Global Strike

by Chris Ryan

  Porter caught his breath for a moment. Then he crawled along the top of the mound and scaled down to the opposite side, Bald and Cooper close behind at his six. The mound dipped down into a shallow ditch on the far side. Two metres past the ditch was a sturdy chain-link fence, twelve feet high, with barbed spikes running along the top rail to prevent anyone from climbing over.

  Beyond the fence was a row of thick fir and spruce trees, three deep, lining the edge of the garden. Shrubbery extended out from the treeline, blocking his view of the rest of the estate.

  Porter signalled for the others to wait at the bottom of the rampart. Then he crawled up through the ditch, the dank water soaking his shirt and dress pants. He stopped at the top of the ditch, straining his eyes in the pitch black as he scanned the length of the fence, looking for any sign of security cameras or motion detectors mounted atop the posts. When he was confident the area was clear, he beckoned Bald and Cooper over.

  They joined him at the foot of the chain-link fence and padded along the edge until they located a point where two sections of mesh fencing had been woven together to create a longer section. Then Porter stopped and nodded at Bald.

  ‘Get this fucker open.’

  Bald slipped on the gloves from his back pocket. Then he crept over, lugging the bolt cutters in his right hand. He clamped the cutter jaws around one of the woven steel wires a few inches up from the ground. There was a sharp metallic ring as the cutters sliced through the mesh.

  ‘Keep it quiet,’ Porter hissed.

  ‘Doing my best here, mate.’

  Bald worked quickly but calmly, cutting apart the vertical section of the woven fence He made four cuts, each a foot or so higher than the last. Then he set down the bolt cutters and pulled back on the severed wires with his gloved hands. The two sections of mesh separated at the bottom. Like flies unzipping on a pair of jeans.

  Porter dropped to all fours and crept through the four-foot gap in the fence. He shifted to the left of the opening, sticking to the shadows behind the trees at the edge of the garden. Cooper was next, wriggling head-first through the gap, Porter whispering at him to stay low. Bald went last. He crawled through, stooped low by the fence and sealed up the gap, weaving the mesh back together so the guards wouldn’t notice the breach on their next patrol.

  Then he nodded at Porter as if to say, Job done.

  They were in.

  THIRTY-NINE

  Porter edged forward from the chain link fence, surveying the ground ahead. In front of him, directly west of their position, was the main building.

  Zhirkov’s mansion.

  The place was huge, and garish. Like an imperial palace from feudal Japan, given a makeover by a Mexican drug dealer. It stood three storeys tall, with whitewashed walls and a solid gold front door. A pair of Bentley Bentayga SUVs were parked in the front drive, with all the pimp trimmings. Exotic plants and Buddha statues dotted the porch. Two guards stood outside the front door, decked out in the same gear as the two guards patrolling the rampart. At this distance Porter couldn’t tell if they were armed or not.

  To the rear of the mansion he spotted a tennis court and a timber-clad sauna, with a guest house built off to the side. A stone path led from the rear of the mansion, down towards the lake at the far end of the garden, eighty metres due south of Porter.

  At the edge of the lake stood the boathouse.

  The timber structure extended out across the lake on a purpose-built floating deck. Like a ship moored at anchor. Wooden steps led up from the lakefront to the living quarters on the first floor of the boathouse. Storage area below. For the mobster’s collection of boats, Porter supposed.

  Lights glowed inside the two first-floor windows.

  ‘Someone’s home,’ Bald said quietly as he drew alongside his mucker.

  Porter nodded at Cooper. ‘Looks like you were telling us the truth.’

  ‘For a fucking change,’ Bald murmured.

  The two operators observed the boathouse for a few moments longer, squinting in the darkness. ‘What now?’ asked Bald.

  ‘We’ll have to get closer.’

  Bald passed the message along to Cooper, speaking to him in a low, hissing voice. There was a threat in there too, which Cooper acknowledged with a cold, hard stare. Then Porter waved for the others to follow him as he set off towards the lake.

