Red Strike

by Chris Ryan

  In the next beat, another figure emerged from the passenger seat of the front Lexus. A six-foot-five man mountain in a puffer jacket, bronze tanned, with hands like boulders and peroxide-blond hair sculpted into a flat-top. He looked like the Soviet villain from some eighties action film.

  The drivers didn’t get out of either wagon. They stayed behind the wheels and kept the engines running, headlamps pooling light on the tyre-streaked tarmac. Ready to drive out of the airport again once the handover had been completed.

  The guy with the flat-top haircut walked round to the rear passenger door on the front Lexus, tugged it open, took a step back.

  Two seconds later, Nikolai Volkov climbed stiffly out of the back seat. The Russian ex-spy straightened up and rubbed the base of his spine as he glanced around.

  Flat-Top turned to him and waved a hand at the Phenom, as if seeking Volkov’s approval. The latter cocked his head at the fuselage and nodded, giving Flat-Top the thumbs-up. This is more like it. His body language gave off the impression of a guy in control of the situation, aware of his worth and determined to milk it for every last penny.

  Volkov thinks he’s going to be a star in Russia. A returning hero.

  Flat-Top gave his back to Volkov and turned towards the airstairs, his hands folded in front of him. Volkov looked in the same direction, standing erect.

  Waiting for his reward.

  Two figures disgorged from the plane.

  A man and a woman.

  They were standing on the airstairs, the guy in front and the woman a step behind. Bald narrowed his eyes at them. The guy looked to be another heavy. He had the same broad physique as the guys spread out across the tarmac stand, the same civvy clothing. Black trousers, worn sneakers, with a bright-blue bomber jacket zipped up against the stabbing cold. Bald couldn’t tell from this far away, but he assumed the heavy was armed as well. Presumably with the same Kalashnikov MA rifle as his mates.

  From a hundred metres away, Bald couldn’t get a good look at the woman. She was standing a step behind Bomber, just outside the entry door, her features mostly obscured by the mounted jet engine on the left side of the fuselage. He caught a glimpse of shadow-cloaked face and mid-length hair, but he couldn’t make out anything else.

  ‘Fuck,’ Lyden said from the rear of the cabin. ‘Can’t get a decent shot of her from here.’

  ‘Wait,’ Bald said.

  Bomber led the woman down the airstairs towards the group waiting for them on the ground. A third figure stepped out of the cabin and followed them down the treads. Another Russian tough, several inches shorter than Bomber and perhaps a hundred pounds lighter, with jet-black hair and a beard as thick as a human fist. He was dressed in a pair of acid-wash jeans and a grey hoodie.

  Bald thought, Three people listed on the flight manifest.

  Two men and a woman.

  Strickland thinks someone might be meeting Volkov at the airport.

  Hoodie stopped at the bottom of the airstairs and stood to one side. Bomber nudged the woman ahead of him, gesturing towards Volkov. She stumbled ahead of Bomber, stepped into the bright wash of the light from the wingtips and headlamps.

  Then Bald got a clear look at her.

  She was young. He guessed, early twenties. She had auburn hair and a long, slender physique. She had a timid manner, hands clasped in front of her, head darting left and right. She wore a dark-grey cable-knit jumper, skinny jeans and a pair of white trainers. Bald had the weird sensation that he had seen her somewhere else, but he couldn’t quite place where.

  ‘That face,’ Porter said. ‘I’ve seen it before. On the news.’

  Bald looked at his mucker. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘That’s Volkov’s daughter,’ Porter replied. ‘That’s her.’

  THIRTY-FIVE

  For a long moment none of the four Blades said a word. They looked on in tense silence as the red-headed daughter of Nikolai Volkov hurried across the tarmac to her father. The Russian ex-spy stepped forward from the Lexus SUVs and stood with his arms outstretched, waiting to hug her. Father and daughter embraced fiercely, watched over by the six Russian heavies. Bald felt his stomach muscles clench, something like a knife moving through him.

  ‘You sure it’s her?’ he asked, turning to Porter.

  ‘Definitely. She was on the news the other day. Lives in St Petersburg, I think. There was a story about how she’d gone missing after the Swindon attack.’

  ‘The fuck is she doing here?’ Bald asked nobody in particular.

  But he already knew the answer.

  The reward.

