Global Strike

by Chris Ryan

  Jogger Guy didn’t notice him at first. He was too busy glaring at the Corolla’s shattered tail light. The rear quarter panel around the light was slightly dented, Street noticed. There were various scratch marks across the rear bumper. Cosmetic damage. The kind that always cost more to repair than you figured.

  Jogger Guy looked up. He didn’t look much like a serious runner. The parks in DC were always full of those guys in the summer. Blokes who were jacked with muscle, decked out in the latest fitness watches and eight-hundred-dollar trainers, acting like they owned the place. Whereas Jogger Guy was tall and ungainly, with pasty white skin that suggested a serious vitamin D deficiency. Like a prisoner emerging from a long stretch in solitary. There was a tattoo running down the length of his right arm, showing a spider crawling up a web.

  ‘Shit, I am so sorry,’ the guy said.

  He had a gruff, surly accent. Street couldn’t quite place where the guy was from.

  Not American, he thought.

  But then in DC these days, who the hell is?

  ‘It’s fine,’ he said. ‘Really.’

  ‘No, it’s not.’ Jogger Guy shook his head, angry with himself. ‘It’s my fault. I’m a fucking idiot. I wasn’t looking.’

  ‘It’s no big deal.’

  Jogger Guy nodded and scratched his jaw. ‘Look, buddy, I’m kind of in a hurry here. I’m guessing you are too. Let me grab my insurance details. We can exchange and take it from there?’

  ‘Fine,’ said Street through gritted teeth, cursing the delay to his plans. And doubly pissed off because he’d been too cheap to shell out the extra for the damage waiver when he’d signed the rental agreement.

  ‘Wait here,’ Jogger Guy said.

  He gave his back to Street and raced over to the Impala. While the guy reached inside the front passenger side and opened the glove box, Street consulted his watch.

  7.27pm. He was running three minutes behind his schedule.

  The seconds ticked by. Slowly. Then Jogger Guy came hurrying back over, waving a plastic insurance card in his right hand.

  ‘It’s all here,’ he said.

  Street took the card. Glanced briefly at the details printed on the front.

  Then he glimpsed the movement.

  A rapid blur of motion in his peripheral vision, accompanied by the hydraulic hiss and suck of a door sliding open. Coming from the direction of the Dodge Grand Caravan parked to the left.

  Street looked across his shoulder.

  The door on the right side of the Caravan was open.

  Three figures were crouching inside.

  FIVE

  The figures were all decked out in matching gear. Dark grey Tactical 5.11 trousers, loose-fitting black shirts and brown Timberlands. Like they had some kind of group discount at an out-of-state hunting store. They had the sinewy, hardened definition of MMA fighters, rather than the swollen mass of guys who spent too much time lifting weights in the gym. Two of them could have been brothers. They had the same shaven heads, the same cold blue eyes. The same ring tatoos on their fingers, with a series of small dots inked on each of their knuckles.

  The third guy looked older than the other two. Late thirties or early forties, Street guessed. He sported a shark-fin Mohawk and a distinctive tattoo on the side of his neck. A skull resting atop the branch of an oak tree, a crown atop its dome and a stogie sticking out of its mouth.

  Mohawk and Ring Guy Two were both packing guns. Street glimpsed the polymer grips of a couple of semi-automatic pistols jutting out from their leather belt holsters.

  Ring Guy One gripped a Taser.

  The dart cartridges had been removed from the weapon, turning it into a close-range stun gun capable of delivering a paralytic shock to anyone it came into contact with.

  Street took this all in instantly. Their appearances, the tattoos, the weapons. He saw it all in a second, enabled by his training. Years of running surveillance in the field, noticing the smallest detail. Like a snapshot.

  But it didn’t do him any good.

  He opened his mouth to shout for help.

  Too late.

  Everything happened very fast. Ring Guys One and Two jumped down from the Caravan and grabbed hold of Street. Before he could get out a word Ring One hit him in the chest with the Taser. Fifty thousand volts of electric current instantly shot through his body, shredding his nerve endings. Street felt his muscles seize up in agony. His jaws clamped shut. Every part of his body locked up. Like cement hardening. He couldn’t scream for help. Couldn’t move.

