Global Strike

by Chris Ryan

  ‘Let’s get this fucker secure,’ Porter said as he rolled off the Russian.

  They worked fast. Bald dug out the set of plastic restraints from his back pocket and clinched them tight around Mohawk’s wrists, binding his arms behind his back. At the same time Porter snatched up the filthy rag from the table to the left and stuffed it in the Russian’s slack mouth. The guy would be out for at least four or five minutes. More than enough time for them to free Street and bolt out of the mobster’s estate.

  Bald and Porter turned their attention to Street. Under the harsh overhead lights Porter saw the full extent of his injuries. His chest and face were covered in painful-looking bruises and welts. His arms were blistered where Mohawk had given him a few bumps with the cattle prod. Street’s left ear had been hacked off, leaving a knotted gout of cartilage.

  ‘Bastards have done a real number on him,’ said Bald.

  Porter nodded. But he knew enough about the human body to know Street would survive his injuries. ‘Quick. Give us a hand, Jock.’

  Both operators set to work. Porter began loosening the rope binding one of Street’s ankles to the chair leg. Bald dropped down beside his mucker and tackled the rope tied around his other ankle. Street made a weak groaning sound in his throat. His whole body shuddered with pain. Porter moved on to the rope binding Street’s wrists, his hands working fast.

  Almost there now.

  His mind was turning to their escape plan. Once they had freed Street they’d have to leg it out of the boathouse, then back across the estate. Over the mound, through the pine forest and back to the G-wagon. If they made good time, they could be racing away from the mansion before the guards came back to find Mohawk bound and gagged on the boathouse floor.

  Porter was still tackling the rope when he heard a familiar metallic click at his back.

  He stopped what he was doing and lifted his gaze from Street. He saw Cooper standing just inside the boathouse doorway, gripping a Makarov semi-automatic pistol.

  Aimed directly at Porter.

  FORTY-ONE

  Porter didn’t move.

  Bald had turned towards Cooper as well, frozen in mid-turn as he caught sight of the Makarov in his right hand. In his left hand, Cooper held the Motorola walkie talkie Porter had glimpsed earlier on the table, among the torture instruments. A sidelong glance at the table told Porter that both the walkie talkie and the pistol were missing.

  Cooper must have grabbed them while we were busy choking the shit out of Mohawk, he realised.

  Bald’s pistol was still tucked away in the waistband of his jeans. So was Porter’s. Out of reach.

  ‘Make a move,’ Cooper said, ‘either of you, and I’ll shoot.’

  Bald’s jaw muscles tensed. ‘The fuck are you doing?’

  ‘Taking you both prisoner.’ Porter looked on, anger clawing at the insides of his guts as Cooper depressed the push-to-talk button on the walkie talkie. He jabbered a few words of fluent Russian into the unit. There was a burst of static, before a flurry of barked responses came back over the same channel.

  ‘What the fuck’s going on?’ Bald demanded angrily.

  Cooper smirked. ‘Come on. Even someone as thick as you should be able to work that one out.’

  ‘You led us into a fucking trap,’ Porter said between gritted teeth. ‘You were planning to turn us over to the Russians all along.’

  ‘That wasn’t my initial plan. After Charles was taken, I intended to cover up my tracks. The Russians were supposed to help in that regard. They had orders to kill you both. But then you survived and figured out my involvement. That’s when I knew I had to leave the country.’

  ‘Why Russia?’

  ‘Why d’you think? I’ve got contacts here. I speak the language. And the Russians would never agree to extradite me to the West. Not after everything I’ve done for them over the years.’

  ‘That’s why you agreed to take us here,’ Porter said, suddenly understanding. ‘Why you went along with the plan. You had to get out of the US.’

  ‘You were threatening to kill me. It’s not like I had any choice. But once I agreed, I realised I had a golden opportunity to turn you two over. I just had to lure you here without suspecting anything. It’s all worked out rather well.’

  ‘We had a fucking deal,’ Bald said.

  ‘I’ll get a better one here, I expect. Better than anything Vauxhall was offering me. After all, I’ve not only sabotaged an MI6 operation to rescue Charles, but I’ve captured two ex-SAS legends into the bargain.’

