Chimera Code (Jake Dillon Adventure Thriller Series)

Andrew had his first Jake Dillon adventure
thriller published in 2006 - The Chimera
Code is fourth in the series. His writing is
a reflection of his extensive travels and
inherent interest in national security and
covert operations. Andrew lives in Dorset,
where many of Dillon’s tours take him.
Andrew lives with his family and is currently
completing the fifth Dillon novel, due for
publication in 2013.

The old winch-house jutted defiantly out from the jagged cliff
top. Sections of the stonework had fallen away far below, revealing
toothless gaps in the sheer elevations - the dark smile of an old
Ukrainian revolutionary. The two-storey building, that had endured
hundreds of years of the harsh mountain elements, had once been the
only route up and in to the fortress that over - lord the entire valley for
as far as the eye could see. This had long ago been defended against
marauding invaders but now and for centuries past, had only been
smashed and bombarded by wind, rain and snow intent on a gradual
stripping away of its outer defenses.

Something - a quick stealth-like movement - the only sound the
rushing of air as it skimmed easily, almost fluidly across the mountain
face on the end of the high-tensile line. A figure shrouded by darkness,
protected by the night and its moonless sky of brooding black clouds.
It landed lightly on the aged timbers of a narrow walkway. And,
through the glass of a narrow window, dull light shone out into the
gloom.

The figure emerged from the shadows and moved forward with
the light-footedness of a stalking cat. Then it paused, listening, a static
outline against the night, before sliding once again into the darkness
and vanishing: a ghost; mist; a black dream.

There was a deep oppressive silence in the dimly lit corridor, at
one end of which was a solid oak arched door, the single portal for
the protected sanctuary.

Seated, three heavy-set Ukrainian guards, full beards and their
hair grease-smeared and lank, were armed with GRACH MP-443
pistols and shoulder-slung Nikonov AN-94 ‘Abakan’ assault rifles.
One of them, sitting with the earphones of his MP3 player firmly
plugged into his ears, was rocking back and forth on his wooden
chair against the stone wall. The other two were playing cards across
a small makeshift table by the warm light of an oil-burning lantern;
their brutal scarred features softened temporarily by the amber glow,
a bottle of cheap vodka their only shared release from the boredom
of duty.

There was a soft clatter, muffled, from back along the shadowed
corridor and the two men, who were playing cards, exchanged
bloodshot gazes over the smeared bottle. One man, the leaner of the
two, removed the American cigarette from his lips and discarded it on
to the flagstone floor.

The larger of the two men shook his head. “It’ll be a fucking
bear again. They come down here looking for food.”
“Not at this time of night. They don’t like the dark - or the
bullets. Go on, you stinking good-for-nothing, go and check who’s
there.” He grinned, baring rotten and heavily tobacco stained teeth.
“Anyway, we’re safe. If they’d got this far they would have triggered
the perimeter sensors.
And
there are Special Forces bodyguards in
there with the
Comrade
himself,” he sneered. “We have nothing to be
afraid of.”
Cursing, the other man stood and checked his pistol and
Nikonov. The magazines were both full and he flicked the safety off.
“I used to enjoy shooting bears” he muttered, and with his bloodshot
eyes as alert as they could ever be in the gloom, he left the friendly
glow of the lamp.
The other Ukrainian guard sat, shuffling the cards with the
expert hands of a man practiced in guard duty. His eyes shifted right
to the digital display of the monitor on the wall, its black plastic
surround and LED warning lamps out of place against the rough
stone work. It registered normal. Nothing. No intruders. Nothing to
worry about. But the hi-tech electronics made him nervous. He was a
guard trained with traditional weapons: guns and bullets. He did not
rate fancy gadgets…
There was a sound somewhere in the distance - almost inaudible
- like the air being let out of a tyre.
The seated man frowned, his brow furrowed, his eyes darting
over to the LED monitor, then back to the gloom of the empty
corridor. He kicked the other guard, who woke with a start and, who
instinctively brought the Nikonov, that had been resting on his lap, up
in a menacing arc. The other man stood up and with a fluid sweeping
action of the back of his large hand, struck the man heavily across
the face, knocking him off the chair and across the stone floor. Blood
trickled from the corner of his mouth, but he knew better than to
strike out against his superior officer, instead he picked himself up
and stood to attention.
The lean Ukrainian soldier moved towards the gloom of the
corridor. “Mikhail, are you there,
Comrade
?” His words echoed, alone,
through to the other end. When no reply came, he picked up the
Nikonov and switched it to fully automatic. He moved with a smooth
military precision that indicated a history of violence and, despite
his sleazy appearance, a cold precise professionalism kicked in; he
motioned for the other man to stay on guard at the door, as he crept
forward close to the wall, suddenly alert, all senses buzzing with a
sudden rush of adrenalin. He reached a junction in the corridor and
glanced tentatively to the left, gun muzzle tracing an imaginary arc
of fire. The half-open distant iron door showed only a beam of faint
moonlight breaking briefly through the clouds and spilling over the
walkway. There was no sign of Mikhail.
The guard started to back away - and was slammed off his
feet, flung against the wall, a tungsten tipped arrow shaft protruding
from his forehead. His Nikonov AN-94 clattered deafeningly on the
granite slab floor. Blood trickled from the tiny wound, running across
his face, and onto his chin and over his fatigues. His eyes, open and
lifeless, stared unseeing at the ceiling as his legs and arms continued
to twitch, while blood pooled around him from the smashed skull and
formed a slowly growing viscous puddle on the floor.

