Chimera Code (Jake Dillon Adventure Thriller Series) (20 page)

Dillon knew it was a dream, and yet somehow that made it
worse. While awake he had some element of control; but in the dream
he was merely a spectator and already knew the order of events and
the outcome. Knew what happened, knew about the organised crime
syndicates and drug cartels, and knew about the shocking after-effects
when the
special
drugs were handed out freely to those addicted, to what
had become known as Death Candy, in every major city around the
globe... and yet, again and again he could relive those dark moments
with dismay, anger and pure hatred - but without control or the ability
to stop the potential death toll rising into the tens of millions...

He stood, his boots planted firmly on the wet slippery deck of
the huge oil tanker that cruised through the dark black waters of the
Barents Sea. Dillon’s eyes were dark, deeply ringed, and the black
uniform he was wearing smeared with grime and dried blood. The
cold sea-breeze had turned his face numb, the tips of his ears tingled
with the first signs of frost bite. His gloved hands clasped the Heckler
& Koch machine pistol, the magazine fully loaded with mercury
tipped rounds.

The British nuclear powered submarine had been on a hunterkill mission to intercept and board a Colombian owned oil tanker
carrying Death Candy that was destined for every European city. What
Dillon, and the submarine’s attack force, had found the mind could
not comprehend. The entire hold of the tanker was full of drugs...

It left a bad taste in Dillon’s brain, like a poisonous line of
cocaine.
A laboratory manufactured hallucinogenic drug, Death Candy
was destined to be handed out like a plague across all of the European
states.
The tanker was huge, had beenstripped of anything unnecessary,
so as to hold the maximum cargo. The drugs, man-made and
devastating, would have done the job they had been designed to do, if
the submarine had not found them in time.
Dillon was stood on the slippery deck, machine pistol cold. One
of the assault team’s junior officers waved, moved towards him, and
their bleak gazes met over the millions of tons of Death Candy.
“There’s activity,” said the Lieutenant coldly.
“So I heard over the comm.”
On their way to intercept the tanker, the submarine had picked
up radio chatter between the tanker’s captain and what sounded like
the owner of the lethal cargo. And just before the crew and captain
were overthrown, a distress signal had been sent out by the tanker’s
wireless operator. Its message simple, under attack...
Dillon and the young navel officer sprang into action, along with
all the other men from the submarine’s attack force.
Helicopters roared overhead, forward machine guns blazing,
spitting bullets across the decks of the tanker and into the sea, and
Dillon and the young naval officer sprinted forward with Heckler’s
juddering in their grips, faces grim, giving covering arcs of fire for
one another as they crouched, bullets ricocheting on the heavy metal
deck beneath their boots. Terrorists dressed in military style combat
uniforms abseiled from the helicopters, Kalashnikov mini machinepistols blazing as they ascended to the deck of the tanker.
Dillon spun and put a bullet in the face of a terrorist... but,
almost by reflex, the terrorist’s gun was firing, pumping bullets.
One caught Dillon square in the chest, his bullet-proof body
armour saving him. With a gasp he was lifted off of his feet, punched
backwards with a fist of iron and thrown down heavily onto the oily
deck...
He landed, the wind knocked out of him, momentarily dazed,
as all around him, wildfire was let loose and the death toll started to
rise. The attack force was overcome in minutes, so many terrorists,
too much firepower. And then the heavy blow that sent him spiralling
into blackness...

Night had fallen over Santorini. Dillon awoke with a sudden
start, a terrible searing pain inside his head. He could smell wood
burning outside and pushed himself up into a sitting position, the
events of the dream flooding through his mind in waves.

Tatiana was there, sitting by the side of his bed. Her hands were
cool against the clamminess of his skin as she laid him back down and
pulled the single sheet up over his naked body. Dillon’s eyes focused
and he realised that the room was dimly lit by a single candle. The
noise of insects spiralled in through wooden shutters;
below them
was
a hive of technological advancement - a state-of-the-art spy station
disguised by a simplistic mask. Distantly he heard the crackling of a
fire and the subdued voices of the armed guards.

