The Mineran Boxset: Mineran Series

The Mineran Series

Mineran Influence

Mineran Conflict

Mineran Assault

Mineran Pursuit

Mineran Resolve

P N Burrows

Mineran Boxset

The five Book set of the Mineran Series

First published in 2015

Edited July 2023

P N Burrows

ISBN 9781540536785

Copyright © P N Burrows 2023

The rights of the author has been asserted in accordance with Sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced (including photocopying or storing in any medium by electronic means and whether or not transiently or incidentally to some other use of this publication) without the written permission of the copyright holder except in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright, design and Patents Act 1988. Applications for the Copyright holder’s written permission to reproduce any part of this publication should be addresses to the publishers.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events other than those clearly in the public domain, are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental

Contents

Mineran Influence

Mineran Conflict

Mineran Assault

Mineran Pursuit

Mineran Resolve

Mineran Influence

Book One of the Mineran Series

P N Burrows

Mineran Influence

Book one of the Mineran Series

First published in 2015

Edited May 2023

P N Burrows

Copyright © P N Burrows 2023

The rights of the author has been asserted in accordance with Sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced (including photocopying or storing in any medium by electronic means and whether or not transiently or incidentally to some other use of this publication) without the written permission of the copyright holder except in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright, design and Patents Act 1988. Applications for the Copyright holder’s written permission to reproduce any part of this publication should be addresses to the publishers.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events other than those clearly in the public domain, are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental

DEDICATION

For my parents who started me on the greatest adventure there is: Living.

Contents

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 1

The tip of the needle pressed against the man’s vein, delicately sinking beneath the skin. Bright red blood squirted into the vacuum vial.

A slender feminine hand followed the contours of the slumbering man’s face, trapping the whiskers on his chin between her forefinger and thumb; almost with reluctance she let go. Placing the sample in a secure container, she looked back at the man. Sorry.

The needle of a syringe glistened in the torch light, a small amount of fluid escaped as her fingers flicked against the cylinder, the plunger expelling the last remnants of air.

You may not know it, Sam, but this really is for your own good, the intruder explained as she coaxed the needle into the man’s thigh. Stepping back from the bed, the floor boards creaked and groaned as the woman adjusted her weight. One delicate hand instinctively pressed against Sam’s chest, the other formed a raised fist, lest he awake.

Don’t worry, he’ll be out for another half an hour, a disembodied voice announced in her earpiece. Don’t forget the hair clippings.

I know, don’t worry, she replied pulling the duvet down, exposing the man’s blue polka dot boxers. The aged bedroom flickered into view as her camera clicked.

You have all the clues you need to find us, she whispered. Resting her forehead against his, her long brown hair enshrouded the man’s face. Figure it out, Sam. Her lips pressed against his, her fingers tugging at strands of his short cropped hair as she turned away. Brushing a hand through her own tresses, she left a single gossamer thread in return.

You’ve worn that perfume again haven’t you? The voice in her ear asked.

Of course, the woman’s teeth flashed as she smiled, I discovered him, Phon. He’s mine. He’ll follow the clues and locate us. He’s intelligent enough to figure it all out and, when we meet, my perfume will pique his interest; I will stand out from all the other brunettes. He won’t know why he’s drawn and, like all men, he’ll do all the chasing, until I let him win.

God help him, the voice chuckled over the radio.

That’s how women work Phon, you should know this by now. Pulling the duvet up to Sam’s chin, she brushed her hand through his hair. I’m done. Pick up at the front.

Sam sat on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands, fingers massaging his temples. Frustration welled up inside him as he thought back over the past couple of weeks. He’d fought all over the world as part of Her Majesty’s Forces. In his forty-odd years, including twenty years of gruelling service, he’d never once lost consciousness, not until he’d come to Wales. Picking up the package that had arrived by courier, Sam unwrapped the secure gun case and swore to himself that he would find out who had been toying with him and why.

The case opened with a combination of biometrics, voice and phrase recognition. It was a prototype from his friend’s company, Matt Johnson Securities. Sam rubbed his little finger underneath the case’s handle, unsure as to where the scanner was located. The case beeped to indicate that he could proceed. Sam then sang the first two lines of Louis Prima’s 1956 swing classic, Just a Gigolo. Matt was an avid Lindy Hopper and this was another attempt to enforce one of his hobbies onto Sam. The phrase sequence changed on a daily basis, forcing Sam to learn a number of vintage classics.

‘Matt, you’re a dick!’ Sam said as the case clicked open. The case’s microphone would continue recording for another minute to collect feedback from the prototype’s beta user.

Lifting the lid, Sam was pleased to see his worn Glock 20 nestled in the pre-moulded foam. Jon and Brett, the heads of Matt’s R&D department, who had graciously fulfilled Sam’s order, had implored Sam to use the more common nine-millimetre variant. Sam was informed that the armoury of the UK underworld was comprised mainly of cheap Eastern European 9 millimetre pistols, a few Glocks and an odd assortment of vintage revolvers. Brett had argued that he would draw attention to himself if he used a none standard calibre.

Lifting the pistol out of the case, Sam worked the slide a few times, then broke the weapon down for inspection. Taking an empty magazine, Sam tested the spring and then fed in fifteen hollow points. Glocks had better springs than most of the weapons he had used over the years. Even so, he would never leave a magazine under tension while in storage. Spring fatigue caused malfunctions and a misfed bullet blocking the chamber could be the difference between life and death. Cocking the gun, Sam ejected the magazine and replenished the missing round.

With one in the barrel and fifteen in the mag, Sam placed the gun into the adapted holster that would fit inside his jacket. After sliding it in and out a few times to check for snags, he continued loading the three spare magazines. The familiar smell of gun oil filled the room as he worked.

