Torn Apart

By David Callinan

A Catholic nun. A deadly assassin. Bound together by blood. Twins torn apart at birth.

Then they are reunited.

This detonates an unstoppable explosion of events that embroils Mike Delaney in the battle of his life.

Hunted by 'the sepulcher killer' who uses an ancient and long forgotten weapon.

Ex assassin, Hong Kong cop and one-time warrior monk, Mike Delaney is part of confess-confess, the citizen's crime-busting website. When he falls for a sob story in Ireland (the land of his birth) he is catapulted into a nail-biting battle for survival and sucked into an international conspiracy.

Delaney was simply doing a favour for an innocent Irish nun. He didn't expect it to spiral into a fight for survival, and grapple with an almost unstoppable force.

Identical twins unable to avoid their destinies. Will they both survive? 'You'll never read more high-octane thriller this year. Or any year.'

5-star reviews
'The best action adventure thriller I've read this year' - aweston39
'For fans of deMille, Child, Patterson. Pulse Pounding' - Texas
'Leaves you breathless, helpless, heartbroken' - Tex
'You will never guess the end' - Dorothy Stone

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Callinan
• Release date: Dec 11, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370139514

David Callinan

David Callinan is a novelist and musician/songwriter. He is the author of the sci-fi classic 'Fortress Manhattan' and has recently released the first of a thriller series featuring ex assassin, ex cop and ex monk, Mike Delaney titled 'The Immortality Plot'. Other near-the-knuckle thrillers include: 'Knife Edge'; 'An Angel On My Shoulder' and 'Bodyswitch'.He has re-released the bestselling holistic guide to health, wealth and happiness 'The 10-Minute Miracle'.He also writes for young adults and children. The first of his scientific/magical, dystopian trilogy 'The Kingdoms Of Time And Space' has been published' 'Kingdom Of The Nanosaurs' and also the first in a chapter book series for 7-10 year olds 'The Weather Kids And The Rainbow Superhighway'.David Callinan is Anglo-Irish, born into a family from Limerick in the west of Ireland who grew up in the UK. After busking all over Europe he rediscovered Irish music and formed The Spalpeens playing all over the UK, Europe and Ireland touring with The Dubliners, Sweeney's Men, The Chieftains and many others.He appeared in films such as The Lion In Winter (Peter O'Toole, Katherine Hepburn) and Sinful Davey (John Hurt) and scores of television advertisements (was even directed by the late, great John Huston).Later, he formed Urban Clearway, touring and performing with artists such as Elton John, Billy Connolly, Rod Stewart and Long John Baldry.He co-wrote a Celtic rock opera for the Edinburgh Festival. 'Pucka-Ri' starred a young Pierce Brosnan and became one of the hits of the Fringe, before transferring to the Arts Theatre in London.Latterly, an earlier spacey, folk-rock album, 'Freedom's Lament', recorded by Callinan-Flynn, has emerged as a highly sought after title on the Internet - and new wave Irish chanteur Sean Tyrrell has recorded a number of his songs on recent albums.All David's books are available via his website as are downloads of recent music tracks and earlier, 60s, material.Print this

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

The forty-two foot Nauset cabin cruiser rose and fell gently at its mooring in the lapping waters of Boston Harbor’s Long Wharf. Mike Delaney awoke from a deep slumber but kept his eyes tightly shut.

Whoever was in his sleeping berth watching him had been noiseless until a moment ago when a slight rustle and slow exhalation of breath had summoned Delaney from sleep. A cold prickle of adrenaline jogged his senses into fully alert mode. Very slowly he slid his right hand inch by inch across the bed under the duvet causing not even a ripple until he found the cold, hard handle of his .38 Smith and Wesson revolver secreted as it always was in a holster attached to the side frame. He slipped his hand around the grip and his finger onto the trigger.

He readied himself, sucking in his breath slowly and deeply.

Delaney erupted from the bed, lifting his knees and sweeping the duvet away with his left hand while his right brought the revolver up in a blur of movement as he opened his eyes.

The man standing at the cabin door was startled, gasped and took one step back.

Don’t move, Delaney ordered.

The man stood rock still. He was of medium height with sandy hair and was wearing a well-pressed black suit, blue shirt and gray tie.

