Fugitive: Nelson, #2

By James Felix

In a world where trust is an illusion, and loyalty just a lie, one man finds himself on the run from the very people he once served. Uncovering a conspiracy involving the intelligence services, brands Nelson a fugitive with a deadly target on his back.

With nowhere left to hide, Nelson seeks help from London News journalist Charlotte Casey, but when a dangerous new player enters the game, Nelson and Casey are plunged deeper into peril and are forced to take matters into their own hands.

In this heart-pounding action thriller, Nelson will stop at nothing to uncover the truth and protect those close to him. Filled with high-octane chases, explosive shootouts, and jaw-dropping plot twists, this book will keep you on the edge of your seat from start to finish. Can Nelson outrun the law and expose the truth, or will he be hunted down and silenced forever? Read "Fugitive" to find out.

• Language: English
• Publisher: James Felix
• Release date: Nov 13, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223856320

James Felix

James Felix, is a former soldier and police officer, who crafts action-packed thrillers that pull from his wealth of real-life experiences. Drawing on his years of police and military service, he brings authenticity and gripping detail to his tales of suspense and intrigue, transporting readers into a world of high-stakes scenarios and adrenaline-fueled adventures. Residing in the scenic Cotswolds of England, James finds inspiration in the tranquillity of his surroundings, often penning his riveting narratives amidst the peaceful hum of nature. When he's not unravelling thrilling plots, James can be found walking his dogs through the countryside, cheering on his favourite NFL team, or perfecting a new Italian recipe. Not one to sit still, James is also an aspiring carpenter, always looking for ways to improve his skills and create something new. His stories, much like his carpentry projects, are meticulously crafted and finely tuned, each piece fitting together to create a captivating whole. James Felix is not just an author, but a storyteller, who enjoys weaving his experiences and imagination into thrilling reads. As he continues his writing journey, he aims to keep readers on the edge of their seats, always guessing, always engaged.

Book preview

Prologue – Six weeks ago

"Can you swim, Superintendent?" were the last terse words his captor uttered. Hours had passed since. Bryan Maxwell squinted at the blanket of grey cloud and strained against the rope binding his wrists together. His mouth itched beneath the layer of thick tape.

The outboard motor ground relentlessly, and the rubber sides of the RIB bounced in time with each oncoming wave.

A fair-haired man with a creased brow and angry blue eyes stared out towards the horizon, one hand on the tiller, the other held a compass.

The further from shore they travelled, the more hopelessness set in.

The motor revs dropped, and the boat slowed. As the small craft drifted on the tide, the bouncing ebbed away. All engine noise died. Only the sound of waves lapping surrounded the boat.

I’m going to remove the tape. You’ll have one chance to answer my questions or you’re going for a dip, the fair-haired man growled.

Maxwell squeezed his eyes shut and flinched as the tape ripped away. The skin around his mouth puckered, numb and raw.

Do you know who I am? blurted Maxwell. You can’t kidnap a cop, he croaked through dried lips.

A sharp pain cut deep into the bony parts of Maxwell’s wrists. Rough hands hauled him towards the edge of the boat, and the sky barrelled around the horizon as he plunged into the cold sea. It happened so fast he didn’t have time to prepare. Weightlessness gave way to overwhelming panic. He kicked hard towards the surface, but the boat disappeared in a haze of bubbles.

Maxwell’s chest spasmed in shock at the freezing temperature, and his heartbeat thumped inside his head. Another force dragged him forwards and up. The outboard motor roared, and he rose towards the surface, caught in the RIB’s wake. Gasping for air between gulps of salty water, he coughed and spluttered, the salt burning his eyes.

The boat moved fast, and his body crashed through the unforgiving backwash. He could see nothing but water and sky.

The engine cut. Kicking hard, he tried to tread water, but his sodden clothing fought against him. Maxwell sank deeper and the dread of drowning gripped him. Not with any accompanying serene realisation, just blind panic.

The rope stiffened and dragged Maxwell up. The last drop of oxygen expelled from the pit of his burning lungs before he broke through the surface.

Let’s start again, a pitiless voice demanded.