The case also contained his backup Glock 29 with an ankle holster, spare barrels, and firing pins for both guns and two finger-hooped throwing knives. Sam had missed the feel of the weapons. After twenty years of army service they were as much a part of him as his fingers and toes. He flipped one of throwing knives and idly played with it, feeling for the balance of the high-quality blade.

Leaving the smaller pistol, Sam locked the case. With a grunt, he tipped the B&B’s sturdy wardrobe to one side and, with a flick of his foot, kicked the case beneath the hollow bottom.

Being a civilian, Sam could not walk around wearing military webbing with its wide variety of pockets. Instead, he donned his favourite jacket, a charcoal black affair he had bought in America. The jacket was designed by an EDC (Every Day Carry) garment manufacturer in collaboration with a best-selling writer of crime thrillers. God knows why they chose an author to help with the design, but they came up with an impressive and usable carry system. At only $200 off-the-shelf Stateside, it was comfortable, practical, and Sam considered it a bargain. The large chest pocket on the left allowed for his Glock and holster to be concealed below the bulge of his pectoral muscle, permitting quick and easy access through the break-in zipper. The two throwing knives slid into the sleeve cuff pockets. Sam had kept the sheaths inserted in the sleeves for convenience. The rest of his every day carry was already stashed in the garment. Jumping to detect for any unwanted jingles from his load, Sam ensured that he landed lightly on his toes so as not to annoy the elderly landlady downstairs. Happy with the result, he took the jacket off and sat on the bed, impatiently waiting.

Sam looked across the dimly lit room towards a lone bottle of Scotch whisky. It only contained a mouthful of what the Scots called ‘the water of life’. The bottle was one of several concerns, indications that someone was toying with him. Another of the other odd things that had happened over the last few weeks was a series of discoveries that had riled Sam’s calm demeanour and forced him into action.

The previous Saturday, he had attempted to walk from his cheap boarding house in the sleepy market town of Wrexham, intending to traverse over the relatively small Welsh mountain in Minera. He came to eight hours later, wandering a trail two miles south of his intended location. He was carrying the bottle, his breath stinking of whisky and had a headache from hell. While he was no newcomer to hangovers, he seldom drank to excess anymore and never while out walking.

He only ever drank whisky in memory of fallen comrades on the anniversary of their passing. This was his old squad’s tradition, one that would stay with him for the rest of his life. The sour face he pulled as he drank a shot for each lost friend was not just caused by the loss and emptiness he felt, but by his dislike for whisky. With over two decades of service behind him, he had lost a lot of good friends. Four nights ago he had toasted Corporal Danny Burgess’s life, lost in a needless battle in the first year of Sam’s duty.

Personal body armour can only protect certain parts of your body, mobility and weight being critical factors in what you can or cannot wear for different scenarios. Danny had taken a bullet across his exposed throat from a robed adversary who had sprung up from behind a stone wall, inaccurately spraying bullets as if he were a 1920s movie gangster. Others had popped up from ravines and from behind the ramshackle buildings. They had been far from the front-line, on the outskirts of a liberated and supposedly safe village. This had not been the welcome the squad had expected.

Danny bled out quickly, although at the time it had seemed like an eternity as Sam had tried to staunch the flow with his hands. Crimson red froth had bubbled from between Sam’s fingers and out of Danny’s mouth and nose as he had been simultaneously dying from exsanguination and asphyxiation. The fear in Danny’s eyes had mirrored Sam’s. Slowly, the spark of life had faded and the young soldier's hands, that had been gripping Sam’s so hard as if in holding on to Sam he could hold on to life, had released and fallen to the floor. The tremendous sound of the battle that had continued around them hadn’t drowned out the horrendous gurgling sound of Danny’s last breath. The rest of the squad had fought on, providing covering fire whilst Sam had treated their fallen comrade.

Sam’s senses came back to the battle at hand. He could distinguish the short controlled bursts of suppression fire from the squad’s light support weapon and shorter bursts from SA80s. The enemy popped out of cover to fire gangland style, Kalashnikovs held away from the body, allowing the recoil to raise the barrel, decreasing accuracy. The louder barks of Kalashnikovs faltered, as did the number of bullets impacting all around. Their ambushers were poorly trained and some had fired off their ammunition within the first minutes of the attack.

The rest of the squad survived the poorly orchestrated ambush intact. A much younger and inexperienced Sam acted on the procedures that the repetitive training of the military had ingrained into him for just such occasions. Between that and the organisation skills of Sargent Trooper, a most unfortunate name for a soldier, and the sheer bloody willpower to avenge the death of Danny, the squad overcame their aggressors.

At the end, including Danny, there was a body count of seventeen, and three severely wounded attackers. None of them looked old enough to shave, let alone handle an automatic rifle. During a rather harsh interrogation of the survivors, it transpired that the local youths were lying in ambush for a rival group from the next village and hadn’t expected the soldiers to be passing. The news about this incident, like many others, never made it back to the British public.

Sam shook his head to clear his thoughts. He had paid homage to Danny’s passing on Thursday and he would relive the memory, in another year, just as he did for so many others.

So if he disliked the taste of whisky, why would he get blind drunk with it on a Welsh mountain? He had no memory of the missing eight hours, only a vague recollection of climbing the bleak terrain, using a seldom trodden animal path and then nothing.

This simple walk across the Mineran landscape had thwarted him several times and, in hindsight, in suspicious circumstances. The first time he had tried to traverse the mountain, he had chosen a route parallel to the commonly used Clywedog Trail. As Sam preferred solitude, he plotted a route away from the main track. He didn’t worry when the GPS had failed to find a signal as he hiked higher; he had a map after all. Sam remembered his compass becoming erratic. Again he didn’t worry as it was not uncommon when there were large iron deposits around, and Minera was an old mining area.

