by David Carter
“Good. Now stand up. Let’s discuss this over a drink. We’re all friends here, aren’t we?” Blaze handed Skinny-Jay’s Desert Eagle back.
Skinny-Jay nodded to his bouncers. The men filed inside.
It took only three shots of whisky before Skinny-Jay had heard enough. “You’re out of your motherfuckin’ minds!” he exclaimed. “It’s a suicide mission!”
“Not if you join us,” said Blaze.
“Look, I want that motherfuckin’ skinhead six-feet-under more than anyone. But if what you say is true, Scarface just inherited an army. We’ll likely be outnumbered.”
“But we have the element of surprise.”
“That may be so. But I don’t like it, which leads me to say that I think it’s time you all left before my motherfuckin’ hospitality runs dry.” He nodded to his bodyguards. They each placed their hands at the ready on their pistols.
“All right, all right, we’re leaving,” Blaze knocked back his remaining whisky and slammed his glass down on the table. “You know the location to their operation should you change your mind. Think about it, all right? You could go about your business without competition. You would own the streets.”
Skinny Jay rose from his seat, reaching for his Desert Eagle. “Last warning, motherfucker.”
Ryan and Doyle scrambled for the exit without another word. The SAS were right behind him. Blaze remained, face to face with Skinny-Jay. “Chicken shit,” he growled.
Skinny-Jay fired the Desert Eagle. Blaze felt the bullet whiz past his ear and burrow into the wall behind.
“Fuck, man!” Blaze scolded him.
“Get outta my motherfuckin’ club. And if I ever lay eyes on you again, I’ll shoot your white motherfuckin’ ass.”
Blaze gave him one last dirty stare before joining Ryan and the others outside.
Chapter 65
The clock on the dashboard ticked over to one minute past midnight. It had been a frantic four hours and twenty-seven minutes of non-stop driving north from Manhattan until Doyle finally turned off Upper Works Road onto Adirondack Park. The armoured van also containing Ryan and the SAS crawled along the gravel road toward the forgotten ghost town. The van’s headlights revealed a host of rickety shacks, rusted conveyor belts, piles of timber and rocks. Large deteriorated buildings strangled by moss and creepers lined the bumpy road, making for an eerie greeting as the soft crackling of gravel beneath the van’s tyres popped in their ears.
Tahawus was formerly a prosperous iron ore mining town—remotely located in the vast Adirondack Mountain Ranges. Its position near the northernmost point of the Hudson made for an excellent processing site during the 1850s, but it was closed due to impurities of titanium dioxide present in the iron, making it difficult for the equipment of that era to process the ore properly. No one had visited the site in many decades. It was deemed unsafe, and closed to the general public. It was the perfect hideaway.
Doyle parked the van in a large clearing. With the small, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it township in their rear view, Doyle said, “Best if we go on foot from here.”
Ryan and Blaze agreed.
The gravel beneath everyone’s feet crunched as they disembarked the van, each wielding a hunting knife and a pistol around their waist, except for Ace and Trigger who had conveniently neglected to return two of Skinny-Jay’s Ak 47s with his Hummer.
The road carried on past the clearing. It was lined with thick bush scrub. Doyle and Ryan split off and took point on either side of the road, melding into the shadows as the half-moon cast its light upon the mountainside. Trigger and Blaze were with Ryan. Spider and Ace teamed up with Doyle. They had no idea what to expect in terms of numbers awaiting them. All they had was a Google Earth satellite image of forestry.
After reading what little information existed about Tahawus, Doyle had deemed it safe to drive through the main processing site, in the knowledge that the town itself resembled a junkyard of rusty scrap metal, which left only one logical place the brotherhood might set up camp—through a long train tunnel that still remained in the mountainside—just beyond the main township where a cluster of buildings, according to the Google-Earth satellite image, appeared still intact. Doyle was of the opinion they had been built in more recent times, well after Tahawus had been abandoned, which fitted well with their theory that the brotherhood were indeed operating their twisted operation in the mountains.
