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  FORTUNE’S SOLDIER

  SHADOW OPS: ALPHA

  First Published in Great Britain 2019 by Mirador Publishing

  Copyright © 2019 by Sarah Luddington

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without permission of the publishers or author. Excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  First edition: 2019

  Any reference to real names and places are purely fictional and are constructs of the author. Any offence the references produce is unintentional and in no way reflects the reality of any locations or people involved.

  A copy of this work is available through the British Library.

  ISBN: 978-1-913264-10-9

  Mirador Publishing

  10 Greenbrook Terrace

  Taunton

  Somerset

  UK

  TA1 1UT

  Fortune’s Soldier

  Shadow Ops: Alpha

  Sarah Luddington

  To my White Knight

  1

  The rubber eyepiece stuck to my skin in the heat coming off the asphalted roof. Sweat greased my face and dripped under my chin making me itch. It might be pre-dawn but damn I couldn’t stand much more of this torture. The five storey apartment block squatted in the New York district of Queens and from this high corner of a tenement building, with the aid of my mounted scope, I could see the much finer apartments of Center Boulevard in Hunters Point. I shifted just enough to ease the cramp in my back for a moment before settling. Just one of the many disadvantages of age and a life lived on the edge of violence, the constant aches. To be honest I’d never planned to live this long but that’s what happened when you were well trained, damned good at your job and some dark version of lucky that preserved your life.

  I relaxed again, breathing through my nose and continued to watch the apartment 678 metres away. It wouldn’t be much of a challenge to kill the bastard I hunted, not at this distance and in this sultry weather. My bladder made life more tricky. I eyed the bottles I’d been pissing in for the last thirteen hours waiting for my target to return to his luxury penthouse. The importance of remaining hydrated on a job had been drilled into me, it helped maintain concentration if your body didn’t have to suffer from lack of water. The downside? The stuff you didn’t sweat out had to leave your body regardless and getting up to take a piss just didn’t happen when you are a sniper.

  The man I hunted had touched down on American soil at 16:35, but the target could take anywhere between two hours or several days to reach his penthouse from JFK. It all depended on what he wanted to do in the vast city of New York. So, I waited with patience even a cat would envy, for the fucker to turn up. Unfortunately, I waited in a New York sweatbox, covered in fumes and dust. Even at 05:36 the sounds of the city rumbled around my high perch, bouncing off the nearby buildings.

  Making a hit from this distance wasn’t about the target so much as making certain I wasn’t spotted by the overlooking buildings and the hels running around the sky. I wore clothes that were thin enough to cope with the heat and dark enough to blend with the tarmac I lay on, which stank by the way, and had a few broken cardboard boxes draped over me and the muzzle of my Barrett MRAD and its suppressor. The .308 Sinclair rounds were my preferred option for this American rifle over this distance. They’d go through the glass without deviation and hit the target like a hot needle being pushed into warm butter.

  A light flicked on in the glass and steel stairwell. Elation rushed through me but the world in my scope didn’t shift and neither did the long muzzle. The arrogant prick lived inside a glass bubble and I had a way to shatter it. The target didn’t trust elevators, so he and his bodyguards walked up the stairs. I could see him on the phone, no one concentrating on the target’s surroundings; they certainly would not be able to see me.

  I eased my finger to the trigger, my breathing didn’t change, neither did my heartbeat. The target came to the top of the stairs and paused.

  I squeezed the trigger. A dull spat whispered out of my rifle. Between one calm breath and the next the glass shattered and I watched red blossom over the marble interior of the stairwell. A single shot and I’d done my job. The man dropped to the ground. The bodyguards, three of them, drew their weapons but I just remained still and continued to watch through the scope. There was shouting, wild gesticulation, calls made on phones and I could hear sirens screaming. I wanted to move away before the authorities turned up, not because I feared being found, it would just complicate matters. The three men all turned their backs to me, giving me the opportunity to slide away from my vantage point and begin cleaning up my nest.

  The clean-up took long enough to see the police and ambulance arrive but I’d already packed my gear, changed into clean clothes I’d brought with me and descended to the street through the stairwell. Once outside I looked like a large man carrying a gym bag and a small day sack. The black baseball cap I wore shielded my eyes from the sunlight glinting off the shop windows and the elation of the job being completed well, without additional casualties, began to wear off. The muscle cramps in my back and legs from remaining still for over thirteen hours started to force me to slow down. Once upon a time I’d have been able to do a three day stint and then run a bloody marathon across a desert carrying a fifty kilo pack. These days I looked the same on the outside – at least that’s what my vanity told the mirror – but bits of me inside just didn’t work as well any more. Water and protein bars might feed a twenty-five-year-old body but not a forty-eight-year-old one.

  Thinking about scran made my stomach grumble but I needed to shower before I considered forcing someone to serve me food in one of the thousand eateries in the area.