Sam remembered his first ascent had become increasingly difficult, more of a climb than a walk. At the time he’d thought the track must have been created by mountain goats. That’s where his memory ended. The next thing he remembered was finding himself sitting down by a stream a mile or so to the east, with his water flask in one hand and a half-eaten chocolate bar in the other. His head felt foggy as if he had the onset of a bad cold. His first fear was that his loss of memory was the onset of post-traumatic stress causing blackouts. He knew that he suffered from mild depression but he’d never suffered from missing periods of time before. More than a few of his old colleagues did, as the horrors of what they had seen and done had overwhelmed them. With hindsight, he now realised that he should have been more suspicious and not doubted his mental state.

The second time was almost a week later, the day after his friend’s wedding, which was the sole reason he was staying in North Wales. It was, in honesty, a dull affair at a run-of-the-mill hotel on the outskirts of the town.

The licensee was unaware that the groom was ex-special forces and that a deluge of current and ex-military would swarm into their premise like a devouring plague of locusts. The buffet had run out early on, and people had to order out for pizza. Sam knew he was prone to small bouts of depression, mainly caused by a lack of purpose in his life, so he drank moderately. Seeing the excessive pace that his old friends and colleagues were setting at the bar, he had instead turned his attentions elsewhere and futilely sought solace with a particular bridesmaid.

A lot of ex-soldiers like Sam preferred solitude but waking up alone in a bed-and-breakfast after a wedding is a depressing place to be. Sam usually liked to be alone with nature, to listen to the call of the wilderness and to be at one with the open sky. Recalling his friends the previous night and his brief flirtatious interactions with the bridesmaid reminded him that even a lone wolf needs to run with the pack occasionally. His former life’s mistress had been a khaki uniform, and he no longer had her. He didn’t have any living family and few civilian friends.

He didn’t realise it at the time, but the light floral scent that he smelt in his room had not been transferred to his clothes by dancing with the bridesmaid. Someone had been in his room.

Upon feeling the walls of his room enclose upon him, he decided that a bit of Welsh scenery and fresh air would perk him up. He was only stopping in Wales for another week. Then it would be time to meet Matt in Manchester, to discuss his offer of becoming an operative in his corporate security firm. Sam wasn’t thrilled with the opportunity. The work could be dangerous and Matt had a large number of important and high profile clients. He also had a plethora of coke-snorting, self-absorbed, philandering bankers that believed having a personal protector raised their image. The thought of chauffeuring these pimple-faced executives around made Sam’s blood boil. Sam hadn’t fought so these asshats could dissolve their noses with drugs. He didn’t think he could protect someone he didn’t respect, no matter how much money he was being paid.

With a maudlin head, Sam had set off once again for Minera Mountain. On that second attempt, he had woken up at the bottom of a rocky ravine, badly bruised, clothes shredded, and he had a deep gash on his head. Berating himself for his clumsiness, Sam could not understand how a twenty-year, surefooted veteran could make such a stupid mistake. Upon returning to his B&B, Sam realised that he could not account for four hours and was concerned once more about blackouts. A hungover medic who had attended the previous night’s wedding festivities had reluctantly agreed to call into Sam’s B&B. After giving him a quick once-over, and telling Sam not to go walking whilst hungover, his diagnosis was that his thick skull was normal except it housed a Homer Simpson sized brain.

Three times he had attempted to climb Minera Mountain and three times he has lost consciousness. Other things had occurred. Most disturbing was that the light floral scent was present in his room on numerous occasions. It wasn’t the landlady’s, and there were no other guests. Someone was entering his room whilst he slept… and he was a light sleeper.

With only a day left before the meeting with Matt Johnson, Sam decided upon one last trip to Minera to beat that damned mountain and confront whoever was behind whatever was going on there.

Sam didn’t like to give in or fail; he always strove to overcome obstacles, and he refused to give into the inexplicable foreboding that his inner voice was expressing. Why would he be worried about a small Welsh mountain? Sam had been in worse mountain ranges. He’d fought in some where every goat herder wielded an ageing Kalashnikov. Perhaps it wasn’t the thought of the mystery. Maybe it was because this was possibly the last free time he’d get before he settled down; the last of his global roaming expeditions. His ‘walkabouts’, as the Australians called them, had been as much about him finding himself as about discovering the now non-war-torn parts of the world that he had fought in as a soldier. Sam felt he needed to revisit some of the towns and villages that he had seen from behind the sights of his SA80. Part of him needed to know that they had recovered, that the people had continued regardless of the atrocities which had befallen them. He needed to see there was good in the world and that he could move on with his life. Twenty years of army life and the experiences therein had left him with a jaded and sad view of humanity.

Sam picked up the bottle of whisky. It was an obscure Scottish single malt called Glendrumlindeen, aged twenty years, and the label declared that it was matured in sherry casks. It was not a brand Sam had heard of before. A quick Google search produced the company’s website. It displayed a small, family-run Highland distillery which wouldn’t have the capacity to sell large amounts wholesale. They did offer an e-commerce section on their website, and the bottle in question was available for a hefty sum of £99.99 excluding postage.

Jesus, I wish I remembered drinking that! Sam thought as he unscrewed the bottle. He swirled the dregs around the bottom and sniffed as the aroma emanated from the bottle’s neck. Dark, moody and a slight hint of burnt wood, I’d say, Sam mused to himself, but I’m no connoisseur.

Sam had called Jon and Brett for a favour. As both men had started life in the IT industry before moving to Matt’s security business, he didn’t think breaking into a website would be much of a challenge for them. Sam waited on news of what they found.

An email finally arrived containing the previous twelve month’s commerce history for the site.

