Rogue Wolves

Chapter One

Chapter One

Palais de la Méditerranée Casino, Nice – March 1973

The casino at 3 a.m. was a subdued bustle of activity, tension and devil-may-care opportunity for the rich and powerful of Nice. It was half empty, the frivolous players having long ago retired to their hotels, suites and villas and only the most steadfast gamblers still remained.

It was a world that Jack 'Gorilla' Grant had skirted around the edges of many times in his life, but had never belonged to and probably never would. In truth, he had no desire to, either. To him, being here dressed in dinner jacket and black tie in the early hours of the morning was just a job, nothing more. It was certainly not a place he would want to frequent by choice. In many ways, he regarded himself as something of an inverted snob.

And what a job it was! He sipped at his glass of heavily watered down Black Label and turned his attention to the centre roulette table, one of six ornate tables that made up the main room. There was the usual assortment of old gamblers and losers, once-rich aristocrats now hoping to reclaim their former fortunes by luck and chance. But it was the man at the head of the centre table that drew the eye.

He was of Hungarian descent, corpulent and middle-aged. His tie had been loosened and, even at this distance, it was obvious that he was sweating beneath the fine cut of his expensive suit. And while his face smiled openly, his eyes had the dead look of a midnight torturer.

Scattered about at various points in the vicinity were the Hungarian's bodyguard team. They did nothing to blend in and, in Gorilla's not so humble opinion, a blind man could have spotted them a mile away. Gorilla thought the protection team were flagging. He knew that they had been on the go for several days now on their entertainment jaunt to the South of France. For them, it had been a whirlwind of excursions, lunch dates followed by hours of hanging around the hotel of the 'Principal', and then off out again for dinner at one of the most exclusive restaurants in Nice, before finally spending the last three nights at the casino. Add in the odd French hooker and the Hungarian kept his security detail on pretty much a full-time itinerary.

Up until recently, the Hungarian had been a colonel in his country's security apparatus, but a recent defection to the French Secret Service, along with a host of intelligence 'product' that he had brought with him, had turned him into the SDECE's new best friend.

Gorilla had been assigned this job several days early, presumably after the Hungarian had spent weeks locked away with his case officers, being de-briefed somewhere. This was the Hungarian's treat for being a good boy. Grant wasn't part of the 'official' protection team. The Hungarian's bodyguards had been supplied by the DST, the French internal Security Service. Gorilla thought that they looked sloppy and off their game, too busy chatting, preening themselves and being distracted by every woman that walked across the casino floor. Well, they were French after all.

Gorilla was there as the eyes and ears of the French Secret Service, the SDECE. They needed a good man on point, able to keep an eye out should things get a bit violent and he was the contract man that people came to when things got unpleasant. He was also deniable if anything went wrong.

The bodyguards and the Hungarian didn't even know of his existence. He was doing what he was good at, keeping out of sight, staying hidden and watching the scene with his gunman's eyes. In the trade, Gorilla's role was known as protective surveillance. If anything went down, the bodyguards would be there to whisk their VIP away to safety and protect him – or take a bullet for him.

Gorilla, on the other hand, was there to run interference and do the killing of the assassin, quietly and unofficially, then disappear into the shadows once more. Beneath his jacket he had an official SDECE identification card in a false name and a 9mm Heckler & Koch P9 semi-automatic pistol.

He had a perfect vantage point on the upper balcony, with a clear view of the gaming tables and the patrons of the casino. He could see the winners, the losers, the grifters and the hookers, all keen to latch onto the gentleman who had just had a big win. From a professional point of view, it was unparalleled. He had his back to the wall, perfect vision on the access and entry points, and if, God forbid, he should have to draw and fire, he had a perfect sniper point to take anyone down.

But for now, everything looked normal. The gamblers were gambling, the bodyguards were pretty much switched off and the Principal looked happy, especially now that his 'date' for the evening, a tall, lithe blonde woman in her thirties, was snaking her arms around his waist in a seductive way.

