Chameleon - A City of London Thriller (50 page)

“
Yeah,
right!” one anonymous agent called out, to laughter from the rest.
Quince ignored the heckling and continued.

“
The ground
level team will be carrying automatic weapons and will be on voice
activated communications on channel 1, that is a multi service
channel so no comments about our colleagues in the CIA, Secret
Service or Homeland Security.” There were murmurs as the ground
team dispersed. The SAIC was now addressing just four people
holding sniper rifles. All were armoured and helmeted. They each
wore green and grey camouflage paint to dull the sheen from their
cheeks and noses. All four were expert marksmen. Only one was a
woman; Special Agent Gillian Miles.

***

It had been a
hard year for Gillian. Despite being the daughter of a future
Presidential candidate, she had endured hours of grilling over what
Fox News had called ‘The Junk Yard Shoot Out’ and the unexpected
demise of Barry Mitchinson. Nonetheless, she had been cleared for
work on a consultancy basis for those Law Enforcement Agencies who
needed a sniper. After rigorous training with the FBI at Quantico,
and much to the distress of Steve Post, pressure from the DoJ,
Department of Justice, gave Gil Miles a shot at an agency
probation. The probation period ended with top marks and glowing
recommendations from everyone who thought Denton Miles III might be
the next President of the United States.

So it was that
six months earlier, Gillian Miles stood proudly to attention as the
Director of the FBI pinned her badge on her lapel in the presence
of her proud father and Elizabeth Chase Miles. The passing out
parade gave way to a boozy celebration, and Special Agent Gillian
Miles had a photograph taken holding her personalised and embossed
leather wallet, which when opened showed her shiny new badge below
her commission.

***

There were
only three high buildings with a true line of sight to the podium,
and Gillian was stationed on the highest. In the week before the
address was to be given, an anonymous email had been received by
the Secret Service saying that Omar Al Madawi, a Syrian sniper
loyal to President Assad, had sneaked into the USA by ship. It was
immediately dismissed by the CIA, who claimed to know where he was,
but despite their claims the tall buildings were emptied and FBI
snipers occupied their rooftops.

“
Rules of
engagement are as follows,” a senior secret service agent read out
to the snipers.

“
Unless the
life of the President is in clear and imminent danger, you must
first seek voiced authority to fire. Acknowledge.”

“
Yes, sir!”
the agents barked in unison.

“
Take your
positions and radio in.”

***

Gillian’s
perch was ideal. She could cover the roofs of the other two
buildings, and she could see all windows facing the podium except
the ones in her own building, which were covered by
others.

“
Skybird in
position,” Gil said into the throat radio as she held it to the
surface of her skin.

“
Roger that,
and position secured, radio silence in five minutes. Switch to
emergency channel if necessary,” a distant voice
responded.

Gillian had
been delighted when she discovered that her favoured M107 Snipers
Rifle was also the preferred tool of the Richmond Field Office. She
secured the bipod and traversed the square, looking the whole time
through her sights. The cross hairs on this model were different
from her own scope; hers had a simple cross with a small circle in
the centre. These cross hairs had one vertical line bisecting two
horizontal lines. The target was to be placed on the central
vertical cross hair between the two horizontal lines.

“
We are
live.” An anonymous voice chirped through the radio static
as
Hail to the Chief
rang out from below; it was played well by the National Guard
Band, as far as Gil could tell from this distance.

The President
took the podium and was raising and lowering his hands, palms down,
in an attempt to quieten the applause. Eventually the noise died
down and the President began to speak, praising the good people of
Virginia, telling them how they had helped bring America out of
recession.

There was no
apparent threat from the lower buildings, and so Gillian Miles
sighted on the President. She turned a thumbscrew ever so slightly
to adjust focus, and the President came into focus. Even from this
distance, Gil could sight the cross hairs over her President’s
throat. Securing the rifle in position, she tore off her microphone
and threw it across the roof.

Gillian Miles
smiled as her finger traced the hair trigger, the cross hairs still
set on the President’s Adam’s apple.

“
The
Chameleon is back in business!” she said out loud, just before a
loud retort echoed around the square.

THE
END

J Jackson
Bentley writes both fiction and non-fiction books and has been a
published author for over sixteen years. He now works as a Legal
Consultant in the UK, the USA, the Middle East and the Far East.
His spare time is spent writing at home in the UK and in Florida.
Married with four grown children he is currently writing a new
thriller set in Dubai and he is compiling a book of short
stories.

Find out more,
or, follow J Jackson Bentley at:

www.facebook.com/jjacksonbentley

http://jjacksonbentley.blogspot.com

http://twitter.com/jjacksonbentley

www.flickr.com/photos/jjbauthor

You can also
contact the author by email at:

[email protected]

Excerpt
from:

Shadow of the
Burj

An Emirate of
Dubai Thriller

J Jackson
Bentley

CHAPTER
1

Oxfordshire,
England, February 10
^th
, 6.00 am GMT.

The black
custom painted motorcycle coasted into a clearing in the trees and
its rider shut down the engine. The ground crackled as the rider
rolled the big bike over the frozen mud. It was still early and the
frost was thick on the ground.

The Harley
Davidson looked dated but was in fact a recent model. The Sturgis
Dyna FXDB, like all Harleys, looked a little old fashioned because
it was low slung and the rider sat upright but close to the road.
The bike appeared dirty and neglected on the surface but beneath
the film of road salt and mud it was a powerful and well maintained
road machine. The white and red decals on either side of the six
gallon petrol tank declared it to be ridden by a “Warrior”, the
Warriors being a violent offshoot of the British Hell’s
Angels.

