by Chris Ryan
A thump on the door. He started.
‘Everything alright in there, sir?’
The colonel frowned. It was the voice of one of the men. He couldn’t remember his name. He cleared his throat. ‘What?’ he demanded, feigning a sleepy crack in his voice.
‘It’s Sandy, sir. Just checking everything’s alright.’
‘For God’s sake man, you woke me up. Can’t a fellow get a night’s sleep around here? Just . . . bugger off, will you?’
A pause. ‘I’ll be out here if you need me, sir.’
The colonel tried to express his outrage at being treated like a child, but couldn’t quite manage it. He harrumphed a little, and spluttered, but then fell silent again.
He wished he’d brought a bottle up with him. Without Dutch courage it was going to be a long night. He continued to sit on the edge of his bed, staring blankly into the darkness.
Christina Somers couldn’t sleep. Nothing new there. Her nights had been broken ever since she heard the dreadful news about Ibrahim. To think a man whom she’d liked so much and respected so well, a man of such fierce intelligence and apparent loyalty, could be capable of such horrors. It had shifted Christina’s world on its axis. Sometimes, in the dead of night, she would fantasise about what she might say to him, if they found themselves face to face again. They had bonded before, over a shared love of the languages in which she had instructed him. Surely she’d be able to appeal to him. To talk him round. To find the old Ibrahim buried deep inside the monster he’d become.
But then she thought about what he had done, and her idealism was replaced by the gnawing fear that had become her near-constant companion. Fear not only for herself but for little Danny, and of course for Bethany. Christina wondered where she was. She hadn’t liked the look of that man Bethany was with. Or maybe, she was honest enough with herself to admit, she hadn’t liked the way he looked at her and she looked at him. Jealousy, it turned out, could be an even stronger emotion than fear.
She turned over her duvet and opened her eyes. The door to her bedroom was half open. Frank had insisted on it, ever since Bethany and her SAS man had been here. A sharp rectangle of light cut into her room, surrounding the shadow of Frank whom she knew was sitting on a chair in the corridor, probably reading one of the paperback detective novels he liked so much. He was a reassuring presence, a bit like having a kindly uncle nearby, albeit an uncle with a handgun holstered to his chest. But the reassurance only went so far. She knew, beyond question, that neither Frank nor Alec would be any kind of a match for Ibrahim, if he found out where they were.
The thought chilled her.
The screaming, when it started, was sudden and intense. It was little Danny, and he sounded as if all the horrors of the night had descended upon him at once. Christina felt a blinding flash of panic and hurled herself from her bed, sprinting to the door in her pyjamas, dread thoughts unfolding in her mind. Danny was still screaming: ‘NO! GO AWAY! NOT ME! GO!’, his voice a high-pitched and panicked shriek. Frank had stood up, but was struggling to loosen his handgun from its holster. There was no sign of Alec. Christina hurled herself past Frank towards the half-open door of Danny’s room on the other side of the corridor. ‘LEAVE ME ALONE! GO AWAY! GO!’
‘Get back, girl!’ Frank roared, and she felt his hand on her left shoulder, pulling her back.
‘IBRAHIM!’ Christina shrieked. ‘NO! LEAVE HIM!’
Frank had barged in front of her. His handgun was raised to eye level and he held it with both hands. He advanced on the door and kicked it open. Danny screamed even louder. His terrified voice seemed to echo inside Christina’s head. She clenched her eyes shut, waiting for the sound of gunfire . . .
It didn’t come.
The screaming had stopped.
She opened her eyes. Frank was inside the room. There was a sudden silence. Alec appeared at the far end of the corridor, bleary-eyed and half dressed. ‘What the . . .’
Christina held up one hand to silence him. She crept to the open door and, with great trepidation, looked in.
Danny was sitting up in bed. His face was white, his adorable mop of hair dishevelled. Frank had perched on the edge and, having laid his firearm to one side, put an arm around the boy. He was talking to Danny in a quiet, calming whisper. He looked up at Christina and smiled. ‘Nobody called Ibrahim in here,’ he said in his soft West Country accent. ‘Just a young man who’s woken himself up with the night terrors.’
