by Chris Ryan
Porter gave away five inches in height to Silver Hair. Didn’t matter. Height and reach were only effective if you could keep your opponent at long range. Porter made that factor irrelevant by stepping into the guy’s face. In a lightning motion, he dropped his right shoulder and punched up at an angle with the palm of his hand.
It wasn’t a clean strike. But Porter wasn’t getting points for artistic flair. He just wanted to put the guy out of the equation as quickly as possible. Which meant fighting fast and dirty.
There was a sickening crunch as the heel of his palm struck Silver Hair on the chin, snapping his neck back. The guy went floppy. His right arm fell away from his holster. Then Porter followed through with an upward jerk of his right leg, striking his opponent hard in the balls. Like a rugby player kicking for a penalty.
Silver Hair let out a pained groan.
He doubled over, gasping.
Which was when Porter struck him on the temple, using his clenched fist as a hammer, like an angry executive at a boardroom meeting, slamming his fist down on the conference table.
Silver Hair’s legs gave way. He collapsed to Mother Earth a few inches in front of Porter. He didn’t look like he had any fight left in him, but Porter wasn’t taking any chances. Not when the fucker had a weapon on him. He delivered a couple of swift kicks to the guy’s side, very little backlift, but hard enough to crack a rib or two.
After three more blows, Silver Hair went limp.
From start to finish, the fight had lasted no more than four or five seconds.
Porter dropped down next to Silver Hair and reached into his jacket. He could hear the guy’s shallow breathing as he snatched the weapon out of his holster.
A Glock 22, chambered for the .40 S&W round. The kind of weapon favoured by federal law enforcement.
Porter stretched to his full height, keeping the Glock trained on Silver Hair while he looked across to see how Bald was getting on.
Bald stood over his floored opponent, legs wide apart, his arms lowered by his sides. Blood and tissue glistened on the muzzle of the P30. Bald had a wild look in his eyes. Porter knew it well. He’d seen it before on ops they had been on together.
The look of uncontrolled rage.
The guy with the smashed-in nose lay in front of Bald.
His skull had split open at the dome. Blood pumped out of the wound, pooling around his limp body. His face had been pulverised beyond recognition. It didn’t look like the kind of damage caused by a couple of pistol-whips, Porter thought.
More like the result of a sustained, violent beating.
The guy’s right leg twitched a couple of times, then stopped. Porter stared in horror at his mucker. ‘Jesus, Jock. What the fuck did you do?’
‘Nothing. I just hit the bastard a couple of times, that’s all.’
The sound of a car door opening and closing drew Porter’s attention away. He snapped his gaze towards the driveway and saw Cooper hurrying towards them from the direction of the Civic.
From inside the Lincoln, Porter could hear Street’s muffled cries for help. He turned to Bald. ‘Get Street out of there,’ he said, pointing to the car. ‘I’ll check on this one.’
Bald jolted out of his stupor and swung around to the side of the Lincoln. Porter left Silver Hair groaning on the dirt, then knelt down beside the guy with the smashed-in face. He was careful to avoid treading in the widening puddle of blood. Porter pressed his index and middle fingers to the side of the guy’s throat, feeling for a pulse.
A second passed.
Then another.
Nothing. Blood everywhere. Cooper rushed over to the Lincoln as Bald helped Street out of the rear passenger seat.
‘Charles!’ Cooper said, breathlessly. ‘Good God! Are you all right?’
Street managed a kind-of nod.
‘Fine,’ he groaned.
He looked relieved to see his old friend. But also weary. Bald rested him against the side of the Lincoln, letting the guy catch his breath.Cooper lowered his eyes to the two suits. Silver Hair was well out of it. He was lying on his back on the dirt, making a strangled groaning noise in the back of his throat.The guy looked like the victim of a hit-and-run.
Then Cooper saw the guy with the caved-in skull.
He stiffened.
‘Is he—’
‘Dead?’ Porter nodded. ‘Yeah.’
‘Jesus. ‘What the hell happened?’
‘I only nutted him once or twice,’ Bald protested.
