Gray Resurrection

Gray
Resurrection

~by~

Alan
McDermott

Published by Alan McDermott at
Smashwords

Copyright 2012 Alan McDermott

This ebook is licensed for your
personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people.
If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an
additional copy for each person.

You may not reproduce this work, in
part or in its entirety, without the express written permission of the author.

Alan
wrote this book in his spare time.  If you want to read more of his work,
please make sure you pay for a copy so that he can quit work and
realise
his dream of
writing full time.

Although this is a work of fiction,
the history of Abu Sayyaf is as accurate as I can make it, and no names have
been changed.  All other characters in the book (except Osama Bin Laden)
are imaginary and any similarities to persons living or dead are purely
coincidental.

The locations are real, and there is
actually a military base, called Camp Bautista, adjacent to the airstrip on the
island of Jolo.  However, for obvious security reasons my description of
the camp, the personnel within and the topography of the surrounding landscape
are entirely fictional.  I apologise in advance if this causes any offence
to those who have served there.

All times shown are local time,
Manila, Philippines

This
is the second in the series of Tom Gray books, the first being
Gray Justice
. 
Although you can try to read this book as a standalone novel, it does carry on
where
Gray Justice
left off.  If you haven’t already read the first
book I strongly suggest you do so.  I promise, you will enjoy this book a
lot more if you read
Gray Justice
first.

Here
are some of the comments from readers of
Gray Justice
:

“Alan
McDermott is an author to watch out for in the future, his originality makes
him stand out.”

“An
outstanding debut novel and an absolute must read for everyone.”

“It
was one of the best reads I’ve had for a long time…”

“…I
couldn't put the book down.”

“McDermott's
prose is easy to understand while still delivering the thriller punch!”

“Read
this outstanding first novel; you won't be disappointed!”

“If
there is one book you should read make it this one”

“Would
love to see a film adaptation. McDermott is sheer class!”

This book is dedicated to everyone who
read and loved Gray Justice. 

I particularly want to thank Scott,
Rob, Cinta and Dawn for their support over the last year.

You guys rock!

Prologue

Friday 13th
April 2012

If only he hadn’t written that note!

Arlan Banting’s infatuation with
Maritess Cabanag had been going on for over a year now, and despite being one
of the more popular boys in school he had always been shy around the girls,
never comfortable in forming close ties with his female classmates.  It
had taken months for him to pluck up the courage to invite her to Font's and
Mon's Restaurant in Barangay Seaside, and another two weeks to save up enough
dinner money to pay for their date, but it had been worth it.  He’d
discovered that he had more in common with Maritess than he could have ever
wished for: they both loved the same music and films, and both played the
guitar.  Maritess also had the voice of an angel and wrote her own lyrics,
which Arlan would put to music before they recorded their efforts on an ancient
tape recorder.

One of Arlan’s immediate dreams was to
buy a decent video camera so that he could record one of their sessions and
then send it to all of the many talent shows airing on TV, but having a
distinct lack of cash went hand in hand with living in Isabela City.

It had been a first class city in the
early sixties, but after the Moro rebellion razed the plantations it was
relegated to a fifth class province within a decade, and though it had a population
of over eighty five thousand people, nobody lived in Isabela City: they simply
existed.

Nobody, that is, except the criminal
gangs who operated with near-impunity.

They consisted primarily of members of
Abu Sayyaf, a military Islamist separatist group operating in Bangsamoro (from
the Malay word
Bangsa
, meaning nation of people, and
Moro, which refers to the Muslim population of the Philippines). 
Bangsamoro is an area comprising the Zamboanga Peninsula and the islands of
Jolo and Basilan, the capital of which is Isabela City.  They controlled
everything from the police and local judiciary to protection rackets and drugs,
but their main source of income came from kidnapping.  They had raised
some hefty ransoms over the years, which replaced the donations they’d once
received from their Muslim brothers overseas. Al-Qaeda in particular had been
only too happy to help in their struggle for an independent province in the
early days.

