Fallen Dynasties Read online

  FALLEN DYNASTIES

  by

  Nick James

  Copyright © Nicholas Plumridge 2019

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved in all media. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the author and/or publisher. You must not circulate this book in any format. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  For permission requests, please contact: [email protected]

  Find out more about the author and upcoming books online at nickjamesauthor.co.uk

  Nick James on Facebook or via Twitter @NickJam50890645

  Produced in United Kingdom

  Editorial services by www.bookeditingservices.co.uk

  (Any further changes before publication are beyond the editor’s control.)

  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 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Epilogue

  Also by Author

  The Misplaced Man

  Chasing the Dragon

  Dedication

  I wish to thank all my friends and family, without whom these books would have just stayed as an idea, so you can blame them. Also, the complete Malthouse family who helped in their own little way.

  And, as ever, my muse and rock, my darling wife Sarah, thank you for your patience.

  Chapter 1

  The radio blasted out its tunes, it was just in the background, but if that dick DJ ever said ‘Good Morning Vietnam’ again, I will find a way to go back in time and kick his dad in his goose eggs.

  I looked around the base. No trees, only dust and bare earth. The place was covered with bunkers cut into the dirt on top of the hill, which was named Firebase Ripcord in the A Shau Valley. The ‘Screaming Eagles’ of the 101st Airborne Division were sent in to rebuild the base. And that’s when the shit hit the fan. The North Vietnamese Army (NVA) started to pound us with mortars, sending death and debris into the air.

  Myself and my buddy Tyrone Wayward were assigned a machine gun bunker on the east side of the base. Being July, it was balls hot. Didn’t help that the bloody Huey’s (military helicopter) were blowing dust into our faces as they brought in replacements for the poor bastards who had been slid into their body bags for a long nap.

  ‘I don’t like this, Sammy, they’ve been shelling us for days now,’ Tyrone said, a tall twenty-year-old kid from the streets of South Carolina. ‘Those gooks are trying to kill my black ass.’

  I barked out a laugh. ‘What about my ass, don’t they want it?’

  Tyrone gave me a wink. ‘Your lily-white ass is all mine, pretty boy.’ He chuckled and blew a kiss and then resumed looking back down the hill at our zone of fire.

  ‘I dunno, buddy. I think I’d prefer the gooks to have it, they may do less damage to my perfect ass,’ I explained to him as he smirked. It was just banter between us; it helped relieve the tension as we’d had word the NVA were gathering in the treeline ready to attack. Even though we’d been having jets laying down napalm for days now, I hated that smell.

  Just then, Sergeant Mickey McAllister came into our stifling and shadow-filled bunker. ‘Hey, you pansy, report!’ he barked, then took a swig of whisky. In all my nine months in this country, I had never seen that man walk and talk straight.

  Tyrone didn’t bother to even acknowledge the drunk.

  ‘All quiet, Sarge. I would’ve thought they’ve run out of mortars by now,’ I said, giving him a dark chuckle and watching him slide down the wall.

  ‘Intelligence, though, that’s a loose term for those motherfuckers,’ the sarge slurred before taking a swig from his bottle. ‘They say that they’re going to hit us tonight!’

  I pushed back my helmet and raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘They been using their crystal ball again?’

  ‘Not this time, Corporal Blades, A Company caught some Zips last night moving our mines on the perimeter,’ Mickey explained, but he held back the fact that they had detailed drawings of the minefields and bunkers. Why worry them more? ‘So, just watch the zones and keep the fuckers in the wire and use the claymores to tear them up, before unleashing hell up the little shits.’

  Tyrone sucked on his teeth. ‘Sounds easy when you say it like that, Sarge, but you know there isn’t enough of us.’

  ‘Stop your whining. We have fire support (he lied; they got hit last night), and we have a special forces unit close by (who haven’t been heard from in twenty-four hours), so keep calm and do your jobs.’ The drunk sarge then dragged himself out of the bunker, leaving a puddle of piss behind him.

  ‘Well, fuck, that doesn’t bode well for us, buddy. Never seen him sprint a like that,’ I said to Ty as I saw the said man run straight into a foxhole, making the occupants a little bit pissed off and damp.

  He rolled his eyes, which shined in the retreating sunlight. ‘Same shit, different day, man,’ Tyrone mumbled. ‘C’mon, get ready, I have a feeling we’re going to be popular tonight.’

  I spent the rest of mine getting the 7.62 ammo belts all ready for Ty, and making sure my M16 was loaded and all my pouches were full with filled magazines. ‘Right, we are fucking good to go. Claymore triggers are there along with some grenades I nicked from B Company.’ I pointed to the shelf between us and handed him a popular soft drink that, once again, I had liberated from the officers’ hooch (wooden hut serving as a shelter).

  We finally settled into silence as the last signs of sunlight disappeared. Both of us, I guessed, whispered a final prayer hoping we would be able to feel the warmth of its life-giving rays again.

  Twenty minutes later, we heard the familiar sounds of mortars being fired from the treeline. ‘Ty, down!’ I shouted, grabbing hold of my buddy.

