by Chris Ryan
Gun at the ready, he held his breath and waited. Waited for the silence to settle down. Waited for his paranoia to pass.
It didn’t.
Far from it.
The noises seemed to come from all directions at once. An explosion from the door; a thumping from the bedroom. And here, the room in which they were standing, the shattering of glass. Dolohov shouted in sudden surprise and fear; there was movement behind the curtains. Sam fell to a crouching position, pointing his gun in the direction of the curtains and waiting for a figure to show itself.
Voices. Muffled. ‘Hit the ground! Hit the fucking ground! NOW!’
An object flying through the air. A sudden bang and a blinding white light. Sam had discharged enough flashbangs in his time, so it was hardly a fresh experience; but they were always a shock when you weren’t expecting them. He cursed and shook his head, trying to reorientate himself after his senses had gone to pot.
But by that time it was too late.
A boot against the side of his face. He fell to the floor and felt another boot pressed heavily against the wrist of his gun hand, grinding it into the rug. He struggled blindly, scrambling to stand, but at that very moment he felt the cold steel of a gun barrel pressed against the side of his head. His vision returned. He was being held at gunpoint by a balaclava’d man with an ops waistcoat and an M16.
‘Don’t… make… a… fucking… mistake,’ a low voice growled, pronouncing each word clearly. ‘We know you’re Regiment. We’ve got you covered.’
Sam froze. He counted two other guys with their M16s trained on him. A third was untying Dolohov, and he knew there would be more in other parts of the flat, checking there was nobody else there, securing the entrances and exits. Multi-room entry. Textbook stuff.
‘Drop your weapon.’
Sam released his fingers and allowed the gun to fall from his hand.
‘Flat on the floor,’ he was ordered. ‘Hands behind your back. You know the drill. Do it. Now. Do it fucking now!’
Sam had no option. These guys weren’t trained to fuck around, they were wound up like tightly coiled springs and they’d nail him if he so much as put a fingertip out of place. He did as he was told – slowly, so they wouldn’t think he was making any sudden movements.
‘Flat’s clear,’ another voice announced. ‘Cuff them both.’
His head against the floor, Sam could see nothing but the feet of the unit. A moment later, he felt a set of Plasticuffs being firmly attached around his wrists, tight so that they dug into his skin.
‘Jesus.’ A muffled voice from near where Dolohov was sitting. ‘What the fuck’s this sicko been doing?’
Sam was pulled roughly to his feet. M16s all around pointing at him. Two of the guys were looking at Dolohov’s hands.
Dolohov spoke. Desperation in his voice. ‘He has held me captive for two nights. He has tortured me. He is insane. You have to take me to a hosp-’
‘Shut up, Boris, or we’ll finish the fucking job for him.’
‘Just cuff him and get them both in the van.’ The instruction came from a guy with a Geordie accent, standing in the entrance to the room, clearly the unit leader. He pointed at Sam. ‘Any shit from you, my friend, and we’ll start making holes. Got it?’
Sam jutted his chin out and didn’t reply. A fist in his stomach. He doubled over, winded. ‘Got it?’
‘Got it,’ he gasped. He nodded and glanced over at Dolohov, who was having his own wrists bound behind his back. The Russian gave him an evil look, as though he was enjoying seeing Sam get a dose of his own medicine. He didn’t get much chance to enjoy it: he was pushed by one of the unit towards the hallway. Dolohov almost fell; at the last minute he regained his balance, but he looked a mess as he staggered towards the door.
Sam was nudged by the barrel of a gun in the same direction. He walked.
‘Regiment?’ he asked grimly.
‘You taking the piss?’ a voice hissed. ‘Now shut the fuck up and keep walking.’ He sounded insulted. Sam guessed it was the SBS. Always walking round with a chip on their shoulders about the SAS, always feeling they’re somehow the superior service and angered by the glory the Regiment boys got.
‘Who the fuck sent you?’ No reply. Sam was bundled down the stairs. Every synapse in his brain hunted for a way out; but four men had their guns trained on him and there was nothing he could do. As they stepped out of the mansion block, he saw a woman and recognised the fox fur round her neck. To say she looked shocked was an understatement. ‘What on earth…?’ she started to say; but she was ignored as the unit pushed Sam past her and on to the pavement.
