Reprisal in Black Read online

  Reprisal in Black

  “probably the best action thriller you’ll ever read”

  Dan Fox

  The Steve Black Series – Episode 1

  About the Author

  Dan Fox was born in London, England, and now lives with his wife and several cats and dogs on the north Devon coast.

  He rose to senior officer rank in the British Royal Navy and has seen military action many times. His career since then has been a mixture of security consultant and journalist. Writing, he says, has always been his favourite pastime and he is currently working on his third novel.

  Reprisal in Black is the first of the Steve Black series, the second, with a working title of Vengeance in Black, will be published before the end of 2014. He also has a third book and a short story in the pipeline.

  Links

  Website – www.danfoxbooks.com

  Email- [email protected]

  Facebook – DanFoxBooks

  Copyright

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © Dan Fox 2012

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the author.

  Acknowledgements

  My family need a big round of applause for their support and understanding.

  My long-time friends, Dean, Ivor and Rob gave me honest and sometimes brutal appraisals of my work in progress. I am truly indebted to them.

  Special thanks also to Jack and Vicky who toiled their way through the first drafts.

  Simon P deserves a big thank you for designing the cover.

  Last but not least, I am indebted to my son Tod for his professional advice.

  Table of Contents

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Acknowledgements

  Table of Contents

  Introduction

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Introduction

  .

  Despite politicians making dismissive statements, the threat to the western world from extremists and religious fundamentalists is at its most dangerous level ever. Frankly, it is odds on that another 9/11 or worse is on the cards and will happen sooner or later. The world’s security forces continue to thwart plot upon dangerous plot, fighting their cause with one hand tied behind their back, continually frustrated by political inertia and increasingly pervasive human rights legislation, all of which appear to protect the perpetrators more than the potential victims.

  It is under these circumstances that Reprisal in Black was written. It chronicles the work of one particular team’s own special operations fighting the global threat in its own way. Although a work of total fiction, you just know that there are teams like Steve Black’s out there giving their all to keep us safe in our beds, and long may they succeed.

  Most of the main plot of Reprisal in Black takes place in the late spring of 2012. There are numerous chapters, particularly earlier on in the book, which fill in on the background and previous escapades of the main characters.

  Prologue

  Marseilles, South of France, 2006

  He watched the fracas develop outside the bar close to the docks. The girl was taking no shit from the eight seamen from one of recently arrived cargo ships. They’d obviously overstepped the mark somewhere along the line. Perhaps a fight had started, or someone had been threatened with a knife. The old docks in Marseille had to be one of the roughest places on earth.

  One by one the men drifted off, obviously seething at their ejection from the bar and probably more so because it was a woman giving them their marching orders.

  The last time he’d seen her was maybe a month or two ago when he’d met a potential client in the bar. She wouldn’t have noticed him, he’d made straight for a shadowed booth where the occupants were largely hidden from view. He had noticed her though, studied her in some detail and thought her very fit and attractive, but obviously a head case to work in such a place unless she had the balls of a prize fighter. She was probably early twenties, with shortish fair to blonde hair, perhaps 5’ 8” and weighing maybe 140 pounds. She looked lean but was packed with muscle, subtle, not like committed body builders. His guess was that she could handle herself. That made her even more of a mystery.

  Like most old seaports, Marseilles’ ancient docks had seen better days with row upon row of derelict buildings and warehouses littering the quays. Most of the big and mostly ancient ocean going cargo ships that docked there, unloaded quickly, and were on their way again in two to three days.

  Their crews had probably only two nights ashore before the next journey which would see them ship-bound for maybe several weeks. Time being of the essence, most crewmen headed for one of the few bars that fronted the docks and stayed there until they were too drunk to take any more, or they were ejected by whoever’s job it was to act as doorman and bouncer that night.

  One such bar traded heavily on their quest for copious alcohol. It was no less derelict than its neighbouring warehouses and appeared to be held together with nicotine and beer slops. A fresh coat of paint would have spoiled its natural ambience, and just allowed the blood spilled from the many fights to stand out a little more. No, Jacques Beloise, the owner was quite happy to count the gross takings not worrying about a little maintenance here and there.

  ‘Jean, are you in the beer store?’ shouted Jacques from the bar. He’d just arrived to close up for the night.

