by A P Bateman
Big Dave sat down on the grass and clutched his ribs. He could see the tethered man’s body, impaled high up in the metal grid. He shrugged it off, but the adrenalin that had spurred him onwards was subsiding and his legs were turning to jelly. He was a tough and battle-hardened solider, but he was human, too. He took his canteen out and downed the water, then fought his own instincts to get back to his feet. He wanted to lie down and sleep. But he had heard gunfire and that could only mean one thing – his team were in trouble and he would do something about it.
Or die trying.
Chapter Fifty-Two
The gunfire was heavy and sustained. King had dodged back behind the doorway and the bullets ricocheted off the steel doorframe and bounced their way around the cavernous space of the hangar. He didn’t have a target, but he could see two separate muzzle flashes – one each side of the corridor. Two doors were open, and a man had taken up position in each room, laying prone on the floor.
King turned to his right. He looked past the two remaining Jeeps and saw shelves of tools, oil cans and fuel cans. He glanced at Cole, the pistol turning on him with his stare behind the sights. “Get a can of petrol,” he said, then clarified with, “Gas, get me a can of gas!”
“No… you can’t…”
“Get it!” King fired, and the shot tore past Cole’s head and ricocheted around the cavern. The man flinched, but he was resolute.
“I’m not letting you burn those guys up,” he said. “They’re just doing their job!”
“So am I,” said King and shrugged as he shot Cole in the thigh. The man howled and fell forwards, his leg taken out from under him like a bowling pin. King turned around and headed for the shelving and grabbed a fuel can and opened the lid. It was petrol, or gas in these parts. He left the cap off and picked up a screwdriver. He returned to the doorway and fired a couple of rounds down the corridor. It had the required effect and the two men sent a considerable volley of gunfire back his way as he ducked aside. He glanced at Cole, who had rolled onto his back and was attempting to sit up. He was clutching the entry wound, and tentatively searching for an exit. King could see that the femoral artery had not been nicked. There was a coffee cup quantity of blood on the floor and Cole seemed to be applying the right sort of pressure. He looked daggers back at King.
King stabbed the can with the screw driver and bowled it down the corridor. It stopped short of the doorways but was leaking from a half a dozen holes and the open neck. King fired the rest of the magazine and tossed the Beretta aside. He took out the .40 Sig and fired another two shots. The reply came with another burst of gunfire from both doorways and the muzzle flashes did the rest. The petrol ignited with a bang as loud as a gunshot, and a whoosh that filled the corridor with flames and heat and light. Both men screamed. One door closed, and the other man chanced the corridor for his escape from the fumes and heat. King fired once, and the man went down. He entered the corridor, the flames already dying for lack of a flammable surface. The smoke and stench of fuel was intense, but he skirted the dying flames and could already see that the man was dead. He would be at a disadvantage entering the other room, so decided to pick up the man’s rifle and kept moving. He checked the magazine inspection holes and the weapon’s action. Twenty-two rounds. The corridor wound around to the left, and King eased through the corner. There was movement ahead – just the glimpse of someone closing a door. The cells would be locked automatically, so it would have had to be an office, interrogation room or a storage room of some description. King kept the weapon aimed, but as he drew up on the cell that he knew to be Zukovsky’s, he paused and studied the lock. There was a single tumbler lock that enabled the guards to manually open each door, but he knew the doors to be automatically opened also. Which meant that there would be a control panel someplace. He turned around and made his way back to the dead guard. He rolled the body over with his foot, saw a bunch of keys on his belt and snapped them off the loop. He glanced up at the entrance, saw movement and ducked backwards. There was a burst of gunfire that chiselled rock off the corridor. King dropped onto one knee and returned three shots but could already see that numbers were massing behind the door jamb. He walked backwards, firing single shots at the doorway. Men were getting brave, and by the time he reached the bend in the corridor, there were several muzzles blasting away, and the ricocheting high-velocity rounds were pinging off down the corridor, threatening to hit him. He kept close to the inside of the curve and fired a couple of rounds into the wall, hoping they would bounce their way towards the men in the cavern. He took a breath, checked the weapon again, then turned around and walked into a burst of gunfire from the opposite end of the corridor. The bullets peppered the rock walls, chipped off stone and dust and ricocheted around the tunnel. King recoiled and stepped backwards to the sound of gunfire opening-up behind him. He darted forwards and squatted on his haunches, his back tight against the rough stone wall. He had a sanctuary, out of the line of sight of both points of gunfire. A space of about a metre to contemplate his fate, and his next move.