Tatiana handed him tablets and a glass of iced water. “You
dreaming about terrorists and drugs again?”
He nodded. “Yeah, that and death.”
“Death?”
“Don’t worry about it.” He took the painkillers and washed
them down with the mineral water.
“They’ve given you a good look over and checked all minor cuts
and gashes on your body, and given you the all-clear on all counts.
You’ll live, but the doctor who examined you couldn’t say why you
collapsed outside earlier.”
“Just tired and a blinding headache, that’s all.” Dillon said lamely.
“Well, they gave you a thorough check-up; you are in the peak of
health apparently.” Tatiana smiled softly. “And, the doctor commended
you on your handy stitch work on me. He confirmed what I already
knew - that you saved my life.” Suddenly, Tatiana stood and slipped
out of her shorts and t-shirt. Moonlight glinted on her taut, athletic
body; on her firm stomach, ample pert breasts, and smooth tanned
skin. She climbed into bed beside Dillon and lay on her side, pressing
herself against his warmth.
Suddenly, Dillon’s headache had gone. And he felt himself panic
for the briefest moment. A feeling he had not allowed himself, since
he had split up with Issy, now consumed him. Lust...
“Tats...” he whispered.
Her fingertip touched his lips and stayed there. She leaned
forward, her lips brushing against his cheek. He groaned, mouth
opening, teeth gently biting Tatiana’s finger. Her free hand came up
and stroked his hair. He turned, rolling towards her - the feeling of
her softskin, soft breasts, firm shapely legs pressed against him and he
was instantly enveloped in her womanliness. And he allowed himself
to press against her as he gazed into her eyes and they were silent for
long, long moments. They kissed nothing more than light touching.
Dillon’s hand came up and rested on Tatiana’s hip and she groaned,
voice low and husky, scent invading Dillon’s mind and consuming his
brain; she parted her legs a little, allowing him to press further against
her, further into her, further towards that feeling of euphoric pleasure
beyond.
“You’re feeling better, then?”
“I’m sure, given time, that I’ll make a full recovery.”
“Well, I’d say that you were already making progress, Mr Dillon.”
The words came a little breathlessly.
“Perhaps with a little more pressure applied to the right areas...”
He said mischievously, eyes glowing in the gloom.
Tatiana pouted, “Well, I’ll just have to double my efforts on
those areas!”
“Now
that
sounds just what the doctor ordered.”
They writhed around beneath the solitary sheet, holding one
another. They kissed softly, enjoying each other’s heat, each other’s
gentleness.
“You sure you’re okay?”
Dillon grinned. He couldn’t help himself, despite the aches and
pains from his recent beatings, which had returned to haunt him.
“Yeah, I’m feeling fine now, thanks.” Dillon lied easily.
“I try to please,” she said softly and smiled, nibbling his chin.
“How did you stop Ezra from shooting me?”
Tatiana pouted, “Dillon, you can’t just ask me that sort of
question after...”
“Well, I need to know.” He propped himself on one elbow
and looked down at her. His free hand traced twirls over her breasts
and reaching down, took an erect nipple between his teeth, and
mischievously bit ever so lightly.
She gasped in mock pain.
“I didn’t stop him.
You
stopped him. Your words, your actions.”
“What actions?”
“Whatever is going on inside your head? It was on your face.”
Dillon ran his fingers through his hair. Then he sighed.
“I’ve never truly understood what goes on inside you,” she said.
“It’s complicated. Even I find it hard sometimes.”
“Try me.
Trust
me Dillon. I’m an intelligent girl. Something has
been tearing you apart for years; something has been burning you up
and you were grappling with whatever it is when you were stood in
front of Ezra.” Tatiana searched for the appropriate words to describe
what she had witnessed. “It sometimes appears as if you’re two very
different people. One side of you appeared calm, calculating and
extremely dangerous, who wanted to go on the offensive with Ezra;
one side of you wanted to back down and give in. I saw it, Dillon. I
saw it on your face; I heard it in your voice.”
“Do you understand the term; split-personality?” He said
suddenly.
“Like
Schizophrenia
- voices inside your head, that sort of thing?”
“Sort of. You see,” he paused, uncertain. Tatiana squeezed his
arm reassuringly. “I’ve managed to control and hide this thing inside
my head from
everyone
for virtually all of my life. As a child it was
merely a voice talking to me. As a grew older, the voice became more
aggressive, only coming to the surface when I was placed in situations
extreme stress. Even the shrinks didn’t spot it. It’s what has kept me
alive all these years.” He said. “But since the Charlie Hart assignment
in Sandbanks, I’ve been getting headaches which were one of the
reasons I decided to take time off from active assignments.”
“And that’s why you always kicked up such a fuss at every sixmonthly psychiatric assessment?”
“Partly. But that was mostly done for effect, and I used to find it
funny - being able to deceive the experts. I never told anyone, because
it would have complicated my life, and they’d have tried to say that I
was barking mad. The thing is it only comes to the surface when I’m
under extreme pressure, and then it takes over. I hardly ever remember
what I’ve done afterwards.”
Tatiana was silent for a long time. She hugged Dillon tight.
“It sounds like a guilt complex.”
“I know exactly what it sounds like. I understand only to well,
what it sounds like. A load of old bollocks. That’s why I never speak
about it; I live alone with a burning in my soul...”
“But this alter-ego has kept you alive all these years. You shouldn’t
beat yourself up because of something you have no control over?”
“I should be able to control the murderous thoughts I have when
it
starts to surface... and that’s the bad thing. Take Kirill’s mansion in
Cornwall - I was as sure as fucking dead. Betrayed by those I thought I
was there to protect. I no longer cared if I lived or died, right there in
that kitchen, and simply gave myself up to my subconscious... That’s
when the real killing started and the body count continued until I was
well clear of the house. Can you understand?”
“This is just too weird, Dillon.” Tatiana said.
“You’re in no danger. I’m in total control...”
“I’m not frightened, Dillon. And I do believe you,” whispered
Tatiana. She kissed Dillon’s ear and held him for a long time until she
felt his breathing become regular and he was sleeping. Her fingers
traced gentle strokes along his spine - and after a while she fell into a
deep sleep beside him.