No one made a sound as they crept along the road till they came face to face with the pitch-black tunnel entrance. It was around eight feet tall, and wide enough for a sizable truck to negotiate without incident.
For a moment Ryan couldn’t help admiring the skills and ingenuity of the hardened generations of labourers that had come before him; the brickwork lining the interior of the cavernous tunnel was still in excellent condition. It had taken a little over five years to build and was over half a mile in length. His mind quickly snapped back to the task at hand as a rush of cool mountain air coursed through the tunnel and brushed over his face. All of a sudden he felt sick in the stomach. The possibilities of what lay ahead were mindboggling. He wondered if he’d ever make it home to see Sharon, vowing to never put the love of his life or his career in jeopardy again should he make it out of this.
As they trudged through the waterlogged track bed, Doyle suddenly panicked as a raucous noise startled him. He hurriedly shone his torch in the direction of the loud screech.
Rats.
They continued until Doyle raised his hand and motioned for everyone to get down. There was light ahead. They cautiously ventured up to the mouth of the tunnel, and what stood before them made their insides squirm.
The Google Earth satellite image had misled them. It wasn’t just a small cluster of buildings in a clearing. It was more like a large concentration camp. A wire-mesh fence ran around the entire perimeter, complete with spotlights and coiled razor wire. Guards wielding machine guns roamed the camp’s interior. They looked focused, trained; not the average street-gang personality. Doyle recognised the number plate on the black Chevy pickup truck parked in the compound. It belonged to Scarface.
“This is worse than I could have ever imagined,” Doyle whispered.
“I think we should turn back and call the authorities,” Ryan replied.
“Are you out of your mind?” Doyle responded. “I’ll be arrested on sight. Turn back if you like; I’ll do this alone if I have to.”
“I’m with Doyle,” Blaze said. “Scarface is mine. I ain’t handing him over to the pigs.”
Ryan sighed. “Well, this isn’t about you and your need for vengeance. This is a rescue operation. God knows how many captives they’ve got in there.”
Blaze knew he was right. “I’ll find a way in,” he said. “Stay here.” He ducked off into the scrub surrounding the camp.
Doyle wanted to call out for him to stop, but it was too late.
“Now what?” he asked Ryan.
“We wait. Best if we stay together until we know what we’re up against.”
Blaze ducked and weaved around the perimeter, being sure to not make any unnecessary sound.
The camp layout was quite simple. There were twelve buildings inside the perimeter that Blaze was sure were barracks, and two much larger buildings towards the centre of the compound which Blaze considered likely to be their mess hall and main operations hub. Apart from that there was a range of large pickup trucks parked inside the main gate—directly opposite the mouth of the tunnel—and a few smaller buildings which resembled ablution blocks and supply sheds. This gave Blaze an idea. He figured that if the camp had running water for ablutions, it was likely to be connected to the existing water and sewage lines of Tahawus, which also meant there had to be underground access. All he needed to do was find the manhole in the surrounding scrub. There’s no way they wouldn’t have built a secondary entrance closer to the camp in case of an emergency, he thought.
He made his way back around the perimeter to the group and relayed his idea.
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“I like it,” said Doyle. “Everyone split up and report back here in ten minutes.”
They separated and scoured the forest floor surrounding the perimeter in search of the manhole. Five minutes went past. Nothing. Eight minutes ticked by. Blaze’s theory was looking less and less likely by the second.
Doyle bumped into Ryan. “Perhaps there’s no water system after all,” he whispered. “I mean, we are way off the beaten track out here.”
Ryan disagreed. “For what the brotherhood are doing, they’d surely need running water. We need to keep looking.”
They stayed together, deciding it was time to head back towards the tunnel. Doyle picked up the pace, wanting to be sure he wasn’t late for the rendezvous. Then he tripped over and jarred his jaw on a tree root. What the hell was that? he thought.
He heaved himself up, straining his eyes as he peered down at his feet. The pain of his bruised jaw vanished in a heartbeat.