Porter looked up at his mucker and felt a cold chill run down his spine. He knew that Bald had a temper on him. An animal rage that boiled under the surface. Was this an accident, or did Bald mean to do this?
‘You bloody fool.’ Cooper glowered at Bald. ‘I told you not to kill them.’
Bald offered no response. Cooper turned to Porter and said, ‘Don’t bloody stand there, man! Check his pockets.’
Porter patted down the dead guy and pulled out a dark-brown billfold from the breast pocket of his jacket. He found a couple of credit cards inside, plus a membership card for a gym in Arlington and a driving licence, all in the name of Clay T. Kennard.
He handed the billfold to Cooper. Rooted around some more. Found a set of keys, including one with a long shank fastened to a steel loop that Porter guessed was the handcuff key.
Then he found something else.
A wallet badge, roughly the size of a passport holder.
Porter took it out.
Flipped it open.
The right side of the wallet had a laminated pass inside it with a barcode at the bottom. The kind of thing you use to swipe through the turnstiles at the entrance to an office. There was a photograph of the dead guy at the bottom-right corner, along with his name and signature.
On the left side of the wallet was a gleaming gold badge with an eagle at the top and embossed lettering below. Two words at the bottom of the badge: Special Agent.
Above it, three more.
Department of Justice.
Porter felt his stomach muscles constrict with dread.
‘What is it?’ Cooper demanded.
‘These guys aren’t Russian,’ Porter said, handing over the badge. ‘They’re with the fucking FBI.’
NINETEEN
Cooper stared at the badge for longer than a little while. Porter rose to his feet and took a step back from the guy with the caved-in skull. Bald stood next to him, watching the blood disgorge from the deep wound to the guy’s head.
‘You idiot!’ Cooper exploded as he rounded on Bald. ‘Do you realise what you’ve just done? You’ve killed a federal agent.’
Bald’s expression tightened. ‘Don’t blame me. It’s not my fault this prick’s head was made of mush.’
‘You beat him to death, you stupid bastard!’
‘What’s the big problem? You’ve got your man.’
Cooper looked apoplectic. His eyes were so wide they threatened to burst out of their sockets.
‘What do you think will happen once the FBI realise one of their agents has been murdered?’ he said, arms flapping. ‘They’ll put all their resources into searching for us. You’ve just put the entire mission in jeopardy.’
‘Fuck off. We just saved your mate. If it wasn’t for us they would have gotten away.’
Porter glanced sideways at Street. He was leaning against the side of the Lincoln Town Car, staring at the dead agent a few metres away. The relief on his face crumbling away, replaced by a look of shock and fear.
Porter thought, Lincoln Town Car.
Men in suits.
Government-issue Glock 22s.
I should have known.
First the Russian mafia.
Now the FBI.
This is getting serious.
‘How did the Bureau find this place?’ he asked.
‘Perhaps they followed us.’
Porter shook his head. ‘If anyone had been tailing us, we would have seen them. Besides, there’s only one road leading here. How did they man
age to get ahead of us?’
Cooper thought quickly, then said, ‘Property taxes. Charles’s ex would still be paying them on the cabin. The NSA must have searched her records and tipped off their friends at the Bureau.’
‘You think these were the same guys who were sent down to Florida, to speak to Street’s ex-wife?’
‘Had to be. This is standard practice for the Bureau. You want to find someone, you look at their close friends and family. They must have suspected she was holding something back from them. Hence the property tax search. Now pass me the damn keys.’
Porter chucked them at Cooper. The latter selected the one with the long shank and hurriedly unlocked Street’s handcuffs. Street winced in pain as he touched his swollen wrists.
‘Thanks,’ he croaked. ‘Thought I was done for back there.’
‘Forget it. I’m just glad you’re okay.’
‘How did you know where to find me?’
‘Call it a lucky guess. And the memory of that big catfish.’
Street tried to smile, then grimaced in pain.
‘Are you hurt?’ Cooper asked.
‘The accident. Think I broke a rib.’
‘We’ll get you checked out, as soon as we’re clear of this place. Don’t worry, old boy. It’s going to be okay.’