As Arlan strode through the city he
regretted his decision to pass the note to Maritess rather than giving it to
her after class.  If only he’d waited another twenty minutes he wouldn’t
have been kept behind after school to explain his actions to the principal, and
he would have been able to take his normal route home in time to babysit his
younger sister while their mother went to her evening job.  As it was, the
only way he would keep to his schedule was to take a detour down Veterans
Avenue.  His normal route home took him right at the bandstand followed by
a left onto the Rizal Avenue extension, then onto La Piedad and finally down
Lower Lanote Road and into a side street where his shanty house sat among a
hundred others. 

This circuitous route added an extra
thirty minutes to his journey home but it meant he could avoid the Jolo Bar, a
hangout for members of the Arroyo gang. Unlike the Abu Sayyaf gangs who
collected money on behalf of their masters on Jolo Island, the Arroyo gang were
in it for themselves.  They would sit at the tables outside the bar,
drinking San Miguel beer and smoking imported Marlboro cigarettes rather than
the much cheaper locally produced version.  Anyone who happened within
thirty yards of them was fair game, as Arlan had found to his cost earlier that
year.  A group of five of them had stolen his meagre savings and beaten
him for good measure.  When his mother had reported the incident to the
police they had promised to give it their full attention, then promptly binned
the report once she’d left the station. 

Like everyone else in Isabela, the police
rarely ventured close to the Jolo Bar – unless it was to collect their weekly
payoff for turning a blind eye. 

Arlan was glad to see that no-one was
occupying the chairs outside the bar, but still he quickened his pace, and was
about four yards past the entrance when a hand on his shoulder stopped him in
his tracks. 

“Saan ka pupunta?”

Where do you think you’re going?

Arlan knew the answer to the question
was nowhere, and he turned to face the man who’d grabbed him.  In fact
there were four of them, all in their early twenties and most with cigarettes
hanging from their mouths.  The one with his hand still gripping Arlan’s
shoulder put his face closer and the stench of stale beer on his breath made
Arlan wince.  The man's teeth were already in the process of turning brown
and Arlan suspected he hadn't seen a tube of toothpaste in his life.  He
recognised him as the man who had beaten him back in January, and the others
had called him Dindo.

“This is our street.  You have to
pay if you want to walk here.”

Arlan nodded and dug into his pocket,
producing his lunch money.  He got fifty pesos a day, roughly one U.S.
dollar, and for the last few months had managed to save thirty pesos a day
towards his camera.  He’d spent forty pesos today, deciding to treat himself
to a proper lunch, so he thrust the ten peso note towards the man, who sneered
at it and swatted it out of his hand.

“You call that payment?  What’s in
the bag?”

“Only my school books, po,” Arlan said,
using the word to show respect for his elders.  He had no respect
whatsoever for these people, but if it helped him avoid another beating, it was
worth a try.

One of the others grabbed the bag from
his shoulder and rummaged through it, throwing out text books, pens and
pencils.  When he came across a photo of Maritess he sniggered and showed
it to his friends.

“Who's this?  Your sister?”

“No, po, my girlfriend.”

“Liar,” Dindo said.  “She's too
good for a peasant like you.  Maybe you should bring her down to the Jolo
and let her meet some real men.”

Dindo grabbed his crotch with his free
hand and began rotating his hips back and forth, moaning sounds emanating from
his nicotine-stained lips.

Arlan knew a beating was just around the
corner, no matter what he did, and the disrespect they were showing towards his
first love drove him to actions he'd never considered in his wildest
dreams.  Before he knew it, his right hand bunched into a fist and flew at
Dindo's face, connecting with his left cheek.  Unfortunately, Arlan was
built for playing the guitar, not street brawling, and the blow bounced off
harmlessly.  Dindo's face registered shock, not at the force of the
impact, but at the sheer impudence of the gutter rat.

“Putang ina mo!!  Papatayin kita!!”

But before Dindo could carry out his
threat and kill the son-of-a-bitch, someone else had an idea along similar
lines, though it was Dindo and his friends who were the targets.