  ‘You’re a dead man.’

  Cooper laughed. ‘I don’t think so. I’m about to become the hero of the hour. You two, on the other hand, are going to be in a world of pain. What they’ve done to Charles is nothing compared to what they’ll do to you.’

  Porter stared coldly at Cooper. Outside the boathouse, he could hear several approaching voices, coming from the direction of Zhirkov’s mansion, shouting at one another in their native Russian tongue.

  The guards.

  Porter remembered his gun. He could feel the grip nudging against the base of his spine. He thought about reaching for it. Cooper read the look on his face and said, ‘I wouldn’t. We both know I’d kill you before you could reach for your weapon.’

  ‘You can’t nail us both. One of us would get the drop on you first.’

  ‘Possibly. But the guards will be here any second. I’ve already alerted them. Even if one of you managed to take me down, you’d never make it out of here alive.’

  Cooper’s right, Porter admitted bitterly. He felt the anger swelling up inside him, boiling the blood in his veins.

  ‘You won’t get away with this,’

  ‘Oh, but I already am.’

  The pounding of boots announced the guards’ arrival as they bounded up the steps. The HGH twins crashed through the door, brandishing Makarov handguns. Government-issue pistols. The two of them were pumped up with adrenaline and wounded pride, waving around their weapons and shouting at the three Brits.

  Rat Face was next inside, shoulders squared to combat. Then Gold Chain. The man-mountain had to crowbar his enormous frame through the door. Further away, Porter could hear more voices carrying across the night as the remaining guards raced around the estate. There were a lot of raised voices, a lot of full-throated responses. Zhirkov’s heavies were well drilled. That much was clear.

  The twins said something to Cooper. He slowly bent down and placed the Makarov on the floor beside him. Then he stretched upright, raising his hands above his head. Bald and Porter mimicked him.

  While the twins kept their weapons pointed at Bald and Porter, Rat Face patted them down. He snatched up their Yarygin pistols, their passports and wallets, plus the two burners. Handed everything except the guns over to Gold Chain. Porter figured he was the senior figure in the room. A lieutenant, maybe. The king of the heavies. Gold Chain casually flicked through their documents while he barked questions at Cooper. The two of them exchanged a few words. Cooper gestured in turn at Mohawk, Porter and Bald. Then he pointed to the Makarov and the walkie talkie. Painting a scene for Gold Chain. Filling in the blanks.

  Once Cooper had finished explaining, Gold Chain got back on his walkie talkie. Relaying the agent’s version of events to someone based at the house, presumably. The boss, or someone higher up in the organisation, at least. Giving them a blow-by-blow account of what had happened. There was a long back-and-forth that went on for a minute or so. The conversation finished.

  Then Gold Chain shouted an order at the other guards.

  Whoever was in charge at the house carried some serious authority, Porter decided. Because the Russians sprang into action with the urgency of men who lived in fear of their boss.

  Rat Face ushered Cooper towards the door. Cooper strolled confidently outside ahead of the Russian, the walk of a man who was winning at life and knew it. Gold Chain turned to Porter and Bald, still holding their passports. The documents were the size of postage stamps in the Russian’
s fat hands. He had a dull, bovine face. The muscles on the left side of his face drooped downwards, like a punch-drunk boxer. His forehead was glossy with perspiration. From shifting around all that bulk, probably.

  ‘You bitches are lucky,’ he said in thickly accented English. He spoke like he moved, slow and heavy and full of menace.

  ‘Yeah,’ Bald said. ‘We’re fucking blessed.’

  Gold Chain didn’t seem to get the joke. ‘You break in here, you two are usually dead men. We rip off your balls, wrap you in chicken wire, feed you to the fishes. Big laugh.’

  He said this matter-of-factly, as if killing was no big deal to him. Like taking out the rubbish, or brushing his teeth. Porter stood rigid, the smell of blood and shit and urine thick in the air, coating his lungs.

  ‘But not today,’ Gold Chain went on. ‘Today, your lucky day.’

  ‘Why? What’s going on?’ Porter asked.

  ‘Boss man wants to meet you.’

  ‘Zhirkov?’ Porter asked.

