An Eye For an Eye: An Espionage Thriller, page 1
AN EYE FOR AN EYE
JACK CROSS SI6
BOOK 3
JACK DILLON
An Eye for an Eye
Kindle Edition
Copyright © 2023 (As Revised) Jack Dillon
Rough Edges Press
An Imprint of Wolfpack Publishing
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, other than brief quotes for reviews.
eBook ISBN 978-1-68549-280-9
Paperback ISBN 978-1-68549-281-6
CONTENTS
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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
Epilogue
If you like this, you may also enjoy University: The Complete Series
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AN EYE FOR AN EYE
PROLOGUE
LONDON—AUGUST 19
“What do you know of the Hierarchy?” Jack Cross asked as he entered the room.
It was a hotel room not unlike many others in the city, except this particular room held three men whom Jack had traced across England to this location.
The three men in question froze at the sight of the pistol in Jack’s hand. It was a Walther PPQ with a suppressor fitted, which meant trouble.
“I don’t know what you mean, man,” the nearest one blurted out at the sight of the gun aimed at the three of them.
“Let’s start with you,” Jack said, indicating the calmest-looking one at the back of the room. He was tall with greying hair, but even so, he still looked really fit. Billy Halloran was one of the London gangland’s hardest hitters. He had fingers in most things, including gambling, prostitution, and narcotics. The two men with him were Jimmy Halloran, his younger brother, and Nigel Cooke, his minder.
“I don’t know who you think you are, coming in here waving that piece around like you own the joint, but let me tell you what’s going to happen, shall I?” replied Billy, but the rest of his speech was cut off by the soft cough of the Walther firing. A red mist appeared at the side of his head, and he instantly put his hand up to his ear where the bullet had torn through his flesh.
“I’m sorry, you were saying?” Jack asked calmly.
Cooke made to rush him, but Jack simply shot his knee as he made to move. The bullet slammed into his kneecap, shattering the joint, and he collapsed in agony, both hands clutching at his leg.
“Sit the fuck down,” Jack said through gritted teeth. He was beginning to lose his temper with them.
“Now then, Billy, I’m going to tell you what is going to happen. You are going to tell me everything you know about the Hierarchy, or I’ll kill all three of you here and now,” he said.
Jimmy was panicking now. The two shots had set him off, “But we don’t know anything,” he screamed.
Jack turned and shot him in the head. The bullet struck him in the center of the forehead, snapping his head back and dropping him to the thick carpet. Cooke, who was behind him, was painted with his blood.
“Then you’re no use to me,” Jack said.
“You’re a dead man, you hear me, a dead man,” Billy screamed at him, tears running down his cragged face.
Jack shot him too, in the same way.
That left Cooke the only one left alive.
“Are you going to play nice now and tell me what I want to know, or do I have to shoot you too?” Jack asked, turning his Walther on Cooke.
Pain was etched across the minder’s face as he frantically tried to stem the blood flow from his shattered knee. He looked up into the cold stare of the man holding his life in the palm of his hand and swallowed hard.
Jack could tell by the resignation in Cooke’s eyes that he wasn’t going to learn anything from him. Either he didn’t know anything, or he refused to say, the end result would be the same.
“Okay,” Jack said, then shot him too.
This seemed to be the way things were going for him lately. He surveyed the scene—just another failed attempt at learning something, anything, about the shadowy group responsible for much of his recent troubles, both personal and professional.
Up until now, he had shaken down more than five places and, so far, learned nothing. The only outcome was the trail of bodies he was leaving behind him. Pretty soon, someone was going to notice the trail of chaos he was leaving everywhere and start looking for him, but he couldn’t stop, not until he had found something that would lead him to the ones responsible for the deaths of his wife and daughter.
He’d already killed the man who pulled the trigger, but that wasn’t enough. He wanted the man who gave the order. He wanted the head of the Hierarchy.
He wouldn’t rest, couldn’t rest, until he had him in his sights. He had been placed on indefinite leave after the disbanding of SI6, so he had all the time in the world. If need be, he would go to the ends of the earth to find him; he had sworn to kill the man who orchestrated the murder of his family.