  They edged cautiously forward, sticking close to the ground and using the available cover to conceal their presence. As far as Porter could see there were no more guards patrolling the garden at the rear of the mansion. Just the two guys at the front and the other pair doing the rounds of the rampart. Plus however many guys were watching over Street.

  Every few steps Porter stopped in his tracks, scanning the area ahead. He wasn’t expecting any more guards, but they were inside the perimeter of a ruthless Russian mobster. We don’t want any nasty surprises.

  They edged closer to the boathouse.

  Forty metres now.

  Bronze statues of wolves and stags dotted the garden. Above them the crescent moon shone starkly, pale light reflecting like sword points off the surface of the lake. There was no sound coming from the house, and Porter felt the tension pulling like a band across his chest as he picked his way through the vegetation.

  We’re close now.

  Almost there.

  They moved on for another twenty metres, until they reached a point where the tangle of trees and shrubs ended. Beyond, a stretch of exposed ground led down towards the lakefront.

  Porter halted near the edge of the shrubbery and raised his hand, signalling for Bald and Cooper to stop. All three of them crouched low, making sure they were hidden from view.

  Directly beyond the bushes stood a rockery. Twenty metres further to the south was the boathouse.

  They settled down to OP the target area to the south. At this distance Porter could hear at least two separate voices coming from inside the boathouse. One guy sounded as if he was laughing. Another was shouting in a thick foreign tongue. There was a beat of silence. Then an agonised scream pierced the night air.

  Then more laughter.

  ‘Fuckers are torturing him,’ Bald murmured.

  Porter nodded. ‘Got to be three blokes in there.’

  ‘At least.’

  ‘Why aren’t you two getting over there?’ Cooper barely whispered.

  ‘We don’t know how many guys are inside, what the setup is,’ said Porter. ‘If we go steaming in and it kicks off, the rest of the guards will be alerted.’

  ‘What are we going to do?’

  ‘Wait. Whoever’s inside will have to change over at some point. Or they might get sloppy. Or take a break. Until then, we stay fucking put.’

  Cooper shut up. Porter wondered again about the guy’s change in attitude. His sudden concern for his old mate.

  The interrogation carried on. The guy with the angry voice asking the questions, followed by the whimpering pleas from Street. Which in itself was a good sign, Porter decided. Because it meant the Russians hadn’t finished with him. Street was still holding out. He hadn’t given all his secrets up.

  Not yet.

  Charles won’t break easily, Tannon had said. A good agent doesn’t forget his training.

  They continued to OP the area. Dividing their attention between the boathouse and the surrounding estate.

  Watching.

  Waiting.

  They didn’t have to wait long.

  Eleven minutes later, Bald pointed towards the rear of the mansion.

  ‘Movement,’ he whispered.

  Porter looked across at his two o’clock as a pair of figures emerged from the tall patio doors facing out across the garden. Two guys with shaven heads and jacked physiques. Like twins who’d been raised on human growth hormone instead of breast milk.

  ‘Must be the changeover guards,’ Bald said.

  The HGH twins strode purposefully down the path towards the boathouse, forty metres to the south of the mansion. As they drew closer
, Porter saw that they were kitted out with the same walkie talkies and holstered pistols as the guards patrolling the rampart. They climbed the steps to the first floor, and then one of the twins knocked on the boathouse door.

  The screaming stopped.

  The door opened.

  Two more figures stepped outside.

  A younger-looking bloke wearing all black, with a high-and-tight haircut and a face like a rat. Small and thin and pointed.

  Next to him was the biggest guy Porter had ever seen. He had the build of a heavyweight brawler, but with about a hundred pounds extra in fat. His legs were like marble columns in a Greek temple, his hands hanging like bags of cement from his meaty arms. His eyes were the only small thing about him. They were narrow and wide, like slashes of a knife across a car tyre, either side of his bulbous nose. He had a gold chain around his neck. Rings gleamed on each of his huge fingers.