Street nodded slowly. The guy looked scruffy bordering on homeless. He had a week’s worth of stubble, several oval-shaped bruises on his temple and jaw. Cuts to his face that had recently scabbed over. There was a wild look to his eyes. Seven days on the run, his head was probably all over the place, thought Porter.
He glanced warily at the operators.
‘Who are they?’
Cooper slid over to Street, putting an arm around his back. ‘It’s alright, old boy.’ He gestured at Bald and Porter. ‘These chaps are working with Vauxhall. I sent for them. They’re going to help get you out of here.’
Street lifted his head. ‘Vauxhall? Then they know—’
‘About the dossier?’ Cooper nodded. ‘I had no choice but to tell my superiors. The situation was critical. They needed to be in the loop. You understand.’
‘The men who ambushed me, Terry. Back in Washington. They were Russians. Mafia. I recognised the tattoos.’
‘We know.’
‘Someone told them about the dossier. They knew about it.’
Cooper said, ‘Where is it now, Charles?’
‘In the cabin. I hid it. In case anyone showed up.’
‘Where?’
‘Bathroom. Loose panel. Next to the sink.’
Cooper walked his friend over to one of the Adirondack chairs on the front porch, to the left of the cabin door. Street sat down and relaxed slightly, forced a smile. ‘Sorry, Terry.’
‘For what?’
‘Getting you involved. I didn’t mean for this to happen.’
‘Nonsense. You weren’t to know that things would turn out as they did. Now wait here.’
He turned to leave. Stopped, then looked back at his friend. ‘The FBI. Did they ask you about the dossier just now?’
Street shook his head slowly, trying to clear the fog inside his head. ‘They wanted to ask me some questions. About the shooting.’
‘What did you tell them?’
‘I said I didn’t know anything. They didn’t believe me. That’s when they threatened to take me in.’
‘That’s good. They can’t know about the tape.’
‘No.’
Bald and Porter looked at one another in puzzlement.
‘What tape?’ Bald demanded.
Cooper pursed his lips.
‘We just put our necks on the line to get your mate back,’ Bald went on. ‘It’s about time you levelled with us. We’re all in the shit here.’
An uneasy look flashed across Cooper’s face. Then he sighed. ‘Very well. I’ll explain everything, once we’ve cleaned up this mess.’
Bald shook his head. ‘I’m not lifting a finger until you tell us what’s going on.’
‘Don’t be a fool, man. We can’t stay here for a moment longer than necessary. Once the FBI realises these two are missing, they’ll send out a search team to look for their chums.’
‘He’s right,’ said Porter. ‘We’ve got to bug out of here.’
‘And go where?’ Bald countered. ‘The original plan’s blown. We can’t stick your man on a commercial flight now. Not with the FBI on the lookout for him.’
‘What about heading to the embassy?’
Cooper shook his head. ‘The Bureau might be watching it. If they’re looking for Charles, they’ll have eyes on anywhere he might go. Which means we can’t leave any sort of trail for them, either.’
Porter thought for a moment. ‘We’re gonna need a place to lie low for a while. Somewhere we can reach out to Six and figure out how to get out of this fucking mess.’
‘There’s a few safe houses along the east coast,’ Cooper said. ‘We could try one of those.’
Of course, thought Porter. The safe houses.
Vauxhall owned hundreds of properties around the world for their assets to use whenever needed. Some of the houses were left empty and served as temporary holding cells for suspects. Others were manned by resident housekeepers, equipped with secure comms lines and state-of-the-art defences. None of the buildings could ever be traced back to Six. They were registered in the names of their housekeepers, or owned by shell companies registered in the Virgin Islands.
Porter said, ‘Where’s the nearest house?’
‘I don’t have that information to hand. Dom will know.’
‘We’ll have to clean this shit up before we start making any calls,’ said Bald. ‘I reckon we’ve got about four hours until the backup team shows.’
‘How can you be sure?’ asked Cooper.
