BLOOD GURKHA: Prophesy (James Pace novels Book 5) (17 page)

'When can I leave?' Rachel's tone was firm and determined.

'What's the latest from the
Vixen
?' McEntire threw her by abruptly changing the subject. 'How are James and Max?'

'Both are fit and well now, sir.' Reading down another message, she stifled a smile with difficulty. 'According to Commander Appleby, they are both giving him hell about how soon they can disembark.'

McEntire made another decision. He was very mindful that his only daughter, Sarah, lay a few rooms down the hall; still in isolation while the medics cured her of the vile pathogen developed all those years earlier as the ultimate biological terror of Britain's WWI arsenal. He was also very aware that Pace would want to get back to London as soon as possible to be with her, especially as it seemed that she would be free to leave the confines of her tented room within a few more days. Deeply in love, besotted with each other almost, he knew his new decision would not sit well when it was received at the other end.

'Send in Mr Baker, please Rachel. In the meantime, take yourself down to the quartermaster's stores and draw out all the operational kit you think you will need. The Falcon is back now so Parry and Norton will make sure you get to Nepal quickly, and secretly. They're bound to know someone with a friendly, look-the-other-way airfield, for a price.'

Baker was working in McEntire's office, running the security operation, when he got the summons. Taking the private elevator down to the medical floor, he was soon seated at McEntire's bedside. Brought quickly up to speed on the situation in Nepal, he reluctantly approved of McEntire's decision to send Rachel Crown into the fray. He did not trust her at all, despite all the assurances received. Maybe one of their enemies would do them the service of killing her.

He was genuinely saddened about losing Barbara. They went back a long way and had been more than friends on several occasions over the years.

The next part of McEntire's plan also made sense and Baker knew it was the right option.

'Do they know yet?' he asked simply.

'Not yet. I wanted your view on it before sending the instructions out.'

'Rachel will need some help, however good she is, or thinks she is,' he added, just to let McEntire know that he still did not agree with the decision to let her live. 'Barbara is a consummate professional. She never takes unnecessary risks.' He used the present tense because he refused to believe she was gone until faced with the proof. 'The only problem will be the cover story.'

'Any ideas, Mr Baker?' asked McEntire. He could almost see the cogs turned behind the man's eyes.

Baker had known about Barbara's silence from the moment her scheduled report failed to materialise the day before. He had been considering how to get their people on the ground without alerting the Chinese, or whoever she had run foul of.

Strangely, one of their legitimate business arms was involved in funding archaeological excavations related to obscure British history. It was a small arm but had successfully been used as cover to conduct operations in both the Middle East and India in recent years. Nepal, it just so happened, had reared its head a few days earlier with a funding request from one of their own team of field archaeologists; a man by the name of Felix Hill.

'I do, actually, yes. One of our archaeologists has submitted a rather bizarre request to fund an expedition into the mountains of Nepal, not too far away from the mine site.'

'That sounds almost too good to be true,' queried McEntire suspiciously. 'What makes it a strange request anyway?'

Baker scratched his head, unsure about how to phrase it. Not finding any acceptable way to put it, he simply put it. 'Apparently, more than a century ago, a couple of British ex-soldiers were trekking in the area, hunting. One was killed and the other disappeared. The request is to look for an abandoned village where artefacts are believed to have been stored.'

'Men vanish in mountains all the time,' snorted McEntire. 'What makes this any value to archaeology, or to science? What can they hope to find? A few old tins and bones, if they're lucky?'

'No, Doyle. When tragedy struck, the men were hunting for the Yeti. It is one of these mythical creatures which is alleged to have killed them.'

'Yeti? The Abominable Snowman?' McEntire was incredulous.

'Exactly. Professor Hill wants to take a small team, find the village and try and uncover any evidence of the existence of the creature. A monster hunt, if you will.'

As soon as he heard Hill's name mentioned, McEntire understood. Professor Hill was a highly respected archaeologist who specialised in the more recent history of the British Empire; typically undertaking a great deal of his work in India. He was also well known for his love of mythology. When he wasn't conducting serious research or leading a dig on an old British military site in some far-flung part of the old Empire, he spent his time studying the great global myths.

What made Professor Hill different from all the other crackpots out there was that he did not believe any of the myths that he researched. His whole thrust was to use science and technology to debunk them, exposing them as lies and stories. If he was after the Yeti, it would only be to prove that it did not exist. That, in scientific circles, made his interest in mythology very credible.