Scorpion 7
: One of ten elite units, supremely proficient
and lethally effective in the violent worlds of; counter-terrorism,
protection of government and political VIPs and covert operations
worldwide. This was supposed to be an easy gig. Protection: close
quarters, waiting for one of the British Government’s many top-class
analysts to arrive in order to verify certain information carried -
stolen
- by Valentin Vladimirovich Ivankov.

Ivankov, Russian born, lately of Venice, Italy, and before that
involved with some nefarious desert activity in Libya. He was a man
with a unique profession. He was an internationally renowned and
highly respected archaeologist, but had since his university days
been a spy for the former soviet KGB. In the corner of the fortified
living quarters sat an aluminium case containing the tools of his
trade. The metalwork had been handcrafted to a very individual and
precise design: the case had been created with an inner and outer
skin with concealed X-Ray proof compartments in between for the
sole purpose of smuggling. On this occasion Ivankov was carrying
encoded documents stored on an SD (secure digital) memory card,
which looked just like the one in his professional Nikon digital SLR
camera. He knew the British Government would pay a high price to
get their hands on the information that was stored on the card.

The safe room in this lonely fortress had been designed,
appropriately enough, first and foremost for the safety of its occupants.
The only window was glazed with a high-grade bullet-proof glass that
was unusual and expensive for such a remote location. The walls,
although weather beaten on the outside were solid stone, two feet
thick, the ceiling and floors solid concrete, the door heavy oak with a
bomb-proof core and controlled by biometric and two digital locking
systems.

