Shadows

By A. W. Lambert

SAS sergeant, Craig Mitchell, is coerced into joining the most covert of groups operating on behalf of the UK government. Their mandate: to eliminate by whatever means those who pose the most violent threats to the country before they have the opportunity to strike at the British government and its people.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rogue Phoenix Press
• Release date: May 31, 2010
• ISBN: 9780984507863

Book preview

Chapter One

There were three of them. They had been watching him for the last twenty minutes and the signs were not good. He could tell from the body language; the lowered mutterings between them, the constant hooded glances in his direction. He raised the glass of lemon and lime to his lips and took a slow drink, his eyes flicking toward the bar, quickly assessing the situation before dropping back to the newspaper spread in front of him.

The headline followed a familiar theme; Afghanistan, two killed; a roadside bomb. He read the article from start to finish, but there was little need so familiar was he with the situation he could have written it himself. Maybe not, he thought, not quite. His was a different scenario. Death visited the SAS it was true, but frequently in the world of covert operations where men stalked forbidden areas; it was a death covered with a shroud of silence, such headlines suppressed.

His stomach turned a notch as the scene of only a few weeks before invaded his mind. It shouldn't have happened, of course; the advance bombing, the Intelligence report - area clear. But then they were trained, weren't they? Expect the unexpected and deal with it. And they had. That would be of little comfort to Robbo's family, though. Their only compensation would be they wouldn't have heard the sudden withering, incoming. Neither would they have to live forever with the vision of the human form being sliced in two.

It was the largest of the three that made the first move. Leaving the other two at the bar he approached the table, standing for some moments looking down, the derisory expression saying all.

Army, right?

He looked up, but said nothing. He knew whatever he said would be of little use.

I said you're army, right?

More silence, but with the belligerence emanating from the man standing over him he felt the change begin. Green already beginning its move toward amber.

Cat got your tongue, has it? the man sneered. Or are you just frightened to admit what you are? He looked back over his shoulder, toward the two grinning at the bar. Don't need to speak, though, does he, lads? We know what he is, don't we?

He looked back down, shoulders back, confidence growing.

Well if you know what I am there's no need for me to speak is there? The words were soft, tightly clipped. Amber overpowering green now.

Well, well, it does speak. Bit quiet though. Maybe that's because it ain't got its gun, ain't got all its mates to help it out. Or maybe it's because it ain't just facing a bunch of unarmed civilians it can shoot and nobody gives a toss.

He was hanging in there, his breathing slow and deep, but amber was now firmly in control, tinges of red hovering in the wings. I came in here to have a quiet drink and read the newspaper, he said softly, his voice only just under control. Whatever I am is no concern of yours. I would really be obliged if you would go away and leave me in peace.

Peace? the man snorted. Your lot don't know the meaning of the word. You go charging into other countries, especially those you know can't defend themselves, and carve them up. Arabs trying to live a peaceful life, never done any of you lot any harm, and you go in with your guns and knock seven bells out of 'em. Big brave boys, ain't you?

His breathing was becoming less controlled now and he felt the tremors begin. He wished this would stop. It wasn't how things should be. The ignorant moron standing over him had no idea, couldn't imagine. He closed the newspaper, folding it neatly, taking his time, fighting for composure. Finally, standing, he eyeballed the man in front of him.

You just don't know, he said.

Don't know, the man spat. I'll tell you what I do know. I know when you lot went into Iraq it was illegal. I know you invaded a country you all knew couldn't defend itself and was an easy target. And I know you killed thousands of innocent civilians. I know that.

He stood, his face only inches away from the spitting tirade confronting him, his whole body now bowstring taut, his insides in turmoil. Slowly the fear began to creep into him. Not a fear of the man opposite, but a fear of himself, a fear of knowing what could happen. He said nothing. There was nothing to say, nothing he could say. He needed to get away, to leave this place, but the man stood before him, blocking his escape and now red was moving in and fast.

I'll tell you what else I know, the ranting continued. I know your lot invading Iraq was no more legal than Hitler invading Poland in 1939. For long seconds his eyes blazed triumphantly at the words then looking down, he jabbed a finger at the newspaper, its headline still showing. And as for those, they got what they deserved.

