Going Dark

Neil Lancaster

Title Page

Praise for Going Dark

Dedication

Did You Enjoy This Book?

Acknowledgements

About the Author

About Burning Chair

Other Books by Burning Chair Publishing:

Title Page

Going Dark

A crime novel

Neil Lancaster

Praise for Going Dark

“A tense, edgy debut that captures the mind and captivates the reader.”

- Ian Patrick, author of the Sam Batford series.

“A great read. Lancaster clearly knows his stuff.”

- Stephen Leather, Sunday Times bestselling author of the Dan ‘Spider’ Shepherd series

“A genuine gripping page-turner from a new author with real insider knowledge… the pace and tension are relentless.”

- Alex Walters, author of the DI Alec McKay series.

“A gripping page turner that drags you in and won’t let you out until you finish it”

- Paul Harrison, author of Mind Games, Dancing With The Devil and Chasing Monsters

“If you enjoyed my Manhunt look out for this. A novel written by a bloke who actually worked on my investigation.”

- Colin Sutton, author of Manhunt – How I Brought Serial Killer Levi Bellfield To Justice.

Copyright Info

Burning Chair Limited, Trading As Burning Chair Publishing

71-75 Shelton Street, Covent Garden

London WC2H 9JQ

By Neil Lancaster

Edited by Simon Finnie and Peter Oxley

Book Cover Design by ebooklaunch.com

First published by Burning Chair Publishing, 2019

Neil Lancaster has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as author of this work.

This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or hereafter invented, without written permission from the publisher.

Dedication

This book is dedicated to my late Mum, Brenda Lancaster, who started this whole journey by throwing me my first adventure book when I was twelve and saying, ‘You’ll love this.’

1

November 2005

1600hrs

Basra, Iraq

Tom strode down the side road towards Al Saadi Street, past the burnt-out husk of a car, the remnants of a recent improvised explosive device. The war in Iraq was decimating the country but people still needed to eat, work, and make money and no number of bombs or mortars would stop them from doing so. The street was bustling and alive with the noise and smells of a typical Arabic city: a mix of petrol fumes, cigarette smoke, and roasting coffee.

His covert earpiece crackled with Buster’s cockney voice. ‘We are parked nearby, Borat. No more than a minute away if it all goes tits-up. Now try not to kill anyone today, old son.’

Tom smiled, pressed his transmitter and muttered back, his lips barely moving, ‘I always try not to kill people, Buster. It just happens.’

‘That’s why none of us want to work with you. You’re a shit-magnet,’ Buster countered.

‘That’s unfair. I haven’t killed anyone for ages.’

‘That’s because we haven’t let you out on your own for ages.’

Tom smiled again at his friend’s banter as he entered the café. ‘Anyway, I’m going in, so shut the fuck up, you cockney twat. I’m a busy man,’ he whispered, his lips only moving slightly.

The Metro Café was a large establishment mostly occupied by groups of men chatting, smoking, drinking tea and playing dominoes. Tom sat at a small table with an overflowing ashtray that afforded him a clear line of sight to the barber shop and the green-doored entrance to the meeting place.

No one took any notice of him; he was one of a million people just going about their business as normal. The words of his surveillance instructor still rang in his ears, even after all those years. ‘You’ve as much right to be there on the street as anyone else so, if you act normally, no one will notice you. It’s only when you bob and weave and skulk about that you stand out like a bull dog’s bollocks.’ It was true; nothing attracted the eye more than someone peeping, known in the trade as ‘chadding’, around a corner.

A waiter approached him, a groaning tray of small glass cups balanced on his hand and a cigarette dangling from his lips. The man did not speak, instead raising his bushy eyebrows questioningly.

‘Mint tea, please,’ Tom said in Arabic. He’d completed an intensive course in Arabic prior to deployment to Iraq. He wasn’t fluent by any means, but his aptitude for languages meant he was confident he could manage the level of interaction required for the job at hand.

