Global Strike

by Chris Ryan

  All we can do now is take down as many of these fuckers as possible.

  Six seconds passed.

  Then seven.

  Then eight.

  No one charged up the stairs.

  ‘Where are they?’ he wondered.

  ‘Maybe they’ve fucked off,’ Bald said.

  ‘Why would they do that?’

  Bald shrugged.

  Porter pricked his ears, listening for any noise coming from the ground floor. He couldn’t hear a thing. There was only the urgent bleating of a smoke alarm, the dull constant ringing in his ears. On the jukebox, ‘Africa’ by Toto was blaring out.

  After fifteen seconds he signalled to Bald. ‘I’m going to check it out. Watch my back.’

  ‘Roger that.’

  Bald kept his rifle focused on the uppermost tread as Porter edged forwards. He stopped by the side of the banister at the top of the stairs, then inched around to the right. Peering down the Colt’s front and rear sighting posts as he scanned the stairs below.

  Empty.

  Where the fuck did the Russians go? Porter asked himself again. If I was in their boots, I would have been rushing up the stairs as soon as those bangs went off. Toss up a few more grenades, then finish off the job with a couple of long bursts from the street sweeper. I definitely wouldn’t have given my enemies a chance to regroup.

  So where are they?

  He motioned for Bald, indicating that the area was clear. Bald slowly crept towards the stairs as Porter moved down the treads, listening for the slightest movement coming from the ground floor.

  Still he heard nothing. Just the background noise of eighties soft rock and the beeping of the smoke alarm.

  As he rounded the corner at the mid-point of the stairs, Porter heard an abrupt noise. The familiar clunk of a car door shutting, followed by the stammering sputter of a car engine cranking into life, the mechanical growl of motors picking up speed. The chorus to ‘Africa’ kicked in as Porter turned at the corner and moved down the stairs, quickening his pace. He hit the bottom and hurried down the hallway.

  Dead bodies littered the floor. There was a blackened patch in the middle of the hallway where the grenades had detonated. Shrapnel studded the walls. The floor was strewn with spent jackets and blood splatter and broken glass. A couple of the dead Russians had the same tattoos on their necks as the guys on the snatch squad, Porter noticed. The skull resting on top of the oak tree branch, smoking a chubby cigar.

  He looked towards the front door, twelve metres away. The door was wide open, giving him an unobstructed view of the driveway and the adjacent garage. Stillman’s Hilux was there, along with the rental Cruze.

  No sign of any other cars.

  Bald bulled down the stairs after Porter, eyes sweeping the foyer. He drew up alongside his mucker, caught sight of the front drive and stopped dead in his tracks.

  ‘Shit,’ he said as he lowered his weapon. ‘The motors.’

  ‘Bastards must have legged it,’ Porter said.

  As he looked on a cold chill clamped around his neck. There was only one explanation for the enemy’s sudden departure. He spun away from the foyer and hurried back down the hallway, his chest swirling with unease.

  Porter knew what he would find inside the master bedroom. He’d known in his guts as soon as the enemy had gone silent. Their hasty retreat from the safe house had merely confirmed his suspicions.

  He barged through the bedroom door ahead of Bald, his heart pounding. Cooper stood just outside the strong room, his arms raised above his head, surrendering to an enemy that had already disappeared. Porter gave him the briefest of glances before he swung around the bed, beating a path over to the strong room.

  The strong-room door was open.

  He took a step into the room. Stopped.

  No. Bald caught up with him, breathing hard. He looked inside the strong room.

  ‘Fuck,’ he said.

  Street wasn’t there.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Porter stared at the empty space for a long, cold beat. The thumping in his head came back with a vengeance. A jarring pain, pulsating behind his eye sockets.

  The Russians. They’ve taken Street.

  He spun away from the strong room and looked towards Cooper. The agent looked momentarily surprised to see Bald and Porter. Then he lowered his hands to his sides as he peered out into the hallway.

  ‘Are they gone?’ he asked.

  Bald nodded. ‘They just fucked off. What happened?’