  ‘She must be part of it,’ Porter said. ‘That’s why Volkov is working for the Russians. They’re not blackmailing the bastard. They’ve got his fucking daughter.’

  Bald looked at him. ‘That’s why he’s betraying us?’

  Porter nodded firmly. ‘Has to be. A dad would do anything for his daughter.’

  Bald heard a series of electronic beeps behind him. He tore his eyes away from the family reunion and glanced back at Lyden. ‘Well? Did the image send?’

  ‘They’re looking at it now,’ said Lyden, pushing buttons on the digital camera. ‘Two seconds.’

  ‘Tell them to get a fucking move on and give us the word. We can’t sit around for much longer.’

  ‘Working on it, mate.’

  He swung back round. Across the tarmac, Volkov and his daughter were still holding one another. Going in for the world record, apparently. Bald dimly recalled hearing something on the news about how Volkov had been forced to abandon his family when he’d defected to the UK. According to the reports, the ex-SVR man hadn’t seen his own flesh and blood in years.

  An unnerving thought stabbed at him just then. ‘Why would the Russians go to the trouble of flying his daughter out here? Why not leave her back in Moscow?’

  Porter considered. ‘Maybe Volkov didn’t think they’d honour their side of the bargain. Maybe he wanted to see her before he’d agree to anything.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Bald.

  A second ticked by. Then another.

  Father and daughter finally let go of one another. Volkov took a step back from her, one hand resting on her shoulder, the other touching her cheek. Simply taking her in. Even from a hundred metres away, Bald could sense his overwhelming joy.

  Behind him, he could hear the low restless growls of the Malinoises.

  Any second now the daughter is going to turn away and lead her old man aboard the private jet, he thought. And we’re sitting here waiting for Six to get their arses in gear.

  Another second passed.

  Then Lyden said, ‘They’ve just confirmed her identity. That’s Nadezhda Volkov, all right. Last seen in public two weeks ago.’

  Bald whipped round. ‘What’s the score? Are we good to go?’

  Lyden pressed the earphone closer to his ear as he listened to the voice on the other end of the comms link. Strickland? Moorcroft? One of the two, Bald guessed. There was a long pause before Lyden looked up and said, ‘Orders are to save the daughter if possible.’

  ‘And if we can’t?’ asked Porter.

  ‘Nikolai Volkov remains the priority.’

  Bald sat forward in his seat again and stared through the windscreen, anger simmering in his guts. This should have been a simple ambush. Hit the Russians hard and fast. Grab Volkov and get out of here.

  Now we’ve got to worry about the daughter as well.

  Ahead of them, Volkov exchanged a few words with his daughter. He was smiling and laughing. The happiest man in the world. All his Christmases coming home at once. He had his daughter. The private jet to fly home in. The swish apartment waiting for him in Moscow; the lucrative new career as a well-paid Kremlin puppet. Both members of the Volkov clan were partially obscured behind the semicircle of FSB heavies.

  ‘No clear shot,’ Bald groused. ‘We can’t take the fuckers out from here.’

  Porter said, ‘We’ll have to get closer.’

  ‘How?’ Lyden asked.
‘You want us to drive over there?’

  Bald shook his head. ‘They’ll see us coming and brass us up. We’re as close as we can get without making them suspicious. It’s got to be on foot. Fire and move.’

  ‘What if one of the targets gets hit in the crossfire? Or both?’

  Something snapped inside Bald.

  ‘Fuck it,’ he said. ‘We leave the girl.’

  ‘We can’t, Jock. Orders.’

  ‘Stuff the orders. She’s collateral. The mission is Volkov. We focus on getting him out. Whatever happens to her, tough.’

  ‘She’s an innocent, for Christ’s sake. We’ve got to try.’

  Bald shook his head. ‘That’s just the father in you talking. She’s a lost cause, mate. There’s not gonna be any time to snatch the Doris. I say we go after Volkov and leave her.’

  Porter didn’t reply.

  A hundred metres away, Bald saw Widow’s Peak beckoning over the daughter. A universally understood gesture. I need a word with you.

  Nadezhda Volkov looked from Widow’s Peak to her father and back again. She gave Nikolai a peck on the cheek, turned and walked over to the heavy. Stopped in front of him, bobbed her head, waiting for Widow’s Peak to address her. The FSB man said nothing. Instead he nodded at one of the heavies standing beside the wagons. Flat-Top. The guy took three steps forward, slipped a hand under his jacket and withdrew the Kalashnikov MA compact rifle concealed beneath.