Danny looked at Christina and the sight of her made him burst into tears again. ‘I want my mum,’ he wailed. ‘I miss my mum.’
‘You’re not the first little boy to say that, are you now?’ Frank said consolingly. ‘Don’t you worry about it, lad. Your mum’ll be home before you know it.’
It was all Christina could do, a hot flush of relief spreading through her, to stop herself articulating the thought in her head: I miss your mum too. I want to know when she’s coming home.
Standing there in her pyjamas, she wondered where Bethany was. What she was doing. And if she was safe.
Bethany White lay in the darkness.
She was fully clothed and fully awake. There were no lights on in her room, but her eyes had adjusted to the dark and she was staring at a crack, faintly visible, in the ceiling. There was a film of sweat on her forehead, but her breathing was shallow and steady. She was calm. The food she had bought from the convenience store sat uneaten on the table. A bottle of water, half drunk, was on her bedside table. Next to it was the handgun. Cocked and locked.
Although her room was quiet, the hotel was noisy. Over the course of the day and night, she had heard shouting in the streets and in nearby rooms. She had heard the creak of plumbing and the thump of heavy footsteps in the room above. A woman had screamed, but it hadn’t lasted long. Doors banged frequently enough for it to be clear that these rooms were being rented out for only short periods. She wondered if, having been here now for twelve hours, she was already the longest-staying guest.
Each new noise, however, kept her alert. Each time she heard a shout, she tried to determine whether it sounded closer or further away than the last one. Each footstep was a potential approach to her locked door. More than once, she had grabbed her handgun at the sound of creaking floorboards outside. And she grabbed it now, because that was what she had just heard.
Slowly, so she made no noise, Bethany swung her legs over the side of the bed. She listened again. Silence. Maybe she had imagined those footsteps in the first place. She crossed the room, treading softly, and placed herself by the door. She listened closely where it met the door frame. There was no doubt: she could hear breathing.
Her handgun was by her side. Now she raised it so it was shoulder-high and pointing up. The breathing on the other side of the door was fast. Wheezing.
A knock on the door. Bethany started.
‘Salam,’ she said, uncertainly. Hello.
‘Salam. I have brought some wine. Perhaps you would like some.’ Bethan recognised the voice of the man at reception. A sour expression crossed her face. She lowered the gun.
‘I want to be left alone,’ she said. ‘Go away. Don’t disturb
me again.’
The heavy breathing didn’t stop. The reception guy coughed chestily. ‘It is good wine,’ he said. ‘I bought it specially.’
‘Leave me alone,’ Bethan reiterated.
The reception guy mumbled something she couldn’t hear, but then the sound of breathing stopped and his footsteps disappeared down the corridor again.
Bethany glanced down at the door wedge that Danny Black had told her to fit under the door. The guy knew what he was talking about, no question. She wondered where he was now. Somewhere on the Syrian side of the border, she guessed. At least he should be, if he and his team were on schedule.
She walked back to her bed, laid her weapon on the bedside table, and lay down again to stare at the ceiling. She wondered if she should leave. It would be easy to do. But not the right thing, she decided.
She needed this room, squalid and dark and simple though it was. And if the reception guy’s ardour got the better of him? Bethany had dealt with worse.
She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. Get some sleep, she told herself. You have a busy time ahead.
14
To start with, the terrain on the Syrian side of the border was flat and sparse: a vast, empty plain of hard-packed earth and low, wiry scrub. The area was not without towns and smaller settlements. Because the land was flat, Danny could see the glow of built-up areas in the distance. Their line of travel, however, avoided those areas. In that respect, at least, Barak’s itinerary was a good one.
After an hour’s driving, however, the terrain became more undulating. It meant that the team was less easy to spot but also that they were unable to see for a great distance in any direction. Guerrero continued to drive blind, relying on his night-vision gear. For Danny and the others, it was a journey in the dark.
Forty-five minutes later they were travelling along the furrow between two raised areas, when Guerrero braked suddenly and without warning. Danny didn’t need to ask what the problem was. With his night-vision goggles, Guerrero was more sensitive to light than the rest of them. He must have seen something.