Bald pointed to the Lincoln. ‘Those are Pennsylvania plates. These lads must have driven down from one of the big cities. Pittsburgh, or Harrisburg. It’ll take them a couple of hours before they realise something’s wrong, and two more hours for the second team to get here.’
Cooper waved a hand at the two FBI agents. ‘Take these two inside while I fetch the dossier.’
‘What do you want us to do with this one?’ Porter gestured towards Silver Hair.
‘We could slot him,’ Bald said.
Cooper stared at him in disbelief. ‘Christ, man. Are you mad?’
‘Easier that way. No witnesses.’
‘Absolutely not.’
‘His mate’s dead. If we get caught we’ll get Death Row anyway. Might as well double-tap this fucker and cover our tracks properly, like.’
‘They’re with the FBI, for fuck’s sake. We’re supposed to be on the same team.’
‘So?’
Cooper’s eyes bulged. ‘If you think I’m about to authorise the execution of a federal agent, you’re even thicker than I thought. Killing people may be how you solve problems in the Regiment, but this is the real world. The rules are different.’
‘But he might identify us. He’s seen our faces.’
It took all of Cooper’s power of self-control to calm himself down. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and gritted his teeth. Then he met Bald’s gaze.
‘If we’re questioned, we’ll say it was an act of self-defence. The agent drew his weapon on Porter when you approached to identify yourselves. His finger was on the trigger and you feared for your friend’s life. A struggle ensued, resulting in the accidental death of a federal agent. I’ll back up your version of events. It’ll be three witnesses versus one.’
‘I don’t like it.’
‘Perhaps you should have thought of that before you bashed his brains in. Now get a move on and shift those bodies before anyone else comes along. That’s an order.’
Cooper left Street sitting on the chair to the left of the door and disappeared inside the cabin. Bald sighed before turning to Porter.
‘Fuck it. Let’s get this done.’ Silver Hair was slowly coming around, groaning as he writ
hed around on the dirt. He caught sight of his dead partner and began shaking uncontrollably.
‘You sons of bitches. You killed Clay. Goddamn beat him to death.’
‘Get up,’ Porter growled. ‘Unless you want to join him.’
‘Fuck you.’
Porter grabbed hold of Silver Hair by the lapel of his jacket and hauled him to his feet. In the same move Porter spun the agent around so that he was facing the porch and nudged him in the small of the back with the Glock.
‘Get moving, or I’ll fucking drop you.’ Silver Hair trudged towards the porch. Porter followed close behind, his weapon trained on his target’s centre mass. Bald brought up the rear, two steps further back.
They climbed the porch and swept through the cabin door, into the front room.
The cabin had the lived-in look. There were empty tin cans on the kitchen counter, opened boxes of cereal. Street’s diet for the past week had apparently consisted of spam, chicken soup and Lucky Charms. There was a chintzy sofa, an old box-style TV, threadbare carpeting. Porter couldn’t see Cooper anywhere but he heard the guy rooting around in the bathroom as he searched for the dossier.
He forced Silver Hair to his knees in front of the wood-burning stove. Then he took out the handcuffs from the nylon pouch attached to the agent’s duty belt. Bald stood guard next to the breakfast counter with the P30 while Porter slapped one of the stainless-steel bracelets around Silver Hair’s left wrist. He took the other bracelet and fastened it around one of the stove’s iron legs.
‘You’re fucking dead,’ Silver Hair said, rattling his cuffed wrist against the stove leg. ‘All you assholes. You messed with the wrong team. Just you wait and see.’
Porter ignored his threats. He detoured into the kitchen and found what he was looking for in the cabinet under the sink. A filthy rag. Silver Hair was still yelling threats.
‘You hear me? You’ll fucking pay for this. My buddies will find you. Count on it!’
Porter hurried back over to the stove. Then he stuffed the rag in Silver Hair’s mouth, gagging him.
There was no point interrogating the guy. It would take hours to prise any int out of a trained agent, and they didn’t have the luxury of time. Torturing him would only add to their list of problems. Better to leave him there, a present for the backup team. With luck, they would be out of the country before the Bureau sketch artist could get to work.