His balled right fist traveled no more than eight inches, but the effect was devastating. The man staggered back, blood spurting from his nose, his knees instantly buckling beneath him. At the sight of their colleague sinking to the floor, the other two men left the bar and made their way toward him, their intention obvious.

But now amber had left the scene and red had completely taken control. He moved round from behind the table and prepared himself for the inevitable.

Chapter Two

He had seen it many times before in soaps and crime series on television, but he had never experienced it himself. The space was small, a narrow bunk lining one wall its only furnishing. There was no window and the closed door, in the middle of which was a single peephole at the moment covered from the outside, was made of steel. Attempts had been made to clean the area, but cutting through the mild smell of disinfectant a sickly body odour still prevailed.

It had been a long and uncomfortable night; his only visitor a singularly tight lipped police officer delivering food and drink. Now, mid morning, he sat on the bunk his head in his hands wondering for the hundredth time how it had happened. He should have walked away. He was supposed to be highly trained and that meant highly controlled. He was, he knew, a lethal weapon - yeah, he knew about the films, but it was true -- he was trained to the highest level in unarmed combat. In a street brawl against a civilian, however big, however powerful, he would still be a deadly unbeatable opponent. That's why the orders were specific: always, but always, walk away. And he would have but for that last statement. Those last stupid words: 'as for those, they got what they deserved.' His mind flipped back to Robbo's shattered form. How could he have walked away from words like that?

He heard footsteps outside the door and looked up. The cover over the peephole was slid to one side and for a second a single eye glared through. Then, the peephole cover sliding back into place, a heavy clunk indicated the lock being released. The door was pushed open and a uniformed policeman ushered another man into the cell. The policeman stood for a while holding the door then, after receiving a reassuring nod from the other man, withdrew and pulled the door closed behind him.

Probably in his fifties, the man stood no more than five foot eight, and though appearing of slim build, his face, angular with a firm square jaw, indicated strength. He was dressed in a suit and tie over which hung an open disheveled damp mackintosh, suggesting he'd recently come in from the rain. His stance, just a little lop-sided, indicated a slight irregularity, but there was something about him that suggested authority. He stood for some moments unsmiling, his eyes unblinking, absorbing the figure sitting before him.

Mind if I sit? he said finally. Without waiting for an answer he moved across the room, the irregularity accentuated now by a slight limp, and eased himself down on the bunk. He sat, elbows resting on his knees; chin perched on bunched fists and for a long moment said nothing, the silence in the little room hanging tense. Then, lifting his head, he slowly scanned the bare surroundings, his nose curling distastefully as he did so. He sighed. Bit of a mess, eh?

The man was a moron.

Maybe, but... He shrugged, You know the rules.

Yeah, I know the rules. The words were tightly clipped. But I don't know you.

Their eyes held for just a beat before the man turned away and leaned against the wall.

Me? I'm just the bringer of news; good or bad, depending on how you look at it.

So d'you have a name?

"Yes. My name is Sutton, Michael Sutton. But I don't think that's very important at the moment. What is important, though, is you. He eased his position, turning and again making eye contact. And you I do know about. In fact, I know quite a lot about you. He rubbed at his chin as if thinking then continued. Craig Mitchell, born 1976, south London. Mum and Dad both worked for British Rail. At school you were great at sport, but not so good academically. In fact you couldn't wait to get the hell out of there. At sixteen you were off. He inclined his head holding Mitchell's surprised gaze. How am I doing so far?"

A troubled frown corrugated Mitchell's brow, but he said nothing.

Trouble was, Sutton continued, with no qualifications you could only get rubbish jobs; labouring mainly, bit of hod carrying on building sites, that sort of thing. That meant money was tight. He shrugged. I suppose it was inevitable, under the circumstances, that you found yourself mixing with the wrong crowd. A few dodgy deals; extra cash in your pocket.

Look, just what is this all about?

Sutton held up a hand, ignoring the question. By the time you were eighteen even you could see you were on a slippery slope.

They only pulled me once, and nothing was ever proved, Mitchell blurted.

Sutton held his defiant glare, a knowing smile breaking. That's true, nothing was ever proven, but we both know you were one very lucky bunny to get away with just a caution, don't we? He waved a hand dismissively. But that's all in the past, isn't it? What matters is that single arrest brought you to your senses and, to your credit, you decided to do something about it before it was too late. A good move, too. The Anglian Regiment, wasn't it?

