All Or Nothing

By Derek Hammond

Dominick Lafarge
International arms dealer, with a deadly agenda and a secret that could compromise the British Government.

Paul Reilly
Ex-Royal Marine, dangerous and resourceful, the man hired by the Government to stop him at all cost.

With a corrupt police inspector, a ruthless casino owner, and a maniacal killer, Reilly has his work cut out for him. But with deceit and betrayal running rife, who can he trust?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Derek Hammond
• Release date: Oct 27, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466092396

Book preview

PROLOGUE

IRAQ

1

The sun blazed down on the scorching desert. Two men stood outside a tent, AK-47s slung over their shoulders. A black robed figure shuffled towards them, head bowed, a burka covering the face. The hands held a silver tray, with a plate shrouded with a white cloth and a carafe of water.

The two men stepped aside, and one of them held back the tent flap. The figure stepped inside, and the flap closed.

Achmed Abdullah sat on the floor with his legs crossed. A slimy beard crawled down his chin and his thin lips curled back showing a mouthful of broken teeth. In front of him, lay a suitcase filled with money.

He glanced up at the figure with the tray, and licked his lips greedily. He closed the lid, turned, and pushed the suitcase aside. When he turned back, the tray lay at his feet. He reached out, picked up a knife and fork, and removed the white cloth from the plate.

He reeled back, his face contorted in revulsion, while on the plate a dead rat stared back at him. As he opened his mouth to scream, a meat clever slammed in to his face. Achmed fell backwards, blood gushing from the wound.

The sun cast shadows of the two men standing outside, and their outlines were clearly visible through the fabric of the tent. In one swift movement, a sharp blade stabbed through the cloth penetrating the neck of the man on the left. The other man received a double-edged blade through his left ear.

The tent flap opened, and the figure walked out, with the suitcase in hand.

The two men lay crumpled on the ground, blood seeping into the sand.

A woman ran towards the tent, her arms brandishing an automatic weapon.

‘Achmed... Achmed …’ she screamed.

From beneath the black robe, an Uzi appeared, and bullets ripped through the woman’s body cutting her down.

The killer's pace quickened, turned left behind a sand dune, and flung the suitcase on to the back seat of a Toyota Land Cruiser, then climbed in behind the wheel.

Ten metres beyond the Land Cruiser, a fat man stood in a ditch relieving himself. He heard the gunshots, then the roar of the Toyota’s engine. He tucked himself back in to his pants, turned, then hurried towards the road, his AK-47 at the ready.

He climbed the verge, stepped on to the road, and the Land Cruiser ran him down. He squealed, as the tyres crushed his bones.

A foot depressed the clutch pedal, the gearstick crunched to third. The Land Cruiser swerved left, leaving a cloud of dust in its wake. A hand removed the burka and threw it aside, revealing an unshaven face. With one hand on the steering wheel, the other hand pulled out a mobile phone, and pressed the speed dial button. A moment later, a voice answered, the accent American.

‘Is that you Reilly?’ said the American.

‘Well who else who were you expecting?’

‘Just checking,’ the American chuckled. ‘You can't be too careful.’

‘I'll be at the drop off point in two minutes.’

‘I'll be waitin for ya buddy,’ said the American. The line went dead, and Paul Reilly dropped the phone on the passenger seat, changed to fourth gear, and planted his foot.

Sweat poured down Reilly’s brow. He hated the desert and the intense heat. He drew the back of his hand across his forehead, wiped away the sweat, and checked the rear view mirror, clear — for the time being at least. But he knew that wouldn't last long.

The road took on a steep incline, he changed down to second and the Land Cruiser bounced and swayed. When the road levelled out, he changed to third, and down in the valley below, he saw the Black Hawk helicopter, it's spinning rotors stirring up the sand.

Reilly brought the Land Cruiser to a stop, fifty metres behind. He grabbed the suitcase, and bolted towards the helicopter.

‘Bout time you got here,’ Chuck Kowalski yelled as Reilly heaved the suitcase in to the cabin.

Reilly looked up, and saw his own reflection in Kowalski’s Ray Ban Aviators. ‘Don’t just sit there you fat bastard,’ Reilly yelled, ‘give me a hand.’

‘Sure thing buddy,’ Kowalski reached out and dragged the suitcase towards him, and flipped the lid. ‘Well will ya’ lookey here, all this money and it’s all mine.’

‘Wishful thinking,’ Reilly yelled.

‘No, I mean it,’ hollered Kowalski, his fat lips twisting in to a snarl. He removed the sunglasses, raised a gun and pointed it at Reilly. ‘Now back away.’