  Nadezhda had her back to Flat-Top. She was still looking patiently at Widow’s Peak, waiting for a question that never came.

  Flat-Top stopped beside Volkov’s daughter. He drew the barrel level with the side of her head.

  And pulled the trigger.

  The gunshot cracked across the airfield.

  Through the gauzy sheen of the windshield, Bald saw Nadezhda Volkov’s head snap backwards. Her arms went floppy, a spray of warm blood bursting out of the bullet-sized hole in the side of her skull. She dropped senselessly to the ground in front of Flat-Top, bright red fluid gushing out the exit wound, spilling across the tarmac.

  In the rear seat of the fire tender cabin, Bald could hear Lyden screaming into the boom mic connected to the transponder. ‘They’ve killed the girl! Repeat, the daughter is down!’

  ‘The fuck did they kill her for?’ Porter said. ‘They needed her alive, surely . . .?’

  ‘No,’ said Bald. ‘They don’t.’

  They just needed her alive long enough to persuade Volkov to work for them, he thought. The bastards were using the daughter to string the ex-SVR man along. Now they’ve got him in their pocket, they don’t need Nadezhda.

  Which prompted another thought.

  What if the press conference in Moscow is a load of bollocks? What if they’re planning to kill Nikolai Volkov too?

  He knew what they had to do.

  We can’t wait for Six to give the green light. No time. We’ve got to act.

  Now.

  Bald snatched up his L119A2 rifle and flipped open the passenger side door on the right side of the cabin, shouting at the others. ‘Move! Go, go! Fucking move it!’

  He was the first one out of the fire tender. Over to his left, Porter grabbed his rifle and bolted out of the driver’s side door. Lyden and Rowe piled out of the back seats with the Malinoises, the former stashing the digital camera in the front pouch of his bulletproof vest before reaching for his weapon. All four Blades ripped off their hi-vis firefighting jackets as they debussed from the cabin, to make them less visible to the enemy as they advanced. As soon as Lyden and Rowe hit the ground they tossed their jackets aside and unclipped the leashes from the collars of the two Malinoises, arms thrusted at the targets to the west as they shouted orders. The dogs bolted forward, racing across the open ground towards the Russians. At the same time Lyden and Rowe hurried forward of the fire tender, taking up their kneeling firing positions alongside Bald and Porter.

  ‘Take out the two at the airstairs,’ Bald said. ‘Me and Porter will drop the others. Then we’ll move in hard and fast, brass up any fuckers still drawing breath.’

  ‘Roger,’ Lyden replied.

  Bald focused his sights on the heavies a hundred metres downstream of their position. His right knee flat against the tarmac, his left elbow resting against the thick muscle of his upper leg. Porter at his nine o’clock, Lyden and Rowe two metres away at his three, aiming at their respective targets. Ahead of them the dogs were racing towards the heavies. They would naturally attack the targets closest to their trainers: the Shithouse Twins. The twins were standing a short distance from the rear Lexus, with their backs to the tender, laughing and pointing at the dead daughter, their giant shoulders jouncing up and down. They were feeling good about themselves. They had killed the daughter of a traitor. They had the double agent in their pockets and a comfortable flight back home to look forward to. They weren’t expecting any trouble.

  The Malinoises were fifty metres from the heavies now. Two or three more seconds until they reached the Shithouse Twins.

  A couple of metres away, Bald could see Widow’s Peak and Flat-Top standing beside the front Lexus. Flat-Top had lowered his gun arm, his head tilted as he stared at the lifeless corpse at his feet. Admiring his handiwork. Widow’s Peak was addressing Volkov, waving a hand at the dead body and jabbing a finger at the ex-spy in a threatening gesture.

  This is how it’s going to work now.

  Volkov didn’t appear to be listening. He stared numbly at his daughter, his trembling body wracked with terror and despair. Bomber and Hoodie stood impassively to one side of the lowered airstairs, arms folded in front of them.

  The plan was stupid-simple.

  The Malinoises would target the Shithouse Twins, taking them out of the fight. As soon as the dogs attacked, there would be confusion in the enemy ranks. The four other heavies would be stunned, wondering what the fuck was happening.