Maxwell flailed in the water. He thrust his chin up, desperate for air, heaving as the salt coursed against the back of his throat.

Please … I don’t know what you want from me. I’m a police officer, let me go while you still can, Maxwell wailed. His mind raced, trying to piece together the last few hours.

You are a corrupt piece of shit who’s been taking cash from criminals.

The rope slackened and Maxwell sank beneath the surface. His bound hands thrashed, and his legs kicked. Bile crept to the back of his throat.

Need air …

The rope straightened, and his face surfaced again. Precious air filled his lungs.

You were paid by Argo Trimura.

Trimura’s dead.

I know. I’m the one who killed him.

Water washed over Maxwell’s face. He spat and gasped, kicking his legs hard just to remain afloat. The shivering cold penetrated his soul. You’re Nelson. You did a good thing killing that bastard. What … do you … want from me?

I want the name of Trimura’s contact in the Russian Embassy. Then I want your full confession.

Maxwell gulped and spat a wad of salty water. I … don’t know … his … name.

I’ve got enough fuel to do this for hours. How long can you last?

The outboard revved hard, and the boat lurched forwards, again dragging Maxwell in the wake. The excruciating pain in his wrists was briefly forgotten between desperate gasps for air. He sank lower and lower, the boat lost in the dark. His body convulsed. Pain rippled through his chest and he couldn’t hold his breath any longer.

The rope straightened. Taking too long. No air left.

Maxwell’s face broke the surface. His empty lungs screamed.

Last chance. Give me the name or I’ll drown you right here.

Viktor— Maxwell gasped.

"Viktor what?"

Maxwell floundered. His head dipped below a wave and he treaded water furiously.

I don’t … know his …last name. He didn’t know Viktor’s last name. Never had.

Viktor’s image flashed through Maxwell’s mind, followed by the face of another man. Perhaps more dangerous. Someone who could never be revealed.

Nelson hauled Maxwell from the water and onto the side of the inflatable boat. His chest heaved with raspy breaths, and he shivered uncontrollably from the biting cold.

Do you know how many Viktors are in that place? Nelson slapped Maxwell across the face.

Maxwell’s head slumped against the boat’s edge, and tears welled in his stinging eyes. He deserved this punishment. He’d taken corrupt payments for years. And he thought he would get away with it too. Until this human embodiment of fury crossed his path. He struggled with the details, but recalled an electrical charge fizzing through his body, and waking inside a van with his arms and legs bound and his mouth gagged.

God, he’s going to kill me.

I don’t feel you’re being completely truthful, Maxwell.

I am … I am. I only know his first name. Please don’t kill me, he sobbed.

Nelson dragged Maxwell all the way into the boat. Don’t be so dramatic, it was only a little swim. Save your strength for what’s next.

Maxwell let his forehead thud against the hard plastic hull. Water oozed out of every part of him, and tears mixed with the snot running from his nose. He heaved a gutful of salty water. What’s … next? he asked.

You ever heard of a sea fort?

Maxwell wriggled around to stare at his captor, too exhausted to answer.

Take a look, Nelson said, pointing towards the horizon.

Maxwell lifted his head up, and through raw, stinging eyes saw a pair of hulking structures sticking untidily out of the sea.

What … what are they?

Old defences from the last war. And your new home. The rusted metal buildings stood precariously on thick concrete stilts, like ghostly relics above the water’s surface. A knotted rope hung from the structure.

What am I … doing here? he rasped, as his blurred vision slowly focussed on the rusting monoliths.

Seems like you need more time to remember. When you’re ready to tell me everything you know, perhaps I’ll send a boat for you. Unless you want to swim back.

How will I … survive?

There’s a bag full of MRE rations. Enough to last you a month. Two, if you’re really frugal.

You can’t leave me out here! Maxwell wailed, sweat beading across his forehead despite the frigid weather, his voice hoarse and scratchy.

Like Trimura left my sister and niece to die in that car wreck? You helped cover that up, Maxwell. Consider this a compassionate sentence. But if you decide to swim home, the police will be waiting for you. I’ve made sure of that.

Maxwell shivered at his new reality, and his head sank against the RIB floor.

