John Steel Collection - Books 1-3

Chapter 4-2

John Steel tossed the smoke grenade thoughtfully from hand to hand and hatched a plan.

With the grenade tucked safely into a pocket and the captured sub-machine gun slung onto his back, Steel moved carefully around the marquee. He headed to the corner, cut the canvas, and crawled in using the knife he had taken from the first sentry. The large tent was empty apart from a heap of corpses in the middle of the floor.

There was still cutlery laid out ceremoniously on the tables as if nothing had happened. Many of the candlesticks still had their pretty decorative bows.

Steel untied a ribbon from one of the candlesticks, then pulled the grenade from his pocket. He took one of the magazines from the pouch on his vest. Sliding out enough rounds from the clip to wrap around the green cylinder of the grenade, he began to strap them to the explosive using the ribbon. Outside, the group of killers heard someone calling, ‘Help! Help me please!’ The voice was fading, and they headed back to the tent, fired up with blood lust to finish off the dying man.

Ten men entered the marquee searching for the crying man, weapons trained before them as they crept deeper. The man in the rear walked backwards to cover their retreat. He stopped suddenly as his foot hit something, and he tried to shout a warning before the room was filled with smoke. The group started to cough and splutter from the fumes; half-blinded and with arms swaying, they tried to find the edge of the tent.

Then, as the container began to get hot, the rounds started to fire off. Loose bullets flew everywhere, causing the group to stop, cover, and return fire. More men rushed into the tent to help the squad, only to be cut down as they ran through the door.

The blonde man came to the window from inside the house and watched the madness below. ‘For God’s sake, let’s finish this before all the idiots kill each other,’ he muttered.

An enormous behemoth of a man stepped forwards, taking the automatic grenade launcher from where it rested on his back. He placed three rounds into the tent, taking the two grips firmly in his hands. As the projectiles hit, they exploded with tremendous force. First, there were several bright flashes. Then, the marquee was ripped apart, sending pieces of timber and fabric whirling in all directions.

Burning pieces of debris fell from the sky in a shower of fiery rain.

Grinning, the man replaced the weapon on his back. ‘Boom,’ he said, his tone deep and hollow. The fewer mercenaries who survived, the blonde man thought, the fewer they would have to pay off at the end. Joining the others, they checked the rooms for survivors, searching wildly for the four people who had run into the house earlier.

‘The women and the two children are not to be harmed,’ said the blonde man.

The man stopped abruptly, forcing the men behind him to come to a sudden halt. He turned to make direct eye contact with one of them, a young man of average height, clean-shaven, eager look on his boyish face. ‘Is that understood?’ The blonde man’s stare became intense, almost burning through the youth, who backed off slightly and nodded.

John Steel had seen the gardens were clear. Those who could escape had gone, and the rest of the mercenaries had disappeared into the house. Steel moved across the body-strewn lawn, keeping low, using cover as much as possible.

Reaching the wall and the steps, Steel chanced a quick look. He was alone. There were no guards posted at the doors.

Steel crept up the stone steps. His movements were slow and deliberate. Suddenly as he reached the patio, he came across the body of a man. It was his father.

John Steel’s head dropped down in anguish. All he wanted to do was scream out. But he knew that would alert the mercenaries. So instead, his grief distilled into a lethal rage.

John Steel kissed the first two fingers of his right hand and pressed them down on his father’s forehead. Steel’s eyes were cold as he looked towards the house, his face was like stone. As though all his fear, anger, and hate had built up inside him. Steel didn’t have time for emotion. He needed to be focused.

John Steel crept through the back door into the massive dining room. Beyond that lay the long hallway and the stairs leading up to the bedrooms. He edged slowly towards the double doors leading from the dining room into the hall and slowly opened one of the doors just wide enough to take a look. A guard stood on the other side of the door with his back to him, presumably to stop people from getting out. He wasn’t expecting anyone to come in. Across from that guard, at the foot of the staircase, stood another.

Steel noted where the men stood in the hallway, with its large marble floor and dark wood entrance doors directly opposite. A set of stairs traversed the left wall, which hung paintings of men and women, landscapes, and animals.

Apart from the two guards in front of him, he could see no one else. He closed the door and sank into a nearby seat. He had to think and think fast. The radio that sat on his shoulder pouch squawked- grabbing it hastily, he shut it off. He’d thought of a plan.

Silently, John Steel made his way to the speaker by the garden door. Then, taking the headset, he placed it down by the ornate black box. Next, Steel searched the DJ’s tool kit. He was hoping to find some tape or cable ties. But, as he dug deeper into the kit and found a roll of duct tape.

