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.

An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 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

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

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. Small. 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

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

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-caliber 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.’

e4 d6

The call came as no surprise, nor what was said, nor how it was said. Rounded. Meticulous pronunciation intentionally concealing the foreign accent. ‘We had a deal.’

‘Not that deal. You know that was never on the table. It’s impossible. I told you that before. I would never and could never agree to it. You know that.’

‘What I know is you have to make this happen. However you do that is entirely up to you,’ the caller said.

‘I won’t be put in this position.’

‘You won’t? Are you sure about that?’

‘Abso-goddamn-lutely.’

There was a pause before the caller said. ‘Then we carry on until you’re persuaded otherwise. Though I am surprised. I would’ve thought the message of bombs and countless dead would be enough to make you realize there’s only one way out of this… The toll of the dead is in your hands.’

‘Goddamn you! I gave you all I could.’

The caller laughed mockingly. ‘No, we gave you all we could. You got what you wanted and now we want something in return.’

‘You had it already. There is no more. And you know nothing was ever one sided. What we had was a fair deal. We both know that and we both got what we needed… Look, even if I wanted to do this, what you’re asking is an impossibility. I can’t do it on my own. There are two people needed to make such an action happen. It isn’t just me. It’s not like before.’

‘Then you find a way for the other person to see it your way. I don’t think you want a war. I think you have enough of those already… But if it does come to that, it’ll be like nothing you’ve seen before. Hell will be unleashed.’

‘And you don’t think there’d be a war, a massive fall-out if I did what you were asking? You do know who he is and what he stands for?’

The contempt from the caller was palpable. ‘What you say he stands for.’

‘What I know he stands for. What you’re asking doesn’t make sense! It’s not in either of our best interests, because we’ll end up coming after you… It can only end one way. Jesus Christ, you gotta see that this will cause a resurgence and reignite everything we’ve fought against for the past few years… I can’t do it. The answer’s no.’

The caller’s tone was light but heavy with threat. ‘I pride myself on my English but it seems you’re not understanding me clearly. This is not a negotiation. We shall cast terror into the hearts of those who disbelieve. Their habitation is the fire and you will suffer in this life and go to hell in the next.’

‘Listen to me and listen carefully…’

The caller interrupted. ‘No, it’s you who’ll listen… Eventually you’ll realize you need to sacrifice a pawn to continue with the game you started.’

‘But it isn’t a pawn, is it? We’re not talking about a pawn.’

‘That depends on how you look at it. And in case you think that this is just an empty threat, we have another reminder for you. Hopefully this one will help to persuade you to come to the right decision.’

‘You bastard. You don’t have to do this.’

‘Look at it this way. At least you’ve got a warning this time… Next Wednesday, the government building. Eighteen forty-five hours. Chatham, Illinois… Do what you think’s right.’

12 3 Järgmine