Gorilla took one more sip of his drink. It was good, but it would be the only one he would have tonight. Alcohol slowed you down, made your reactions foggy and, in Gorilla's line of work, seconds counted. Gorilla's mantra had always been that seconds could be the difference between a bullet in your head, or in the enemy's head.

He glanced down as the cheer from the main table filled the subdued atmosphere of the room. Evidently the Hungarian had just won big! He was clapping his hands together like a fat child about to be let loose on a cake. The blonde hooker had slithered her way around to his front and was kissing him while his hands were running over her a*s.

He took a last sip at his drink and reflected on his working career. Over the past few years, things had gone well for Jack 'Gorilla' Grant. He had been recruited by the French several years earlier, after a series of prolonged meetings over many months, to work for them as a contract agent. He wasn't a full-time staffer, there was no way that the SDECE hierarchy would allow that, but for an experienced field agent and Redactor like Gorilla Grant, there were always rules that could be bent, if not broken, to ensure that he was on board.

His reputation as an expert small arms specialist had preceded him and the French were always involved in some kind of skulduggery where an experienced assassin was needed. So far, it had been an interesting three years for him. He had an apartment in Paris, the pay was good and the 'jobs' were interesting, to say the least.

He returned to his chore of scanning the crowd once more and observing his VIP for the night. It was then that it happened. And later, when his senses had returned to him and he was able to analyse the events clearly, he remembered that it was when the Hungarian threw his cards down on the gaming table that the event happened.

Because, at that exact moment, the explosives beneath the gaming tables in the casino all detonated at the same time. There was the deafening crump of the explosion, then the numerous blast waves, a brief smell of airborne chemicals from the plastique… and then the screaming started.

Up on the balcony, the blast had shattered the cocktail bar and had thrown Gorilla backwards, knocking a nearby table over onto him. But even in the fugue from the blast, he was still professional enough to roll with the shockwave and have his weapon drawn and up, looking for targets.

He rolled onto the flat of his stomach, the upturned table offering cover and concealment for now. He flicked off the safety and kept his finger off the trigger until he saw a possible target. His ears were ringing still and the smell of smoke and burning flesh was nauseating. He could just make out the brutalised remains of the cocktail waiter and barman who had served him only moments before.

Ignoring the scene of horror mere feet away, he forced himself to snake forward on his belly to peer down at the charnel house that lay beneath him. It was a maelstrom of bodies and blood. The explosives, while not large, had done enough damage in a small space to decimate the majority of the patrons of the casino. A woman in a blue cocktail dress had lost most of her lower limbs and was screaming, a tall black man was spread-eagled across a chair, clearly dead, his face peppered with metal. Elsewhere, bodies were strewn at unnatural and ugly angles.

Then, at the far end of the room, the main doors to the gaming room slowly opened, causing the smoke to billow upwards in the draught. It was a dramatic entrance, almost biblical in its grandeur, thought Gorilla. He watched as three killers, armed with stubby-looking machine-pistols, moved in formation, spreading out across what was left of the large gaming room. Gorilla noted with a professional eye that they looked alert and precise. One man was guarding the exit door, ready to move or kill, while the others scattered around the room, looking for any survivors, fingers off their triggers but barrels pointed and ready.

Then, through the black smoke of the fire, another figure emerged. One that was tall, slender and masculine and, like his cohorts, dressed in an expensive business suit. His face was covered in a black balaclava which completely hid his identity and in his hand he held a Russian-made Tokarev pistol.

He gave a murmured order to his tame gunmen and they set about moving among the dying and the wounded – executing them one by one. Single bangs reverberated around the room, followed by screams, followed by more shots.

The tall figure carefully made his way through the abattoir of bodies until he reached what was left of the centre gaming table. He reached down with one leather-gloved hand and lifted back a quarter of the wooden frame. Beneath it, disfigured but still very much alive, was the body of the Hungarian. The man was panting deeply; his body was hyperventilating and his clothes were covered in the blood and fleshy remains of his blonde escort. The hooker had taken the brunt of the blast.

The tall figure crouched down and carefully, almost lovingly, wiped away with a gloved finger a smear of blood that had coagulated in the Hungarian's eye.