  The four of them had a mini-reunion on the steps. Words were exchanged. Cigarettes shared around and lit up. Gold Chain and Rat Face looked relieved to be clocking off for the night. They were laughing and grinning broadly, looking forward to catching some rest after several gruelling hours on the job.

  They were halfway through their cigarettes when a fifth bloke appeared in the boathouse doorway. Solidly-built, with a beer gut and a shark-fin Mohawk, gripping a cattle prod in his right hand.

  Mohawk addressed the HGH twins, gesturing at the mansion with the cattle prod. Porter guessed he was the guy in charge of the interrogation. He spoke in a loud, deep voice that carried clearly across the estate. The mood among the guards shifted. The twins seemed unhappy about something. They made a half-hearted protest to Mohawk, gesticulating at Gold Chain and Rat Face. Mohawk simply shrugged, as if to say, What can you do?

  The argument went on for a few moments, before the twins finally admitted defeat. They turned away and headed back down the steps, shaking their heads and muttering to one another. Rat Face and Gold Chain followed after them as the four beat a path back to the mansion.

  Mohawk stepped back inside the boathouse.

  Porter looked over at Cooper. ‘You speak Russian?’

  ‘Some,’ Cooper replied hesitantly.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘The cattle prod battery’s dead. They need a charger. Plus something about supplies. Water, first aid kit, towels. Power tools. The guards are heading back to the house to fetch everything.’

  ‘Why would they need four blokes for that?’

  ‘It’s a long list. And two of them are clocking off for the night. The new guys are having to go back and get everything themselves. They’re pissed off that someone didn’t call them over the net.’

  Porter turned his attention to the four guards. They were already moving across the open ground towards the mansion. Gold Chain and Rat Face marching behind the surly twins.

  A minute later they reached the patio doors and disappeared inside the mansion. Leaving only one guy on guard duty inside the boathouse.

  Mohawk.

  This is our chance to get Street, Porter thought. Before the guards come back. He turned to the others. ‘This is it,’ he whispered. ‘Fucking move yourselves.’

  He stood up. Stepped out from behind the shadow area of the trees.

  So did Bald and Cooper.

  Then they hurried towards the boathouse.

  FORTY

  They broke forward across the open ground.

  Porter led the way. Bald to his right, Cooper at his six o’clock, the three of them moving at a brisk jog. There was no need for silence now. They had only a few minutes to act. As long as it would take for the HGH twins to retrieve the supplies from the mansion and return to the boathouse.

  On a routine op, Porter and Bald would have stayed behind cover for at least a couple of hours before making their approach. They would have observed the immediate area and the guards’ routine, establishing the weakest points and then launching their attack at first light. But there was no time for that now.

  They had one chance to rescue Street from his captors.

  If they failed, he would die.

  Ten metres to the boathouse.

  Ten metres to Street.

  Bald and Porter scrabbled down the slope leading towards the lakefront, Cooper hurrying after them. Porter wasn’t worried about being spotted by Mohawk, or anyone inside the mansion. Artificial light fucked with your natural night vision. Anyone looking outside at the garden, from a well-lit room, would see no further than a few feet away. The guards on the rampart weren’t a problem either. Their attention would be focused solely on the ground outside the perimeter. They had orders to search for enemies attempting to enter the estate. Neither of them would be looking for a threat on the inside.

  They hit the bottom of the slope, then slowed their stride as they approached the boathouse. The soft grass had masked their footsteps but they would have to exercise greater caution on the final approach. Porter hurried up the steps, keeping the noise of his boots on the treads to a minimum. There was no time to plan a sophisticated attack. It was all about speed now. Suppress Mohawk before he could raise the alarm.

  Porter and Bald had their Yarygins stashed down the backs of their trousers. They couldn’t risk using their guns to deal with the guard. A discharge would alert everyone else on the estate to their presence. They were going to have to use brute force to take him down instead.

  Fifteen seconds had passed since the guards had returned to the mansion. There were plenty of people who would think long and hard before crashing through that door, but Porter wasn’t one of them. Neither was Bald.

  That’s what makes us Blades.

