But Danko was alive. And Severin was going to keep him that way.
16
Kang couldn’t believe his eyes. What had happened? He looked accusingly at Lung, who looked back with equal surprise.
‘It was right on his chest!’ Lung exclaimed defensively.
Kang considered matters. His controller had assured him that there would be no equipment malfunctions; everything was state-of-the-art and had been fully tested. But the reasons were of no consequence now – his mission parameters specifically stipulated that success could only be achieved with the death of Danko. And the rewards promised to him and his team would only be forthcoming if the mission was a success.
As security personnel started to regain their senses and rush to the scene of the explosion, whilst others ran from the Riksdagshuset to protect Danko, and still others continued to reel in confusion, Kang managed to regain his own composure.
He turned to his men. ‘Go!’ he shouted, with an authority that they could not defy.
17
As soon as the missiles had been fired, Chang ordered the yacht’s pilot to fully engage the 1200 horsepower engines and head down the Lilla Värtan at full speed.
Within two minutes they had left the three patrol boats trailing in their wake, speeding through the icy waterway towards their emergency rendezvous.
Chang looked from the stern at the Navy vessels left behind and allowed himself a moment’s relaxation. But as he looked towards the bow, his heart began to race violently once again.
The Shevin with which they had been threatened began to emerge from the white gloom ahead, turning port-side on to block their path through the narrow inlet, its 55mm guns tracking towards the yacht.
A booming command from the captain of the ship telling them to surrender gave Chang only momentary pause. Chang could not surrender. The mission called for no such action.
‘Increase speed,’ he ordered the pilot.
The man behind the wheel looked at his commander incredulously. ‘But’ – a raise of Chang’s hand cut him off immediately.
‘Your family will be looked after. That is all that matters.’
The yacht’s pilot nodded his head in resignation, his hand pulling back on the throttles to engage full power.
Willie Larsson and his crew saw the explosion from over a kilometre away. Looking though his binoculars, he could see the smouldering wreckage of the small yacht, blown apart by the huge guns of the destroyer just a hundred metres before its suicide run would have resulted in a fatal collision.
As he surveyed the ruins, Larsson reflected that it was unfortunate they had lost such a valuable source of intelligence; dead men could not be questioned.
18
Severin watched the five men of Beijing News leap the press barricade on the opposite side of Bankkajen with disbelief.
They discarded their equipment as they sprinted across the road, semi-automatic pistols appearing in their hands like some sort of magician’s parlour trick. Severin pressed Danko down further into the ice and snow, as half a dozen Riksdagshuset security men opened fire at the approaching Chinese team.
Lung was hit straight away and went down only yards from the barricade. The remaining four men started to get closer to the limousine, operating in two-man fire teams and covering the open space in bounds; one pair kneeling to provide covering fire as the other pair advanced a few more yards before themselves kneeling to give covering fire of their own.
The effective tactic kept Severin and the others pinned down, and the smoke from the missile impact that still lingered like an evil cloud over the area ensured that the rooftop snipers were rendered completely ineffective.
One of the security men made a lucky shot, catching one of the advancing pair in the chest, but four of his team were down. When he and the other remaining agent started dragging their downed team mates to safety, Severin was left momentarily alone with Danko, the wrecked limousine the only thing separating them from the remaining three assassins.
The odds were improved moments later as the smoke cleared briefly, giving two of the snipers a clear shot at one of the men. The 1000-grain .50in bullets from the massive Barrett rifles arrived simultaneously from two different angles, exploding the Chinese soldier’s head in a vivid scarlet spray. But then the smoke moved across the devastated scene once again, leaving the snipers powerless; and the remaining two Chinese agents continued to close in on the car in a pincer movement, one to each side.
Severin watched them approach from his position under the car, seeing the two pairs of legs getting steadily closer. He knew the snipers were helpless, and the situation too confused and chaotic to expect help from the other security personnel in the scant seconds left before the killers were on top of them.
Knowing instinctively the truism that action always beats reaction, Severin decided to take the initiative.
‘Keep down until I say, then run directly for the entrance,’ he whispered in Danko’s ear. The Russian President simply nodded.
Severin then immediately aimed his pistol underneath the car, firing four times at the legs of the man near the front of the limousine.
Kang cried out in pain as blood spurted from his broken tibias, and the fresh snow was crushed beneath him as he fell. Straining through the pain, he saw Danko sheltered on the ground on the opposite side of the heavy vehicle, and started to raise his pistol shakily towards the target.
Wasting no time after his first volley, Severin sprang up from the floor and aimed directly over the roof of the car. The two rounds he let loose struck the last agent directly in the forehead, a lethal ‘double tap’ that killed the man instantly.
‘Go!’ Severin shouted, and Danko was instantly up on his feet, sprinting for the door just as Kang started to squeeze his trigger.
Snow kicked up behind Danko’s feet as Kang’s bullets barely missed his hard-pumping legs. At the same time, Severin leapt at the limousine, diving across the roof and falling hard off the other side directly onto the prone body of Kang, the barrel of his pistol firm against the assassin’s head, their faces just inches apart.
