Rogue Page 4

  Herron said goodbye and hung up the phone. More rain hit the window with a whip-like sound, accompanied by howling gusts of wind. London’s streets were darkening by the minute, a black pall hung over the city and it was barely 10 a.m. Herron returned to the window, looking down on men and women rushing along under their black umbrellas, on black cabs sluicing their way between red traffic lights, on tourists smiling for photographs in the rain, and on gloomy, grim office buildings from here to Westminster.

  His secretary buzzed again. “Sir, I have the Prime Minister for you.”

  Herron sighed ever more deeply. He’d already jinxed it by saying it was going to be a long day. Now, he had the petty trials, glitches and complications of the daily running of MI6 to deal with before tonight, when he would truly come alive.

  “Give me thirty seconds,” he said, and poured himself a stiff one.

  *

  The day didn’t get any better. Herron left the offices of MI6 a little after seven p.m. and told his driver to take him to a private member’s club just off Pall Mall. The journey was slow and wet, the rain still hammering down. Herron stared out of the blacked-out car’s rear window, watching the detritus of humanity splash by. He saw them that way because he knew his calling was higher.

  The car pulled up outside a discreet door. Herron stepped out into the dark, pulled his thick black coat around his neck and rang the buzzer. A moment later he was admitted. He divested himself of the outer garment and took a one-man lift to the second floor waiting area where he checked the leather wing back chairs for his colleagues.

  None were there. Good, they must already be inside.

  He walked on, comfortably clad in a bespoke suit and wearing his customary Oxfords. This world was his; a hushed, private, secretive building where anything from gossip to world-changing deals were exchanged. He walked past tiny alcoves, rooms and recesses, without a word, seeing ministers and bankers and money men huddled together. He stopped at a far door, entered a code, and walked through into another building, this one at the back of the private club. Another code and another door and then he was inside a small, circular and windowless room. It had a high ceiling and three leather chairs which faced each other in the centre.

  Two were occupied.

  “Vincent,” he said. “Penn.”

  They nodded. Herron poured himself a whiskey, then turned and unbuttoned his bespoke jacket, placing it carefully on a hangar. Loosening his tie, he took the room’s empty chair and sank into it. He lifted the tumbler in salute.

  “To the Hellfire Club.”

  Vincent and Penn echoed his statement. The Three Old Men took a few moments to savour the single malt before getting down to business.

  “To recap,” Vincent started. “Nathan’s already terminated the east coast’s premier treasurer. The five families are in uproar. The mafia,” he smiled, “are scared and full of questions. Their chief treasurer was murdered, and they don’t have a clear successor.”

  “They should be scared,” Herron said. “It’s not every day the Hellfire Club issues a Tier One kill order. How are the other assassins faring?”

  “Closing in,” Vincent said. “Tom Freeman is near Miami and will then handle Tijuana. Nathan is heading to Naples and Vienna. Blake Mclean should have Amsterdam handled tonight and then Los Angeles a few days later.”

  Herron nodded and crossed his legs, relaxing for the first time that day. He was secure here. The room was continually swept for bugs; they couldn’t be overheard; it was as safe as any place in London. The Hellfire Club deserved and required no less. This wasn’t a club you joined, Herron was often heard saying. It was by strict invitation only.

  “And you’re confident there’s no blowback to Six?”

  “MI6 and five are totally clear. This is a Hellfire Club mission. Not MI6 and not one of our own. We’re using paid men. Men who know the goals and that they’re working for the Club. Not the ignorant MI6 agents we usually employ for raids and such.”

  “And are the assets ready?”

  “All operating at their peak… sir.”

  Herron caught the hesitation. “What is it?”

  Vincent would never avoid a direct question. “We expected Tom Freeman to be set up in Miami by now but he’s still two hundred miles away.”

  “Where?”

  “Cocoa Beach.”

  “Could be tradecraft,” Penn said. “We did insist that they leave no trail.”

  Herron had never heard of the place but wasn’t about to admit it. “Well, light a fire under his ass. Send a local team to get him moving.”