Get up. Climb the rope and survive or fall and drown. I don’t give a damn. It’s only twenty metres, but you’ll need all your strength to make it to the top.

Maxwell hauled himself to his knees and glanced between the rope and Nelson’s stony face. The boat pitched on the roiling waves. The rusting hulk towered above him, groaning in the stiff breeze. I can’t make that!

Then you’ll drown. Don’t forget your rations, Nelson said, slinging a rucksack at him.

DAY ONE - Chapter 1

The sun streamed through the caravan windows, and it promised to be a gorgeous day. Nelson filled the water reservoir and flicked on the coffee machine. Ever since Kate Pascoe introduced him to the delights of bean-to-cup coffee, he couldn’t drink anything else for the first hit of the day. It had been weeks since he’d seen her and several days since her last text. The momentum had stalled in their long-distance relationship, but at least the Krups machine she gave him still operated well.

He took his cup and stood barefoot on a patch of grass at the front of the caravan, relishing his favourite time of day. He breathed in deeply, inhaling the crisp morning air. His home for the past month had been a large demountable rectangle tucked below a ridgeline in the Mendip Hills. It overlooked the Bristol Channel, and on a clear day, he could see across the water to the Welsh coast.

A chorus of birdsong rippled through the thick canopy of trees and dappled sunlight fell on the sloping ground beneath his feet. He drained his cup and returned inside, hoping to complete his morning run before it warmed up too much. He pulled on a T-shirt and laced a pair of trail runners, perfect for the undulating woods.

Nelson had been running the rugged high ground every morning to maintain his stamina. With a niggling rib injury now repaired, he relished the regular fitness sessions, which helped him adjust to life outside the military.

He pushed hard to the top of the ridge, pumped his arms, and stepped short to tackle the first stretch of heart-thumping effort. His role as a pathfinder demanded a high level of fitness, but since being declared AWOL, Nelson found he missed the routine of military life.

The lactic acid built in his calves, his muscles tightened, and his lungs worked close to full capacity. His heartbeat thundered inside his head. The army taught him to push through the pain barrier, a lesson Nelson had learnt by running hundreds of miles with a heavy pack and a rifle slung across his chest.

He crested the rise to the uninterrupted vistas, which rewarded his effort. The pressure drained away, and his breathing eased. The red line briefly exceeded but throttled back towards normal. He sucked air deep into his lungs, while admiring the cloudless day and the views across the sea.

Settling into a jog along the top of the ridge, each pace grew easier as the early shock to his under-oxygenated blood faded, and his heartbeat settled to a background thud. He ran on for another seven miles through the sloping countryside. Each mile was as picturesque as the last, and he relished the clean air that purified him with each stride.

Nelson rounded the last curve, which took him on a shallow descent back to the caravan. He girded himself for an all-out sprint for home, and a chance to expel his excess energy. Thanks to the intensive training, he had plenty left in the tank.

The birdsong had stopped. The absence of noise was obvious to someone who lived in the woods. Something carried on the gentle breeze, something foreign, not belonging.

Nelson dialled back the sprint and slipped effortlessly to silent mode. He sweated heavily, but kept his breathing under control. A pungent smell sullied the pristine air.

Cigarette smoke? No, something bolder. Cigar smoke.

A thicker line of trees and bushes camouflaged him from the campsite. The dry leaves underfoot crunched with each footfall, but he rolled the sole of his feet inwards, getting the measure of the surface underfoot. Careful to depress it quietly before putting his full weight down, it made for slow going, but prevented the sudden crack of a dry twig.

The caravan sat propped on bricks at the front to make the floor level on the steep hillside. A large green cammo net stretched across the top, hiding it from the air. If he had visitors, they must have been tipped off. No innocent rambler had ever strayed accidentally into his remote camp, and he considered it unlikely that his truck had been discovered in the disused barn over a mile away.

He dropped to a crouch, attuning himself to the environment. Waiting them out was an option, as charging straight in rarely led to victory. His training had taught him to observe his enemy, identify a weakness, and then exploit it ruthlessly. It was the pathfinder way. His running gear offered little protection if it came to combat, but he had the element of surprise on his side.

