Field of Conflict: Jim Thorn Pathfinder Thrillers, #4

By Karl York

Thorn's back! And this time, he's in the personal protection business.

The life of his Oil Exec client is jeopardised when Thorn gets sent on a mission to collect another VIP - the man who could save everyone from disaster.

But dark forces are gathering - the terrorists Thorn knows about. But is there an enemy within?

As the country plunges into chaos, Thorn's family gets dragged into it. He must ultimately make a life-changing choice. But the clock is ticking. Will he make the right decision? Will he make it in time?

FIELD OF CONFLICT is the first full-length Jim Thorn novel, and Part 4 in the Pathfinder Thriller series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Karl York
• Release date: Feb 5, 2015
• ISBN: 9781507072158

Book preview

Jim Thorn Pathfinder Thrillers by Karl York

FIRST IN

EMPIRE OF LIES

GANG OF THIEVES

FIELD OF CONFLICT

ONE

‘There’s been a breach of the outer perimeter. I think they’ve got in, sir,’ said the young man, peering hysterically at his bank of CCTV screens. He spun on his chair, seeking guidance.

‘Where? How many of them?’ asked Thorn.

The young security man pointed to a screen. His hand was trembling.

‘Here. The northern wall adjacent to the woods. They’ve cut through the fence or thrown something over the razor wire and flattened it.’

‘Okay. You lot are safe enough here. They’re not after you. I’ll get Hagerfield out of here and make a big song and dance about it.’

The security man’s face blanched.

‘Are you sure, sir? You’re just leaving us here. Those freaks have been grabbing staff and doing God knows what to them.’

‘They’ve been after bargaining chips - senior staff. Not lackeys and the kids manning the cameras.’

Thorn placed a reassuring hand on the young man’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. The man looked blankly up at him, not quite sure whether to be relieved or insulted.

‘You’ll be alright. I’ll make sure those hippies know we’ve left the complex. And they’ll know who is leaving. We’ll tease them a bit. If you’re still worried, radio for reinforcements. There’s plenty of men on the main gates, and the police are outside managing the rabble as best they can.’

Thorn patted the man on the back before spinning to stride purposefully out of the small surveillance room. Other security staff began to scream down his ear through the earpiece he was wearing. He thumbed at the push-to-talk button concealed under the lapel of his dark blue suit jacket.

‘Yes, I know they’re in. Where’s Victor One?’

Thorn squinted while listening to filter out the growing din in the corridor. Office staff darted around him in panic. Then he launched himself at the stairwell door and bounded up the steps three at a time. As he ascended the stairs his earpiece crackled with static. The fluorescent lights in the stairwell went out briefly before flashing their intention to reignite. Finally they died again. Thorn stood in the looming darkness. He reached out and grabbed the handrail and continued up towards the third floor with growing caution. A few seconds later, a bloody red glow filled the space as emergency generators kicked the safety-lighting into life.

‘Lima Charlie Zero, Lima Charlie Zero. This is Romeo Charlie One - over,’ said Thorn over his mini-radio. No answer. ‘Hello Lima Charlie Zero, this is Romeo Charlie One. Sitrep? Over.’

He lifted his finger off the talk-button. More static.

‘Lima Charlie Zero, Lima Charlie Zero, this is Romeo Charlie One. Sitrep, over.’

He swished the front of his jacket aside with his right hand and grabbed his weapon, a previously concealed Heckler and Koch MP5K-PDW. Crouching in the faded light he folded out the stock, pulled back the charging handle and rummaged under his jacket with his left hand. He pulled out a 30-round mag and clicked it into place, punching the charging handle again, which slid forward with a clunk. Ready for anything, Thorn then tiptoed up the remaining steps. His submachine gun was raised with the stock firmly nestled into his shoulder. Surely the intruders couldn’t have got inside already, he thought to himself. Or taken down the comms and power.

He stood on the landing to one side of the door that led onto the third floor. Slowly he reached out and grabbed the bar on the back of the door. Show time. Just tug it open and storm through. More intermittent crackling in his earpiece.

‘Romeo Charlie One, this is Lima Charlie Zero. Sitrep: having comms problems. Power down. Wait one.’

Thorn removed his hand from the door and took a short step backwards. The fluorescent lights buzzed and clinked into life again. He squinted.

