The Redeemed

By Simon Van Der Spoel

The Redeemed is an action thriller about a wounded SAS soldier who returns to his rural childhood home to heal is body and soul. Confronted by his past, the soldier must decide between love for his country and the love of a woman. But the truth of his ex fiancés past threatens to destroy them, and draws them into the vicious criminal underworld, where there is no guarantee of survival.
A thrill ride spanning the jungles of East Timor, the outback of Australia, and the city of sin Las Vegas with special forces, hitmen, gangsters and vicious femme fatales.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Simon Van Der Spoel
• Release date: May 29, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310457050

Book preview

PROLOGUE

LAS VEGAS

The young man's body was zip-tied upright, bound to a wooden board leaning against a concrete wall. The plastic ties bit deep into him, rending his flesh as his weight slumped motionless. Dried winding rivers of blood dripped down his face from several open cuts and wounds, marks of a vicious beating, a gag soaking up fluids.

A tall American man, dressed in an immaculate suit, stood surveying the area. He looked around the stark windowless concrete room, eyed the cold fluorescent lights for a moment before taking a long pull on a coffee cup, grimacing at the bitter taste.

Joseph King held out his other hand and his associate, Romero Fontain, a blue-eyed American man with close cropped hair and a stern demeanour, immediately filled it with a professional Digital SLR camera.

The taller man glanced at the shorter and handed over the coffee cup.

Terrible. Just terrible, Fontain, he muttered grimly before lifting the camera to his expert eye. He methodically photographed the scene before him, crouching to get better angles, turning the camera lens to zoom for a closer shot.

Squinting up at the light, King shook his head ruefully.

The quality of light is woeful, and our subject is a corpse. King looked down at the camera and checked some of the shots, clicking through the images of horror casually, efficiently.

But I think we're almost done.

Fontain nodded in agreement and took a sip from his own take-away coffee before placing both cups down on a stainless steel table nearby. The blue-eyed man picked up the powerful industrial nail gun from beside his coffee and stepped forward, pulling the trigger. With a click-hiss, a bright, shining spike of steel tore the air to plunge into the young man's arm. He immediately screamed and thrashed on the wooden board. Romero was silent and emotionless as King grinned.

Ah no, I was wrong. He's still here. I'll ask you again, Mr Read: where's the girl? The young man dribbled out a string of blood past the gag, the glob hitting a stainless steel tray under his feet with a dull plink. He moaned through swollen lips, lifting bleary eyes to meet his torturer, twisting his mouth in a rictus of pain. The camera flashed, capturing the image. The photographer tilted his head, as if listening.

No, sorry. Didn't understand a word of that.

Leaning forward, King loosened the gag from the young man's mouth, who spat down his own chest, breathing hard. Fuck you, King. The nasal tones were of an Australian accent, short and sharp, as he smiled bloodily.

Joseph King raised one eyebrow, as he stepped back and regarded his victim. You're not getting the point.

King nodded to Romero and another nail was fired into the young man's arm, then another, screams ripping from the bound man.

Am I getting through to you, Richard? Am I? How many do you think it will take? One guy lasted eighteen, till we hit his femoral artery. I count seven in you.

Richard Read hung in silence, blood flowing onto the tray below him.

FLASH. FLASH. More photos. More nails. More screams. Richard gasped for breath before yelling hoarsely. You'll never find her, she's gone!

King clicked his fingers, holding out the camera, and Romero replaced it with the coffee cup. King took another pull and grimaced again, glancing at Fontain.

This new blend Clubs has got me on tastes foul, powdered tiger's penis and rhinoceros horn. But I can feel its effects already.

He smiled and sipped again before swapping his coffee for the nail gun. Silently, emotionlessly, King lifted the hefty tool and took aim, squeezing off several lightning slivers of pain into Richard's trembling flesh. Over and over, the steel flashed through the air, striking wetly. King rocked with every jolt, breathing faster, and deeper with pleasure as blood splattered across his face.

He stopped suddenly, panting with exertion, and leaned toward the mess in front of him, drawing close to the ear of his writhing victim. You made it to twenty four, Richard. I'm proud of you. Now, tell me where she is or I'll shoot you in the balls.