“I… I told them nothing. I swear…” said the Hungarian, through blood-encrusted lips.

The assassin gazed down at the burnt and broken man and said clearly, “Colonel, you did well to survive our little booby-traps. However, it is of no consequence. To betray me is to court death… and death has found you.”

There was a moment of understanding on the Hungarian's face. The m******e in the casino had been carried out purely in order to get near to him and kill him. The assassin took a small, match-box-sized device from his jacket pocket and carefully placed it onto the Hungarian's forehead. He then squeezed the side of the box to activate the device and stood well back. The amount of explosives inside the box was small, minimal; it wouldn't even have blasted open a lock on a door.

But against a human head it was devastating. One moment the Hungarian was staring back at his killer in horror, the next, there was a pop and the Hungarian's head had blown apart, leaving a b****y pulp from the neck up.

Game on, thought Gorilla, as he raised his weapon, took a bead on the nearest gunman below him and fired, taking him out with a single, clean head shot. The killer dropped. Gorilla quickly turned his aim to the man nearest to the doors. The H&K barked three more times as he put rounds into the killer's chest.

The final gunman was in position behind a marble pillar, but, with the execution of his team members, he had quickly sprung into action, darting for cover. It was only the tall assassin who remained stock still. He simply raised his weapon and pointed it in the direction of where the shots from the balcony had been fired from. He held his fire as, from that position, he wouldn't have been able to see the person shooting down on him anyway. Instead, he simply held the weapon in place, finger ready on the trigger in case a target presented itself.

He looks like he doesn't care if he could be killed or not. That's some control, reflected Gorilla. Seconds later, he heard the heavy pounding of footsteps on the staircase that led to the upper balcony.

Gorilla knew what was coming. He was ready. He simply rolled onto his back, braced his feet against the floor, knees bent, and punched out the H&K two-handed along the length of his body, between the 'V' made by his thighs. His trigger finger was ready.

A figure wearing sunglasses and business suit emerged at speed towards the top of the staircase. Gorilla just had enough time to make out the shape of an unidentified machine-pistol before he fired, taking out the front of the gunman's cranium. The killer slithered to the floor and Gorilla heard the sickening thuds of his body rolling slowly back down the staircase.

With the last gunman down, Gorilla rolled onto his stomach, then nimbly jerked his body up so that he was kneeling, protected behind the stone balustrade. He risked a glance and just in time caught the back of the tall assassin moving out through the service exit. As an afterthought, the man discarded the balaclava over his shoulder and went on his way, out into the night.

Gorilla Grant was up and running, hitting the staircase, taking the steps three at a time, one hand guiding him on the handrail and one hand holding the H&K out front as a precaution. He hit the lower floor running, dodging in and out of the bodies and heading for the same service exit that the assassin had used. He shoulder-barged the exterior door open, his weapon up and searching for targets.

The service exit led out into a side street at the rear of the Casino. He led with his pistol up and ready, scanning the dark street ahead of him. Nothing. Gorilla moved quickly, expertly, knowing that time was of the essence here. He searched the corners of the adjacent doorways, but again, nothing.

He had a simple choice – left or right? The right led into a warren of side streets that made up the bulk of the buildings in the centre of Nice. The left led to the seafront and the beach. His reasoning told him that it should be to the right. After all, the assassin could get lost in the mazelike streets relatively easily, especially in the dark. But… there was something nagging at him. Call it a gut instinct, and Gorilla Grant liked gut instincts; they had kept him alive on many occasions.

He paused for a second, slowed his breathing and listened calmly. Nothing… nothing…. nothing… and then there it was – footsteps moving at speed. In the distance for sure, faint, but heading off to his left, to the beach, to an escape route.

His instincts took over immediately. He removed the old magazine from the H&K and slammed in a full one. A quick check to ensure that the weapon had a round in the chamber and he was off, running as fast as he could, determined to catch his quarry.

The speedboat that was waiting for the assassin was a Phantom Venom 4-seater. It was small and it was fast and Gorilla knew that if the tall assassin reached his escape vessel, he would be gone within seconds.

