Jack Ford - Dead Edge - the gripping political thriller for fans of Lee Child

JACK FORDis 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.

Copyright

An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018

Copyright © Jack Ford 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

Copyright

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

1

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.’