A quick text search for the term ‘Wrexham’ brought up only one entry for the surrounding area. A case of 12 bottles had been delivered to a residence near Minera twelve weeks previously. Nothing conclusive, but it was worth further investigation. Sam typed quickly on the keyboard and brought up a street map with satellite photos of a small hamlet four miles away, just outside the village of Minera. It was a curious mix of domestic and industrial buildings and, from the top-down view, what seemed to be a large courtyard fronted by terraced houses. The whole hamlet backed onto a sheer cliff, almost as if it was built into a large disused quarry. With only one road in, the tarmac strip wandered around what could only be described as a village square. It was certainly large enough for HGVs to drive around as there were two in the satellite photo. There were a lot of rain-filled clouds behind the hamlet. Sam looked at the height printed on the contour lines and guessed that the cliff was probably high enough to cause an orographic lift. Warm air would be forced upwards into the atmosphere by the obstructing cliff face, where it would cool and condense to form clouds. Must be cold and damp there, Sam thought. That hamlet will be over-shadowed for most of the morning.

As Sam walked down the worn and creaky staircase, Mrs Williams, the nosy profiteer of the B&B, popped her head out from behind the lounge door. Going out, Sam? she enquired. You mind the chill now. It looks warm with that spring sun shining, but once you’re in the shade, you’ll feel it, mark my words.

Thank you, Mrs Williams. Sam didn’t know her first name as she always referred to herself and her husband as Mr and Mrs Williams. A newspaper would rustle whenever Mr Williams was mentioned as if to prove his existence. I’ll keep wrapped up. I might be back late; I have the key.

Ok dearie, we’ll see you at breakfast. Mr Williams bought some lovely tomato sausage for tomorrow. Butcher’s best, none of that supermarket rubbish.

See you in the morning, Mrs Williams.

CHAPTER 2

Sam left the B&B, giving the solidly built wooden door a little rattle to make sure it latched. He turned right out of the front garden and strolled off in a north-west direction. Deep in thought, he paced himself as he was in no rush to cover the four or so miles to Minera.

The casual observer would have thought that Sam failed to notice the dirty blue plumber’s van with two occupants parked further along the street. However, since Saturday he’d been more alert and silently observed many curious things. Sam didn’t like being toyed with, and it was only with a significant effort that he refrained from walking towards the van and yanking the passenger out as he passed. As Sherlock would have said, The game is afoot. Sam had no idea what game he was in the middle of, but he would soon.

The occupants of the van didn’t need to be close to recognise Sam as he left the B&B. They had been watching him and his preparations for departure on the small screen disguised as a TomTom satellite navigation unit.

He’s leaving now, the gruff voice of the driver reported into a collar microphone. Charcoal jacket, jeans, black boots and a nondescript black peaked cap. I don’t know if you were watching the video feed, but he’s packing.

Ok, Phon, if he’s coming straight here he should take about an hour. We’ll let you know when he arrives. Give it a couple of hours then pick up his belongings and retrieve the cameras. Inform the landlady that he was in an accident and you are there to collect up his stuff. You know the drill.

Xenophon, or Phon to his friends, watched the live stream footage from the drone camera. It was one of many they had scattered around the exterior of the B&B. The device was as small as Phon could make it using the commonly available parts. He’d designed it to sit in roof gutters with only a tiny lens protruding above the rim. Operational parameters prevented him from using their own high-tech gadgets. The low quality of the commercially available parts made the process a challenge.

Yeah, the passenger, Grull, replied, as he leant over to retrieve a briefcase from behind the passenger seat. Do you want to be Jones or Llywelyn? he asked the driver as he took out two warrant cards along with two faded clip-on ties.

Llywelyn, Phon replied, over-emphasising the Ll with phlegm and managing not to spit all over Grull as he mimicked the Welsh accent. But let’s go for a coffee first. We can’t do anything for a while, and we should swap this for the Astra, he said, tapping the metal of the van with his knuckle.

The unpaved and poorly maintained tarmac road meandered lazily through the countryside as if people would have all the time in the world to get to their destination. It’s certainly not a Roman road, Sam thought to himself as he came upon a section that wasn’t even wide enough for it to have the central white lines. Only the fields had solid boundaries, which consisted of patches of mesh fencing filling in the gaps between sections of hawthorn hedge.

Sam was, despite the reason for this outing, enjoying the fresh air and open space. It was a little before 11 am, and the sun was shining. A variety of birds were singing their mating songs, trying to attract mates now that spring had arrived. For a small country road, the traffic was a lot busier than Sam had anticipated. Heavy diesel fumes from the lorries marred what would have been a most pleasant walk. As he rounded a long right-hand bend, Sam saw the slate roofs and grey stone walls of the buildings he’d seen on the satellite image. As he craned his neck a little to see more clearly over the hedges, he failed to notice that the driver of a white pickup gave him more than the customary casual glance as he drove past towards the hamlet.

Walking around the slow, lazy curve of the road, Sam had a better view of the buildings. Two-storey Victorian terraced houses, olde-English style in dull grey stone, they had pointed gables with intricate carvings on their bargeboards and roof finials. There were five terraced houses on each side of a double-gated entry facing the road. As Sam walked closer, he felt the downdraft and then vacuum pull from a passing lorry as it drove as close to the grass verge as possible to increase the manoeuvring area for the right-hander into the hamlet. Diesel fumes spewed all around the articulated unit as it changed gear, great black clouds billowing from the twin exhausts mounted behind the cab. Sam paused to let it pass, giving him a few seconds more to study the buildings. There were no signs, street names, or company insignia on view. The driver must have been here before to drive so confidently into the gated entrance.

Sam walked across the road towards the hamlet. The large and sturdy iron gates hung from the side walls of the end terrace houses, each having a small wheel to help support their immense weight. The drop bolt holes in the metalled road contained old and crusty detritus, indicating the gates hadn’t been closed recently, although he noted that the stout hinges were well maintained, being rust-free and covered in fresh grease.