‘Romeo Charlie One. Power back on line. What is your current location? Where are you, over?’

Thorn clicked his weapon back onto safe mode and folded the stock, before dropping it and allowing it to swing on its rubber bungee strap back beneath his jacket.

‘I’m with you now.’

He pulled the door and walked into the corridor. Despite the unexpected loss of power the situation was far calmer on Level Three than downstairs in the Lobby. The main headquarters of Hyfrax Oil and Gas was located in the countryside to the south of Cambridge. The basement floor contained what Thorn called the children who carried out the civilian security duties. They monitored cameras, screened visitors and issued passes to them, and did various other menial and excitement-starved tasks. The children were usually school and college dropouts with anger management problems and bullying superiority complexes. They were the kind of people who took jobs on the front line of the privatized police companies. Or they got off on guarding corporate buildings from their intellectual betters. Such was life in the savage Britain at the end of the first quarter of the twenty-first century. At Hyfrax, bullies or not, they knew never to mess with Thorn.

The Lobby and the rest of the ground floor contained all the public-facing warm and fuzzy people paid to spout propaganda about the company. There were meeting rooms and lecture theatres for the invited general public and the Press. Level One and Level Two contained the staff offices from where the functioning of the company was executed. Everything including operations, finance, sales and marketing, and human resources was based there.

The main elevators only went to Level Two. A private staircase enabled access to Level Three, which housed the senior executives at one end of the building. At the other end were Thorn and his colleagues from Blackwing Para Security. Thorn had called in a few favours to get close-protection work after his Belize business disaster a year or so earlier. Although Blackwing had been set up by a former Parachute Regiment major and consisted entirely of men who served in the three regular battalions, the Para in the name referred to its paramilitary credentials. Most of the large corporations in 2025 had resorted to hiring private paramilitary security contractors. They were tasked to keep the disenfranchised masses away from their ill-gotten wealth. Or to scare away mobs of eco-warriors protesting whatever was the flavour of the week. Such groups ranged from the peaceful and genuinely scared locals, to the professional, secretly-funded and armed subversives.

‘The north perimeter fence has been breached,’ Thorn said, walking into the Blackwing control room. ‘What the hell was that with the power? I couldn’t hear you in the stairwell. Just a lughole full of static.’

‘Nothing to do with stairs. We lost all comms as well. Same as you. Static.’

‘Probably crappy gear. I’ll get onto the Major about it. Get some new kit sorted out for us,’ Thorn said. ‘Who’s in? Just Victor One?’

‘Yeah,’ replied Control.

‘Okay, get the rest of the squad up here. Brief them for Operation BrassEvac. I’ll go and get him.’

‘Roger that,’ said Control, grinning and raising a thumb to Thorn before turning back to his communications equipment.

***

At the main gate, on the western flank of the site, chaos reigned supreme. Fifty or more police officers in full riot gear shouted commands to a large crowd of stink-infused louts. It was a sense-assaulting organism of eye-stinging body odour and insults, throbbing in waves as its people surged forwards toward the police before getting shoved backwards into their place at the side of the road. The police were ordered to keep the roadway clear. Under no circumstances were they to let any of the protesters and malcontents enter the complex.

For the security teams, civilian and paramilitary, within the confines of the Hyfrax compound, it was just another busy day. The company had made it onto the national news the previous evening. Usually a small hardcore of protesters hung around, their tents pitched in one of the nearby fields. But after any kind of publicity, and news coverage was relentlessly unpleasant, a new swarm of angry people descended on the place like a Biblical plague. The security staff was used to this and had plenty of experience dealing with it.

Thorn’s 2IC, or second-in-command, at Hyfrax, Danny Beaky Beakman, was a corporal who had spent much of his army time in 1PARA. He stood inside the site eyeing the seething crowds outside. There was all manner of people there carrying a farrago of placards, some amateurish and shabby. Others were obviously mass-produced by some well-funded organization or other. Stop Fracking Now, or No To One World Fascism. There were signs representing all the familiar eco-groups, poverty campaigns and conspiracy brigades. As far as Beaky was concerned, everything was fine. Those groups were disparate and unable to agree even on what to shout, let alone organize themselves into a single threatening power-block. He lit a cigarette.