Chapter 2

A broad-shouldered lump of a man dressed in military uniform paced across the front of the caravan, scanning the hillside. A voice called from inside, and a sandy-haired man wearing identical green fatigues and corporal stripes leant out of the door. He handed Nelson’s coffee cup to the lump, who sniffed the contents and wiped his fat finger around the inside. He rubbed the black liquid residue between his thumb and forefinger.

Nelson scowled.

What are you, some kind of Navaho scout?

The lump turned and surveyed the campsite again. He wore the red patch on his upper arm of the Royal Military Police, with three chevrons beneath. A sergeant.

A third soldier, tall and skinny, rounded the corner of the caravan and approached the sergeant. The skinny soldier wore a single stripe on his sleeve and carried Nelson’s folding lawn chair. Nelson loved that chair.

All three RMPs wore handguns holstered on their hips. More would soon arrive, plus dogs and maybe helicopters, too.

Nelson scoured his memory of the past few days.

Have I been careless? How did they discover this place?

Nelson ensured he’d been careful on his last visit to purchase supplies. He travelled at night, avoided places with cameras, and had encountered no locals in weeks.

He wouldn’t last long on foot out in the open. Eventually, they would hunt him down and drag him all the way back to the Colchester Glasshouse. Hiding in the woods saturated with soldiers didn’t seem viable, either. Better to take on three RMPs than an entire platoon.

The lump and the sandy-haired corporal entered the caravan and disappeared, while the skinny lance corporal remained outside, kicking dirt over the campfire ashes. The young soldier had his back to Nelson, the lawn chair lay folded on the ground next to him. His rounded shoulders sagged lazily, and his head lolled sideways. With both hands plunged deep into his trouser pockets, he idly traced lines in the grey ash with the edge of his boot.

Nelson unearthed a stone from his position behind a thicket of bushes. The clatter of his belongings being turned upside-down from within the caravan dulled any noise he made. He flung the stone towards a tree and waited. The wooden clonk caught the lance corporal’s attention. The young soldier flinched towards the sound but frowned and returned his attention to the pile of ash.

Nelson huffed and scraped the earth for another stone. He prised a jagged rock free from the undergrowth and hefted it in his hand. The lance corporal still had his back turned as Nelson lobbed the rock at the same tree. A louder, hollow clonk echoed through the forest and the lance corporal spun around. He glanced nervously towards the caravan, but the clattering continued unabated.

The young soldier crept towards the tree, his eyes swivelling left and right. He passed by Nelson’s position and halted a few yards deeper into the forest. The rock lay at his feet. The surrounding trees swayed in the light breeze and, far off, a woodpecker drummed busily away. He unzipped his trousers and relieved himself against the trunk of the tree, emitting a deep, satisfied sigh.

Nelson climbed to his feet and closed the distance to the urinating soldier. The crack of crockery breaking and the scrape of drawers opening continued. He softly crushed the leaves underfoot until he stood behind the skinny lance corporal.

Tapping the soldier on the shoulder, he drove a stinging uppercut into the young man’s chin when he turned around.

A cry of, Oooff— was muffled by Nelson’s hand. The lance corporal’s eyes glazed over, and he staggered backwards. Nelson supported the soldier’s body to the ground and rearranged his lanky legs behind the trunk to conceal him from the caravan.

Sorry, lad, but I can’t have you warning your mates.

Ignoring the holstered sidearm, because shooting soldiers wasn’t in the plan that day, he picked up the lawn chair and made for the caravan. Even the best-trained operative takes time to assimilate new information and react effectively. Moving fast and decisively can overcome greater odds, but accepting risk is part of the calculation.

Nelson burst through the door, holding the folded lawn chair out in front of him. He struck the lumpen sergeant below his nose with the edge of the rolled aluminium frame. The blow caught the man unprepared, and he fell back. Face bloodied. Eyes watering. Nelson swam past the downed sergeant and drove a flat-footed kick at the sandy-haired corporal standing in the kitchenette.

The corporal fell backwards against the cupboards, causing the contents to vibrate. Nelson lunged at him, gripped his shirt, and crashed a headbutt into the man’s face. The corporal collapsed to the floor. Face blank. Lights out.