Walking between the drab stone sides of the houses, Sam could see the access way open up into the large square he had seen on the internet map. Several lorries were parked up by the communal green. He looked at the drivers sitting in a greasy spoon café with plates of food and overly large mugs of tea. Old-fashioned doorstop sandwiches filled their hands, and their cheeks bulged like hoarding hamsters. Not wishing to stand out, Sam walked across and entered the café. His stomach rumbled as the aroma of freshly-ground coffee and smoky bacon assailed his nostrils. Behind the counter was a plump, elderly lady with the air of a hospital matron. She was taking the plates through to the kitchen that a much younger and pleasant-looking waitress had cleared from the tables. This young waitress was anything but matronly; a brunette, in her mid-twenties, wearing a short, black-sleeved shirt which had the name ‘Pat’ embroidered above the left breast. She wore a dark mini skirt, white pinny, and black hosiery covered her long slender legs. Her dainty feet were enclosed in sensible black shoes with a slight heel, giving her calves a defined shape.

She glanced across at Sam and pulled a small pad from her pinny and made her way towards him.

Hi, what will it be? she asked with a smile.

Black coffee, please. Decaf if you have it.

Sure, hun. The waitress scribbled on her pad. Anything else? Aunt Mae’s Spring Chill Buster Breakfast Sandwich is popular today. Homemade granary bread, three rashers of local smoky bacon, griddled not fried, field mushrooms, baked white pudding, and a griddled flat sausage meat patty. ‘Keep it local and keep it healthy’, Aunt Mae always says, she said with a smile that flashed her pearly white teeth. She delicately nibbled the end of her pen as she waited for him to answer.

Nice up-sell, Sam thought to himself. No wonder the drivers were piling the food away. Realising that he was peckish after his walk, Sam conceded, Ok, you talked me into it.

After scribbling the order, she tore the top slip of paper from her pad to give to Aunt Mae at the counter. As she spun to walk away, a familiar scent of flowers floated across to Sam. It was an unusual fragrance, reminiscent of the light freshness of a summer meadow.

Miss, sorry, I couldn’t help but notice your unusual perfume. It’s unique. Could I enquire what it is?

She looked at him with soft brown eyes. I distil the essence from the petals of a local flower, she said, slightly cocking her head to one side as if studying him. It’s an old family recipe, she continued as she walked away.

Sam unashamedly watched her rear as she retreated, only to be caught by the steely gaze of Aunt Mae. Sam turned his head away and stared through the window. A robin with a bright chest landed on the window sill, making short hops along the glass as if it was trying to find a way in.

Curious, Sam thought, he had smelt the fragrance before, but it didn’t make sense. He’d smelt it on several occasions in his room at the B&B. Mrs Williams only wore Chanel No. 5, as befitted her generation, and she was not one for flowers in the house. That scent was one of the mysteries that had brought him here in a roundabout way. However, why would the scent of a waitress from a greasy spoon be in his room? And how could anyone creep up on him in his sleep?

Gazing past the robin, Sam could see the communal green, a grass square that was approximately fifty metres across with benches scattered around interwoven pathways, all of which led to a large central feature. From this distance, Sam could not make out the details, but it appeared to be a collection of animals. There was a small village shop across the way, with the usual assortment of outside tables displaying crates of vegetables. Houses surrounded the front of the square, small offices in the middle, and to the rear, a large brick warehouse with four sets of double doors and an eave height that would comfortably accommodate a double-decker bus. As Sam studied it, one set of doors opened and the articulated lorry pulled out. The curtain sides were closed, but, judging by the bounce of the vehicle, it was leaving the warehouse empty. Sam cast a glance at the other articulated vehicles parked along the kerb. All of them had the third axle lifted, indicating that they were empty or had very light loads. Parking the rig behind the others, the driver climbed down from the cab and walked towards the café.

Sam’s food arrived with a clatter as the plate and cutlery were slid in front of him.

I see you’ve met George.

Sam looked up at the girl with a puzzled expression.

The robin. She indicated with her hand. It was still standing there on the sill, its head cocked, looking at them and showing a total disregard for the trucks or the driver as he walked towards it. He’s a cheeky little bugger. He’ll come right in if you leave the door open.

As she mentioned the door, the driver walked in, the small brass bell above the door announcing his arrival. He took a seat by the far wall and Sam again unashamedly admired the view as the waitress walked away.

She greeted the newcomer like an old friend. The usual, Tony?

Tony concurred, although his thick Brummie accent made it almost impossible to understand unless you were familiar with Birmingham’s dialect and mannerisms.

Pat didn’t bother with the pad this time; her aunt nodded across from the counter to confirm she’d heard Tony. Sam realised that the waitress was aware that he was watching when she stretched herself further over a table than was necessary to clean the furthest corner. Her short skirt rode up the back of her legs, exposing more of shapely thighs. Aunt Mae’s caustic voice rang out in admonishment. Enough of that, Apate! And you can clear Mark’s plates from table two!

Apate, not a name he was familiar with and not the Patricia he was expecting. Making a mental note to look it up later, Sam again averted his gaze through the window and, for a split second, thought George was giving him an disapproving stare, before merrily hopping away.

He tuned out the chatter and kitchen noises as he studied the buildings outside. One of the occupants of those houses had probably ordered the Glendrumlindeen, an expensive vice for someone who lived in a terrace house in the back end of nowhere. There was no reason to loiter, giving Sam little chance to snoop. Besides the drivers and himself, there were very few people around. There was a handful of warehouse staff milling around between deliveries and a gardener attending the flower beds on the green. The only building of interest was the warehouse which, ironically, when compared to the houses, was a visually unimpressive structure. Something wasn’t right with this place and he couldn’t put his finger on it. It wasn’t unusual to have Victorian industrial buildings with the workers’ dwellings nearby, but they weren’t usually part of the same gated community.