I do apologize if I startled you, Mr. Delaney, he said watching the snout of the Smith and Wesson pointing directly at his head.

Delaney swung his legs out of the bed and stood up. He was naked and his head just touched the roof of the cabin. He towered over the figure in the doorway. The man averted his eyes.

Who are you? ordered Delaney. Talk.

Morrison, sir, said the man remaining as rigid as a pole. I am Mr. Ravelli’s chauffeur.

You’re English.

Yes, sir. Morrison paused. I’ve been sent to collect you, Mr. Delaney. Mr. Ravelli has a private jet waiting at Logan airport.

Delaney let out his breath and glanced at his wristwatch. You’re way too early. What’s the rush?

Morrison said. Mr. Ravelli thought it would be appropriate to brief you in person.

You’re still too early, Delaney said.

I believe in being prompt, said Morrison a little prissily. Mr. Ravelli cannot abide lateness.

So we have time for breakfast? asked Delaney.

I’d feel more comfortable if you lowered the gun, sir, said Morrison.

Delaney smiled and put the Smith and Wesson back into his holster and unfastened it from the bed.

Thank you, Mr. Delaney. We should leave here in forty minutes."

Can you cook? asked Delaney.

I certainly can.

Hungry?

A tad, said Morrison.

You’ll find eggs and bacon in the refrigerator and coffee next to the coffee maker. Okay, what say you cook us breakfast while I shower, get dressed and see about securing the boat?

‘Agreed. I’ll just remove my jacket if I may."

Morrison turned and walked down to the galley, taking off his coat and opening the door of the refrigerator. Delaney stepped into the shower, sluiced himself down, dried and dressed quickly in dark trousers, a cotton shirt and gray jacket. He packed quickly, found his passport, cellphone and wallet. While the tantalizing aroma of freshly brewed coffee, bacon and eggs filled the main cabin, Delaney eased his way to the stern, lifted the engine hatch and, using a screwdriver, undid the fastenings holding the rotor arm in place and removed it. He replaced the hatch and secreted the engine part inside a sliding compartment above the shower cubicle, then returned to the cabin where Morrison was serving breakfast.

Sorry if I startled you, Mr. Delaney, said Morrison.

My apology for the gun, it’s a conditioned reflex, Delaney told him.

You’re ex services, no doubt. Morrison ladled eggs and bacon onto two plates with toast while Delaney poured coffee.

Afraid so, said Delaney. How long have you worked for Ravelli?

Three years, said Morrison as they both began to eat. This is really very good of you. Breakfast I mean.

Don’t mention it. What kind of business is your boss in? I’ve heard about him but no more than that. I just received this offer in my inbox.

I never discuss my employer’s business, said Morrison. All I can tell you is that he is an entrepreneur who has fingers in all kinds of pies.

Delaney grunted and glanced at his watch. Okay, I’ll just clear up and lock the boat. Then we can leave.

Ten minutes later Delaney and Morrison were standing on the boardwalk next to the gangway. It was a crisp day with a light breeze jangling through the riggings of the boats moored along the wharf.

Morrison looked back at the blue and gray cabin cruiser with admiration. How long have you had her, Mr. Delaney? Do you live on board permanently?

Three years now, replied Delaney as he remotely locked the cabin and flybridge access doors. I’m a fair weather sailor. Took some lessons. I’m good enough to sail along the coast but not good enough to venture out to sea. She’ll cruise at sixteen knots and she’s comfortable. This is home sweet home except I have to leave the mooring for a few weeks each year.

The two men walked up the gangway into a busy Long Wharf. Parked close by was a sleek Lincoln MKS sedan with tinted windows.

Front or back, Mr. Delaney? Morrison.

I’ll sit up front with you, said Delaney. He tossed his airline cabin bag in the back seat and slid into the front seat alongside Morrison, adjusting the leg room to the maximum.

Relax and enjoy the ride, sir, said Morrison. We’ll drive right onto the tarmac.

Morrison guided the luxury car smoothly out onto Atlantic Avenue swinging left onto Seaport Drive and then across the Massachusetts Turnpike into a busy Logan airport. The Lincoln headed toward the West terminal. Morrison checked in at the gate and was waved through to a line of private planes.

