Red Strike

by Chris Ryan

  Bald clenched his jaws. Bastards were right. Now that the Russians knew where he was living, they’d keep coming after him until they had put him in the ground. He could relocate again, perhaps. Sell the business, pack his stuff and move to somewhere more remote. Guatemala, maybe. Or Nicaragua. But how long before the Russians caught up with him again?

  He knew the answer.

  Not very long.

  Either you do as Six says and go back home, the voice inside Bald’s head told him. Or you take your chances alone. But with the Russians on your case, you won’t survive for long. Christ, you’d be lucky to make it to the end of the year without getting dropped.

  Wankers at Vauxhall have got me by the balls.

  Again.

  At the very least he could hear them out. See what they had to say for themselves. If he didn’t like the offer on the table, Bald reasoned, he could still walk away. He had no ties to six anymore. And a small part of him was curious to find out more about the briefing. Whatever MI6 had in mind, it had been important enough to send two of its best operators halfway round the world to save his life. Bald had made plenty of enemies during the years he’d worked with Six. He knew their mentality. They wouldn’t have lifted a finger to help him unless they had a bloody good reason.

  So what do they want with me now?

  He cleared his throat. Looked Lyden hard in the eye. ‘If I come back,’ he said, ‘it’s only temporary. A one-off.’

  Lyden said, ‘That’s not up to us, mate. You’ll have to talk to our boss. Argue your case.’

  ‘I did that last time. Look where it got me.’

  ‘It’s a different crowd now. New broom and all that. The new faces might be more sympathetic.’

  ‘I’ll need a better guarantee than that.’

  ‘Tough shit,’ Rowe said through gritted teeth. ‘That’s the only one you’re going to get.’

  Bald shot a look at the guy. There was no point wasting his breath with these two, clearly. They didn’t have the authority to cut him a deal. He’d have to take his chances with the higher-ups.

  They made a deal with you once before, the voice inside his head told him. Maybe this is a chance to cut a new one. On better terms than before. Maybe even make some money out of it. His retirement fund was empty after that Thai bitch had ripped him off. Could do with being topped up.

  ‘Fuck it,’ he said. ‘When do we leave?’

  ‘As soon as we’re finished here,’ Lyden replied. ‘We’re parked up the street. We’ll drive straight to Tulum and take the charter jet. It’s all rigged up and ready to fly.’

  ‘What about these two?’ Bald waved a hand at the corpses. ‘They’re a problem. Can’t just leave them here.’

  Lyden grunted in agreement and said, ‘You know this area better than us. Is there somewhere we can dump them? Somewhere they won’t be found for a while?’

  Bald’s eyes wandered over to the back of the garage. To the workshop. He looked past the partly dismantled motorbikes and the tools scattered across the floor, towards the forty-five-gallon drums lined up against the far wall.

  ‘I’ve got an idea,’ he said.

  It took all three of them to dispose of the Russians. Dog Tag and Harley were big guys, two hundred pounds apiece of dead muscle and fat. Getting them to fit inside the drums required some creative thinking. First Rowe padded them down, removing their wallets, passports and burner phones. Anything that might identify the bodies. Then Bald and Lyden hauled the bodies over to the workshop, while Rowe manoeuvred the drums into place. The three of them worked fast, in spite of the clammy heat inside the garage. They had a two-hour window before rigor mortis began to set in. They crammed Harley into the first drum in the foetal position, then switched their attention to Dog Tag. The bigger of the two Russians. Getting him into the second drum was hot work. They had to contort his limbs at wildly unnatural angles before they finally got him to fit. They sealed the drums with the clip-top lids and lugged them over to the back of the garage, left them amid the heaps of rusted metal, worn tyres and discarded plastic containers.

  Then they turned their attention to the garage. Mopped the blood-pooled floor, wiped down the counter surfaces, getting rid of every last drop of blood and brain matter. Rowe gathered up the bloodied rags and the spent brass, the Russians’ IDs and wallets, guns and phones. He broke apart the phones and crushed the SIM cards under the heel of his Timberland boot. Emptied rounds from the guns, stashed everything in a black plastic bag sealed with a cable tie and carried it outside. Dumped it in a storm drain a hundred metres up the street.

