Sentinel Five (The Redaction Chronicles Book 2) | Book by James Quinn

May 28

May 28 Sentinel Five (The Redaction Chronicles Book 2)

Book summary

Jack "Gorilla" Grant, a formidable freelancer, is called back to lead a deniable team against a terrorist organization threatening the British government with a catastrophic weapon, but as they target threats in Asia, they find the greatest dangers may lurk within their own ranks.

Excerpt from Sentinel Five (The Redaction Chronicles Book 2) by James Quinn

Grant was picked up by Jordie Penn when he arrived at Euston Station. From there, he’d been driven from London to a temporary safe house located on the outskirts of leafy Wiltshire, a six-bedroom domicile on the edge of some parkland. It was anonymous and ordinary enough not to gain any attention.

“The others will be arriving tomorrow, probably around lunch time. The Colonel will want to talk to you before then, and bring you up to speed before the rest of the team land,” Penn said as he lifted Grant’s overnight bag from the boot of the Jaguar. Masterman had been waiting for them in the dining room, where tea and sandwiches were the order of the day. It was obviously going to be a working meal, thought Grant. The former Head of Redaction must have been having a good day health wise, because he was walking with the aid of a cane and the wheelchair had been relegated to the hallway. Grant recognised this as being the ‘boss’ in war mode.

“Jack! Come in, come in! How was the journey? Good to have you back here. Take a seat,” said Masterman, stepping forward and shaking Grant’s hand. “We’ve a lot of ground to cover over the next few days, but first of all, I just want to make sure you’re still on board for this mission.”

Grant nodded. “I’m still in. I’m here.” That seemed to be commitment enough.

“I thought I’d bring you up to speed on your fellow team mates, give you a brief rundown of who they are and what they’re about,” said Masterman, passing over a number of bland, tan files containing biographies for the rest of the team. True to his word, Masterman was keeping this operation under the radar and unofficial. There were no operational cover names, no mission headings and nothing in the files to suggest it had been officially sanctioned. They were privateers, operating without a licence.

It was always like this before a job. Getting your head into the files, to get as much information as possible before you hit the street. Grant took the first folder and opened it. The face in the black and white photograph staring back at him looked as if it was fit for the hangman. It was aged, with deep lines around the eyes, and hair slicked back with Brylcreem. The man had a tough, hangdog expression on his face. In fact, Jack thought, he looked like a burglar. Grant skimmed through the details, curious to learn more.

William ‘Bill’ Hodges was nearly fifty-five years of age. The file stated that he’d been a British Army paratrooper, before being recruited into Force 136, the wartime sabotage service based in Burma in 1944. Hodges was something of an expert with demolitions, explosives and booby traps, and more than a few of the enemy had fallen to his improvised little ‘toys’. After the war, he seemed to have a penchant for getting into trouble with the law and he’d served a prison sentence for breaking into numerous banks in order to get at the safety deposit boxes. SIS had used him on several burglary operations against Iron Curtain targets. Grant’s initial reaction, thinking he looked like a burglar, hadn’t been far off the mark. “He’s a bit of a lad, isn’t he,” commented Grant, who’d known a few ‘scallywags’ in his youth.

Masterman nodded. “He was a bloody good soldier by all accounts, an expert saboteur who gave the Japs hell. But... well, sometimes men who leave the military can’t always adapt to civilian life. Hodges was a nightmare for the police, but for our purposes, he’ll be invaluable. A good dems man can breach doors, set off distraction devices and bring a building down to hide any evidence with his little ‘whizz-bangs’. Grant moved the Hodges file aside and picked up the next folder which, rather curiously, had two files inside.

“Ahhh, the deadly duo,” laughed Penn, who was standing guard by the door.

The file contained the details of two former soldiers – very recently former. Up until last month, they’d been members of the post-war British Special Forces Regiment. Then they’d seemingly experienced a change of heart and ‘bought’ their way out of the army. Now, to all intents and purposes, they were technically unemployed. “Crane and Lang,” Grant read. Both men were in their late twenties and looked tough and fit. Not the types you would want to meet in a dark alley. From the photos provided, they appeared to have been taken from the same mould. Not exactly twins, thought Grant, but of a similar hue. They certainly had an impressive operational pedigree; they’d hunted terrorists in Malaya and Borneo and worked undercover in the backstreets of Aden. Grant noted that they had several mentions in dispatches between them and both had risen to the rank of senior NCO’s within the Regiment. When Masterman dragged himself out of the docks in Australia the previous year, it had been Crane and Lang who had been waiting at the emergency rendezvous to whisk him away to an SIS safe house for medical treatment.

“They’re tough lads, Jack, but they’ll respect you. They’re your dogs of war for this operation. Good in a killing zone. Use them well,” said Masterman, the pride for the men of his old regiment obvious and as strong as ever.

Grant assumed that when the mission was complete, and if they survived, the two Special Forces soldiers would be ‘allowed’ to return to the Regiment, almost as if they’d just been away on a short holiday. Oh, they would probably have to go through selection again, but if the current commanding officer was worth his salt, he would snap up the two Special Forces soldiers as quickly as possible. He placed the ‘deadly duo’s’ file to one side and picked up the last of the folders. He licked his thumb and turned the page, expecting to see another hard-bitten ex-military type staring back at him... instead, he was greeted with a colour photograph, one definitely not taken by an army photographer.