Parked some way from the others with its boarding steps down was a Hawker 800 with thrust reversers. The morning sun shimmered in reflection from its pale fuselage. Morrison drove up to the steps, got out of the car, opened the back door, took out Delaney’s bag and stood waiting for the big man by the foot of the steps.

Thank you, Morrison, said Delaney taking his bag. Any advice?

Watch your head, said the chauffeur as he turned away. And your back, he muttered under his breath.

Delaney climbed the steps and entered the cabin. There were five large captain’s chairs in creamy light brown leather facing each other with tables supporting LCD screens and computers in between. There was a brown carpet and cream cabinets. Delaney noticed the mini galley, lavatory closet and cockpit. Delaney could see the pilot checking his instruments and talking quietly to air traffic control. The cockpit door closed. Delaney had to duck slightly but then could stand upright.

Standing in the center of the cabin was a tough looking, stocky man wearing a well cut pale gray suit, light blue shirt with chunky gold cufflinks and brown loafers. Ravelli had a large head crowned with a dense matting of gray hair, his face heavily tanned and lined. When he spoke his voice was a grumbling baritone with an accent Delaney could not place.

The Monk, I presume, he said.

Mike Delaney, said Delaney, extending his hand. Ravelli ignored the proffered handshake and indicated Delaney sit facing him as the Hawker moved off to taxi to the west runway. Both men strapped themselves in.

Coffee, asked Ravelli. Delaney thanked him and Ravelli poured two cups. Both men took it black. Delaney assessed Ravelli’s age as mid sixties and that he was a man used to power and control. For a moment Ravelli watched Delaney then said.

You come highly recommended, Mr. Delaney. Not at least on that website confess-confess dot com. He savored the words. I am not completely unaware of the power of that site. And the investigator known as The Monk has achieved a degree of notoriety. I understand perfectly if you wish to keep your alter ego a private affair. You also acted as a courier for someone I know and trust and he spoke well of you. Said you were trustworthy. Can I trust you, Mr. Delaney?

The aircraft reached take-off speed and suddenly they were in the air, leaving Boston behind and heading down the coast towards New York.

You can trust me, said Delaney. I was a novice monk for a time, hence the nickname. What’s the assignment?

It’s a very simple, yet important task. You will take a packet to an address in London where you will meet someone. You will give it to him and him alone, collect the other half of your fee and return. You must not, under any circumstances, open the packet yourself. The contents will cause the recipient extreme distress but that is none of your affair.

Why not use commercial couriers or the mail? asked Delaney.

Ravelli chuckled. The contents are far too important to risk that method. No, I need someone who doesn’t know much about me, doesn’t work for me and won’t be able to locate me easily. It would be the worse for them if they did.

But you can always find them.

Ravelli laughed gruffly then reached under the table and withdrew a large, thick envelope sealed with red wax along its gummed edge. He then took out a smaller envelope and placed it on the table.

The name and address of the person to whom you must deliver this is on the envelope. Inside the other envelope is two thousand dollars and your business class return airline ticket. You will receive the other half of your fee when you complete the task. It may upset him to pay you but that’s the deal.

Delaney picked up the envelope with the cash, checked it and slipped it into his inside jacket pocket. He picked up the sealed envelope and read the name and address.

Yuri Charkov, 34 Carnaby Street, London.

He placed the envelope into a zipped pocket in his case.

You’re booked on a flight to Heathrow from JFK at 11.30am, Ravelli told him. You will be fast tracked through security and get to London just after midnight U.K time. Book into a hotel and deliver the packet first thing tomorrow. Is that understood?

Perfectly, Delaney told Ravelli.

Business over, Ravelli poured more coffee and regarded Delaney curiously. This confess-confess website intrigues me, he began. It’s a kind of escape valve for victims of crime, injustice or with an axe to grind with a bunch of amateurs sticking their noses where they’re not wanted. You’re different. You’re a professional. How did you get involved?

Delaney stretched out his legs. I was in the service of the U.S government then seconded to the Hong Kong Police Force when I became friends with the guy who later set up the site. I’ve taken on a few assignments but I’m not one of those obsessed individuals who think they’re James Bond or Jason Bourne. Some of those amateurs take it too seriously.

