Renegade: Nelson, #3

By James Felix

Gun for hire Nelson is on the trail of a corrupt politician, but when he learns the Russian agent responsible for killing his friend is now on the run, he must choose between his mission and revenge.

Both worlds collide with devastating consequences and Nelson finds himself plunged into a desperate battle to save himself and the ones he loves. As the deadly game unfolds, he discovers the consequences are far more sinister than he ever anticipated.

When the lines blur between right and wrong, friend and foe, Nelson must confront his past or risk losing everything.

Balance on the brink with Nelson in this fast-paced action thriller as one man's quest for justice could alter the fate of a nation or shatter his world forever.

Leap in and hold on tight—it's a whirlwind you'll never forget.

• Language: English
• Publisher: James Felix
• Release date: Nov 25, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223342410

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

Chapter 1 – Three months ago, Merville Barracks, Colchester.

Vasily Konstantin fumbled with the combination to his footlocker. The signal from his contact had caused him a flutter of excitement, but the phone call which followed threatened to change his life forever.

Examining the bayonet and running his thumb lightly along the sharp blade, Vasily contemplated plunging it deep into another human being. The brutal weapon slotted over the muzzle of a British Army SA80, but in three years, he had never actually used it in anger. Would he find the strength to execute his new orders?

Vasily glanced around the small, four-man billet. He would probably never return to it. He turned off the overhead lamp with the pull string and closed the cupboard doors.

Disappointment swelled to dread.

The poster above his bed flapped and he pressed the corner down to fix the tack more firmly. The colourful image of this season’s Liverpool team took pride of place and, although an avid fan of the Reds, he’d never actually seen his heroes play live. Now he probably never would.

The accommodation room door swished open. Vasily sat on the bed and swiftly tucked the bayonet under his thigh.

Alright Scouse, Yorkie said and breezed in.

Alright Yorkie, mumbled Vasily, avoiding eye contact with his roommate.

We’re going to the NAFFI. Do you want anything, bud?

Vasily shook his head. A second soldier, who Vasily recognised from a different accommodation block, poked his head around the corner. Vasily flicked his chin upwards in greeting.

Yorkie unlocked his own bedside cabinet and scraped a handful of coins into his hand. Beers later then?

Vasily stared at the floor. No mate. I got last minute guard duty, he replied in his broad Liverpool accent. The cold, hard blade pressed uncomfortably against the underside of his lightweights.

Do you know Pritch? Yorkie said. He’s a bloody Scouser like you.

The tall, rangy soldier draped around the door frame scoffed. I’m a blue anyway, said Private Pritchard in a nasal Liverpudlian drawl. Where’d you grow up?

Knowsley, Vasily lied.

Oh yeah? I got a few mates from there. I grew up in Walton mind, just a stone’s throw from Goodison Park.

Vasily stifled a yawn. If he didn’t engage in much conversation, maybe Yorkie and his tall mate would piss off. Even though the bayonet was issued to him, having it out in the accommodation room would be frowned upon. He didn’t need the extra attention.

Do you know the Pipe and Gannex? Pritchard pressed.

It’s closed down now, mate, said Vasily, slipping easily into his legend. Even as he said the words, he knew the cover story he’d worked so hard to maintain for years would soon be blown.

Oh right. Yeah, replied Pritchard. What’s your name, mate? I’ll ask around when I’m next at home.

Vasily sighed inwardly. It hardly mattered anymore. Alex. Alex Vine.

No. It’s Scouse, ain’t it you daft bastard! Yorkie said, through a chesty laugh.

Private Pritchard rolled his eyes exaggeratedly, and Vasily shot him a look of solidarity in return.

Yorkie slapped Pritchard hard on the shoulder. Come on, Pritch, let’s leave this miserable sod alone.

Vasily breathed out slowly as the brisk footfalls of the two soldiers descended the stairwell of the accommodation block. He held the bayonet up to his eyes and examined the blade, turning it so the steel glinted in the sunlight. He stood and practiced thrusting it forwards. The thick grip felt solid in his hand. When the time came, would he have the strength to do it?