Chapter Fifty-Three
He hadn’t wanted it to be like this. He wasn’t scared. He’d done more for his country than anybody should have been asked for, seen more than anybody should have seen. He had fought in battles and skirmishes all over the world, although politics dictated this should largely be in the Middle-East. But what the team from MI5 wanted from him was suicide. And he wouldn’t go to certain death for fifty-grand. He would have done it once for queen and country, but he had no idea of the ramifications of this job, the agenda MI5 had from their actions. He would have hit the base with a proper and well-devised plan. But for that they would need the cover of darkness, a diversion, and an exit strategy. What they had was nothing more than bravado and hopeful intentions. And now that the quiet man with the cold, grey-blue eyes was in trouble, they all seemed willing to risk their lives and pay no thought to the men they had recruited. But they were a tight unit, and he was a hired gun. It was their sacrifice to make, not his. Guys like Big Dave just wanted to fight. He would have been a gladiator in another life. Powell was too old to care, too world-weary to break the chain of command and status quo. Adams suspected the man needed the money more than everybody else. He had taken some seriously dubious close protection jobs with little in the way of security and certainly no liaison or back-up with allied forces. He had taken one-on-one bodyguard jobs with scrappy businessmen out to make money from the wild west era of Iraq and Afghanistan. Adams was surprised the man had made it this far, and he knew from what conversations he had with the man that some of his charges had not.
Adams had cranked up the stereo. The classic rock music drowned out his thoughts. He was no coward, but he couldn’t help thinking that is exactly what the others would think of him. Fuck them! He thought. He had some of the bounty in his bank and he was alive, and he rather liked it that way. He doubted the rest of the Sass-men would be alive by the morning. And he was certain the MI5 team would be gone before them.
He watched the vehicle grow closer to him on the horizon. He had found the track, one of myriads around the base, and had decided it headed in the right direction. He knew he’d pick up larger roads to the south, some intersecting so laterally that he would never miss them. The vehicle loomed closer, a dust cloud behind it like the wake of a boat in this sea of green. The track was barely wide enough for one, let alone two, so Adams slowed and kept as far to the right as the road would allow. He contemplated going off road, but the ground was rockier – most likely waste from the construction of the track – and he did not want to chance a puncture out here. The SUV ahead slowed, though maintained its position. Adams wondered whether it was an unmarked police vehicle, then started to worry he’d be questioned about being out here this near to the base.
He slowed down, but habit and a life spent in the worst places already had him reaching for the Beretta. He tucked it under his thigh and selected the sport setting on the automatic gear shift. It would make accele
ration sharper if he needed it. His fingers tensed on the wheel, and he could make out two men in the front. The SUV wasn’t as large as the GMC Yukon he was driving, but this was America and it was still up there with a Range Rover Sport. Adams indicated right and eased his tyres slowly onto the gravel and chipping surface. He looked back at the approaching car – now only a few car-lengths away – and still could not see the faces of the two men. Both sun visors were down, despite the sun being far off to his right. There were only a few hours of daylight remaining and the golden hue that comes with a setting sun over a huge vista was starting to soften and flood the distant horizon.
Adams could see the driver’s window lower. He had no doubt that the mid-west was the friendliest place he’d ever been, so he thought nothing of the possibility of a ‘how ya’ll doing?’ coming from the driver. But still, the Beretta under his thigh reminded him of who he was and why he had been here.