  At the same time Bald headed up the stairs leading to his modest apartment, built directly above the garage. He ducked into the bedroom and retrieved the black holdall from above the rickety wardrobe: the go-bag Bald always kept packed in case he needed to make a quick getaway. Stowed in the bag were vital supplies, changes of clothes, trainers, wash bag and his passport, along with three thousand dollars in US currency. All that Bald had managed to save during his time in Mexico.

  He checked the contents, zipped up the holdall and lugged it back downstairs to the garage. He detoured into his office, sprang open the wall safe and pocketed the two thousand dollars in cash the Russians had paid for their bike tour. Spoils of war.

  They took the Russians’ luggage from the chase vehicle parked outside the garage, wheeled it up the street and dumped it in an unlit alley north of the storm drain. Returned to the garage, checked over everything one last time. Every trace of the Russians had been removed. If anyone came around asking questions, it would look as if two Latvian males had booked in for a bike tour and simply never showed up.

  Bald had one final task to do. One loose end to tie up. He sent a text message to a local number stored on his Alcatel mobile. Twenty seconds later, he got a response. Bald wiped his phone clean with a hard reset, flushed the SIM card down the garage toilet, crushed the device underfoot and tossed the screen-cracked casing in the bin.

  Two minutes later, the three Brits left the garage.

  It was past six o’clock in the evening when they finally stepped outside. Despite the late hour, the heat was still oppressive. Bald felt the hot breath of Caribbean wind against his cheek, wafting in from the coast, rustling the fronds of the distant palm trees.

  He locked the garage up, then followed Lyden and Rowe west for thirty metres until they reached a silver Dodge Journey parked on the side of the road. Lyden took the wheel, Rowe riding shotgun. Bald clambered into the rear seats, wedged his go-bag in the footwell.

  They didn’t head straight for Tulum airfield. Bald had the loose end to tie up first. Lyden steered the Dodge through the backstreets for several minutes, following Bald’s directions, until they reached the address he had given them. A crumbling two-storey house on the outskirts of Playa del Carmen. Metal bars on the windows and doors, gang tags graffiti sprayed on the walls of the neighbouring properties. Weeds poking through the cracks in the pavement. The area of the city that didn’t show up in the tour guides.

  Hector was standing outside the front door, just as Bald had instructed in his text message. Lyden parked across the street and waited in the Dodge with Rowe while Bald debussed and crossed the road. No reason for the two Blades to accompany him. He wasn’t going to make a run for it.

  Hector looked at Bald like an obedient dog seeing its owner arrive home. He glanced quizzically at the Dodge before looking back at the Scot. ‘Mister John? Is everything okay?’

  A note of panic in the kid’s voice. Bald flicked him a reassuring smile. ‘Everything’s fine, mate. Something has come up, that’s all. I’ve got to disappear for a while.’

  Hector frowned. ‘You’re leaving?’

  ‘Aye. I’m gonna need you to take over the business, Hector. Think you can handle it?’

  ‘Me?’ Hector’s jaw sagged so far it practically thudded against the ground. He stared at Bald in disbelief. ‘For real, boss?’

  ‘Some fucker’s got to take over,’ Bald
said. ‘Might as well be you, kid.’

  ‘For how long?’

  ‘For good. I won’t be coming back.’

  Bald fished the master keys out of his pocket and chucked them at Hector. The kid looked at them as if he’d just been given the keys to the Playboy Mansion.

  ‘I’m giving you a head start in life,’ said Bald. ‘Don’t piss it away.’

  ‘Sí, sí. I won’t, Mister John. Don’t you worry. I take good care of everything.’

  ‘Good man.’ Bald paused. ‘One more thing.’

  ‘Sí, Mister John?’

  ‘There’s a couple of oil drums at the back of the garage. Them green ones. Whatever you do, don’t lift the lids off or let anyone else look inside them. Understood?’

  ‘Why? What’s inside?’

  ‘Nothing for you to worry about. Just keep them sealed and find a way to get rid of them. Somewhere no one will find ’em.’