  The pain lasted what felt like a long time but in reality was no more than a second or two. Then Street felt his feet give way beneath him as he tumbled forward. In a flash Ring Two and Mohawk jumped down and seized Street by the arms, catching him before he fell away. They lifted him up then bundled him head-first into the wagon, shoving him towards the rear seats. Street collapsed onto the leather like a sack of hot bricks.

  ‘Say a fucking word,’ Ring One said, ‘and I’ll fry you.’

  He had the same dull, surly accent as Jogger Guy.

  Street recognised it now, through the pain and shock coursing through his system. It was an accent he knew very well. One he’d heard many times before, during his time overseas.

  His heart sank. He knew it then. He understood who these men were. Where they’d come from.

  And what they were going to do with him.

  ‘You,’ Mohawk said, snapping his fingers at Jogger Guy. ‘Take the Impala. We’ll follow.’

  Jogger Guy took the keys from his shorts pocket and hopped out of the Caravan. Then he swept around the Impala, folded himself behind the wheel. Fired up the engine. At the same time Ring Two dived into the front of Street’s Corolla and retrieved the brown envelope lying on the passenger seat. He slid out again. Climbed into the back of the Caravan. Yanked the door shut.

  Trapping Street inside with his three abductors.

  Ring Two handed over the dossier to Mohawk. The guy was sitting ahead of Street, in the middle row of seats. Mohawk snatched the envelope and nodded at Street.

  ‘Cuff this piece of shit,’ he said to the others.

  ‘No,’ Street groaned. ‘Please. Don’t.’

  The Ring Brothers ignored his pleas. Now that Street saw them up close there was definitely a family resemblance. Ring Two swung around and ripped off Street’s jacket and tossed it onto the seat next to him. Then he dug out a pair of white plasticuffs from the side pocket on his Tactical 5.11s. He used his considerable weight to press down on Street, pinning him horizontally across the leather seats. Street tried throwing the guy off. Hopeless. It was like trying to bench-press a two-ton truck. He clawed at Ring Two’s face, feeling with his fingers for the guy’s eyes in a desperate attempt to gouge them. Ring One stepped forward and gave him another bump with the Taser. Pain exploded between his temples, as if someone was drilling directly into his skull. His arms fell away to his sides. He felt bile surging up in his throat.

  The pain seemed to go on for ever.

  ‘Had enough, bitch?’ Ring One snarled, waving the Taser inches from his face. ‘Or you want some fucking more juice, eh?’

  ‘Hurry up and get him cuffed,’ Mohawk ordered, impatience creeping into his voice.

  Mohawk had an air of authority about him that reminded Street of the directors at Vauxhall. Like he expected complete obedience from the rest of the team, no questions asked.

  Ring One reluctantly lowered the Taser. He glared at Street and worked his lips into a cruel smirk.

  ‘Just you wait, bitch. When we get where we’re going, you’re gonna be screaming like a fucking woman.’ Ring Two hauled Street upright. He slapped the plasticuffs around his wrists and clinched them so tight that Street could feel the material almost cutting off the blood supply to his hands. Then Ring Two reached around for the seat belt, strapping Street in to the middle back seat.

  The Ring Brothers sat down in the back seats either side of Street. Ring Two at his left shoulder. Ring One to
his right, Mohawk ahead of them in the middle row.

  Street was barely conscious of his surroundings. His brain registered nothing except the three toughs in front of him and the raw fear coursing through his body.

  This isn’t happening, he told himself.

  Thirty seconds ago I was getting ready to meet one of the big shots in the US security services. Now I’m being held prisoner in the back of a minivan by a bunch of armed toughs.

  He clung to the hope that someone had noticed him being abducted and was poised to raise the alarm. But nothing happened. No one came to his rescue. The whole operation had lasted no more than four or five seconds. Too fast for any casual observer to realise what had happened.

  Which told him something.

  These guys aren’t amateurs. They’re professionals.

  They planned this whole thing perfectly.

