Gray Resurrection Read online

  Gray Resurrection

  ~by~

  Alan McDermott

  Published by Alan McDermott at Smashwords

  Copyright 2012 Alan McDermott

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person.

  You may not reproduce this work, in part or in its entirety, without the express written permission of the author.

  Alan wrote this book in his spare time. If you want to read more of his work, please make sure you pay for a copy so that he can quit work and realise his dream of writing full time.

  Although this is a work of fiction, the history of Abu Sayyaf is as accurate as I can make it, and no names have been changed. All other characters in the book (except Osama Bin Laden) are imaginary and any similarities to persons living or dead are purely coincidental.

  The locations are real, and there is actually a military base, called Camp Bautista, adjacent to the airstrip on the island of Jolo. However, for obvious security reasons my description of the camp, the personnel within and the topography of the surrounding landscape are entirely fictional. I apologise in advance if this causes any offence to those who have served there.

  All times shown are local time, Manila, Philippines

  This is the second in the series of Tom Gray books, the first being Gray Justice. Although you can try to read this book as a standalone novel, it does carry on where Gray Justice left off. If you haven’t already read the first book I strongly suggest you do so. I promise, you will enjoy this book a lot more if you read Gray Justice first.

  Here are some of the comments from readers of Gray Justice:

  “Alan McDermott is an author to watch out for in the future, his originality makes him stand out.”

  “An outstanding debut novel and an absolute must read for everyone.”

  “It was one of the best reads I’ve had for a long time…”

  “…I couldn't put the book down.”

  “McDermott's prose is easy to understand while still delivering the thriller punch!”

  “Read this outstanding first novel; you won't be disappointed!”

  “If there is one book you should read make it this one”

  “Would love to see a film adaptation. McDermott is sheer class!”

  This book is dedicated to everyone who read and loved Gray Justice.

  I particularly want to thank Scott, Rob, Cinta and Dawn for their support over the last year.

  You guys rock!

  Prologue

  Friday 13th April 2012

  If only he hadn’t written that note!

  Arlan Banting’s infatuation with Maritess Cabanag had been going on for over a year now, and despite being one of the more popular boys in school he had always been shy around the girls, never comfortable in forming close ties with his female classmates. It had taken months for him to pluck up the courage to invite her to Font's and Mon's Restaurant in Barangay Seaside, and another two weeks to save up enough dinner money to pay for their date, but it had been worth it. He’d discovered that he had more in common with Maritess than he could have ever wished for: they both loved the same music and films, and both played the guitar. Maritess also had the voice of an angel and wrote her own lyrics, which Arlan would put to music before they recorded their efforts on an ancient tape recorder.

  One of Arlan’s immediate dreams was to buy a decent video camera so that he could record one of their sessions and then send it to all of the many talent shows airing on TV, but having a distinct lack of cash went hand in hand with living in Isabela City.

  It had been a first class city in the early sixties, but after the Moro rebellion razed the plantations it was relegated to a fifth class province within a decade, and though it had a population of over eighty five thousand people, nobody lived in Isabela City: they simply existed.

  Nobody, that is, except the criminal gangs who operated with near-impunity.

  They consisted primarily of members of Abu Sayyaf, a military Islamist separatist group operating in Bangsamoro (from the Malay word Bangsa, meaning nation of people, and Moro, which refers to the Muslim population of the Philippines). Bangsamoro is an area comprising the Zamboanga Peninsula and the islands of Jolo and Basilan, the capital of which is Isabela City. They controlled everything from the police and local judiciary to protection rackets and drugs, but their main source of income came from kidnapping. They had raised some hefty ransoms over the years, which replaced the donations they’d once received from their Muslim brothers overseas. Al-Qaeda in particular had been only too happy to help in their struggle for an independent province in the early days.

  As Arlan strode through the city he regretted his decision to pass the note to Maritess rather than giving it to her after class. If only he’d waited another twenty minutes he wouldn’t have been kept behind after school to explain his actions to the principal, and he would have been able to take his normal route home in time to babysit his younger sister while their mother went to her evening job. As it was, the only way he would keep to his schedule was to take a detour down Veterans Avenue. His normal route home took him right at the bandstand followed by a left onto the Rizal Avenue extension, then onto La Piedad and finally down Lower Lanote Road and into a side street where his shanty house sat among a hundred others.

  This circuitous route added an extra thirty minutes to his journey home but it meant he could avoid the Jolo Bar, a hangout for members of the Arroyo gang. Unlike the Abu Sayyaf gangs who collected money on behalf of their masters on Jolo Island, the Arroyo gang were in it for themselves. They would sit at the tables outside the bar, drinking San Miguel beer and smoking imported Marlboro cigarettes rather than the much cheaper locally produced version. Anyone who happened within thirty yards of them was fair game, as Arlan had found to his cost earlier that year. A group of five of them had stolen his meagre savings and beaten him for good measure. When his mother had reported the incident to the police they had promised to give it their full attention, then promptly binned the report once she’d left the station.

