Deadlock by James Byrne: Featured Excerpt

PROLOGUE

Two Years Ago

Desmond Aloysius Limerick has been ordered to fly into Baku, Azerbaijan, under a false name, carrying nothing but a change of clothes and a paperback Michel Bussi mystery in the original French. He’s met by a woman he knows to be a British agent, MI6. She’s Pakistani and English, lovely, five-five, with amazing eyes and skin tone. If Dez had any time at all, he’d seriously consider flirting with her. But this is a run-and-gun gig. He’s got one job to do, then he’s out.

Pity.

The woman says very little to him, just leads him to a car park and a Range Rover and, over the next two days, a mostly silent, mostly nighttime, mostly roundabout trip through Georgia and into Chechnya, avoiding border guards along the way.

* * *

She drives him to an abandoned warehouse outside Kurchaloy, Chechnya.

Five men are waiting for them. One is blond, handsome, authoritative, American, maybe thirty-five (same as Dez) and six-two (way taller than Dez). He starts by showing Dez a palm, halting him. “From this moment on, no names,” the American barks. “I know who everyone is. The rest of you need to know jack. This is my op. There’s me, then there’s God. Are we clear?”

Dez says, “’Course!”

The American gives him the up-and-down eye, clearly unimpressed. “You’re one of these so-called gatekeepers? I call bullshit on the entire legend around you guys. You need to know, I was against bringing you in.”

“Don’t care, mate.” Dez beams and offers his meaty hand.

The American ignores it. He points to the lovely woman, then the four men. “I’m Alpha. She’s Beta. In this order, they’re Gamma, Delta, Epsilon, Zeta. You’re Eta. Repeat it back to me.”

Dez nods. He points to the other four men in the same order. “Got us Dave Cander and Mason Diggs. Americans, Navy Intel. Julius Chadha and Robert Barnard. SAS. How d’ye do. I’m Dez.”

The tall blonde grabs him by his shirtfront and bellows: “The fuck did I just say!”

“Indoor voice, Ray, my lad.” Dez turns to the Pakistani-British woman. “Arabella Satti. Ye go by Belle, aye? Know you by reputation, an’ it’s a good one. Won the distance-shooting competition at Pontrilas, three times running! You’re the reason I took this job.”

Arabella, the woman who hadn’t said two words to him over two days, looks like she wants to jump in the middle of this but isn’t sure how. The American sailor boys look surprised but not unpleasantly so.

The blond lad, Ray Harker, is CIA. He, too, has a reputation, which of course Dez investigated before flying to Baku. Harker has a high win-loss record as a CIA field officer. He’s known for taking chances and gambling. He’s considered one of the Agency’s best. Dez doesn’t know if the Brits or the U.S. Navy fellas know any of this. He doubts they do. Harker is handsome and perfectly proportioned. If he wasn’t a spook, he’d make a damn fine fashion model. Dez, by contrast, is built more or less like a tank: five-eight, barrel chest, wide at the shoulders, thick neck, bowlegged, massive hands. He tends to look boyish at best; goofy at worst. When he was younger, he practiced looking stern in mirrors. Usually just looked gassy.

The blond lad, Ray Harker, is CIA. He, too, has a reputation, which of course Dez investigated before flying to Baku. Harker has a high win-loss record as a CIA field officer. He’s known for taking chances and gambling. He’s considered one of the Agency’s best. Dez doesn’t know if the Brits or the U.S. Navy fellas know any of this. He doubts they do. Harker is handsome and perfectly proportioned. If he wasn’t a spook, he’d make a damn fine fashion model. Dez, by contrast, is built more or less like a tank: five-eight, barrel chest, wide at the shoulders, thick neck, bowlegged, massive hands. He tends to look boyish at best; goofy at worst. When he was younger, he practiced looking stern in mirrors. Usually just looked gassy.

“When I’m told t’come help the likes of you, I salute smartly,” he says. “But ye didn’t think I’d come all this way without knowing who ye were and what you’re about, did ye? Don’t be thick, my son. Joint U.S.-UK operation, on foreign soil. Best everyone knows everyone, yeah? Teamwork makes the dream work. Read that somewhere.”