The houses were impeccably maintained, as were the yards and gardens. The shop looked worn and tired, but, besides the faded canopy, it was pristine; the windows were clean and the woodwork showed no sign of rot or neglect. The drivers seemed oblivious to all of this; their banter was about traffic, roadworks, today’s Page Three model and the usual mundane small talk of tired and weary males. The original group had finished their food, paid and left, taking their trucks with them. A continual stream of transporters cycled through the hamlet. Every twenty minutes a new truck would arrive – it was a smooth and well thought-out, logistical process. They would pull in, enter the warehouse via one of three sets of double doors and exit empty from the fourth door. They had all pulled up for at least a forty-five-minute rest. That duration meant that they had quite a drive either before or ahead of them. Sam knew the tachograph recorded the driver’s time, ensuring they stuck to the law regarding rest stops every four and a half hours. Whatever they were hauling, it told Sam it wasn’t local produce.

Sam finished his second coffee and pushed the plate and mug into the centre of the table. He was glad he hadn’t gone for the full-caff now. He didn’t want his hands getting the caffeine shakes later. Rising, he asked Pat if he could have the bill and paid a visit to the gents’. It didn’t surprise him to find that the toilets were spotless and smelt fresh. Mentally he always gauged the kitchen cleanliness by the restrooms. The unmistakable sound of the hand dryer would alert the waitress of his exit. The incredibly cheap bill of £4.25 was on the table upon his return. He tipped the change from a fiver and added another pound. Walking out, he complimented Aunt Mae and Pat on the excellent food.

Walking towards the green, Sam feigned interest in the sculpture, keeping to one of the paths, mindful of the ‘Keep off the Grass’ signs. After a few moments, Sam became aware of the questioning look from the gardener and commented, The sculpture intrigued me. I just had to have a look before I left.

The detail and finesse of the bronze sculpture surprised Sam, as did the size. At eight feet in diameter and almost the same in height, the metal artwork depicted a nature scene with nearly every local insect, plant and animal Sam could think of, from the lowly earthworm at the roots of a small crop of wheat, a ladybird and a bee on a raspberry, to a hawk and an owl perched on opposite sides of an old apple tree. It was, to him, a representative cross-section of UK nature and wildlife; a snapshot of how beautiful the countryside was if you took the time to look.

For a few minutes, he forgot the reason for coming so close to the warehouse as he studied the feature before him. He half expected the mice to scurry away and the blackbirds to eat the dragonflies, such was the quality and craftsmanship.

Breath-taking, isn’t it? I find it a reliable way to gauge the nature of a man. Those that fail to behold its beauty tend to have little or no morality in my experience, the old man said.

It’s certainly finely crafted, replied Sam, turning towards the gardener.

He was a man who had seen a lot of life, a worn and sinewy person, like a piece of rawhide left out in the sun for too long, tired-looking, but there was intelligence there. Sam could see an alertness in his eyes.

We are very proud of it. It symbolises what we believe in around here. Working together, joined with nature, symbiotically, not as a parasite bleeding its host.

That sounds a little cultish, Sam said.

No, not at all. We are just a group of locals who collaborate for mutual benefit, just like any other village or farming community around here. The old man looked up from the flower bed.

Sam recognised the flowers, but not having any personal interest in gardening, he didn’t know their names.

We don’t get many visitors here, only the drivers, and they’re not interested in much. They’re happy enough as long as the coffee is hot and the bacon is thick. Besides that there’s not much to see this far from the main road. I take it you will be heading back soon. I noticed you didn’t arrive in a car. That road can be dangerous for pedestrians. If you want, I can ask one of the drivers if they will give you a lift.

Realising he was not going to get any further with his reconnaissance of the warehouse, Sam decided to withdraw. I’m OK, thanks. I suppose I should head back to town. It was nice speaking with you. The garden is lovely, very calming. Sam turned and slowly walked across the green to the shop.

After a few minutes browsing along each aisle, he picked up a packet of sugar-free gum and a small pack of handy wipes. The shop was unremarkable in the way of product variety, except there was no children’s paraphernalia, no sweets or comics, and it was heavily into fresh produce. It didn’t feel like a village shop, either. It felt familiar, structured, and orderly. Placing his items at the till, he asked the assistant, Do you have any bottles of Glendrumlindeen?

I’m afraid not, sir. Sorry. We do have an exceptional fifteen-year-old single malt at the back. Glendrumlindeen is a lovely smooth whisky, but it’s a little pricey for most of my customers, the elderly cashier replied. That’ll be £3.53 please.

"So you have heard of it?’ Sam enquired as he paid, noting the strong, calloused hands on the old man. Not the typical hands of a shopkeeper, those were from hard labour – and a lifetime of it.

Don’t mind my hands, sir. I grow all the vegetables you see here. We’re very independent around here. Self-sufficient, you might say, he explained as he saw Sam looking at his hands. And yes, I enjoy a tipple or two of Glendrumlindeen now and again. As I said, it’s a smooth malt, as the name suggests, from a glacial valley in Aberdeenshire. He handed the change to Sam, who promptly deposited it into the Save the Rainforest charity tin. Having a pocket full of jingly coins was definitely not desirable at that moment.

With no reason to walk back into the compound, and with the staff near the warehouse staring in Sam’s direction, he made his way back to the road. I need to see in there, he thought to himself, and set off formulating a plan.

CHAPTER 3

Walking back the way he had come along the road, it took Sam ten minutes to come upon one of the few long, straight stretches. Luckily this one had what he required. An articulated lorry had passed him a few minutes before and, thanks to the poor hedging on the tortuous, almost convoluted road, he should be able to see the top of the next truck minutes before it got to his location.