‘Romeo Oscar Two, Romeo Oscar Two, this is Lima Charlie Zero, over.’

Beaky turned his back on the perimeter fence and walked further into the compound before answering the call from Control.

‘Romeo Oscar Two. Over.’

‘Tangos in situ. Three O’Clock, in the North Sector. Intercept and detain, over.’

‘Wilco, out.’

Beaky marched back to the front line and nodded to two of the other Blackwing operatives. They closed in on him.

‘Corporal?’

‘Looks like we’ve got some interlopers on site. No further intel. Better get tooled up just in case,’ said Beaky.

The three men disappeared leaving a handful of Blackwing guards to keep an eye on the protests. Out of the direct line of sight from the main gate was a short lay-by where two black SUVs were parked. Beaky opened the rear door and reached into the foot well. He handed Sig Sauer P226 handguns to his comrades along with extra magazines for their concealed MP5Ks. Then he took out a Tazer.

‘No idea how many targets we’re dealing with. If there’s only one of them, I’ll shock him. Then we can bag him and do the interrogation before handing him over to the cops. The job is to detain them, okay? If they’re tooled up and we take incoming fire, we do what needs to be done. Clear?’

The two men nodded before checking over their submachine guns and pistols.

‘Let’s rock n roll.’

***

As Beaky’s patrol reached the cover of the headquarters building, a black Mercedes stretch-limousine accelerated up the ramp from the underground car park. They couldn’t see through the smoked glass windows, but instead were hurrying towards the northern sector of the site to intercept their targets. The limo had personalized plates, HAGER 1 and was built like a tank, reinforced with bulletproof glass and armoured door panels.

‘Lima Charlie Zero, Lima Charlie Zero, this is Mike Victor Two. On the road. Proceeding towards main gate. Over.’

‘Mike Victor Two, this is Lima Charlie Zero. Roger that. Out.’

The black limo, given the codename Mobile VIP (radio call-sign Mike Victor 2), swung around the headquarters building and entered the West Sector of the compound. It headed towards the main road gatehouse, the guards and police looking in its direction as it approached. The crowds outside the double fence surged forward. They knew somebody important was about to venture into their world. They were mad as hell and were going to make whoever it was pay a price measured in blood and broken teeth - or worse.

At the main gate was a small security gatehouse building with a barrier. One of the civilian guards raised the barrier as the limo squealed to a stop, its heavy-duty brakes struggling against the weight of the vehicle. Beyond the gatehouse were two large metal-grill gates, each of which rolled on wheels rather than opening either inward or outward. Peering through and getting man-handled back to the far side of the road were the angry protesters. A buzz of rumour spread through the crowds. A handful of them had spotted the licence plate and they knew it was Marcus Hagerfield, the CEO of Hyfrax. The chanting began.

Entry and exit procedures were well-drilled. The inner gate rolled open and the limo crawled into the no-man’s land between the fences. Then the inner gate was closed before the outer one slid open. The mob howled at the car and unleashed fury, hurling whatever was to hand. Plastic water bottles, stones, half-eaten food arced over the police lines and rattled against the limo as it negotiated the gate, taking a sharp left to head south.

Minor scuffles broke out among small sections of the crowd. Those stupid enough to bring their children to the demo frantically enveloped their offspring, gathering them up and backing away into the neighbouring field. Police grabbed at men and women, young and old. The passive ones were thrust back into the melee. The belligerent were dragged out onto the road surface and beaten. Ringleaders were cuffed and frog-marched to a large outer car park containing an armada of police vans.

As the limo picked its path down the lane, a small group of protesters managed to break through the line. The three females, all in their early twenties with hippie clothes, greasy matted dreadlocks and facial piercings, scurried alongside the vehicle. Their bodies were bent low, crouching to avoid the grasping hands of the cops. One dived onto the bonnet of the car forcing the driver to brake. The other two immediately flopped onto the road in front. Police indecision led to a more forceful rush against them. They couldn’t hold back the surge and got squashed against the side of the limo. Desperately the police pushed back, taking punches to their faces despite their helmet visors. They blindly slipped into self-preservation mode. The trapped officers, bloodied and speckled with gobs of spit, sidestepped and shuffled their way to the rear of the car. They took cover. The rabble snarled and those closest kicked and punched the roof and doors of the limo, screaming vile abuse at the hidden occupants.

