Global Strike

by Chris Ryan

  ‘Assuming he’s still at the log cabin,’ Bald said. ‘He might have pissed off. Someone might have spooked him.’

  Cooper shook his head. ‘Charles has nowhere else to go. He won’t be in a hurry to leave.’

  At 1754 hours they stopped for petrol at a nowhere place with a Sunoco and a diner and a motel. Lined up on Main Street in that order. Bald and Porter filled up the tank at the petrol station and loaded up on high-calorie snacks and energy drinks: their first bite to eat since stepping onto the tarmac at Dulles. They had settled the bill with the cashier and were pacing across the forecourt when Bald stopped and pointed towards the diner, fifty metres away.

  Several pickup trucks were herded unevenly like cattle in front of the restaurant. Half a dozen good old boys were hanging out next to their wagons, hunting rifles slung over their shoulders. The windows on some of the trucks had been left lowered but the old boys appeared unconcerned as they stubbed out their cigarettes and headed inside the diner.

  Bald said, ‘What do you think, mate?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Nicking their guns. Those rednecks are bound to have left a few pieces in their wagons. Guarantee a couple of ’em won’t have locked the doors either, like.’

  Porter was about to laugh, then saw the look on Bald’s face. ‘You’re serious?’

  ‘Course I bloody am. We could sneak up while they’re stuffing their faces, help ourselves to some firepower.’

  ‘How do you know they’ve left anything in the wagons?’

  ‘You know what those rednecks are like,’ Bald said. ‘They leave all kinds of shit in their cars. They’ll have left a couple of pistols in the glove box at least. A rifle or two on the racks if we’re lucky.’

  ‘What if we get caught?’

  ‘We’ll be gone before they know what’s happened.’

  Porter studied the trucks for a moment, then shook his head. ‘It’s too risky. Even if we steal the guns, they’ll go running to the police. The cops will have our description.’

  ‘We’re going up against the Russians. We’re gonna need all the weapons we can get.’

  ‘But if it goes wrong, our cover’s blown, Jock. The mission will be shafted. It’ll be on us.’

  Bald turned fully towards his mucker. His features were screwed up in disgust. ‘Aye, I should’ve known you wouldn’t be up for it.’

  ‘The fuck are you talking about?’

  ‘You’ve lost your edge. You used to have a pair of balls on you. Now you’re just a washed-up old cunt. Can’t even hold your drink, for fuck’s sake.’

  A spark of anger flared up inside Porter. ‘I’m not sabotaging this op. End of. Now get back in the fucking car.’

  Bald stared at Porter for a moment. ‘This is a mistake.’

  ‘You won’t be saying that if something goes wrong.’

  Bald stepped into his mucker’s face. ‘Maybe. But if we run into the Russians, don’t blame me when things start going pear-shaped.’

  He turned away from Porter and stomped over to the Civic.

  They continued west, the road winding through the Allegheny mountains. There were no more towns or thriving communities out here. Just mile after mile of tree-lined hills pockmarked by rundown farmsteads and steepled churches. After four hours behind the wheel, Porter was beginning to feel the strain. He’d hardly caught a moment’s rest since setting out from London, almost twenty-four hours earlier, and the effects of the sugary snacks and caffeine were beginning to wear off.

  He pushed on, determined to get to Street as soon as possible.

  Questions bounced around inside his head. Who were the men in suits who’d gone sniffing around down in Florida? What did the Russian mafia want with the dossier? And how had they found out about it in the first place?

  I don’t know, Porter told himself. But we’re going to have some answers soon enough.

  Two hours later, at 1912 hours, they reached Lake Fontaine.

  They almost missed the turn. It was a narrow dirt road leading deep into the woods, an hour or more from the nearest town. Fifty metres before the turn a rusted sign at the side of the road announced: LAKE FONTAINE CABINS. There was a message below in smaller letters: Private Property! No Trespassing! Guests were instructed to report to the desk at the main office to collect their keys.

  Fifty metres north of the dirt track, Porter spied a large cabin with a sign next to the door: OFFICE. Apricot light spilled out from a couple of windows on the ground floor. A dark green four-door Toyota Hilux with a Confederate flag was parked up next to the cabin.