  Gold Chain’s lips parted into a sadistic grin, revealing a set of gold-capped front teeth to go with the chain around his neck. ‘You see, bitch. Soon. Now move.’

  One of the HGH twins shoved Bald in the back, underscoring the order. Porter and Bald didn’t need any more encouragement. The pistols in the twins’ bloated grips did all the talking. Either we do as these bastards say, Porter thought, or we’re dead.

  We might be dead anyway, the other voice in his head said.

  Bald and Porter followed the rest of the party out of the boathouse. They trudged down the steps ahead of the twins, following Gold Chain, Rat Face and Cooper as they made their way up the slope leading up to the mansion.

  The two guards Porter had seen at the front of the house were racing over to the boathouse. Gold Chain barked at them in Russian. They nodded and ran on, vaulting up the steps before darting inside the boathouse to check on Mohawk and Street. Across the garden, more guards were rushing about in pairs, armed with pistols and torches, searching the shrubbery and outlying buildings. Porter counted half a dozen of them. Plus the four guards at the boathouse.

  Ten guys.

  He turned to Bald, recalling what Cooper had told them earlier. ‘I thought Cooper said the mobster only had four guards on his detail.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Bald.

  ‘So where did all these other blokes come from?’

  ‘Fuck knows. But we’ve got bigger things on our plate right now.’

  Porter nodded. Zhirkov.

  ‘What do you think he’ll do with us?’

  ‘Take a fucking guess.’

  ‘That bad?’

  ‘Worse. The guy’s a bloody nutjob. All the other mafia bosses are shit-scared of him.’ Bald shook his head. ‘He’s not gonna be giving either of us a soldier’s death, mate.’

  Porter felt an icy tingle of dread on his neck as they reached the patio. We’re about to meet the most ruthless mobster in Russia, he thought. Right after breaking into his estate and dropping one of his guards.

  Jock’s right.

  This isn’t gonna end well.

  Two powerfully built guys stood guard in front of the patio doors. They were dressed differently from the mobster’s other henchmen. Dark blue suits, crisp white shirts. Corporate grey ties. Earpieces. Zhirkov’s inner circle, maybe. His most loyal heavies.

  Porter thought again about the big security presence at the mansion. He wondered if someone else had made a threat against the mobster. Either that, or he was really paranoid.Gold Chain said something to the blue-suited heavies. One of them relayed the communication into his mike and stepped aside, making way for Rat Face, Gold Chain and Cooper as they stepped inside the mansion. Bald and Porter followed a few paces behind, with the twins breathing down their necks.

  ‘Keep moving, bitches,’ Gold Chain said.

  They swept through a wide chandeliered living room. There was a Steinway grand piano in one corner, images of religious iconography lining the walls. Porter absently noted a coffee table in the middle of the room with a Fabergé egg on display.

  Gold Chain led them over to a room off to the right. He stopped in front of the door. Wrenched it open. Turned to the three Brits.

  ‘Inside, assholes.’

  Cooper and Rat Face went first. Then Porter and Bald, shoved into the room by the two hormone-enhanced heavies.

  They entered a games room with a massive pool table off to one side. Vintage Turkish rug in the middle of the parquet wooden floor. A private bar in one corner, fridge stocked with bottles of Veuve Clicquot. Glass cabinets lined up along one wall of the room, displaying various Soviet-era weapons and bullets.

  Porter glanced around. ‘Where’s Zhirkov?’

  ‘Boss Man on his way,’ Gold Chain said, flashing his gold-toothed grin. ‘He’ll be here soon. You wait.’

  He stepped closer to Porter, his vast frame blocking out the light. ‘No more questions now. You speak again, I break every bone in your hands.’

  The dull look in his knife-slash eyes told Porter he wasn’t fucking about. They went quiet as Gold Chain and Rat Face spread out across the games room, while the two walking adverts for steroid abuse stepped back outside, blocking the doorway, cracking their knuckles, posturing like tough guys in an eighties action film.

  Several minutes passed. Porter’s anger turned to ice in his bowels, his frustration giving way to a cold sense of despair. We’re going to die out here, he realised grimly.

  After everything we’ve survived. The battles we’ve fought together. All of it had been for nothing.