Reilly stared at Kowalski, and for the first time he saw greed simmering behind his eyes. He said, ‘you’re serious?’

‘Damn right I'm serious,’ Kowalski nodded. ‘I heard from army Intel that money was changing hands, so I organised the whole operation with your Major Sorenson. Hell, I even told him you'd be the man for the job.’

The deception hit Reilly like a sledgehammer. ‘And you just sat back and waited for me to hand it over.’

Kowalski grinned, ‘that's about it buddy.’

‘If you're that greedy for money, why split it with the pilot?’

‘Simple, I need him to get out of here, you know I can't fly.’

Reilly backed away, and the helicopter lifted off the ground.

Reilly raised his right arm. He squeezed the trigger of the Beretta, his hand jerked, and a bullet hit the pilot in the back of the head.

The pilot fell forward, and panic flooded Kowalski’s face. He fired at Reilly and a bullet hit him in the left shoulder. Reilly winched, then staggered backwards and ran to the Land Cruiser. He jumped in, started the engine, and in the rear view mirror, he saw a cloud of dust, and three vehicles quickly approaching.

Kowalski pushed the pilot aside, and climbed into the cockpit. He looked at the controls, had no idea what they were for, and moved the cyclic stick forward and back, and from side to side. The helicopter hovered shakily, banked left, then right and rose thirty metres into the air.

Reilly floored the accelerator. The Land Cruiser took off as a barrage of gunfire erupted from the three advancing vehicles.

The helicopters tail boom swung 180°. The helicopter climbed a further twenty metres. Bullets ripped through the aluminium fabric, and smoke billowed from the fuselage. It drifted erratically; swaying across the land, then pitched forward and nosedived to the ground, bursting in to a ball of fire.

Amongst the twisted burning metal, American dollar bills drifted down like snowflakes into the flames.

The three vehicles pulled over, men got out and surveyed the wreckage. They didn't bother with Reilly, by now he was too far away.

2

The next seven days — under strict doctor’s orders — Reilly filled with rest and recuperation. By the end of the week, his shoulder had completely healed. The following Monday he caught the morning flight to London, and a charter flight to Devon. At 12:30 in the afternoon, he sat in Major Sorenson's dingy office and felt the cold grey walls closing in.

Outside, the sun disappeared behind the clouds casting a dismal spell over the barracks. Reilly looked out the window. A Land Rover pulled up and three men got out, Major Sorenson being the taller. The other two saluted, and Sorenson crossed the courtyard.

The office door opened and Sorenson entered. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting, I had a briefing at GHQ. There's a big flap over Kowalski and the Americans are not happy their golden boy turned out to be a common thief.’ He hung his overcoat on the coat-stand, and moved round behind his desk and sat. ‘Now then, what's this I hear about you leaving us?’

‘I've already left,’ said Reilly. ‘As of one week ago.’

Sorenson shook his head. ‘The Royal Marines will never be the same without you.’

‘They'll survive.’

Sorenson noted a hint of hostility in Reilly’s voice. He pressed on. ‘I understand you copped a bullet in the shoulder?’

Reilly nodded. ‘I got lucky. The bullet went straight through and missed the bone.’

‘Now you're a civilian, what do you plan to do?’

‘I don't know yet, take some time off to start with.’

Sorenson looked thoughtful. ‘Occasionally I get the odd job handed to me, the type of work suited to someone with your capabilities.’

‘It sounds illegal.’

‘I suppose it is,’ Sorenson conceded, ‘but it's well paid and you'll be making the world a safer place.’

Reilly exploded. ‘I've been making the world a safer place for the last seven years, and where did it get me? Three days holed up in the infirmary thanks to Kowalski, who I considered to be a friend, and a grilling from Major Davenport, who thinks I'm in collaboration with Kowalski.’

‘I understand your anger,’ said Sorenson calmly. ‘I’ve read your report, and it only confirms what the Americans are trying to cover up, Kowalski is as bent as a three pound note. As for Davenport, I wouldn't worry about him: he’s just trying to appease the Americans. But the offer’s there if you want it, and I can't see you working 9 to 5. You'd be bored stiff within a week.’

Reilly considered the proposition. He had no real plans, and for that matter, no income. He wasn't short of money, and he owned his flat. Nevertheless, Sorenson did have a point: the week he spent in R and R drove him up the wall. Doing the odd job for Sorenson might be what he needed. ‘If I did agree,’ said Reilly. ‘There are two conditions.’

‘Name them.’

‘One, I pick who I work with, and two, I refuse to work in the stinking desert.’