  He smiled at me as we heard the explosions in the interior of the camp. ‘If you wanted to cuddle, buddy, all you had to do was ask!’ he shouted with wide eyes.

  It was then we heard our landmines starting to explode; flashes of light and screams of the scared and injured rebounded through our bunker.

  We both shot up as we saw bodies the other side of razor wire perimeter. ‘Right, lock and load!’ I shouted as we got ready to deliver death. I searched the night even though there was rapid fire from other bunkers around the base. Ours was once again quiet. But then Ty’s M60 lit up the night with tracer rounds.

  When that happened, we started to receive incoming fire.

  ‘Take this, fuckers!’ I double-clicked the claymore mines trigger, sending thousands of ball bearings tearing into their soft flesh.

  Between Ty and I, we filled plenty of graves that night. Bullets had impacted the sandbags around us, but, so far, we had been lucky. I could see Hicks and Dreyfuss’s bunker burning after being hit by a Russian-made RPG, then it was our turn. I heard the who
osh and the smoke as a rocket flew our way.

  ‘Down!’ I shouted and pulled my brother from another mother undercover as the rocket impacted, sending splinters and stones into our flesh. It had sheared off our log roof. Both of us were bleeding from multiple cuts – tetanus, here we come.

  With our ears either bleeding or ringing, we stood up in the face of chaos. The Vietcong had breached the wire. Ty unleashed rounds of death as I threw grenades into their midst, sending some to hell, the others to a world of pain.

  I picked up my M16 and sent round after round downrange. They were dropping like pins at a bowling tournament. We even managed to smile at each other with abandoned glee. That was when we were bathed in light, drowned in sound and riddled with pain.

  As my eyes fluttered, I found myself in the furthest corner of the bunker. I guessed it was the piss puddle I was sat in. My body was broken, but I was alive.

  The world stilled as Tyrone Wayward’s eyes looked directly at me. There was still a hint of a smile on his lips, but his eyes showed nothing but pain.

  My heart broke as my eyes scanned the darkness, but I couldn’t see his body anywhere, his decapitated head just stared at me. I started to sob. ‘TYRONE, NOOOO!’ I screamed into the bleak night. That’s when a shadow settled over me. Thanks to the fires, I could see a small outline holding a weapon.

  I don’t know who it was. All I could see was a flash of light as bullets were propelled from the barrel of the Russian-made AK-47 and into my chest, sending me back to my maker.

  I shot up. ‘Tyrone, noooooooo!’ I looked around to see what looked like banks of machines and an off-white painted room. I focused on the machines. Shouldn’t one of them go bing?

  ‘Who the fuck is Tyrone?’ asked Bunny, who was sitting by my bed with a confused look on her beautiful face.

  ‘Eh?’ I retorted in my typical witty manner, although totally confused where I was and possibly who I was for a moment. But I knew one thing for sure: I wasn’t wearing any pants.

  Bing.

  I lay back. ‘Ah…life is good.’

  Chapter 2

  Bunny Li

  Hospital, near Canary Wharf

  For this Hong Kong expat it had been a hellish few days. My Sam had been shot by a so-called assassin, who had either been aiming for the owner of the company, a man called Sanderson, who seemed to play behind the scenes in business and politics according to the press, or the newly disgraced Albert Kettering. His role had been overseeing the exterior security department for Shimmering Dreams.

  However, in the aftermath of the shooting, links to a Chinese mafia syndicate were found on his work computer. Along with images of him and an unknown schoolgirl in compromising positions.

  ‘Prick,’ I muttered as I read about the man, and how his wife, Dawn, and son had gone into hiding abroad. This was the man investigating us. Ridiculous.

  I looked up at my poor Sam. He had been unconscious for the best part of three days. When he did come round, he just mumbled nonsense, which I suppose I was used to. Bethany and Sharon popped around earlier. As much as I like those girls, the connection between Beth and Sam has been worrying me, although Sharon told me there was no need because her friend just got on better with blokes.

  They explained that one of Sanderson’s bodyguards had been injured with the first shot, and his body had saved his boss as he knocked Sanderson to the ground. McAllister received a bullet in his shoulder and was here in the same hospital, just down the hall. I would go and see him once Sam was awake.

  My poor Sam received a bullet to the shoulder and chest. Luckily, everything major was missed; clearly meeting me hadn’t taken all the luck he had.

  The only fatality was Kettering himself, who was shown on CCTV footage to be struggling with Sam and McAllister when the firing started. After being shown the footage myself, I was questioned by the police about my history with the dead man and why I was there at the same time as the shooting. But luckily my firm sent a lawyer in, who told them in legal jargon to fuck off.

  So, out of the whole event at Shimmering Dreams, I came away with only some cuts to my scalp from the shattering window. I was dragged off by a nurse who, in her infinite wisdom, thought she would attempt to shave my head to ease the stitching process. She was wrong. I did have to apologise to her after some rather choice words, but that allowed me to give back the clump of hair I took from her head. And that is why little Miss Razor has been moved down to A & E, until it’s time for my Sammy to leave.

  ‘Tyrone!’ Sam screamed.