The waiter disappeared without a word. The place was busy, and the deafening roar of the traffic made conversation pointless anyway. Tom found the buzz of the café almost comforting; his confidence rose that it would be pretty easy to remain anonymous. He produced some Islamic prayer beads and began to finger them absent-mindedly, further assimilating into the tableau of the café.

The waiter returned as quickly as he’d departed and unceremoniously deposited a small glass of dark tea full of mint leaves, sugar crystals visibly sinking into the depths. Tom sipped the scalding-hot amber liquid, trying not to screw up his face at the overpoweringly pre-sweetened flavour. He picked up an Arabic newspaper from the empty table next to him and settled in, while he watched the door and waited. Through his jeans pocket he pressed the transmitter tone switch twice to indicate to control that he was in position.

‘Two tones received; do you have a clear eyeball?’

Tom replied with two tones.

‘Two tones, Roger. Wait. Out.’ The tinny voice of Damien, the boss at the control centre at Basra Palace was clear in his ear.

Tom sat with his tea, looking at the newspaper as if he was deep in thought while twirling his prayer beads, his eyes fixed on the green door across the street.

The tinny voice sparked up in his ear again.

‘Alpha One Foot, stand-by. Friendlies approaching venue. We understand the package is already in place,’ Damien said.

Tom replied with two tones.

‘Two tones. Roger. Stand-by,’ relayed Damien.

Tom’s senses were at their peak as he waited for the two CIA agents to arrive at the premises. He had not seen any obvious signs of surveillance on his journey from the palace to the café, nor were there any on the target premises opposite. He casually surveyed his fellow café-dwellers; if he’d been able to identify the café as the best vantage point for the rendezvous, then so could any hostiles. His brief survey didn’t reveal anyone of concern, the tables mostly occupied with small groups of elderly men all chatting amiably or playing dominoes.

A crackle erupted in his ear. ‘All units … package moving up towards target premises. With you in two minutes, Alpha One.’

Tom remained impassive, his eyes ostensibly on the newspaper, but peripherally covering the door. He was well-practised at being able to closely observe a target point without necessarily staring directly at it.

The operation had been sold to them as a simple counter-surveillance operation to watch the backs of the CIA agents, Mike and Hamed, as they met a potential asset in the apartment above the barber shop opposite. The powers-that-be wanted to make sure that the agents were not being followed ahead of the meeting, given that they were in a very dangerous part of Basra, with militia groups and criminal kidnap gangs active in the area. As the Special Reconnaissance Regiment (SRR) unit currently in Basra, Tom’s team was the best one for the job: hugely experienced in covert surveillance in hostile environments. The operation was meat-and-drink to them.

After a few moments he saw Mike and Hamed approaching the barber shop from their Subaru, which was parked about twenty metres away on Al Saadi Street. Mike was wearing a blue jacket and had a red and white shemagh round his neck, a dark baseball cap pulled low over his face, with sunglasses just peeking out from beneath. Hamed was dressed in chinos and a blue fleece to protect against the early evening chill, and also had a shemagh around his neck.

Tom could see no obvious watchers; the pair didn’t seem to be attracting any unusual attention. The plan was that they should be visible and in the open for the least possible time between exiting their vehicle and entering the premises.

Tom affected a yawn, covered his mouth with his hand, and without his lips moving said, ‘From Alpha One: you’re clear to proceed.’

He received two tones of acknowledgement in his ear from Mike or Hamed. He kept his peripheral vision on the pair as they pushed the green door open and went inside.

He transmitted once more, again with minimal lip movement and his newspaper high. ‘Package is complete, and I have the visual on the door. Stand-by.’

Tom kept up his observation of the green door while apparently studying his newspaper, the seconds ticking off in his head and his senses heightened. Mike and Hamed were badly exposed: in hostile territory, meeting a violent Jihadist, and without any secure knowledge of the target’s intent. Tom felt the comforting presence of the Sig Sauer P228 pistol in his belt and the weight of the flash-bang in his pocket. There was nothing he could do but wait.

