Betrayal
Page 22
No, he wouldn’t miss this place one bit.
He paused for a moment at the entrance to his old workshop, still strewn with the tools he’d used to construct the bombs. Such a task had been easy for a man of his experience. He’d dealt with explosives throughout most of his life, both in the army and as a civilian engineer, and knew how best to employ their effects.
He hadn’t asked too many questions about their intended targets, partly to guarantee the security of the buyers but mainly because he just didn’t want to know. It was easier to justify if he knew nothing. In fact, it had almost been possible to forget he’d done it.
Almost.
Pushing those thoughts away, he hurried past, heading for the living room.
He was just laying down the suitcase when the front door resounded with a hard, almost violent blow. His already labouring heart went into overtime at the realisation that someone was right outside.
Was it the FSB come to arrest him, or his buyer come to rescue him?
Either way he was taking no chances. Reaching into his coat, he pulled out a Makarov pistol; a relic from his days in the Red Army. He hadn’t maintained it very well over the years, but the weapon was so simple that there were few things to go wrong with it. He was confident it would still fire if he pulled the trigger, though he prayed it wouldn’t come to that.
With the pistol gripped tight in sweating hands, he advanced slowly towards the front door. It was heavy and solid, built in the days when strength was the best deterrent against theft, and secured with a deadbolt on his side. Nothing short of a battering ram would break it down.
The door rattled in its frame as it took another hard blow. Whoever was out there clearly wasn’t one for waiting around.
‘Who’s there?’ he called out, trying to sound braver and more dominant than he felt. The Makarov in his hand offered less reassurance than he’d hoped. There could be a dozen armed men out there for all he knew, and one rusted pistol certainly wouldn’t stop them.
Then, to his surprise, a woman’s voice called out in answer: ‘Alexander.’
Relief surged through him. He hadn’t expected his saviour to come in the form of a woman, but he certainly wasn’t about to question it at that moment. If anything, her prompt arrival here was a telling indication of how powerful and organised his new benefactor was. Shoving the Makarov in his pocket, he hurried forwards, unbarred the door and swung it open.
The woman who stood before him was tall and strikingly attractive, her short blonde hair damp from the rain, her icy blue eyes locked with his. She was dressed in woodland camouflage gear, and judging by the mud splattered on her boots and trousers, she had already hiked some distance to get here.
Without saying a word she stepped in over the threshold, and instinctively Glazov backed off a pace or two. There was something about her, some hidden aura of menace, that made him shiver from more than just the cold.
‘W-who are you?’ he stammered, wishing he’d kept the Makarov in his hand.
For a moment he caught a glimmer of something in her eyes; something that put him in mind of a field mouse about to be pounced on by a hawk. She hadn’t come all this way to help him, he realised at last. Why would they go to all that trouble for a sick, crippled old man?
She had come to silence him before the FSB got here.
In a moment of blind panic, his hand went for the gun in his pocket.
He was far too late. He saw her draw a weapon from a holster behind her back, saw the long tapering barrel of a silencer as she swung it up towards his head in a single fluid motion.
His last sight was of her cold, remorseless blue eyes staring into his as she squeezed the trigger. There was a flash, a moment of sickening blackness, and then he saw no more.
Lowering the silenced M1911 automatic, Anya looked down at Glazov. He was lying in a heap in the hallway, his blood slowly soaking into the floorboards beneath. His face still bore an expression of blank, uncomprehending shock, his eyes wide and glassy. A single .45-calibre round to the forehead had ended his life before he’d even hit the ground.
She didn’t allow herself to feel bad for him. He might have been a sick man of advancing years just trying to make some money, but to do it he’d knowingly constructed bombs designed to kill innocent people. Men like him deserved no pity.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the faint rumble of a car engine in the distance. Returning to the door, she peered out into the darkened woods that surrounded the isolated farm.
Sure enough, she could just make out twin points of light bouncing and jolting between the tree trunks. A single vehicle trying to negotiate the muddy, neglected road that wound its way up here.
It could only be the FSB, coming here to arrest Glazov. Little did they know that they were already too late.
At a guess, she would put them half a mile away, with a top speed of no more than 20 miles per hour over such rough terrain. She had a minute, perhaps two at most, before they got here.
She would have to move fast.
Emerging from the forest road that had snaked its way uphill, the 4x4 found its path barred by a 15-foot-high chain-link fence that apparently marked the boundary of Glazov’s farm. A pair of big double gates straddled the road, on which a couple of signs had been crudely drawn in Cyrillic. Drake guessed they conveyed the Russian equivalent of Trespassers can fuck offski.
Normally such a barrier would have presented a serious obstacle, but fortunately their driver had the right idea. Dropping down a gear, he jammed his foot on the gas and held on tight as the big vehicle catapulted forwards, blasting straight through the chain-link gates as if they weren’t even there. No doubt the paintwork would suffer for this, but it wasn’t as if he was paying the bill.
Carrying on for perhaps another 50 yards, he hit the brakes and brought them to a halt in a spray of mud and exhaust fumes. The farmhouse lay directly ahead, brightly illuminated now in the 4x4’s headlights.
