Marquanteur And The Revenge: France Crime Thriller

By Alfred Bekker

Marquanteur And The Revenge: France Crime Thriller

by Alfred Bekker

 

 

Clément Degresse is actually in the old factory building to close an illegal deal. But he quickly realizes that it is a trap. Someone wants to make him pay for a crime he was involved in years ago. Commissaire Marquanteur of the Marseille Criminal Investigation Department must stop an ice-cold vendetta, but every detail of this bloody revenge seems well planned.

 

Alfred Bekker is a well-known author of fantasy novels, thrillers and books for young people. In addition to his major book successes, he has written numerous novels for suspense series such as Ren Dhark, Jerry Cotton, Cotton Reloaded, Kommissar X, John Sinclair, and Jessica Bannister. He has also published under the names Neal Chadwick, Jack Raymond, Jonas Herlin, Dave Branford, Chris Heller, Henry Rohmer, Conny Walden, and Janet Farell.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alfred Bekker
• Release date: Jul 21, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223646471

Alfred Bekker

Alfred Bekker wurde am 27.9.1964 in Borghorst (heute Steinfurt) geboren und wuchs in den münsterländischen Gemeinden Ladbergen und Lengerich auf. 1984 machte er Abitur, leistete danach Zivildienst auf der Pflegestation eines Altenheims und studierte an der Universität Osnabrück für das Lehramt an Grund- und Hauptschulen. Insgesamt 13 Jahre war er danach im Schuldienst tätig, bevor er sich ausschließlich der Schriftstellerei widmete. Schon als Student veröffentlichte Bekker zahlreiche Romane und Kurzgeschichten. Er war Mitautor zugkräftiger Romanserien wie Kommissar X, Jerry Cotton, Rhen Dhark, Bad Earth und Sternenfaust und schrieb eine Reihe von Kriminalromanen. Angeregt durch seine Tätigkeit als Lehrer wandte er sich schließlich auch dem Kinder- und Jugendbuch zu, wo er Buchserien wie 'Tatort Mittelalter', 'Da Vincis Fälle', 'Elbenkinder' und 'Die wilden Orks' entwickelte. Seine Fantasy-Romane um 'Das Reich der Elben', die 'DrachenErde-Saga' und die 'Gorian'-Trilogie machten ihn einem großen Publikum bekannt. Darüber hinaus schreibt er weiterhin Krimis und gemeinsam mit seiner Frau unter dem Pseudonym Conny Walden historische Romane. Einige Gruselromane für Teenager verfasste er unter dem Namen John Devlin. Für Krimis verwendete er auch das Pseudonym Neal Chadwick. Seine Romane erschienen u.a. bei Blanvalet, BVK, Goldmann, Lyx, Schneiderbuch, Arena, dtv, Ueberreuter und Bastei Lübbe und wurden in zahlreiche Sprachen übersetzt.

Book preview

1

The factory hall was in semi-darkness. Only through a high row of windows did some light fall in. The smell of used oil hung in the air.

It was cool.

Clément Degresse shivered in his thin Cool Wool suit.

He glanced around. With his left hand, he carried a diplomatic pouch; his right was always close to the Beretta stuck in his quick-draw holster.

Hey, Bouillot, where are you? he called out.

In an area shone by the light, he noticed a dark red stain on the concrete floor. Fresh blood ...

A whirring sound made Degresse flinch. He pulled out the gun. Someone had activated a hoisting crane.

A bundle, visible only as a silhouette, hung on the hook. Slowly it was lowered.

When the light fell on it, Degresse's face froze into a mask.

Bouillot!

2

The body was covered in blood. Dozens of bullet holes had torn Bouillot's clothes. The face, however, was unharmed. For this reason, Degresse had recognized it immediately.

Shit, he whispered, taking a step back.

Put the gun down! a voice yelled from behind.

Degresse whirled around, looking into the shadow zone on the other side of the hall. Panic sprouted in him. Degresse fired his gun, pulling the trigger again and again. He fired blindly, stopping in the shadow zone at the top of the balustrade.

His pulse beat up to his neck.

A split second later, he was fired upon from the other side.

There was also a zone there that was in the shade.

An MPi rattled off. The muzzle flash flashed in the darkness.

Bullets slammed into the concrete floor close to Degresse's right and left, blasting out small pieces.

Degresse thought for a moment about running back to the front gate. But his fear was too great. About twenty meters lay between him and the gate. Twenty meters where he would have been an easy target.

Degresse dropped the gun.

Don't shoot! he screeched.

Put the suitcase down! another voice instructed him. A female voice.

Degresse swallowed, let his eyes wander and tried to see something in the dark shadows.

In vain.

You're keen on the money, are you? he shouted, holding up the suitcase. Here it is! Take it! I've nothing against it! But let me ...

Another MP salvo was fired. The projectiles whizzed over Degresse's head and perforated the hall door. Degresse was shaking. He put the suitcase on the floor and raised his hands.