The sergeant scrambled for his weapon. Nelson grabbed a teacup, turned, and threw it at the big soldier. It smashed on his wide head, distracting him long enough for Nelson to close the gap and catch the big man’s wrist. He wrenched the weapon up and a shot fired over Nelson’s shoulder, blowing a hole in the ceiling. The sergeant used his immense upper body strength to force the weapon back towards Nelson.

You’re dead, Nelson! he growled.

Nelson pivoted and used the man’s bodyweight against him, slamming him into the caravan wall. The heavy impact made the caravan shudder.

I’m not armed. Remember your rules of engagement! Nelson yelled back.

Another shot fired, lower this time, shattering a window in the back wall. The big man’s face reddened and sweat bubbled on his forehead. He gritted his teeth and renewed his effort to force the gun at Nelson, who had both hands wrapped around the sergeant’s wrists.

The effort drained Nelson’s strength. His muscles would fail soon. He was losing the wrestling match, and the Glock had at least another thirteen rounds loaded. The longer it went on, the higher the chances one would end up in his chest.

Nelson kicked down at the sergeant’s knee and forced it backwards against its normal range. Pain registered across his face, but the sergeant’s upper body didn’t relent. Nelson pulled the big man towards the damaged knee. His leg buckled without his usual stability, and Nelson used the momentum to swing him around and slam him into the front wall.

The whole caravan rocked from the impact.

Chapter 3

The supporting bricks beneath the caravan shuffled to resemble a leaning tower, rather than a straight pillar.

Time was running out for Nelson. The other two soldiers would soon recover, and he’d be outnumbered and outmatched. The big sergeant had thick arms and a bull neck. His formidable hulk more than made up for the damaged knee. Another shot rang out, lower again, and the zip of the bullet barely cleared Nelson’s shoulder.

The sandy-haired corporal stood, grasped the edge of the sink, and tried to haul himself up. Nelson had made the blow count. He stumbled and fell against the front wall of the caravan. The bricks shuffled some more, and the caravan slid slowly off its base.

The sergeant roared and swung Nelson into the wall. Nelson’s bones rattled from the impact. His hands sweated and his grasp slipped on the big man’s wrists.

The caravan moved. The front wall dipped, and anything loose crashed off sloping surfaces. Cupboard doors swung open, and the contents spewed out as cereal boxes and glasses crashed to the floor. Chairs raced towards the windows, and the wooden bunk came away from its fixings and careered towards Nelson.

The bunk pinned Nelson’s legs and twisted him away from the big sergeant. His grip failed, and the RMP wasted no time aiming his handgun at Nelson’s head. The big man’s finger was on the trigger ready to fire, a broad smile on his face.

The bottom edge of the caravan thumped heavily on the sloping ground. The shuddering impact sent the shot wildly over Nelson’s head as the caravan toppled forwards. Nelson crashed onto the ceiling with the wooden bunk on top of him. The two RMPs were tossed about like rag dolls as glass shattered around them in a hailstorm of pans and shelves and cups and books.

The caravan picked up speed, rolling over again. Inside, the three men were hurled about as though inside a giant tombola.

Nelson crashed from floor to ceiling as the large caravan rolled over and over down the slope. He could no longer see either RMP through a blizzard of his belongings. Each impact tore apart the structure, shredding wood and fibreglass as it cut a trail down the hillside.

It slammed into a thick tree, rotated around the trunk, and hit a second. The impact catapulted Nelson through a jagged opening that used to be a window and sent him sprawling to the forest floor. He lay still for a few moments. He felt as though he’d been run over by a train—a runaway train that had somersaulted down a mountain.

Nelson winced at his bruised ribs. His hands stung from cuts and the back of his head pounded. So much for the element of surprise. His own house had crept up on him! Apart from the tinkling of broken glass, no other sound came from the demolished caravan.

Nelson hauled himself to his knees and rested for a moment, winded. He could taste blood inside his mouth and spat a wad onto the ground. A loud crack rang out, and a bullet fizzed into a tree ten metres away. The skinny lance corporal staggered down the hillside, his sidearm pointing wildly in front of him. Another shot hit a tree eight metres the other side, followed by a strangled cry of, Military Police … stop!