Out of the corner of his eye he noticed a silver Land Cruiser pull up outside the front of the barber shop. It had tinted windows, but Tom could see the outlines of two occupants. He tried to read the registration plates, but his view was obscured by other vehicles.

He pressed the transmitter. ‘Land Cruiser outside front of shop, two fighting-age males in front seats, no registration. Be aware.’

Tom heard two tones in his ear, signalling that the Americans understood.

As he watched the car, both front doors opened and two men got out to stand outside the barber’s shop. One man had a mobile phone clamped to his ear, the other stood close by, keeping a watch on their surroundings. They were both in their thirties: one in a tracksuit, the other in jeans and a Barcelona football shirt. They had the look of hard men who had seen combat close-up. Tom felt his stomach lurch at the sight of them. There was no way they were casual shoppers; they were there for a purpose. The one on the phone had long, collar-length hair and a full beard, the other had cropped hair and heavy, dark stubble.

Long Hair finished his phone call, and the pair fixed each other with a knowing look, conversing quietly.

‘Two males on pavement outside barber’s, one in Barcelona football top, the other in a blue Adidas tracksuit. This doesn’t look right. Beware inside,’ Tom whispered, his lips barely moving. The urgency in his delivery was not matched by the calm manner he continued to outwardly project. The clock was beginning to tick faster in Tom’s head as he worked out the angles, coming up with a plan of action if the men went into the flat. He surveyed the street in front of him, seeing no other suspects, no one else other than the two who didn’t belong.

‘Alpha One received,’ replied control. ’Stand-by but do not engage unless shots fired.’

Long Hair raised his mobile to his ear again and began talking, his lips moving rapidly, tension clearly etched on his rough face.

The call finished quickly, and he spoke to his colleague, both men reaching into their waistbands almost simultaneously. To Tom’s eyes this indicated one thing only: they were checking sidearms. It was a habit for all soldiers and operators before any planned situation: a reassuring check that their weapons were still secure. Tom had done it himself in the café, leaning into his Sig in a more covert style.

There was a brief nod between the two before they turned to the door and purposefully strode inside.

Tom threw a crumpled banknote on the table, stood, and walked away from the café, keeping his eyes fixed on the door. His eyes rose to the first-floor window, which was obscured by dark curtains.

‘Two suspects into premises. I’m sure they’re carrying sidearms, acknowledge?’

A double tone spoke dispassionately, conveying nothing of how the agents were feeling.

Control barked in Tom’s ear. ‘Stand-by. Alpha One Zero, move up, move up for possible exfil.’

Buster’s voice crackled in Tom’s ear with a trace of frustration—or was it panic?

‘We’re blocked by a lorry, we can’t advance. Do you want us to deploy on foot? We’re four minutes away.’

‘Negative, we need the vehicle. Get up by any means possible,’ Damien replied calmly.

Tom crossed the busy street and took up a position to the left of the green door, ready to intervene if this was a kidnap attempt. He wouldn’t allow the agents to be taken hostage under any circumstances.

Over the roar of the traffic, Tom heard the unmistakeable crack of a sidearm firing—9mm by the sound of it—coming from the upstairs of the building. An un-silenced pistol report is loud and hard to mistake, particularly if you’re listening for it.

‘Shots fired, shots fired,’ said Tom, still calmly, although he was churning inside. Clearly a major drama was unfolding upstairs.

Damien came in on the net. ‘Mike, Hamed: acknowledge!’

Silence.

Damien repeated the urgent missive.

Silence.

‘Alpha One mobile, how far away?’ demanded Damien, still ostensibly calm.

‘Three minutes,’ said Buster, screaming engine-noise audible over the radio static.

Three minutes is too long, thought Tom. He had no choice.