This would be Bob Messenger. He’s British, correct?

Yes. Bob and I go back a long way. Delaney said.

What made you become a monk? You don’t strike me as the religious type? asked Ravelli.

Delaney glanced out of the window then looked back.

I went through a pretty traumatic time a few years back. I joined an unusual monastic order to cut myself off. I always had a hankering for the spiritual life. But I wasn’t cut out to be a full-time monk. Delaney paused. So, what line of business are you in?

Ravelli just smiled. What made you become a courier?

Confess-confess is not really a job recruitment site but people can place small classifieds. You don’t need any formal qualifications to be a courier and I could work for cash so I tried it out. Seemed to get results. So who recommended me? I ought to say thank you.

We’ll be landing at JFK in about fifteen minutes. If this assignment goes well, I may have more lucrative work for you. Just ensure you do not become too curious. Ravelli sank back into his seat and closed his eyes.

The conversation was over.

CHAPTER 2

It took Mike Delaney twenty minutes to clear passport control and security at JFK. Ravelli had said nothing more, just watched him as he stood up, picked up his case and ducked out of the Hawker to find a shuttle waiting for him to take him to the terminal.

Thirty minutes later he had settled into business class and was sipping the first of several glasses of champagne. He ordered a medium rare steak with extra fries and salad and contemplated his life. Since selling his house in Monterey all those years ago and coming to terms with the pain of losing his wife he felt things had worked out pretty well. He had no clear life direction or ambition but had found satisfaction living in the margins. Over the years he had returned to the monastery in California where he'd spent two years with the esoteric Brothers of Light in order to get his head and soul straight, practice meditation, hone his martial art skills and find himself.

Then, without warning, memories of the times he had spent there infiltrated his thoughts, like a space that opens between life and death as the final breath is drawn.

It is infinitesimal yet limitless. During these moments Mike Delaney hovered in that space, experiencing only the constant now. What had gone before and what was to come were as one, insubstantial, illusory, beyond memory.

He could hear the ancient monastery bell tolling, resonating through the crowded prayer hall, summoning the monks back to the world of matter.

The moment passed.

Delaney was looking forward to surprising Bob Messenger in his home town when he arrived in London. He would carry out this simple assignment, call him, and meet up for a few beers.

It was approaching one o’clock in the morning when he checked into the Radisson hotel in Portman Street. He had a few drinks at the bar then went to bed.

The next morning a light drizzle was falling on London. Delaney rose early and went through his tai chi routine, meditation, and then his chi kung exercises using his breath to control the voluntary muscles in his body. This was a highly advanced esoteric technique he’d learned painstakingly and by practicing intensive disciplines at the monastery. He finished off with a hundred press-ups, sit-ups, and yoga stretches. Then he showered and shaved.

Delaney had breakfast then called Bob Messenger from the lobby. A receptionist at confess-confess patched him through.

Messenger, said the clipped English accent that always reminded Delaney of John Gielgud.

Bob, it’s me, Mike Delaney.

Good God, shouted Messenger, what a surprise. Where the hell are you?

I’m in London. I’m here on a quick assignment. Just a courier job. Should be over and done with in an hour or so. What about lunch?

You try and leave London without buying me a pint and I’ll have your Yankee guts for garters. Of course we’ll have lunch. And dinner. Do you know where we are?

Delaney had a general grasp of London’s geography but visualized everywhere as radiating from the location of the River Thames. Just give me the address and I’ll check a map or call a cab.

We’re in Covent Garden, said Messenger, ‘twenty-five Maiden Lane. Where’s your courier drop?"

Carnaby Street. I’m in Portman Street.

Easy, Messenger told him. Walk to Oxford Street, turn left, keep walking till you cross Regent Street then next right down Argyle Street past the London Palladium and then first left, first right and you’re in Carnaby Street. Just turn up here when you’re done.

Delaney thanked him and went out into better weather. The drizzle had ceased and a watery sun was trying to break through. Delaney held the envelope tightly in his hand and set a brisk pace. He followed Messenger’s directions and found Carnaby Street in twenty minutes. It was a pedestrian only zone.