  ‘Two of them burst in. They grabbed Charles and took him away. There was nothing I could do.’

  ‘What about the dossier?’

  ‘They took that too.’

  ‘Shit.’

  Porter looked again at the empty strong room, gritting his teeth in bitter frustration. He understood now why the Russians hadn’t bothered wiping them out when they had been trapped upstairs.

  Because they didn’t need to slot us. We weren’t the target. They just needed me and Jock out of the way for long enough to grab Street. Now the bastards have taken him.

  We’ve failed.

  He turned back to Cooper. ‘Why didn’t they slot you?’

  ‘I hid under the bed. After I heard the grenades go off. I knew the Russians would reach the bedroom and find us. I tried to tell Charles to hide but he refused to move.’

  Bald said, ‘Didn’t they look for you?’

  Cooper shook his head. ‘They sounded as if they were in a hurry. They just grabbed Charles and left.’

  Porter said, ‘Must have bugged out as soon as they heard us two coming downstairs.’

  A puzzled expression played out on Bald’s face, ‘How did the Russians find us? No fuckers were supposed to know about this place.’

  Porter said nothing. A troubling thought needled him as he stared at Cooper. One that had been forming in the back of his mind ever since they arrived at the safe house. First the snatch attempt in DC. Now the attack on the safe house. Two incidents that only a handful of people knew about.

  And somehow the Russian mafia had known where to find Street on both occasions.

  ‘Someone sold us out,’ he said. ‘Someone told the Russians.’

  ‘You think there’s a leak inside Six?’

  ‘Not over there. It had to be someone inside the house. The same person who disabled that front alarm. They knew the Russians were coming and wanted to stop us from being warned.’

  His gaze stayed focused on Cooper. The agent read the accusing look on Porter’s face and laughed nervously. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. You actually think I had something to do with this?’

  ‘There’s only five people in this house who could have disabled that sensor,’ said Porter. ‘One of them is dead. The other was just taken. That leaves me, Jock and you.’

  Cooper bristled with indignation. ‘Have you lost your mind? I’ve been trying my hardest to protect Charles, for Christ’s sake. Not hand him over to the mafia.’

  ‘Yeah, and you’ve been doing a crap job of it. Every time he asks for your help, he ends up getting attacked.’

  Cooper shot him an icy glare. ‘You forget who you’re talking to. I’m the senior intelligence officer for our North American operations. One word from me and you’ll go back into the hole you crawled out of.’

  ‘I don’t give a toss. Someone set us up, and you’re the only one who could have done it.’

  ‘What about him?’ Cooper jabbed a finger at Bald. ‘He’s worked in Russia. He’s got contacts over there, I imagine. He could just as easily have been the one who told them where to find us.’

  ‘Jock wouldn’t do that. He can be a mean bastard, but he wouldn’t stab us in the back.’

  Cooper glowered at Porter. ‘Have you lost your fucking mind, man? We should be getting out of here before the police show up, not throwing around baseless accusations.’

  ‘We’re not going anywhere until you level with us.’

  ‘I’ve heard enough. Out of my way.’

 
Cooper shaped to barge his way past, lashing out at Porter with his elbows. Something inside Porter snapped. He shoved Cooper back, engaging his core and leg muscles, throwing all his weight into the move. The force of the blow sent Cooper stumbling backwards, arms flailing as he went off-balance. He gave out a grunt as he fell back, crashing against the bedside table, knocking off the lamp and a framed picture of Stillman’s dead wife.

  ‘You idiot!’ Cooper hissed. ‘You’ll pay for that. Insubordination. Your career is finished. I’ll make fucking sure of it.’

  But Porter wasn’t listening.

  He stared at the object lying on the carpet next to Cooper. It had tumbled out of the guy’s trouser pocket when he’d fallen backwards.

  A mobile phone. Similar to the two burners that Porter and Bald had been issued back in London. Some cheap knock-off brand with a rudimentary touchscreen.

  Bald had noticed it too.

  It wasn’t Cooper’s regular phone. Porter distinctly recalled Cooper using an iPhone several times in DC, and on the drive to West Virginia. This one was different.

