by Will Jordan
They were hurtling towards what had once been a delivery yard near the entrance to the cement works, still moving with frightening speed. Drake braced himself, ready for the sudden deceleration that would tell him it was time.
A moment later, it came. Turning the wheel hard right, Crawford stamped down on the brakes, bringing the Humvee skidding to a halt amidst a cloud of dust and sand.
‘Go! Go!’ Drake yelled, throwing his door open and jumping down onto the dusty ground.
Keeping low, he sprinted about a dozen yards to the collapsed remains of a brick outbuilding and ducked down behind it, the weapon at his shoulder. The first rule of disembarking into a hot landing zone was to get away from the vehicle and find cover as soon as possible. The open ground around the Humvee was a killing zone.
A scuffling on the sand followed by the muted thump of flesh meeting concrete told him Keegan and Crawford were beside him. With both Humvees shut down, the only sound was the sigh of the wind and the tick of their cooling engines. All around was ominously quiet and still.
‘You see anything?’ Crawford asked, scanning the buildings around them.
‘Nothing,’ Keegan replied, then leaned in closer to Drake. ‘What’s the plan?’
Popping his phone’s Bluetooth headset in his ear, Drake enabled the device and dialled Frost’s number.
She answered straight away. ‘Ryan, we have a Predator drone orbiting the area. We see you.’
‘Good. Any activity around us?’
‘Nothing. The place is quiet.’
Drake frowned, wondering if Kourash had known of their approach, or whether he was trying to lead them into an ambush. Still, they were here now. There was little choice but to see it through.
‘Do you have a fix on the signal?’
‘On your two o’clock, forty yards.’
Following her description, he spotted their most likely candidate. It was the only large building in that area. ‘It’s got to be the cement mill.’
‘That’d be my guess.’
Taking a deep breath, Drake nodded to himself. ‘All right, we’re going for it. I’ll stay on comms. Call out any targets if you see them.’
‘Roger that. Watch your back.’
He intended to. Turning to his companions, Drake pointed towards the cement mill. ‘That’s our target. We’ll move in a five-metre spread. John, you take the left. Crawford, you go right. Everyone else on me. Understand?’
He was met by half a dozen nods, which was just as well. There was no time to plan anything more sophisticated.
Drake paused for a second to focus his mind on the task ahead. He never allowed himself to wait longer than that. Dwelling too long on the situation would lead to hesitation, indecision and all too often, death.
‘All right. Move.’
Bringing up the M4 to his shoulder, he rose up from behind cover and started forwards at a steady run. Sprinting was a bad idea because it was impossible to fire accurately at full tilt.
Keegan and Crawford followed a few paces behind, spreading outwards to take positions on either flank, while the four other agents moved behind Drake in a loose column. Drake and the men behind him were far enough apart that a single burst couldn’t wipe them out, but close enough that they could support each other in a firefight.
At any moment, he expected a storm of gunshots to erupt around them, chewing up the ground until they found soft human flesh. All of them were wearing Kevlar vests, but Drake wouldn’t rate their chances of stopping anything bigger than a 9mm round. An AK-47 could make short work of them.
And yet, to his amazement, nothing happened. The entire group crossed the open space without mishap, converging on the entrance to the cement mill.
A truck-sized set of rusted double doors stood half open, allowing them a glimpse of the shadowy interior of the building. Backed up against the door on one side, Drake glanced over at his companions.
He held up his hand with three fingers extended, and Keegan nodded understanding. Three, two, one.
Gripping the M4, he rounded the door and advanced inside, with Keegan and Crawford right behind him and the other operatives following close behind.
The cavernous interior of the building was dominated by a massive cylindrical metal drum that ran from one end of the structure to the other. Gantries and walkways lined the walls around it, with heavy machinery at one end that had once allowed it to rotate.
It must have been an impressive place when it was operational, but now it was a scrapyard; another rusting monument to a failed invasion.