  Giving Bald and Porter and the other lads valuable seconds to open fire.

  The first rounds would be precision shots, intended to knock down as many of the Russians as possible before they had a chance to organise a defensive position. Lyden and Rowe would target Bomber and Hoodie. Bald and Porter would aim for Widow’s Peak and Flat-Top. Once the first rounds had been discharged, the four operators would advance in pairs, firing and moving, keeping the enemy pinned down until they could draw close enough to the aircraft to mop up any survivors.

  With the Russians dropped, Bald and the others would lift Volkov and bug out on the jet.

  In the next half-second, the Malinoises sprang out of the darkness.

  The Shithouse Twins didn’t see the dogs coming. Neither did their mates. The six heavies were standing in an oasis of artificial light. The flashing bulbs on the Phenom wingtips, the bright loom of the headlamps from the wagons, the residual glow of the runway lights. All of it messing with their natural night vision. No way any of them could see the two dog-shapes sprinting towards them.

  Not until it was too late.

  The first Malinois bore down on Shithouse One, sprang up on its hind legs and leaped through the air, pinning itself to his back and tackling him to the ground in a savage blur of nails and teeth and muscle. The Russian screamed as the dog clamped its jaws around his forearm, head wrenching from side to side, as if it was stripping meat off a bone. Shithouse Two heard his twin brother’s agonised cries and spun round. He saw the second dark brown dog-blur charging out of the darkness towards him and raised his right arm to his face. Some ancient instinct. A biological defence mechanism, from the days when humans roamed the African savanna.

  Protect the throat and face at all costs.

  Big mistake.

  The second dog saw the raised arm as a soft target. It leaped forward, sinking its teeth into his flesh, knocking the heavy off-balance. He pinwheeled and toppled backwards, crashing to the tarmac, screaming wildly, arms and legs flailing as the Malinois tore chunks out of his forearm.

  Across the stand, Widow’s Peak, Flat-Top, Hoodie and
Bomber all stood frozen, staring in mute horror at the dogs. Wondering, no doubt, what the fuck was going on.

  They were still wondering when Lyden and Rowe loosed off the first shots.

  Bald was zeroing in on Widow’s Peak when he heard the rifle reports at his nine o’clock. Two of them. Single rounds, well aimed, coordinated. Ca-rack! Ca-rack! In the periphery of his vision he glimpsed the paparazzi-flash of the muzzles, the tongues of flame spewing out of the snouts of the two L119A2 longs. He saw Bomber spasming as a round slapped into the wall of his upper chest, ploughing a hole through all of his major plumbing. Heart, lungs, all the big vascular structures.

  A quarter of a second later, Hoodie took a bullet to the throat. His head jerked back and his body jolted, as if he’d just run into a clothesline. Blood fountained out of the neck hole in a furious spray, scarlet against the black of the night. He dropped to the ground, collapsing in a heap beside Bomber.

  Four heavies down.

  Four left, including the drivers.

  A hundred metres away, Widow’s Peak and Flat-Top whipped round, looking towards their slotted mates at the airstairs. Bald calmly lined up the illuminated red-dot sight on his rifle with Widow’s Peak. Aimed for the torso. At his side, Porter was training his rifle sights on Flat-Top. The L119A2 longs they were using had a maximum effective range of six hundred metres. Deadly at fifty metres, accurate at two hundred in the hands of an experienced operator. Bald had fired tens of thousands of rounds from similar models over the years. He knew the weapon like the back of his hand. He sucked in a breath, exhaled, depressed the trigger.

  The long barked.

  The bullet missed.

  Bald saw the orange-flared sparks as the round ricocheted off the front end of the Lexus, ten or twelve inches to the left of the Russian. A shitty effort. You’re still rusty, the voice in Bald’s head told him. All those months of hard living in Playa del Carmen, catching up.

  Coming back to haunt you.

  The missed round snapped the two heavies out of their dumb-trance. Widow’s Peak and Flat-Top dropped to their haunches, a split-second before Porter squeezed off a single round from his rifle. The round whipped past Flat-Top and carried off into the hollow blackness. Bald fired a three-round burst at the Russians, trying to nail them before they could scramble for cover. The bullets landed short of their targets, smacked into the tarmac half a metre behind them. In the next moment Widow’s Peak and Flat-Top dived behind the far side of the front Lexus, disappearing from view.