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  The Story

  Two rogue agents.

  A brilliant assassin.

  Her Majesty, the Kremlin, and the People’s Republic ready to war.

  Can Justin stop the Covert Assassin?

  CIS deadliest spy, Justin Hall, is sent to find a rogue British operative suspected of treason. The mission escalates when Justin discovers a brilliant assassination plot against Russia’s president, which forces him to ally with Chinese foreign security tracking their own missing agent.

  Justin and his dubious Chinese partner uncover a chilling connection between the two wanted operatives. Now with no time to look back, and lives at stake, Justin is in a relentless race across the globe to stop Her Majesty, the Kremlin, and the People’s Republic from an all-out war.

  COVERT ASSASSIN

  BOOK THIRTEEN IN THE JUSTIN HALL SERIES

  ETHAN JONES

  To God and my family.

  Thank you for your wonderful love.

  Table of Contents

  Front Page

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Epilogue

  Bonus - Target Acquired Chapter One

  Bonus - Target Acquired Chapter Two

  Bonus - Target Acquired Chapter Three

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Corner of Trinity and St. Andrews Streets

  Dublin, Ireland

  Justin Hall’s Sig Sauer P320 9mm pistol glinted in the faint streetlight as he pointed the gun at the asset. “Hands up,” Justin said.

  “Everything’s all right, boy’o,” the asset said in his thick Irish accent. His hands remained deep in the pockets of his black jacket, and his breath came out as a cloud of vapor in the chill air.

  “You know the drill.”

  “You don’t trust me, mate?”

  “This is what I got for trusting an asset back in Damascus.” Justin held up his left hand, showing the young man a long scar running along the palm of the hand.

  “This isn’t Syria, and I’m a friend.”

  Justin shrugged. “This will only take a moment.”

  The asset shook his head. “Go on, then.”

  He placed his hands against the glass window of the Number 1 Newsagent, the small convenience store at the corner of Trinity and St. Andrews Streets. Justin gave the young man a quick pat-down. Finding nothing, Justin returned the pistol to his waistband holster, then zipped his wool brown jacket. “We’re good.”

  “Great, now we can talk, yes?”

  “We can.”

  The young man’s unshaven face still held a displeased look. But he shrugged, then looked around. A small group of perhaps four or five men were loitering near the imposing St. Andrews Church across from them. Two more were smoking in front of the Trocadero Grill to the left. Even at this late hour of the night, close to midnight, the area was full of life. “I have some information.”

  “About the SAS operative?”

  “No, I’m still working on that, but it will be harder than I first thought.”

  “That’s why I came to you.”

  The British Special Air Service had reached out to the Canadian Intelligence Service—where Justin Hall worked as a special covert operative—for assistance in finding a missing SAS operative. The man had disappeared during an operation in eastern Syria. Before heading to the Middle East, Justin and his partner, Carrie O’Connor, had gone to the United Kingdom, and now they were in Ireland, following the information trail about the operative’s strange disappearance.

  “I’m flattered.” The young man grinned.

  “What do you have?”

  “Something worth your while. It’s about a foreign top official’s visit to London.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t have the name yet.”

  “When?”

  The young man hesitated for a second, then shook his head. “That’s unclear too.”

  Justin sighed. “How is this worth my time?”

  “Wait. This came from a trusted source, someone in MI5.”

  “MI5? How do you know them?”

  “I still have some connections. From the old IRA days. The IRA
is transformed, but not dead, and MI5 remains interested in knowing what’s taking place.”

  Justin nodded. He was quite familiar with the never-ending conflict between the Irish Republican Army, or IRA, and the British authorities. While the IRA formally had reached agreements with the British government to cease violence and disarm, several splinter groups had rejected the peace accords, had denounced the Irish signatories as “traitors,” and had vowed to continue the terrorist attacks. MI5 was the domestic security intelligence agency of the United Kingdom, tasked with keeping the country safe and protecting people from danger. “So, your connection, what did he tell you?”

  “Something big is about to happen during the high-level visit of this official.”

  “Whose name you don’t know.”