  After walking eight blocks I found the hotel I’d registered in and returned to my room without needing to use the front desk. All they would remember was a man walking out one day and returning another, these places were anonymous. In my room I dropped my bag and pack, stripped out of my clothing and headed for the shower. The cool water caressed my taut flesh and the multitudinous scars of past campaigns that littered my body. It felt ridiculous to enjoy a simple shower this much but as I rubbed my shorn hair clean my eyes slid closed and I allowed myself a smile. Someone once told me that if I made the effort a bit more often my smile could melt the hearts of terrorists and politicians alike. As a soldier I had little time for either and tended to clump both groups into my ‘kill list’ frame of reference.

  I switched on the TV and the news reported the shooting. They were already assuming the Russian was killed by either his own government or a rival, which amounted to the same thing. I sat on the bed, opened the gym bag and removed the rifle. I stripped her down while watching a film about zombies and cleaned each part with a meditative air of peace settling into my mind. Cleaning a rifle, even after a single shot, had always been a place of peace for a working mind. Even in the early days I’d taken pride in my weapons and this small act kept me focused but not able to think outside the moment and I never liked the comedown after removing a target. This smoothed the transition, put the box back in the right place and allowed me to bury my dead.

  My next task would be food but my phone buzzed and took priority.

  I hit the speaker button. “I hope you’re not phoning to check on me?”

  “As if I would dare,” said a woman’s cultured voice on the other end.

  “You are the only person brave enough, Aria, and for that I will always love you.” I heard a disgruntled harrumph the other end.

  “There’s nothing more in the world that makes my skin crawl than you telling me you love me,” she groused.

  I managed a half smile. Aria found me work and I paid her a finder’s fee. She didn’t work with me exclusively but we had an understanding. I took the work others, meaning governments mostly, couldn’t do without causing them to lose sleep but needed doing anyway – hence the dead Russian.

  “Truce, Aria, why are you calling because you already know I’ve done the job?”

  “I should bloody hope so, they’ve paid you enough to get it done clean. But I’ve another job for you,” she said getting to the point.

  That decision was easy. “No.”

  “Luke, you’ll want this one.”

  I shoved the oiled rag down the barrel of the suppressor. “No. I don’t do back-to-back jobs any more. I don’t need to and I’ve just spent three days and nights, I might add, on a rooftop in a New York summer making sure I had the right location. I’m going home tomorrow,” I said.

  I had spent a great deal of time stalking New York’s streets to find the right apartment building to take that shot. It needed to be high enough, full of residents who weren’t interested in strangers or empty of people altogether, and overlooked by few domestic buildings. Office workers seeing me wouldn’t have mattered so much but people tended to pay attention to changes in their home’s immediate surroundings.

  “You really will want this one,” she repeated, making her voice lighter and mischievous.

  I lay back on the bed and looked at the ceiling of the hotel room. A nice blank white space. “No, I won’t. I have a dog in the Cotswolds that needs me.”

  “Rogue is fine, the nanny cam in the dog sitter’s house is reporting back to me on an hourly basis.” Aria’s sarcasm didn’t go unnoticed.

  I frowned at how much Aria had infiltrated my personal life, such as it was these days. “Rogue will be mis
sing me and why have you hacked my camera?”

  “Why do you feel the need to spy on your dog sitter? Helen seems to be a very nice English woman.”

  “She’s a formidable woman,” I said. Helen stood at five foot and a whisker, age almost indeterminate, with steel colouring and a soul to match. She kept my Malinois in check like few other people could manage, including me most of the time. “And I don’t spy on her, I spy on the dog.”

  Aria barked a laugh. “You just keep telling yourself that.”

  The ceiling in this hotel looked inviting. I could lie on the bed and stare at it for hours, which is what would happen until I took that flight back to my country cottage and the dog, where I could stare at my ceiling instead and not sleep.

  I sighed and wondered when it would stop. When the drive to work, to be in the zone and hunting might leave me in peace to enjoy the life I kept trying to re-build. “What’s the job?” I asked.

  Aria made a pleased hum that made me want to turn it down on principle. “You want to go back to the UK? Your wish is my command.”

  “I doubt that somehow but okay. What’s going on?” I asked. I rarely worked on UK soil, my skills weren’t needed too often. That and hunting my back garden felt too pedestrian.

  “I have little information at the moment but they are paying a great deal. The person who contacted me said his name was Damien Stapleton.”

  “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

  I could hear fingers moving like greased lightning over a keyboard. “No, he clearly doesn’t exist. I’ve done a full background check and I can’t find him anywhere. It’s good news really because it means he doesn’t have a reason to create a full identity. He’s just using a name for a little protection. It’s why I agreed to contact you because this mission is specific to you.”

  I frowned. That wasn’t normal, not many outside the industry knew who I’d become since leaving the Regiment. “They asked for me?”

  “They want, and I quote, ‘Sergeant Luke Sinclair, for a pick up.’”

  My frown deepened. “A pick up?”

  I heard the clatter of more computer keys as she spoke to me. “Yep. They need you in London and then you have to go and retrieve someone.”

  “From?”

  “That’s why they want to meet you in London I guess. You have the standard clause at that point to reject the job but we keep the deposit.” And Aria of course wanted her cut of that deposit, which would be a sizeable sum.

