Whipped Up

Chapter 1

ONE

He stood at the top of the aircraft steps and took a moment to look around. The grey sky matched his mood, and the fine drizzle didn’t help either. Not for the first time he wondered about the rightness of his actions.

Coming back home.

There was Linny, of course. She figured largely in the decision, rather more than the coercion perhaps. Being told what to do was not something that came easily to Ryan Chaise.

The air stewardess touched his arm and smiled. She beckoned him to continue; some disgruntled passengers wanted to disembark as quickly as possible. Lost in his thoughts, he hadn’t noticed. He gave a nod of apology and descended. Overhead a plane soared into the sky, all around the noise of jet engines and the smell of kerosene invaded his senses. The steel steps clanged under his shoes, each one sounding like a death knell. Back home. Blighty. He sucked in a breath, hating it as much now as he ever did.

He’d been in the Costa del Sol for a long time, building up a comfortable little niche for himself selling real estate to the ex-pats. He’d done well, managed to earn enough to buy a beautiful villa, which Linny loved. Life was good, at first. Everything came tumbling down when he became involved with gangsters and drugs. None of it of his own making, but that hadn’t prevented Linny from leaving him.

She was sick of the lies, she’d told him. Sick of the way he kept his past so secret. She’d never understood; how could she? He’d created a protective layer of deceit and for a few years, it had remained intact, with no hint of who he really was.

Nothing about his life as a covert killer in Iraq, the follow-up operations in Bahrain, Kosovo or Pakistan. He couldn’t reveal anything. He’d signed the papers, and the men in grey suits had him under their thumbs.

The s**t hit the fan in Spain when he’d killed one of their own. Since then he had become an undesirable, a threat. They’d recalled him, leaving few options other than to acquiesce. The alternative meant death – his own.

He went through the various exits and down an endless stream of corridors. When he finally arrived at the passport desk – or should that be control, he wondered – he felt tired and hot. Some i***t had put the heating on.

A smiling security guard in navy blue uniform guided him towards one of the queues. Hundreds of people milled about. Britain, gripped with paranoia over terrorist activity and the continuing pandemic, had up-graded its passport controls. Chaise couldn’t work out whether it had more to do with illegal immigrants than bomb threats.

The politicians vied to hit the right nerves; preventing anyone not ‘British’ from trying to enter the country was always worth a few votes, with Eastern Europeans in particular blamed for the nation’s ills. Strange how all the hotheads kept quiet when a ‘white Anglo-Saxon’ committed an outrage. None of them grasped the simple truth that good and bad resided in everyone, regardless of colour or creed.

He took a breath, sick to the back teeth of such thoughts. He’d never been able to get inside the heads of racists, nor did he wish to. His own troubles monopolised his time now, chief amongst them being how to get in touch with Linny.

Finally, his turn arrived and he stepped up to the little cubicle. Chaise presented his passport and the customs officer scanned it. She stopped, pulled a face and studied her monitor. He knew what would come next. He watched her turn to a colleague standing with arms folded some way behind her. She motioned him to approach. An exchange of whispered comments, followed by a quick glance towards Chaise. The colleague stepped away and pulled out his mobile.

Chaise stood and waited, his breathing shallow and controlled. This was what he’d expected, but it irked him nevertheless.

After a short while, two more uniformed men arrived. These were a different species: big, serious looking, with automatic rifles strapped across their chests. Another brief exchange and they came up to him, one on either side. “Can you come with us, sir?”

Stupid question. Chaise shrugged, accepting there was little gain in taking the men apart. He nodded to the customs clerk and went wherever the men with guns wanted to take him.

He didn’t know how long he sat in the tiny, clinically-clean room in which they’d deposited him. Before leaving, they’d taken his watch, trouser belt, wallet and passport. He wore slip-on shoes, otherwise, he felt sure they would have taken the laces from them as well. Now, alone, he sat and waited. Lacking a window, the room felt claustrophobic, with nothing but a small table and the strip light for company. In the corner, high up, a security camera. A little green light blinked underneath the lens. Did that mean it was operating, or not? Chaise didn’t really care. He closed his eyes and slept.

When the door flew open, he woke with a start, turned around. Two men came in, one of them moving behind the opposite side of the desk. He sat down, dropped a manila file on the top and leaned forward on his knuckles. He didn’t look happy. “My name is Commander Mellor,” he said.