He turns to Julius Chadha. “Saw your big brother play for Tottenham, few years back. Scored twice against Arsenal. Madman! Left foot handed down from the gods.”

Chadha, who’s Sikh, smiles. “I was there, yeah! That was a good match!”

Ray Harker goes berserk.

There, Dez thinks. Broke the ice. Time to move on.

* * *

An hour later and Dez has a better understanding of the dynamics of this disparate group. Brits and Americans. Soldiers and sailors and spooks. Plus one gatekeeper. Arabella’s the peacemaker. She’d be in charge if this were a joint UK-U.S. op, but it isn’t. It’s a U.S.-UK op—all the difference in the world. It means the Americans dreamed it up. That, and that alone, put Harker in charge.

The American sailors, Cander and Diggs, seem rock solid. They don’t trust the CIA but they go where they’re ordered.

If Harker’s clothes caught on fire, the two SAS guys, Chadha and Barnard, wouldn’t piss on them to douse the flames. But again, they do as they’re told.

When everything’s calmed down a bit, Harker lays out the situation. The mission is to get inside a chemical weapons facility, twenty kilometers due south of the Chechen town of Znamenskoye, and to retrieve the notes, the computer, and the samples of a chemist, Dr. Timur Dachiev. They don’t need Dachiev himself; the doctor is a fraud, his postgraduate degree purchased online, and the nerve gas he’s “developed” is stolen.

At 1300 hours the following day, the Chechen military will be alerted to a possible incursion by a Turkish intelligence unit. When the border troops move to intercept, the soldiers guarding the chemical weapons depot will be repositioned to the south, to back them up. For ninety minutes, the corridors of the facility will be empty of all opposition.

“Your job’s to get those damn doors open,” Harker says, jabbing a finger into Dez’s chest.

He points to a map laid out on an overturned crate. He points to each of his five people. “Once he’s done that—if he can do that—we split up. You two . . .” He points to the American sailors. “You’re with me. We take the north side. I’m basement, you’re first floor, you’re second floor. Belle leads the other team, south side, one person for each floor. Searching the entire building should take no more than forty minutes. All right: Questions?”

Dez raises his hand.

“You can get the goddamn door open. Can’t you?” Harker steps into Dez’s personal space, looms over him. Dez doesn’t take a step back, and he doesn’t take a step forward. He just smiles up at the taller but slimmer man.

“Can, aye. But that’s not the problem.”

“What is?”

“Your plan. It’s rubbish, love.”

Harker’s fists clench. “You’re job’s to open the fucking door! If I want an opinion from you, I’ll reach up your ass and yank one out. Are we clear?”

“You don’t even know what a gatekeeper is, do you? Brilliant.” He smiles at the others. “Quite the brain trust ye have here.”

“Fuck you! I’m—”

“My job’s not to open doors. A marmoset on Adderall could do that. My job’s to open ’em, keep ’em open as long as needed, an’ close ’em proper. And to make sure that everyone who enters also exits, a smile on their face an’ a melody in their heart. Aye? Won’t open a door for people with a stupid plan. Will, if ye’ve a plan less likely t’get everyone killed.”

Ray Harker cocks back a fist. One of his fellow Americans clears his throat. “What do you recommend, Limerick?”

The leadership dynamic has tilted considerably.

Dez points to the map on the crate. “Think of this as a body o’ water. An’ what you’re doing is scuba diving. Aye? Which means the buddy system. Splittin’ up and searchin’ each floor? That makes perfect sense. But two of you on each floor, an’ ye never leave your mate. One man on point, one ridin’ drag, check your corners, keep each other safe, teams meet in the middle of every floor, everyone home by tea.”

Ray says, “That’ll take twice as long to search.”

“An’ look who’s the math whiz, then. Aye, that’s right. We’ve ninety minutes. Your way, could have searched the building in forty. My way, you search in eighty, but ye come out alive. Still an idiot, mind you. My plan can only accomplish so much.”

