Dead Edge Read online

  JACK FORD is a novelist and is the author of six gritty British crime novels published under a pseudonym. Having studied global political Islam and American politics Jack went on to take a Master of Science degree in counter-terrorism, and will further those studies next year by tackling a PHD focusing on radicalisation and extremism. Jack lives in a quiet part of England and has three children along with lots of dogs and horses.

  Copyright

  An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018

  Copyright © Jack Ford 2018

  Jack Ford asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  Ebook Edition © August 2018 ISBN: 9780008204563

  In loving memory of my Mum and

  Dad – always and forever.

  ‘And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free’ (John 8.32)

  CENTRAL INTELLIGENCE AGENCY MOTTO

  ‘It is estimated that between 26.4 million and 36 million people abuse opioids worldwide, with an estimated 2.5 million people in the United States abusing prescription opioids’

  – US CENTERS FOR DISEASE CONTROL AND PREVENTION

  THE ENDGAME – The Endgame is the last stage of chess when only a few pieces are remaining. Not having the skills to turn the resulting endgame into a checkmate can cost you many wins, turning many otherwise easily won positions into draws or… even losses.

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Chapter 83

  Chapter 84

  Chapter 85

  Chapter 86

  Chapter 87

  Chapter 88

  Chapter 89

  Chapter 90

  Chapter 91

  Chapter 92

  Chapter 93

  Chapter 94

  Chapter 95

  Chapter 96

  Chapter 97

  Chapter 98

  Chapter 99

  Chapter 100

  Chapter 101

  Chapter 102

  Chapter 103

  Chapter 104

  Chapter 105

  Chapter 106

  Chapter 107

  Chapter 108

  Chapter 109

  Chapter 110

  Chapter 111

  Chapter 112

  Chapter 113

  Chapter 114

  Chapter 115

  About the Publisher

  MEMPHIS, TENNESSEE

  USA

  12.45 pm

  TODAY

  1

  CHESS MOVE d4 Nf6

  Heartburn, or whatever the hell it was, had a way of creeping up at the most inconvenient of times – at least that’s what Huck Barrington Jnr. liked to tell himself the burning sensation and fluctuating pain was.

  Letting his symptoms occupy such a bromidic term was certainly easier to digest than acknowledging the pre-cursor warning signs of the heart attack his cardiologist liked to tell him – on a depressingly regular basis – was waiting round some proverbial corner for him. And, if scaring the hell out him wasn’t enough, his physician sanctimoniously backed it up by talking figures, like some smart-ass Wall Street statistician. Figures of the millions of Americans killed each year by ventricular fibrillation. The number one killer in the US. Jeez, the guy made it sound like a sniper was on the loose.

  Aggravated, Huck sighed. Rubbed his chest.

  Knew it only served as a purely psychological curative, and decided to convince himself for the third time in the same amount of minutes that it was just acid reflux, caused by the extra portion of eggs over easy and red sliced onion he’d had at the grill bar in the entrance of the airport. Despite being a married man – twelve long years married – Huck had to accept the pretty waitress with the honey blond hair, size eight waist, and showgirl bust had featured in his decision to stay to feed his unsatisfied hunger.

  He burped.

  Loudly.

  Loud enough for the grey haired lady next to him in the check-in line to sniff the air and turn her head away in disgust.

  Not apologising, Huck caught the eye of a girl who was stood a few feet away by the escalator, under the large American flag hanging down from the ceiling. She was staring at him. What the hell her problem was he didn’t know. Well he’d go on ahead and stare right back. Ended up being the first to turn away.

  With a dampened ego – never something Huck Barrington Jnr. took lightly – he chanced another side glance. Damn her, she was still staring. Can’t have been more than fourteen. Wore an oversized thick blue jacket along with thick blue jeans. Sma
ll. Olive skinned. Plaits too tight. Skin blemish free, unburdened by the curse of adolescent acne which had plagued his own teenage years.

  He sighed again. Turned away. Glanced around. And thanked God – though being an atheist he knew it was a very loose term – that he was catching a flight to Pittsburgh. The place was a sea. A heaving mass of overweight bodies dressed in white satin and frayed tassels as tourists descended on Memphis for the Elvis revival weekend. A deluge of stick-on sideburns walking through check in.

  ‘It doesn’t look like it, Mr Barrington. I’m sorry.’

  Huck flushed red. ‘You can’t just cancel a flight and then tell me there isn’t another one… There must be.’

  ‘There is, sir, but like I say, the next one is full. The only available seat isn’t until twenty-three, twenty.’