He began to tape up the ‘send’ button on the handset, then carefully taped the headset’s microphone to the speaker.

He stood up and looked around. ‘Okay, you bastards. You want to party?’

Inside, the mercenaries walked through the house. They were going from room to room, firing at anything that moved.

The blonde man had decided to wait in the large study he had found, whose oak walls and the floor was complemented with heavy-looking antique furniture. The room appealed to him. He had instructed his men to bring back any unharmed survivors, but he was worried about Travis. After all, these men were not soldiers; they were hired, ex-cons. More importantly, they were expendable. Travis, however, had been a commando and was a murderer and r****t of the worst kind. He was, quite simply, an animal.

The blonde man had given his sidekick an instruction to keep an eye on Travis, and well, if the ex-commando did anything wrong, he would know what to do. The leader of the mercenaries strolled around the room in awe of its splendour. He found a large wooden globe in a corner and opened it, his eyes lighting up at the sight of the fine brandies and whiskies, and he helped himself to a glass of the twenty-year-old malt. He moved casually over to a massive wooden bookshelf. Dickens, Sun Tzu, Tolstoy, and all the classics were there. The smell of old leather filled his nostrils as he leaned forwards and breathed in the refined atmosphere. Picking a book, he settled down on the red leather Chesterfield.

He started reading, sipping the whisky as he smiled and imagined for a moment that he was now the Lord of the manor.

Steel knelt by the door with his back to the wall. Reaching up, he pulled a combat knife from a sheath on the shoulder of the vest he had taken. The long blade glistened as the afternoon sun"s rays caught its sharp edge. He tucked it into his belt, where he could grab it quickly, then knelt with the Glock .45 in one hand and the microphone in the other, taking a moment to check through the plan.

Steel counted to three using maximum force and tossed the microphone towards the speaker he had placed by the open bay doors.

Everything turned to slow motion as the headset sailed through the air. Steel watched as the headset hit the ground and skidded and rested against the speaker. Then, a massive burst of feedback blared through the loudspeakers and, in turn, through the mercenary’s communications.

The men screamed. They grabbed their ears in pain as the feedback hit them with full force, incapacitating them for a few moments.

A few moments were all that Steel needed as he burst through the doors and fired, hitting one to the back of the head, the other between the eyes.

Steel watched as five men rushed down the stairs and opened fire; each of the men slammed against the walls, the impact of each bullet punching through them, leaving bloody smears as the fell.

A shot rang out, and Steel was launched forwards, and a lung full of air was forced out of him as he was shot from behind.

A merc had come through the patio doors, seen Steel, and fired, but the plate carrier vest had taken the brunt of the impact, but it had forced Steel down.

Still on his knees, Steel half-turned and fired. The first round hit the man in the vest, and the second took the top of his head off.

Steel winced in pain. The vest had stopped the bullet, but it would hurt like hell days later. He looked up at the staircase and breathed a lung full of air.

‘Time to move,’ he thought, only stopping to pick up one dead guard’s pistol before moving carefully up the stairs with a pistol in one hand and a submachine gun in the other.

As he reached the upper hallway and crouched behind a wall at the top of the stairs, he waited for a second, then dashed over to the first room.

The blonde man bolted out of his seat at the sound of gunshots, ripping the earpiece from his ear. Then, racing out of the door, he made for the stairwell, picking up his men. Instead, he found five men recovering from the sudden blast to the eardrums, but they were okay, well, fit enough to kill someone.

As he peered through the c***k of the partially open door, Steel made out six men heading for the stairs. He knew he could take them out, but he did not know how many more there were or where they were.

No, he had to leave them and press on.

Going down the long corridor, he checked room after room, searching for his family and any survivors. Finally, he reached the end of the corridor. The rooms had been empty. If he hadn’t found anybody, then the killers hadn’t either. Suddenly, Steel looked up towards the attic, the one place he had not yet checked less for the cellar. But he knew that he had to get up there.

The blonde mercenary and the others rushed into the dining room and found the microphone next to the speaker. He switched the mic off and threw it onto the lawn.

Checking around, he noticed the headset taped to the speaker. Ripping it off, he stood up.

‘The boy is here,’ he stated. ‘Find him. And I want him alive. Do you understand, you idiots?’

The others nodded. The blonde man looked at the small microphone from the headset and smiled. He glanced up at the house and cast a look from left to right, trying to work out where his quarry might be hiding. ‘Welcome home, Jonny,’ he muttered