  Aside from the office, the landscape seemed empty. Abandoned. They hadn’t passed another car in miles.

  ‘What should we do?’ Porter said as he slowed down on the approach.

  ‘Ignore the sign. Take the turn. I’ll give you directions to Charles’s cabin.’

  Porter hung a right onto the dirt road. The Civic shuddered up the winding, potholed track as they drove deeper into the woods. The road rose on a gentle incline for a hundred metres before it levelled out, revealing a wide shimmering lake flanked by thick forest.

  Bald looked around, unimpressed. ‘This is where you and Street would go at the weekends?’

  ‘Once a month, or as often as our schedules allowed.’

  ‘Looks deader than an old man’s dick round here. Why would you spend your downtime in this dump?’

  ‘Charles and I spent most of our lives in the DC bubble. This was somewhere we could go to get away from the hustle for a day or two. Somewhere to relax, enjoy our shared love of fishing. It’s quite charming round here, actually. Especially in the autumn.’

  ‘I’ll take your word for it, mate,’ Bald replied with a snort. ‘Give me Las Vegas any day of the week.’

  ‘Where now?’ Porter asked.

  ‘Circle round,’ Cooper replied. ‘Charles’s cabin is on the far side of the lake. Slowly. We don’t want to look suspicious.’

  Porter veered to the right, following the track as it twisted through the forest. They passed a secluded log cabin with a wooden dock overlooking the lake, the kind of thing you saw in old horror films. There was a GMC Yukon Denali parked in the drive but Porter couldn’t see any sign of the inhabitants. Enjoying the hot tub, maybe.

  They continued for another hundred metres, passing two more log cabins similar in size to the one with the Denali parked out front. Both looked empty. A third cabin was under construction. The exterior walls had been partly raised, with a big pile of logs stacked to one side.

  Bald took out the guide books from the glove box, along with a fold-out paper map of the area they’d purchased at the petrol station. If anyone stopped them they’d claim to be tourists looking for a nearby holiday resort. Their cover story might buy them some time, he reasoned. Enough to spring a surprise or make their escape.

  Eighty metres past the construction site, Cooper leaned forward.

  ‘There! That’s it.’

  Porter slowed down to ten miles per as he followed Cooper’s pointing finger. Fifty metres beyond the Civic he could see a driveway to the left of the dirt road, leading down to the lake. Porter pulled over at the side of the dirt road with the Civic ahead. Then he looked out of his side window at the far end of the drive.

  Twenty-five metres away stood a large log cabin with a tall sloping roof and a wide porch on the left, facing out towards a grassy area with a wooden picnic table and an outdoor grill. On the porch, two Adirondack chairs looked out towards the woods. Both were empty.

  Then Porter saw something else.

  And froze.

  ‘Shit,’ Bald said.

  Parked at the edge of the cabin was a black Lincoln Town Car.

  EIGHTEEN

  ‘No one told us that Street had a set of wheels,’ Porter said.

  He had turned in his seat to face Cooper. The agent said nothing at first. The colour visibly drained from his face as he stared through the side window at the log cabin and the Lincoln.

  ‘He doesn�
��t. Not as far as I’m aware. Charles had a rental in DC, but he left it behind at the car park when the Russians tried to lift him. The cops found it.’

  ‘Maybe he hired another one,’ Bald suggested.

  ‘Charles isn’t that foolish. He’d know that renting a car would leave a paper trail.’

  ‘So whose motor is that?’

  Cooper said nothing.

  ‘Maybe Street’s ex,’ Bald said.

  Cooper shook his head. ‘Charles said she never bothers coming up here. And he wouldn’t have reached out to her for help. I know Charles. He wouldn’t put her in that kind of danger.’

  ‘Then who does the motor belong to?’

  ‘The Russians. They must have followed us here.’

  ‘No,’ Porter replied. ‘We’d have spotted them. Besides, how would they have gotten here ahead of us?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Porter swung his gaze back to the cabin. Light spilled out of the window to the right of the porch. The Lincoln engine wasn’t running. He couldn’t see anyone inside the car. Which meant that whoever the car belonged to was inside the log cabin. ‘What’s the plan, mate?’ asked Bald.