The team moved like a single being. Each man opened his door and exited the vehicle with his weapon, silently falling down on one knee into the firing position. Danny immediately saw what had alerted Guerrero: moving beams of light, just like those they’d seen on the other side of the border, over the raised ground to his eleven o’clock. He panned his weapon in that direction just as the beams of light stopped moving and disappeared. There was the sound of a vehicle’s doors opening and slamming shut. Then voices. Danny tried to estimate how far away they were. Thirty metres. Maybe a little more. He was certain of one thing, though: they were speaking Russian.
He wasn’t the only person to notice. ‘Ain’t no regular Russian troops operating in this neighbourhood,’ Guerrero said quietly over comms. ‘We got ourselves some Spetsnaz.’
‘I don’t want this going noisy,’ Danny said. ‘Hold your fire unless I give the . . .’
He was unable to finish his sentence. A figure appeared on the brow of the hill. In the fraction of a second after it appeared, Danny saw it was military personnel. He could see the outline of a Kevlar helmet, and the bulge of a kneepad on the right knee.
Then he heard the gunshot that killed the man.
It came from Rollett’s rifle.
‘What the fuck . . .’ Danny hissed.
The shot was true. The target collapsed on the far side of the brow.
‘Get in the car,’ Guerrero barked. The team did as he said, closing their doors as he turned the engine over, knocked the vehicle into gear and lurched ahead.
‘I told you to hold your fire!’ Danny bellowed at Rollett.
‘No fucking point,’ Rollett said. ‘You think they were just going to ask us nicely what we were up to and then let us go? It went noisy the moment he saw us. This way, they’re one down before we start.’
‘Will you motherfuckers stop arguing?’ Guerrero said.
Danny forced himself not to retort. There was no point. The contact had happened.
‘What are the Russians even doing in this neck of the woods?’ Danny said.
‘Surveillance,’ Barak said. He sounded very tense. ‘Looking for anti-government militants.’
Danny caught a gleam of headlights in the rear-view mirror. ‘They’re following us,’ he stated.
‘How many?’ Ludlow said.
‘I don’t know,’ Danny said. ‘I didn’t get the chance to recce, remember?’
Guerrero accelerated. The vehicle bumped and rattled over the rough terrain. Danny caught another glimpse of headlights behind them: two sets, maybe? It was momentary and he couldn’t be sure. They had a decision to make: continue the contact, or hide. Guerrero clearly had the same thought. ‘They’ll comb the fucking area for us, if we try to hide,’ he said. ‘Gotta take them out.’
‘Fuck,’ Danny muttered. A trail of bodies was exactly what he didn’t need, if he was to stay under the radar, and taking out a Russian SF team brought with it a whole new set of problems. But the Yank was right. Try to hide now, they’d be dodging these soldiers for the next forty-eight hours. ‘You think we’re leaving tracks?’ he shouted.
‘Ground’s pretty hard,’ Guerrero replied. Danny had to hand it to him: he sounded calm.
‘Accelerate harder,’ Danny said. ‘When I give the word, pull off to the right and loop back round. We’ll get behind them and attack from the rear.’
Guerrero nodded. He clearly understood what Danny had in mind. Danny looked back over his seat. ‘Get down,’ he told Barak, who was blocking his view. Barak lowered his head. Rollett and Ludlow faced forward, their faces coldly expressionless. Through the rear window, Danny caught another glimpse of headlights. His brain was making a raft of fine calculations. How far away were the enemy vehicles? About a hundred metres. Were they using night-vision? Unknown. Could they see the Hilux by the naked eye? Possibly, even though Guerrero was driving without lights. If they were going to loop back, they had to do it when the undulating ground put them out of sight.
The headlights disappeared as the Hilux entered a dip in the road. They reappeared two seconds later as the Russian patrol moved on to higher ground. They disappeared for a second time as the Russians dipped down.
‘Now,’ Danny said.
