Defender by Chris Allen Read Free Book Online

the score. So did Sean." After a brief silence, Morgan apologised to the General, then said dryly: "It's just that it seems pretty bloody short-sighted."
    "How so?" Davenport asked.
    "Trying to kill Baptiste like that; I mean, there's no analysis behind it. It was stupid. How could they possibly think that would be the answer - would stop the coup? If you ask me, there's desperation in it. Personal desperation, if that makes any sense." Morgan took a drink. He had known Collins so well, and knew he was a selfless, outstanding soldier driven by duty. Failure was not something Collins was familiar with, nor would he ever have considered it an option. No, Collins had been put in an untenable position by his masters in London, and he had no choice but to accept their orders - Queen and Country - with no backup and no chance of success. 'Ready for Anything' - Morgan recalled the Parachute Regiment's motto. That was Sean Collins all over.
    "I agree," replied Davenport. "The short version is that the SIS plan failed, your friend is dead and we're no closer to an answer on who's behind Baptiste and his guns. To make matters worse, whoever they are, they've got the jump on us. They know the authorities are after them, but they also know we haven't a damn clue who they are."
    Davenport's expression became grave. He rifled through the pockets of his overcoat draped across a stool beside him, and extracted a BlackBerry. He thumbed the keypad and handed it to Morgan. "The first couple are of Lundt. A hard case and difficult to forget. Tall with distinctive features, including one very blue and one very brown eye."
    "Heterochromia," Morgan said as he took in the face of the missing British agent. "Can be hereditary or caused by some form of trauma. Um, I read it in a magazine article recently," he added in response to the General's quizzical look. Morgan studied Lundt's face, zooming in on the pictures. Davenport was right. It was a face that would be hard to forget. Angular and long, it was a random assortment of misshapen features that despite the irregularity, seemed strangely good-looking. Morgan imagined that the intensity of it all would make Lundt attractive to women. Some women, anyway.
    "If you scroll through, you'll find what was left of Sergeant Collins.
    Be prepared, Alex. It's not pretty. Not pretty at all." Davenport waited until Morgan had obviously arrived at the images. "Confirmed by DNA analysis. He'd been tortured. What was left of him turned up in a plastic garbage bag that was unceremoniously hurled into the front yard of the British Consul's residence in Cullentown."
    "Christ," Morgan whispered, keeping the BlackBerry cupped in his hand, close to his body. His face turned to granite. His right hand tightened into a fist that became tighter with each monstrous image. He felt a deep physical reaction to the photographs of his dead friend, and an irrepressible revulsion towards those who had done this. Morgan's heart rate rose, and the muscles of his entire body tightened like wire cable. Slowly, reluctantly, he rolled his thumb over the trackball, advancing through the gruesome pictures, one by one.
    "Forensics back here in England," Davenport continued, "found evidence of human and canine teeth impressions along the bones and some areas of the flesh that weren't burned."
    At that, Morgan looked up sharply at his Chief and then reflexively scrutinised the room. Taking in the collection of suits and tourists, he was hit by a flash of repugnance toward everybody around them. After a time, he exhaled heavily and rubbed a hand across his face, shaking off the melancholy he was occasionally disposed to. The bits and pieces of what had once been Sean Collins, late of the Parachute Regiment and Special Air Service, reflected in Morgan's green eyes from the tiny screen of the BlackBerry. This man had been one of Morgan's exclusive fraternity, a fellow operator, doing a job similar to Morgan's, and driven by the same motivations.