The driver revved the engine, thumped on the car-horn, and then shifted the gear into reverse. The crunch of the manual gearbox alerted some of the protesters, who threw themselves behind the limo. They all managed to surround it as the police backed off to regroup and wait for reinforcements. Despite the weight of the car the horde began to rock it. They were intent on turning it onto its roof, but even as a collective could not muster enough strength. After a seemingly endless sixty seconds of engine-revving, screaming, swearing and violent rocking, everything fell silent. The driver of the vehicle had simply switched off the engine. The blacked-out rear passenger window slid down with a high-pitched buzz. Those closest to the window peered in confused.

***

Beaky and his two-man patrol split up and began to sweep the North Sector of the site, moving towards the breach in the northern security fence. They crept in silence while scouring the complex for movement. The headquarters building was the largest in the industrial compound. There were several smaller buildings for scientific and research work. Surrounding all the buildings were beautifully landscaped areas. Although they broke up the industrial landscape with islands of greenery, they also provided hiding places and cover. Thorn had warned about them being a security risk many times.

As Beaky skirted around one of the small pump-houses he heard a series of crackling gunshots. Something hit the wall above his right shoulder. He dived back behind the pump-house. Crouching low he pulled out his MP5K and clicked the selector switch onto full automatic fire. After a quick peak from cover he clicked his radio push-to-talk button.

‘Contact, contact, contact. This is Romeo Oscar Two. One O’Clock, three zero metres, bushes left of North Gate. Three Tangos taking cover.’

He crawled forwards and briefly lifted his torso with his left arm, scanning the arena before dropping back. He continued:

‘Twelve O’Clock, five zero metres, gap in North fence. Two Tangos covering retreat. Romeo Oscar Three and Romeo Oscar Four. Open fire, execute to follow. Stand by, over.’

His two comrades began to move towards the position. The breach in the North fence was their marker, designated twelve O’clock. They moved to outflank covering positions taken by three of the intruders who were crouching behind some bushes next to a small gate used by delivery trucks.

‘Romeo Oscar Three, standing by, out.’

‘Romeo Oscar Four, standing by, out.’

Beaky took a couple of breaths to calm his heart rate and prepared for the impending fire fight. But his preparations were interrupted by a break in radio silence.

‘All Stations, All Stations. This is Romeo Charlie One. Check your fire. On approach to North Gate, five zero metres. Over.’

The small North Gate began to slide open under remote control. The three intruders took their chance and sprinted towards the opening. One of them glanced behind and saw a black SUV approaching, on its way out of the compound. After rummaging through a pocket he lit a small bundle of fire crackers and threw it at the vehicle. The crackers popped and exploded harmlessly.

Beaky’s team was in pursuit, one moving forward at a time while the other covered. Beaky watched them for a couple of seconds before turning his attention back to the gap in the fence where the intruders originally broke through. Two people scurried into the open ground from behind the same building he was using as cover. He chased them, grasping one by the shoulder. The intruder spun around and aimed a knee at Beaky’s balls. He loosed and shuffled his position to protect himself, and the two targets continued their break for freedom.

Deafening alarms began to ring out behind Beaky, interfering with his concentration as he took aim with his MP5K. He had his magnifying scope pointed at the back of the one he had grabbed. Her hood fell down - it was a woman. Beaky sighed and lowered his weapon. He knew he wouldn’t get away with blowing somebody away as they retreated. He smelled burning. The alarms clamoured from a science building behind him.

‘All Stations, All Stations. This is Romeo Charlie One. Victor One has left the building. Out.’

Thorn laughed as he drove the black SUV out of the deliveries entrance with Hagerfield lying across the back seat. They usually practised with mock protesters flying towards them to get at the boss. This time they were scattering away. Back at the front gate the pacified mob allowed the limo to go on its way once it realized it had been duped by a decoy.

*****

TWO

‘Which house is it?’ asked Tilly.

‘Number thirty one,’ said Saul leaning over Tilly’s shoulder. ‘Look at the houses around here. I can’t stand these bloated pigs. Filthy capitalist scumbags.’

