Testament, p.1
Testament, page 1
TESTAMENT
Table of Contents
Title Page
Shaun Hutson
Published by Caffeine Nights Publishing 2019
Acknowledgements for TESTAMENT
Dedication | For my daughter. | No words are enough | to tell her how much | I love her.
“I fear to turn on the light, | For the darkness won't go away...” | Metallica
PROLOGUE
PART ONE
“Time chasing time creeps up behind | I can't run forever, and time waits for no one.” | Megadeth
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
PART TWO
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SEVEN
THIRTY-EIGHT
THIRTY-NINE
FORTY
FORTY-ONE
FORTY-TWO
FORTY-THREE
FORTY-FOUR
FORTY-FIVE
FORTY-SIX
FORTY-SEVEN
FORTY-EIGHT
FORTY-NINE
FIFTY
FIFTY-ONE
FIFTY-TWO
FIFTY-THREE
FIFTY-FOUR
FIFTY-FIVE
FIFTY-SIX
FIFTY-SEVEN
FIFTY-EIGHT
FIFTY-NINE
SIXTY
SIXTY-ONE
SIXTY-TWO
SIXTY-THREE
SIXTY-FOUR
SIXTY-FIVE
SIXTY-SIX
SIXTY-SEVEN
SIXTY-EIGHT
SIXTY-NINE
SEVENTY
SEVENTY-ONE
SEVENTY-TWO
SEVENTY-THREE
SEVENTY-FOUR
SEVENTY-FIVE
SEVENTY-SIX
SEVENTY-SEVEN
SEVENTY-EIGHT
PART THREE
SEVENTY-NINE
EIGHTY
EIGHTY-ONE
EIGHTY-TWO
EIGHTY-THREE
EIGHTY-FOUR
EIGHTY-FIVE
EIGHTY-SIX
EIGHTY-SEVEN
EIGHTY-EIGHT
EIGHTY-NINE
NINETY
NINETY-ONE
NINETY-TWO
NINETY-THREE
NINETY-FOUR
NINETY-FIVE
NINETY-SIX
NINETY-SEVEN
NINETY-EIGHT
NINETY-NINE
ONE HUNDRED
ONE HUNDRED AND ONE
ONE HUNDRED AND TWO
ONE HUNDRED AND THREE
ONE HUNDRED AND FOUR
ONE HUNDRED AND FIVE
ONE HUNDRED AND SIX
ONE HUNDRED AND SEVEN
ONE HUNDRED AND EIGHT
ONE HUNDRED AND NINE
ONE HUNDRED AND TEN
ONE HUNDRED AND ELEVEN
ONE HUNDRED AND TWELVE
ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTEEN
ONE HUNDRED AND FOURTEEN
ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTEEN
ONE HUNDRED AND SIXTEEN
ONE HUNDRED AND SEVENTEEN
ONE HUNDRED AND EIGHTEEN
ONE HUNDRED AND NINETEEN
ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY
ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY-ONE
ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY-TWO
ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY-THREE
ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY-FOUR
ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY-FIVE
ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY-SIX
EPILOGUE
ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY-SEVEN
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Shaun Hutson
Fiction to die for...
Published by Caffeine Nights Publishing 2019
Copyright © Shaun Hutson 2019
Shaun Hutson has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998 to be identified as the author of this work
CONDITIONS OF SALE
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, scanning, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher
This book has been sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental
Published in Great Britain by
Caffeine Nights Publishing
4 Eton Close
Walderslade
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Kent
ME5 9AT
caffeinenights.com
caffeinenightsbooks.com
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Also available as a paperback
ISBN: 978-1-913200-07-7
Cover design by
Ria Fend
Everything else by
Default, Luck and Accident
Acknowledgements for TESTAMENT
No one writes a book and then has it published without a bit of help.
Either during the actual physical and mental process of writing it or in what follows after its finished. The only help I usually need during the writing process is a bit of moral support (maybe the odd comment to tell me that I am indeed a great writer and that all should tremble before me!) and the occasional reminder that I haven't actually forgotten how to do what I've been doing for most of my adult life. Apart from that, I usually sail through without too much trouble. The book is my baby after all and has been from its inception so, if there are any problems, it's me who has to solve them.
Once it's completed, that's when the help really begins so I'll start there. Huge thanks as always to my publisher, Darren Laws at Caffeine Nights for his continued faith and support, Charlotte Garvey for her proof reading and Ria Holland for bringing the covers to life and thanks also to anyone else there who actually does the hard work and gets the book ready for readers to buy. This part of the ordeal also needs me to thank my agent Meg Davis for her efforts.