The jeepney is the ubiquitous form of
public transport in the Philippines.  Originally made from surplus jeeps left
behind after the Second World War, they were transformed to carry larger
numbers of passengers.  This particular jeepney had been hijacked just a
couple of streets away, and as it drove past the Jolo bar four AK-47 rifles
appeared through the glassless window on the side of the vehicle and began
blazing away at the men standing by the entrance.  Despite their aim being
below poor, the close proximity guaranteed hits, and the men in the vehicle saw
three of their targets fall instantly.  Two tried to run but got less than
a couple of steps before they too crumpled to the ground. 

The jeepney stopped and a young man
climbed out of the back and strode confidently towards the prostrate
figures. 

One of them was clawing at the air and
begging for help, but mercy and compassion were not in his assailant's
vocabulary.  Instead, he placed a sheet of paper over his victim's face
and used a four inch knife to staple it to his forehead, before calmly climbing
back inside the jeepney, banging on the side to tell the driver to move off.

Arlan Banting’s last action was to crawl
towards the discarded photo of Maritess, the bullet wounds in his chest and arm
making it a painful journey.  It was inches away from him but every
movement sent shockwaves through his body, and when he finally collapsed his
finger fell still over her heart.

Chapter 1

Saturday 14th
April 2012

Sam Grant had become a familiar figure
in the Vista Real subdivision on the outskirts of Manila.  Having paced out
the route from his front door, around the houses and back to his start position
he knew it was roughly half a mile, and so his aim was to do ten circuits a
day.

Almost a year after breaking both legs
in the explosion it was a tall ask, but he was determined to get back into the
old routine.  For the first few days he had jogged round a couple of times
before the muscles in his calves screamed for mercy, but a month later he was
comfortable at three miles and pushing it at four.  An easy five was his
ultimate target but he knew that was still a couple of weeks away at least.

After nearly seven laps of the compound
the sweat had completely soaked his sando, which was the Philippine equivalent
of the sleeveless T-shirt.  Completing the ensemble was a pair of bright
blue shorts and his New Balance sneakers, all of which had been purchased in
Manila.

He'd arrived in the country wearing
nothing more than a hospital robe and for the first six weeks that was all he'd
needed, having been bedridden due to the multiple fractures in his legs. 
His left arm had also suffered, as had his chest, but it was the face that took
the most getting used to.  When he'd first seen his new look he had been
horrified, but as the swelling from his injuries and the subsequent surgery
went down he found himself staring at a totally different person.  His
eyes seemed sunken due to the heavier brow, and his nose looked like it had
been lifted off a local, flat against his face instead of sticking out proudly
as it had once done.  He had tried growing a full beard to hide the
crescent shaped scar which covered his right cheek but the climate made it itch
intolerably, so he settled for a goatee and moustache and simply put up with
people staring at it. Time being the healer it was, the scar was already
receding, but he knew he would wear it for the rest of his life.

James Farrar had told him to use it as a
reminder as to why he was here in the Philippines, but then James Farrar was a
dickhead. 

From the moment he'd met Farrar, Grant
had taken an instant dislike to him.  He didn't know if it was the
condescending attitude, or the pin-striped suit, or just that he stank of green
slime. Of course, he couldn't be sure Farrar was from the Royal Intelligence
Corp because one of his favourite games was point-blank refusing to give Grant
any information.

After their first brief meeting Farrar
had popped by a couple of months later, totally unannounced, just to check on
his progress.  Since then, he had only made a phone call every couple of
months, which suited Grant down to the ground. If Farrar wasn't willing to
answer his questions, then the less contact they had, the better.

He waved at Mr Lee as he passed the
house on the corner and got a wave in return.  The Philippines might not
be the most modern country in the world, but the people were generally nice and
the whole neighbourhood had made him feel welcome when he'd moved in. 

Prior to living here he’d stayed in the
house in Subic Freeport, but there was only so much to do there, and he had craved
a busier life.  On Farrar’s second visit he’d requested that a bag of
belongings be brought over from the U.K.  The holdall he’d asked for
contained just over a million pounds sterling, the proceeds from the sale of
his home and business, and was stored at his solicitor’s office in
London. 