Saul sank back into the gloom of the battered Transit van. Tilly Jacobs looked silently out of the passenger window, inspecting the terraced and semi-detached houses they passed. These dwellings were not the usual mansions beloved by the super-rich. In fact she thought they looked quite ordinary. A little better kept than the inner city blocks she was born into. She knew a lick of paint wouldn’t provide anything like redemption to them now. Perhaps the gardens were bigger here. They were owned by people who were working long hours and making enough money to survive. Enough money that they could go out shopping on a Saturday morning. Or on a breezy Sunday afternoon they could spend a little time tending to their lawns and clipped hedges and fragrant borders. Tilly didn’t imagine that the people who lived around here were obscenely wealthy. She placed her elbow on the door ledge and began twirling one of her pigtails. Her hair was raven black, shining and reflecting the early morning sun, glossy almost as if made from liquid. Her thoughts returned to the previous day. It wasn’t so clean then. Caked in mud, it matched her face, after a desperate getaway through bushes and undergrowth in the countryside, to escape security guards at the nearby Hyfrax HQ.

‘You’re staying in the van this time,’ said Saul sulkily, his voice startling Tilly back into reality. ‘You nearly got bloody caught yesterday.’

‘I could have got shot yesterday,’ Tilly said, her cheeks flushing to betray her annoyance. ‘You said they weren’t supposed to be armed.’

‘Got our intel screwed up. Shit happens. We managed to burn down one of their labs so mission accomplished.’

Tilly caught a brief glance of his face in the side mirror on the van door. Saul didn’t betray much emotion. She figured he’d make a fine poker player. She detected a hint of pride in his demeanour. They had stormed an enemy HQ and gutted a building even in the face of armed opposition. Pity their planning hadn’t accounted for possible shooters.

After house watching for a minute or so Tilly began to adjust her head position, trying to find Saul in the van behind her via the wing mirror. When she finally located his reflection, she realised he was looking straight back at her. She tried to act nonchalantly, looking away again and stretching her arms.

‘Why did we have to set off so early?’ she said, twisting around to look directly at Saul. ‘Who are we going after anyway? These houses don’t look like the kind of castles we usually daub with graffiti. I mean, they’re just ordinary houses.’

‘Ordinary houses!’ Saul shouted, bolting rigid. ‘Can you afford to buy one of these? Can anybody afford them these days? There aren’t any bloody jobs these days, Til. The rest of us have to break into old factories and death traps just to keep out of the rain. Where’s the fairness? We get fucked and them lot get everything. Nice houses, cars, food, water, clothes. It ain’t right, Til. We need to take action to equalise things. Otherwise them lot get to watch the rest of us die of cold or starvation while they swirl their bucket-sized brandy glasses, laughing at us.’

Saul took a breath and tried to calm down. One of the other men in the back of the van gripped his shoulder and pulled him back out of Tilly’s face. He nodded to acknowledge his need to chill out.

‘Sorry, Tilly. I shouldn’t have blown up. But these people here were just lucky with their timing. That’s all. They got in before the whole economy collapsed and the government still denies there’s even a problem. They’ve got their snouts in troughs. They’re alright so nothing else matters.’

Tilly was facing the front again. She spoke over her shoulder:

‘If they were just lucky, then it’s not really their fault is it? I mean, graffiti and burning empty buildings is one thing. But we’re going after somebody. We’re supposed to be working for the Earth. All you’re talking about is people with money.’

‘Stop the van.’

The driver found a space at the side of the road and pulled over.

‘You getting cold feet, Tilly? Do you want out?’ Saul asked.

‘No. No, I just wondered.’

‘Well stop wondering. I’m in charge of this cell. We do what needs to be done. Today, that means grabbing people who control the energy systems at grid level. It’s not always about the people raping the Earth. We hit those fascists by terrorising their customers and their distributors.’

Saul pulled out his mobile phone and called somebody on his address book.

‘Sticks? Can you hear me? Damn it.’

He slid open the rear side door of the Transit van and jumped out onto the pavement. Waving a beckoning arm to the old Land Rover parked behind, he opened the passenger door of the van.

‘Get out, Tilly. Go back to base with Sticks. I don’t think your head’s been in the game since your run-in with that guy at Hyfrax yesterday. Sort yourself out.’

Saul turned to Sticks.