The double doors on the ground floor banged. Vasily slipped his camouflage smock from the wardrobe and shrugged it on. The bayonet tucked snugly into the front pocket, and he snatched his maroon beret from the top of the bedside cabinet. Vasily gave the room one last glance. After this was done, the military police would search every item he owned, but it would take a few days for them to piece together exactly what happened. Time he needed to make his escape.

He examined his beret and traced his finger along the silver Parachute Regiment wings clipped to it. He’d earned them through months of gruelling training and Vasily—or Lance Corporal Alex Vine as the soldiers of 16 Air Assault Brigade knew him—had every right to wear the Para wings on his uniform. Despite a meticulous cover story, Vasily had never been to Liverpool. In fact, he’d been born two thousand miles away in Kursk.

Vasily smoothed the beret onto his head and stepped outside the block. In the distance, the guardroom’s tiled roof poked above a maze of yellow low-rise buildings.

Merville Barracks, home to two regiments of Paras, also housed Signals, Medical Corps, and a logistics depot. Attached to the barracks, the corrective training facility, the MCTC, or Glasshouse, also required a large Royal Military Police presence.

Vasily’s mission didn’t give him much time. He would need to act fast and escape. And hope that none of the hundreds of military personnel got in his way. The guardhouse loomed ahead, but he darted around the back of the mess hall.

The air hung thick with the smell of fried food and steam billowed through the window vents. A row of large metal bins on wheels stood at the rear of the cookhouse, and soap suds covered the concrete path where a bucket had been recently emptied. Vasily searched beneath the first bin. Nothing.

Cooks shouted at each other as the noisy rhythm of the junior ranks mess ploughed through its relentless meal preparation routines. He checked under the second bin. Nothing.

The clatter of plates and the metallic clang of large cooking trays banging on metal surfaces echoed through the narrow alleyway. He checked the third bin and recovered a small package taped to the underside. Vasily tore away the plastic wrapper to reveal a mobile phone and powered it up. It appeared to be a basic device with a wide screen, but most of the functions were switched off. He scrolled to the photo section and swallowed hard at the image of a handcuffed woman huddled in the corner of a wooden room staring back at him.

Vasily pocketed the phone and recounted his handler’s instructions. Codenamed Uncle, the man’s brusque, slightly breathless voice had been his only contact with the SVR and Moscow for the past three years.

Uncle’s orders were specific: show the image to the prisoner and deliver a message. Vasily’s palms sweated as he contemplated the grisly second part of the mission—kill the Regimental Sergeant Major and frame the prisoner for the murder.

Chapter 2

Vasily’s language teacher in the SVR had been from Liverpool. Consequently, Vasily had learned English with a Scouse accent. When the time came to report for basic training at Catterick, Vasily Konstantin became Alex Vine and he’d inhabited the identity ever since. Vasily enjoyed being Alex and would be sad to see the back of his alter ego. In his own mind, they were the same person.

As a lance corporal, Vine had won respect amongst his peers and had even signaled an interest in attending Sandhurst to gain a commission. The platoon commander supported this aspiration, and he seemed to have a bright future in the British Army. Uncle told him the SVR were pleased with his development, and everything had been progressing well. Brilliant even, but the tense knot inside his stomach had been growing ever since Uncle’s most recent call.

Vasily pressed towards the guardroom. His duty didn’t begin for another hour. It gave him plenty of time to prepare.

Ah Vine! You’re early today, boomed the Welsh tones of RSM Williams, exiting the guardroom.

Early bird catches the worm, sir, Vasily replied, forcing his voice to remain even, although his stomach cartwheeled.

Right. Good. You’re with me then. Quickly now, the RSM said and set off at his trademark fast pace, the metal segs on his parade boots clip-clopping against the concrete road surface outside the guardroom.

RSM Williams had the physique of a grizzly bear, accompanied by a huge reputation which made him a living legend of the Parachute Regiment. Both officers and enlisted soldiers respected and feared the big man in equal measure.