It was an old-fashioned two-storey wooden structure, its shape and general appearance reminding Drake of Dorothy’s house from The Wizard of Oz. This property, however, was in serious need of attention, with peeling paintwork, warped boards and hastily patched sections of roof that he was sure must be leaking in this weather. There were no lights that he could see.
The two tactical agents wasted no time throwing their doors open and rushing outside, converging on the house with their weapons up, crouched down low to present smaller targets. Drake, Mason and Miranova were right behind them, ready to move in as backup once they’d made entry.
Drake saw Pushkin reach for the breaching shotgun slung over his shoulder, saw him work the pump action to draw the first shell into the breech before levelling the weapon at the door.
Two seconds later, the sharp crack of the breaching gun split the air, followed by the crunch of shattered wood as the door gave way. The solid slug had done its work well, blasting a 6-inch hole in the door and destroying whatever bolt had held it closed.
Pushkin raised his foot and kicked it open while the next agent moved forwards, assault rifle up to his shoulder. For a moment the beam from the under-barrel flashlight pierced the smoky darkness beyond.
Then suddenly the entire scene vanished in a blinding flash that seared itself on the backs of Drake’s eyes, and instinctively he threw up his arm and turned away. An instant later a thunderous boom rolled around the clearing as if a bolt of lightning had struck right in their midst. Even from this distance he could feel the sudden, intense blast of heat.
With his eyes streaming, Drake turned back towards the building. A cloud of white smoke had engulfed the front entrance and much of the farmhouse, obscuring what was going on inside. But even he could see the red glow of flames spreading rapidly to encompass much of the ground floor.
‘They set a trap!’ Mason hissed. ‘They’re torching the fucking place.’
Drake said nothing. He recognised the distinctive chemical odour in the air following the detonation. It was
a flashbang grenade, designed to produce an intense flash of light and sound that would blind and disorient enemies. It must have been triggered when the first agent made entry.
The unlucky man who had triggered it was lying sprawled in the mud near the main entrance, trying to rise but failing miserably. Drake knew from experience that the blast would have deafened him and disrupted his equilibrium, rendering him useless for the next couple of minutes at least.
Straight away Drake understood what their adversary was up to. If all he had wanted to accomplish was to destroy the house and its contents, he could have done that long before the FSB arrived. Instead they had waited until the team tried to breach, setting fire to the house to create a diversion and triggering the phosphorous grenade to temporarily blind them.
‘He’s making a run for it,’ he hissed. ‘Cole, go left and circle around behind. Anika, move in from the front. Go now!’
Without waiting for a reply, Drake charged towards the house with the automatic up and ready. Flames were licking from the ground-floor windows, accompanied by the tinkle of shattering glass as they began to give way. Despite the rain’s onslaught, Drake could feel the heat searing his exposed skin. He guessed the ground floor had been liberally doused with petrol to help the fire spread quickly.
There was no way in through the front door. The hallway was already a mass of flames, the old floorboards probably starting to give way as the growing blaze consumed them.
He veered right, making to circle around behind the building and cover the rear. He could only hope Mason had listened to him and was approaching from the other side.
He spotted something in his peripheral vision. His gaze swept upwards, just in time to catch sight of something hurled from one of the upper windows. It landed with a heavy thump perhaps ten paces in front of him.
He knew what it was right away, and instinctively threw himself on the ground just as the grenade detonated, engulfing the area in white light. His quick thinking saved his vision, though the delay bought his adversary a few precious seconds in which to act.
With his ears ringing from the blast and splashes of light blurring his eyes, Drake picked himself up and peered through the haze of phosphorous smoke. He was just able to make out a figure in camouflage fatigues leap down from the upper floor, land and roll in the mud to absorb the impact, then leap upright again and sprint off through the darkened woods beyond.
Clearly whoever they were dealing with tonight, it wasn’t Glazov. This was not the work of a frightened, frail man, but of a capable and resourceful operative. But whoever this person was, there was enough chaos left behind for him or her to be a mile or more from here by the time Miranova and the others figured out what had happened.
Scrambling to his feet, Drake keyed his radio.
‘Target exiting rear building, heading for the woods. I’m in pursuit!’
‘Ryan, stop,’ he heard Miranova protest. ‘Hold your position and wait for support.’
Drake ignored her. To delay now would give their target time to open the distance and slip away. Their only chance to prevent this was to strike now.
‘Cole, where the hell are you?’ he demanded.
‘Ten seconds, Ryan,’ Mason replied, already sounding out of breath. ‘It’s a fucking assault course around here – there’s shit piled all around the house.’
That was ten seconds he didn’t have. With his heart pounding and rain sluicing down around him, Drake charged through the muddy clearing, leapt over a bank of tangled undergrowth and pounded into the woods beyond.
His target was fast despite the darkness and the mud and the clawing brambles and bushes underfoot, darting with nimble grace through the difficult terrain and somehow managing to avoid any serious obstacles. Drake was hard-pressed just to keep up, and unfortunately not blessed with the same instinct for avoiding trouble.