Two plain white Ford Transits awaited them, the stock-in-trade of a special forces pick-up team, double parked against the other residential traffic in the street. Sam was forced into the back of one of them. All the seats had been ripped out to make a big open space in the rear. Two men were already up front and as Sam was pushed onto the hard metal floor of the van, he heard the engine rev.
‘Move up front,’ a voice instructed. Sam shuffled along the metal floor and ended up with his back against the front seats. There were four SBS guys in the back with him now – Dolohov was clearly being transported in the other van. One of them slammed the door shut and the van screeched out into the road.
It had been a neat pick-up, Sam had to give them that. He watched as the guys pulled off their balaclavas. Sam had worked alongside the SBS any number of times, but he didn’t recognise these men with their dishevelled hair and, he couldn’t help thinking, smug faces. It would be the talk of the town at SBS HQ in Poole that they’d been sent in to lift a Regiment guy. Sam did his best not to think about that. He kept his mind calm and, almost by reflex, started to check what assets he had at his disposal. Each of the SBS men wore ops waistcoats with flashbangs and fragmentation grenades. Their weapons were lowered – it would be stupid to discharge them in the back of the vehicle unless absolutely necessary. Rounds could easily ricochet off the metallic sides of the van and mistakes could always happen in a moving vehicle. But all this was academic. With his hands cuffed behind his back he was as good as useless.
The van stopped and started through the streets of London. Behind him, fixed to the back of the chair against which he was pressed, there was something sticking upwards. He didn’t know what it was – a rivet of some kind, perhaps there to stop the front seats from sliding too far back on their runners.
‘Looks like the Firm want you off the street pretty bad,’ one of the guys piped up. ‘You must have been a very naughty boy.’
Sam sniffed. Keep them talking, he told himself. Keep them distracted. ‘I’ve had my moments,’ he said.
‘What did the Russki do? Shag your missus?’
‘Caught her giving him a rusty trombone,’ he said with a forced grin. ‘I told him he was lucky I didn’t cut his dick off.’ He looked around him. ‘So, where are we going? Don’t tell me: curry and a few beers followed by a strip club?’
‘All right, you lot,’ one of the SBS men announced. He had blonde hair and Sam thought he recognised the voice as being that of the unit commander. ‘Let’s all shut the fuck up. You’ll find out where we’re going when we get there.’
Sam smiled at him. It took all his effort. ‘Suppose there’s no chance of stopping for a slash, then.’
By now, Sam had deduced that the rivet behind him was just small enough to slide between his Plasticuffs and his wrists. He did it slowly, so nobody could see what was going on. And then they sat in silence.
The driver was skilled, Sam could tell that. SF trained. He weaved in and out of the traffic, causing plenty of horns to beep as he cut up angry commuters. It still took him a long time, though, to get up any kind of proper speed. Half an hour, maybe? Sam knew he had to bide his time, wait for his moment. He imagined they were on the outskirts of London by now.
He tried to work it all out. Damn it, he’d been careful not to pick up any trail. Maybe he’d been too preoccupied to take the right pr
ecautions; or maybe the Firm had put so many spooks on him that he didn’t stand a chance. He cursed himself, and as he did so the sallow features of Gabriel Bland rose in his mind. This was his gig, that much was clear. He wanted to get his hands on Jacob, and with Dolohov in his possession he now had the means to do it. Sam closed his eyes. He had given the Russian details of the RV. Now that was stupid. It meant that Bland and his goons would be there to welcome Jacob the moment he arrived at Piccadilly Circus; Sam wasn’t going to let that happen.
‘So we off to Poole?’ he asked. ‘I could do with a dip.’
His attempt to cajole information about their destination was met with silence. Where were they headed? SBS HQ? Hereford? Somewhere else? He did his best to stay calm. To look subdued. If he was going to get himself out of this mess, the first thing he needed to do was lull his guards into a false sense of security. Sam hung his head on his chest and closed his eyes. He wanted to look tired. Defeated. The Plasticuffs were still wrapped around the metal rivet. It would take a hell of a pull to split them. It might not even work. But he had to try. Wherever he was being taken was bound to be a hell of a sight more difficult to break out of than a moving van. He just had to wait for the right moment.