A smile crept across Sorenson's face. ‘Agreed, when I hear of anything, I'll let you know.’

They stood, shook hands, then Reilly left.

Chapter 1

An icy blast cut through the early morning streets of Whitechapel. As Big Ben struck three, the rain came down in torrents.

Lenny Fenwick, a small man, shabbily dressed in a gabardine raincoat, battled the fierce wind as he walked head-down, to the end of Dunster Court. He turned left at Mincing Lane and stopped, leaned his back against a wall, and listened.

He thought he heard footsteps coming from behind. His heart pounded against his ribs, he held his breath, quickly turned and glanced around the corner. Nobody — sighing with relief, he turned, picked up his pace and hurried along.

For the past three weeks, his nerves had been on edge. Flat broke and in debt, he took a job in a warehouse on the wharfs. He had an idea they were dealing contraband, but as long as he received his pay, he didn’t care. Then, un-expectedly, customs stepped in, and his nightmare began. If he wanted immunity, he had little choice but to remain there and pass on any information he gathered to the police. They promised him protection, which on the face of it seemed OK. But he didn’t trust Inspector Mathews from Scotland Yard. No, he didn’t like him at all.

After fifteen minutes, he arrived at his bed-sit at 13 Mitre Square. Chilled to the bone, he searched his pockets for the front door key, and with a trembling hand, the key rattled in the lock. The door opened, he stepped in, closed the door behind him and flicked the latch.

The hallway lay in darkness, as Mrs Muldoon, the tight-fisted landlady had removed the light globes. She didn’t believe in wasting money she had told him when he first moved in. He could still hear the old bitch’s croaky voice, "A penny saved is a penny earned." Well that much was true, she didn’t believe in spending money either. The floorboards creaked beneath his feet as he fumbled his way up the stairs. When he reached room 5 on the second floor, he entered, flicked on the light, and bolted the door.

The room was small and sparsely furnished, with rising damp seeping through the walls. On a tea chest in the corner sat a portable black and white television with a worn-out armchair placed opposite. A decrepit coffee table occupied the centre of the room littered with an overflowing ashtray, a crumpled newspaper and a cheap bottle of gin. He grabbed the bottle, splashed a large measure into a filthy glass, and gulped it down.

He poured a second, walked across to the window, and watched as the rain trickled down the windowpane. He had seen nights like this before, cold, wet and miserable with rain pounding the streets. For some reason, tonight seemed different. He shivered, and turned on a single bar electric heater, stood in front of it, and watched the element glow.

Finishing the gin, he grabbed a scuffed suitcase from under the bed he’d packed the night before, and now he was ready to go. He dug his hand inside his raincoat and pulled out his ticket. A few hours from now he’d be out of out of London for good. For the first time in weeks, a contented smile crept across his face.

From the hallway, a high-pitched shrill erupted, and the smile faded. He spun round and watched the front door crumble to fragments of splintered wood. Plumes of blue smoke entered the room, and the strong smell of petrol filled his nostrils. Fear took hold, and he stood, legs fixed to the floor, unable to move. Sawdust showered the carpet, and a tall man stood in the doorway, his shoulders bridging the gap where the door used to be. He stepped into the room, a pronounced limp in his left leg, a chainsaw buzzing wildly in his hands.

Lenny couldn’t see his face, long strands of matted hair, obscured the features. He did see the eyes, two narrow slits, set in deep dark sockets, and for a second he noticed a glint.

The chainsaw plunged forward, its rotating metal teeth shredding through flesh and bone.

The chainsaw’s howl resonated throughout the boarding house. In the room next door, an old man picked up the phone and dialled the police. In her downstairs apartment, the grey haired landlady Mrs Muldoon, stood from her rocking chair and tossed her knitting on to the couch. She’d warned the no-good rabble that lodged in her house about making too much noise. This time she would throw the troublemaker into the street. Wrapping a shawl around her shoulders, she stormed out of her room and climbed the stairs.

A few doors down from number 13 Mitre square, two men sat in a black Ford Transit van. The driver, a man with a craggy face slumped over the steering wheel. He gazed out the window at the rain-sodden street, and tried to ignore the other man’s heavy wheezing. He could still hear it above the sudden downpour, and it began to play on his nerves. ‘You should do something about that chest of yours Randolph,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t sound too good.’

‘Shut up,’ the other man rasped, then inserted an inhaler into his mouth and breathed deeply.

In the distant, a police siren wailed and gradually grew louder. The man behind the wheel began to worry. He turned to Randolph. Randolph removed the inhaler and nodded. ‘You’d better ring Stumpy,’ he wheezed.