The face was that of a woman in her late twenties, perhaps early thirties. She was of Asian descent, but with the uniquely exquisite look which hinted at her part-European parentage. Her long, jet black hair was tied back, revealing a delicate oval face and to the casual observer she might have been any nationality; Chinese, Greek, even Italian. Her features played a game with those trying to decipher her. She was to Grant’s eyes... beautiful. But it was the eyes... the eyes provided the biggest mystery to her background, they were dark, almost black. He read down the page which accompanied the photograph. Her name was Miko Arato and she’d been born in Tokyo in 1938. The only other piece of information was that she was an accomplished marksman with a rifle, and an expert sniper. Confused, Grant threw the report back onto the table. “Hardly worth using any ink for all the good that was. Is this some kind of bloody joke?” he demanded.

Penn stepped away from the doorway and picked up the discarded sheet, placing it carefully back into the folder. Masterman fixed Jack with a hard stare and he could feel the weight of the man’s fury bearing down on him. “There a problem, Jack?”

“A woman sniper? Bit unusual isn’t it?” said Grant.

Masterman barked out a laugh. “Not a bit unusual, Jack, it’s very bloody unusual! It’s unprecedented, in my experience. Oh, you hear about peasant women in Russia during the siege of Stalingrad, but never a civilian in peacetime as far as I’m aware. She’s a unique young woman and we’re lucky to have her.”

Grant wasn’t buying it. There had to be something more, something he wasn’t being told. “Okay, so what’s her story? The others I can understand, undercover operators and Special Forces – that’s their thing, that’s what they’re trained for, but what does this Japanese woman have to do with—”

“She’s C’s daughter,” Masterman interrupted. “As the file says, her name is Miko. Miko Arato. Sir Richard and her mother met when he was working undercover in Japan in the 1930’s. He was posing as a journalist and she was an assistant at one of the local news agencies out there. To say she was one of his agents would be a little... crude. Theirs was a working relationship initially, they were colleagues, although knowing C, he no doubt always kept his ears open in case of receiving any useful information. Later their relationship grew personal and a child was born – Miko.”

“How did you find out about her?” asked Grant.

“In the documents that C had secretly sent me, there were details containing her address and some instructions about what he wanted me to do, in the event of his death. She was his secret family, apparently he’d visited her several times over the years when she was a child– without Lady Crosby’s knowledge – in Japan,” Masterman explained.

“So that’s how she’s involved in this operation. She’s taken C’s murder personally,” interjected Penn.

“Once I told her about the circumstances of C’s death, she expressed her desire for revenge,” Masterman admitted. “I initially thought I could use her as an intelligence asset on the ground in Asia. Miko works as a tour guide for Japanese tourists, so both her English and her knowledge of European cities is excellent. She had what we call ‘natural cover’ for travelling, recruiting and organising. Then she showed me what she could do with a rifle. That knowledge changed everything.”

“And you didn’t think twice about including her in this mission? No matter how good she might be with a weapon, she’s still a novice.” Grant couldn’t help thinking about the last time Masterman had introduced a young, inexperienced woman into a Redaction operation. His heart sank at the memory of the debacle which happened in Rome several years earlier.

“For God’s sake man, she was his daughter! She loved her father – worshipped him – and the thought of some assassin getting away with his murder is something she won’t allow to happen. Miko will be our eyes and ears on the ground, and when we track this ‘Raven’ down she’ll be in at the kill.”

Grant nodded; it was apparent from Masterman’s strong reaction that he wouldn’t be moved on this point. “Okay, tell me about this ’sniper’ and how she came to be so good with a rifle.

Masterman leaned back in his chair, drumming his fingers on the handle of his cane and set about searching his extensive memory for every detail. “When her mother died, she was raised by her uncle on his farm. Apparently, he’d been a sniper during his time fighting against the Americans in the Pacific. After the war, he taught the girl how to shoot. Rather unusual, granted, but teach her he did, informally of course. The girl seems to have a natural aptitude for it.”

Grant weighed up the story in his mind and decided to let any further arguments slide. Masterman had already picked the team, and there was no use arguing against the Colonel. He always made the right decisions operationally and Jack had to respect him for that.

The rest of the team began to arrive from eleven o clock onwards the following morning. The two soldiers, Lang and Crane, were the first to arrive and they were introduced to Grant, with Penn playing the part of host and conducting the introductions. Both men shook hands with Grant and he could see how similar they actually were. They both had that tough and resourceful independence that was a trait of elite soldiers the world over. Grant thought they would have made a couple of good ‘bouncers’ in some of the rougher London clubs he knew. He guessed they knew their way around a knuckle-duster and a head-butt.

A few minutes later, a taxi pulled up in the drive to deposit Bill Hodges, looking less like a burglar and more like an aging bank manager in his de-mob suit. He had a stilted walk, as if nursing an old war wound, and the manners of a spiv. “Good day to you all,” he chirped. Grant had a feeling he would like this man, respect him, certainly. He just wouldn’t trust him alone with the family silver.

When the introductions were completed, Penn spoke. “I’d better put the kettle on then, get a brew going?”

But Masterman shook his head. “No we’ll wait, if that’s alright with you lads, wait until the sniper arrives. It would be un-gentlemanly to start without her.”

Ten minutes later, there was the faint noise of a genteel knock on the door. Penn removed himself from the room and returned a moment later, popping his head around and saying, “It’s the sniper, Colonel. She’s here.”