Harker sneers. “You’re staying outside where it’s safe. Easy to talk big, asshole.”

Dez laughs. “Does this look like the Kentish countryside d’you, mate? We’re in bloody Chechnya! The outside’s not noticeably less Chechen than the inside.”

They argue for a bit but it’s clear that Dez has won over the sailors, the SAS blokes, and Arabella Satti. But Harker needs to save face, so he argues for another twenty minutes. Just to remind everyone that he’s the boss.

“One last thing,” Harker adds. “The door stays open ninety minutes, and not one second longer. We are gone at the ninety-first minute. Think you can memorize that, Mister Math Whiz?”

Dez says, “Believe I can.”

* * *

That night, Dez learns that Ray Harker and Arabella Satti are sleeping together, which is fairly dumb while working in the field, but it happens. It’s happened to Dez in the past. He keeps his own counsel.

He awakes around three in the morning and knows he won’t sleep unless he goes over the details of the chemical weapons warehouse, its security and alarms, yet again. He’s pored through them five times and now goes for an even six. He focuses on each detail.

He barely hears Arabella step out of the room she and Harker share. She stands over his shoulder, studying the blueprints and alarm details. She says, “Nervous?”

“Just realized. That novel I brought? I’ve already read the bloody thing. Remember whodunit.”

She touches his shoulder. “I’ve worked with Ray two other times. He’s damn good.” She randomly picks up Dez’s mechanical pencil, rolls it with her fingertips, back and forth. “He comes across as, well . . .”

Dez says, “Exceedingly American?”

She smiles. “Yes. But he’s smart, and he’s fearless, and I trust him.”

“Hard t’believe no one’s ever written a folk song about him.”

“Chief, I know why you broke up the dynamic when you got here. You were probably right to do it. But trust Ray. He’ll give this mission a hundred and ten percent. Guaranteed.”

Dez looks up into her eyes. “Jay-sus, but I hope not. A hundred percent is perfection. A hundred an’ ten is showboatin’.”

“You know what I mean. He’ll be fine. Don’t worry about him.”

“I worry about everyone, love.”

She wanders to a window and looks out on the night. “I don’t know why I always wake up at this hour.”

Dez, his head bent over the blueprints, says, “It’s the nicotine.”

“I don’t smoke.”

“Well, not currently ye don’t.” When she turns to him, he nods to the mechanical pencil she’s holding . . . much the way she always held cigarettes.

She walks back and sets the pencil by his side.

“Started smokin’ when you became a sniper, didn’t you? Calmed your nerves. I seen it a lot in me mates.”

“Yes, but it’s a filthy habit. Are you a distance shooter, too?”

Dez barks a laugh. “I could stand at the bottom of a lake an’ not hit water, love! That’s not me gift.”

She says, “Ray will be fine. We all will be.”

“’Course you will. Your Uncle Desmond’s watchin’ out for ye.”

* * *

The Chechen soldiers pull out at 1100 local time to back up their border guard brethren. Right on time.

Dez is kneeling by the big, garage-style door at 1107 hours, the covering of the alarm system removed, red and green leads attached to it with miniature, plastic alligator clips, all connected to his tablet computer.

The door opens at 1108 hours.

Dez doesn’t enter. That’s not his job. He stays to guard the door.

The two SAS soldiers return at 1132 hours. They’ve got the faux chemist’s files.

The two Navy intelligence guys emerge at 1145 hours. They have Dr. Dachiev’s laptop.

Arabella Satti walks out at 1202 hours. She has the stockpile of chemical weapons, in a wheeled lockbox not unlike a professional mechanic’s rolling tool kit.

And she’s alone.

“Ray,” she says, eyes darting to the others. “He went after Dachiev.”

Dez says, “Don’t need Dachiev.”

“I know but . . .”

Dez eyes his tablet computer, shakes his head. “Bloody hundred and ten percenters.”

He opened the door at 1108 hours. They’ll have until 1238 hours. A total of ninety minutes to the second.