Gorilla had made it to the end of the dark side street and he burst onto the brightly lit main seafront. The first thing that he was aware of was the small number of passers-by coming to look at the smoke drifting up from the casino windows and, in the distance, the blare of sirens. The second thing was the dead DST bodyguards strewn over the official vehicles. Then his eyes sought out his target, the tall assassin. The man, his features still hidden to Gorilla, was walking calmly and purposefully down onto the beach and towards the waiting speedboat that was bobbing in the surf.

No f*****g way, sunshine, thought Gorilla. You may think you have control of this, but I'm here to spoil your day.

Gorilla sprinted across the road, ignoring the late-night revellers who gawped at the sight of an armed man running at night, and jumped down onto the sand no more than twenty feet away from the assassin. Gorilla had the H&K P9 up and aimed. He had the back of the unknown assassin in his sights. He was lined up and ready when suddenly, the assassin did the strangest thing. It was almost as if he knew that Gorilla was there – almost as if he was expecting him. The assassin turned and threw what Gorilla thought was a grenade.

Gorilla instinctively flinched and dived off to the side, landing hard on the sand, trying to avoid the inevitable shrapnel from the explosion. But this was no grenade that could kill and m**m. At the last minute, Gorilla was aware of a small black object, the size of a soup can, landing mere feet away from him. Then instantly, there was a loud bang and a flash of blinding white light and, for the second time that night, Gorilla Grant's hearing and senses were temporarily knocked out. It was a stun grenade; non-lethal but effective, designed to disorientate, nothing more.

Seconds later, the tall figure was standing over him, a silhouette against the white of the moon. The voice, when it spoke, was surprisingly deep, cultured and accented, like that of a European gentleman addressing an underling. Its tone was kind but authoritative.

“I understand that you are the new me?” said the assassin.

Gorilla, his hearing starting to return but still fading in and out, managed to make out the words, “the new me”. What did that mean? He flicked his head around and saw his H&K P9 lying on the sand next to him. If he was fast, he could reach it. He felt sure he could. He could end this now!

“I don't take too kindly to people trying to take my crown. It has been earned over many years and it is not for you to take, Gorilla Grant,” said the assassin. Gorilla inched his hand along in the sand… inches away from the pistol… within reach, really… but his eyes never left the outline of the tall man standing above him.

“Young upstarts must be taught a lesson. So here, let me be your teacher for tonight.”

The shot was fast and literally came out of nowhere. Gorilla had been aware of the flicking of the elbows, a single flash as the g*n barked, and then the pain in his hand. The pain was searing and he lost his mind and howled – whether in fury or agony, even he did not know. His hand! The bastard had put a 9mm sized hole in the back of his hand! Gorilla knew instantly what that meant. Small arms specialists like him with mangled hands were done, over, retired. Dead.

Through tear-filled eyes, he glared at the assassin above him. “Come on, you bastard, just finish it. You've taken my hand so finish me off for good. Bullet to the head. Just get on with it,” said Gorilla, snarling.

The assassin stared for a moment longer, as if unsure what to do, then lowered the g*n and slipped it beneath his jacket. He remained staring down at his prey, considering the bloodstained man before him. The moment of calm was broken by the inevitable blare of police and ambulance sirens in the streets above, heading to the c*****e at the casino. The assassin picked up the discarded H&K P9 and threw it wildly behind him, out into the surf.

“Try to follow me and you die, Grant. You have my word on that,” he warned.

Then slowly, calmly, he began to walk out into the surf, the water lapping around his waist as he reached the boat. A second figure rose and held out a hand, hoisting the assassin over the side and into the body of the vessel. There was a gunning of the engines as it started to move away from the shore. The figure of the assassin stood proud, unafraid and in silhouette against the dark moonlit night.

Why didn't he kill me? wondered Gorilla. He had no answers. All he had was agonising pain and the realisation that he had been bested. He could do no more than watch as the speedboat began to gather pace and within seconds, it had disappeared into the night.