He moved through the door drawing his Sig in two hands and pointing it at the floor. He quietly ascended the staircase, using the edges of the treads to minimise any creaks.

At the top he was faced with three doors along a short corridor. The closest was ajar and he could hear faint, low voices from within.

Moving slowly, he edged his back along the wall until he reached the door, which was open just a couple of inches. He peered in and quickly took in the scene. Time seemed to slow to a syrupy crawl as he edged closer to the door jamb.

Mike and Hamed were both face-down on the floor, wrists secured behind their backs with zip-ties. Long Hair and Barcelona were stood over them with automatic pistols drawn. Long Hair was speaking in rapid Arabic on the mobile again, his pistol covering the agents with his free hand. Tom’s mind flashed back to the earlier briefing given by Mike Brogan, the smiling and personable leader of the CIA pair.

‘We are hoping that Bashar Al-Ahmed is considering coming over to the good-guys. He’s a well-placed mid-ranker close to the Shia militia leader. His recruitment would be a coup, as I’m sure you can imagine.’ He had handed photographs around to the team.

Prone on the floor to the side of them was a straggly-haired Arabic man who Tom immediately recognised as Bashar Al-Ahmed. What he didn’t recognise from the photo was the dark red hole in the centre of the man’s forehead and the blood circling the floor around his head like a macabre halo.

Tom pulled the flash-bang from his pocket and, with his pistol still extended, pulled the pin out with his teeth. He opened the door an inch further and rolled the grenade into the room. Both men turned in the direction of the noise as Tom flattened himself against the wall, ready for the explosion. The one-second fuse delay seemed to go on for an age.

The report, when it came, was deafening, accompanied by a blinding white flash as the magnesium and ammonium nitrate combined. If the targets are not prepared for it, the combination can temporarily blind those within a few feet and cause serious disorientation. Tom rocketed in after the explosion, his Sig extended. He first encountered Barcelona who was flailing his arms, his gun pointing away from him. Tom responded with a quick double-tap into the man’s central body mass and Barcelona dropped like a stone. Tom immediately turned to Long Hair, who was bringing his weapon to bear unsteadily in his direction. Tom dived to the side as the man blindly loosed off a round, feeling the scorched air of the bullets trailing past his cheek. As he hit the floor, he turned in the direction of the insurgent and let off another double-tap, the first round hitting the man in his left shoulder and spinning him, the second hitting him smack in his right ear and blowing off the top of his head. The man collapsed like a puppet whose strings had just been cut.

The silence was suddenly deafening and overpowering.

The whole encounter had taken less than two minutes, but to Tom it felt like an hour had passed since he’d entered the building.

He pressed the transmitter and spoke calmly, feeling no panic, just strangely relaxed as he always felt in situations like this. His heartbeat remained only slightly elevated and his breathing was steady and even.

‘Two suspects down, exfil, exfil! One of the players was on the phone and I think we can expect company.’

He reached down and cut Mike and Hamed’s zip-ties with his pocket knife.

‘You okay, guys?’

‘Holy fuck! Jesus fucking Christ, those bastards were going to fucking ice us!’ said Mike. His eyes flashed with fear and his usual warm and easy smile was replaced with panic and alarm as he twisted to look at Tom, breathing heavily.

‘It’s all cool guys, but we can’t hang about.’ Tom managed what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

Both agents were shaken and disorientated, but their positions on the floor—face-down—had protected them from the worst effects of the grenade.

Tom quickly checked both insurgents. Long Hair was dead; most of his brain was decorating the wall behind them. Barcelona was still alive but it seemed unlikely he would stay that way for long, as he had two clean holes in his upper chest and was barely breathing.

Hamed said, in a panicked and trembling voice, ‘We gotta get out. He was calling for reinforcements to come get us. Let’s get the phones and weapons from them and fuck off.’

They searched the insurgents, retrieving their phones and pistols before leaving the building as calmly as they could manage. They walked to the parked Subaru and drove off, Tom behind the wheel.