The farmer’s gate was typical of most in the area in that its only form of locking mechanism was a simple drop latch. A handful of sheep were lovingly eyeing up the tall grass that grew between the tractor tracks leading up to the gate. Sam opened the tubular steel gate and let it swing open. Making his way further along the road, he located a gap in the hedge, large enough for him to squeeze through with ease. Acres of three-foot-tall sprout plants spread out in front of him, most of which had been picked clean by the farm labourers at some point during the winter, starting from the bottom of the stems where the sprouts bulked out first and maybe revisiting them after a few weeks to pick the top section. Thanks to his childhood vacations on an aunt’s farm, Sam knew that hand picking was tough on the fingers and damned cold in the winter frost. I hate sprouts, he thought. Bloody foul tasting things!

Having assured himself that there were no farm workers in the field, Sam crouched and waited for the next lorry. Ten minutes later he heard the roar of the engine as it drove around the bend onto the long straight. Three sheep had wandered across the road to graze on the long grass of the verge. Sam heard the vehicle slow down and then crawl towards the sheep. As it passed, he caught a glimpse of an unhappy looking driver as he honked his horn. The sheep took little notice, having heard the trucks roar by all their lives. With a squeal of brakes, the articulated lorry came to a slow stop and the driver begrudgingly exited the cab to shoo the daft animals out of the way.

Sam watched the driver walk around the front of the cab, then stealthily crept from his hiding place to sneak under the trailer. Not having hidden under a lorry before, he was not sure what to expect, but he knew border patrols and customs officials regularly removed would-be immigrants from articulated axles. Thankfully, the weather was dry and so the underside of the trailer was clean. Cramped and perilously balanced on an axle between two bulbous air reservoirs for the braking system, Sam held on to the cross-beams while waiting for his unwitting chauffeur to move off.

He had previously thought that being in the back of the army’s eight-tonne trucks was the world’s worst ride, but now he knew differently. Sam would never have dreamt the journey of a quarter of a mile could be as nerve-wracking as this. He was, of course, bereft of the truck’s suspension. Sam felt every bump, stone, and pothole all the way up to his teeth. The road seemed to zoom along at a hundred miles an hour, even though he knew the lorry was only doing a maximum of forty. Every twist of the road threatened to dismount him from his precarious perch, which would result in him either being run over, squashed between the axle and road or, worse, dragged alive while the tarmac stripped away his flesh. The dust billowed up from the tarmac, threatening to deposit grit into Sam’s scrunched-up eyes. To breathe he had to cover his mouth and nose with the crook of his arm whilst still maintaining a firm hold on the chassis. The thirty-second trip was more of a sphincter-clenching, white-knuckle ride than anything he had experienced in theme parks and, thankfully, the deafening screech from the brakes signalled the end of the nightmare. Below him, he saw the painted tarmac of the warehouse floor and, to his vast relief, it was stationary. The steady vibrations of the idling engine continued to rattle his teeth and make his pectoral muscles jiggle up and down. He smiled to himself as he thought, I’m armed, hanging for dear life under a truck, trying to break into God knows what and I am worrying about jogger’s nipple.

The conscientious driver idled the engine for a couple of minutes, allowing the turbo to cool. Eventually, to Sam’s relief, the jiggling stopped. Silence surrounded him like a blanket of bliss but every muscle screamed out in protest.

The driver exited the cab after a few seconds and Sam saw his legs as he proceeded to uncouple the clasps that held the curtain sides of the trailer in place. Sam heard the whirr of an electric forklift as it drove around the front to park alongside where Sam was still hiding. It was quickly followed by a second. The ratchet catch at the back of the trailer clicked, removing the tension on the trailer's side curtain. The forklift driver lifted the front bar, which then allowed the driver to pull the curtain to the rear. Sam only had a few seconds to make his escape before the driver repeated the process on the near side of the truck.

Silently lowering himself to the ground, Sam quickly scanned for personnel and cameras. He could see three cameras, all of which were pointing toward the entrances. The warehouse was a large, open-plan design. It had four sets of closed double doors, three of which led to a burgundy painted exit. The three entries each had a large painted rectangle designating a loading bay. The 30-foot span between the roadways was separated by low pseudo walls created by various crates and stacks of blue GKN pallets. With few precious seconds left, Sam rolled beneath the under-ride crash bars of the trailer and quickly made his way to a collection of stacked crates.

He heard one of the forklifts as it approached from the rear of the trailer and the clatter of the tines echoed across the cavernous warehouse as it set the pallet down next to his hiding place. A quick flash of red and it was trundling around the cab as the other appeared from the rear. The lorry driver walked around and started unfastening the curtain clasps on this side. As he pulled the curtain side back, Sam had his first glance of the cargo: thirteen blue pallets per side, each containing four nondescript black fifty-five-gallon metal drums. The second forklift drove away as it deposited the fourth pallet. He could see a small label on each barrel, but they were too far away to read. Keeping his head well below the level of the barrels, Sam made his way out from between the crates towards the barrels, crouching down just as a forklift delivered another pallet.

In the dim light, Sam could just about read the labels. Each drum was identical and each newly printed label stated that the contents were Liqualin CC, an industrial cleaning agent suitable for the food industry.

Bollocks, this can’t be right, Sam thought as he crept back to the safety of the crates. He was sure something nefarious must have been happening. None of this made sense. He almost stood up and walked out. What would they say? Hey, you! You shouldn’t be here, get out! He’d risked life and limb under the lorry for nothing and generally made a fool of himself.

He steeled himself as his gut instinct told him that he should look around a little bit more. The artic was quickly and efficiently unloaded. As the driver drove along the exit route, the solid looking exit doors slid open and automatically closed behind him afterwards, returning the interior to a yellowy gloom.