  Vincent nodded.

  “Oh,” Herron said. “And, as a precaution, prep a fourth assassin. Get him up to speed on Tom Freeman’s targets.”

  “You think it will come to that?” Vincent asked.

  “No, but I’d rather be prepared.”

  “I’ll send the team right away,” Vincent walked over to a corner to make a call.

  “Other business?” By which Herron meant all business centred around their personal machinations inside the club. The missions that would make them rich.

  “The conflict in Yemen is proving fruitful,” Penn said reflectively. “Despite the incessant tide of refugees hampering our war efforts. We’ve taken advantage of the unrest in Myanmar and our allies in the Congo are doing everything they can to hamper peace talks. The account forecast is good.”

  Herron grinned. This was the kind of talk he liked. “To what?”

  “This year? Our account balances might double. It’s small fry compared to what the Hellfire Club are doing but it puts us personally in positions of power. It doesn’t matter how the Club change the world; it will still cater to those with money and power.”

  “Excellent,” Herron slapped his knee and rocked back, thinking of the mega-expensive phone he’d just bought and the mortgage on a new flat. “Excellent. Have we had to use the SAS again?”

  “No, just that once so far. We’re staying low risk. Six has enough foreign operatives of its own to utilise. And they all follow our orders without question.”

  “Well, keep greasing the wheels,” Herron said. “And if they refuse to be greased, break them.”

  His two partners raised their glasses.

  “Back to it,” Herron tapped the rim of his glass as he thought. “Our assassins’ six days are now counting down. Are the archangels ready?”

  “The archangels” was the codename they’d given their three undercover treasurers.

  “Primed and eager for it.” Penn said. “Once the seven treasurers have been killed and the organisations are in turmoil, we can insert the archangels with ease.”

  Herron nodded along to the words. If only every operation they undertook flowed this easily. Of course, it wasn’t just good fortune. They were at the apex of their plan here, a plan years’ in the making.

  “If it works,” he mused. “If this all goes to plan and we manage to insert the archangels, do you know what we have here?”

  Both Penn and Vincent inclined their heads, asking him to continue.

  “A formula. A broad strategy that we can then apply to absolutely anything,” he paused. “Or sell to the highest bidder.”

  Polite laughter followed, and then the three men sat back, relaxing in their luxurious chairs, allowing the room’s heat and quiet ambiance to steal over them. They were content in their empire, several times removed from the raw, essential nitty-gritty of it all, far above the crime-ridden, poisonous streets where all their degenerate plans were executed by those who were paid to ask no questions.

  Here, they could let the whiskey fumes take them as they considered what else they might be able to achieve by bringing new blights to the world.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Carrie spent a rough, sleepless night in the flat, rising before dawn to set straight any damage that might have been done the night before. Surprisingly, there was very little, but then the fight with Tom had been brief and confined to the area near the door. N
ot surprisingly, none of her neighbours had come around to check on her. She doubted they’d know her if they passed her in the hallway. It suited Carrie, of course, but it was also dispiriting. There was a time not so long ago when she’d laid her life on the line every day to protect civilians just like them.

  Were their lives so shallow?

  Did they care only about themselves?

  Well, certainly not all of them. Them, she thought. You see? You cannot integrate. You’ll always be . . . Rogue.

  Why can’t I integrate?

  The incident in the park showed it clearly, she thought. She was ready to take that guy’s life and all he was doing was asking her out on a date. It showed clearly that she’d both switched off and remained lethal – he’d taken her by surprise, but she’d reacted with speed and violence.

  It will take time. This is what you want. To be left alone. To be allowed to live.

  But there’s so much unfinished in my past. So many loose ends…

  She exercised, showered, dressed and left early for work. She took a long walk and tried to clear her mind. Tom’s appearance had loosened many of the concerns she kept locked away inside her head. They were rolling around, crashing into each other and making her woolly-headed, unclear about what she should do next. Too many unclear tangents of thought made any decision impossible.