As Severin felt Kang’s gun-arm twitch, he squeezed his own trigger, blowing the back of Kang’s head out onto the soft white snow in a voluminous crimson cloud.
19
It took several more minutes until the scene at the Riksdagshuset was finally under control, with Danko finally ensconced in the main chamber with the other European leaders.
These feelings of regained security would, however, prove to be merely fleeting; for it would not be long before the afternoon’s events would cause the entire world to spin frighteningly out of control.
PART ONE
1
Mark Cole closed his eyes and concentrated on controlling his heart rate. The shark was close now.
There had been a group of four of them swimming near the coral wall; there always were at this time of day. Carribean reef sharks, the species had been known to attack humans only rarely, with no attack proving fatal. They were large though, eight feet in length with powerful bodies.
But these sharks all but ignored Cole, as he treaded water thirty feet below the surface of the warm, crystal clear Carribean Sea. He had no mask, no oxygen tank – in fact, no equipment at all, using merely the volume of his lungs and his own mental strength to stay submerged. He had learnt to free dive whilst in the Special Boat Service, the elite naval special forces group of the British military, and still practised regularly. There was nothing better for developing concentration and willpower.
Part of his daily training involved swimming amongst the sharks, whilst trying to control his heart rate. Sometimes they approached him, bumping and nudging him. He put his mind elsewhere, in order to help retain his presence of mind while under stress.
But the shark that now approached him was not a reef shark. Those four were still swimming nearby, attacking the bright, multi-coloured coral. This shark had come from the other side, directly towards him. It
was bigger – at least twelve feet in length – and heavier, more powerful. It was also considerably more dangerous. It was a tiger shark, a species known for its voracious appetite. There was nothing that it would not eat.
And yet as the huge fish swam towards him, Cole knew that he would be safe if he remained still and calm. That was the conflict – his inner voice, the deep, instinctive, untrained side of his psyche, told him to flee, to get out of there at once, as quickly as he could, while his hormones tried to raise his heart rate, to prepare it for action. Normally he could use breathing techniques to control his heart rate and his emotions; under the water, this was not an option.
His eyes still closed, he had to concentrate even harder to regulate himself, until his heart rate dropped low, and he relaxed.
He opened his eyes, seeing the gigantic head right in front of him, the lifeless eyes staring right at him. His heart rate didn’t increase at all. The two predators just stared at each other.
Cole could feel his breath finally running out, but he knew that he couldn’t swim up yet – the tiger shark would react to the sudden movement. He knew that if he didn’t get oxygen soon, panic would start to creep up on him, until he would be unable to stop from opening his mouth to breath; the seawater would then rush in, drowning him.
His mind focussed harder, and he held the gaze of the shark in front of him, its massive jaws open, teeth inches from his face. He could feel himself starting to black out, but still he held its gaze until finally, mercifully, the fish just turned around and swam away, retreating back out into the depths.
Cole had been submerged for over five minutes now, but still didn’t panic; he simply watched the fish swim away and then slowly let himself drift to the surface.
Breaking out of the waves into the brilliant sunshine, he looked across the azure waters to the nearby beach, and his house that sat upon it. Breathing deeply, he started back for home.
Cole walked out of the warm water and onto the private beach of his Colonial-style manor house, situated in a small cove of Cayman Brac. The island was situated just short of ninety miles north-east of the much larger Grand Cayman, and was a lot quieter than the main island, which suited Cole perfectly.
As he walked through the fine white sand, he heard laughs and shouting off to the right hand side. His head turning, he saw his wife Sarah and his two young children standing and staring into the line of palm trees that bordered the house.
Sarah was looking beautiful as always, Cole noted, her long brown hair – much lighter now, after years in the Carribean sun than when they had first met - cascading down her tanned back, the firm muscles of her long legs visible underneath her denim shorts.
She was teaching Ben and Amy how to shoot a bow and arrow, Cole saw, and couldn’t help but smile. A physical therapist by profession, she was as physical as he was – indeed, this was one of the first things that had attracted him to her.
He looked into the tree-line and saw a circular target hidden amongst the palm trees that swayed gently in the breeze. Cole held back as she gave the bow to Ben, helping him to get into position. She knelt at his side, angling his arms to get a better aim.
Ben was six years old now and Amy was four, and Cole’s heart filled with warmth as he looked at them with their mother, Ben allowing her to position himself correctly whilst Amy looked on in fascination.
Eventually Sarah backed away, and Cole saw Ben take a deep breath – hold it – and then release the arrow.
Cole monitored the flight of the arrow as it sailed through the air, its path true. It missed the bulls-eye by a mere inch, and his wife and children squealed with delight, Sarah doing a little victory dance for them.
Cole started to clap, and their heads twisted round immediately. ‘Daddy!’ cried Amy, rushing towards him across the beach. Ben ran over too, and they both hugged him, Amy’s arms around his legs, Ben’s around his waist.