  Cooper looked over to his side. When he saw what had seized Bald and Porter’s attention, his face went white. He reached for the phone but Porter reacted faster, snatching it up. The handset was turned on, running some older version of Android. A plain digital clock face glowed brightly on the display.

  Porter lowered his gaze to Cooper. The agent was slumped on the floor, back pressed up against the wall, lips pressed tight. Eyes darting between the two operators. ‘What the fuck are you doing with a burner?’ said Porter.

  ‘Nothing,’ Cooper replied defensively. ‘It’s just a backup, that’s all. In case my main phone runs out of battery.’

  ‘Bollocks. None of us were supposed to have our phones switched on at the safe house. You didn’t say nothing about a backup phone.’

  Cooper said nothing. Porter could see his eyes shifting left and right, as if looking for a way out.

  No chance.

  He grabbed the agent by the lapel of his jacket and hauled him to his feet.

  ‘I’ve had enough of your shit. You’ve been playing us from the word go. Now tell us what’s going on.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ ‘Bullshit! Who were you reaching out to on that phone?’

  ‘No one, I swear!’

  ‘We need to leave, mate,’ Bald cut in. The cops will be showing up soon.’

  Porter kept on eyeballing Cooper but the stopwatch in his head told him that six or seven minutes had passed since the Russians had attacked. Although they were out in the sticks, someone was bound to have heard the barrage of rifle reports and explosions. A distant neighbour, or a person out walking their dog. Police response times in rural districts were slower than in major towns and cities, but not much.

  We’ve got about ten minutes until the first patrol car rocks up, Porter guessed. Perhaps less.

  ‘We’ve got to go,’ Bald continued. ‘Now.’

  ‘Listen to your friend,’ Cooper said, his voice cracking with fear. ‘We can’t stay here, man!’

  Porter scrolled through their options in his mind. They would have to get rid of anything inside the house that connected Stillman to MI6 before they left. Hard drives, computers, documents, encryption kit. There simply wasn’t enough time to rough Cooper up now. They’d have to wait until they were well clear of the safe house.

  He released his grip on Cooper and jerked his head at Bald.

  ‘Take him out to the car. We’ll question him once we’re on the road. I’ll get this place cleaned up.’

  ‘Roger that.’

  Porter swung his gaze back to Cooper. ‘We’re not done with you. Make a fucking move, try to leg it, and I’ll put one right between your eyes. Don’t test us.’

  Cooper looked terrified. His lips parted but no sound came out of his mouth. Bald manhandled him out of the bedroom and dragged him outside to the Cruze while Porter sprinted over to the basement door.

  He retrieved the voice-encryption box from the basement office, along with the stack of portable hard drives Stillman used to store the footage from the security cameras. Anything that might reveal the housekeeper’s links to Six had to go. Porter stashed the hard drives in a gym bag he found next to the exercise equipment and lugged the kit upstairs.

  He ignored the bodies sprawled across the floor. There was no time to clean up the scene properly. They just had to hope that they made it across the border, four hundred miles to the north, before the cops figured out what had happened. It would take them a while, Porter reasoned. Once they discovered that the house belonged to a British ex-copper, the police would focus their attention on Stillman. They would naturally wonder why he had a load of dead Russians on his property. Crime-scene investigators would canvas the scene. Bullet casings would be painstakingly marked and photographed and bagged. Forensics taken.

  Porter rushed back into the master bedroom and made a quick scan of the gun safe to see if Stillman had left any incriminating documents inside. He found two white envelopes in the pouches below the handguns, each containing five thousand dollars in clean bills. He snagged the cash, took one of the FN Five-Seven pistols and a single twenty-round clip of 5.7x28mm brass in case they ran into any trouble en route to the border. A handgun was easier to conceal than one of the Colt rifles. And easier to dispose of.

  He left the rest of the weapons in the gun safe. They were untraceable, Stillman had said when he’d given them the grand tour. Bought at gun shows, without records of sale or background checks. Nothing illegal. Nothing to make the cops suspicious.