  He hit the top of the steps half a metre ahead of Bald. Cooper was lagging further behind, snatching at his breath, struggling to keep up with the others.

  The door in front of Porter was wood-panelled, with a brace across the middle and a tiled canopy above. No window or spyhole. No lock either. Just a cast-iron bolt fixed at waist height. Zhirkov had apparently decided there was no need for a heavy-duty lock on his boathouse. Which made sense, from a security perspective. He had a bunch of armed toughs to patrol the grounds of his estate. They were all the deterrent he needed.

  Porter yanked the bolt free of the receiver. It made a grating noise as it wrenched free. In the next instant he flung open the door and charged inside the boathouse.

  He was light-blinded as he swept into the main room. A rank smell hit him, the putrid stench of shit, blood and piss. Porter squinted, his eyes adjusting to the fluorescent light as Bald rushed in at his six. He found himself in a brightly lit space with a low ceiling supported by timber cross-beams. Lengths of spare cordage and lifejackets hung from iron hooks fixed to the walls. To the left was a table with several knives laid out next to a set of pliers and a soiled rag. Next to the bloodstained tools Porter glimpsed a Motorola walkie talkie and a Makarov pistol.

  Tied to a metal-framed chair in the middle of the room was Charles Street.

  In the split-second that Porter focused on the ex-spy he saw the guy had been stripped down to his underwear. His hands were bound behind his back. Lengths of rope were tied around his ankles, lashing them to the rusting chair legs. A dark, sticky pool had collected between his bare feet.

  Mohawk stood to the right of Street, gripping an iron hook in his right hand. He’d already half-turned towards the door, the sound of it door crashing open drawing his attention away from Street. A look of dumb surprise flashed across Mohawk’s face as he saw Porter and Bald bulling towards him from three metres away.

  Then he didn’t wear any look on his face at all.

  Porter lunged at the Russian, closing the distance between them to less than a metre. In the same motion he dropped his right shoulder and body-slammed into Mohawk like a rugby player tackling his opponent. Mohawk let out a gasp of pain as Porter smashed shoulder-first into the guy’s solar plexus, driving the air from his lungs. The Russian stumbled backwards, crashing against the table befor
e he fell away.

  He grunted as he landed on his back, his spine crunching against the hardwood floor, the hook tumbling out of his stunned grip. Porter landed on top of Mohawk, clamping a hand over the guy’s mouth before he could scream for help. Mohawk struggled manically under his opponent’s mass, kicking out, rocking from side to side as he tried to throw Porter off. He fumbled for the iron hook but Porter knocked it out of reach before Mohawk could grab it.

  ‘Fucking do him!’ he shouted at Bald.

  Bald surged forward in a blur and dropped down beside his mucker. Mohawk continued screaming and flailing as Bald grabbed the guy’s right collar with his right hand, so that his knuckles were pressing against the side of Mohawk’s neck. He reached for the left collar with his left arm, forming an X with his wrists.

  Mohawk read his intentions. Realised what Bald was about to do. He let out a full-throated scream.

  Then Bald yanked on his collar.

  He pulled hard, bringing the guy’s left collar across with his left hand, pressing his right knuckles against the right side of Mohawk’s neck, compressing the carotid artery. Like a tourniquet being applied to a bullet wound.

  A blood choke was quicker to execute than an air choke. Loss of consciousness took seconds, rather than minutes. Porter kept Mohawk pinned down beneath his knees, the Russian’s eyes bulged as Bald pulled the sides of his collar tighter, cutting off the blood supply to his brain.

  The guy screamed into the fingers Porter still had clasped over his mouth. He kept up the fight for a couple more seconds, until his oxygen-starved brain couldn’t function any more. Then the colour drained from his face. His eyes veiled. He went limp.

  Bald held the collar tourniquet in place for another few seconds, making sure the guy was out for the count. It took seconds for a blood choke to render a victim unconscious, but it would take minutes to kill him. Time that Bald and Porter simply didn’t have. They needed to be in and out of the boathouse as quickly as possible.