He took off the suppressor and returned his pistol to his shoulder rig before leaving the room. He had left no traces behind, he even picked up the empty shell casings from the bullets he’d fired. No one would know he’d been there, and that’s how he wanted it to be.
The Hierarchy had caused SI6 to be disbanded so he would return the favor. He would dismantle all their operations and kill as many of their number as he could before the inevitable happened or he rid the world of them. They had taken his life and career from him, leaving him with nothing but time on his hands, so he would devote the rest of his life to destroying them.
Closing the door quietly behind him, he walked down the corridor toward the exit.
CHAPTER ONE
MI6 HQ, LONDON—AUGUST 20
Simon Bennett was a slim man who had a penchant for dark suits. His slicked-back hair was never out of place, and his tie never askew. Appearances were everything in his business, and as the Deputy Director of MI6, he had to be part security wizard and part politician.
Unfortunately, lately, the politics had taken center stage, overshadowing the security aspects of his job. He had overseen the dismantling of SI6 after recent attacks in the center of London by a group now known as the Hierarchy for Anarchy, Terrorism, and Extortion, or HATE, were perpetrated along with an assassination attempt on the Prime Minister himself.
Sir Donald Bainbridge, the head of SI6, had been kidnapped by the Hierarchy and used as bait in an attempt on the PM’s life. Bainbridge died from gunshot wounds saving the PM but leaving SI6 leaderless and sacrificed to the public as being responsible for not preventing that and the previous attacks.
Although, at the time, Bennett harbored some resentment at the success rate of the rogue group, it was all part of his plan to streamline it and bring it under the control of MI6.
After it was all done and the Hierarchy had paid for the attacks, Bennett informed the survivors of SI6 of his intentions.
He had told them individually what was to happen to them: Commander Dark had an RTU, return to unit, Jack Cross had been given time to grieve being put on indefinite leave, and Robert Deakin was given a position working within MI6. Jennifer Austin had been contacted later and was also absorbed back into MI6. Later and alone, he had told Colonel Armstrong of his plan for him to run a special unit that would only handle missions sanctioned personally by the PM through himself. He hadn’t told him any further details at the time simply because he hadn’t any. It was still just an idea, one that needed
As he sat at his desk, the phone rang at his elbow. As he picked it up, he had no idea how his life was about to change.
“Good morning, Prime Minister. How can I help you?” he said.
Andrew Chambers said, “I prefer to discuss this on a more personal level, Simon. I’ll see you in my office in, say, half an hour?”
“I’m on my way, sir,” Bennett replied and stood up, grabbing his suit jacket from the back of the chair and shrugging into it as he left the room.
His staff car had been waiting for him as he left the building, and he was soon on his way to 10 Downing Street. The police officer on duty allowed him through with just a glance at his ID card. He was then shown through, into the home of the Prime Minister.
As he entered the office, the Prime Minister was seated behind a desk; he looked up and smiled briefly. His dark hair was greying at the temples, and his youthful features were showing signs of wear and tear from the job.
“Take a seat, Simon, and tell me what progress you’ve made towards setting up your new section,” Chambers asked.
Bennett laid it all out, what he had done about procuring a headquarters for the new section and those he was having as staff. After he was done, he waited for the PM’s verdict.
“Okay, it all seems fine so far, but I think you need to concentrate on this fully, Simon. I’m replacing you at MI6 to free you up for this new endeavor. You will be the new head of Section Zero. You are to work closely with me and no one else, and your efforts are to be kept off the radar totally. You can work out your own cover story for you and your group, and I will enable funding for you via the security services budget.”
Bennett looked at him, waiting for him to finish. “I see, sir,” he said finally.
“I have every faith in you, Simon. You are the right man for this job. Bainbridge had a good idea, let’s see if you can’t improve on it, shall we?”
Bennett nodded his head in agreement as he got to his feet. He knew the meeting was over now. It was time to get the ball rolling and set Section Zero up as a viable outfit.
As he left the office, he looked forward to the challenge he now faced with excitement and a little trepidation too.
Colonel Tony Armstrong had been waiting for word from Deputy Director Bennett about when they would start work on the new unit.