Mitchell's lip curled. You seem to know everything. Why ask me?

Sutton ignored the jibe. The army was good for you, too. You took to it like a duck to water. Mind you, you did have one little problem. The old temper was pretty uncontrollable, wasn't it?

That was sorted.

Yes, it was. Hard training and strict discipline, plus a bit of army anger management. That did seem to put it right. He paused before continuing, letting the emphasis he'd put on the word seem hang. You were seven years with the Anglians, during which time you did your bit in Northern Ireland and elsewhere and progressed to sergeant. Then you decided to move on. In 2000, when you were twenty-four, you applied for a transfer to the Paras; ThreePara, Sixteen Air Assault Brigade. You did well there, too.

Mitchell shook his head. Well briefed, aren't you?

Yes I am. I should be because it's part of my job to know these things. Like in 2002 when you were involved with US and Afghan troops in the covert operation in Afghanistan. Code named Anaconda, if I remember correctly. Took on the Taliban and Al-Qaeda. You did a good job there. I know a couple of US guys that are glad you were in on that one. Proud of your Military Cross, are you?

Mitchell's head snapped round. Yeah, I am as it happens. Very proud. Anything wrong with that?

No, nothing at all. In fact it's very commendable.

Okay so are you finished with the life story bit or are you about to start on the personal side now?

Personal side? No I think I can safely say the military is everything to you. There have been affairs, but nothing long term and unless we've missed something, nothing on the go at the moment.

Mitchell sighed, shaking his head resignedly. Is that it?

Sutton nodded. Yes I guess that's about it. Apart from making another move in 2004, when you were twenty-eight. It was the SAS this time. Twenty two regiment, the Sabre Squadron. Special training in assault work and, by the way, you excelled as a sniper. He paused, again the silence hanging ominously. Oh, yes, I almost forgot your latest achievement.

Mitchell turned, an unreasonably trepidation creeping through him.

Sutton's unblinking eyes held firm. A few hours ago, in a west London pub, you killed a man with your bare hands.

Chapter Three

Craig Mitchell's mouth hung open. Unable to speak, he just stared unbelieving at the man sitting alongside him.

Well we know it wasn't the drink because you haven't touched alcohol for a very long time, Sutton said casually. It was drink that got you into trouble as a youngster, if I remember. Gave it up when you enlisted and haven't touched it since. So what was it then? Was it that old temper rearing its head again? The old red mist?

Mitchell pushed himself up and strode the few paces to the other side of the cell. He turned and looked back at Sutton, still unable to speak, his mind racing uncontrollably. Okay, so he'd had a fight. There'd been three of them, three against one. Even so he'd used restraint, he was sure he had. The first one, the one with the mouth, hadn't featured after the first punch. And the other two? Well, as far as he could remember the law had been there before much else had happened. A couple more punches maybe, but nothing, it was nothing. How the hell could he have killed someone?

He held the unblinking accusing stare.

Temper, he snapped. Of course it wasn't. I only hit him once and he deserved that. It was what he said. Things about the lads. Said they got what they deserved, but I still didn't... I hit him once that was all. Next thing I knew the police were there, and I ended up in here. Three or four punches and that was it, I swear. Killed someone? Never. It can't be possible.

You say you hit the first guy once?

Yeah. I knew what they were up to and I just wanted to leave, just wanted to get out of there. He sighed. But he blocked me, stood right there in front of me ranting about how we were no better than Hitler. Then he said... About the two lads that bought it when... He paused, the ingrained secrecy training kicking in. Well, anyway, that was too much. I hit him.

Sutton nodded. Yes you did, you truly did.

Mitchell stared, unbelieving, across the cell. You don't mean that...? Not just that one punch?

Sutton raised his eyebrows, but said nothing.

Oh shit.

Sutton nodded again. Yes, that's exactly what you are in, and very deep.

Mitchell returned to the bunk, sinking down, dropping his head into his hands. Those stupid morons, he sighed. Why couldn't they have left me alone? I would have had a drink, read my paper and left. He raised his head and looked at Sutton. But no, they had to have a go, didn't they? And now look. What the hell do I do now?