  Hector thought for a beat. ‘My uncle, Miguel. He owns a pickup truck. I can call him. Take the drums over to the landfill site.’

  ‘Do that,’ said Bald. ‘Just remember, if anyone takes a peek inside them drums, your business is shafted.’

  The kid nodded dutifully. As Bald had known he would. Hector was pathetically loyal. Bald could rely on him to make sure those drums were quietly disposed of.

  Hector started to thank him again but Bald was already turning away and pacing back across the road to the Dodge.

  He took one last look at the city he’d called home for the past several months. Knew he wouldn’t be here again for a long time. Maybe ever. And maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing, Bald thought to himself.

  The old Jock Bald would have seen the two Russians coming from a mile off. He would have seen straight through their bullshit story and slotted them before they had the opportunity to isolate him.

  Instead, Bald had allowed himself to grow soft in his enforced retirement. He’d lost his edge. Slacked off on his training so he could spend more time on the drink, getting his end away with attractive divorcees. He’d started to let himself go.

  You got sloppy, the voice in his head warned him. Almost got yourself killed. Needed a couple of young Blades to bail you out.

  Bald vowed not to make the same mistake again.

  He climbed back inside the Dodge.

  Two hours later, they were airborne.

  EIGHT

  The private jet was a Gulfstream 650, one of the newer models. It was quiet and powerful and climbed effortlessly into the air as they headed east out of Tulum. Lyden explained that the aircraft was owned by a recently knighted British businessman who’d made his fortune in chemicals. The businessman was a patriot, Lyden said, and MI6 regularly chartered his private jet via a series of front companies registered in the British Virgin Islands. The Gulfstream was used for renditions mostly, lifting high-value targets from overseas, extracting agents from the field.

  Lyden was the talkier of the two. Rowe didn’t say a word to Bald the whole flight. He sank into one of the armchairs in the aft cabin, folded his huge arms across his front and looked straight ahead, like he was in a staring competition with the seat opposite. Bald pressed Lyden for more information about the mission but the guy wouldn’t say anything except that they were flying in to Gloucestershire Airport in Staverton. A car would be waiting there to ferry Bald to the Regiment’s training ground at Pontrilas.

  Which got Bald wondering.

  Most of the ops he’d worked with Six, the meeting was usually held in a suite at a mid-range London hotel. MI6 agents weren’t in the habit of holding briefings in the less glamorous surroundings of the SAS training camp.

  Unless they didn’t want him to be seen in Hereford. Maybe that’s why they’ve arranged to meet at Pontrilas, thought Bald. So I won’t run into any of the lads from 22 SAS. If I’m bottled up in a briefing room at Pontrilas, no other fucker is going to know I’m there.

  He questioned Lyden again, but the guy wouldn’t tell him anything more. Bald gave up. Instead he sat back and enjoyed the ride. The interior of the Gulfstream was luxurious, with beige leather seats and soft lighting and polished walnut surfaces. There was a coffee pod machine in the galley and a fridge stocked full of bottles of sparkling water and cans of Diet Coke. On the downside, there was no curvy stewardess for Bald to work his magic on. No booze, either. But it was a step up from the economy-class ticket Six usually laid on for him. Now they were giving him the five-star treatment.

  Whatever they’ve got planned, it’s important enough to lay on a private jet.

  He passed the time sipping black coffee and watching the news on the 42-inch flat-screen TV. There were about a billion channels to choose from, streamed live through the jet’s built-in broadband. Sky News was running a piece about the upcoming G7 summit in Loch Lomond, Scotland. The report said there was a major security operation planned. The American president wasn’t a welcome guest in Bald’s homeland, apparently. People were marching in the streets, loudly protesting against his imminent arrival.

  The president himself didn’t seem too bothered. He was planning to spend more time on his nearby golf course than meeting with the other world leaders, the report suggested.

  Bald slept through the rest of the flight, and when he looked out of the window again he saw that they were closer to the ground as they made their final approach to Gloucestershire Airport. He saw ploughed fields to the north and south, Cheltenham to the east, Gloucester to the west, the airfield nestled between the towns, like an ‘X’ scrawled on a treasure map.