One end of the cylinder had been blasted apart by explosives, shredding the outer shell and crumpling it like a beer can. The destruction had also detached it from its support cradle can so that it was lying tilted on its axis. The floor was covered with decades of wind-blown sand that had found its way in here and, with nowhere else to go, had slowly piled up, probably a couple of feet deep.
Drake hesitated, catching the scent of something in the air. Stale, rotten, decaying. It was an odour that so often accompanied war and conflict, that hung in the air for days and weeks after the battle had passed – the smell of decomposing human flesh.
‘Secure the area. Crawford and Keegan, on me,’ he said quietly, advancing towards the ruined machinery that largely screened the far end of the room from view. The long barrel of the M4 stood out in front of him, ready and eager for a target.
The smell was growing stronger as they approached. Drake wrinkled his nose, doing his best to breathe through his mouth. His heart was hammering, his pulse pounding in his ears.
He slowed for a moment beside part of the ancient drum mechanism, huge and rusted.
This was it.
‘Go!’ he hissed.
The fetid smell of decay hit them like a wave, almost knocking them back with its power. Doing his best to ignore the choking stench, Drake scanned the darkened area behind the winch assembly. Straight away his eyes fastened on the source of the smell.
‘Know that this man’s blood is on your hands.’
Drawing back the hammer on his weapon, Anwari held it against Mitchell’s head, turned away to avoid the inevitable blood splash and pulled the trigger.
Even if it was only viewed via a video link, the crack of a single round discharging in a confined space, accompanied by the sight of Mitchell’s skull being blasted apart in a cloud of blood, brain and bone was enough to make it shockingly real.
In an instant the light went out of his eyes. His head was jerked sideways by the force of the impact, then he slumped forward, unmoving, blood still leaking from the devastating exit wound.
Frost looked away from the screen, her heart sinking. They had failed.
‘He’s dead, Ryan,’ she said, her voice now devoid of emotion as she spoke into her phone. ‘We were too late.’
‘I know,’ Drake replied. ‘Way too late.’
Chapter 27
Mitchell was sitting slumped forward in the same chair he’d been executed in. That must have been a couple of days ago judging by the state of his corpse, now hideously bloated by heat and decomposition.
Flies buzzed and swarmed around the gory splatter of blood and brains on the sandy ground, as well as the gaping hole in the side of his head. It was a horrific sight matched only by the repulsive smell of corruption.
Keegan coughed and retched, turning away for a moment to steady himself. He was no stranger to death, but the body’s reaction to such things was physical as well as emotional. When it hit, it hit hard.
You failed, a voice in Drake’s head echoed, filled with recrimination. You failed before you even left Langley. He was dead this whole time. You came all this way, risked your whole team for a dead man.
Drake immediately cut that voice out, shut it off so he could concentrate on matters at hand. Blame could come later. Right now there was still a chance they could find clues that would lead them to the men who did this.
‘The sons of bitches must have recorded the video days a
go,’ Keegan said, his voice muffled by the rag he’d tied around his face to ward off the stench. He moved closer to inspect the body.
‘Don’t touch him,’ Drake ordered. ‘Let forensics deal with it.’
Keegan hesitated a moment, but nodded.
‘They planned to execute him right from the start,’ Crawford said, though he kept his distance from Mitchell’s body. ‘The hostage tape, the ransom demands … It was all a bluff. Mitchell was already dead.’
‘They knew we’d never meet their demands,’ Keegan reasoned. ‘Maybe they were trying to make it look like they’d given us a fair chance.’
Crawford shook his head. ‘Then why bring forward his execution? The deadline was three days away.’
Just then, Drake’s Bluetooth headset came to life. ‘Ryan, what’s your situation out there?’ Frost asked.
There was no emotion in her voice, as if all the life had been sucked out of her. She had cut away from those feelings, detached herself from what she had witnessed. It was the only way to deal with it.
‘We’ve found Mitchell. He’s dead,’ was his simple reply. ‘They executed him days ago and cleared out of here.’