The other people I thank here have probably provided something but I'm not always sure what it is. Inspiration. Support. Something like that. They should know what they've done even if I can't always remember. So, on that count I'd like to thank Matt Shaw, Graeme Sayer, Michael Knight and Emma Dark.
Everyone at the Broadway cinema in Letchworth and Cineworld in Milton Keynes.
Dani, Claire, Leah, Bruce, Steve, Dave, Adrian, Janick and Nicko. Rod Smallwood, Gary Farrow.
My daughter, Kelly, Belinda and my mum.
And of course, the most important people I know. You lot. The people who actually buy my books. This one has been a long time coming so we won't wait around any longer.
Let's go.
Shaun Hutson
Dedication
For my daughter.
No words are enough
to tell her how much
I love her.
“I fear to turn on the light,
For the darkness won't go away...”
Metallica
PROLOGUE
SOCIAL MEDIA
Posted on YouTube; 09.47; November 9th; 2017;
The man walking across the baking sand was dressed in a bright orange boiler suit, open to the sternum.
Through the widespread garment it was possible to see the wounds on his torso. Some were the marks made by cigarettes, stubbed out on his flesh. Held there until they formed oozing blisters. Others had been put there by knives. Cuts up to eight inches long, opened in the flesh with blades of devastating sharpness. Sliced deeply enough to cause massive blood loss but not death.
The hand of a torturer had to be light sometimes.
The man stumbled once, almost fell, but regained his footing as one of those escorting him moved towards him.
The five men marching along on either side of him and behind him were clad from head to foot in black.
Four of them carried automatic weapons. AK-47s, the Russian made assault rifles otherwise known as the Kalashnikov after their designer, slung across them by the leather straps. They walked stiffly, careful not to overbalance on the shifting sand as their prisoner had almost done.
Not that he needed an escort. If he chose to run, where was he going to go? The desert stretched for miles in all directions and the sun was beating down so mercilessly from the cloudless sky that anyone out in these temperatures would succumb to heat stroke and dehydration fa ster than they could say 'dying of thirst'. Temperatures at midday had been known to reach well over 120 degrees.
The man in the orange suit stumbled again and, this time, he dropped to his knees. Unable or unwilling to go on he waited there, his head bowed slightly until one of the black-clad men ran towards him and dragged him to his feet, grabbing handfuls of his boiler suit, pushing him ahead.
The man moved on, his steps faltering now.
The fear that was coursing through his veins, as surely as drugs through an addict, was making it difficult for him to even co-ordinate his steps now. There was a mound ahead, rising from the sand like a blister from scorched flesh, and the man was sure that was where they were taking him.
When he hesitated again one of the black-clad escorts drove the butt of the Kalashnikov into the small of his back with such force it caused the man to wet himself. A dark stain spread rapidly across the front of the orange boiler suit and the man looked down at it. Along with fear he now felt shame and anger. He didn't want the others to see that he was afraid but what was he to do? Would any man who was walking to his death truly have the heart to show no fear?
As the man rose to his feet again, he could feel urine trickling down his leg. But that didn't seem to matter any more. Nothing did if he was honest.
The little procession reached the mound of sand he'd been looking at and they started up it. When they had reached the pinnacle the fifth man in the group stepped forward and barked something the orange suited man could not make out. Seconds later he was grabbed by both shoulders and forced to his knees, the tallest individual now standing behind him.
One of the other black-clad men ambled across in front of him, digging inside his jacket for something.
The orange suited man began to breathe more quickly, his heart hammering harder against his chest as he wondered what the figure before him was going to produce. It turned out to be a camcorder which the black-clad man checked over quickly, ensuring that no sand had got into the device during the march across the desert. Satisfied, he removed the lens cap and peered through the viewfinder, checking focus and anything else he felt he should attend to. When he had the camcorder ready, he raised one hand as a signal.
The figure behind the orange suited man now stepped forward, speaking as he did.
“This is for all Kaffir watching,” he said, his voice loud. “For all those who would set foot in our beloved homeland. In the land of the Prophet, all praise be to him.”
The other black-clad men added their own words of affirmation as the figure went on.
“We did not ask you to come here,” he continued. “We did not want you here. You thought you could conquer us. You kill our families. You rape our children and you expect us to allow this.” He raised his voice. “You will pay for this. All of you. We will carry this jihad deep into all your homelands. Into your lives. Into your lands.”
More words of agreement and encouragement from the other black-clad men. They rose on the desert wind and were carried away.
“And now,” the figure went on. “You will see how we treat all invaders. All defilers. All enemies. All Kaffir.”
Barely had the last word left his lips than he opened his tunic and pulled a hunting knife from his belt. It was fully ten inches long. Wickedly sharp on one side and serrated on the other. The blazing sun glinted on the oiled steel momentarily, the flash flickering across the man in the orange jumpsuit who was now murmuring something unintelligible under his breath.