Half a million euros, it went through his head. If I ever get my hands on those bastards, they'll have nothing to laugh about!

Once again, a whirring sound could be heard. A second hoisting crane had been activated. It moved on the rails fixed under the ceiling and positioned itself so that it came to a stop pretty much exactly above Degrue's head. The hook was lowered. There was something hanging from it. Degresse briefly saw something metallic sparkling in the light.

Handcuffs!

The hook lowered to about Degree's eye level.

Take the handcuffs! came the instruction, this time again from the male voice.

Degresse obeyed. He thought of Bouillot dangling dead from the other hook. Panic paralyzed him.

You don't have a chance, it flashed through him.

He racked his brain over who he had stepped on so much lately that he had devised such a cruel revenge. Degresse snapped the handcuffs into place.

The voices - have you heard them before?, Degresse asked himself. He couldn't remember the woman's, but he could remember the male.

Damn, if I only knew where and in what context, it flashed through him. It must have been a long time ago ...

The next instruction followed. Again from the male voice.

Put ... the ... intermediate ... piece ... of the handcuffs ... in the hook!

The choppy way of speaking caught Degresse's eye.

Damn it, what is this? he clamored. There's half a million in the suitcase! You can have the money!

The MP rattled off again. Degresse flinched. The projectiles hit a hair's breadth away from him. None of them had hit him, however.

Obviously they don't want to kill me, it went through his mind. Not yet ...

He obeyed, placed the intermediate piece of the handcuffs in the hook. With a whirring sound, the hook was pulled up.

What are you doing? What are you up to? he shouted.

Seconds later, he had lost his footing and was hanging from the hook with his hands chained together. He screamed. The handcuffs cut into his arms. It hurt like hell.

When Degresse was hanging about two meters above the ground, the crane stopped moving upwards.

For a few moments, nothing happened.

Hey, you guys aren't going to leave me hanging like this, are you? screeched Degresse.

No answer. He heard footsteps.

A woman with white-blond hair stepped out of the shadows. She approached Degresse.

Her footsteps echoed on the bare concrete floor. She wore a skimpy leather coat that exposed just about everything of her long, shapely legs. With her left hand, she held an Uzi-type short-barreled MP.

She stepped into the light so that Clément Degresse could see her very clearly. With a cold smile, she eyed him.

Don't you recognize me? she asked.

Beads of sweat stood on Degresse's forehead.

No, I don't know who you are!

I'm Celine! And now don't claim that you don't remember me anymore.

Damn it, put me down here! My hands are dying!

Have they never told you that one goes to purgatory for one's sins, Clément Degresse?

Hey, how do you know my name?

You've already gone to hell, Clément!

What?

You just don't know it yet. I'm a little ahead of you in that regard, by the way. Because I've already been there.

Shit, what are you talking about?

From hell!

The woman, who had called herself Celine, jerked up her MP and fired.

She stopped in Degree's direction.

Dozens of bullets made his body twitch and writhe. His death cry quickly died away.

Celine's pretty face became a mask of hatred. She fired until the last bullet of her magazine was shot.

Then there was silence.

Clément Degresse's body dangled slightly back and forth.

3

François glanced at the clock. I was also starting to get impatient.

Clément Degresse seems to have changed his mind, my colleague commented.

I shrugged, letting my eyes wander.

We were sitting in a sidewalk café. Degresse had suggested this meeting place.

He was part owner of a Marseille posh discotheque called Dansant. Despite his first name sounding English to many southern French ears, Degresse was a native Frenchman. Apart from that, the name Clément was quite common in northern Germany. However, his mother was from Puerto Rico and his father from Germany, whose father was also a native of Germany; his mother, however, was from Argentina.

We had become aware of the Dansant in the course of the investigation against some bosses of organized crime, who apparently preferred to use the glitter store for money laundering. In addition, the discotheque served as a drug transshipment point. Besides the inevitable cocaine, there were mainly so-called designer drugs. Artificially produced substances, in a sense chemically tailored for the consumer, most of which were illegal.

However, the judiciary lags considerably behind in banning such substances, as new chemicals are constantly being thrown onto the growing market. Most often, they are sold in the form of tablets. Ecstasy is the best-known example of this.

Very few people know what side effects they can get when using these drugs. Permanent brain damage, loss of reality or changes in personality are not uncommon.

Unfortunately, we didn't know who the big supplier was that supplied the Dansant and a few dozen other discos with the dangerous pills.

Allegedly, Clément Degresse only knew the small dealers, but not the people behind them. But he had agreed to act as an undercover agent for us. He probably hoped that the judiciary would give him a free hand in his money laundering operations. But he was probably hoping for a bit too much. Then there were Eric Perlot and Paul Honier, his partners. According to Degresse, they were both up to their necks in the drug business. Apparently, Degresse wanted