  ‘I’ll be out in a second’ shouted Jean as she moved a few empty crates in preparation for the next delivery. She’d only been working at the bar for eight months or so, but Jacques had quickly spotted her talent and made her the manager. It had to be said that considering what a shit hole it was, Jean was actually happy working there. Yes, it was rough, very rough, but Jean was a confident and striking girl in her early twenties who could handle herself well.

  Jean came back into the bar a few minutes later to see Jacques smiling at the day’s takings. ‘Well done, it’s been a very good day then’.

  ‘Yeh, it’s been good but I’m knackered now. I can’t wait to crawl into bed. We had a little trouble earlier on with one of the newer crews. They were in last night as well and they’re
bad news if you ask me, worse than normal. Had to throw them out eventually or you’d have had no other customers’ said Jean.

  Jacques ignored the problem, concentrating on counting the day’s earnings.

  Outside the bar the sea mist had rolled in and made everything greyer than usual. The huge yellow sodium lights along the quay, mounted high, gave the docks an eerie glow casting ghostly shadows on the mammoth ships tied alongside.

  A thick set man of medium height stood in the alcove of a warehouse about a hundred yards away from the bar. He wore the traditional beret and a long black or dark blue woollen coat that reached down to his knees. With his hands in his coat pockets only the slight bulge in the right one betrayed the presence of a Glock 17 already chambered with a round. His target had not shown up and he shuffled his feet in frustration wondering how much longer he should wait.

  In truth he’d probably waited a lot longer than his client would have expected, but he’d been intrigued by the fracas at the nearby bar where the girl had shown the door to eight crew members from a nearby ship. He’d noticed they were not best pleased, and whilst most of them were heavily drunk, their leader was winding them up for revenge. They eventually wandered off, maybe in search of another bar that might serve them. The man in the beret lost interest in them as he continued to wait. He’d seen the girl a few times before on other nefarious visits to the dock area. He thought her attractive and obviously capable of more than mere bar work. Perhaps she had a story to tell. There was a nonchalant confidence about her, something military as well. A strange mix that.

  He continued to wait for his target and his mind drifted to the old days of the port. Today things were very different. Marseilles was the second biggest city in France and had the fifth biggest port in Europe. The newish ferry terminal and berths for the larger passenger ships were kept aloofly away from the old docks. These ancient berths welcomed the rust buckets of the seas, flying flags of convenience when it came to seaworthiness and creature comforts.

  Jean McKenzie, having finished her shift, left the bar heading for her small, seedy apartment three quarters of a mile away, a comfortable fifteen minute walk. She had no fears about walking home alone being well able to fight her way out of trouble as she’d done so many times before. The man noticed her leave the bar and realised, absent mindedly, that she was taking the same route away from the bar as had the disgraced sailors. Still, it was none of his business and he’d best wait a few more minutes just to make sure that his target didn’t finally appear. As he’d already banked half of his fee, he felt a certain amount of loyalty to his client.

  The docks were deathly quiet, not even the rats were evident, and eventually the man decided to give up on his target. Just then, when he’d finally convinced himself to leave the job for the night, he heard a muffled cry or scream from a few hundred yards away. He thought he might investigate. It would maybe liven up what had turned out to be a frustrating evening, although he was pretty certain what he’d find.

  Jean had walked briskly towards her apartment, her mind full of the day’s events, with no concern for her safety in those dimly lit streets being confidently aware of her fighting skills and their background in a variety of Martial Arts. The seamen she’d thrown out of the bar earlier had other ideas and as she passed a dark alley, she was set upon by these several rough men who were from the crew of the Bangkok Star, some of who carried knives. There were too many of them to fight back effectively and she realised that she was going to be gang raped.

  She had done some damage. She’d bitten off a couple of finger ends and one ear lobe and poked a few eyes but she was losing. She fought and struggled like a tiger but the odds were overwhelmingly against her. Just as the relentless battering was pulling her towards unconsciousness, a number of shots rang out and three of the crewmen dropped to the floor, two instantly dead from head wounds and one screaming from a bullet in his anus. The rest ran off, anxious not to be the next one to take a bullet, paying scant regard to their fallen comrades.

  The man who helped Jean to her feet, and held onto to her in her precarious state, was maybe ten years older, obviously dangerous and pretty accurate with a pistol.

  Jean had been very badly beaten by the eight men who’d attacked her. That she had not been raped already was testament to her fitness and strength and her vicious temper. She would have succumbed eventually but she would have taken a few with her, some of them would have been scarred for life.