'He will be wanting to rip up the legend of the beast,' McEntire stated. 'He thinks that anyone who believes in tales of monsters or ghosts to be a lunatic. A nice enough fellow but I wouldn't want to spend any time with him. Very opinionated and more than a little bit annoying whenever anyone dares to question his viewpoint.' McEntire had only ever met him once, at a fundraiser, but once had been more than enough.

'It's not just the creature he wants to disprove,' Baker informed him. 'Another bit of local folklore speaks of the Blood Gurkhas.'

'Blood Gurkhas? What are they?'

'According to local legends, they were great warriors who were trained by a secretive order of monks in a monastery high in the mountains. Taken from their parents when they were still young children, they were trained for years and then sent out into the wilderness to battle the monsters.'

'Why?'

'It was a way of keeping the villages safe from attack. Yeti, allegedly, had a period where they developed a liking for human flesh and started to prey heavily on the people, about a thousand years ago. The Blood Gurkhas were the guardians of the people, taking the fight to the creatures and keeping them at bay.'

'Is there any truth in the legend?' McEntire could not help but be interested by the idea of fearsome human warriors with the skills to fight gigantic, mythical monsters.

'Not really,' said Baker. 'No written records exist and no hidden monastery has ever been discovered. Blood Gurkhas are as mythical as the creature itself.'

McEntire's instinct was to refuse Hill's request, point blank, but the more he thought about it, the more he realised that it would make a perfect cover story to get his people into the area. And who could feel threatened by a crazy hunt for old Yeti tracks?

'It could work,' he conceded slowly.

'Shall I give Professor Hill the green light?' Doyle McEntire nodded. 'What about the others?'

'I'll do that. Hand me my phone.' McEntire punched a number and was soon spreading the good news to a stunned, slightly irritable audience at the other end.

18

Parry and Norton rarely had such a full aeroplane but they were delighted to be in the company of Pace and Hammond again. The cabin behind their cockpit was also being graced by a very attractive young woman, by the name of Rachel. As far as they knew, she was McEntire's personal assistant so they had no idea why they were dropping her off in the middle of nowhere, especially with the likes of their other passenger; Professor Felix Hill.

Hill was far from happy. Used to people making him happy, he was far from the typical, desk-bound, occasionally field-tested academic. He liked nothing better than roughing it, camping out for months at a time; enjoying his science at someone else's expense. This showed in his physical presence.

Weighing over two hundred pounds, he kept himself in shape with a gruelling daily work out, when he wasn't in the field. A life-long fan of boxing, he was an expert at working a bag although he'd never had the guts to test his skills in the ring. He was not particularly tall; about five feet nine, which made his muscle coverage more pronounced. He loved nothing more than stripping off his top and digging, bare-chested, for the benefit of impressionable young volunteer diggers who tended to be female college students. Hill, naturally, abused his position whenever he could.

Of mixed Italian and Scottish heritage, his olive skin, dark eyes and black hair, worn cropped closely to his scalp, gave Hill more the appearance of a gruff street fighter more than a scientist, complemented by an almost permanent scowl creasing his lips. A deep scar, running across the tip of a rather large, flat nose, added to the look. Broken and cut in a fall whilst excavating a ruin in the Punjab, he revelled in telling everyone how he'd suffered the injury in a glorious bar fight.

Professor Hill was the worst of combinations; an intelligent, arrogant man with the strength and speed to be dangerous. In a nutshell, he was an old-fashioned bully; a thug when he wanted to be. Several of his digging team had walked off the job over the years after being subjected to his anger, abuse and, occasionally, a beating. McEntire had looked the other way, ignoring his nasty streak and the regular staff complaints while he was useful to their own agenda. This only added to Hill's inflated sense of invulnerability.

'I don't understand why I am being sent out with you two instead of my team,' he grumbled loudly. Pace and Hammond had long since learned to ignore him although they'd only met him for the first time a few hours earlier; boarding the Falcon at Stapleford Abbots airfield. 'I haven't asked for much funding. No hotels and only a few bits of equipment. I need to speak with Mr McEntire himself. What do you think?'

The question was directed straight at Pace and there was no ignoring it. 'I think you should be grateful the McEntire Corporation is putting any funding into your monster hunt.' His wore a slight frown, edged with distain. 'Max and I don't like this any more than you do,' he added, leaning forward in his seat. 'The last thing I need right now is to be flying to Nepal, let alone being asked to act as one of your diggers for a few days.'