The chainsaw purred softly, the killer wiped sweat from his brow. He felt the faint vibration of his mobile phone against his thigh, removed it from his pocket and answered.

‘Move yourself Stumpy,’ the voice crackled. ‘The police are coming.’

The tall man looked surprised. ‘They couldn’t get here that quick.’

‘Do you wanna hang around to find out?’

The line went dead, and Stumpy returned the phone to his pocket.

Approaching the landing, Mrs Muldoon heard a low continuous rumble coming from one of the rooms. ‘What the hell’s going on,’ she mumbled. She reached the top of the stairs, turned her head and saw the shredded door to room 5. ‘You’ll have to pay for that,’ she barked as she hobbled along the landing. ‘I’ll have none of that here, this is a respectable establishment.’

Stumpy stepped through the doorway sending splinters of dangling wood into the hall. He moved towards her, the chain saw throbbing.

Mrs Muldoon stopped. She stared at the tall man with dirty straggly hair. She had never him before, and wondered what he was doing here. She saw the blood on his clothing, and behind him, the mutilated body on the floor.

The chainsaw weighed less than five kilograms. Its length, from handle to tip came under sixty centimetres. With little effort, Stumpy raised it above his head, and as Mrs Muldoon screamed, he swung it down across her body at an angle of forty-five degrees.

She didn’t scream anymore…

Stumpy limped down the stairs to the front door. As he left the boarding house, the black Transit pulled up in front.

A siding door flew open.

Stumpy dived in.

The Transit sped off, skidding round the corner on to Fenchurch Street and headed for London Bridge.

Chapter 2

The afternoon sun seeped through the blinds, as Reilly, in his Chelsea flat, lay stretched out on the couch idling away the time watching TV.

In four days, he'd been out of the flat once, and that was only a quick trip to the supermarket.

He was beginning to get agitated.

The phone rang, and he welcomed the distraction. He sat up, pointed the remote at the TV, lowered the volume, and picked up the receiver.

‘Hello.’

To his surprise, Sorenson’s well articulated voice boomed from the handset.

‘How's it going in the land of civilians?’

It took Reilly by surprise. He never thought he'd hear from him so soon. ‘Exactly as you predicted Major,’ said Reilly, ‘boring as hell.’

‘I may have a solution, I received a call this morning, there's a situation that needs you expertise.’

‘At the moment I'll do anything.’

‘Good, I'll pass on your mobile number and someone will be in touch.’

Chapter 3

The grey haired man sat behind a mahogany desk, a pencil twirling in his fingers. The intercom buzzed, but he didn’t answer. He knew he would be getting a visit. He counted the seconds, and after five, the door opened.

‘Have you seen this?’ Sir Charles Melville said as he strode into the office and dropped the file on to the desk.

‘Yes, I’ve seen it,’ the grey haired man said.

Sir Charles paced the length of the room, stopped at the window, and gazed across the river Thames. ‘I thought we’d seen the last of him.’

‘So did I Charles.’

‘Now it appears he’s back.’

‘So it seems.’

Sir Charles, short and stout wearing a grey three-piece suit, turned, took three paces forward and lowered his body into a leather-backed chair, and stared across the desk. ‘If it gets out that we entered an agreement with an illegal arms dealer we’re finished.’

‘I know Charles. At the time, it seemed like a good idea. It served its purpose.’

Sir Charles mused. ‘I doubt the man in the street would agree. Supplying rebels with weaponry to take over the country, so we can move in and take their oil. It doesn’t seem morally right.’

‘The man in the street doesn’t have to make moral decisions. That responsibly lies with people like us. Besides, we didn’t actually supply the weapons.’

‘No, we only hired a madman to do it for us.’

‘That’s politics Charles, and that’s the business we’re in.’

‘You know the French are after him?’

‘I know Charles, I read the report. If they get hold of him, and with his contacts, he’ll walk away. Then we’re back to square one.’

‘So what are we going to do?’

The grey haired man continued to twirl the pencil. ‘I’ve made a few phone calls,’ he said. ‘I think we may have the answer.’ He slid a sheet of paper across the desk. Sir Charles picked it up.

‘It’s just a name and a phone number.’

‘That’s right.’

‘What’s he supposed to do?’

‘Remove the problem.’

Sir Charles raised his eyebrows. ‘Is he any good?’

‘I hear he’s very good.’

‘He’s needs to be if he’s dealing with Lafarge. He’s utterly ruthless you know.’

‘So I hear.’

‘Who is he?’

The grey haired man shook his head. ‘I don’t know, and I don’t think you should either. The less we know the better. Hand it over to Treymane,’ he said offhandedly. ‘He’s chasing a knighthood.’