  London in the early summer wasn’t as bad as New York and I could be home in three hours, less if the motorway wasn’t packed. “Alright, I’ll bite. Get me a flight to Heathrow.”

  “Yes, Sergeant.”

  “Fuck off,” I muttered, hanging up the phone.

  That title sent chills up my spine, who would be asking for me as Sergeant Luke Sinclair? I hadn’t been in the army for almost five years and I might have a problem leaving certain parts of the life behind – mainly the killing bad guys part – but I didn’t miss the chain of command. My mind wandered off down a rabbit hole and I fought to drag it back, but failed again. My room felt lonely and cold, much like my life for the last five years.

  I pushed off the bed, contemplated shaving but decided I liked the grizzled look for New York, and went in search of the nearest gay club. I needed to drink and I needed to fuck. Aria sent through the flight details to London, I had twelve hours to burn and in New York even during the day, I could find some trouble to enjoy.

  2

  I slept on the flight, all the way, my cock and brain quiet for the duration. I’d found a naughty little minx who proved to be bendy and fun, not the type I usually liked but he’d made me laugh and I did precious little of that so we’d had a good time. When I touched down in Heathrow I relaxed while going through security, my gym bag remained hidden in my bus station locker at the Port Authority Bus Terminal. I chose the location to keep my gear safe because bus stations are far more anonymous than airports. I could leave a bag for weeks before I needed it again and no one checked the lockers. Airports were different, especially in New York, with heavy CCTV and regular patrols with dogs, so leaving something that smelt of gun oil would not be prudent. When I left the bus station I yellow cabbed it to JFK looking like any other businessman in the airport.

  Arriving in London, expecting to take the train into the city, I found a man with a card and my name written on it – printed not handwritten. The weird chills up my back turned into a gut crawling suspicion. Who wanted me back in the UK with such desperation? Why did they have my fucking name on a card in thick black print? I didn’t like anyone announcing my presence in a public place, this might be England but there were hostile eyes on even in Heathrow and broadcasting a covert operative’s name, even if they were retired, was just plain wrong.

  “This way, sir,” said the clipped English accent. The man wore a nondescript chauffeur’s uniform but he walked with military precision and watched the crowd like I would if I weren’t busy watching him. It didn’t feel right being angry with him, orders were orders and he’d been given the card.

  I kept my thoughts quiet and private. I didn’t bother wasting energy asking questions, he wouldn’t give me answers and it would irritate me further not getting them. We drove into the centre of Westminster, which took seventy-three minutes on a Friday afternoon in the summer, and he parked in an underground car park in Horseferry Road, near the Home Office.

  My gut tugged hard. The chills up my spine turned into a full skin crawl and I couldn’t help watching the cameras following my progress behind the chauffeur as he led me into the office complex. I felt like giving the cameras the finger but I’d left that juvenile behaviour behind when I’d left the idiot who would have given the finger regardless. I entered the elevator and we rode in silence for three floors. We were above ground level and when I stepped out of the shiny new metal box I found myself overlooking St. John’s Gardens.

  “This way, Sergeant,” said the chauffeur.

  I followed. We walked along a blue carpet, offices on my right, windows on my left, exits marked with green signs and people in suits looking busy. So far not a military uniform in sight but I could feel them everywhere. Each person we passed in the corridor had the bearing, the spine held tighter than civilians did, especially when they worked crouched over computers all day. These people all had a sense of purpose and very little wasted movement or chatter. It spoke of more officialdom than I wanted in my life.

  My jaw began to tick as my teeth clenched. The chauffeur opened a door ushering me through. “In here, sir. I’ll let them know you’ve arrived.”

  “Thanks,” I said. A man stood at a table covered in coffee and tea making facilities. He hummed and poured too much sugar into his coffee. The set of the shoulders, the narrow hips and wide shoulders, the short dark hair, with a sprinkle more of grey, it all set me off. My instincts screamed at me to run, but whether towards him or away I wasn’t sure.

  Then he turned. His eyes widened the moment they met mine. So blue. So very blue. The coffee bounced in his hand, sloshing over the top. “Fuck me,” he muttered, rescuing the cup and shaking off the burn.

  It had been just over five years since I’d heard him scream that in our bed. He’d been begging me to after one of my extended blowjobs.

  “Sam,” I croaked, then coughed to hide the emotion choking me, sweat broke out on my palms and spine. “Samuel, it’s been a while.” I fought to close down.

  “Luke, I…” He’d gone very pale and his hand trembled. Nothing put fear into Sam like emotion. It’s why he’d left me in the end, that and the gun I’d pointed at his head. He couldn’t handle the emotional cost of his actions. Mind you neither could I when it all exploded. If we’d had a grenade in the bedroom that day it would have done less damage.

  “Coffee?” he asked.

  “Not one of yours,” I said, stepping fully into the room.

  He watched me, but kept well out of reach. I approached the table covered in drinks and as it turned out, food, but we didn’t speak. I could do with something more substantial than a croissant but scran is scran.