‘Take her back. And charge your fucking mobile. I couldn’t get through to you on it. We can handle the grab ourselves. See you later.’

Sticks fiddled through his pockets and pulled out his phone. Fully charged. He waved it towards Saul but he had already jumped into Tilly’s vacant passenger seat in the van. It screeched off and disappeared at speed.

***

‘Jake, for the last time, leave your sister alone and get on with your breakfast. You’ll be late for school - again.’

Tony Kirkby was at the end of his tether. His high pressure job and the endless little dramas at home, bringing up his two kids, were more than his hair could abide. It left home several years earlier, taking his sense of humour with it. The remnants of the man left behind now sported the textbook chrome dome of male pattern baldness combined with a temper smouldering under a facade only kept in place with blood pressure medication. The glue which held his and the family’s lives together was his wife Chloe. She was unflappable, a former military medic, working in the local Accident and Emergency Hospital. For her, after serving in chaotic war zones under intense pressure and danger, life on Civvy Street seemed like slow motion. She could spot and remedy accidents and problems and erupting arguments before they even happened.

‘Darling, you need to get going. Don’t forget your briefcase. I think you left it in the study,’ Chloe said sashaying towards Tony as he stood up from the breakfast table. She straightened his tie and gently smoothed a crinkle in his suit jacket. Then she kissed his cheek and paused looking him in the eye.

‘What’s wrong, Tone?’ she asked. She could sense her husband’s agitation and hadn’t felt such intensity before.

He was the Lead Engineer of the electricity grid operations department, BritGrid, in charge of energy delivery strategy for the whole nation.

‘We’re getting power cuts around the country,’ he said. ‘Unexplained ones. We’re trying to figure it all out but I have to go and talk to the board today. There’s going to be some government people there. Don’t worry love. I’m just a bit nervous, that’s all.’

Chloe placed her arms gently around his neck, kissing him again and lingering cheek to cheek. Her husband had given talks to people, including government officials, dozens of times. She knew that. He was a great problem-solver and engineer. There wasn’t a problem on Earth he couldn’t assess and fix. She knew that too. But she had never known him to get so tense before a meeting, not in nearly twenty years of marriage. There was something he wasn’t telling her, and that worried her because he was one of the rare ones. An open book. He told her everything.

Chloe decided to brush it off and gave him one final squeeze before letting him go to find his briefcase. She’d wait until he got back home after work. Hopefully, he’d be relieved and relaxed again by then and she could cajole the truth out of him.

Kirkby took a deep breath and disappeared towards the back of the house and the study, while Chloe grabbed her jacket. Slipping it on, she walked into the hall and took her car-keys out of a small porcelain bowl. She was just about to scream at the kids again when the doorbell rang.

‘Oh, hello Officer,’ she said seeing two tall policemen outside.

‘Good morning, madam. Does a Mr Anthony Kirkby live at this address?’

‘Yes. He’s just getting his briefcase from the study,’ she said, gesturing towards the back of the house. ‘Please, come in. I’ll go and get him for you.’

As the couple reached the hallway the two children thundered down the stairs.

‘You don’t need me, do you, Officers? Got to get these two off to school,’ Chloe said.

‘No, madam. That’s fine. You carry on.’

After Chloe and the kids had left, Kirkby stood in the hall with the two police officers.

‘So, how can I help you Officers?’ asked Kirkby.

‘Are you aware of any threats to staff at BritGrid? Or have you received any threats yourself? You know, letters, graffiti, stuff like that?’

‘No. Nothing. Why? Is there something I need to know about?’

‘Well, we have been informed of some intelligence linking a fairly aggressive group called Clima-21 to let’s call it an ‘Event’ involving somebody at an energy distributor. We don’t have very much solid intel, but we are going around and warning key personnel from potential companies. It looks like you’ve got decent locks on your doors. Do you have the same at the back?’

‘Yes.’

‘Window locks? Burglar or intruder alarms?’

‘Yes. I think we’re pretty much covered, Officer. You know, having a wife and kids these days. We do all we can to stay safe. There’s generally a lot of begging going on around here, on the streets. The missus usually tries to help people out with food, but - well, they sometimes get a bit aggressive and want money.’

‘Okay, sir. We’ll be on our way. We just wanted to warn you