Richard jerked viciously against his restraints, whimpering. Please…please…no…

King gently lifted Richard's head and gazed at him sympathetically. It's a special bond between master and victim. You know you will not survive this. It's like love. Give and take. You tried to take my life. Give me the location and I will take yours.

Richard began to cry, shaking as King pushed the nozzle of the nail gun into his crotch. Tears were streaming down his face, mixing with blood. King leaned even closer, turning his head as Richard started to whisper.

Romero Fontain picked up his coffee and took another sip as King straightened and gently wiped away the young man's tears. Thank you, Richard. I forgive you for trying to kill me.

The staccato click-hiss of the nail gun was a beat Richard's body danced to as he died, his life blood spattering in the tray at his feet.

King spun and threw the nail gun down onto the table beside Romero, before snatching the camera from his other hand and glaring at his right hand man. What is unforgiveable is that you let a threat get this close to me, Fontain. A head of security that can't protect me isn’t a good investment.

Romero Fontain straightened at the fury in King's voice, opening his mouth to speak, but King waved him off, pulling a phone from Romero's front pocket.

I'm replacing you.

King dialled a number.

I know where she is. Coleville, North Queensland, Australia. Bring her to me. Now. King ended the call and flicked it back at Romero, who snatched it easily from the air. Who's the better man? Romero asked.

The Redeemer, snapped King.

Fiction.

Rather expensive fiction, Romero, as you'll find out.

Romero's eyes widened at the implication, until King clapped him on the shoulder. When he gets here, that is. You'll be on nightclub security when that happens. Now, clean this up, bag the blood for later.

King looked back at Richard's limp form again. Lifting the camera up, zooming in, he focused and pressed the button, taking one last picture of the shredded young man. What do the Aussies say? This one's going straight to the pool room? King grinned and swept from the room.

Romero Fontain could only grit his teeth and clench his fists as he stalked forward, before lashing out with a crushing blow into the dead man before him. The ribs cracked satisfyingly under his knuckles, but without a reaction, the satisfaction was muted. How a kid from the far side of the world had gotten within inches of taking the life of one of the most powerful drug lords in the world remained a mystery to the former head of security.

But one thing was for certain: if he wanted that title back, he would have to work harder and smarter than ever before.

That and remove the legendary hitman known only as the Redeemer.

CHAPTER ONE

DILI EAST TIMOR: HELIPAD

SAS Sergeant Sam Read, a ruggedly handsome elite trooper in desperate need of a shave and a shower, stood eyeing the duo of choppers that were ready to bear him away at a moment’s notice.

The sight of a Blackhawk Helicopter sitting on the grass field, blades turning and fuel burning in full military payload, cigar-like fuel pods on short stubby struts, side gunners peering past black MAG 58, 7.62mm Machine Guns, was enough to stir the blood of any soldier. Whether it was in nervous anticipation, or fear of not being in control as the machine bore them away from the earth, every ground pounder felt a thrill of excitement as the heavy blades cut the soup-like air, thudding deep within their chest.

Some pilot with romantic, poetic notions might describe it as a steady beat to wing your way to the dance of battle…

To Sam, that was a load of crap, some line a sprog pilot from 5th Aviation might spin for a drunk blonde back home in Townsville.

The mottled green, black and brown camo face paint was cool on his skin, mixing with the sweat leaking from his brow in the tropical heat, causing his eyes to sting. His palms were sweating inside his fingerless combat gloves, and even the normally cool surface of his M4 Carbine was warm in his grip.

Sam looked behind him, towards the other four men of his C troop patrol Charlie One, tightening straps, doing vis-checks on weapons, preparing for deployment, loaded for bear. They were his warfighters: Dylan Cross, Jacob Swanson, Nathan Wilson, and Tyson Oliver. Good men. Hard men.

A troop was out there in the dense jungle and was last reported to have spotted a large contingent of militia heading their way. Being that B and C troop were the Quick Reaction Force on standby with aerial support, Sergeant Read was sure to be leading his men into battle any second. He glanced at the commander of B troop, who was finishing final checks on his own four. The tall warrior grinned good-naturedly and gave him the middle finger salute, which Sam returned in kind, a smile dancing across his lips.

One thousand years ago, the likes of Corporal Ben Martin would have led a screaming horde of Vikings on the warpath, and Sam was glad to have him on his side. He was fearsome to behold in full swing, a true warrior brother.