Farrar wasn’t pleased at the idea and
made his feelings known, but Grant had insisted that he needed his own place to
live and money to set up a small business to keep himself occupied. 
Farrar had eventually relented on the condition that the money be banked and
Grant could only have access to forty thousand pesos per month.  Any
withdrawal over that amount would have to be sanctioned by Farrar
himself.  Grant had agreed, and the bag was delivered to his quarters by
diplomatic courier three days later, followed by a phone call from Farrar who
took great delight in telling him that the government salary he’d been enjoying
was coming to an end, since he was now able to support himself.  Grant
wasn’t even slightly concerned at losing the miserly allowance and told Farrar
as much, causing even greater animosity between the pair.

The house he’d bought, with Farrar's
consent, was a two bedroom up and down, with a decent garden and covered car
port.  He could have bought something ten times the size and still have
half of his money in the bank, but as he was going to be living alone he didn't
see the point.

As he approached his house he saw Alma
appear from the front door, hosepipe in her hand ready to water the
plants.  He blew her a kiss as he passed and continued round the corner
and onto lap eight.

Alma had happened out of the blue, and
it had been the last thing he’d expected.

He’d been out shopping for kitchen
appliances for his new home when she’d caught his eye, and he'd found himself
smiling at her.  More surprisingly, she'd smiled back from behind the
counter and before he'd even thought about it he’d found himself standing
before her, lost for words.  Then came the realisation that she might have
been smiling simply because that was what she was paid to do: put on her
customer service face.

“Um, I'm looking for a washing machine,”
he had said feebly.

The smile had remained in place, and the
amount of eye contact he’d got went well beyond customer care, so he'd chanced
his arm and invited her for a coffee after work.  She'd readily accepted,
which he'd found amazing, and after they had arranged a time for him to pick
her up, he'd left the shop looking for the hidden cameras, convinced it was
some kind of sick reality TV gag. 

He'd then walked straight back in and
purchased the white goods he'd originally gone in for.

The date at a local coffee shop had gone
well.  Alma spoke English very well, although there was a hint of an
American accent, a result of the U.S. presence up until November 1992, when the
American flag was finally lowered in Subic for the last time.

 He’d been conscious about his
looks all evening, though Alma either hadn't noticed or hadn't cared. 
She’d wanted to know about his past, and he'd had to think quickly.

A year earlier he'd been Tom Gray,
widower.  A few weeks later he was Tom Gray, terrorist.  The next
thing he knew he was waking up in an Admiral's bedroom in the Philippines with
a new name, a new face and an explicit warning from Farrar: tell anyone about
his previous life and he would be dead within twenty four hours.  So he'd
spent the evening telling her about Sam Grant, entrepreneur.

The story he’d told was of a man who’d
lived in London all his life, taking various part-time jobs before starting his
own small business selling T-shirts online.  A raft of other websites soon
sprang up, and it was while on holiday in Manila the previous year that he’d
seen the lack of online shopping sites and decided to corner the market. 

The latter part was true, as he’d tried
to order some sneakers over the Internet and found it impossible, so he’d
rented an office, furnished it with half a dozen computers and hired some
developers to create the sites.  He now had a dozen customers signed up to
sell their goods through his web portals, offering them the software and
hosting for free in exchange for five percent of each sale. 

Sales had taken a while to pick up, he’d
explained to her, but the business was starting to pay for itself.

He’d been in the process of creating the
warehouse and distribution side of the business when he’d met Alma.  She
was twenty seven and had been working in the department store for a couple of
years, having travelled up from the southern islands to stay with relatives in
Manila, and having previously worked in a wholesale company she had plenty of
contacts that would help him in his quest to start selling direct to the
public.  That revelation had prompted him to offer her a job with his
company at double her current wages, and she had accepted without a moment’s
hesitation.

They’d parted that evening without so
much as a goodnight kiss, Grant heeding the words of an ex-pat he'd met in a
bar when he'd first arrived in Manila. 

“It takes time to court a good Filipina,”
he'd said.  “You should never try anything on the first three dates.”