Moments later he was standing outside number thirty-four. Cheap plastic digits were stuck onto a dirty green door with flaky paint and there was an intercom with a single bell button housed in a plastic cover. There was no name tag. The two-storey building above it was painted yellow and there were four grimy windows. On one side of the building was a narrow alley with a number of fire escapes. On the other side was a clothes shop crammed with sale items. Force of habit made Delaney step back across the street and spend a moment or two scrutinizing the locale. He glanced at the address on the envelope. This was it. He strode over and rang the bell. After a moment a gruff, accented voice responded.

Yes, who is it?

I’m here on behalf of Mr. Ravelli. You’re expecting me, said Delaney.

There was no reply at first then a voice directed him to the first floor and a buzzer opened the door. Inside, a corridor led into the back of the building and a flight of stairs with a worn carpet led up to the next floor. A whiff of stale, cooked food pervaded the hallway. Something stirred Delaney’s insides, an instinct he had learned to trust. There was something about this place, apart from the peeling wallpaper and faded prints. He climbed the stairs to a landing and found a door ajar.

He pushed the door open slowly then went in and found himself in a sparse room that was being used for storage. There were moth eaten mannequins, stacked chairs, boxes piled one on top of the other. It was dusty and unused except for this meeting. In the corner there was a wooden door with a large twin-paned window through which Delaney could see the railings of the fire escape.

There were four men in the room.

One of them, the leader Delaney assumed, was sitting behind a large empty desk with a small, wooden chair in front. The other three stood behind the seated figure. They all looked tough and ruthless. And they looked Russian.

I’m looking for Yuri Charkov, said Delaney.

The man seated behind the desk had a shaven head, a thick, muscular neck and a scar on his cheek. He replied in a heavy accent.

I am Charkov, he said. "Please to sit down.’

Delaney moved to the chair, sat down and placed the envelope on the table. I am delivering this. If you could pay me the remainder of my fee I’ll be on my way.

Charkov allowed his mouth to elongate into a strained smile. You will stay where you are for the moment. He touched the envelope, moved it around the table, checked the seal then picked it up. He didn’t open it at first but stared at it then regarded Delaney bleakly. You have not opened this?

Delaney shook his head. He wanted to be out of there. No, of course not.

With a glance in the direction of his compatriots, Charkov broke the seal and took out the contents. For a long moment he stared at the collection of photographs and documents in his hand. He took a CD out of the envelope and placed it in front of him.

Delaney noticed that Charkov had turned a shade of puce gray and beads of sweat had formed on his forehead. He ground his teeth as one by one he examined each photo. He picked up some documents and read them. His eyes hardened. Whatever he was staring at with white knuckled rage was causing his anger to boil.

He said to Delaney with a voice tight with emotional tension. You come all the way from America to give me this.

Mr. Charkov, I am simply a courier. I never met Mr. Ravelli before yesterday. He hired me to deliver this envelope and said you would pay me two thousand dollars.

Charkov glanced over his shoulder at the other three men standing impassively behind him.

Then a note fluttered out of the envelope. Delaney read it upside down and watched Charkov’s reaction.

‘He knows everything. KILL THE COURIER’

Charkov twisted the note in his hand. I don’t believe you, Mr. Courier, his voice almost trembled as he banged his fist on the documents spread upside down on the table.

Delaney stood up easy and slow, watching for the slightest movement from the muscle in suits. He took a gentle step to the left and gripped the top bar of the wooden chair. The two Russians with flat Slavic faces behind Charkov on his left were standing close together on the Carnaby Street side of the room. With the desk in the way there was only a foot or so clearance to squeeze around the obstacle. That would give Delaney a split second advantage. He estimated the number of strides to reach the fire escape door.

The third Russian stood on Charkov’s right on the fire escape side. He wasn’t as muscle packed as the other two. He was shorter and slimmer and wore a thin mustache. But he looked the most dangerous of the three. His right hand was close to his trouser band and his jacket was open.

Knife was Delaney’s best guess.