Diggs and Cander make a quick foray into the basement to seek Ray and the chemist. They’re back in ten minutes, empty handed.

Chadha and Barnard do a quick recce of the ground floor. Nada.

At 1235 hours, the six of them gather at the door of the compound. Dez, down on one knee by the alarm system, checks the satellite-fed clock counting down on his tablet. The U.S. sailors and British soldiers and the English spy make eye contact with one another. Arabella wipes sweat off her palms with the thighs of her fatigues.

At 1237 hours, she draws her sidearm and points it at Dez’s head. “I’m sorry about this. But we wait.”

“We don’t,” Dez says, but softly.

“Started smokin’ when you became a sniper, didn’t you? Calmed your nerves. I seen it a lot in me mates.”

“Yes, but it’s a filthy habit. Are you a distance shooter, too?”

Dez barks a laugh. “I could stand at the bottom of a lake an’ not hit water, love! That’s not me gift.”

She says, “Ray will be fine. We all will be.”

“’Course you will. Your Uncle Desmond’s watchin’ out for ye.”

* * *

The Chechen soldiers pull out at 1100 local time to back up their border guard brethren. Right on time.

Dez is kneeling by the big, garage-style door at 1107 hours, the covering of the alarm system removed, red and green leads attached to it with miniature, plastic alligator clips, all connected to his tablet computer.

The door opens at 1108 hours.

Dez doesn’t enter. That’s not his job. He stays to guard the door.

The two SAS soldiers return at 1132 hours. They’ve got the faux chemist’s files.

The two Navy intelligence guys emerge at 1145 hours. They have Dr. Dachiev’s laptop.

Arabella Satti walks out at 1202 hours. She has the stockpile of chemical weapons, in a wheeled lockbox not unlike a professional mechanic’s rolling tool kit.

And she’s alone.

“Ray,” she says, eyes darting to the others. “He went after Dachiev.”

Dez says, “Don’t need Dachiev.”

“I know but . . .”

Dez eyes his tablet computer, shakes his head. “Bloody hundred and ten percenters.”

He opened the door at 1108 hours. They’ll have until 1238 hours. A total of ninety minutes to the second.

Diggs and Cander make a quick foray into the basement to seek Ray and the chemist. They’re back in ten minutes, empty handed.

Chadha and Barnard do a quick recce of the ground floor. Nada.

At 1235 hours, the six of them gather at the door of the compound. Dez, down on one knee by the alarm system, checks the satellite-fed clock counting down on his tablet. The U.S. sailors and British soldiers and the English spy make eye contact with one another. Arabella wipes sweat off her palms with the thighs of her fatigues.

At 1237 hours, she draws her sidearm and points it at Dez’s head. “I’m sorry about this. But we wait.”

“We don’t,” Dez says, but softly.

One of the SAS soldiers touches her gently on the forearm. “Belle. You know the drill.”

“He’ll make it.”

“Aye, we have to hope, but—”

“He’ll make it!” She’s still pointing the gun at Dez’s head. Dez keeps smiling up at her. “Hundred an’ ten percent. Meaningless number. Sorry, love.”

“Don’t call me love. We wait.”

The clock hits 1238 hours.

Dez reaches for the leads connecting his tablet to the door.

Arabella presses the barrel of the gun against his skull.

“Do what you need t’do,” Dez says, and disconnects his alligator clips and leads. The door alarms are reactivated. Whoever’s still inside is staying inside.

Arabella holsters her weapon. She turns to the others. “Take the gas and the information. Get to Rendezvous Point A in Azerbaijan.”

Dez tucks his tools in his backpack. “Coming along, are ye?”

She addresses the other four. “You have your orders. Go.”

Dez shakes his head. “Saddens me to counter your orders, ma’am. But your guvnors brought me in to make sure everyone walks out safe. Means my job was never ’bout the chemicals and the chemistry. ’Twas always about you lot.”

She draws her weapon again, holding it by her thigh. Her voice is as calm as a brook in a glade. “Chief. I. Am. Not. Leaving. Ray. Here.”

They stand, eyeing each other. Dez looks sad. “Please.”