'There won’t be any digging,' boasted Hill confidently. 'This Yeti nonsense has gone on for long enough. I intend to prove that it never existed, along with the legend of the Blood Gurkhas.' At the opportunity to talk about his project, Hill lit up like a Christmas tree. 'I have a publishing deadline with a very prestigious scientific publication at the end of this month. I intend to present a sweeping piece that destroys these particular myths.'

'You'll get your name in print?' asked Hammond, opening his eyes from his pretend nap in the seat opposite Pace.

'Of course,' Hill beamed smugly. 'I get my name out there and another publishing credit to my growing list. We're just going to do a bit of hiking based on the last known whereabouts I managed to dig out of various historical vaults and records. My plan is to find the village of Bruk and prove that any evidence we find can be easily discounted. A week, tops, then you and your friend will be off the hook.'

Pace shot Hammond a knowing look but held his tongue. In a way, Hill was the product of his business. He lived and breathed to be published, scrabbling in his youth for any funding he could ferret out, all the time hoping to be taken seriously within his own discipline.

He had no idea why McEntire had moved into archaeology as one of his many business ventures. As far as he was aware, there had never been much money in digging up the past. Occasionally treasure hunters struck lucky, discovering a lost hoard, but serious archaeology offered riches in knowledge rather than gold. The only possible reason was exactly what was happening at that moment.

The Falcon cruised through brilliant sunshine as it slowly climbed through wisps of altostratus, edging up past twenty thousand feet. It was a little after nine in the morning and they had been in the air since six. Breakfast had been loaded onto the plane before take off with the small galley turning out scrambled eggs, smoked salmon, hash browns and fresh coffee for everyone as soon as they cleared the coast of Ireland.

The delicious aroma still tainted the cabin as Pace and Hammond settled down to their third and fourth cup of coffee respectively. Rachel had eaten sparingly and still nursed her original drink, stone cold, but she didn't seem to mind.

Pace was usually the last person to make a judgement but he knew what she had done. Her information had led directly to the sinking of McEntire's luxurious yacht,
Sea Otter
, costing many lives as the vessel was boarded by ARC mercenaries and the crew mercilessly gunned down, mid-ocean. He and Hammond had barely escaped with their own lives, flinging themselves into the water in one of the ship's tiny lifeboats. That, in turn, led them into a swim of over a hundred kilometres; kept alive purely by their survival suits. He couldn't bring himself to look at her let alone strike up a conversation.

Hammond was more pragmatic. He knew she would be dead if McEntire didn't think she was still useful to the Corporation. They had been tasked to help her with her assignment so it must be extremely important. After all, Doyle had arranged a helicopter rendezvous with the submarine a few miles off the Brazilian coast which had dropped them straight at a major airport, where they had immediately boarded the Falcon, waiting for them on the hot tarmac.

A quick debrief at the McEntire building was all that was allowed before they were sent back to the plane. Pace, at least, was able to talk to Sarah. Suited up, he spent the night by her side, stroking her hair with a gloved hand and generally fawning over her. She was just as pleased to see him – they were made for each other, he knew.

Rachel had already sized up all of her companions, although she knew their backgrounds intimately already, having scanned their personal records before she'd jumped into the car that took her to the airfield. Hammond was the Corporation's Head of Finance but he was also a superb field operative and fairly well-known adventurer, in the right circles. Skilled at climbing, diving and caving, he was at home in dangerous situations. His alopecia was very evident in his total lack of facial hair; shiny bald with no hint of stubble on his chin, the man was also devoid of eyebrows. Within the Corporation, Hammond was a huge figure and one Rachel respected without trying.

Hill was a fool; a slimy toad who clung to the Corporation for money and prestige. His ego was too large for him to ever consider that McEntire's need of him had any ulterior motives. In his mind, the very expensive expeditions the Corporation had paid for in the past; counting a dozen so far, had yielded enough scientific data to make them legitimate. Blinded by his own views but, she had to admit, persistent and dogged in achieving what he set out to do, she was pleased they would not be staying together for long. In case you kill him, she told herself.

James Pace was very different. He had found himself inside the nefarious side of the Corporation by accident, and had already had a brief brush with celebrity by conquering
Race Amazon
twice. Ex-military, she'd taken the liberty of accessing his secure RAF files, which read very well if you avoided looking at his disciplinary record. An excellent helicopter pilot; possibly the best in the several squadrons he'd served with over the years, his skill level was undeniable. This had not saved his neck, in the end, after one bust up too many with his superiors. Overlooked for promotion, his flying career had ended in a mutual parting of the ways.