‘Control from Alpha One Foot. Package secure, no injuries and we’re exfil in vehicle. All units will RVP back at the palace,’ said Tom.

‘Thanks, man. I thought we were toast,’ said Mike in between heavy breaths, the panic and shock still visible on his face.

2

Later

Basra Palace

Tom, Damien, and Buster met with Mike and Hamed back in the briefing room, all clutching large mugs of tea. The atmosphere was thick with a mixture of tension and relief. Both CIA agents seemed to have visibly aged since the pre-deployment briefing with the strain of their recent experience. Tom yawned as he leaned back in one of the cheap chairs.

‘So, what went wrong, then?’ Damien asked.

‘Al-Ahmed must have been compromised,’ said Mike, his blue eyes etched with a mixture of relief and regret. ‘He was terrified when we got there, saying that they were on to him and we must get him out. He wasn’t making much sense when the other two goons turned up; they iced Al-Ahmed without a word and, before we knew it, we were screwed,’

‘They were on the phone straight away to someone,’ added Hamed, ‘saying they had American kuffars, and telling someone to send people to come get us. They were delighted and clearly expecting plenty dollars for us. Thank fuck you got us out, Tom.’

‘Forget about it,’ said Tom with a half-smile.

‘Seriously, Tom,’ said Mike, ‘I’ve been a CIA agent for long enough to have seen some bad shit and seen some bad mother-fuckers do some bad stuff to bad guys, but I’ve never seen anyone as icy and calm as you. It was like you were just taking out the garbage, or something. Which I guess, in a way, you were!’

Tom shifted, feeling a little discomfort at the American’s words, his awkwardness made stronger by a snort of amusement from Buster.

Buster smiled. ‘They used to call Tom “the Balkan Psycho”, or “Bootneck Robot”, after he killed loads of Taliban when he was sniping in Afghan. He doesn’t show much emotion, does our Tom, and he’s not prone to panic.’

Tom gave a half-smile that he hoped hid his disquiet. It was true that he had killed many times over in Afghanistan as a sniper with the Royal Marines, and each time had not felt even a flicker of emotion. No revelling in the red mist of an exploded Taliban head from a thousand metres. No regret, no celebration, just… Nothing. It didn’t make him feel comfortable with himself. It was the reason he had quit being a sniper and moved to SRR. He wanted to be a door-watcher, not a door-knocker. He hadn’t wanted to confront that absence of emotion, the void he felt in spite of having just killed once again.

Buster continued, a look of embarrassment now in his grey eyes. ‘I’m sorry we took so long, guys. We were happily parked up nearby when a fuck-off big lorry blocked us in at the off-side and an SUV came right tight up our arses. I had to pull a bit of pavement-mounting action, pissing off lots of pedestrians.’

‘Our regular army reaction force got in pretty quickly and must have scared everyone else away,’ said Damien. ‘The two bodies are being tagged and bagged, and hopefully we can get an ID on them.’

Mike nodded. ‘The phones are hopefully going to give us some leads on who ordered this. The intel will be valuable … but, fuck, that was too close. I had visions of us in some video in orange boiler suits getting our heads cut off.’

‘We have to get back to the Embassy,’ said Hamed. ‘Everyone is jumping up and down and wants to know what happened. The President wants updating,’ he added, with a trace of nervousness.

The group stood and there were handshakes all round.

Mike gripped Tom in a hug, the emotion detectable in the tension of his muscles. ‘Tom, I’ll never be able to repay you for what you just did. You saved our lives, man. You ever need anything—I mean anything—you call me. I’ll always owe you.’ He handed Tom a business card on which was listed two phone numbers and an email address.

‘No worries,’ grinned Tom. ‘Orange wouldn’t have suited you two.’

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Going Dark

Table of Contents

Title Page

Praise for Going Dark

Copyright Info

Dedication

1

2

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