“No.”

For a muscle-bound guy, Dez is surprisingly fast. Comes from all the soccer he’s played, plus the boxing. Arabella isn’t even aware he’s moved until her gun is on the ground and Dez is behind her, one massive hand holding both her elbows behind her back, his other forearm around her throat, muscles gently, gently blocking her carotid arteries.

She fights like a hellcat. She’s studied martial arts. She’s been trained to be a nasty street fighter. Against Dez Limerick: naught.

The sailors and the soldiers watch. Nobody interferes.

Arabella loses consciousness.

“That was a tough choice, chief,” Julius Chadha says, a hand on Dez’s shoulder. “Had to be done. Ta.”

“Thanks, man,” one of the Yanks says, and takes Arabella in a fireman’s carry.

Dez looks like he’s about to throw up. He gathers her gun and his kit, and they light out.

Three weeks later

It’s Paris. Dez meets a distinguished English gentleman outside a quaint and tiny little bar on the Seine, just off Quai François Mitterrand and near the Pont du Carrousel. They sit on a bench facing the river. The English gentleman—they won’t be using their names today; not in public—drinks absinthe. Dez has a stout. The English gentleman says, “We still don’t know what happened to Ray Harker. No body. No report of his defecting. He simply walked into that weapons facility and never walked out.”

Dez nods. It’s a sunny day in Paris and he’s wearing plenty of sunscreen because he’s fair of skin and burns like a peach. He says, “Arabella?”

“Ms. Satti quite hates you, I’m told.”

“Fair, that.”

“Our side debriefed the SAS soldiers, and the Cousins debriefed the American sailors. You received high marks from them all. You made some very difficult calls in the field. But they were the right ones. As for Ms. Satti . . .”

“She’s a pro. She’ll be fine.”

“Well, either way, you have the gratitude of the DOD and the Cousins. We analyzed the chemist’s plans for that weapon. You and Ms. Satti’s team likely saved thousands of lives. We are grateful. If there is ever anything we can do for you . . . ?”

Dez wipes his lips with the back of his fist. “Actually, since ye’ve asked. Thinkin’ of retiring.”

“Really?”

He shrugs. “Always wondered what the States are like. Might pop in. Look around. See Disneyland. That’d be something.”

The English gentleman’s voice drips with condescension. “One would think so, yes.”

“Hard t’get lost in a crowd in this world of ours. What with everyone knowin’ everyone’s business.”

Dez scratches his chin. “Know what I mean?”

Copyright © 2023 by James Byrne. All rights reserved.

About Deadlock by James Byrne:

Desmond Aloysius Limerick (“Dez” to his friends and close personal enemies) is a man with a shadowy past, certain useful hard-won skills, and, if one digs deep enough, a reputation as a good man to have at your back. Now retired from his previous life, Dez is just a bloke with a winning smile, a bass guitar, and bullet wounds that paint a road map of past lives.

Jaleh Swann, a business journalist hot on the trail of an auditor who was mugged and killed, lands in the hospital just one day after her Portland apartment is ransacked. When Jaleh’s sister, Raziah, reaches out to an old friend for help, Dez has no choice but to answer. The Swann sisters have been pulled into a dizzying web of cover-ups and danger. At the center lies an insidious Oregon-based tech corporation, Clockjack, which has enough money and hired guns to silence just about anyone—including this rag-tag trio. Luckily, Dez’s speciality is not just to open doors, but keep them open—and protect those working to expose Clockjack’s secrets.

More stands in the way of the truth than just one corporation. When hired thugs come to the finish the job and attack the Swann sisters at the hospital, Dez does what he does best. Now, the two captured men (and the corpse Dez left behind) attract the attention of not just Clockjack, but of the Portland police, the D.E.A, and the U.S. Marshalls. Dez and the Swann sisters are on the run from powers beyond their control and means. Outnumbered, under resourced and outgunned, Dez must use all his skills to keep his friends safe and stand up to corporate conniving. After all, the one thing Clockjack didn’t count on? A good man with a simple job to do.