  “Right. But I know the Chinese are involved.”

  “The Chinese?”

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Justin drew in a deep breath. “You’re not giving me much here. Some official visiting London at some point in time, and some Chinese involved in this mysterious plot.”

  The young man shrugged. “That’s all I’ve got so far. But it’s a good start.”

  “Some start. You’ll have to get me specifics, details. Something I can work with. Names and dates.”

  “It’s not that easy.”

  “And it’s not easy keeping your secret either.”

  The young man sighed. “Tell me about it. Now that the new IRA groups are getting stronger, they’re choking any dissenting voices, including former members like myself. This is at gang level at the moment, but it’s bound to erupt sooner or later.”

  “Right, so we have to keep your secret safe from the people who want your head. When can you get me details?”

  The asset did not reply right away.

  The sound of a car engine thundering through Trinity Street came from behind them. The asset peered over Justin’s shoulder, then his face froze. “We’ve got to run.” He started to cross the street at a hurried pace.

  “Wait. Why?” Justin caught up to the asset.

  “That BMW was following me. I thought I lost them.”

  “This way.” Justin pointed to the right.

  The asset shook his head. “No, left will be easier to escape.”

  “Not on foot. Carrie has a car.”

  “She’s here?”

  “Yes, at the end of the—”

  A gunshot cut off his words.

  The bullet slammed into the asset’s chest and came out through his back. Blood gushed from the exit wound as the young man was thrown backwards. Justin tried to grab him and stop his fall, but the man’s legs failed him. He slid to the sidewalk, where blood began to pool around his chest. His pale eyes told Justin that life had left the young man.

  Justin pulled out his pistol and looked up, toward the church. The group of men had scattered, but for one who had a submachine gun pointed at Justin. Before he could aim his Sig, the man fired a quick burst. Bullets pinged against the sidewalk a couple of feet away from Justin. One or two rounds struck the young man’s body. Justin crawled away, seeking cover behind a large decorative flowerpot to his left.

  He had just fallen next to the cover when another barrage almost blew his head off. This one came from the BMW. The front passenger had slid half his body through the window and was squeezing off round after round from a submachine gun.

  Justin double-tapped his pistol. His rounds missed the target, but struck the windshield. The gunman paused for a moment. Justin fired again—another two-round burst that hit the man in the chest and in the head.

  The BMW driver threw the car into reverse and slammed on the gas.

  A few more rounds hammered the other side of the pot.

  Justin flipped onto his stomach. A screech of tires came from behind him. A white Vauxhall came to an abrupt stop, then Carrie threw open the front passenger door and shouted, “Jump in.”

  A couple of bullets pounded the Vauxhall’s windshield.

  Carrie said, “I just washed the car.”

  Justin leaped to his feet and fired at the last place he had seen the gunman.

  He had moved further to the left, closer to the middle of the street.

  Justin fired a quick burst that cut through the gunman’s chest. He toppled to the ground and did not move.

  “Get in, quick,” Carrie said.

  Justin glanced down St. Andrews Street, but noticed no other gunmen. Maybe they’ve positioned themselves for a second ambush. He studied Trinity Street. The BMW was no longer visible. Justin shrugged and slipped inside the Vauxhall.

  Carrie yanked at the steering wheel, struggling to turn the car around without hitting the black metal posts serving as barriers outside the Trocadero and the Thai eatery across from it. She had just completed the tight turn when police sirens cut through the night. “Gardai,” he said, referring to members of the Garda Síochána, the Irish police. The words meant “the Guardian of the Peace.” “Good timing.”

  “And good times. Never a dull night in Dublin.”

  Justin shrugged. “The past caught up to him.”

  “Did he give you anything before he was gunned down?”

  “Not much. Something about a potential attack on a visiting dignitary to London, and that the Chinese are somehow involved.”

  “That’s pretty vague.”

  “Yes, even ‘attack’ is only my guess. The asset said to expect something big during the visit.”

  Carrie nodded. “An attack is a good guess. Possibly kidnapping, although that’s more difficult to pull off.”

  “Depends on who the terrorists are.”