  I threw the paper to the ground and ran towards him. When we arrived, the doctors had taken him off most of the machines, but not the one that went bing. Damn you, Sam, and your Monty Python films. They hoped he would awaken soon enough. His eyes were panicked as they took in the off-white room. But as soon as they rested on me, my love calmed.

  I looked deeply into his eyes and smiled. ‘Who the fuck is Tyrone?’

  ‘Errrrrr… Hello, love. Have you nicked my pants again?’ he asked with mirth in his eyes.

  I fought my reaction. Normally I would just slap or punch him, but, then again, he is poorly. I stroked his hair in an act of kindness. He flinched. Now, that brought a smile to my lips. ‘What do you remember, my love?’ I asked, in tones that I’d heard on TV dramas.

  He frowned and lay his head back onto the pillow, which had most probably seen many departing souls in its lifetime. I swear I blame Sam for all these thoughts.

  ‘It’s a little fuzzier than normal,’ he said, rubbing his eyes. ‘I know I was pissed off at Kettering. So McAllister was going to take me for an early morning pint, but that’s it.’ He looked around the room and smiled when the machine went bing.

  ‘Well, it seems that that dick Kettering was working for the Chinese mob – and they chose to either get rid of him or the shady owner of the company,’ I explained. He frowned again. ‘You know, Sam, the bloke who had an office upstairs with the no-neck boyfriends – your words, not mine.’

  Sam looked down at his gown and saw the dressings. ‘You are telling me that I’ve been fucking shot?’

  ‘Yep!’ I answered, making the ‘p’ pop.

  I could see the anger build in him, so I tried to comfort him again, which if we’re both honest isn’t my forte.

  ‘So, the fucker who has been on our case all this time turns out to be the turncoat, he was supposed to be chasing? You wait till I see the twat,’ he growled.

  ‘Too late, he’s dead.’

  Sam’s eyes shot open again. Bing. ‘Well, I didn’t do it… Did I?’

  Now, that made me laugh, which wasn’t wanted in the hospital. ‘No, the sniper killed him, and also hit you, your boss and one of the no-necks.’ I could see him sorting through this information in his mind, which didn’t bode well for anyone.

  He closed his eyes and sighed. ‘Is there a nurse about?’

  ‘Why, are you in pain, Sammy?’

  ‘Nah, I fancy a sponge bath… Owwww!’

  ‘Prick!’ I snapped and walked off to get a coffee, and as I did a smile appeared on my face. My Sammy was back.

  ‘One with big bangers!’ he shouted.

  A little part of me died. The man I loved had been held at gunpoint and now shot. Most people would at least change a little after that. But has he? Nope. Not at all.

  ‘Bunny, did you hear me? Can I have a drink too, and Monster Munch?’ his voice echoed around the land of the sick.

  ‘I’m gonna kill him,’ I muttered as I continued my journey down the corridor. It was then a top-heavy red-haired nurse left a room and was making her way to where I had just come from. I stopped her with a smile, which does happen sometimes. ‘Hello, just a word of warning, Sam Blades is awake, so you may want to give him a wide berth.’

  The nurse gave me a strange look, like I’ve never had one of those before. ‘Thank you, but I’m pretty sure I can handle him. He’ll be as weak as a kitten for a few days yet,’ she said with a condescending smile.

 
For once I didn’t bite. I just held up both hands and walked away to get my lovely man something nice to eat. I could hear her shoes echoing on the floor…then it happened.

  ‘WOOHOOOOOO! Thank you, Jesus! Where’s the sponge?’

  Well, I did warn her. I continued towards the shop as Sam was offering to lend her his flannel.

  Chapter 3

  Tony (Tiger) Thompson

  The fallout from the shooting at Canary Wharf was big, once I and Three Chins were sent for by internal affairs about the missing rifles from the drug bust. But as ever we left them angry and disappointed. Like they had any evidence. They didn’t even know the exact model of the gun that was used, so once again they went after innocent old me.

  I managed to get to my mate Peanut who was in good spirits, albeit chemically induced; I hadn’t the heart to tell him yet that it was his girlfriend, cough cough, who was the shooter.

  My bird, Suzie Q, was still a little concerned as it was her who ballsed up the weapon delivery. She did it for all the right reasons. But as soon as Suzie told Mai about our guns, our fates were entwined. And if they were going to clean the house, my goose and her sweet little ass were cooked. The upside was that we got to play teacher and pupil again. This time I had the cane, and the plus point trousers, too, for a time.

  I was sat in my office (café) making a triple fried egg sandwich with bacon and black pudding from the full breakfast I’d ordered. I’m sorry, body and toilet, but I need subsistence to survive this cruel world. Just as I was about to bite into my butty built with love, my burner phone rang. It showed an international number. ‘’Ello, pizza delivery.’

  ‘You pissed again, Tiger?’ came a voice that I recognised.

  I looked around the dirty, unwashed café; nobody was listening in. ‘Mai, is that you?’

  ‘Yes, I’m in a safe house in Hong Kong. I have guards on me now, they’re discussing the problem,’ replied Mai.