  Porter wiped down the two Colt longs they had used and left them in the safe with the other weapons. He grabbed the envelopes stuffed with cash, the Five-Seven and the gym bag, and jogged across the hallway to the front door.

  Bodies littered the foyer. Five of them either side of the entrance. Plus the three guys Porter had taken out in the study, and the three Bald had slotted in the garden. Eleven dead, in total.

  A bloodbath.

  Something doesn’t make sense here, thought Porter.

  A disturbing thought calcified inside his head.

  If what Cooper had told them was true, the Russian mob had been willing to commit serious resources to the op in order to retrieve a dossier that briefly mentioned a sex tape.

  Maybe I’m wrong, Porter told himself.

  But it seems like overkill.

  Bald was waiting for him by the Cruze. Cooper was in the back seat. Porter dumped the encryption box in the boot, along with the gym bag filled with hard drives. He held on to the Five-Seven and kept the ghost phone in his side pocket. They’d need to reach out to Moorcroft once they’d had put some serious mileage between themselves and the safe house.

  ‘That’s everything?’ asked Bald.

  ‘That’s the lot. The place is clean.’

  Bald slammed the boot shut. ‘What now?’

  ‘We’ll get clear of this place and rough up this twat,’ Porter said, cocking his head at Cooper in the rear passenger seat. ‘Find out what he knows.’

  ‘What about the escape plan?’ ‘We still need to get out of the country. Can’t be hanging around here, mate.’

  ‘The plan stands. We’ll head to the border, as soon as we’re done questioning Cooper.’

  ‘We should call Six. Tell them what the fuck is going on.’

  ‘Not until we get some answers out of that cunt first.’

  Porter gestured at the contents of the boot.

  ‘We’ll have to stop somewhere along the way too. Get rid of this shit.’

  Get yourself cleaned up too. You look fucking homeless.’

  Porter glanced down at his hands. They were blackened with a greasy film of lead particles. His new shirt was smeared with sweat patches and dirt. There were grazes on his hands and face from the grenade blast. His clothes reeked of cordite.

  ‘Thanks, mucker,’ he said, looking up at Bald.

  ‘What for?’


  ‘Saving my arse back there. That bastard with the crucifix would have put a hole in my nut if it wasn’t for you.’

  ‘Thank me later. We’ve still got to get out of the country first.’

  Porter half-smiled. Jock might be a hard bastard with a savage tongue on him, he thought, but he’s also a top operator. He gets the job done. You can count on him when you’re in the shit.

  If it hadn’t been for him, we would never have survived that assault.

  ‘Reckon we’ll make it across?’ he asked. ‘Unless the local cops are geniuses, it’ll take them a while to piece together what happened here. Longer than it’ll take us to reach the checkpoint, anyway. As long as there’s nothing in that house to connect that housekeeper to Six, we’re in the clear.’

  ‘I hope you’re right.’

  Bald studied his mucker carefully, as if trying to read his mind. ‘You think Cooper’s working for that lot? The Russians?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Porter said back. ‘But we’re gonna find out, one way or another.’

  THIRTY-TWO

  Porter dived into the back seat next to Cooper. Bald took the wheel. He knew the roads around the safe house, having made the journey to Dulles airport and back with Stillman earlier that morning. They pulled out of the driveway, tyres chirping as they turned on to the private road. Bald floored the gas, taking them away from Monroe, sticking to the directions Stillman had laid out for them on Google Maps. Five minutes before a Russian mobster had put a hole in his head.

  The quickest route to Buffalo was north through West Virginia and Pennsylvania, Stillman had explained, avoiding the rush-hour traffic around DC and the suburbs. Once they reached Pennsylvania the interstate would ferry them north through the Alleghenies, all the way to Buffalo and the border crossing at the Peace Bridge. Total estimated journey time of around eight hours.

  Cooper protested his innocence as they motored north on a dilapidated county road. Porter threatened to kill the guy unless he shut up and for the next three miles Cooper sat with his hands in his lap, a despondent look plastered across his mug.