  Like everyone else in Isabela, the police rarely ventured close to the Jolo Bar – unless it was to collect their weekly payoff for turning a blind eye.

  Arlan was glad to see that no-one was occupying the chairs outside the bar, but still he quickened his pace, and was about four yards past the entrance when a hand on his shoulder stopped him in his tracks.

  “Saan ka pupunta?”

  Where do you think you’re going?

  Arlan knew the answer to the question was nowhere, and he turned to face the man who’d grabbed him. In fact there were four of them, all in their early twenties and most with cigarettes hanging from their mouths. The one with his hand still gripping Arlan’s shoulder put his face closer and the stench of stale beer on his breath made Arlan wince. The man's teeth were already in the process of turning brown and Arlan suspected he hadn't seen a tube of toothpaste in his life. He recognised him as the man who had beaten him back in January, and the others had called him Dindo.

  “This is our street. You have to pay if you want to walk here.”

  Arlan nodded and dug into his pocket, producing his lunch money. He got fifty pesos a day, roughly one U.S. dollar, and for the last few months had managed to save thirty pesos a day towards his camera. He’d spent forty pesos today, deciding to treat himself to a proper lunch, so he thrust the ten peso note towards the man, who sneered at it and swatted it out of his hand.

  “You call that payment? What’s in the bag?”

  “Only my school books, po,” Arlan said, using the word to show respect for his elders. He ha
d no respect whatsoever for these people, but if it helped him avoid another beating, it was worth a try.

  One of the others grabbed the bag from his shoulder and rummaged through it, throwing out text books, pens and pencils. When he came across a photo of Maritess he sniggered and showed it to his friends.

  “Who's this? Your sister?”

  “No, po, my girlfriend.”

  “Liar,” Dindo said. “She's too good for a peasant like you. Maybe you should bring her down to the Jolo and let her meet some real men.”

  Dindo grabbed his crotch with his free hand and began rotating his hips back and forth, moaning sounds emanating from his nicotine-stained lips.

  Arlan knew a beating was just around the corner, no matter what he did, and the disrespect they were showing towards his first love drove him to actions he'd never considered in his wildest dreams. Before he knew it, his right hand bunched into a fist and flew at Dindo's face, connecting with his left cheek. Unfortunately, Arlan was built for playing the guitar, not street brawling, and the blow bounced off harmlessly. Dindo's face registered shock, not at the force of the impact, but at the sheer impudence of the gutter rat.

  “Putang ina mo!! Papatayin kita!!”

  But before Dindo could carry out his threat and kill the son-of-a-bitch, someone else had an idea along similar lines, though it was Dindo and his friends who were the targets.

  The jeepney is the ubiquitous form of public transport in the Philippines. Originally made from surplus jeeps left behind after the Second World War, they were transformed to carry larger numbers of passengers. This particular jeepney had been hijacked just a couple of streets away, and as it drove past the Jolo bar four AK-47 rifles appeared through the glassless window on the side of the vehicle and began blazing away at the men standing by the entrance. Despite their aim being below poor, the close proximity guaranteed hits, and the men in the vehicle saw three of their targets fall instantly. Two tried to run but got less than a couple of steps before they too crumpled to the ground.

  The jeepney stopped and a young man climbed out of the back and strode confidently towards the prostrate figures.

  One of them was clawing at the air and begging for help, but mercy and compassion were not in his assailant's vocabulary. Instead, he placed a sheet of paper over his victim's face and used a four inch knife to staple it to his forehead, before calmly climbing back inside the jeepney, banging on the side to tell the driver to move off.

  Arlan Banting’s last action was to crawl towards the discarded photo of Maritess, the bullet wounds in his chest and arm making it a painful journey. It was inches away from him but every movement sent shockwaves through his body, and when he finally collapsed his finger fell still over her heart.

  Chapter 1

  Saturday 14th April 2012

  Sam Grant had become a familiar figure in the Vista Real subdivision on the outskirts of Manila. Having paced out the route from his front door, around the houses and back to his start position he knew it was roughly half a mile, and so his aim was to do ten circuits a day.

  Almost a year after breaking both legs in the explosion it was a tall ask, but he was determined to get back into the old routine. For the first few days he had jogged round a couple of times before the muscles in his calves screamed for mercy, but a month later he was comfortable at three miles and pushing it at four. An easy five was his ultimate target but he knew that was still a couple of weeks away at least.

  After nearly seven laps of the compound the sweat had completely soaked his sando, which was the Philippine equivalent of the sleeveless T-shirt. Completing the ensemble was a pair of bright blue shorts and his New Balance sneakers, all of which had been purchased in Manila.