Sutton didn't answer immediately. He let the silence run, watching Mitchell's despair. Then, after some long seconds, he said, Those guys, they're not unique you know. They're in the minority, but they're out there. They truly believe the Bush and Blair invasion of Iraq was illegal and was on a par with Hitler's move into Poland and other countries back in the forties. Of course, we held the righteous ground back then; we were the defenders of freedom, fighting against a ruthless tyrant. Not now, though. Not as far as these people are concerned anyway. To them we are now the invaders, and they are constantly looking for ways of proving their point. Blair and Bush are gone, of course, but to these people it matters not who's at the top; whoever it is will be tarred with the same brush. Sad to say, while our forces remain in Iraq and Afghanistan, their members will also be targeted.

Don't they realise we liberated an oppressed nation from a murdering dictator?

Shaking his head, Sutton smiled; a tight, tolerant gesture. Forget the liberation bit. To them it means nothing. All these people see is an illegal invasion of a nation and the deaths of thousands of innocent civilians. To them, this time, we were the aggressors; the bad guys.

And I walked into three of 'em.

That you did and what better publicity could they have prayed for than one of their own being murdered by one of Blair's storm troopers. They'll have a field day with it.

Storm trooper? Mitchell spluttered. I'm no storm trooper. I'm a member of Her Majesty's armed forces, the best...

Sutton held up his hand. Whoa, hold on there. You don't have to tell me who or what you are. It was me that just rolled out your history, remember? Of course it's nonsense, but it's the way they'll play it. It's what they are looking for, and you gave it to them on a plate.

Jesus, what a bloody mess.

A mess, yes, but not one that can't be cleared up.

Mitchell scrutinised Sutton for some time, his mind searching for clarity. Just who are you?

I told you I'm just the bringer of news.

Mitchell's jaw tightened. Well, Mr. Bringer-of-news, why don't you just stop hedging around and tell me who you really are. I'm deep enough in the mire without some scruffy looking toe-rag wandering in here and playing the mysterious stranger.

Sutton never moved. He held Mitchell's threatening glare, a smile slowly spreading across his face. Now that's more like the Craig Mitchell I was told about. That's who I was expecting to meet. The smile dropped as quickly as it had appeared. Now you just draw in your horns, and I'll tell you all about it.

Mitchell felt the unblinking demanding eyes boring into him. He held contact for some long moments before nodding slowly and dropping his eyes.

Good, Sutton said, his shoulders visibly relaxing. He pushed himself up from the bunk and wandered to the other side of the cell, turning and standing with his back to the door. First of all let me ask you a question. If I was some ordinary scruffy looking toe-rag, as you so eloquently put it, d'you think I would have been allowed to wander in here as I did?

Mitchell shook his head and released a heavy sigh. Okay, okay I'm sorry about that, it's just...

Don't apologise. I don't need you going soggy on me. You just have to understand. You might be deep in the mire at this time, but you are still a highly trained individual; don't ever forget that. He leaned back against the door. Let me give you some facts. If you think you are in the do-do, that's nothing to how the government is thinking. Sure we are getting out of Iraq, but that's more a beleaguered retreat than the honorary-job-done withdrawal they all spout about. As for Afghanistan, things get worse by the day. At home we have ministers being accused of claiming mega-bucks for houses they never use and putting porn movies and bath plugs on their expense accounts. Then, just to top it off, we are losing our top police officers because they make silly mistakes like displaying secret documents to the world. He pulled his hand from his pocket and ran it agitatedly through his hair. And you think you've got problems.

But I don't see how...

Sutton held up his hand. Don't talk, just stay with me and listen good, he snapped. On top of all I've just said, we have a situation in this country where individuals, both from abroad on dodgy visas and home grown, would just love to do us harm. I mean real harm. It matters not one jot who they hurt and to them the more the merrier. He held up a finger to make the point. There are plenty of them out there, believe me. Add that to everything else, and we have more than we can handle. He wandered back across the cell and stood looking down at Mitchell.

That's where I come in. He paused for just a second. More to the point, that's where you come in.

Mitchell ran his fingers through his hair, blinking tired eyes. Sorry, I still don't understand where this is going.