Adams was crawling, the other vehicle was crawling too. And that’s when he saw a flash of ginger hair ducking below the sun visor and a blur of black as the barrel of a long weapon pushed past the driver and towards him. He dropped low across the seat as the blast took out his window and showered him with thousands of tiny squares of glass like cut diamonds. His foot slipped off the accelerator and he found himself near-stationary, heard the rack of the pump-action as the shooter prepared for another shot. He fumbled for the pistol and reached it behind him, squeezing off three shots as he jammed his other hand on the accelerator and pressed it to the floor. The V8 surged into life and the car lurched forwards as the second blast took out the rear passenger window. Adams shook away the ringing in his ears and bounced on the seats as the GMC slewed and squirmed across the track, across the loose stones and onto the grass. He got back behind the wheel and checked his mirrors for the other vehicle.
He was in no doubt that the gunman had been the surly Scotsman, Macintosh. He could see the SUV turning around for another pass. But this time, he was ready. He changed the pistol to his left hand and gripped the wheel tightly with his right. The SUV had turned a wide circle and was closing in on him. He could see Yates behind the wheel, the sun visors dispensed with as they got on with the task.
Shock and awe was a technique used to break a regime. And it was the same at grass-roots level with a simple shooting. It had been the last thing Adams had expected, and now his mind was whirling when it should have been planning. How could Yates and Macintosh be here? And why were they shooting at him? Had they come to help and merely mistaken him? Adams shook his head, tried to gather his thoughts. The SUV was closing in, and this time Macintosh had positioned himself out of his own window, and Yates had driven the vehicle to compensate. Adams swung the wheel wide and closed the angle. Macintosh was already struggling to get the shotgun on target, and he fired a shot which largely sent buckshot over the Yukon, scattering a few pellets on the roof. It sounded like a heavy shower of hail, and Adams ducked down despite the unlikelihood of the pellets penetrating the steel bodywork at this range. The range was closing, though and Adams tightened the angle, Macintosh now unable to get off another shot before the two vehicles closed on each other. The vehicles were going to pass. Adams had a good shot and took it with a double-tap. Yates was already hunkered down, but one of the 9mm bullets struck his shoulder and the man arched his back and winced and Macintosh went for the wheel. Adams could see the panic on the two men’s faces. He swung the wheel and hit the brakes and the Yukon shuddered to a halt. Adams cursed the vehicle’s traction control, its lack of ability to drive evasively. All vehicles were getting that way now, and when he worked close protection detail, he usually took the vehicle he would be using to a garage to have many of the features temporarily disabled so he could power slide, handbrake turn and J-turn.
Either Yates was not badly wounded, or Macintosh had taken over the wheel, because the SUV was back on it and heading for Adams before he could line up a better position. He did not have a good angle for a shot and did not want to waste precious rounds shooting through the windscreen. He stamped on the brakes, selected reverse and powered away from the oncoming vehicle. The rear passenger window lowered, and the shotgun poked out, Macintosh having thrown himself over the front seat and into the rear seats. He had a good shot at Adams, and he flinched as he swung the wheel to change the angle. Macintosh fired, and the front tyre blew out. Another shot and the rear tyre gave way and the big vehicle sagged on its suspension. Adams could hear multiple hits on the bodywork and the roar of the shotgun as Macintosh found his groove. He returned fire, this time through the windscreen. He punched out the shattered glass, adjusted his aim and fired a volley, but the SUV was getting some distance between them. Adams ejected the spent magazine and reloaded, but only had the ballistic gel rounds left. Better than nothing. He floored the accelerator, but nothing happened. He worked the ignition, but again, there was no sound. The SUV was several hundred metres away now and posed no threat as Adams got out and walked around to the front of the car. He could see where the solid slugs had punched straight through the wing and into the engine bay. He could smell hot water and antifreeze and oil. The smell of a ruined engine. The tyres did not matter anymore; the Yukon was going nowhere.