The occupant, obviously, was paranoid.
Valentin Vladimirovich Ivankoff slept lightly on his back, a
pillow covered in the finest silk beneath his cropped blond hair. The
silk sheets had been thrown free in favor of the heavy bear skin due
to the extreme cold seeping in from the mountain. The old wood
burning stove in the corner of the room had long gone out.
A
click
sounded. Valentin’s eyes instantly opened in the darkness.
He lay perfectly still staring up at the ceiling for a while, his
breathing almost inaudible with a steady and even beat. Then he
scanned the room, glad that he was no longer subject to the severe
headaches that he had been recently suffering due to the high altitude.
Just outside of his private suite, on the other side of the solid door sat
three guards, courtesy of the Ukrainian army.
Inside the room with him were two of his most trusted personal
bodyguards and the three members of the Scorpion 7 protection
squad. All were waiting for the British Government’s expert analyst
and the money that he would bring with him. Ivankov relaxed a little
more as he watched the Scorpion squad; they were rated among the
best and Valentin Vladimirovich Ivankov had had dealings with them
on a number of occasions over the last two years since their inception.
They were good. No, he thought, they really were the best of the best.
Hawk was cleaning his Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine gun,
while Jules sat with her head resting against the wall as she rubbed at
her eyes. Big Fitz, was on his feet by the bullet proof window. The
big man tilted his head sideways, and there was a cracking sound of
released tension as his neck vertebrae clicked back into alignment.
From outside there came a distant muffled sound of a helicopter’s
rotor blades cutting through the thin mountain air. Hawk and Jules
exchanged meaningful glances. “What is it?” said Ivankoff, suddenly -
skittishly - nervous. He sat up in bed, quickly glancing down at where
his own personal and concealed sawn-off shotgun nestled under a
heavy oak chest: the
last line
of protection should Scorpion 7 and the
bodyguards outside fail.
Yakov moved towards him, black-clad, menacing and yet, to
Valentin, reassuring. He set his own weapon to fully automatic and
grinned a mouthful of gold teeth. “Don’t worry yourself, Valentin,”
he rumbled. “We are all here. You have nothing to fret over, you’ll be
fine.” He reached out to pat Ivankov on the back.
A shrill noise cut through the air and then a metallic
clack.
Both digital locks failed.
The heavy oak security door burst open.
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” came the calm controlled
voice.
The figure was of average height and slight build and dressed in
a single-piece black body-hugging garment. The face was concealed
by a tight black balaclava that revealed only the eyes, which were as
blue as the ocean.
The voice was quietly spoken, carried no accent and the figure
appeared not to be carrying any sort of weapon.
Everybody in the room froze...
“Who the fuck?”
“Save your questions for your God.”
The figure moved with awesome speed as the three members
of Scorpion 7 and Ivankov’s two personal bodyguards opened fire.
Rounds screamed across the room as the black clad figure leaped high
into the air, somersaulted, twisted, and connected, booted feet first,
with the large bulk of Yakov. The big man fell, and before he had
crashed to the ground a long gleaming knife had been run across his
throat.
The black-masked figure looked up - a quick glance.
Yakov’s gun was lifted without preamble from the floor.
“You
bastard
!” hissed Jules, her feminine mouth open in disbelief.
She had moved with exceptional agility and speed, her gun spitting its
lethal payload, shell casings ejecting, but the black clad figure was -
gone.
The gun muzzle felt cold against Jules’ temple. There were two
dull thuds as the rounds exited and slammed into oak panelling before
Hawk got his MP5 submachine gun trained on the black-clad figure
from across the room.
But it was too late, “No,” Hawk mouthed silently.
The black intruder squeezed the pistol trigger and, even as Jules’
blood and brains were oozing from the side of her smashed skull,
kicked off from her slumping corpse and somersaulted in a tight ball,
somehow avoiding the screaming 9mm rounds from Hawk’s weapon,
hit the ground and rolled towards a heavy oak chest. From nowhere a
sawn off shotgun appeared and there was a heavy bass
boom
. Hawk was
lifted from his feet and blown across the room. He left a trailing smear
of blood against the stone wall, then slid down onto his haunches and
remained quite still.
Suddenly everything was awesomely silent. The smell of
cordite hung heavy in the air, only the flickering of a damaged light
illuminated the cowering figure of Valentin Vladimirovich Ivankov.
He looked up slowly, glanced around at the carnage, and let out a
long-drawn shuddering sigh. He was fully aware that he was lucky
to be alive, realised that he was extremely lucky not to be a corpse
sprawling beside the five carcasses on the floor.
The black clad Assassin was standing with the sawn-off shotgun
in his or her hands.
The figure said nothing. Made no move - no sound.
Valentin, who had good cause to feel nervous, was uncomfortable
sitting on the hard floor as trickles of sweat crawled down his neck
and back.
He looked at the figure as he stood up and dusted himself off,
“Shit man, I can’t believe you’ve just taken down a Scorpion unit,” he
croaked. There was no response - physical or oral. “How the fuck did
you move so fast around this room? What are you a fucking acrobat
or something? And are you here for what I think you’re here for? You
don’t need to worry, I’ve still got it and it’s safe. I was on my way to
him when I was snatched by this lot.” Valentin looked around the
room.
The sawn-off shotgun swung up and the double barrels blasted
Valentin across the room and into a twisted bloody heap in the corner.
There was a clatter as the shotgun fell noisily onto the flagstones and
landed in a pool of congealing blood. Soft black boots left crimson
imprints across the floor while footsteps pounded down the darkened
corridor towards the scene of carnage. The Assassin threw a small
round ball at the center of the bullet-proof glass which attached itself
by tiny suction cups.
The figure approached the aluminium case, hurled aside in the
recent confusion. Crouched down behind the oak chest and hands
moved swiftly to open the two outer combination catches, revealing
the contents, which were hurriedly tipped out onto the floor. The
pressure release was found and the inner metal lining came away easily
to reveal the secret compartment holding the memory card. This was
stowed away inside the tight black clothing.
The Assassin turned the outer dial on its watch face and instantly
the small explosive device attached to the glass detonated. It leaped
up to the opening and glanced down at the valley far below. Fresh
morning sunlight bathed the scene and then the figure was gone,
leaving only bloody footprints outside on the stone parapet.