Whatever kicked off here, it was not intended that Delaney leave alive. He could only surmise the nature of the photographs and other documents. Blackmail was the most likely. As for the note, it had sealed Delaney’s fate as far as Charkov was concerned. However this played out Delaney wasn’t going to get paid. And the Russian was clearly not in the mood for an ethical debate over coffee and biscuits.

Delaney had learned not to blink before sudden movement and to shift into attack mode in an instant.

He stared at the four men, gripped the chair tightly, shifted his weight to his right foot, lifted the chair and swung it with full force into the mustachioed Russian’s face. It connected with his nose, which spurted blood all over Charkov who roared in anger and started to rise from his seat as the two Slavic heavies shuffled into action.

Delaney took off from his right foot and ran full pelt towards the side door. He had to get this right. And he had to pray the door wasn’t reinforced. His pursuers would only be seconds behind him. He lowered his shoulder and roared as he hit the vertical frame above the lock with the full force of his two hundred and thirty pounds.

The door, windows and door frame shattered. The lock and door handles flew in every direction.

Delaney’s impetus catapulted him out onto the iron fire escape. He had no choice but to grab the top rail and roll over it onto the steps below. If he missed the steps he would crash to the ground. Even though it was only one storey up he could break his ankles or worse.

He landed with metal bending impact on the lower steps, glanced behind to find the three Russian bodyguards no more than ten steps behind him.

Delaney was no sprinter but he wasn’t slow. He raced out on to Carnaby Street into a stream of lethargically moving mid-morning shoppers. He ran down the street dodging angry pedestrians and racked his brain to remember even a rudimentary map of London streets. He knew he was facing the river somewhere far up ahead. Behind him came shouts and screams of abuse as the pursuing Russians barged their way through the crowd. He reached the end of the pedestrian thoroughfare with an arched sign saying ‘Welcome to Carnaby Street’ glanced up and saw a sign saying Beak Street. He turned right and ran along Beak Street till he came to the junction of Warwick Street.

The Russians were forty yards behind. These guys weren’t giving up. Ravelli must have pissed them off real bad.

Cars were parked along Warwick Street facing him. First car he saw was a black BMW five series with foreign plates. He also saw a London black cab about to pull out into Beak Street heading for a busy street a hundred yards further on.

It was for hire.

Delaney waved it down and before the cabbie could speak had leapt into the back seat with the Russians now ten yards away.

Put your foot down now if you want to stay alive, yelled Delaney.

Where to, mate? said the cabbie. Then he noticed three large foreign looking men arriving at speed.

What’s going on? he shouted back at Delaney.

They have guns, for Christ’s sake move. Head for the river.

The cabbie came to a decision. He rammed his foot on the accelerator and the cab lurched forward just as the first Russian banged on the roof and tried to open the rear door.

Piss off hitting my cab, screamed the cabbie. Too late. All three Russians were now banging on the cab as it roared towards Regent Street. The lights were at red.

Shit, shouted the cabbie glancing in his mirror. Then with relief. They’ve gone. Right, mate, you, out of my cab now.

Delaney looked through the rear window.

Here they come. In the BMW. No time to explain. You need to lose them.

The cabbie weighed up the odds as the BMW accelerated towards them. The lights turned amber then green and the cabbie floored the pedal.

He was a good driver. Neither car could drive fast in busy traffic with lights at every junction but the BMW stayed resolutely thirty yards or so behind. The cabbie called to Delaney.

Right, mate, what’s going on?

I’ve never seen them before in my life. They stopped me in the street thinking I was somebody else. They called me some foreign name. One of them showed me a gun in his waistband. I panicked and ran. I’ll pay you double fare to lose them.

Do you want me to call the police?

By the time they get here we could be dead.

The cabbie spun the wheel and overtook a line of buses. He glanced in his mirror. Delaney stared out of the back window. He could see the BMW about five cars back as they came to a place he recognized from tourist photographs. They sped around Piccadilly Circus then screeched to a halt at a red light. Delaney saw the BMW mount the sidewalk and inch its way towards them scattering pedestrians and cyclists. People pounded the roof of the car but the Russians were not listening.

We got trouble here, mate, said the cabbie as the BMW rammed the back of the cab, blocking the car behind. No one smashes my cab and gets away with it, shouted the cabbie opening his door.