Vasily trailed in the RSM’s wake as the huge Sergeant Major arrowed straight across the parade square, a bunch of keys hooked to his belt chiming in time with his steps. In the military, walking across the parade square is strictly forbidden and risked bringing the wrath of an NCO’s fury down upon the head of the culprit. RSM Williams however, was master of all he surveyed, including the parade square and anyone who dared to cross it. He would give himself a pass.

Where are we going, sir? Vasily asked, breathing hard from the speed march.

Sergeant’s mess, boyo. We have an important guest to feed. The RSM climbed the steps and strode towards the kitchen.

Vasily already knew about the important guest and elected to say nothing further on the subject. The RSM might be a great man, but he could inflict venomous verbal onslaughts and Vasily needed to avoid attracting attention for the next few hours.

Cookie, box up a plate of whatever you have on the stove immediately, the RSM ordered as he burst through the kitchen doors. A flurry of activity followed as Catering Corps staff leapt into action. Within minutes, the cook thrust a white cardboard box of hot food at Vasily.

Vine. Get one of the boys in the guardroom to put it on a plate, boomed the RSM after the departing Vasily. And stay off my bloody parade square! he added for good measure, accompanied by the stifled chuckles of the kitchen staff.

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Vasily halted in his tracks as the guard commander blocked his path.

Where are you going with that, Vine? Sergeant Fox demanded.

Orders from RSM Williams, Vasily mumbled.

Fox tutted. Give it to Private Mansfield. He’s making a coffee for the prisoner. He might as well deliver the food. Fox eyed Vasily closely. And you can start on the barrier. Grab a weapon and get out there.

Cold sweat clung to the back of Vasily’s shirt. He needed to deliver his message to the prisoner, and people were relying on him to complete the mission. Dangerous people.

Move it, Vine. Don’t just bloody stand there! Fox roared.

Y-Yes sergeant, Vasily stammered, snapping back into reality and forging deeper into the musky guardroom, still clutching the box of hot food. He located Mansfield in the cramped kitchen, stirring a tray of cups and wordlessly handed over the box to the willowy soldier. The knot in his stomach tightened.

Mansfield grabbed the box and pushed past him. You better get out to the barrier. Fox is in a filthy mood today.

Vasily peered along the dimly lit corridor at the back of Mansfield, who shuffled towards the cell block carrying a tray of hot drinks and the box of food. A white board fixed to the wall depicted a layout of the cells in thin, sticky black tape. Only one cell was marked as occupied.

He needed to bide his time. His turn with the prisoner would come. Grabbing a weapon and a Kevlar jacket, Vasily shuffled outside to the sand filled loading bay. He clicked a magazine into his SA80 and patted the bayonet in his front jacket pocket. His mind drifted over Uncle’s instructions. How could he possibly find the strength to kill the RSM? Again, his stomach roiled.

The hour standing guard behind the red and white gravity barrier dragged. Vasily kept a peripheral eye on the comings and goings of the guardroom, but RSM Williams had not reappeared. The prisoner would have finished his meal long ago.

An hour and five minutes since he’d taken his post, his relief ambled slowly out of the guardroom. Spent a minute longer than necessary making his weapon ready and ambled just as slowly towards the barrier.

About bloody time, Vasily growled.

Alright. Keep yer hair on you scouse twat, he replied in a cockney whine.

Vasily ignored the jibe and swallowed hard. His mind whirling, he stood at the loading bay and made his weapon safe, before hurrying back into the guardroom.

Private Mansfield once again stood in the kitchen, filling the kettle. The corridor leading to the cell block beyond appeared empty.

Now or never.

Drawing on his reserves of determination, he laid his weapon down in an empty cell and fumbled inside his jacket for the mobile phone. Scrolling to the images, Vasily gulped. The point of no return had arrived.

A brawny looking man with cropped, fair hair sat on the bench, which doubled as a bed along the far wall. Next to him lay an empty mug and scraped-clean plate.