Sir Charles nodded and reached for the phone. ‘We may as well let him earn it then.’

Chapter 4

Hyde Park was cold at eight o’clock in the morning. The sun was beginning to breakthrough the clouds and the fine mist that covered the grass began to disappear.

Reilly received a call the previous afternoon and agreed to a meeting. With his hands deep in the pockets of a navy blue overcoat, and a cigarette clenched between his teeth, he sat on a park bench staring across the river Serpentine, and waited.

Two joggers jogged by, their iPods blaring, and a woman walking her dog smiled.

Reilly returned the smile, and the dog yanked her along.

A man walked towards him with a copy of the Times folded under his arm. He was of medium height wearing a dark suit and dark overcoat, with a trilby tilted forward. He stopped in front of Reilly, looked around, and sat at the end of the bench.

‘Mister Reilly?’ He asked nervously.

Reilly nodded, ‘you must be Treymane from the Home Office.’

‘That’s right, glad we could meet. You come highly recommended….’

‘On the phone you said it was important,’ Reilly cut in. ‘So what do you want?’

Surprised at Reilly’s bluntness, Treymane smiled. ‘Fair enough, I’ll come straight to the point. Three weeks ago, customs raided a warehouse in London, where they discovered a shipment of illegal firearms. One of the men arrested turned informant and told the customs officers everything. Acting on his information police arrested the whole gang, all except for the ringleader, and the supplier. The suspected ringleader is a nightclub owner named Jack Slagg. The police have him under constant surveillance, but we’re not concerned with him. Our interests are with this man.’ Treymane handed Reilly a seven by five photograph. ‘His name is Dominic Lafarge, he’s a French expatriate who moved to Amsterdam five years ago.’

Reilly stared at the photograph. A man with a long angular face, narrow eyes and short-cropped black hair stared back at him. Reilly put him to be in his late thirties, maybe older.

Treymane continued. ‘Before the informant could pass on further information, police found him dead in a bed-sit in Whitechapel, hacked to pieces with a chainsaw.’

‘I take it the informant had police protection?’

‘Of cause,’ said Treymane.

‘What happened?’

Treymane shook his head. ‘We don’t know yet, it’s still under investigation. We do know Lafarge is an international dealer in illegal arms and the supplier of weapons to Jack Slagg. And, if he had the slightest hint of an informer in the ranks, he’d have him killed. We’ve been after Lafarge for years, but he’s always managed to stay one-step ahead, and for the last two years, he’s disappeared off the radar. Until now, and we’re convinced he’s responsible for the informant’s death. There’s no proof of cause, but he has links to many unsavoury people, and anyone of them could’ve killed him.’

‘You have your own people for this type of work, why ask me?’

‘We have good reason to believe our intelligence services maybe compromised. We don’t know for sure, but we think that’s why he’s still on the loose. We can’t afford to take the risk.’

Reilly remained silent as he took it all in, then said, ‘so where do I come in?’

‘We’ve received information from Claude Dumar of the Police Nationale, that a weapons deal will be taking place near Le Havre on the French coast tomorrow night. We think there’s a good chance Lafarge will be there. We’ve arranged for you to be with Dumar and his team when they make the raid. You’ll join them on Jersey, and as far as he’s concerned you’re from Scotland Yard, and are simply there to identify a suspected criminal, as part of a continuing investigation.’

‘I’ve worked with the French before,’ said Reilly. ‘They don’t like interfering foreigners, and they will check the authorisation.’

‘It’s approved by the Home Office so they can check all they like.’ Treymane handed him a manila folder. ‘You’ll find all relative information in there and a plane ticket to Jersey leaving tomorrow morning. Whatever happens,’ Treymane continued. ‘If Lafarge is there, do not let the Police Nationale arrest him. Lafarge has friends in high places and they will do anything to protect him. This is our one last opportunity, and we want him out of circulation permanently. Inside the folder, you’ll find a contact number. Ring only if necessary, and when the job’s completed. It’s an answering machine, so leave your own phone number, and I will ring you back. I think that’s everything, any questions?’

Reilly shoved the folder inside his coat, took a final drag on his cigarette and tossed it to the ground. ‘Just one, what do I do when I find him.’

Treymane adjusted his tie and got to his feet. ‘Why, you kill him of cause.’

Chapter 5

The plane touched down at Jersey airport punctually at eleven o’clock. Reilly, wearing jacket and jeans, waited at the luggage carousel, collected a brown leather briefcase and headed to the men’s room. He stood in front of the washbasin, placed the briefcase at his feet and proceeded to