Everyone was violently thrown around as Guerrero yanked the car to the right. For a moment, Danny thought he’d lost control. He felt the left-hand wheels leave the ground and the change in momentum seemed to spin the vehicle on its horizontal axis. But then Guerrero regained control and drilled the Hilux along a dip in the undulating terrain before making another ninety-degree turn and continuing back the way they’d come, camouflaged by raised ground between themselves and the road.
‘Stop,’ Danny said. Guerrero hit the brakes. Danny wound down his passenger window and heard the sound of the Russian vehicles speeding past.
He looked over at Ludlow and Rollett. They were also winding down their windows. ‘Ready?’
‘Ready.’
‘Go,’ Danny instructed.
Guerrero hit the gas and forced the Hilux over the raised ground back on to the road. As soon as they were over the brow of the hill, Danny knew the patrol would have noticed them. But they weren’t likely to expect an SF manoeuvre like this, so Danny’s team had the element of surprise. Another ninety-degree turn and they were directly behind the Russian convoy. It was definitely two cars, Land Rovers perhaps, Danny could see that now. The nearest was twenty-five metres ahead of them, the furthest ten metres beyond that. Guerrero was flooring the Hilux, and they were gaining on the targets. Danny manoeuvred his assault through the window and leaned out. He was aware of Ludlow doing the same from the rear window on the other side. He set his weapon to automatic fire, aimed at the rear of the furthest target, and fired a burst while Ludlow opened up on the nearest target.
Shooting from a moving vehicle: it was a mainstay of the SAS fast-driving course. Danny and Ludlow made no mistake. The back tyres of both vehicles burst, and the rear windows shattered. The two Land Rovers spun to a halt, broadside on. Guerrero hit the brakes while Danny and Ludlow released another burst, spraying the sides of the vehicles with rounds. Rollett, who was sitting behind Danny, exited the vehicle. He fired short bursts of suppressing fire at the Land Rovers, shattering their windows and peppering them with rounds. It was impossible to tell how many enemy targets there were, or how many they’d hit, but the Russians wouldn't be able to fire back while the unit kept them pinned down. So long as Danny and the guys dominated the situation completely, this could only really end one way.
Guerrero exited the vehicle and joined Rollett in advancing on the Land Rovers, firing bursts alternately with him. Danny grabbed a fresh magazine from his ops vest and reloaded. He could hear some screaming in one of the Land Rovers, but t
hen there was another burst from Guerrero and the screaming stopped. Danny and Ludlow advanced behind the other two, firing short bursts towards the furthest target. Guerrero and Rollett were at the windows of the first Land Rover now, and firing single shots point blank at the occupants. Distance to the second Land Rover: ten metres. There was movement on its far side. Two figures had thrown themselves out of the vehicle. They were sprinting away from it, but must have known they didn’t have a chance. Danny picked them off with brutal ease, two single shots in the back. As the rounds hit their bodies, a shower of blood burst from the entry wound before they fell to the ground with dull thuds.
Ludlow was aiming his weapon in through the open windows of the second vehicle. ‘Clear!’ he shouted.
‘Clear,’ Guerrero echoed. And suddenly there was complete silence.
In addition to the two guys Danny had nailed, there were three more corpses in the first Land Rover. Two of them had taken shots to the skull. One of them, the driver, had bled out from the side of his neck and was slumped over the steering wheel. Both engines had stalled and the interiors of the two vehicles were a gory, blood-spattered mess.
‘Fuck’s sake,’ Danny hissed, and kicked the first Land Rover in frustration.
‘We didn’t have a choice,’ Rollett grunted.
‘We had a fucking choice,’ Danny spat back. ‘We could have talked our way past them, spouted the press line, paid them off, anything. Now anybody with half a brain can join a straight line between our crossing point and this fucking meat market and work out which direction we’re travelling.’
Rollett shrugged awkwardly. ‘Nobody knows we’re here,’ he said, clearly unconvinced by his own words.
‘You sure about that?’ Danny railed. ‘You want to bet your fucking house on it? Word gets back to the Russians that six of their guys just got hit, they’ll be all over us like a fucking rash. Drones, the works. If they decide it was Syrian rebels, they won’t fuck around, they’ll have fast air here . . .’