  They landed at a few minutes past noon, taxied along the main runway and parked on the apron. The engine drone cut out. A minute later the flight steward opened the hatch and Bald followed Lyden and Rowe down the lowered steps.

  Lyden led him into the terminal building and said, ‘Your driver’s waiting outside.’

  ‘You’re not coming with us?’

  ‘Got another job to do, mate.’ He grinned. ‘Not like the old days in the Regiment, when you lot pissed around on training exercises in the desert, roaming around on Pinkies. We’re bang it on these days. On the clock twenty-four-seven.’

  Bald fought a compulsive urge to wipe the smile off the guy’s face. But there was a truth to Lyden’s goading, he knew. The Regiment was a different beast now. The new generation of Blades were constantly out doing ops, flying in, getting briefed, slotting targets, clearing the lines. In Iraq, the lads had been doing multiple hits in a single evening, hitting one target, heading on to the next one, barely pausing to catch their breath. A lot had changed since the days Bald had called Hereford home.

  He said, ‘What’s the craic once I get to the camp?’

  ‘The sergeant major will meet you there. He’s expecting you. You’ll wait with him until the guys from London come up with the ops officer. The other bloke will be waiting at the camp too.’

  ‘What other bloke?’

  ‘The second guy on the team,’ Lyden said, without explaining further.

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘They didn’t say. One of the fellas from L Det, I think. Another dinosaur. That’s all I know.’

  Bald nodded. L Detachment was the reserve unit attached to the Regiment. Veterans, mostly. Guys who had done their time in the SAS and were settled into a part-time role, using their skills whenever they were called upon.

  Whoever this other guy is, thought Bald, he’s probably around the same age as me. Someone I would have known during my time at Hereford.

  Lyden said, ‘Bet you can’t wait to get back to the camp, eh? Mind you, the place has changed a bit since you were last there.’ He flashed a pearly white grin. ‘When was that again, Jock? Before the war, was it?’

  ‘Piss off.’

  ‘Cheer up. An old fella like you, you should be on cloud nine that Six is still interested in your services.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Bald deadpanned. ‘Thrilled.’

  ‘What’s the deal between you and Six, anyway?’

  Bald thoug
ht for a beat. ‘Let’s just say that we haven’t always seen eye-to-eye.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘The guys at Vauxhall still live in the Dark Ages,’ Bald said. ‘They think it’s about Queen and country, all of that shite. They’ll do anything to defend the realm. Even if it means shafting one of their own.’

  Lyden shrugged. ‘They don’t seem that bad to me.’

  ‘Trust me, mate. I’ve been in this game longer than you. I’ve seen how them lot work. They’re your best friends, right up until the moment everything goes sideways. Then they’ll drop you faster than a hot brick.’

  ‘That was then. Things are different now,’ Lyden said. ‘Times have changed. It’s not like the old days any more.’

  Bald laughed. ‘I may be over the hill but I’m not a fucking idiot. Believe me, nothing ever changes with those twats.’

  A battered dark-blue Ford Mondeo was waiting for Bald outside the terminal building. The polar opposite of the Gulfstream, in terms of luxury. He took the front passenger seat and nodded a greeting at the driver: a plain-clothed guy with a slight paunch, greasy crew cut and a humourless expression. The guy didn’t introduce himself. Didn’t volunteer any information, didn’t ask Bald where he was going or why. Bald guessed he was with the MoD police, the blokes in charge of security at Pontrilas.

  They drove north for several miles, then headed west towards the Welsh border. Thick clouds the colour of asphalt hung low in the sky, threatening rain. England in March. Grey and gloomy and cold. Mexico, with its sun-kissed beaches, was already beginning to feel like a distant dream.

  Twenty minutes later Bald arrived at the training camp.

  There were two entrances to the Pontrilas Army Training Area. A country road ran through the middle of the camp, a mile or so north-east of the nearest village, with entrances on opposite sides of the road. Both sides of the camp were protected by an eight-foot-high wire fence topped with razor wire, with a high hedgerow designed to stop outsiders from peeking in.