  But the day was warming up nicely. The skies were blue, the breeze warm and the sound of the sea crashing onto the beach was hypnotic. At this time, before the crowds came, Cocoa Beach was one of the nicest and most restful places she’d ever visited.

  She started work, wary at first, watching everything so closely her boss asked if she’d had too much coffee already. She knew she hadn’t had nearly enough and brewed herself a large pot. Customers came and went, ordering bacon and pancakes and hash browns; tourists and locals alike. A couple of young lads who thought they were players commented on her tight, black jeans and the ‘danger’ belt buckle and speculated as to how they’d like to tame her. Carrie leaned over so that the bigger boy couldn’t be seen, spilled hot coffee on his exposed arm and pinned it down, despite his struggles, until the liquid went tepid. They didn’t bother her again. The lunchtime crowd grew, the café resounded with conversation and laughter, and then slowly returned to normal as early afternoon became three pm.

  That was when she saw him. Somehow, he’d sneaked in while she was occupied in the kitchen. She called out her break, threw her apron in the laundry, and sidled into a booth, sitting opposite him.

  “What the hell are you doing here? I told you to leave.” She leaned forward, hissing angrily.

  “I can’t leave until you hear me out.”

  “This is my work. You can’t come here.”

  “People need help. Rogue. I-”

  “People always need help,” she sat back, eyes hard. “And call me that one more time – I dare you.”

  Tom threw her that special smile of his, the one that got his entire face involved. Some people smiled with their eyes, some with their mouths, but when Tom Freeman wanted something he gave the most engaging smile she’d ever seen.

  “Are you gonna fight me?” he asked. “Here?”

  She turned away, trying to ignore him. She stared out the window. She’d never forgotten the times they were together. The missions where they fought beside each other and the aftermath where they grappled in an entirely different way.

  “I’m asking you to respect my decision,” she said, still looking out at the passing traffic. “Yes, there are many things I left undone but this past two years have been good for me. I’m building something.”

  “I don’t have long. I have a job in Miami tonight. Meet me. One more time. Meet me when your shift’s done.”

  “I won’t go back,” she said in a faraway voice, eyes now misted with memories. “Not to Six. Too many operatives and friends disappearing after covert missions. There was too much bad, Tom. Do you understand? So much bad that it could never be balanced by any amount of good. And the rumours – remember them? You didn’t believe them. Rumours of the three old megalomaniacs who ran Six with their own agenda and worked for the Hellfire Club? Nobody knew who they were. It was all rumours I heard as far back as army training. Most of us thought it was bullshit at first, even a myth. Me included, until I saw the treachery with my own eyes. Treachery at the expense of innocents.”

  Tom nodded. “It’s one of the reasons I’m here.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I know the rumours were true. I saw, and I heard and then I ran. I asked you to come, but you chose them. So . . . as I said, I’m not going back.”

  “I’m not asking you to,” Tom said, finally with gravel in his voice. “I’m asking for your help. That never used to be an issue for you.”

  Carrie closed her eyes. “That’s not fair.”

  “I don’t fight fair. I’m MI6, remember?”

  She wanted to leave the table. She didn’t want his companionship or loyalty. She couldn’t bring herself to trust anyone else.

  “Why won’t you leave me alone?”

  “Because you need me,” he said. “And I need you.”

  “I’m happy-”

  “You’re not happy. Look at this place. It’s nine months of Ma and Pa tourist and three of a thousand rampant teenagers. It’s nice. It’s heaven for vacationers and civilians. But for Rogue, it’s a bloody prison.”

  “Prison?” she couldn’t make the connection.

  “You’re already blocking it out. I guess you have to. But, Rogue, you’re a bloody good soldier. You always will be. You have a calling – to fight for those who can’t. It’s why you joined up in the first place. At heart, you want to fight for your country and for those good people who make the world better. That’s you.”

  “Again, I’m not Rogue anymore.”