Ten years later, according to a McEntire file that was put together when Doyle was thinking of hiring him for the race, as a video diarist for one of the teams, it appeared that his last job had been nothing to do with aircraft. Pace had been a ward assistant on a secure mental ward. It made no sense to Rachel but he had clearly lost the plot after being kicked out of the air force.

Pace looked up from a murmured conversation with Hammond, about their plans upon landing, and caught her staring at him. Instead of darting her eyes away, she held the moment. She was not afraid of him and needed him to realise as much. She knew he hated her without having to be told. Her treachery had cost many good people their lives, which had never been her intention. Love had pulled her in; the need for someone special, and she had been played. It would not happen again.

'Can I help you, Miss Crown,' he asked coldly.

'No, Mr Pace,' she replied quickly. Despite his clear hostility, she could see why Sarah McEntire had fallen for him. Well built, standing a shade over six feet tall, with short, thick brown hair and a piercing gaze through vibrant, Steve McQueen blue eyes, he was a handsome specimen. 'Sorry, I sometimes stare at nothing when I'm thinking.'

Pace wondered if she was digging at him with her
nothing
comment but decided he didn't care. 'Good,' he snapped icily.

'Oh, is there something going on I should know about?' interjected Hill quickly. 'Bit of bad blood, eh?' Perhaps they were scorned lovers, with a past, although everyone knew Pace was seeing McEntire's daughter. A good move for financial security, Hill thought; money being the way he saw everything in the world. 'I need everyone to get along if we're going to succeed, once we land,' he demanded pompously.

'Professor Hill,' began Pace, his ire rising instantly. Tired from staying awake all night to tend to Sarah; frustrated at not being able to hold her skin next to his won, he was in no mood for a lecture. 'Let me make something clear to you.'

Surprisingly, the professor immediately sprang up from his chair, looming over the seated Pace with lightning speed before taking a single step forwards. For the first time on the flight, Hill's instincts to use his size and strength to impose his authority reared its ugly head. Wearing a tight white tee-shirt and khaki combat trousers, his muscles bulged powerfully and the veins visibly popped out in his neck. Smiling, staring down at Pace, he waited for the man to crumble. Whenever he used this surprise move, people always cowered away from him.

Hill was, unfortunately, about to get a lesson in humility.

Pace's surprise at Hill's aggression was momentary, followed by his own instinctive reaction to defend himself, by attacking. If Hill expected him to stay seated, or throw up his hands and plead for calm, he was mistaken. Opposite him, Hammond was already rising from his own seat. A highly skilled martial artist, as well as a seasoned explorer-cum-accountant, he was already planning his strikes against Hill when Pace beat him to the punch, literally.

Well trained in self defence in the military, Pace's skills had been further honed working in the psychiatric wards for years. In that time, the Home Office had added to his repertoire of moves by training him in take down and restraining moves, which he'd perfected time and again, managing the violent outbursts of some extremely dangerous patients.

Fit, strong and quick, Pace's involvement with the McEntire Corporations' dark side had kept him in the gym whenever he could; he now had one aboard his floating home which made it easier, and his daily exercise routine involved practising every fighting move he knew, after his running and resistance training routine had been finished. Being able to dodge bullets, blades and blows were essential skills he needed to stay alive and Pace's body reacted to Hill's move so fast that the threatening academic stood no chance.

Hammond was impressed at the speed of his friend's movement; which surpassed his own, as he watched the sorry scenario unfold.

Rising from his chair, feet planted solidly on the deep carpet, Pace clenched both fists and rammed his left into Hill's stomach, following with a right uppercut smacking heavily under the man's extended chin. Carrying slightly more power than he would normally have used; fuelled by anger and indignation at the attack, Hill's own reaction to the stomach blow brought his head down sharply into the uppercut, adding to its impact.

The whoosh of air being forced out of Hill's lungs was followed by a sharp crack that sounded with hollow finality throughout the luxurious interior of the Falcon. Hill's eyes immediately rolled back into his head before he crashed backwards, landing in an untidy heap on his seat before slithering to the floor, arms and legs flopping pathetically all over the place. Coming to rest, face down between the well-spaced out seats, his instant unconsciousness ended the moment as swiftly as it had begun. From start to finish, the scene played out in less than five seconds.

Rachel had sensed Hill's intentions just before he'd exploded up from his seat and, in a perverse way, she'd been keen to see how Pace would handle it. As an experienced operative herself, although now on very shaky ground within the Corporation, she could not hide the impressed smile that twitched up the corners of her lips.