The rider
maintained his distance from the shabby trailer park that was home
to the Warrior’s Oxford Chapter. He didn’t want to wake anyone in
the camp, at least not yet. He removed a thick leather glove and
raised his left hand to look at the cheap gothic styled watch on
his wrist. On each knuckle was a letter crudely drawn in blue ink,
the letters spelled out the word HATE. His hand was grubby and
unwashed, black oily deposits outlined his long fingernails. It was
almost 6am and the camp across the clearing was silent.

Bricko, a
nickname name derived from a crude comparison of his build to a
sturdily constructed outside toilet, reached into his battered
leather jacket and retrieved the tabloid newspaper he had purchased
just minutes ago. He unfolded the red top newspaper and reread the
headline; “Bikers Underage Sex Ring Exposed”, the words and
pictures were credited to a journalist called Max Richmond. The
sordid story was accompanied by grainy pictures and it claimed to
expose the activities of the “Warriors, a notorious motorbike gang
who modelled themselves on the “Hell’s Angels”. The big biker did
not need to reread the article, which started on the front page
before continuing over four more pages in the centre of the paper.
He knew what it said by heart.

Standing at
around six feet two inches tall, and with a solid stomach that hung
over a straining studded belt, Bricko would have looked like
eighteen stone of menace to any opposing biker gang. His long oily
hair and unkempt beard did not detract from the menacing message
his cold ice blue eyes sent when he frowned, and he was frowning
now.

Bricko had
been living in this run down mobile home park for three months but
he now knew that the time had arrived for him to move on. He knew
that if he removed the Warrior motif painted on his black leather
jacket and replaced it with a target he couldn’t be in more danger
than he was already. With a back story that linked him to the five
most wanted biker gangs in the country, Bricko would have been
considered the archetypal violent and transient biker. Once he had
set things in motion this morning he would have to be out of here
and on the road again within the hour.

The aging
biker reached into his pocket and removed an ancient and battered
‘pay as you go’ mobile phone. The phone only registered a couple of
bars and so he climbed off his bike and walked further into the
clearing. When more bars appeared he dialled the number listed in
the newspaper as being the ‘Crimestoppers’ confidential helpline.
It took some time for the phone to be answered and when it was he
heard a young woman on the other end of the line. She sounded bored
and tired as she announced her first name. In her defence she had
probably been manning the phones all night, dealing with drunks and
hoax callers. Nonetheless, she perked up noticeably when she heard
the deep bass voice that spoke with a thick Black Country accent.
She had heard it a number of times before.

“
This is
Bricko. You might want to take notes.” The biker knew that the call
was likely to be recorded. “I’ve just seen the newspaper article
about the motorcycle gang we talked about before and I can tell you
that the “Warriors” are living in an old mobile home park outside
Harringford Village off the B436.” He paused while the operator
took notes. “But the pigs had better be quick or the camp will be
empty when they get there. Tell the paper I’ll be calling for the
reward money. Remember the name ‘Bricko’”. He spelled it out and
ended the call.

Having made
the call, he knew he could expect the police within the hour.
Bricko removed the battery and sim card from the phone and threw
them deep into the undergrowth; not that there was anything on the
card that could lead the police to him. Then, quite deliberately he
placed the phone under the wheel of the bike and climbed back on.
The engine roared into life; there was no need for quiet now. He
rode over the mobile phone and into the camp.

***

UK biker gangs
had proliferated in the craziness of the 1960s when their
reputation for violence and disorder preceded them. Each successive
summer their standing had been enhanced as they were blamed for
terrorising seaside towns and quiet villages across the country.
But like most worries and concerns the fear of biker gangs was
largely unnecessary, fuelled as it was by anecdote more than by
fact. The truth was that the bulk of the violence associated with
bikers was internecine, one gang targeting another. Only rarely did
this tribal conflict spill over and trouble the general
population.

By the end of
the millennium the majority of Hell’s Angels weren’t dissimilar to
the aging hippies who were conceived at around the same time. The
bikers tended to be jaded, middle aged men and women who just
refused to move on and who insisted on clinging to old habits and
outmoded ideals. By 2010 most gangs or chapters of the British
Hell’s Angels consisted of part time members with homes, jobs and
families who rode together only at weekends. After years of roaming
the UK in gangs most bikers had succumbed to the luxuries of Middle
England and were more likely to be found raising money for
disadvantaged children, or some other charity, than raising hell.
Some disillusioned Angels broke away into smaller, more extreme
factions, continued to live the biker ideals and considered their
ex comrades to be sell outs. That was a view held by Jonty
Adams.

Jonty,
christened Jonathan Derek Latimer, was raised in a bungalow in a
leafy suburb of Oxford and had been a pillar of middle class young
adult society until his final year at university. Celebrating the
completion of his final exam and his last edition of the
OSH
“Oxford Student
Herald” as editor, he had spent the night participating in a
student drinking game and had drunk so much it was a wonder he
could stand up, let alone walk home.

Jonathan was
close to the digs he shared with fellow students when he spotted a
young girl sitting on the kerb, crying. It turned out that it was
her birthday, and she had got drunk and become immobile so her
friends had abandoned her. She sat forlorn in torn tights and a
black dress that concealed little. The new graduate helped her to
her feet and together they stumbled towards his
lodgings.