  The electric shock was beginning to wear off. A kind of fuzziness clouded the edges of Street’s vision. He was dimly conscious of a door opening up at the front of the Caravan. Someone slipped in behind the steering wheel. Between the rear headrests Street caught a glimpse of her long brown hair and dark hoodie. A boxer dog jumped in after the woman and planted itself down on the front passenger seat.

  Soccer Mom.

  She was in on it too.

  He realised now why she had been part of the plan. Street had been suspicious of the Caravan pulling up next to him, right up until the moment a middle-aged Doris and her dog had stepped out onto the blacktop. Then his guard had dropped.

  Stupid.

  His mistake.

  Now he would pay for it.

  Mohawk turned to Soccer Mom. ‘Get us out of here. Right the fuck now.’

  ‘Yes, boss.’

  She punched the engine start-stop button, shunted the Caravan into Reverse and backed smoothly out of the parking space. A few seconds later they were rolling out of the car park and turning onto the main road.Jogger Guy was in the Impala fifteen metres ahead of them, leading the way. Street could just about see the vehicle through the Caravan’s tinted windscreen. They followed the Impala as it hung a quick left and headed north on the Rock Creek Parkway.

  Away from Georgetown.

  Away from Cooper, and a quarter of a million dollars.

  Dread seeped into Street’s guts.

  ‘Where are you taking me?’ he asked in a weak voice.

  No one answered.

  Soccer Mom kept the Caravan to a modest forty miles per, staying well under the speed limit, clearly to avoid attracting any unwanted attention from the cops. As they breezed along the parkway Mohawk muttered something to Ring One. The latter turned in his seat and rooted around inside Street’s jacket. He fished out the crap old phone from the inside pocket, laughed at it and then handed it over to his boss.

  Mohawk took the handset away from him. Like all smartphones, it was basically a mobile GPS tracking device. Which was a problem. The battery pack could no longer be physically removed, and getting the SIM card out was a bitch. There was only one way to be a hundred per cent sure that no one could use the phone to track them.

  Mohawk lowered the electric window, letting in the furious roar of passing traffic through the small opening.

  Then he tossed the phone out of the wagon.

  Ring One grinned. ‘No one can track you now, bitch.’

  Street tried to stay calm. He recalled the training he’d undergone at Fort Monckton in Plymouth as a young intelligence officer. He knew he should focus on his captors, observe them and look for weaknesses. That was what the training manual said. But that was a long time ago, when he was backed up by the full might of a national security service. Not any more. Now he was just one man.

  These people are going to kill you, the voice inside his head told him. They’re going to get what they need from you. Then they’re going to butcher you. It would not be a quick death, Street knew. He was familiar enough with their training. They would want some fun with him before applying the killer blow.

  Unless I can find a way out of here, I’m a dead man.

  ‘You’re making a big mistake,’ he said to Mohawk, making his appeal directly to the leader. ‘You don’t know who you’re dealing with.’

  ‘Shut the fuck up,’ Ring One snapped.

  Street tried again. ‘I’ve got colleagues. They’ll come looking for me, once they find out I’m missing. You should let me go now, before things get bad for you.’

  ‘I said shut up, bitch!’

  Ring One twisted in his seat and drove his balled left fist into Street’s ribs. Street bent forward at the waist, the seat belt tightening across his chest as he gasped for air. Then Ring One shoved his Taser tight against Street’s groin, shocking his balls.

  The pain was excruciating. Like nothing Street had ever experienced. His testicles felt as if they might explode. He thrashed around wildly in his seat between Ring One and Ring Two, howling in agony. Ring One grinned and gave him another bump from the Taser.

  ‘That’s enough!’ Mohawk snapped, whipping round to face Ring One. ‘We don’t want to give him a heart attack.’

  Ring One turned to confront the other guy. ‘You can’t tell me what to do.’

  ‘Yes, I can. Or have you forgotten who you’re talking to?’

  Ring One stared at Mohawk, his lips trembling with rage. ‘No. I don’t forget. But you’re not my fucking boss.’

  He shot Mohawk a defiant glare and turned back to face Street. Depressed the trigger on the Taser again. Fifty thousand volts shocked through Street’s body.