  Luck had it that the man in the beret, Marcel Jeveaux, happened along just at the right time. His instinct was to protect the woman. That was how he had been brought up. He didn’t really know who she was, other than she worked at the bar, or who they were. That was simply not the point. She needed urgent medical treatment and he could think of only one place he could take her where no questions would be asked.

  He drove towards the centre of Marseilles with Jean wrapped in a travel rug lying semi-conscious on the back seat of his car, copious blood oozing from seemingly dozens of wounds. He knew she wasn’t dead from the frequent moans of pain. While he drove Marcel called a rarely used number and made some arrangements. Shortly afterwards Jean was whisked into a private clinic used by the Union Corse for serious injuries. Doctors and nurses were already standing by. Within a couple of minutes she was hooked up to a drip and they were checking her blood type, next came the vital sign monitors.

  Marcel sat in the comfortable waiting room with its soft lighting and expensive furniture drinking coffee after coffee and smoking an endless chain of cigarettes. It was well over an hour later that the senior doctor came through to talk to him. He removed his glasses, ran a hand over his face and then looked Marcel in the eye, and began in a very serious voice. ‘She is in a bad way. I don’t think any of her injuries are immediately life threatening, but she has so many surface wounds we’re not sure which to treat first. She has sustained a vicious kick or kicks to the groin area which has badly damaged the external tissue. We may need to operate on that but we cannot until the bruising and swelling reduces. She has eleven separate long and deep knife cuts which will require numerous stitches, some of them inside the wounds, which we are doing now and I suspect, no, I’m pretty certain, that she has a number of broken ribs, both sides. As would be expected she has lost a lot of blood but that’s the least of our worries at the moment. We can replace that fairly quickly. She is sedated for the moment so she doesn’t do any more damage inadvertently.

  I will want to take X-Rays later when we are sure we know what else is wrong, but first we’ll do a CT scan. There’s no immediate evidence of concussion or brain injury so I can rule out an MRI scan for now.

  I don’t think she will be going anywhere for quite a few days’. He hesitated for a moment, perhaps trying to find the right words, for the man he spoke to was obviously not one to be toyed with. ‘You are aware that our treatment will cost a great deal of money?’ Marcel nodded, totally unconcerned for some inexplicable reason. Yes, he was well off financially but you wouldn’t necessarily expect him to pay thousands for the care of someone he didn’t know. Strange that.

  Almost relieved the Doctor said, ‘You are welcome to stay in here until the morning. I will ask a nurse to bring some blankets’ and with that he left and closed the door. Marcel paced around the room and wondered what he’d got himself into, but he couldn’t have left her on the street. If the Police had got involved that could have caused many more problems. Better they found some dead and wounded and put it down to inter crew fighting which happened all the time at the docks in Marseille. Of course he would see that she was back on her feet before she went on her way but was confused as to why he even gave a damn.

  Around seven a.m. a nurse shook his shoulder gently to raise him from his slumbers. ‘The girl is awake and asking if you are here, what should I say?’

  ‘Give me two minutes and I will come into her room’, said Marcel as he made his way to the visitors bathroom.

  ‘Where am I?’ said Jea
n awkwardly, obviously in some pain and struggling to get her words out due to the severe bruising and lacerations around her mouth.

  ‘This is a private clinic. No-one knows you are here. You will be well looked after until you are able to leave?’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I found you being attacked by the seamen and brought you here?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It seemed like the right thing to do at the time.’

  ‘I don’t have the money to pay for this clinic.’

  ‘Don’t worry it’s all taken care of, I’ve pulled in an old favour.’

  ‘Thank you. What is your name?’

  ‘I need to go for few hours. I have some jobs to do but I will be back later. Don’t worry you are in very good hands. We can talk later when you’re feeling a little better.’

  Jean felt as if she’d been trampled by a herd of Elephants. It was painful to breathe and she couldn’t move the lower half of her body. She wasn’t paralysed she could feel the excruciating pain despite the powerful pain killers.

  Marcel returned later that afternoon and went to see Jean after he’d spoken to the nurse in charge.

  ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘I’ll kill those bastards.’

  ‘I’m sure you will but first we must get you fit enough to get out of here. The doctors say that there are no life threatening injuries, just many knife cuts, severe bruises and abrasions. You also have three cracked ribs, two on the left and one on the right. They will slow you down for a while I’m afraid’. He shied away from mentioning the groin damage.