Trebilcook DAISY SCARLETT

Thriller, Action
1. Auflage 2023
ISBN: 978-3-95835-981-9
Verlag: Icarus Publishing
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 300 Seiten

A woman is pulled from the boot of a car on a Spanish clifftop. She's lost teeth and is a bloody mess. Masked gunmen are hell-bent on killing her. Miraculously surviving a shoot-out and a breakneck car chase, resulting in many deaths, the woman is revealed to be British Secret Intelligence Officer Daisy Scarlett.   Daisy knows her guns as she does her fine wines. In fact, she loves a drink, which is mainly due to her strained relationship with her alcoholic father, her boss - the head of MI6. Her mother is a whistle-blowing conspiracy theorist, so it's of no wonder Daisy is torn between finding out the truth on behalf of the people or pleasing her father and the State.   Bilker Coot Pharmaceuticals is a global healthcare company with their own private military defense team, led by a psychotic ex member of the SAS. In the midst of a seventy billion pound take-over, they need to shake a recent academic review of a failed flu vaccine that cost the UK government a billion pounds.   Teaming with a Chinese Intelligence Agent, Daisy is assigned to track down Bilker Coot's lead virologist who has gone on the run with a disturbing biological weapon, however all is not as it appears to be for female intelligence officer, Daisy Scarlett.   From the writer of 'Old Habits' and 'My name is not Jacob Ramsay', 'Daisy Scarlett' is an international espionage action thriller with universal appeal.

Ben Trebilcook is a screenwriter and producer. The son of a District Nurse and a long-serving City of London Police officer, commended for bravery and awarded the Freedom of the City of London, Trebilcook grew up around those who worked in law enforcement and espionage around the globe. Born in 1975, in Royal Greenwich, Trebilcook knew from a very young age he wanted to work in the film industry. First seeking a special effects career, he soon decided against it, after awkwardly entangling a model's beautiful long hair in a ceiling-suspended vacuum cleaner during a shampoo commercial. Trebilcook, whose elder brothers followed their father into a police profession, found writing was less hazardous. He did, however, idolise his father, who had been machine-gunned by armed robbers, stabbed and even blown up by the IRA. When the Bruce Willis movie 'Die Hard' was released in 1988, he thought it could actually be based on his own reluctant-hero dad. He focused on the action genre, with his ultimate goal to write a 'Die Hard' movie for Bruce Willis. Having begun a career in producing and writing for the screen, penning a previous draft of 'Mission: Impossible 3' and an acclaimed 'Die Hard 6' spec, (Old Habits Die Hard), Trebilcook was sought by a friend to work to work within the education service, managing the behaviour of permanently excluded teens, deemed the most challenging in South London. Most were gang-members and refugees from war-torn countries. He based his first novel, ' My name is not Jacob Ramsay', on his early experiences working in a pupil referral unit. Having free-lanced for national newspapers and film magazines and had a column for various movie websites, Trebilcook had several near-miss screenwriting success goals. Global attention, however, arrived recently when he penned a speculative screenplay entitled 'Old Habits Die Hard', a potential sixth and final 'Die Hard' story, with Willis' character, John McClane. The story centred on McClane being invited to Tokyo by the Nakatomi Corporation to be commended for bravery in saving 36 lives from the original movie. The story was based on his original script 'Big in Japan' and his novel 'Old Habits'. He developed a 'Die Hard' prequel TV show with Fox's FX Channel in 2007, based on the early life of John McClane as a rookie NYPD cop. Trebilcook is represented by WME / IMG China, working on two action thrillers and a Hong Kong set show for a major streaming service. In London, he heads the judging panel for the Rob Knox Film Festival, attempting to make people more aware of knife-crime and encouraging the creativity of young people. Ben lives in Essex, on the coast, with his partner Jenni and son Finn. Ben Trebilcook can be followed on Twitter by the handle @BenTrebilcook

Autoren/Hrsg.

Trebilcook, Ben

Leseproben

Chapter I

GEOSYNCHRONOUS EQUATORIAL ORBIT

It was four hundred miles into outer space. A United States spy satellite, not too dissimilar to the Lacrosse spy satellite, drifted into a new position. Metal glistened like a new Ferrari. The sky-high night watcher weighed fifteen tons and was as big as a school bus.