  Even speaking the old ID made her wince but then, as if fate decided to punish her for the slip up, a dark figure entered her field of vision. It wasn’t blatant; it was a subtle shadow, but Rogue’s fieldcraft had always been second to none.

  A man in a padded leather jacket and with thick facial hair was in the kitchen. She watched him without making it too obvious.

  “My two-o-clock,” she said softly. “Stranger in the back. And I’m pretty sure his jacket isn’t supposed to bulge like that.”

  “What?” Tom’s face fell. “Impossible. You think they made you?”

  Carrie barely reigned in her anger. “Me? You’ve blown my fucking cover by coming here. They followed you.”

  “No way. I know how to spot a bloody tail. I’m a-”

  But they didn’t have time. She slipped out of the booth. If it was an MI6 squad, she didn’t want a pitch battle breaking out inside the café. The waitresses, chefs and bosses who worked here might not be good friends, but they had accepted and helped her. And they all had families.

  Carrie took eight seconds to scan the café and the sidewalk. There were two men across the road, wearing jackets and sunglasses and staring at her as she moved. There was a man by the front door.

  Tom was at her side.

  “I count four including the guy in the kitchen,” she said. “That means at least six, maybe more. Keep this low-key, Tom. I don’t want innocent casualties.”

  A sad thought struck her. She’d slotted so quickly and easily back into active status. The excitement in her chest should be upsetting, but it actually made her feel more alive than she’d felt in two years.

  The bearded man in the kitchen waited behind a tall, steel fridge. She saw Jeff, her boss, approaching him, looking mega pissed.

  “Hey!” she turned the corner, headed Jeff off and placed a hand on the stranger’s chest. “Old boyfriend. We can talk in the back – yes?”

  “Who the hell are you?” he asked.

  It confirmed what she already knew. These men were here for Tom, not her. The horse’s ass, with his do-good attitude, had led them here, busting her cover. Tom appeared at her shoulder. The man reached for something under
his jacket, but Carrie pushed him back toward the rear exit.

  “Out there,” she said simply. “Not here.”

  Jeff had already turned away, waving his hands in exasperation but not looking surprised at her ‘old boyfriend’ statement. Probably happened a lot. She allowed the man to slip out of the back exit, following closely.

  Outside, he tapped his ear. “Back alley. Two targets.”

  Carrie showed little mercy. She kicked him hard between the legs before he could reach for a weapon, then brought a knee up into his plummeting face. She heard the nose break, saw blood spurt onto the ground. He punched out as he fell to his knees, but she evaded and came back in, smashing a fist into his right ear and an elbow onto the exposed nape of his neck.

  He went down, groaning. Tom produced a small Glock from the waistband of his jeans, aimed it at the man’s head.

  “Not here,” Carrie said. “You don’t even know what they want.”

  Reluctantly, Tom put the gun away. She set off at a fast pace along the alley toward the main town, knowing there would be more hiding places there than along the beach. Tom watched her back.

  “What do they want?” he repeated her words. “Well, they don’t want to talk. I think they’re MI6, or Hellfire Club. Like I said, I’m not where I’m supposed to be.”

  “They tracked you.”

  He stayed quiet, clearly embarrassed about it. After a few more feet he said, “Do you have a plan?”

  “They don’t know me, which is good. I’ll go back to my flat, grab my ‘go-bag’, and then disappear. Again. This time though, I’ll make sure you can’t find me.”

  The words were spoken through gritted teeth. From behind they heard a shout. She glanced back to see two men appear at the far end of the alley and then start running, waving their guns.

  “Shit, they’re bloody amateurs,” Tom observed. “Not Six.”

  “So they’re locals, working for the Three Old Men. Keep up.”

  She started to sprint. The alley was narrow, strewn with rubbish. The rear doors of, mostly, eating establishments backed onto it, so they were forced to skirt overflowing garbage bins and, once, vault a broken sink that had clearly been ripped out and dumped. High walls to both sides suppressed the light but a narrow ribbon of blue remained overhead. Carrie came to a four-way junction and slowed.