It wasn't until he'd got into the taxi
to take him home that Grant had thought about his wife and son.  Was he
being disrespectful towards them by flirting with another woman?  All it
had been was coffee and a chat, yet deep down he knew that he wanted a whole
lot more.

He'd wrestled with his conscience during
the days leading up to their second date, and had come clean with Alma about
the fact that he was previously married.  He'd lied when he'd said wife
and child had both died in a car crash several years earlier, but at least she
now knew about them.

It wasn't the third but the fifth date
before he kissed her, by which time he'd come to terms with the fact that he
had to move on, no matter how much he missed his family.  Their
relationship had moved on at an advanced pace from that first kiss, with
consummation following soon after and Alma moving in with him a few weeks
later.

She had certainly made her mark on the
house, adding a woman’s touch to his barrack-style minimalism.  Pictures
now adorned the walls and a sensible spread of ornaments brightened up the
living room.  She had also introduced him to Filipino cooking in a big
way, with Sinigang Na Hipon, fresh prawns and vegetables in a sour tamarind
broth, being his favourite dish.  The food had certainly piled on the
pounds, which was one of the reasons he wanted to get back into his
five-miles-a-day routine.

The muscles in his calves were beginning
to cramp as he neared the end of the eighth lap but he felt confident that he
could get another in before calling it a day.  He tried to ignore the pain
as he pounded the road, instead reflecting on the great shape his new life was
taking.  All would be wonderful if he could just cut James Farrar out of
it.

He turned the corner into his street and
saw the black SUV parked up in his driveway, and he used that as an excuse to
cut his exercise short.  As he strolled up to the vehicle the driver's
side window hummed as it descended and Farrar's face appeared, looking
ridiculous in aviator sunglasses.

Speak of the Devil, Grant thought, and
his shit-filled illegitimate son will appear.

“Get in,” Farrar said, polite as ever.

Grant climbed into the passenger seat
and the blast from the car's air-con hit him like a frozen sledgehammer,
chilling him to the bone – much to Farrar’s delight.  Grant appreciated
air-conditioning and had it in every room in his home, but nothing as ferocious
as this.

“We have some work for you,” Farrar said
without preamble.

“What kind of work?”

“I’ll give you the details later. 
Just be ready to board a plane in five days time.  That should give you
plenty of time to sort out your affairs here.”

Grant stared at him for a moment, the
anger building.

“No thanks,” he finally said, and made
to open the door.  Farrar was apoplectic.

“What do you mean ‘No’?  You’ll do
as you’re damn well told.”

Grant turned back to him.  “Not
until I get some answers.”

“Such as...?”

 “I want to know who I’m working
for.”

 “You are working for Her Majesty’s
government.”

“I gathered that, but which branch,”
Grant asked, exasperated.

“That’s need to know.”

“Yes, and I need to fucking know.”

“No you don’t,” Farrar said. “All you
have to do is follow instructions.  Now, there are rumblings of terror
cells operating in Europe and we want you to go and do what you do best.”

“You’re not listening, Farrar.  I
want some answers before I do anything for you.”

Farrar sighed and angled himself to get
a better view of Grant.  “It wouldn’t do you any good to know who my
bosses are.  We’re so black, even the prime minister doesn’t know the full
extent of what we do, and you won’t find us in the Yellow Pages.  All you
need to know is that we are the cutting edge of anti-terrorism and we have a
proactive agenda.  We like to stop attacks while they are in the planning
stage, and do it in such a way that they don’t know that we know, if you know
what I mean.”

Grant’s expression barely changed,
waiting for Farrar to elaborate.

“We take down cells at the earliest
possible stage, causing accidents so that the men at the top don’t know we’re
on to them.  Their people die in car crashes, in street robberies, all
manner of different ways, but crucially they are explainable accidents. 
However, you can only have so many of your people die in a crash before it
becomes suspicious, and so we need to think of more ingenious ways. 
That’s where you come in.

“Your little stunt last year was well
thought out, and we need that kind of lateral thinking to enable us to ramp up
the body count.  We’re taking down our fair share of terrorists, don’t get
me wrong, but there are just too many others willing to replace them.”