  Street screamed. Mohawk jumped out of his seat in the middle row ahead of Street and the Ring Brothers. He swung around to the rear seats in the Caravan, thrusting out an arm at Ring One and pulling his comrade away from Street. Ring One tried to shrug Mohawk off, but the latter had a firm grip on his shoulder. The two men struggled in the confines of the wagon, wrestling for control of the Taser as they cursed at each other.

  ‘Get the fuck off me, bitch!’ Ring One rasped.

  Up ahead, Street noticed Soccer Mom glancing back at the argument unfolding behind her in the wagon. She had taken her eyes off the road for only a split second.

  But it was enough.

  They were crossing the next junction. In the corner of his eye, Street glimpsed a Ford Explorer hurtling towards them.A metallic grey blur, bombing toward the junction from the east. Thirty metres away at his three o’clock. The lights were flashing red on the north–south road but Soccer Mom hadn’t seen the change in signal. She was still looking over her shoulder at Ring One and Mohawk. She didn’t see the Ford Explorer.

  Ring One and Mohawk were both half out of their seats, wrestling in the space between the middle and back rows.

  Ring Two was sat to the left of Street on the back row, shouting at the others in his native tongue.

  None of them saw the Explorer tearing across the junction.

  Street braced himself. He had just enough time to realise that the Explorer was going too fast. That the driver wouldn’t be able to slow down in time to avoid a collision.

  Then he had no time at all.

  SIX

  There was a bone-rattling shudder as the Explorer T-boned into the right-side of the Caravan at speed. Two thousand-plus kilograms of metal and glass collided with the minivan at its central point, lifting up the rear wheels and sending it into a violent spin as it skidded across the blacktop.

  Kinetic energy rippled through the Caravan. Street was the only one wearing a belt and he felt the strap bracing tight across his front, digging into his guts as he lurched forward in his seat. Ahead of him, Ring One and Mohawk were flung around the interior like a couple of rag dolls. To his side, Ring Two was thrown forward. He slammed into the back of the seat in front of him, arms and legs flailing. Like he’d been shot out of a cannon.

  The sliding door on the right side of the Caravan buckled inward, blowing out the windows and showering the interior of the wagon with glass shards. Street closed his eyes as g
lass rained down on him.

  Metal twisted. He heard the screeching of tyres as other drivers around the junction emergency-braked.

  The world kept on spinning.

  Half a second later, the Caravan jerked to a halt.

  So did the Explorer.

  Street coughed and opened his eyes. He took in a draw of breath and felt a sharp, stabbing pain in his ribs. His hands were nicked with cuts and bruises and there was a tinny, ringing noise in his ears, but otherwise he seemed okay. A car alarm wailed somewhere close by. From the other car, Street guessed. He cleared his lungs, then glanced around the Caravan.

  The three toughs were not okay. Ring One and Mohawk had smashed up against the seats at the front end of the Caravan. They were sprawled on the floor space between the front and middle rows, their clothes sprinkled with bits of broken glass. Forward of the pair of them, Street could see Soccer Mom behind the wheel, her face resting against the inflated airbag, like she was hugging a giant pillow.

  None of them were moving.

  Ring Two was slumped forward in the seat to the left of Street. His forehead was resting against the leather of the seat in front. Blood trickled down his face from a glistening wound to his scalp. His left eye had clamped shut. His nose had been reduced to a gout of blood and shattered bone. He looked like he’d just gone ten rounds with the Klitschko brothers. Both of them.

  Then Street heard voices from outside the Caravan.

  Getting louder.

  He twisted in his seat so that he was facing the sliding door on the left side of the minivan and peered through the cracked glass.

  Four bystanders stood on the north-east corner of the junction, twenty metres away from the wrecked motors. One of them was frantically making a call on his mobile. Another simply stood there, rubbernecking the scene. The other two had taken out their phones and were filming everything.

  Three more civilians were rushing towards the Caravan. One of them raced towards the Explorer. The other two sprinted over to the minivan. They were fifteen metres away now and closing fast.

  The Explorer, Street thought as his head cleared.