Sam reached up and nudged his earpiece, trying to seat it better, waiting for any orders from the Tactical Ops Centre. Generally known as Ops, it was the secure area with the officers from Squadron HQ, the watch keeper, the signallers with their communication equipment and the mission briefing Intelligence Officers or 'pests' as he called them. The greenlight to take off would come from them. The waiting was the most painful; the threat of action on the horizon just heightened the dragging seconds.

He hated war movies these days – the bleached, colour faded, frantic-camera action pieces with little hint of the reality they claimed to represent. In actuality, it was moments like this that would remain with him, the heat of the sun beating down, the sweat, the hyper vivid green of the grass, the warped rippling air above the exhausts of the helicopters, the crystal clarity of a flying ant crawling across the back of his glove. The gossamer wings of the insect glistened in stark contrast to its black body, as it crawled onto the trigger guard of his weapon. The smallest of lives, millimetres from the trigger of death.

Colours and details were etched in high definition, not faded like the films would have you believe. With adrenaline beginning to trickle through your system, everything was more real, more alive. Sam took a deep breath and looked up into the stunning blue sky, his polarised combat sunglasses giving it a dark, sweeping gradient.

In the quiet before a fight, it was here a soldier's thoughts flickered through images of home, of family, jumbling them with weapon checks, situational awareness drills, orders, different scenarios that could eventuate, the what ifs. He wondered how his father was coping; last time they'd spoken, Sam heard that his little brother, Richard, had left the farm. But that was months ago.

Neither of his two sons had stuck around to follow in his footsteps, and James Read was a proud man, a hard man, in love with the earth he reared his livestock on. His disappointment was a difficult thing to face, something that Sam had struggled with. Involuntarily, her face drifted through the halls of his thoughts, causing him to frown. Long dark tresses, almost black, and dark green eyes, the kind that almost went blue when she was angry, set in the most beautiful oval face his hands had ever touched. His fingers curled tighter around the rail of his M4 at the memory of his fingers buried in her hair at the nape of her neck, as –

He crushed the thought ruthlessly.

Why she had decided to appear now, after so many years of being buried in the recesses of his mind, he couldn't fathom.

Emma.

Ben Martin's gloved hand clapped him on the shoulder, startling him out of his reverie, Sam smiled ruefully. Sorry, what?

When your face looks that hard, you're usually about to drop a guy with two to the head. What's up, mate?

Ben's short blonde hair was slick with sweat, his ice blue eyes narrowed in concern. You're not nervous about this one, right?

Sam shrugged. Nah, mate, just thinking about some chick. You know how it is, been a long tour.

Ben grinned. Tell me about it, I haven't been laid in months. Nothing worse than jerking off in a jungle; you don't know if you'll lose the old fella to some beastie, mosquito, leech, or some fucking sharp shooter.

I don't think they put microscopic sights on rifles these days, Benny boy, he'd have to be a great fucking shot to pick that target.

Sam dodged Ben's mock-outrage backhand with a laugh.

Funny man, keep your mind on the job, and off the girls – at least till we get back home. We'll go to some nice bar and I'll tell ‘em you're a nice army chopper pilot, they love that one. Ben winked toward the pilot of the first thrumming monster growling nearby and smiled. His smile dropped when their earpieces crackled and the duty room officer chirped. All callsigns, all callsigns this is Echo Bravo, radio check over.

Sam looked back at his troop, who were alert and ready and nodded. Echo Bravo this is Charlie One Alpha, loud, clear, over.

Charlie One Two, loud, clear, said 2IC Dylan.

One Three, loud, clear said Medic Jacob.

One Four, loud, clear, said Signaller Nathan.

One Five, loud, clear, said Sniper Tyson.

All callsigns, Echo Bravo, loud, clear. You are clear to go.

Sam gave a thumbs up to the pilot of the nearest chopper, and received a thumbs up in return. Clear to board, he began to jog toward the sidebay door of the Blackhawk. Ben headed for the other with his men. As Sam got closer to his 'taxi' he could see the name of the chopper stencilled on the forward engine cover.

Vigilance.

Perhaps he needed to pay it more mind – heading into a combat zone in a hostile AO, distracted by thoughts of an old girlfriend was far from the definition of vigilance.