Vasily approached the steel bars and the prisoner looked up. The man gathered the plate and mug and stood as if preparing to hand them through the cell door. He had at least a day’s stubble growth and deep, furrowed lines on his forehead. The prisoner had a soldier’s bearing. Early thirties with solid arms and an athletic frame.

Vasily’s mind blanked. He forgot the rehearsed lines but shakily held the phone screen up for the prisoner to see. The prisoner’s blue eyes locked onto the image and narrowed. An intense glare fixed Vasily as the prisoner’s face darkened.

A dry rasp stuck inside Vasily’s sandpaper lined throat. His English suddenly deserted him. He turned on his rubber-soled boots and hurried away, barely remembering to grab his SA80 from the next cell, and ran to the armoury.

Chapter 3

Ferocious shouting echoed through the cellblock. The prisoner had exploded into a boiling, seething volcano of rage.

Mansfield exchanged a worried look with Vasily. What set ’im off?

Vasily shrugged. He could barely talk. He pushed along the corridor towards the armoury, dragging his protective vest. Sergeant Fox elbowed his way in the opposite direction and halted at the small kitchenette.

What did you do to him? Fox snapped at Mansfield.

Nothing, sergeant. I were just making him a brew.

Vasily’s mobile phone vibrated in his trouser pocket. He dipped into the TV room and closed the door behind him. A second door to the outside stood propped open to let air into the stuffy space.

Report, said the voice curtly in English.

Vasily cleared his throat. I’ve shown the prisoner the image. He leant against the open door and checked the grassed space beyond for anyone having a sneaky cigarette. In the background, the fury continued from the cell block.

And the message?

Not yet, Vasily croaked.

Why not? hissed the voice.

There wasn’t time … I’ll do it when I kill the RSM.

These orders come directly from Moscow. It is imperative you carry them out as soon as possible. Uncle’s voice oozed menace.

It will be done. I assure you, Vasily replied more firmly, finding some resolve.

The voice softened. A car will pick you up from outside the gate. What’s your plan to get away?

I’ll sound the alarm. During the confusion, I can slip past the barrier.

Good. We will get you out of the country and protect you.

Vasily fell silent. His breathing drummed inside his ears.

What is it, Vasily? probed the voice.

His shoulders sagged, unable to stifle his sigh. I’d hoped to take this further, win promotion and rise up the ranks. All my work will be for nothing.

Not nothing! We are lucky to have such a proficient agent during our hour of need. Take pride Vasily. You are serving Mother Russia.

The phone clicked off and Vasily stood for a moment in front of the glow from the muted screen displaying an early evening game show. He clicked the set off with the remote, grasped the maroon beret in both hands and smoothed his thumb over the silver parachute wings. He would definitely miss Alex Vine.

The sound of RSM Williams bursting through the front of the guardroom shook Vasily from his introspection. The metal segs beneath the senior soldier’s boots heralding his arrival. Vasily eased open the TV room door and listened to the cacophony.

What’s happening in my guardroom? boomed the RSM.

It’s the prisoner, sir, stuttered Sergeant Fox. Something set him off.

I can hear. Incandescent with bloody rage, I’d say.

What should I do? asked Fox weakly.

Leave it to me, boomed the RSM. I know the lad. Get back to running the guardroom, sergeant.

Vasily recognised the RSM’s typically fast cadence echoing on the polished floors. He waited for the Welshman to pass and fell in behind, shadowing the big man around the twists and turns of the detention block. The metal segs easily drowned out the muted squeak of Vasily’s rubber soles.

Vasily wiped the sweat from his palms and felt for the handle of the bayonet inside his jacket. He waited behind the final corner and listened.

RSM! the prisoner cried, sounding relieved.

Captain Nelson, sir, the guard informed me you had been causing a minor commotion? RSM Williams replied in his broad, sonorous tones.

RSM, they’ve captured her. She’s a prisoner in some bloody wooden room, blurted the prisoner, his voice hoarse and scratchy.