The soldier advanced, but his aim wasn’t improving. He fell again, then clambered to his feet and raised his gun towards Nelson.

I surrender, shouted Nelson back, moving to his right towards where the first shot had gone, even though every inch of him protested at the effort.

A third shot rang out in reply.

Nelson had to disarm the soldier. I said I surrender. I give up! he lied.

Another shot ricocheted off the demolished caravan. Captain Nelson … no prisoners, slurred the soldier.

Nelson worried he’d given the young lad a concussion, and all three soldiers needed urgent medical aid. He didn’t intend to cause them any lasting injuries, but Nelson couldn’t give himself up yet. Not until he’d told his side of the story.

Chapter 4

Charlotte Casey checked her emails—no messages from Captain Nelson yet, and he’d always replied punctually before. She leant back in her chair and stretched. The open-plan office utilised the new hot-desk trend. No desktop computers anymore, just USB docks for laptops. Casey missed the geeky toys and gap year photos that used to clutter her own space.

She drained her cup, opened Nelson’s file, and scanned through the dozen images as she’d done a hundred times before. A picture of him as a boy in a rural setting next to his father. Another, all grown up and dressed in military uniform at a passing out parade. The father still stood next to him but looked pale and greyer. She studied other photos in military settings, many of them abroad judging by the terrain and the sandy-coloured uniforms.

What are you working on? chirped Gale in his Essex accent from the desk opposite.

Not your concern, Nathan, Casey replied smartly.

Your soldier again, then?

Casey didn’t reply, and just stared blankly at the other journalist before returning to her screen. Gale had joined The London News at the same time as her and she’d spent the first month rebuffing his lame chat up lines. Four years on, they still shared the same newsroom, but while she chased the tough foreign assignments, he preferred the salacious domestic stuff with celebrity edges.

Gale wheeled his chair around to her side of the desk, but Casey closed her laptop. She needed to meet Nelson, and it seemed like a good time to escape the office.

We’re all going for a drink later, he said.

Casey stuffed her laptop into a brown leather messenger bag and slung the strap across her chest. Who’s we?

Gale spread his arms wide. Just me and you for a start …

Casey mimed sticking her fingers down her throat and made her way to the exit.

Jerry Bright beckoned her into his glass-walled office.

You going to meet the soldier? he called out through the open door.

In the background, Gale cackled with laughter.

We’ve scheduled a preliminary interview, Casey replied.

I had a call from the MoD this morning. They’d prefer we don’t give him the opportunity to prejudice any future trial, so I’m going to need you to hand a copy of your notes to legal.

That’s bullshit. They want to hang him out to dry, and the only way he’ll get a fair hearing is if the media is involved from the beginning!

I know this is a big story and you’re keen to write it, but you have to remember, being an accredited journalist comes with certain responsibilities.

What about freedom of the press? You ever hear of journalistic privilege? She stood at the door to his office, hands impatiently on her hips.

You know I have. But there’s going to be a trial and The London News has a reputation to preserve. He sounded angrier than normal. Casey guessed stress.

Oh come on Jerry. They’re trying to silence him, and you know it!

He’s killed people. Just be careful.

Casey leant against the glass partition, rolled her eyes, and exhaled loudly. Jerry Bright had seen his share of danger during a long journalistic career, but as a manager, he seemed too ready to compromise.

He can justify his actions. Besides, where was that concern when I was in Angola?

You had a security team then. This is different, Jerry replied, sitting back in his chair and folding his arms.

"Yeah, and Nelson saved me and the security team, Jerry!" yelled Casey, and she turned to leave.

Hand your notes to legal, that’s the end of it. And happy birthday! he yelled back.

The soft-close pneumatic hinge prevented her from slamming the door. The whole news floor suffered from a modern redesign with intelligent lighting and pastel shades. Only the compact glass enclosures occupied by editors counted as actual offices. Just about everyone hated it.

She travelled down to the parking level in the lift and checked her look in the mirrored box. She turned twenty-six today but felt older, and the strain of thousands of air miles clocked in the past month had taken its toll. She’d lost a little weight because she kept skipping meals and her pale skin, inherited