One of the forklifts was moving around the wall furthest from the doors. It picked up and removed an extra-wide stack of crates. The speed at which this was performed suggested that the boxes were not as loose and haphazardly-stacked as their appearance suggested. The removal revealed a grey, metal-framed exit, leading on to a wide rubber conveyor belt. This went up into the darkness at an angle that would take it through the back wall just below the eaves. Three more electric forklifts appeared from behind the rear pallets, each with powerful floodlights mounted on the top of the safety cabs. Sam ducked down, the shadows of his hiding place swaying all around him. He heard a hard clang of metal on metal as the tines jangled on the carriage. Peeking around the crates, Sam could see that the forklifts had specific barrel carrying attachments. The lead truck rotated its drum and carefully deposited it on the metal framework, where it gently rolled towards the open end of the conveyor. With the light from the forklifts, Sam could see the conveyor. It had large lugs which were spaced at regular intervals to prevent the barrels from rolling back as they were quickly moved into the murky shadows above. Within ten minutes 104 barrels disappeared as the forklifts whisked about in a precisely choreographed dance. All the pallets were stacked away. The opening was covered again and the warehouse returned to a yellow crepuscular glow provided by the underpowered, ceiling mounted bulbs.

Now that was unusual, he thought, peering from behind his cover to look up into the darkness.

No sooner had the lights gone out than the double doors opened once again. Sam realised that his little escapade with the sheep had delayed the last lorry and slightly disrupted the warehouse schedule. The process repeated itself, only, this time, there was a few minutes to spare between each delivery.

For the rest of the day Sam watched from the relative safety of the crates. He used the wet wipes to clean away the grime from his under-truck voyage. At approximately four-thirty the last delivery arrived. Upon completion of their task, the workmen called it a day, parked their trucks at the charging stations, and locked up the front doors. They then disappeared through a far door that Sam heard close, but could not see.

Pausing to listen for any stragglers, Sam jogged towards the conveyor. He squeezed past the crates, jumped and continued to jog up the stationary rubber into the darkness. He could feel the air change as he passed through the side of the building into what he could only assume was a cave or tunnel cut into the rock face. His shadows caused by the warehouse’s dim lights danced onto the rubber, obscuring the lugs and making progress dangerous. He paused. There was a faint glow ahead, possibly a hundred feet or so, but not enough to proceed safely. Taking his pocket torch out, he shielded the beam with his hand and clicked through the brightness settings. With the light set on low and wishing he had brought the red filter to preserve his night vision, Sam continued upwards.

Sam progressed higher. He could hear the rhythmic clanks of an automated process and slowly the machinery came into view. The barrels were corralled on to a series of metal holding frames. A robotic arm hung expectantly at the end of the conveyor, grasping the barrels as they nudged its sensors. The drums were then placed on to the racks. Sam did a quick count and calculated that there were nearly a thousand barrels still in the stands. At the end of the colossal framework, a barrel moved out onto a set of rollers that caused it to rotate and spin around like an energetic break-dancer. A pair of nozzles sprayed the drum with a clear liquid. Sam ran the figures through his head. A barrel was sprayed every twenty seconds before being rolled off into the darkness again. There were three lorries per hour, eight hours a day, 104 drums each, meaning nearly two and a half thousand barrels a day.

A mighty strange operation for barrels of a commercial cleaner, Sam muttered to himself.

He lowered himself to an inspection gantry and followed it round towards the spraying apparatus. His access was blocked by a latched gate and a warning sign proclaiming the fumes from the spray to be hazardous if inhaled. He looked across and saw a large extractor funnel, presumably removing the noxious vapours.

Sam saw another gantry butted up against the rock face with large domed wall lights which provided enough light to allow him to stow his torch. The walkway followed the next conveyor down another dimly lit tunnel. The dry walls had machine marks which indicated that it was man-made and not a natural occurrence. There were several steel doors on the side of the shaft, secured but with no visible latch or locking mechanism on this side. Sam came upon a row of twelve lockers. Each one held a garment that he recognised with trepidation. He’d had to wear, train and fight in CBRN suits. These chemical, biological, radiological, and nuclear protective suits, or Hazmats if you were a civilian, were top of the range. Each had a self-contained breathing apparatus to ensure an ample supply of breathable air and had a variety of dosimeters and detection patches on the arms.

Sam took a step back from the locker, looked at a barrel which was trundling past, and then back at the meters on the arms.

Oh shit! he involuntarily cursed, as he checked every locker. Each was a duplicate of the first. He examined the detector patches to check their status. Each was thankfully clear. Upon noticing a portable Geiger counter at the base of the last locker, he turned it on.

There was no audible clicking, just a large display of quantified radiation levels. Each level was stylised with an icon and with an indicative colour signifying the threat level. Thankfully the needle was in the safe zone and Sam replaced the device and closed all of the doors.

All that shit about keeping it fresh and local when they’re dumping toxic waste down the mines! Sam removed his iPhone from his jacket. There was no signal. He typed a detailed message to Matt and attached a couple of photos. If he was unfortunate and something prevented him from escaping, the perpetrators might be stupid enough to move him and his phone to where it could find a signal and send the message.

Sam continued to look along the tunnel and found a few more doors further down. One led to a tiled room, with full-body decontamination showers. Another was a toilet block which he gratefully used, though he dared not flush because of the noise.

The last door before the gantry ended held a frosted mesh window. Fluorescent light shone through from the room behind. Creeping up to it, Sam carefully listened for activity and scanned the door for any alarm sensors. Thankfully there was neither, just an old-fashioned heavily-worn brass doorknob. Carefully opening the door a fraction, Sam saw a corridor leading from left to right. From the crack he had created between the door and jamb, Sam could see the outline of a corner where the passage angled around the toilet block. Opening the door wider, Sam stepped into the frame to allow his left eye to peek the other way. It was clear. There was a double set of fire doors, thirty feet away; the corridor was illuminated via standard fluorescents and there was a fire hose on one wall but no cameras. He stepped through and silently crept towards the fire doors.

Halfway