Without Mercy

Without Mercy
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From the master of suspense, a fierce thriller of terrorism, murder and revenge.In Higgins’ acclaimed bestseller DARK JUSTICE, intelligence operative Sean Dillon and his colleagues in Britain and the United States beat back a terrible enemy, but at an equally terrible cost. One of them was shot, another run down in the street. Both were expected to survive – but only one of them does.As Detective Superintendent Hannah Bernstein of Special Branch lies recuperating in the hospital, a dark shadow from their past, scarred deep by hatred, steals across the room and finishes the job.Consumed by grief and rage, Dillon, Blake, Ferguson and all who loved Hannah swear vengeance, no matter where it takes them. But they have no idea of the searing journey upon which they are about to embark – nor of the war which will change them all.


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Without Mercy

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

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London SE1 9GF


First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2005

Copyright © Harry Patterson 2005

Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2005

Harry Patterson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of 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, down-loaded, 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.

Source ISBN: 9780008124946

Ebook Edition © August 2015 ISBN: 9780007290574

Version: 2015-09-03

To Ed Victor, the mentor in my life,with grateful thanks

The Plaza de Toros in Ibiza is a typical smalltown bullring, a concrete circle, benches ringed around, average bulls, toreros desperate to make their bones. It was unbearably hot even on the shady side at four o’clock in the afternoon as Dillon waited at the barrera. As the President led the procession on, the band started to play the ‘Virgin of Macarena’, that most poignant of Paso Dobles, that promised only death down there in the ring; death in the afternoon, Hemingway had called it. The toreros tossed off their capes, works of art in themselves, to friends in the crowd who draped them over the barrera, then the toreros were handed the plain fighting capes and made a few practice swings, the horses of the picadors stirring uneasily. There was a long moment, a signal from the President, and as a bugle sounded the red door on the far side, the Gate of Fear, burst open. The bull came through from the darkness, a runaway train that skidded to a halt as the crowd roared. Peons moved out to try him, capes ready, the scene looking like the most dangerous thing on earth, but Dillon knew no fear. He vaulted over the barrera down into the arena. The crowd roared as he ran forward and flung himself on his knees in front of the bull and bared his chest. ‘Hey, Toro. Just for me; the Pass of Death,’ because he knew that was all it would take and he deserved it. She was dead and it was his fault and the bull charged, the crowd screamed and he cried out and came awake, sitting up in bed, soaked in sweat and more afraid than he had ever been.

It was Washington, early evening, bad March weather, but General Charles Ferguson, comforted by the luxury of the Hay-Adams Hotel, stood at a window of the bar and enjoyed a Scotch and soda. Newly arrived from London, he was curiously exhilarated by the rain pounding against the window and his proximity to the White House.

On the other hand, he also just liked the hotel for its own sake. In its sheer luxury it was everything a hotel should be, and anybody who was anybody stayed there, the great and the good and the powerbrokers. Whatever else he was, he was certainly that, the man responsible for running a special intelligence unit out of the Ministry of Defence in London, responsible only to the Prime Minister of the day, irrespective of politics.

The man for whom he waited, Blake Johnson, was head of a unit at the White House called the Basement. It had been in existence since the Cold War days, an intelligence unit answerable only to the current President, totally separate from the CIA, FBI and the Secret Service. They had achieved great things together.

Ferguson could see the main entrance of the hotel, where now a limousine drew up, two men got out and hurried up the steps. Blake Johnson was a tall, handsome man in his mid-fifties. The man with him was very big and very black: Clancy Smith, once the youngest sergeant-major in the Marine Corps and now the President’s favourite Secret Service man. Ferguson greeted them warmly.

‘Great to see you both.’

‘No Dillon this trip?’ Johnson asked.

He was referring to Sean Dillon, in the past a feared IRA enforcer, now Ferguson’s strong right hand.

‘There didn’t seem any need, and he’s concerned about Hannah Bernstein. She’s really in a very bad way thanks to that Russian bastard, Ashimov.’

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