‘No sign of anyone?’
‘None. They must have set the transmission on a timer, or maybe used a remote trigger.’ He surveyed the room once more. ‘You’d better get a forensics team out here.’
‘Understood.’ She hesitated. ‘And … Ryan?’
‘Yeah?’
‘I’m sorry. About Mitchell.’
Drake sighed. ‘Yeah. Me too.’
With that, he ended the call and removed his headset. He had nothing more to say. Debriefings would come soon enough, but for now he just felt empty.
‘The Ordnance Disposal guys are sweeping the area for mines as we speak. Forensics can finish up once they’re done, but I doubt they’ll find anything.’ Drake spoke into his phone, watching as Mitchell’s body was wheeled out of the ruined cement plant. To his relief, it was bagged and sealed up.
A Black Hawk chopper had arrived about ten minutes after their own dramatic entry, complete with a squad of US Army Rangers ready to secure the scene. Drake had left them to it, instead deciding to deliver the bad news to Breckenridge back at Langley. McKnight and Frost were also on the line, dialling in from the conference room at Bagram.
‘Christ, what a screw-up,’ Drake heard Breckenridge say.
‘Fucking asshole,’ Frost muttered, perhaps thinking she was out of range of the speakerphone. He doubted she cared whether Breckenridge heard her or not.
‘Mitchell was dead before Ryan and his team even got here,’ McKnight said, rising to Drake’s defence in a more constructive manner. ‘It seems killing him was their plan all along. There was nothing anyone could have done.’
Her words were cold comfort to Drake at that moment. This wasn’t like running a marathon or climbing a mountain – there were no accolades for effort, no consolations for trying and failing. In the back of his mind, he couldn’t shake the notion that they had let Mitchell down.
Breckenridge cleared his throat. Not because he needed to, but because he wanted to draw attention to himself before speaking.
‘That’s as may be,’ he allowed grudgingly. ‘The official debriefing will establish the facts. In the meantime, I suggest you pack things up and get yourselves on the next flight home. You can submit your report once you’re back at Langley.’
‘No,’ Drake said right away.
‘Excuse me?’
‘Kourash is still out there.’
‘Your point?’
‘That’s not acceptable to me.’
‘Not acceptable?’ Breckenridge repeated, an edge of anger in his voice now. Mild insolence was one thing, but outright insubordination was something else entirely. ‘The CIA doesn’t operate based on what you find “acceptable”, Drake. You take orders just like the rest of us. Anyway, what you’re suggesting is outside your remit. You’re a rescue team, not assassins, and certainly not vigilantes. If you want to turn this into some kind of revenge trip, forget it.’
Typical bureaucrat, Drake thought bitterly. Always viewing the world like it was a spreadsheet, everything fitting neatly into niches and roles and responsibilities.
‘This isn’t about revenge,’ Drake said, practically forcing the words out. ‘It’s about saving lives. Kourash has at least two more Stingers he can use. What’s to stop him shooting down another chopper next week?’
‘Dealing with potential threats to US personnel is a job for our Afghan field office,’ Breckenridge pointed out. ‘You were brought in to recover our man, and you didn’t do it. The operation is over. What part of that don’t you understand?’
Drake could hold his frustration in check no longer.
‘For fuck’s sake, this isn’t some hypothetical scenario we’re dealing with!’ he snapped. ‘I’m telling you there’s more going on than just a random insurgent attack. And if you’d ever taken your fat arse out of the office you’d know that when your team leaders tell you something, you should fucking listen.’
But listening wasn’t on Breckenridge’s agenda. Not after an outburst like that.
‘Consider yourself relieved, Drake,’ he said straight away. He was on autopilot now, barking orders with cold efficiency. ‘McKnight, you’re acting team leader now. I want that team on the next flight home, with Drake in tow. Is this in any way unclear?’
There was a pause. A second or two while McKnight decided what to say, whether to obey orders from a superior officer or tell him to go fuck himself. Drake felt for her. She should never have been put in a situation like that.