It had been more than three weeks since they disbanded SI6, and he was beginning to hear reports of gangland shootings around the city.
These had all the earmarks of professional hits, but when he reached out to his contacts in the Met, there was no hint of any trouble brewing between local gangs. In fact, it had been just the opposite, things had actually quietened down since these killings began. It was as if they were keeping a low profile for fear of bringing attention to themselves.
He began to get suspicious when he hadn’t heard anything from Jack. Every time he called him, it went straight to his voicemail, and he had yet to get back to him.
He picked up his phone to check if he’d heard anything back from Jack again when it rang, making him jump.
When he saw who was calling, he felt his pulse begin to race a little faster.
“Good afternoon, Deputy Director Bennett. I’ve been waiting for your call,” he said.
“Come around to my apartment, we have things to discuss,” Bennett said.
The call was ended abruptly before Tony could say anything further, so he put away his phone and grabbed his suit jacket on his way to the door.
Finally, things were going to start happening, and as he closed the door behind him, his stride lengthened with anticipation.
CHAPTER TWO
COLOMBIA—AUGUST 20
Felix Moya looked over the rim of his tumbler. Inside was a deep amber liquid. Taking a sip of the thirty-year-old Macallan Scotch, one of the finest in the world, he asked, “Is everything ready?”
“Yes, Patron, the testing is complete. Doctor Franklin has assured us that this batch is the one,” replied Xavier Quesada. He was a brute of a man, standing at an even six feet with broad shoulders and thick arms. His face appeared to have been carved out of granite with a blunt hammer, especially the nose, which was bent out of shape and flattened against his craggy visage. Quesada had been the personal bodyguard to the head of the Moya Cartel for the past twelve years.
“What about the test subject?” Moya asked, putting the tumbler down on the table next to his seat.
“Doctor Franklin assures us he has displayed all the symptoms that he anticipated.”
“Good. Inform the manufacturing plant to get the first shipment fulfilled as quickly as possible. I want it shipped out to be distributed by the end of the week at the latest.”
“I’ll pass it on, Patron. Will there be anything else?”
“You can tell the chef to serve the Cuadril tonight, cooked the way I like it,” Moya said.
He looked across the room where his wife and son sat. His wife, Maria, saw him look and beckoned for her son to follow as she got up and walked over to him. His business was at an end, so she was allowed to be near him.
He watched her walk towards him, her long legs and curvy figure accentuated by the tight dress she wore. She had been a model when they had met twenty years ago and was still as beautiful now as when he first laid eyes on her. Her dark hair was long and flowed down her back, swaying as she approached him. Her deep brown eyes watching him, then glancing at Quesada with fear. At her side was his twelve-year-old son, Marcus. He would grow into a fine man, he was sure. He already had the markings of one. He was good at sports, which he encouraged, and his dark good looks had already made him many fans among the young girls at his private school. He had been allowed home to celebrate his father’s upcoming birthday in a few days’ time.
Just as they reached him, Quesada put a hand to his ear. Something was coming through his earbud, a communication.
“Patron, there is a vehicle approaching, they stopped short of the gates, now they’re just sitting there,” he said.
Moya looked up, his interest piqued. “Who is it?” he asked. “Find out what they want.”
Before the instruction could be carried out, Moya’s phone rang. He looked at it, recognized the caller ID, and with a wave, halted Quesada from continuing.
“This is a surprise. What do I owe the pleasure of a call from the leader of the Ruiz Cartel?” he asked, looking up into the eyes of his bodyguard. His voice was full of pleasantries, but his eyes told a different story, one of hatred and something else, suspicion. He beckoned his wife and son to sit on the sofa nearby.
“I am reliably informed that you are about to unleash a new product onto the market, one you hope will wipe out the competition,” the voice said.
Moya’s eyes went wide with fury. Betrayal was permeating through his household, his very family, for that was what he called his close-knit group of confidants, those who knew the intricate details of how he ran his business. Now one of them had betrayed him about his hopes for the new product.
“Who is spreading rumors about me, Roberto?” he replied, sidestepping the question.