It took a while to come.
The van was moving steadily. Not too fast, but steadily. That was good. It would be better if he could see out of a window, check the surroundings. But that was not possible. He waited, breathing deeply, preparing himself for the manoeuvre that he had planned out in his head.
He waited.
‘Looks like someone had a late night,’ one of the unit said in mock-motherly tones. A couple of the others laughed.
He waited some more.
The van swerved, slowing down into a bend. The SBS men leant into the curve, their balance momentarily precarious. Now or fucking never, Sam told himself. He tugged his hands away from the attachment; the Plasticuffs dug into his skin. This was going to hurt. It didn’t matter. He had to do it.
Now.
He yanked his wrists with all his strength.
It was the plastic digging into his flesh that he felt first. Cutting it. He ignored the stinging sensation. The muscles in his arms burned as he continued to pull. And then, with a sudden snap, the Plasticuffs broke.
For a moment, no one seemed to know what was happening. Sam hurled himself towards the nearest guard and grabbed a flashbang from his ops waistcoat before throwing it to the back of the van. Confusion. He shut his eyes and – as he prepared for the noise – jumped to his feet, spinning round so he was facing forward.
Impact. White light against the inside of his eyelids before he opened them again. He was deafened and slightly disorientated, but he reckoned he had the advantage. Ten seconds before the others were back to full capability. He had to work fast. With brute force he pressed the driver’s head flat against the steering wheel. The horn beeped loudly.
Shouting all around. With his free hand – bloodied from the deep cut on his wrist – he reached down and unclipped the seat belts of both front passengers. He grabbed the steering wheel; and only then did he check the road.
They were in a country lane. Long. Straight. Just them and an area of woodland on either side. He felt hands on his shoulders. ‘Get on the fucking floor!’ a voice shouted. ‘Get on the fucking floor, now!’
Sam ignored the instruction. He twisted the steering wheel sharply, towards the forest on the right-hand side. A tree fifteen metres away: he headed towards it. In the rear-view mirror he saw a jumble of bodies. The sudden change in the vehicle’s direction had knocked his guards off balance. The guy in the passenger seat put one hand in his face and grabbed his arms, trying to push him away from the driver. But Sam held firm. He continued to drive the van straight towards the forest, then braced himself firmly against the driver’s seat, waiting for impact.
When it came, it sent a vicious shockwave through his whole body. He jolted harshly and painfully. The hand came away from his face, but not willingly; it only moved because its owner had moved too.
The windscreen shattered. Blood and glass as his assailant’s head slammed into it. The four-man unit in the back lurched forwards in a confused mess. But they wouldn’t stay confused for long. Sam threw himself forwards, past the bloodied face of the guy in the passenger seat and headlong through the shattered windscreen. Shards of glass needled his skin, but he did what he could to ignore them as he slid down the steep, crumpled bonnet of the Transit and hit the ground to one side of the tree they’d crashed into.
Shouts behind him. Orders barked. He couldn’t hesitate for a single second. Sam powered himself up to his feet and ran. Hot blood from his cut-up face pumped into his eyes, half-blinding him. Still he ran with all the force in his body.
There was a copse of trees up ahead. Ten metres. If he could make it there in the few seconds before the others were out of the van, he had chance. He sprinted, half-expecting to feel a bullet slam into him. But he didn’t, and he just kept running.
The urgency of the chase surged through him. The SBS guys could be one metre behind or fifty, he just didn’t know and he wasn’t going to slow down to find out.
The forest passed by in a blur. Sam didn’t know where the hell he was or where the hell he was going. He only knew he had to run. If the unit got him in their sights, they’d open fire; an M16 round slamming into his back and it would be game over.
He weaved and threaded randomly through the trees. Under different circumstances he’d have taken more care, covered his tracks. But he couldn’t do that now. The only thing he had on his side was whatever speed he could muster.