  Huck cleared his throat. Raised his voice and spoke to the immaculately groomed airline service agent with as much disdain as he could muster. ‘Perhaps I’m not making myself clear. So let me spell it out to you, ma’am. I don’t care how you do it, but you need to get me onto the next Goddamn flight!’

  Security stepped in. Big. Tall. Eyes dog mean.

  ‘Is there a problem?’

  Huck answered with the disdain still swirling in his mouth. ‘Actually, yes there is. I want to get on my flight and get the hell out of here. That’s not a crime is it?’

  ‘Sir, there’s no need to be aggressive.’

  Agitated, Huck felt the prickle. The sweat. Seeping down and through his shirt.

  Rubbed his chest again. Kneading. Caressing with the yellowed tips of his fingers. And over the security guy’s off-white shirt shoulder, he gazed at the girl. Still staring. The look in her eyes making her seem older. Judging him, when her fledgling life gave her no room to judge.

  Christ, it was getting hotter and he could hardly breathe. He scratched hurriedly at his collar as if hands held and throttled, and he pulled at and undid his top shirt button.

  ‘Look, I just need to get my flight.’

  ‘Sir, are you okay?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  Huck didn’t hear the agent’s reply, as he felt the heat wrap round him like a snake constricting his prey. His panic rose as fast as his heart raced and the sweat rolled down. It was finally happening. This was it. This was the end. This was what his cardiologist had warned him would happen.

  And as Huck waited for his heart to stop, to give up right there in the middle of the white-washed airport, his terror-filled eyes watched the girl undo her button. Undo her jacket. Mirroring his actions…

  Then it suddenly hit him. Relief engulfing him as hard as terror had just done. Goddamn his doctor for fuelling his fears, because right then he understood what was happening. What his trouble actually was… He was just hot… She was hot. Quickly he looked around at the short sleeves and open collars. Everyone was just Goddamn hot. They were in Memphis, for God’s sake.

  Huck exhaled. Wiped the dripping sweat off his face. Laughed into his hands.

  Loud.

  ‘Something amusing you, sir?’

  He’d forgotten about the security with the mean dog eyes. ‘Far from it. I’m just hot, that’s all. Hot!’

  ‘Sir, have you been drinking?’

  Ignoring the guard’s question, Huck’s stare flickered back to the girl. Decided to try a smile. Hell, she was only a kid after all.

  He watched her continue to unfasten the buttons on her ugly, thick, blue jacket. Eyes dilated. Never blinked. Watched her mouth something to him. And Huck thought it was the darnedest of things; he was sure she just mouthed the word, Sorry. He shook his head. Waved abashed and said, ‘It’s fine. Are you okay?’

  The girl reached inside her shirt. Then with only the slightest of pauses, pressed.

  The wave of the bomb mercilessly struck and tore. Showering and scattering flesh like an unlicensed slaughterhouse. Smoke swelled and filled the airport as dozens of body parts lay unrecognisable in their shredded, dismembered, mutilated form. And by the blasted-out water fountain, the severed head of the 14-year-old bomber lay next to that of Huck Barrington Jnr.

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  USA

  2.45 pm

  2

  c4 g6

  The bomb went off at the same time.

  Time difference two hours.

  It struck with indifference. The youngest victim, a 6-month-old boy.

  JEFFERSON COUNTY

  COLORADO, USA

  3

  Nc3 Bg7

  Jefferson County, Colorado. Taking the name of the great third President. A place where vast plains collide with the Rocky Mountains. A place of harsh, white-painted winters where summers are reminiscent of Steinbeck novels. A place where thunderstorms catch travelers off guard along the miles of trail ridge roads, curving and snaking along the skyward spans of landscapes with pine trees sweet smelling like candy stores. Jefferson County. A place where the detention center is conveniently situated by the combined court. The court where Thomas J Cooper found himself sitting in with a judge who was swathed with hell and grit-like determination to have his name chalked on a jail cell by the end of the day.

  ‘You don’t just get to ignore a court order, Mr Cooper, no matter what the reasons. It’s clear you have no respect for any kind of authority, which frankly surprises me having read all about your distinguished career in the military… Mr Cooper, are you even listening to me?’

  Cooper nodded. Said nothing. Thought it was best. Ninety milligrams of OxyContin and a hundred of Sertraline mixed with Valium had a way of making him not sound his best.

  Cooper’s lawyer stood up and cleared his throat. ‘Your honor, I object to the insinuation that my client has no respect for authority. As the court knows he suffers from post-traumatic stress disorder as well as survivor guilt, in relation to the accident.’