  “Maybe we’ll know more from our friends in Six.”

  Justin nodded. They had already met with Doug Elliott, the Assistant Deputy Director of Counter Terrorism in MI6, the British foreign intelligence service. Although Justin and Carrie worked mostly on field operations, they were routinely tasked with liaising with security services counterparts. The extensive discussions with Elliott so far had led nowhere, in part because of his reluctance, and in part because of the lack of actionable intelligence. “The new intel might prompt cooperation,” Justin said in an uncertain voice.

  “Coupled with this IRA-related attack, I think Elliott and his team will be convinced that it’s better if we work together.”

  “You have a lot of faith in people acting logically.”

  Carrie shrugged. “Nothing wrong with hoping.”

  “Agreed. Let’s talk to Elliott and see where that takes us.”

  Carrie turned left on Coppinger Row, then right on Clarendon Street as they headed south. The sirens had faded, but they were still ringing in Justin’s vigilant ears. Maybe it’s my overstimulated mind. He sighed. Will I ever go to a city and not get shot at and almost die?

  Chapter Two

  MI6 Headquarters, Vauxhall Cross

  London, England

  Doug Elliott stood up from the uncomfortable swivel chair and stepped slowly toward the bulletproof glass of the conference room. He locked his hands behind his slightly hunched back and shook his graying head. “I’m not certain that the new information is actionable or allows us to proceed, Mr. Hall.”

  Justin shrugged. He had asked Elliott more than once to call him Justin, but the middle-aged man stuck to his impeccable manners. “Isn’t it clear, crystal clear, that something very devious is being plotted right ... right in the heart of London?” He wanted to say right under your nose, but that would not have been helpful in securing Elliott’s support.

  Elliott nodded and removed his horn-rimmed glasses. “Yes, but what exactly? And when? I’ve had people check the schedule of foreign heads of state, executives, prime ministers, and other senior government officials. There are over a hundred of them coming in the next three weeks alone. Where do we start?” He shrugged, then returned his glasses to his frowning face.

  “He’s right,” said the woman sitting across f
rom Justin and Carrie. Elliott had introduced her as Agent Mandy Coole. She was correct, of course, but the truth was so obvious that it went without saying. But Coole had to say it, as she had continuously supported almost every sentence coming out of Elliott’s mouth. Perhaps her work performance depends on making an excellent impression on Elliott.

  “Can we eliminate the unlikely suspects?” Justin asked. “The insignificant ones, and focus on the rest.”

  “We can do that, but we run the risk of missing someone.”

  “The inaccuracy margin will be way too high,” Coole said, “and unacceptable.”

  “But doing nothing is acceptable?” Carrie asked.

  Elliott gave her a piercing glance. “We’re far from doing nothing, Ms. O’Connor. I reiterate, we can’t spread our resources too thin and check out everyone. We have the biggest players covered, who have their own nearly impenetrable security measures. We have issued warnings to a few, let’s say ... second-tier leaders, in terms of being under a potential threat. But of course, we cannot go public with this information.”

  Justin nodded. “Of course not.” Neither Elliott nor his bosses would admit they did not have a grasp on the security of London or of the United Kingdom. They were unlikely to raise the terror threat level until there was a clear, imminent danger. Justin did not want the situation to escalate to that point, but Elliott’s staunch opposition was leaving him without much choice.

  Justin shifted in his seat, rubbed his chin covered by a two-day stubble, then said, “How are you exploring the Chinese connection?”

  “What exactly is there to explore, Mr. Hall?” Elliott looked at Justin as if he had committed a big blunder. “We can’t knock on the door of the Chinese Embassy and ask them to hand over their spies now, can we?”

  “That’s right,” Coole said with a nod.

  Justin thought about replying with a smart-aleck remark, but then decided against it. He leaned forward and said, “No, but perhaps MI6 can run through its database, see if you can identify anyone, potential—”

  Elliott waved a dismissive hand. “No, I’m not going to waste precious resources on a witch-hunt, Mr. Hall. Unless you bring me concrete names, my hands are tied.”