No, don’t get out, Delaney yelled.

But the cabbie was already confronting the three Russians. In background Delaney could see people making calls on their cellphones or looking for film cameras thinking a movie was being made.

Delaney got out of the cab as one of the Slavs hit the cabbie. He was unconscious the second the blow connected. Delaney jumped into driver’s seat as the lights changed.

Shit! Manual drive.

He crunched the car into second gear and hit the accelerator. The cab roared off as the Russians piled back into the BMW.

Delaney followed traffic, amazed at the size of the double-decker buses. They were huge. And they were getting in the way. He saw a sign saying Haymarket and floored the accelerator, ignoring the first red light as did the BMW.

Why wouldn’t the Russians give up?

Somewhere in the distance Delaney could hear the two-tone wailing of a police siren. He weaved and spun his way until he reached another famous London site. Drivers yelled and honked their horns as a black cab and a BMW raced around Trafalgar Square. The lights were kind but Delaney had no idea where he was going. He followed a line of cabs around the square, took a left and passed a large railway station on his right.

Charing Cross.

The BMW was closing, only three cars behind now as lights turned green. Delaney drove straight and then ahead saw two cabs pull in to a right only bay waiting to turn across oncoming traffic to the Savoy Hotel.

With the BMW now two cars behind, Delaney undercut the two waiting cabs and took a chance, spun the wheel narrowly missing an oncoming bus and roared into the semi-circular parking bay in front of the hotel. A liveried doorman stood watching in furious amazement as Delaney slammed on the brakes and mounted the sidewalk. People nearby screamed as the black BMW overtook another cab and skidded ninety degrees behind Delaney who leapt from the cab and ran to the front entrance.

The three Russians were closing fast.

The doorman decided not to intervene. Instead he pulled out his cellphone.

Delaney had had enough of running. It was clear his pursuers would not give up. It was time to make a stand. At least there would be witnesses to what would happen next.

Delaney stood dead center of the large lobby area facing the front entrance. On his left was reception with guests checking in and out. On his right was a lounge area with armchairs and sofas, antique furniture including a superb rosewood dining table big enough for a game of snooker.

There were guests and visitors, businessmen and tourists milling around alerted by the commotion outside.

The three Russians burst through the entrance doors and stopped in surprise to see Delaney facing them, balancing on the balls of his feet, mind and body tuned together in utter concentration.

You can run but there is no point, said the one with the mustache and broken nose. Blood had congealed on his face. The two Slavs sniffed and loosened their shoulders.

Suddenly, one of them made his move. He roared towards Delaney like a linebacker at full throttle. Delaney crossed his arms in front of him and lowered his head. He jumped forward, arms, head and shoulders like a battering ram connecting with the big Russian dead center of his chest. Despite his size, the Slav jolted, overbalanced and fell flat on his back. Delaney stamped his heel into his groin and turned his attention to the other two.

The scream of police sirens grew louder.

The two Russians still standing began to look nervous. They had to get this over with quickly. They couldn’t afford police interest.

The second Slav went for Delaney, twisting his body and reaching out. He grabbed Delaney’s shoulder with one hand and got his arm around his neck with the other. Delaney wrapped the Slav’s leading arm into a wrist lock and twisted upward. His opponent grabbed Delaney by the hair and almost lifted him off the ground. Delaney grunted in pain. Both of them staggered and rolled together towards the lounge area. Delaney stamped on his opponent’s ankle, dropped his weight, kicked his standing foot from under him, levered and heaved the Russian onto the rosewood table. He slid along it and crashed off the other end smashing a coffee table.

Delaney turned towards the slimmer one and stopped.

An attractive woman and her son of around six years of age were trying to leave the hotel.

The Russian with the mustache grabbed the boy, slipped a knife from inside his jacket and held it under the boy’s throat.

The temperature in the hotel lobby dropped like a collapsing iceberg. The mother screamed, begging him not to hurt her son. By now a large crowd had gathered, led by senior hotel management and staff.

We haven’t much time, growled the Russian as his two comrades staggered to their feet and limped back ushering Delaney along as they did so.

The police will be here any minute, said the hotel manager stepping forward.

The knife wielding Russian remained motionless as