  Looking like he’d just sucked a slice of lime without the gin, the judge shook his head. ‘I take it, counsel, you’re referring to the accident which happened seven, eight years ago?’

  ‘Yes, your honor, but… ’

  ‘Eight years ago, Mr Edwards. We’re talking almost eight years.’

  ‘What the hell has eight years got to do with it?’ Cooper said.

  The judge frowned. Tilted his head as if his hearing was playing tricks on him. ‘Excuse me? Did you say something, Mr Cooper?’

  ‘You’re too damn right I did.’

  So Cooper’s old friend and attorney, Earl Edwards, the only person he knew in the county who was still willing to represent him, barked his orders. ‘Coop…! Shut the hell up. I’ll handle this.’

  And Cooper did what he always did: whatever the hell he wanted. He stood up and then, like a game of Simon says, so did the court’s bailiff, twitching and hovering his fingers over the gun in his holster, that he never got to use but practiced fast-drawing in the mirror every night. But it wasn’t him Cooper was looking at. It was Earl. His deep-lined face, reminding Cooper of the sand ridges along the North Carolina shores, stared into his.

  Cooper watched the perspiration on Earl’s forehead as he felt his own trickle of drug cold sweat trail down his neck.

  ‘Please, Coop. I got this.’

  ‘Is there a problem, counsel?’ the judge asked.

  Earl got there before Cooper did. Diving in like a peregrine falcon.

  ‘No problem, your honor. No problem at all. I just need a minute to speak to my client.’

  Earl dropped his voice. Real low. The kind of low saved for the movie theater.

  ‘Coop, please. You’re making this worse, if it can get any worse. Trust me, man, I’m in your corner, but you got to calm down and let me do my job.’

  ‘I’m not stopping you doing your job, Earl.’

  ‘Then sit the hell down! You know as well as I do you’ve messed up too many times. They’re not interested anymore. Not about the accident, not about what happened to Ellie.’

  Earl’s words came right at Cooper. Shooting him down like a small-c
aliber pistol. And it was only after he felt the soft expensive silk between his fingers that he realized he was grabbing hold of Earl’s suit.

  ‘Don’t you say her name! You hear me, Earl? Don’t you say it!’

  ‘Mr Edwards…! Mr Cooper! Can I remind you we’re in court of law and not in some high school locker room! Any more behavior like that and you’ll both find yourself in the cells tonight.’

  Earl shot Cooper a stare.

  Pushed him off.

  Made sure he sat back down in the chair.

  ‘Sorry, your honor. It’s just important the court understands…’

  ‘Mr Edwards, I hope you’re not going to start lecturing the court.’

  ‘No…No, it’s just my client has been in Africa for the past few weeks and…

  The judge brought the gavel down hard, prompting Cooper to think of the end of a record breaking bid at Christie’s auction house. ‘Sit down, counsellor, you can save the speech till after lunch.’

  ‘But…’

  With his waxy pallor further bleached by the rows of fluorescent lights which’d just been flicked on, and his Southern state voice sounding like each word was being played by an over tightened instrument from Manny’s music store, Judge Saunders said, ‘Mr Edwards, I advise you to listen to me, not least because my highly acidic stomach will not sit quietly through a long speech telling me how remorseful your client is for not turning up for his court-ordered psychological sessions, nor how contrite he is about the fact he’s only done three hours of the fifty-two hours’ community service he was sentenced to on June 9th. Whilst I’m sure your reasons will certainly try to appease the state of Colorado, at this moment in time, counsel, they certainly won’t appease me. I therefore think it’s wise to take a recess. However, let me warn you and Mr Cooper here: even when the irregularities of the body are once again in a state of contented realignment, I have to say that after hearing from the treating doctor on Mr Cooper’s psychological and drug rehabilitation progress report earlier, I already feel inclined to revoke his formal probation.’

  ‘Your honor, I…’

  ‘Mr Edwards, cut it right there and save the surprised look for the junior judges; we’ve all been to law school… You and your client were warned this might happen when the court changed Mr Cooper’s probation from summary to formal. And I’m sure I don’t have to remind you that to get your client to attend court today, the sheriff’s office had to pick him up from whatever hole he was hiding in. So it seems clear to me with no progression being made, even with the gift horse of prohibition, that a jail term, with sentencing in a couple of weeks, might be the only way to proceed. So if I were you, Mr Edwards, I’d think very carefully about what you’re going to say to the court this afternoon when we return at two thirty.’