Slow down, boyo. Who’s a prisoner?

Casey the journalist. A para came up to the cell bars and showed me an image on a mobile phone of her in handcuffs.

One of my paras? boomed RSM Williams.

Yes. This conspiracy runs deep. It’s not unthinkable they could have someone on the inside here at Merville.

Williams stood close to the bars. You know I can’t just let you launch a rescue mission. We must do this through the proper channels, he said, scratching his head.

If they captured her before she got the story out, I’m finished. Bear, please, I beg you. She’s in terrible danger.

What did this para look like?

The man in the cell huffed. Lance Corporal. Five foot ten, slim build. Pale skin. Twenty-four maybe … I’ll never forget his face though.

That hardly narrows it down, son. Could be anyone. Did he have an accent? the RSM asked, leaning against the cell door opposite the confined man.

He didn’t speak, replied the prisoner. Just showed me his phone.

Vasily gripped the bayonet and stepped in behind the RSM. He drew the weapon and plunged it deep into the big man’s back. He angled the blade upwards towards his heart and pushed it in all the way to the hilt.

Vasily withdrew the knife, reached around the front of the stricken man, and sliced the blade across his neck.

The RSM slumped heavily against the cell door. The prisoner gripped the bars in fury as they both watched the RSM die quickly and silently in front of them. A huge red stain spread across the Welshman’s chest. The first wound had penetrated his heart. The second destroyed his throat, preventing any sound from leaving the huge man’s lungs.

Vasily stood over the dying senior soldier and eyed the prisoner. He wiped the blade and dropped the weapon on the floor next to the body, out of reach from the man behind the bars.

Time slowed to a crawl. Searching for his English words, Vasily produced the basic mobile phone and scrolled to a new image. Silently, he held it up for the prisoner to see.

I’ll kill you, the prisoner raged. Disbelief and fury were etched across his face as he viewed the image of a woman covered in blood and now missing a finger. You are dead … Whoever you are working with is dead.

Shut up. You need to concentrate, Vasily gabbled, willing himself to slow down. If you want to see the woman alive again, you need to get to the Star Lane DLR in East London.

I will find you, growled the prisoner, still gripping the steel bars. I’m looking at a dead man.

Focus, Nelson, Vasily rasped. Get to the Docklands Light Railway. You’ll need this phone. We’ll call you on it with further instructions. If you surrender when you arrive, the journalist will be released with no more damage.

The prisoner nodded, his eyes locked firmly on Vasily’s.

Vasily unhooked the guardroom keys from the RSM’s belt. You have little time. I’m going to drop the cell keys on the floor. You need to escape and leave the base. I’ll sound the alarm in five minutes. If you’re still here, they will assume you killed the RSM, and the journalist will lose a lot more than her finger.

How will I slip past the security fence in five minutes? demanded the prisoner. His face reddened and a vein in his temple bulged.

The knot in Vasily’s stomached tightened some more, but he kept his voice low and even. There’s a Land Rover parked outside the guardroom. The keys are under the visor. Take this phone, but remember all outgoing calls are disabled. You need to hurry. If you deviate from these instructions, she dies.

The bunch of keys clattered on the floor and Vasily departed the cell block. His rubber boots squeaked on the polished floor as he tried not to run.

Chapter 4 - Present Day, London.

Nelson placed his small coffee cup with the even smaller handle down and stared across the table at Greene. She returned his gaze with equal intensity.

If we’re going to work together, I can’t have you chasing some personal vendetta, Greene said quietly.

It’s hardly a personal vendetta. The man killed a serving soldier right in front of me. I thought you of all people would want to see him brought to justice, replied Nelson, a flash of anger sparking inside him.

DI Monique Greene sighed as though she’d had the conversation several times before. I do, and he will. But the military are leading the investigation because it happened on their turf.

I remember, Monique. I was standing a foot away when it happened.

Greene took a sip of her latte. The traffic on Putney High Street rumbled past in a constant, noisy stream and easily drowned out their conversation.