Whoever controlled the radar imaging spy satellite for Vega Four enabled it to cover Europe. It twisted further and closed in on Spain.

The southern region of Andalusia was mapped and then enhanced to focus on the port city of Malaga.

Information on the controller’s screen began to scroll before their eyes.

Spain. Data Code: SP. Capital: Madrid. Nationality: Spaniard(s) / Spanish, Mediterranean and Nordic types. Population 46.77 million people.

The controller’s role in that was done.

A Dodge van was parked on dusty, desert ground upon a cliff top. Several feet from it was a dirt bike, propped up like a still life.

The trunk of a Seat Exeo popped open, blocking the sunlight like an eclipse and the tanned hands of a man reached inside.

He grabbed the woman, roughly and without any care, pulling her out and throwing her to the ground with tremendous force.

The ground was disturbed by the sudden thump as the woman landed awkwardly on the sand.

Dust and sand rose up around her body like a golden yellow cloud. For a moment there was peace. The amber particles glistened as they caught the sun. Like Champagne bubbles, racing to the surface to catch a breath.

She gasped.

The man suddenly sent a heavy booted kick to the woman’s face.

A gob of bloody gunk escaped her mouth, accompanied by a tooth. There was black duct tape across her eyes and blood trickled from her lower lip and nostrils, leaving droplets on her cream-colored linen pants and jacket, underneath revealed a Blondie t-shirt.

The grubby boot delivered another swift kick. It was to the woman’s gut that time.

The man wore a black ski mask, gripped a Colt forty-five and threw the car keys to a shadowed figure as he towered above her. His pale blue eyes stared down at her briefly. One of them appeared to sparkle and catch the light more than the other. He tossed a brown leather dog lead that had tiny silver bones attached to it, to the ground beside her. He stuck his pistol into his belt.

She moved her palm across the stony ground a few inches to reach for the lead, but he trod on the back of her hand, pressing it hard into the dirt. She was in absolute pain and gritted her bloodied teeth.

“Usted comete el asesinato y la culpa una vez más. Otra operación negro. Una bandera falsa. Para qué? Aceite. Su dinero. Su único gobierno mundial.” said the masked man in Spanish.

The glue of the duct tape fixed firm to the thin skin of the woman’s eyelids and didn’t let up. She rolled her eyeballs round in their sockets and tried ignore the physical punishment for a just a fraction of a second in order to focus on a translation. She had it.

“You commit murder and guilt again. Another black operation. A false flag. For what? Oil. Your money. A one-world government.”

“No. No es la razón,” she replied, telling him that wasn’t the reason.

He kicked her hard, making contact with her chest. He started to wrap the dog lead around her neck, choking her. The man clasped her face and pressed it into the stony ground.

She was in tremendous pain. Blood seeped from her mouth and mixed with the sand.

THUMP!

A sledgehammer slammed atop a weathered wooden post, firmly inserting it into the ground.

THUMP! The sound was disturbing. It reminded her of death and more precisely, the fatal blow of a guillotine, dropping down over the neck of a French Revolutionary, with their head pounding into a wicker basket.

The basket was lined with oilcloth, sometimes known to be enameled cloth. It was tightly woven linen, boiled with a coating of linseed oil to make the cloth waterproof, so the blood from the severed head wouldn’t leak.

She knew her history, especially capital punishment. She had a particular morbid fascination with it. “Did you know that the Nazis executed thousands of people using the guillotine?” she would say. She adored facts. She felt a slight twinge on her right knee and really wanted to itch it. It was a scar she received when she was eight years old and in during stressful times, the more stressful times, the scar usually itched.

The masked man with the forty-five wedged in his belt tied her hands with rope. He shoved her head back hard against the wood.

“Akats handi bat egiten ari zara.” she decided to speak Basque, telling the man he had made a big mistake.

“You have no business being here and you have no business speaking my language.” he spat at her face.