This revelation failed to impress Chaise. He merely gave Mellor a blank stare.

The Commander scowled, somewhat put out by Chaise’s lack of reaction. “I have a message,” he said. “From London.”

“Where are my things?”

Mellor blinked. “What?”

“My things. My passport, my watch. Why did you take my watch?”

Mellor shook his head. “Didn’t you hear what I said? I have a message for you, from Control.”

A heavy silence descended. Chaise looked from Mellor to the other man and back again. “And?”

“You’re a surly sod,” said the man positioned against the wall. Chaise gauged the distance and knew he could be at his throat before anyone could react fast enough to stop him. He noticed the man had a g*n in a hip holster, and he filed it for later. He might need it.

“Don’t waste your breath, Simms,” said Mellor, his eyes narrow. “Our Mr Chaise doesn’t like authority, do you, Mr Chaise?”

“Why don’t you just tell me what the message is, then give me back my things.”

“We keep the passport.”

“Like f**k you do.”

“Listen, Chaise, you’re here at the behest of Her Majesty’s Government. You don’t make the rules, Chaise – we do.”

“So tell me what the rules are.”

“We have a flat for you. Simms here will take you, help you settle in. Someone will be in touch. Until such time, you stay quiet, keep your nose clean. You crossed the line over in sunny Spain, now it’s time for you to toe it.”

“Jesus, where the hell did they find you?”

“I told you, Chaise, I’m a commander in the Royal Navy. You’d do best to remember that.”

“And you’d do best to remember that I am also a commander ... at least I was, last time I checked.”

“London wants you to stay at the flat, keep low. They will want to talk to you about a few things. In particular, why you killed Embleton.”

“He was about to r**e my girlfriend.”

“Well, that’s as maybe, but London will need to get it all straight, with no misunderstandings on either side. Until then you do as you’re told.”

“I need to find her. Linny. My girlfriend. She left. That’s the only reason I’m here, not to answer questions or kiss the arse of anyone from Control.” He stood up. “Now, if you’ll give me my passport, I’ll be on my way.”

“Sit down, Chaise,” said Simms, sounding bored. “You heard what the Commander said; you’re coming with me to your new flat.”

“No,” said Chaise and looked deep into Mellor’s eyes. “Tell London that I’ll be in touch, when I’m ready, not before.”

Mellor straightened and tapped his finger on the cover of the manila file. “It says in here you can be difficult.”

“Does it really? Where’s my passport?”

Mellor reached inside his jacket. Chaise spotted the g*n.

The passport fell to the desktop. “I’ll do a deal,” said Mellor. “You can keep the passport, if you go to the flat.”

“I’m going up to Liverpool,” Ryan said quietly. “To find Linny.”

“London won’t allow that.”

“London can kiss my arse.”

Simms moved, reached for the g*n at his hip. He probably thought it would intimidate Chaise, cause him to rethink his approach.

The elbow hit Simms under the chin, snapping his head back, stunning him. In one easy movement, Chaise twisted behind him, locked Simms’s arm, wrenched the g*n free, and pointed it directly at Mellor, who sat and gaped, everything happening too fast for him to react.

“Now,” said Chaise, applying more pressure on Simms’s wrist. The man squealed, Mellor closed his eyes and sighed. “I want you to put all my things on the table then take off your shoes and trousers whilst Mr Simms and I go for a little drive.”

“You’re being b****y stupid, Chaise.”

“It’s in my nature. So is killing people who don’t do what I ask.”

It took only a few moments for Mellor to comply. With his few belongings secured, Chaise left the airport with Simms. In one hand he held his suitcase and Mellor’s bundled up clothes, in the other the trim Walther automatic relieved from Simms. Simms himself didn’t appear too happy and spent most of the stroll across the car park rubbing his swollen wrist.

When they reached the car, Simms handed over the keys and Chaise hit him very hard in the solar plexus. The man folded and fell to his knees, groaning loudly. Chaise pushed him aside, opened the car door, threw his bag in the rear seat and slid in behind the wheel.

On the way out, he saw Simms in the rear-view mirror, still down on his knees, taking time to recover. For a moment, Chaise thought that perhaps he should have killed him. The man would almost certainly come looking for him. But it had been a bad start to the day. Chaise didn’t really want it to become so much worse.