And if that speed failed him now, it would be end of story…
TWENTY-ONE
Jacob’s flight – a charter that carried about thirty Russians, but which had been put in the air, he suspected, especially for him – had landed in Marseilles earlier that morning. He entered the country using his false identity of Mr Edward Rucker, an IT contractor, without difficulty; and within half an hour of landing, Mr Rucker had hired himself a Laguna and a GPS navigator from the AVIS office just opposite the terminal building. He had paid the extra few euros to waive his damage excess, even though he knew he would never be returning the vehicle. A man stealing a hired motor doesn’t pay any more for it than he has to – it was just a way of diverting suspicion.
From the airport he drove to the outskirts of Marseilles, a concrete mess of low-rent high-rises. Gangs of kids – North African, mostly – hung around in groups, smoking and drinking. Jacob navigated the streets swiftly. Surov’s man had given him the name and address of a contact round here and he wanted to get the meet over and done with.
He pulled up outside one of the concrete towers, pocketed the GPS and stepped out into the humid exterior before locking the doors and glancing skywards. Thirteenth floor. A bastard to break out of in an emergency. He made his way into the building. The lift was broken and the stairwell, covered in graffiti, smelled of piss and spices. He trotted up hurriedly, aware of some voices down below that hadn’t been there when he entered. Had he attracted attention from the dealers and the drunks? Probably. But it didn’t matter. He could handle them.
The entrance to Flat 207 was the fifth in a long line of doors along an external corridor. The paint was peeling away. Jacob banged a fist against it and then stepped to one side. He waited tensely.
A voice from the other side.
‘Oui?’ A man. Gruff. Unfriendly.
‘Edward Rucker,’ Jacob called. ‘Vous m’attendez. Je veux acheter quelques trucs.’
Another pause. The door clicked open slightly. Jacob gave it a moment, then used his foot to open the door further. He peered in. Gloom. No noise from inside.
He stepped over the threshold.
As his eyes grew used to the dimness, he saw there was someone standing in another doorway at the end of the corridor. Black skin. Patchy stubble and a scarred face. As soon as their eyes met the man disappeared into the room, leaving Jacob
to shut the door behind him and follow.
It stank in the flat, a mixture of marijuana and sweat. As Jacob entered, his mind instantly catalogued what was there. Thin, frayed curtains against the windows. Yellowing walls. A bare light bulb hanging from the ceiling by a flex and a woman, mixed race, crouched in the corner. Asleep? High? Impossible to say. Upturned milk crates – chairs, Jacob supposed. A sofa, threadbare. Several flight cases. None of them open. The man stood in front of them. He wore a brightly coloured woollen top, but his face was a lot less friendly. He scowled at Jacob.
‘English?’ he asked in a heavily accented voice before taking a drag on a roughly rolled cigarette.
Jacob nodded.
‘What is it you want?’
Jacob looked at the flight cases. ‘Open them,’ he instructed.
The man’s lip curled. He raised one finger and shook it. ‘Show me your money first, mon ami.’
Jacob gave him a flat look. ‘Forget it,’ he said, before turning to leave. Instantly the man was all over him, pulling him back into the room. He stank intensely of body odour. Jacob swatted him away, but stayed. The man, suddenly faintly obsequious, scurried back to the flight cases without another word.
Even Jacob was impressed by their contents. Assault rifles, sub-machine guns, handguns. Rocket-launcher attachments, tear-gas canisters and grenades. One of the flight cases was filled with boxes of rounds of all types. As weapons stashes went, it was a good one.
‘Who do you get this shit from?’ Jacob asked. The man just smiled, revealing an incomplete set of teeth. He didn’t answer. He did, however, step aside to let Jacob examine the merchandise. Jacob knew what he was after and it was no surprise that his attention was immediately caught by one weapon in particular. It was a suppressed Armalite AR30, a sleek bolt-action weapon with a twenty-six-inch barrel. ‘Serial numbers ground off?’ he demanded.
‘Of course,’ the man replied, as if slightly insulted. ‘I show you how to use it?’ He sounded excited by the prospect.