He shook his head and counted his men as they seated themselves in the low open doors, feet touching the grass. Ben and his men finished their radio checks in his ear as Sam seated himself in the doorway.

He grabbed his strop on his waist belt, which was attached to a D-ring. At the end of the strop was a spinnaker release, one end hooked onto the D-ring on the belt, the other end had an alloy snap gate karabiner which he snapped into the rings bolted onto the floor of the chopper. In an emergency, he could haul on the lanyard at either end and the strop would be released, something that had saved soldiers in the past. A set of headphones was passed to Sam so he could direct comms with the pilot and aircrew.

The deep heavy throb of the rotor blades above changed pitch and the revs increased, ratcheting up into a buzzing roar, the vibrations in the floor thrumming through his body. The world dropped away from his tan combat boots, the grass flickering wildly, green and silver in rippling waves, smashed by the downdraft as they rose into the air.

Sam's earpiece crackled and they began to hear comms chatter as the TOC patched them into A troop's frequency.

Echo Bravo this is A21, contact wait out.

At that point everyone maintained radio silence as A21 had priority of the net, as he prepared his sit rep.

Echo Bravo, contact, rebel militia. Fifty Tangos, five-zero, using Steyer F88's, couple of AK47's and F2000 assault rifles. Grid reference two-niner-niner-three-zero-two, holding position. Popping red smoke for hot LZ.

Sam steeled himself; this was what he was born to do and most of all, he loved his job. He glanced at his boys beside him, faces calm and alert, scanning the jungle below.

This was where he was meant to be, and if he had his way, nothing short of death would keep him from it.

***

EAST TIMOR: OPS ROOM COMMAND POINT

The Ops Room CP tent was filled with glowing computer screens, data links and satellite arrays bringing the latest information to the operators in heartbeats. Right now, two blue rectangular blips were fast approaching a large red diamond on the computer map. The officer in command stood watching and listening as radio chatter, interspersed with harsh gunfire, kept him apprised of the situation. An aide approached and handed him a note, freshly beamed from the mainland back home. The officer scanned it quickly.

Shit, he muttered.

His 2IC immediately looked to him. Problem, sir? he queried.

The officer crumpled the note and looked at the two blips, getting closer and closer to the red diamond. Sergeant Read's brother was murdered in Las Vegas three days ago. The officer pursed his lips, as his 2IC shifted uncomfortably, looking at the map and then back to his officer.

Sir? the 2IC probed. The officer straightened. Carry on. I'll inform him myself when he gets back to base.

Yes sir.

The nearby operators bent back to the task of guiding the Blackhawks to the insertion point and plotting enemy movements. Some things couldn't be helped.

***

AUSTRALIA: NORTH QUEENSLAND

A large wooden farmhouse, its wide shady verandas and creaking corrugated iron roof identifying it as an iconic Queenslander, baked under the Australian sun. Heat haze roiled across dry, dusty fields, as brown, grassy hills wavered in the distance. The grey-bearded Irishman sat in the shade, watching the colours bleed and melt in the air above this patch of soil he called home. Dave Ferguson scratched his chin absently as he sat musing, the sound of a large water fountain burbling in background.

With a sigh, he turned back to what was on the table before him. The collection of springs and metal components were the remains of a Tommy Gun, which he slowly began to piece together. With his tongue stuck out of the corner of his mouth, he worried at the pieces with a brush, oiling some, scrubbing others, sliding components together.

Dave was carefully placing the wooden foregrip when his wife Mavis stepped out and placed a cup of tea in front of him, her face lined with the toil of hard years. In her other hand was a satellite phone.

Dave, stop playing with your toy, it's the girl. She nudged his shoulder gently till he reluctantly lowered the components to the faded blue table cloth with another sigh.

As a Blackhawk Helicopter sped over lush thick jungle hundreds of miles away, sunlight glinting of flickering blades, side gunners swivelling weapons, Dave Ferguson lifted the phone to his ear.

How long? he grated.

In a small phone box, its glass windows broken with numerous star patterns, dry dust scuffing underfoot, stood Emma, her dark locks pushed behind her ears and her aqua eyes darting up and down the highway running past the lonely truck stop. She cupped her hand over the receiver as a truck rumbled toward her.

Not far now. The