They had known it had been him. There was no disputing or doubting that. The follow-up attacks, the close encounter as both cars had passed like medieval jousters. The two misfits had been out to kill him. He watched the SUV become a speck on the horizon and then disappear. Adams walked around to the rear of the vehicle and took out his kit. He had a knife, water flask and a jacket. He knew the temperature dropped on the plains at night. He stashed what he needed into his small rucksack and took out his phone. He called Rashid, but there was no answer. He knew the score. It would all be going down at the base. He tried Ramsay’s number, but again, no answer. He could have called everyone, but he knew the story would be the same. He took out the flask and drank down half before replacing it and strapping the sack over his shoulders. He estimated seven or eight miles. He checked his watch and took one bearing from the sun to find North, before breaking into a trot, which increased in pace over the next three-hundred metres as his muscles warmed and he settled into his pace.
Chapter Fifty-Four
“I could do with that extra pair of eyes we spoke about Marnie,” Rashid said into his mouthpiece. “Anytime ten minutes ago, would help.”
“I’m on it!”
Rashid had the BR99 resting tight into his shoulder, tracking an armed man through the tactical scope around the side of the hangar. He had been ready to take the man out with the ballistic gel slug, but upon hearing the muffled gunfire within the hangar, and the distant sound of a battle over at the antenna, he had swapped over to a magazine of solid slugs. He had removed the ballistic gel slug from the breach – a difficult task to do quietly – and was now stalking the man from one-hundred metres away, tucked up in a mound of grass in the lee of the building. He had seen the trucks return from the airstrip, and he knew that the battle taking place inside – now trailing off to pot-shots – could only involve King. What worried Rashid most, was the ebb in battle. It usually signalled the end; either of ammunition or resolve.
“Anytime!”
“Wait… I have it. Right, ahead of you, one man…”
“Got him.”
“Three-hundred metres out, parked in a depression, it looks like Tattooed Mick and Powell are setting out.”
“We are,” came the gruff, Geordie growl of Powell. “No tangoes in our location. Eyes on two at the hangar door.”
“Have that. Outside the main entrance, two men are rigging up a vehicle with chains. Looks like they’re going to tow something… I can’t see what…” Marnie added.
“Armed?”
“Yes. And there are three vehicles parked in front of the doors. Open-topped, no sign of the men.”
“I suspect they’re inside,” Rashid said. “Gunfire still audible.”
“I’m South-bound. Just put down two hostile
s, have two more winded and tied up, and the antenna is down,” Big Dave puffed. It was evident he was running. “Oh, and the prisoner didn’t make it and the truck’s out of action, I’ll need a lift,” he paused. “The control panel and electronics are ruined, too. Their comms are down.”
“Good work,” Rashid said. He sighted on the man who was guarding the rear. He fired, and the man went down and rolled backwards. He rested still. Rashid was up and moving forwards. “The guard’s down, I’m heading for the entrance…”
Rashid ran down the edge of the mound that constituted the building. It was mounded with earth and grass had grown creating something from the set of Teletubbies, but on an epic scale. As he reached the end of the mound, he could see Big Dave running across the flat ground, one-hundred metres out. Rashid looked at the man, his eyes white and appearing frenzied, highlighted by his black face. The man was near enough now, and Rashid turned the corner, could see one of the men Marnie had warned him about. There was no time for a warning, no chance of the non-lethal ammunition coming into play now that there had been so much gunfire from inside the building. He raised the shotgun and stopped running. The man sensed movement, turned and Rashid fired. A click. A sudden rush in heartbeat as Rashid took a knee and cleared the misfire from the breach. His heart was hammering his chest and his limbs flooded with lactic acid as he tried to clear the massive shell. The man fired, but at the same time as Big Dave blasted away with four or five rounds. The man dropped and skidded on the concrete, the ground already soaked in blood. Rashid cleared the cartridge and re-cocked the weapon. He changed the magazine over to be safe, just in case it was a feed issue. He didn’t check the live shell which was rolling across the concrete.