You will. You will. He sat down alongside Mitchell, their faces now only inches apart. Okay, the bit you've been waiting for. I'm about to offer you a way out of the mess you put yourself in, but you must be aware that in doing so I will be revealing information that is top secret. Once you've heard it, you're in; there's no turning back.

"But suppose I don't want 'in', then what?"

Sutton shook his head. You have the opportunity to refuse right now, before I say more, but that's it. Once I've explained things... he shrugged his shoulders. All I can say is by accepting the offer you will be released from the situation you find yourself in right now.

And why me?

Simple. Whatever you've done, however serious, in the past you've served your country well. You were severely provoked, and I don't believe you should be made to suffer for one moment of weakness. He paused for a beat. Apart from which you have the character and skills required for the task ahead.

Mitchell took a huge breath, letting it out slowly. Do I have an option?

Of course you do. You can tell me to walk right now. Do that and I promise you will never set eyes on me again. However, if you choose that route, you will be left to face the consequences of your recent actions. Those consequences will undoubtedly involve a court martial, a lengthy prison sentence, quite possibly life, and obviously a dishonourable discharge.

Mitchell's face paled at the last words. He swallowed hard. Or?

Or you can listen to what I have to tell you and commit yourself to the most challenging, and possibly the most dangerous thing, you have ever done in your life. However, by doing so you will be serving your country as you never have before. He placed a hand on Mitchell's shoulder. As long as you maintain that commitment your future is assured. And the good news I mentioned earlier? You walk out of here, honour intact.

Chapter Four

There was a light drizzle, but as Craig Mitchell crossed the car park, the car keys clasped in his hand, he didn't notice. Truth was, it could have been stair rods and he still wouldn't have noticed. The reason? His mind was in total turmoil trying to fathom what had just happened to him. The previous afternoon he'd been sitting in a pub in west London reading a newspaper and having a quiet drink. He turned and looked back at the building behind him -- Chelsea Police Station. Now he was walking away from a cell where he'd spent one of the most troubled and uncertain nights of his life. And that wasn't all. Only an hour before, to negotiate his freedom, he'd agreed to... He shook his head and looked down at the car keys, the leather key fob; the BMW leather key fob. What the hell had he agreed to?

Yesterday was the fourth day of a two-week leave being spent with his parents at their west London home. At the end of those two weeks, he was due to be shipped to Afghanistan for his next tour. But that was yesterday. Now, as far as his totally confused brain could figure, all that was no more.

Standing in the middle of the car park he blipped the remote, seeing immediately the flashing lights of the car several spaces down. He walked toward it noting it was indeed a BMW, and from the registration plate, no more than a couple years old. He shook his head again; how bazaar was this? Pulling open the door he slid into the driver's seat, the smell of leather upholstery invading his nostrils as he did so. He just couldn't help the smile that touched his lips as he closed the door behind him. His car? Was it really? He reached across and opened the glove compartment. As Sutton had promised, the large, sealed envelope was there.

He reached forward, but hesitated, his hand hovering over the package; a gut wrenching doubt suddenly invaded his mind. What had he done here? What pact had he made to save his own skin? He thought back trying to recall Sutton's final words, trying to interpret their meaning. The point had been made strongly several times; as a nation, we are soft and being taken advantage of. Time after time the justice system is letting us down with the do-good civil rights campaigners aided and abetted by clever, greed-fuelled lawyers securing the release of criminals known to be guilty. Criminals that would again be free to roam our streets and create mayhem. Then the final part, the covert part that he, Mitchell, was signing up to. He took a deep breath and lifted the envelope from the glove compartment. No time for doubts now; he'd made the decision and Sutton had made it perfectly clear; there was no turning back.

Peeling open the bulky envelope, he peered inside. The main content, the bulk, was money. Open-mouthed he withdrew one banded pack. They were twenty-pound notes and a quick count revealed there were fifty of them. He could feel his heart pounding against his ribs. Fifty twenty-pound notes; a thousand pounds. He pulled the other packs from the envelope. Including the pack he had counted there were ten. They were all the same. He swallowed hard. Ten thousand pounds. Looking around, assuring himself there was nobody near the car, he quickly stowed the money back into the envelope, checking to see what else was there. He found two keys attached to a cardboard tab on which