The woman cringed with disgust and rubbed her right cheek on the wooden post, ridding the spit, which smeared across her skin, with some entering the side of her mouth. Just as she pondered whether his DNA could give her tuberculosis or hepatitis, she received a jab to the face, sending her head cracking back against the post. She knew it wasn’t the hardest punch he could deliver. She’d hit her head harder on a low celing in a flat she once had in Brixton, south-west London. Her hands became numb and as she wriggled her fingers to gain some feeling and get the blood circulating, she felt the wood against her skin.

The wood was splintered.

She clawed at the fractured timber, feeling the sun shine down onto her face. She breathed in. The woman’s dark hair dangled over her face. Her bruises were becoming more prominant through her Maybelline made-up face. She was mid-twenties going on eighties. Her name was Daisy Scarlett, an English rose, with plenty of thorns. Daisy tilted her head and heard clumps and shuffles upon the sand nearby. Footsteps. It pained her to do so, but she contorted her face, eyes and jaw to loosen the tape covering her eyes a little, enabling her to capture a glimpse of a shadow. Craning her neck, she listened further. Daisy heard three men and the sound of an HK MP5K machine gun being cocked. She knew hewr guns like she knew her fine wines. She coughed. “Do I get a last request.” Daisy was well-spoken. Her hand bled due to clasping at the splintered wooden post behind.

The rope binds were frayed, too.

Another masked man stepped closer to her. “Sí, what is your last request?”

“I suppose a gun is out of the question?” she quipped.

“Sí.”

“C’est la vie. I mean, así es la vida. Oh, whatever.” Daisy replied. Her expression changed in an instant as she gritted her teeth and suddenly brought forth a six-inch piece of splintered wood and stabbed it into the man’s neck and in one swift motion she took his gun.

A jet of blood spurted from the man’s neck as his jugular was punctured, causing an air embolism.

He collapsed after two breaths.

Daisy used him briefly as a human shield as two other masked men raised their pistols and opened fire on her, riddling the stabbed man with bullets and tearing up his chest and the post. She listened, turned and fired, taking one of the men down. Daisy twisted out of her rope binds and ripped back the tape that covered her eyes. She winced with pain and took in her surrounds. Dropping the blood-soaked man to the ground in heap, she retrieved the car keys from his pocket and sprinted across the sand to the Seat car.

One of the masked men let loose his MP5, tearing up the ground around Daisy’s feet.

Pop, pop, pop, pop. It was like firecrackers sounding out.

Daisy grabbed the dog lead from the ground, spun around and returned fire.

BANG! One of Daisy’s bullets entered the man’s shoulder and exited his wrist.

BANG! The next projectile pierced his chest, puncturing his left lung, spinning him round and down to the ground killing him.

Daisy brought the Seat Exeo S to life and shifted gears like RoboCop.

One of the masked me leapt behind the wheel of the Dodge van, the first man, with pale blue eyes, rode shotgun, clambering in on the passenger seat.

He turned to see two other masked gunmen get onto the dirt bike.

The cliff-top road was a meandering one. The scenery was spectacular.

Daisy drove the Seat at high-speed. She glanced up into the rearview mirror to the Dodge van pursuing her. She concentrated on the road ahead whilst grabbing a bottle of Evian. She swigged the water, swirling it around inside her mouth and spat a bloody mouthful to the passenger seat floor. Daisy then poured the remaining water over her face, wiping the blood and dirt away with the sleeve of her jacket. With one hand firmly on the wheel, she ached as she reached round to the backseat, fumbling. Her hand grasped something tubular and bulky.

It was like an XTI Procyon strobe light, but a whole lot more powerful.

Daisy looked ahead, gripping the wheel with her left hand and the light with her right, aiming it back at the rear windshield at the tailing van.

Further ahead the dirt bike sped from the opposite direction.

The Dodge van driver shifted gears, gripping the wheel tight as he steered then the vehicle round the twisting rocky road.

The blue-eyed passenger cocked a 9mm. He stared at the back of the Seat when a sudden, intense blinding light ejected out from the Seat’s back window. He raised his hand, covering one eye, clicking the seatbelt in...