Vaulting over a fallen tree trunk in an attempt to gain ground, he landed right in a patch of thorny briars left over from the previous summer. Unless he wanted to spend the next hour untangling himself, there was nothing to do but power through them, ignoring the pain as their wickedly barbed thorns tore through fabric and skin.
As Drake had learned during his days with the SAS, the key to evading pursuit in woodland is not speed, but rather direction. Amateurs often assume that escaping simply involves putting as much distance between themselves and their pursuers as possible, and therefore tend to run directly away in a straight line, making them easy to track.
Experienced operatives would constantly switch direction as they retreated, using any available cover to interrupt their opponents’ view before darting off left or right, constantly wrong-footing them and forcing them to second-guess their own movements.
Based on what he’d seen so far, Drake knew he was dealing with anything but an amateur tonight.
Sure enough, his target seemed to be everywhere and nowhere at once, disappearing behind tree trunks and bushes only to reappear somewhere else entirely. Once or twice Drake was convinced he’d lost his target altogether, but always he caught a fleeting glimpse that allowed him to resume his pursuit.
The one problem with constantly switching direction was that if the target failed to lose the pursuers quickly, then he or she would be slowed down by the efforts to escape. As the glow of the burning house receded into the distance Drake sensed himself gaining ground, and that knowledge spurred him on to greater efforts.
Then, just like that his opponent seemed to vanish, as if the ground had simply swallowed the person up.
With a final burst of speed, Drake sprinted to the point of disappearance, only to find himself facing down a steep, heavily forested slope. Above the roar of the burning farm and the pounding of his own heartbeat he could hear the distant rumble of a river, and through the trees he could just make out the muddy track of a road that paralleled it.
His target was already halfway down the slope, zigzagging down to the road where a car was likely waiting. To slip and fall now would risk a disabling injury and certain capture. Instead whoever he was pursuing was playing it safe.
The only way to catch this person was to do the opposite. Drake didn’t stop to think it through. If he did, he’d undoubtedly realise what a bad idea this was and abandon the plan. Sometimes the only option was to act.
Holstering his automatic and checking that it was securely fastened in place, Drake backed up a pace, took a deep breath to psyche himself up and get more oxygen into his bloodstream, and threw himself over the edge.
He’d made it about 5 yards down the slope before his boots lost purchase on the muddy ground and he began to slide, his pace rapidly increasing as his own momentum carried him onwards. Unable to control his descent, he could do little except brace himself and hope for the best.
The contours of the slope were carrying him towards a gnarled spruce tree that clung precariously to a steep section of ground. A collision at this speed would undoubtedly break bones and damage internal organs. Throwing his weight to one side, he narrowly avoided slamming into the trunk, but the movement overbalanced him and, unable to prevent it, he began to roll.
There was no thought of exerting any conscious control now. All he could do was tuck his limbs in and endure the fall as his body tumbled down the slope like a rag doll, branches and sharp briars tearing at his flesh, jutting rocks slamming against him with bruising force. And all the while the world spun and lurched around him, all concept of direction now lost.
Only when he turned slightly and stabilised for a few seconds did he regain his orientation, catching a glimpse of the road directly below, along with his target leaping over a large boulder in the haste to escape.
For a few seconds at least, Drake held the advantage.
Allowing himself to slide the last few yards, he pitched over a stony outcrop and landed hard on the muddy, winding track that represented a road. He rolled once as he’d been trained to do in his SAS days, allowing the momentum of his fall to bleed away.
‘Freeze!’ he yelled, levelling the weapon at the target’s centre mass.
His order was obeyed immediately. Not many people will try to flee across open ground when they have a gun trained on their back.
‘Hands where I can see them! Fucking get them up now!’
A pair of gloved hands was raised, neither of which held a weapon. There was no urgency in the movement, no hint of fear or tension in the set of the shoulders or the body posture. Instead it seemed as if having a gun pointed at his or her back was a mere inconvenience to be dealt with before moving on.
He didn’t care how confident this person felt. He had the advantage.
‘Turn around,’ Drake ordered.
And then, just like that, it all changed.
‘Are you going to shoot me, Ryan?’ The voice that spoke was a woman’s voice, low-pitched and faintly accented. A voice he knew all too well.
As the figure turned slowly to face him and the dim moonlight cast the facial features in sharp relief, Drake’s heart began to pound even harder in his chest.
It was Anya.
Chapter 36
For the next few seconds the two of them remained frozen in position, each taking the measure of the other, neither moving a muscle as the rain continued to pour down around them.
Despite himself, despite everything he’d seen and endured over the past couple of days, Drake found himself taking in every detail of the woman standing before him. The woman he’d risked everything to protect.
Like him, she was soaked to the skin by the downpour, her blonde hair hanging limp and wet around her face. Her camouflage fatigues were splattered with mud and torn in places; evidence that even she hadn’t been able to entirely avoid the sharp thorns that had shredded his uniform. She was breathing hard after the strenuous run from the farmhouse, her warm breath misting in the air around her.