boots, completed the picture of a soldier on high alert. A big man, shoulders rounded, bare arms bristling with muscles, he moved his head from left to right, surveying the immediate area. Esteban sensed his stress level even from this distance.

Next to him, and slightly behind, the second man stood tall and angular, his camo gear hugging a hard, rigid physique. His boots glinted in the sunshine, black and highly polished, the silver automatic in its holster suspended from a new-looking ammunition belt. Bareheaded, a youthful face belied what lay behind his eyes: the cold, clinical single-mindedness, the obsessive desires, the endless capacity for violence.

Known to the world as Jimmy Spooks, Esteban did not know his real name, nor did he care. He’d waited here for days, out of sight, knowing that finally the target would appear. The only requirement patience, of which Esteban had an endless supply.

He was almost six hundred metres away. An easy shot. Jimmy Spooks, wanted by virtually every government agency on Earth. A feared warlord, deranged many said, who recruited children from as young as eight, nurtured them, taught them how to kill. And they had killed: tens of thousands of people brutally massacred in a guerrilla war many believed would never end.

Nobody even knew where to find him, this Jimmy Spooks.

Most thought he lived in the jungle, moving from one ramshackle camp to the next, a phantom, never leaving any clues as to his next stop. Special Forces scoured every tree, but nobody found any sign of Jimmy Spooks.

Except Esteban, and not in the jungle. His instincts had brought him to this area; a few interviews with barely alive locals, the handing over of American dollars, had paid off. He had what he wanted, and so had they; the promise of Jimmy Spooks’ death. Still fearful, the informers had left the country on what Esteban had given them. None believed that Esteban would succeed.

Elsewhere, the search continued. No one uncovered any clue as to Jimmy’s whereabouts, nevertheless, they carried on searching in all the wrong places.

Rumour had it the Russians were out there, the French. Certainly the Americans. The British had kept their distance, none of this anything to do with them.

Except they had employed Esteban.

He shot Jimmy Spooks in the forehead, the high-calibre bullet blowing off the back of his head as it exited his skull, a plume of blood following bone and brains. The guard jumped with shock but before he could even turn, Esteban shot him in the throat. A snapshot, the man ducking low. Jimmy Spooks, the main target, lay dead but Esteban didn’t want anyone to know what had occurred here, or how. He hit the guard a second time, just above the left eye, as he pitched backwards to the ground.

Before the blood had even started to congeal, Esteban slipped away from his hideaway, unseen and unheard.

The hum of the air conditioner proved a faint distraction as he sat in the exquisitely furnished office just around the corner from St. James’s Park. It was what he had always imagined Edwardian to be; soft, plush leather chairs, deep-piled carpet, hand-woven wallpaper hyphenated by watercolours of rural scenes. All of them genuine. All of them worth a small fortune.

Beyond the wide, deep desk, a large green door opened and Harper entered. He barely looked at Esteban as he sat down and picked up the manila file in front of him. He tapped the photograph of Jimmy Spooks and pressed his lips together.

“Good work.”

Esteban shifted position in his chair, the heat inching up from his shirt collar, feeling uncomfortable. Although he loved the opulence of this room, the intensity of the occasion disturbed him a little. He would much rather be on the other end of a g*n than have to sit here under this man’s gaze. “Thank you.”

Harper flipped through the file. “Everyone is up in arms, of course, shouting State-endorsed murder, but no one can prove anything, not even those snoopers from the various television channels.” He smiled. “All in all, a most professional and satisfactory outcome.”

Esteban said nothing.

Harper slapped the folder shut and pulled out another. He turned it so Esteban could see the face.

“This man. He is returning to the UK, at our behest.”

Esteban frowned.

Harper ignored him and carried on. “An incident, in Spain. Didn’t go too well, and he rather took things into his own hands, with a little too much enthusiasm. Caused us some concern. Still does. He’s what might be termed a rogue.”

“A rogue? What is that?”

“Someone who works alone, without orders. For the most part it goes fairly smoothly, but ...” He shrugged. “Sometimes, like now, we have problems. It is an inherent trait of the beast itself.”

“Pardon?”

“The beast – the rogue. It is in his make-up to be difficult, unpredictable. Often, giving so much freedom to an operative can lead to ... excess.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Do you need to?” Harper leaned forward, clasping his hands together in an attitude of prayer. “We’ve recalled him, and now we want to try to slow him down a little. Give him the opportunity to conform. But, I’m not so sure.” He chewed at his lip. “This is where you come in. You are to be his shadow, his invisible nemesis.”

Esteban’s frown grew deeper.

Harper raised his eyes for a moment before he continued. “Follow him wherever he goes and target him. Make his routine your routine. Be fully prepared, Esteban, because when he goes off the rails – and I believe he will – I want you to be there and to kill him. Understood?”

“Absolutely.” Esteban flicked open the file and read the information, which was scant, and gave no hint why Harper thought this man so dangerous. He closed the file and stared at the photograph, paper-clipped to the cover, the face of a hard-jawed man of indeterminate age. “Who is this man? His name?”

“His real name is of no importance.” Harper sat back in his chair and let out a long sigh. “The name he lives by now is Ryan Chaise.”