He’d tripped on the manhole cover.
Chapter 66
The manhole was padlocked shut from the outside. Trigger had carried the backpack containing all the odds and ends they might need for their assault. After a lifetime of crime and breaking into many dangerous places, bolt cutters were always one of the first items Blaze packed.
The padlock was tougher than Blaze would have liked to admit. He’d bought only a small pair of cutters with him. It took a few attempts to dismantle the stubborn chunk of metal, but eventually, he prevailed.
Doyle had elected himself in command, and had already decided who was coming down the manhole with him, and who stayed behind. The case of the brotherhood and the mystery women had been his baby from the outset. He seemed to know what he was doing; he was FBI trained after all. Blaze and Ryan sensed there was no getting in his way. Doyle chose both of them as well as Spider to accompany him. “Ace, Trigger; I want you to pick a nice comfy hidey-hole in the tree-line where you can shoot as many fuckers as possible with those AKs when the time comes. You’re essentially our eyes and ears. Even if we’re all captured and can’t complete the mission, I need you to kill until you can’t kill no more. It’s imperative we take this camp. If we’re unsuccessful, women will be held captive for generations to come. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
They both nodded.
Doyle addressed the entire group. He felt he owed them some kind of spirited speech before going into battle. He began by saying, “I can’t thank you enough for your help and cooperation in finding this camp. It means a great deal to me that you’d risk yourselves for the lives of others. For years I’ve been the laughingstock of the FBI, and now, even with my career in tatters and a prison cell awaiting me, there’s nowhere else I’d rather be. And, Blaze–” he looked him in the eye, “I’m truly sorry for what you put yourself through in order to gain access to the knowledge of the brotherhood’s legacy. Now is your chance to show them exactly how traumatising it was for you. On this day we take no prisoners. Blood must be spilled. This place is top-secret, even among members of the brotherhood. If word of this place gets out, it will only grow.” He paused a moment, then said, “God speed, gentlemen.”
With his profound words lingering in their ears, Doyle scampered down the ladder into the water system below.
Ryan, Spider, and Blaze followed him. A steady trickle of water ran over of their boots as they hunched over, traversing the sturdy underground pipes. They were made from solid concrete; it was clear the brotherhood had invested in their camp long-term.
Ace and Trigger made their way back to the tunnel entrance. “So where should we set up?” Ace asked.
Trigger was an expert marksman. His obsession with weaponry made him perfect for this assignment. He was the ultimate sniper. He observed the tree-line until he spotted what they needed. He led Ace around the rear of the camp, where a row of tall, bushy trees overlooked the razor wire and buildings, giving a clear view of the open ground inside the compound. They embraced one another before Trigger gave Ace a leg-up, then carefully handed him his rifle and ammunition. “Good luck, brother. You draw their fire, and I’ll pick those fuckers off one at a time when their backs are turned,” Trigger said.
“You know I will,” Ace replied.
Without another word, Trigger scurried off into the scrub towards the opposite side of the camp. He had a feeling deep inside that this was a fool’s errand. Judging by the size and scale of the camp, there could be upwards of fifty or more trained soldiers inside. Maybe more, maybe fewer. It was anyone’s guess.
He picked out a hidey-hole of his own. He awkwardly scaled the tree whilst carrying his rifle slung over his shoulder, then came back down for his ammunition. He knew he had limited rounds, but unlike most, he had one slight advantage over any other marksman: he needed only one bullet to kill; he never missed.
The tree he chose seemed almost purpose-built for their mission. The main trunk had stopped growing at the perfect height. He had a flat surface to place his feet and get a perfect view inside the compound. From that same vantage point, a series of strong, thick branches formed a protective turret around him. He could duck for cover and fire his weapon between the branches, giving him the slightest chance of victory.
*
Doyle reached the end of the water main and prepared to climb the ladder that he hoped would lead them somewhere inside the camp. He clambered up the rungs one at the time, being sure to stay silent. As he reached the top, he carefully tried to remove the manhole cover.