Dillon awoke in the gloom. Tatiana slept in his arms, a warm
embrace. Dillon disentangled himself with care, then, pulling on his
trousers and taking his cigarettes and lighter, he crossed the room and
stepped outside.

There was an armed guard stood outside of their room, a man
called Christopher, sporting Adonis good looks, jet black tousled hair,
and a Santorini tan. The big Greek man smiled the sort of sheepish
knowledge-filled grin that said, “You sure know how to party loudly.”
Dillon returned the grin, padded down to the far end of the veranda,
and sat down on one of the cane easy chairs.

A cool breeze whispered across his skin. He lit a cigarette,
stretched out his legs and gazed out across the dark Santorini landscape
towards the sea. The stars were bright against a dark canopy and
Dillon tilted his head back to allow a soft spiral of smoke to escape
his lips and rise into the vaulted ceiling of the veranda. The nicotine
rush whizzing through his brain, the harsh French tobacco scorching
his lungs, and he blinked as a man’s voice called from somewhere on
the other side of the olive grove.

Dillon turned and smiled up at Ezra who was standing with
his hands on his hips, breathing in the night air and the rich scents
deeply - a love affair with the ambiance. His eyes were unreadable, his
appearance neat and his greying hair well groomed, neatly combed
and oiled. Dillon caught the distant scent of coconut oil.

“Much better, thank you.”
“Would you care to walk with me through the grove?”
“It’s a fine night. A walk would be good.”
The two men stepped down from the veranda of the whitewashed villa and the sandy soil felt soft, comfortably cool under
Dillon’s bare feet. They moved between the olive trees, inhaling the
earthy moist scent, moving through the gloom a little uncomfortable
at first: untrusting. As they walked, Dillon offered Ezra a cigarette.
They both lit up and stopped within a small clearing on the seaward
side of the grove. Dillon lifted his face in an attempt to attract the
slightest of breezes to evaporate the sweat covering his body.

“This is a very warm place to live, Ezra,” said Dillon eventually.
“Yes it is,” rumbled Ezra uneasily. The cigarette seemed tiny in
his huge hands. “But we don’t always have a choice in these matters.
The Partners are hard task masters. They command, and we mere
mortals obey.” He smiled a smile without humour, bloodless in the
moonlight.