  He'd arrived in the country wearing nothing more than a hospital robe and for the first six weeks that was all he'd needed, having been bedridden due to the multiple fractures in his legs. His left arm had also suffered, as had his chest, but it was the face that took the most getting used to. When he'd first seen his new look he had been horrified, but as the swelling from his injuries and the subsequent surgery went down he found himself staring at a totally different person. His eyes seemed sunken due to the heavier brow, and his nose looked like it had been lifted off a local, flat against his face instead of sticking out proudly as it had once done. He had tried growing a full beard to hide the crescent shaped scar which covered his right cheek but the climate made it itch intolerably, so he settled for a goatee and moustache and simply put up with people staring at it. Time being the healer it was, the scar was already receding, but he knew he would wear it for the rest of his life.

  James Farrar had told him to use it as a reminder as to why he was here in the Philippines, but then James Farrar was a dickhead.

  From the moment he'd met Farrar, Grant had taken an instant dislike to him. He didn't know if it was the condescending attitude, or the pin-striped suit, or just that he stank of green slime. Of course, he couldn't be sure Farrar was from the Royal Intelligence Corp because one of his favourite games was point-blank refusing to give Grant any information.

  After their first brief meeting Farrar had popped by a couple of months later, totally unannounced, just to check on his progress. Since then, he had only made a phone call every couple of months, which suited Grant down to the ground. If Farrar wasn't willing to answer his questions, then the less contact they had, the better.

  He waved at Mr Lee as he passed the house on the corner and got a wave in return. The Philippines might not be the most modern country in the world, but the people were generally nice and the whole neighbourhood had made him feel welcome when he'd moved in.

  Prior to living here he’d stayed in the house in Subic Freeport, but there was only so much to do there, and he had craved a busier life. On Farrar’s second visit he’d requested that a bag of belongings be brought over from the U.K. The holdall he’d asked for contained just over a million pounds sterling, the proceeds from the sale of his home and business, and was stored at his solicitor’s office in London.

  Farrar wasn’t pleased at the idea and made his feelings known, but Grant had insisted that he needed his own place to live and money to set up a small business to keep himself occupied. Farrar had eventually relented on the condition that the money be banked and Grant could only have access to forty thousand pesos per month. Any withdrawal over that amount would have to be sanctioned by Farrar himself. Grant had agreed, and the bag was delivered to his quarters by diplomatic courier three days later, followed by a phone call from Farrar who took great delight in telling him that the government salary he’d been enjoying was coming to an end, since he was now able to support himself. Grant wasn’t even slightly concerned at losing the miserly allowance and told Farrar as much, causing even greater animosity between the pair.

  The house he’d bought, with Farrar's consent, was a two bedroom up and down, with a decent garden and covered car port. He could have bought something ten times the size and still have half of his money in the bank, but as he was going to be living alone he didn't see the point.

  As he approached his house he saw Alma appear from the front door, hosepipe in her hand ready to water the plants. He blew her a kiss as he passed and continued round the corner and onto lap eight.

  Alma had happened out of the blue, and it had been the last thing he’d expected.

  He’d been out shopping for kitchen appliances for his new home when she’d caught his eye, and he'd found himself smiling at her. More surprisingly, she'd smiled back from behind the counter and before he'd even thought about it he’d found himself standing before her, lost for words. Then came the realisation that she might have been smiling simply because that was what she was paid to do: put on her customer service face.

  “Um, I'm looking for a washing machine,” he had said feebly.

  The smile had remained in place, and the amount of eye contact he’d got went well beyond customer care, so he'd chanced his arm and invited her for a coffee after wo
rk. She'd readily accepted, which he'd found amazing, and after they had arranged a time for him to pick her up, he'd left the shop looking for the hidden cameras, convinced it was some kind of sick reality TV gag.

  He'd then walked straight back in and purchased the white goods he'd originally gone in for.

  The date at a local coffee shop had gone well. Alma spoke English very well, although there was a hint of an American accent, a result of the U.S. presence up until November 1992, when the American flag was finally lowered in Subic for the last time.

  He’d been conscious about his looks all evening, though Alma either hadn't noticed or hadn't cared. She’d wanted to know about his past, and he'd had to think quickly.

  A year earlier he'd been Tom Gray, widower. A few weeks later he was Tom Gray, terrorist. The next thing he knew he was waking up in an Admiral's bedroom in the Philippines with a new name, a new face and an explicit warning from Farrar: tell anyone about his previous life and he would be dead within twenty four hours. So he'd spent the evening telling her about Sam Grant, entrepreneur.

  The story he’d told was of a man who’d lived in London all his life, taking various part-time jobs before starting his own small business selling T-shirts online. A raft of other websites soon sprang up, and it was while on holiday in Manila the previous year that he’d seen the lack of online shopping sites and decided to corner the market.

  The latter part was true, as he’d tried to order some sneakers over the Internet and found it impossible, so he’d rented an office, furnished it with half a dozen computers and hired some developers to create the sites. He now had a dozen customers signed up to sell their goods through his web portals, offering them the software and hosting for free in exchange for five percent of each sale.

  Sales had taken a while to pick up, he’d explained to her, but the business was starting to pay for itself.