  Before Porter could reply, the cabin light switched off.

  The door swung open.

  Three figures emerged.

  Charles Street stepped out onto the porch first.

  It took Porter a couple of beats to recognise the guy. Street’s face was flecked with cuts and bruises. His clothes were dirty. He sported several days’ worth of stubble, and his thinning hair was matted with blood. Some of the buttons on his shirt had been ripped off, Porter noticed, revealing a soft, pale beer belly.

  The ex-spy was quickly followed by two guys in dark suits.

  They looked like models for a Big & Tall menswear catalogue. The first guy out of the door had the build of a retired boxer and the face to match. His nose was smashed in. His hands were the size of shovels, and his eyes were slightly too wide apart, which gave him a dumb look. He had a burly frame, muscle hidden beneath the fat of comfortable middle age.

  The second suit followed close behind. He was the tall model. He stood about seven inches taller than the guy with the smashed-in nose, and weighed about a hundred pounds lighter. Porter guessed he was six-five, six-six. He had silver hair, papery skin and eyes that were sunk crater-deep into his skull.

  ‘Russian mafia?’ Porter suggested.

  Bald shook his head. ‘They’ve not got any tats.’

  Cooper shot forward in his seat. His eyes were wide with alarm.

  ‘What the fuck are you two idiots waiting for? They’ve got Charles, for Chrissakes! You’ve got to stop them!’

  The two suits didn’t notice the Civic at first. They weren’t facing the drive. Their attention was solely focused on marching Street down the porch, towards the Lincoln parked ten metres to the left of the cabin, in front of the grassy patch with the picnic table and outdoor grill. Street staggered along in front of the suits, his hands cuffed behind his back, his head hanging low. He looked like a condemned man.

  There was no time to think. Porter grabbed one of the maps from the dash and unclipped his seat belt. He turned to Bald.

  ‘Follow my lead. I’ll distract these twats, you disable them.’

  ‘With what?’ Bald snapped. ‘We don’t even have a fucking pea shooter, thanks to you. I knew we should have robbed those hillbillies.’

  Porter looked away and bit back on his anger. He hated it when Bald was right. I fucked up, he thought. Back at the petrol station. Maybe I am losing my edge.

  Just then Cooper reached over to his leather attaché case. He sprang open the locks, pulled out a small black object and handed it over to Bald.

  ‘Here,’ he said. ‘Use this.’

  Bald stared at the pistol Cooper had just given him. He’d handled dozens of different weapons during his time in the Regiment and this one was instantly familiar. A compact Heckler & Koch P30 semi-automatic. The SK model, with a shorter grip to make it easier to conceal. It looked like a regular-sized handgun that had shrunk in the wash. But it felt sturdy. It didn’t rattle. It wasn’t top-heavy. You could practically feel the German precision engineering as soon as you picked it up.

  He thumbed the mag release, sliding out the clip. There was a full magazine inside, fifteen rounds of 9x19mm Parabellum brass. He inserted the clip back into the underside of the grip. Then he looked up at Cooper.

  ‘You had this on you the whole time and you didn’t think to tell us?’

  ‘Never mind that, man!’ Cooper’s voice was increasingly urgent. ‘Hurry up. Before they leave!’

  Bald stuffed the P30 down the back of his cargos. Porter opened the map to the page showing the location of the private retreat. He was about to step out of the Civic when Cooper thrust out an arm.

  ‘Make sure you take them alive. We’ll need to question them. Find out who they’re working for.’

  ‘We know what we’re doing. Wait here, and don’t fucking move.’

  ‘Fine. Now go!’

  They climbed out of the Civic. Porter first, Bald a couple of steps behind him. Then they began moving down the driveway.

  Twenty metres ahead of them, the two suits heard the thud of the car doors shutting and stopped in their tracks.

  They were five metres from the Lincoln. Street was clearly distressed, pleading with his captors in a soft mumbling voice.