‘No, sir. You’ve made yourself very clear,’ she said at last, failing to keep an edge of hostility out of her voice.
‘Good. Then get it done,’ Breckenridge concluded. ‘And Drake, when you get back, you and I are going to have a talk about insubordination.’
With that, the line went dead.
Another moment or two of stunned silence before McKnight spoke up. ‘Ryan, I don’t know what to say to you right now …’
‘There’s nothing to say, Sam,’ he assured her, his voice quiet now. ‘I’m coming back to Bagram.’
As far as his superior was concerned, it was over.
But not for him.
Chapter 28
Half an hour later Drake again found himself in Kabul’s southern outskirts as their Humvee made its way back to Bagram at an unhurried pace. With no leads to pursue and no pressing time constraints, he was content to take his time and brood on his thoughts.
Crawford had for once relinquished control of the vehicle, leaving Drake behind the wheel. It was a very different experience from McKnight’s Ford Explorer. Now he felt every jolt and shudder as the heavy vehicle fought its way through potholes and sudden dips.
Nobody was saying much, which suited him just fine. All three men were feeling tired and dejected after the death of Mitchell, and Drake was increasingly aware that they might have outstayed their welcome here.
Drake hadn’t texted Anya about their failure yet. He had already been forced to admit it more times than he wanted to, and would save that particular task for a more opportune moment once they were back at Bagram.
‘This is bullshit, man,’ Keegan decided, his battered baseball cap pulled down low to shield his eyes from the afternoon sun. ‘Breckenridge can’t just pull the plug on us. He’s got no right.’
‘Unfortunately he does,’ Drake replied. As far as the letter of the law was concerned, at least. ‘He’s our boss.’
‘He’s a pencil-pushing REMF, that’s what he is.’
Drake glanced at him in the rear-view mirror, surprised at the vehemence in the normally laid-back operative. ‘You getting mutinous on me, mate?’
Keegan’s eyes met his and he flashed a faint grin. ‘I’m too old to give a shit about insubordination. Anyway, I happen to agree with you – there’s more going on here than a simple kidnapping. If they’d executed Mitchell days ag
o, why go to all the trouble of releasing that hostage tape? Why make demands that would never be met? Doesn’t make any goddamn sense.’
Drake would have smiled back, but instead was forced to turn his attention back to the road ahead. Traffic had come to an abrupt halt on the approach to a bridge up ahead.
A crumbling concrete edifice that spanned a muddy drainage canal in a single ungainly leap, it had clearly suffered from decades of abuse and neglect. In places the stonework had broken away to reveal rusted steel reinforcing rods beneath.
However, the bridge itself wasn’t the problem – it was the truck blocking the northbound lane that had brought traffic to a standstill. Horns sounded and angry shouts were exchanged, but nothing much was happening. It was hot, and it seemed nobody could be bothered to sort out the mess.
There were three or four other cars between Drake and the truck, but his high driving position allowed him a clear line of sight. Removing his sunglasses, he peered through the heat haze and engine fumes at the offending truck.
It was a Tata 407, an Indian-made utility vehicle painted in the colours of the Afghan National Army. But in all other respects it was a decrepit-looking vehicle, sagging on its rear axles and hastily repaired in places with what looked like amateur spot-welds. Its flatbed cargo area was covered by a worn and patched tarpaulin.
‘What a hell of a place to break down,’ Keegan groaned.
Crawford surveyed the scene with the kind of long-suffering resignation of a man well acquainted with such delays. ‘Happens all the time with the ANA. Half their gear is older than I am. Give it about two minutes until some asshole shunts him off the road.’
But Drake wasn’t hearing him. He leaned forward, struck by a sudden feeling of unease. What were the chances that the truck would come to a halt right in the middle of such a bottleneck? And why was the driver making no effort to get it moving?
Suddenly he was reminded of his encounter with Anya the previous day, and her use of a fake breakdown to bring him to a halt so she could make contact.