Vine is out of your reach, soldier. So, in the meantime, are you ready for some work?

Nelson tore his focus away from the gruesome scene in the guardroom, but the reek of blood still filled his nostrils. Lay it on me.

Greene lifted the laminated menu from the table as if perusing the options. A silver smart phone lay on the table beneath where the menu had been.

Nelson allowed the corners of his mouth to bow upwards. Greene could be stiff as a board at times, but the little flourish of fieldcraft reminded him she was also an experienced detective who had worked organised crime for decades. He reached for the device and scrolled to the images section, quickly locating a slideshow in PDF format, which contained a briefing.

Greene continued scrutinising the menu as she spoke. That’s Harvey Gray, current Home Secretary and member of parliament for a posh suburb fairly close to here.

I recognise the type. Slimy. Eyes a bit too close together. Wouldn’t trust him with my wallet, replied Nelson, reviewing the document.

Greene leaned forward, her tone abrasive. You wouldn’t trust him with your kids, either.

Nelson raised an eyebrow but kept scrolling through the PDF with his thumb. There were pictures of Gray, along with his wife and their constituency home in West London. He lifted his gaze to meet Greene’s.

She dipped the menu and whispered, He likes them young.

Filth. Why can’t you just leak your evidence to the press and let them hang him out to dry? They’re good at that.

There isn’t any actionable evidence, and after the disaster that was Operation Midland, there’s no appetite amongst the top brass for another high-profile witch hunt.

Nelson recalled reading about the series of celebrities who were accused of sex crimes on the uncorroborated claims of a single individual. What about police anti-corruption teams?

A high-ranking government minister like him is entitled to a security detail, and they shield him from everything. And I hear they clean up after him too.

Nelson puffed out his cheeks. Cops are facilitating this paedo’s activities?

Greene looked away. Corruption shames everything we do. Trust in the police is at an all-time low right now.

Nelson speed-read to the end of the briefing, recognising the IIMARCH format. Information and Intention at the start, progressing through to Method, Administration, Risk Assessment and Communications. He snorted at the addition of Human Rights at the end. A politically correct way of saying that no one will be upset if a child molester gets what’s coming to him.

What do you want me to do?

What you do best. Confirm the allegation and expose it.

And if his security detail gets in the way?

Well, that’s why you’re a deniable asset. She lowered her voice. I can’t go through the usual channels on this one. All covert interception warrants cross the Home Secretary’s desk. His security team would pick up any internal monitoring, so it has to be someone on the outside.

Nelson drained his flat white and pocketed the phone. Who else knows?

Just Hooley. Use that phone to contact me. My burner number is already programmed into it.I’ll need to use Lyndon.

You’re like the dynamic duo.

What about expenses?

I hear most MPs love them, Greene said, chuckling at her own joke.

Nelson glared at her. He wasn’t in it for the money, and Markov had left him some funds, but an operation like this might be expensive.

Greene appeared to relent. He noted strain behind the dark eyes and her crow’s feet seemed a little deeper this morning.

Whatever Lyndon and his young protégé can salvage is yours to keep. I don’t need to know how, just find a way to expose this scumbag so I can go back to sleeping at night.

Finders-keepers? Nelson said, rising from the table.

Greene huffed and grabbed the bill as he filtered away into the lunchtime crowds.

Chapter 5

Lieutenant Layla Jones sat in the darkened briefing room and scribbled notes from the smart board into her jotter. A muttered Sweet Jesus arose from several rows back and colleagues fidgeted around her as the grisly crime scene images of the murder at Merville Barracks were displayed on the large screen.

A single stab wound to the back which pierced the aorta, and then a penetrating neck trauma caused by the same blade to the right side of the neck, Major Woods announced from the front of the room. He used a handheld wireless device to move the images along.

A close up of the neck wound to RSM Williams filled the screen in all its gory detail, accompanied by sickened groans from several quarters.

The Major cleared his throat and continued. "There are four arteries in the neck, two in the front and two in the