His eyes were closed, and he was hunched further over, his shoulders drawn up as if to try and protect himself from what he knew was coming even though he knew the gesture was pointless.
He felt hands on his shoulders, on his hair, pulling him upright. And now he began to shake uncontrollably. To hell with bravery. To hell with dignity. He was going to die. Nothing had prepared him for that, not even the unshakable realisation of that fact since his capture. All through his time in captivity he had clung to the tiny shred of hope, that he knew he was foolish to entertain, but it was all he'd had.
That minuscule fragment of optimism he had managed to retain was now being blown away as surely as grains of desert sand in a storm. He had tried to imagine being with his wife and child again. He had clung to that like a drowning man clings to a lifebelt. The thought that he might actually be rescued. Might actually get out of this place alive. Might...
There was nothing left now but terror.
He felt strong hands dragging him upright and he tried to struggle but they just held him more tightly, holding him upright, stopping him from rocking back and forth as he waited there on his knees.
He thought about begging for mercy but realised it would do no good. There was nothing he could do. These men did not acknowledge mercy. They did not acquaint themselves with forgiveness. They wanted only one thing. His death.
And now he felt the knife against his neck, the honed edge gliding gently over his flesh as the man behind him adjusted his stance, ensuring that he had maximum leverage for when he began to cut and hack.
The man in the orange boiler suit wet himself again. His stomach somersaulted and he thought he was going to be sick as the fear gripped him as surely as the hands holding him upright. He wanted to scream. He wanted to cry. He wanted to live.
But these men would not allow that.
He shrieked madly as he felt the blade cut into the flesh of his neck, dragged back and forth with such force that it sliced muscles easily.
The man holding the camera tried to zoom in but the picture became blurred and he could not correct the fault.
He called to his companion with the knife to wait while he adjusted the camcorder and the figure agreed, irritated by the screams of agony coming from the orange suited man.
When the cameraman was ready again the blade once again began cutting through the flesh of the kneeling man's neck and the screams began once more. Louder this time. Screams of pain. Of fear. Of desperation.
All lost on the rising desert wind.
PART ONE
“Time chasing time creeps up behind
I can't run forever, and time waits for no one.”
Megadeth
ONE
BAGHDAD; JADRIYA DISTRICT; CENTRAL IRAQ;
Sean Doyle lit his cigarette, took a couple of drags, and propped one booted foot on the dashboard of the jeep as it swept along.
The motion of the vehicle at least created a cooling breeze that helped to dispel the sweltering mid-afternoon heat a little but, despite that, Doyle could feel the sweat soaking into the T-shirt beneath his Kevlar body armour.
He glanced at the driver, but the man seemed unworried by the blistering temperatures or by the dust that was filling the jeep as they drove further and further out of Baghdad itself. During the summer, the city was often troubled by sand and dust storms that were relatively easy to avoid by sheltering inside but those same storms became more problematic in the open areas beyond the suburbs and it was into one of these areas that the jeep was now heading. Doyle had often wondered if a westerner ever became used to the heat and the conditions here and, having already been present in this particular part of the Middle East for over a year, he was beginning to think that even the most basic assimilation into this place was impossible.
He took another drag on his cigarette and blew out the smoke, noticing that the jeep was taking him further and further from the confines of the city. The built-up areas he had become accustomed to were now being replaced by the flat, arid and featureless expanse of desert that one found eventually upon leaving the city.
“Why did they call me?” he grunted, nudging the driver. “Someone else should have been able to take care of this.”
“They are frightened. Two men have been attacked already,” the driver told him. “They not come this way if it is dangerous.”
“Right.”
“They need someone with gun,” the driver went on.
Doyle nodded.
“I'm not the only security operative here, you know,” he murmured.
“Others not good with guns,” the driver told him.
Doyle shrugged.
“How many of them?” he wanted to know.
“Five or six they think. Maybe more. Fucking dogs.”
“Fucking dogs,” Doyle repeated, nodding sagely.
Wild dogs had been a problem in and around the city for years. Nearly 60,000 of them had been exterminated during the last twelve months, shot on the streets of Baghdad itself, but those that had survived had moved out of the confines of the city and into the surrounding areas. Here they scavenged food if they could and, if that wasn't possible, the packs that had become completely feral hunted prey like any other hungry predator. There had been attacks on locals and several had been killed and eaten. A kill made these packs even more dangerous because it gave them a taste for human flesh, Doyle knew only too well the trouble he would face if confronted by one of these feral packs. He pulled the Beretta from its holster and slid the magazine from the butt, checking it was full. Satisfied that it was he slammed the slim metal clip back into the weapon and re-holstered it.