It wouldn’t budge.
“Come on, what’s the holdup?” Ryan whispered.
“Cover’s stuck,” Doyle replied. Then he quickly held his index finger over his lips. He’d heard voices directly above him. After a minute of listening, Doyle motioned for them to climb back down. “I’ve got an idea,” he said. “Looks like we found our way in, but it’s likely locked from the other side, which makes sense, as that’s probably how some of the prisoners previously attempted escape.”
“So how do we open it?”
“I swear I heard voices coming from above. How about we chance it and draw them down here. We’ll have the element of surprise.”
“Sounds good to me,” Blaze said.
“But we don’t know how many men are up there,” Ryan said.
“I’m sure I only made out two distinct voices,” Doyle replied.
“I don’t see what fucking choice we have,” Spider blurted out.
“Let’s do it,” Doyle decided. He pulled his knife from its sheath and clambered back up the ladder, lightly tapping the steel manhole cover with the tip.
Tink, tink, tink.
No response.
He tapped harder a second time.
TINK, TINK, TINK.
He heard confused voices directly above him. He quickly clambered back down the ladder, sure in the knowledge that whatever restraints holding the manhole cover down were being rapidly removed.
Light suddenly filled the void as a pasty white scalp appeared in the manhole. “Can’t see anything,” the man called out to his comrade.
“Better go check it out. You know what they’ll do to us if anything happens while we’re on duty,” his mate replied.
The manhole entrance was located in the mess hall’s storeroom, and was guarded twenty-four hours a day after an escape attempt had nearly succeeded. The brotherhood left nothing to chance.
The guards dropped down into the tunnel, nervously feeling their way forward into the abyss.
“It’s nothing,” one of the soldiers said. “Must have been a rat or something.”
“Good enough for me,” the other soldier replied. “This place gives me the creeps. Come on, let’s get outta here and do a roll call to make sure nothing’s amiss.”
As soon as they turned around to head back up the ladder, Blaze charged forward from the darkness and savagely shredded the closest man’s throat with a violent strike. He dropped to the ground, face first, choking and spluttering as blood and running water filled hi
s airways.
He was dead in seconds.
Blaze moved aside so Doyle could deal to the second man. He lashed out in fury, slashing the startled man across the face, then repeatedly stabbed him in the chest. The sound of Doyle’s knife ripping through flesh and bone drowned out the calming trickle of water at their feet until the deadweight of the soldier fell in a heap next to his comrade.
The water ran red with anger until both men had bled out.
Two down.
And a world of unknown dangers to come.
Chapter 67
“You okay, mate?” Ryan gently placed his hand on Doyle’s shoulder. “You really did a number on that fella,” Ryan looked down at the soldier Doyle has vented his built-up frustration on. Doyle’s angry blade had lacerated his face in two; his bloody, mangled chest resembled the work of a psychopath.
There was a steel in Doyle’s eye that Ryan hadn’t noticed up until this moment—a steel and confidence that filled Ryan with hope they might get out of this alive. “That asshole had it coming,” Doyle muttered. He cared not about the vermin laying at his feet.
Enough time had passed that Doyle deemed it safe to venture up the ladder. No one had come down looking for the two soldiers. “After you,” Blaze said, patting him on the back.
For once, Blaze was secretly glad to not be in charge. He, like Ryan, had noticed a sudden change in Doyle’s demeanour. He’d gone from almost being Ryan’s twin in personality, to fucking Rambo. He oozed confidence, not afraid of what nasties might lie around the bend. An armoured Panzer division would have stood no chance against him. Blaze took this opportunity to hone his skills on killing instead of leading. He was sure he’d be relying on them in the immediate future.
Doyle heaved himself up into the storeroom and waited for the other three to join him. There was only one way out, through the storeroom door. It creaked on its hinges as Doyle slowly opened it while he scanned the obstacles beyond.
Blaze had been correct in his assumption. It was indeed the mess hall. And it was vacant. “Coast is clear,” he whispered.