  Now the best we can hope for is a bullet to the head.

  Footsteps echoed in the hallway. The steroid twins straightened up, as if standing to attention in the presence of royalty. One of them said something to Gold Chain before moving away from the door.

  ‘Boss man is here,’ Gold Chain barked. ‘Straighten your back. Show some fucking respect.’

  A moment later, three figures filed into the room.

  The first two guys were guards. Lantern-jawed and stern-faced and decked out in the same suits as the two guys who had been guarding the patio. They had the same earpieces, the same bovine expressions. The same weapon-bulges in their jackets. They took up their stations either side of the door.

  Behind them, a third guy strode into the room. He was pale-faced and tall, dressed in a fine dark suit.

  Not the mafia boss, thought Porter.

  But a face he recognised instantly.

  The Russian president.

  FORTY-TWO

  Viktor Gabulov, the president of Russia, stepped forward from his heavies and glanced briefly around the faces in the room. Porter stood rooted to the spot, fear and shock percolating down into the pit of his stomach as he stared at the president in disbelief.

  Gabulov was taller than he had imagined from the news. Six-five, or possibly six-six. He was thin-lipped, with a high forehead and sucked-in cheeks. His skin was stretched so tight across his face you could almost see the veins and tendons beneath. The watch on his left wrist was a Blancpain Villeret. Fifty thousand pounds of Swiss watchmaking expertise, right there. More than Porter had ever earned in a calendar year.

  This isn’t happening, he thought.

  Gabulov looked the two ex-SAS men up and down before he turned to Cooper. Something like recognition flashed in his eyes.

  ‘Terence, my friend,’ he said. He spoke English with an American accent, as if he was auditioning for a role as a mafia wise-guy. ‘This is a surprise, I must admit. I didn’t expect to see you returning to your homeland so soon.’

  Porter glanced over at Cooper. The guy looked lost for words, his mouth opening and closing in surprise.

  ‘Mr president,’ Cooper began, rediscovering the ability to talk. ‘It’s . . . it’s an honour . . . I wasn’t expecting . . .’

  Gabulov waved him off. ‘It’s okay, Terence. Tarasov has briefed me.’

  He pointed out the lieutenant, Gold Chain.

  ‘But Zh
irkov . . . I thought he was handling the operation.’

  The question seemed to amuse Gabulov. ‘Do you really think I’d leave something as important as this, to that fat sack of shit? Zhirkov’s job was to return the prisoner to me. Nothing more. He takes his orders from me. As do these men. As do you.’

  ‘Yes, Mr President.’

  Gabulov narrowed his eyes at Cooper. ‘But you had no orders to return to Mother Russia yet?’

  ‘I didn’t have a choice, Mr President.’ Cooper waved a hand at Bald and Porter. ‘As I explained to your lieutenant, these men are ex-Special Forces, sent by MI6 to rescue Charles. They forced me to lead them here. They were going to kill me unless I cooperated.’

  Gabulov slid his gaze over to Bald and Porter. His eyes were like marks somebody had engraved in a block of wood. ‘These are the same pieces of shit who were helping you to find our friend?’

  Cooper nodded eagerly. ‘They hatched a plan to rescue Charles, after your men took him away. I played along and turned the tables on them as soon as I had the chance. If it hadn’t been for me, they would have escaped with Charles.’

  ‘Why didn’t you warn us?’

  ‘I tried. But they were keeping a close eye on me all the time, Mr President.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have brought them here. You should have stayed in America, Terence. That would have been much better.’

  ‘But I couldn’t. Not once these men figured out who I was working for. I had to leave. I thought it best to lead them here and hand them over.’

  The president stared at Porter and Bald for a long moment, as if he was calculating something. Then he jerked his chin at Cooper.

  ‘Who else knows these men are here?’

  ‘Just their handlers.’

  ‘No one else? No backup?’

  Cooper shook his head. ‘MI6 couldn’t risk any official involvement. That’s why they sent these two to do the job. They’re deniable assets. No ties to anyone at Six.’

  ‘I see.’

  A faint smile spider-crawled up the side of Gabulov’s face. His features relaxed. As if he’d reached a decision. A weight taken off his shoulders.