‘Did you see me, Dad?’ Ben asked excitedly as Sarah joined them, kissing Mark on the lips. ‘Did you see me?’
‘I sure did!’ Cole told him. ‘What a shot! Fantastic!’
‘Do you want to have a go?’ Ben asked. He loved watching his father shooting; he never seemed to miss.
‘Sure!’ Cole said. ‘But I don’t think I’ll be able to beat that.’
Ben laughed, and then Sarah turned to him. ‘I’m glad you’re back; the turkey’s not going to baste itself. Can you stay with them while I bob inside?’
Cole smiled. He knew his wife could kill a turkey as easily as baste it – much of her formative life was spent on her father’s sporting estate in England, where they often had to shoot what they ate – but she was equally proud of her ability in the kitchen, and allowed nobody else to cook there. They could easily have afforded a live-in chef, but Sarah simply wouldn’t hear of it.
‘You try and stop me!’ Cole replied, racing off towards the bow and arrows lying on the sand, Ben and Amy giggling as they tried to catch him.
‘But don’t stay out too long!’ Sarah called after him. ‘You don’t want them to get sunburnt!’
Sarah sighed as he merely gave her a thumbs up and blew her a little kiss, knowing she would probably have to go back out before long to drag them inside.
2
Eventually, Cole and his children did come back inside, and Cole decided to carry on his training routine with some callisthenics as he put the television on to catch up with the news – today was the day of the ERA treaty signing, after all. His profession meant that he had to be constantly up-to-date with world affairs – his life sometimes depended on it.
As he stretched deep into a wrestler’s bridge, he thought the image on the television set was rather strange; it was upside down though, he conceded, as he rolled onto his forehead, feet flat on the floor and back arched like a bow.
In all his years of active military service and preparation, he had found the bridge to be the best single overall exercise for his body, helping to strengthen and protect his neck and his back, which he appreciated all the more now that he was approaching the age of forty. The exercise was made even more strenuous by the weight of his two young children, who giggled excitedly as they attempted to balance on his flexed abdomen.
As the tip of his nose touched the floor, he let his eyes close as he relaxed into the position fully.
A sudden piercing shriek from the television made him open his eyes just instants later, but the screen was now eerily blank and silent.
‘Ben, where’s the remote?’ he asked his six year old son.
‘We don’t have the remote, Daddy,’ said Cole’s daughter defensively, instinctively defending her older brother.
‘Okay, okay, get off,’ their father cajoled, levering himself upright as they jumped off onto a large Persian rug. The rug had been a personal gift from General Abbadid of Pakistan, given to him only months before his capture and imprisonment in that same country. He kept it as an ironic reminder of the fickle nature of fate, and the priceless memento now stretched over a large portion of the gleaming wooden floor in the huge, open plan living area of Cole’s home.
Cole spied the remote control on a nearby leather sofa, and reached to get it. As Cole turned to change the channel, the picture suddenly came back on of its own accord. But instead of a live feed from Stockholm, there was a shot of Bill Taylor, one of the regular BBC newsreaders, back in the studio in London. A look of shock was written plainly across his face; despite his experience, something had badly shaken him.
‘I’m sorry for the interruption to our live broadcast,’ he began hesitantly. ‘We’ve . . . lost communication with our field crew. It seems there’s been an explosion of some kind and –’
‘Dad, what’s going on?’ Ben asked, seeing the strange look of concern, curiosity and, perhaps, a hint of excitement in his father’s eyes.
‘Ben, I’m going to have to listen a bit more first, but we can talk about it later. Why don’t you and Amy go and help Mummy in the kitchen?’
&n
bsp; Reluctantly, Ben took Amy by the hand. ‘Okay Daddy,’ he said, before turning to his sister. ‘Come on Amy,’ he said brightly. Smiling back, she skipped away with him to the kitchen, leaving their father transfixed to the television screen.
3
A bead of sweat trickled down Lao Shin-Yang’s temple. What now? he asked himself in despair. He’d watched the whole thing on television in his room at the Stura Masta, the small but centrally-located hotel from where he had monitored the whole operation.
And what a disaster it had turned out to be. First the missiles had missed their target – and Shin-Yang had no idea whatsoever how that could have happened – then Kang and his team were all killed, live on TV. And now he’d learned that not only had the yacht been obliterated, killing six more of his men, but that the drivers at the two emergency rendezvous points had also been spotted by police, and were also now dead after a short but fatal fire-fight.
He was the only one left. His entire team was gone. Was there a leak? Surely not. Security was watertight. But what else could it be? Could it be that the European intelligence services were that good? He thought not. Am I even safe in this hotel? he asked himself fearfully for the first time.
Frantic, he had used the secure radio to contact his Control; he would know what to do. His Control, surprisingly, had not been shocked, and Shin-Yang found this somewhat impressive, yet at the same time disconcerting.
He had been told to wait in the hotel room, and had been assured that there were no leaks; he would be safe until someone came to get him.
Seven Day Hero Page 3