  The tall guy with the silver hair looked up at the other end of the drive and saw Porter and Bald approaching. He turned to the big guy with the smashed-in nose. Pointed out the operators. They had some sort of private conference next to the porch. Then the guy with the smashed-in nose took hold of Street, half-dragged him over to the rear passenger side of the Lincoln and shoved him into the back seat, barking a command at the ex-spy before he slammed the door shut. Porter didn’t catch the words.

  But it sounded something like, Keep your mouth shut.

  At the same time Silver Hair turned towards Porter and Bald, wearing a look of mild irritation. There was only one way in and out of the cabin, down the drive to the main track. Which was currently blocked by the Civic. Which meant Silver Hair and his mate couldn’t simply drive off. They would have to deal with this nuisance before checking out of the retreat.

  The guy with the smashed-in nose padded back over to Silver Hair in front of the porch. Porter could see the bulges in their jackets from their shoulder-holstered weapons, but neither of them reached for guns. Dressed in their civvies and clutching the fold-out map, Bald and Porter didn’t look threatening. But Silver Hair and his mate weren’t relaxed either. Their stance was neutral, stiff. Cautious.

  It was Porter’s job to make them lower their guard.

  Six metres now.

  ‘Leave the talking to me,’ he whispered.

  ‘Sounds about right,’ Bald muttered. ‘You talk shit while I get stuff done.’

  Porter blanked him, waving the map at Silver Hair as he drew closer.

  ‘Mate, can you help us?’

  Silver Hair made no reply. The guy with the smashed-in face took a step towards Porter.

  ‘Sir, you need to walk away.’

  Porter ignored his advice. The guy had an American accent. Not local. Gruff, north-eastern. From one of the big cities on the eastern seaboard. New York, possibly. Or Philadelphia.

  Not Russian.

  He remembered what Cooper had said about the guys who had paid a visit to Street’s ex-wife. Two Americans in suits. Asking questions about her ex-husband.

  He wondered, Are these the same guys?

  Porter shrugged off the thought and tapped a finger on the map, hamming up his accent.

  ‘Easy, mate. We’re just asking for directions. Been looking for this Sunshine Springs resort but the GPS is on the blink and we can’t find the place anywhere.’

  He remembered seeing the Sunshine Springs Golf Resort advertised on several road signs some miles further up the road. He didn’t know where it was, but a
golf resort sounded like exactly the kind of place a couple of Brits might head to for a few days on their hols.

  Silver Hair kept on staring at Porter. But his posture relaxed slightly.

  ‘You need to head on back up the road, bud,’ he said. ‘Try the gas station up the road. We can’t help you. We’re not from around here.’

  ‘We tried them already. The bloke there was useless.’

  Porter took a step closer to the suits. He held out the map towards Silver Hair. Like a peace offering.

  ‘Come on, mate. We just need a bit of help, that’s all. Then we’ll be on our way. Help us out.’

  Silver Hair hesitated. Then his eyes lowered to the map. The guy with the smashed-in nose moved in closer, tilting his head to get a better look at the layout. Both of them had crucially shifted their focus away from the two operators. Towards the map right in front of them.

  Neither of them saw Bald reaching for the concealed P30.

  The attack happened very very fast.

  In the first half of the next second, Bald brought up the pistol, whipping it out from his cargos. He hadn’t chambered a round in the snout, but his intention wasn’t to kill. He just wanted to put the guy in the suit down. Preferably for a long time.

  In the next half-second, Bald went for the guy with the smashed-in nose. Sticking to the first rule of hand-to-hand combat.

  Deal with the biggest threat first.

  The suit saw the attack coming a fraction too late. He glimpsed the movement at his side and looked up just as Bald struck him in the face with eight hundred dollars’ worth of gun.

  There was a dull crack as the cold-hammer forged barrel smashed into the guy’s face, shattering his already fucked-up nose. The guy grunted as he stumbled back in shock, his arms doing a good impression of a couple of windmills. His nose looked like a piece of gristle from a slab of meat.

  In the next second, Silver Hair looked up from the map.

  The expression on his face shifted from confusion to horror as he saw Bald clubbing his mate over the head with the P30. Silver Hair was still holding the map with his left hand. But his right hand was free. He had some sort of basic training, evidently. Because his instincts kicked in. He spun back to face Porter, thrusting his spare hand into his jacket for his holstered weapon.