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Authors: James Quinn
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Gorilla.
I'm back with a vengeance.
Chapter Seven
KOWLOON, HONG KONG – OCTOBER 1967
The Caucasian moved confidently through the sultry heat of the busy market place. It was one of the rougher parts of the city and at that time of night, manual workers, traders and street criminals of all persuasions were making their way home or on to their next illegal enterprise. None of them mattered to the Caucasian, he wasn't threatened by them, wasn't scared that he was the only western man in the warren-like maze of the street market. He had a look about him which said 'This is one fight you're going to lose, if you try to fuck with me.'
For the past year his name had been Janner. No first name given, just Janner. Occupation: war zone photojournalist. In truth, his name wasn't Janner and he had no experience in the world of photography or journalism, but it provided a plausible enough cover to allow him to get in and out of countries in the region so that he could indulge in his real occupation – contract murder.
His name had once been Frank Trench, but he was that man no more. He was dressed in the fashion of the day. A light coloured safari suit with bell-bottomed trousers and boots with Cuban heels. His hair had been grown long, past his collar and he now sported a drooping moustache and thick sideburns, as was the current style. Long gone were the Cavalry officers' neat haircut, regulation moustache and three piece suits from Saville Row that he'd worn when he was a member of the Redaction Unit for the British Secret Service in London. This man was rougher around the edges and had the look of some kind of playboy/adventurer, but one who would carry a concealed weapon on his body in case of trouble, which in fact he did; a push-dagger in a covert belt sheath. He continued at his strong pace, his boots clock-clocking on the wet streets, making his presence known amongst the street rats. He liked that, letting them know he was approaching. One of them attempted to talk to him – small and whip-like, a heroin addict probably - and Trench sent a warning glare the man's way. The man cowed and disappeared back into the shadows, scarpering like a cockroach.
If someone were to ask him if he missed the patriotism of working for the Secret Intelligence Service, Trench would have told them to fuck off and pistol-whipped them. Poor money, high risk, no gratitude and no chance of promotion. He thought it had been piss-poor and was nothing like working as a freelancer for his new employers… the complete polar opposite, in fact. Good money, expenses paid, travel to the glamour spots of Asia and as many hookers as he could bang, plus the killing – the killing made it all worthwhile… that and the fact that he was no longer under the thumb of that cripple, Masterman. Yeah, that had been a good day for Frank Trench, the day he'd blown good old Sentinel to kingdom come… the Raven had been especially pleased with him after that hit.
His recruitment into the Raven clan had been less than orthodox, however. It had begun with his final job for Redaction, a little over a year ago, although he didn't truly know it at the time. A trip to Hong Kong, said Masterman, sandbag a senior member of a new and upcoming mercenary organization operating in Asia. The job itself had been easy enough. Picking up the target – a man called Angel – an arms dealer who moved guns for the Japanese underworld and who was reputed to be a main supplier. The job had been simple and after that, it had been nothing Trench hadn't done before. Drug the man, take him to an abandoned location – in this case a warehouse by the docks – interrogate him and then eliminate him. Simple. But there had been something in the way the man had spoken to him. Begged – well, they all did that at this point in the game, when you had a knife at their throat – but it was more than that. It was as if he recognised a kindred spirit in the Redactor. The man had offered
I'm back with a vengeance.
Chapter Seven
KOWLOON, HONG KONG – OCTOBER 1967
The Caucasian moved confidently through the sultry heat of the busy market place. It was one of the rougher parts of the city and at that time of night, manual workers, traders and street criminals of all persuasions were making their way home or on to their next illegal enterprise. None of them mattered to the Caucasian, he wasn't threatened by them, wasn't scared that he was the only western man in the warren-like maze of the street market. He had a look about him which said 'This is one fight you're going to lose, if you try to fuck with me.'
For the past year his name had been Janner. No first name given, just Janner. Occupation: war zone photojournalist. In truth, his name wasn't Janner and he had no experience in the world of photography or journalism, but it provided a plausible enough cover to allow him to get in and out of countries in the region so that he could indulge in his real occupation – contract murder.
His name had once been Frank Trench, but he was that man no more. He was dressed in the fashion of the day. A light coloured safari suit with bell-bottomed trousers and boots with Cuban heels. His hair had been grown long, past his collar and he now sported a drooping moustache and thick sideburns, as was the current style. Long gone were the Cavalry officers' neat haircut, regulation moustache and three piece suits from Saville Row that he'd worn when he was a member of the Redaction Unit for the British Secret Service in London. This man was rougher around the edges and had the look of some kind of playboy/adventurer, but one who would carry a concealed weapon on his body in case of trouble, which in fact he did; a push-dagger in a covert belt sheath. He continued at his strong pace, his boots clock-clocking on the wet streets, making his presence known amongst the street rats. He liked that, letting them know he was approaching. One of them attempted to talk to him – small and whip-like, a heroin addict probably - and Trench sent a warning glare the man's way. The man cowed and disappeared back into the shadows, scarpering like a cockroach.
If someone were to ask him if he missed the patriotism of working for the Secret Intelligence Service, Trench would have told them to fuck off and pistol-whipped them. Poor money, high risk, no gratitude and no chance of promotion. He thought it had been piss-poor and was nothing like working as a freelancer for his new employers… the complete polar opposite, in fact. Good money, expenses paid, travel to the glamour spots of Asia and as many hookers as he could bang, plus the killing – the killing made it all worthwhile… that and the fact that he was no longer under the thumb of that cripple, Masterman. Yeah, that had been a good day for Frank Trench, the day he'd blown good old Sentinel to kingdom come… the Raven had been especially pleased with him after that hit.
His recruitment into the Raven clan had been less than orthodox, however. It had begun with his final job for Redaction, a little over a year ago, although he didn't truly know it at the time. A trip to Hong Kong, said Masterman, sandbag a senior member of a new and upcoming mercenary organization operating in Asia. The job itself had been easy enough. Picking up the target – a man called Angel – an arms dealer who moved guns for the Japanese underworld and who was reputed to be a main supplier. The job had been simple and after that, it had been nothing Trench hadn't done before. Drug the man, take him to an abandoned location – in this case a warehouse by the docks – interrogate him and then eliminate him. Simple. But there had been something in the way the man had spoken to him. Begged – well, they all did that at this point in the game, when you had a knife at their throat – but it was more than that. It was as if he recognised a kindred spirit in the Redactor. The man had offered
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