Sacrifice

by Will Jordan

  The distant rumble was growing closer now. She couldn’t see it yet, but she knew that sound belonged to an RG-31 Nyala armoured vehicle. Horizon used them extensively for ferrying their operatives around and, she assumed, for conducting patrols.

  Each one had a range of about 500 miles under ideal conditions, but the stop-and-start nature of traffic in Kabul combined with frustrated drivers meant they would burn through their fuel supply quickly. Sooner or later, they would have to return to base to refuel.

  Without taking her eyes off the road, she pulled her seat belt down and locked it into place, giving it a firm tug to make sure it was anchored securely. This 4x4 carried no airbags, and the last thing she wanted was to deal herself a serious injury that would put her out of action.

  She would be going into this job with no weapons of any sort. No firearms, no knives or clubs – nothing but her bare hands. But as she knew from long years of experience, those could be just as deadly as any weapon.

  It was a gamble, to be sure. But one didn’t live this kind of life afraid of risks.

  Bright headlights spilled across the potholed road up ahead. Releasing the handbrake, Anya eased the Toyota forwards, slow at first but gathering pace. She kept her lights off, not wanting to alert the driver of the Horizon vehicle.

  Seconds later, the hulking form of the RG-31 appeared around the corner, easily moving at 40 miles an hour, the driver no doubt impatient to refuel so he could get out and continue the hunt for Drake.

  It was in her sights now. No turning back. Switching the headlights on, she jammed her foot down on the gas and braced herself.

  ‘Roger that,’ Sergeant Nicholas Rae, the vehicle commander, spoke into his helmet-mounted radio. ‘Alpha Six is inbound for refuel. ETA, two minutes.’

  He was just turning towards his second in command when suddenly the driver cried out in warning and jammed on the brakes. Bright light flooded in through the exterior windows, tyres screeched and the big vehicle slewed sideways as their driver tried to avoid whatever was bearing down on them.

  Too late. The interior resounded with a loud, crunching bang as something slammed into them, accompanied by the tinkle of broken glass and the blare of a car horn. Rae was almost thrown from his seat by the impact, saved only by his belt.

  As the RG-31 lurched to a halt, he shook his head and glanced at the driver. ‘What the fuck happened?’

  ‘Something hit us. Didn’t see it.’

  ‘No shit,’ Rae remarked under his breath. ‘Get out there and form a perimeter. It could be an ambush.’

  An immobilised vehicle like this would be an easy target.

  Grabbing their weapons, the four operatives in the back piled out the rear doors, rifle barrels sweeping in all directions. There was no sign of a contact. No inbound fire as he would have expected if this was an ambush.

  Rae waited several seconds before stepping outside to join them.

  They had been hit by a Toyota 4x4. It must have barrelled into them from the adjacent street, hitting them just to the rear of the driver’s cab.

  The armour plating had deformed a little from the impact, but as far as he could tell, the vehicle’s chassis remained sound and engine was still running. RG-31s were heavy, durable vehicles designed to survive a lot of punishment – low-speed collisions like this were easily shrugged off.

  The same couldn’t be said of the Toyota. The front end had crumpled like a beer can, steam rising from the ruined engine. The driver was slumped over the wheel, long dark hair hanging down around her face.

  A woman, he realised with a flash of anger. If this was nothing more than a traffic accident, she was going to have quite a bill to pay.

  ‘Check the driver,’ he ordered.

  Two of his men hurried forward, one covering his comrade while he hauled open the jammed door using sheer brute strength.

  The crash of protesting metal was enough to revive the driver, and she looked up, staring in bleary-eyed shock at the weapons now pointed her way. She was Caucasian, perhaps in her late thirties or early forties, and dressed in civilian clothes.

  ‘Don’t move!’ Private Shaw yelled, covering her with his M4. ‘Keep your hands where I can see them.’

  She barely had time to comply before Private Martinez grabbed her roughly by the shirt and hauled her out of her seat, oblivious to any injuries she might have suffered. Aside from a cut above her left eye, she seemed unhurt.

  ‘Hey, what are you doing? Get off me!’ she protested, her words slurred and her eyes unfocused as she struggled to break free of his grip. No way was it happening – Martinez was easily twice her weight. ‘You almost got me killed! Look at my car, it’s totalled!’

  ‘Shaw, check her ID,’ Rae commanded, ignoring the torrent of abuse.

  ‘Christ, she’s drunk as a fucking college student,’ Martinez warned, having caught the reek of whisky on her breath. Even her clothes smelled of it.

  Shaw, meanwhile, had been busy rifling through the items scattered across the seats and floor by the crash. ‘Got a bottle of Scotch here,’ he remarked, holding up a half-empty bottle.

  Rae gritted his teeth. The stupid bitch must have been driving drunk through the streets of Kabul. No wonder she hadn’t seen them. She probably couldn’t make out the dashboard in front of her face.

  At last Shaw found a wallet amongst the crap littering the footwell, and quickly flipped through its contents. ‘Name’s Katrina Taylor,’ he said. ‘American. Business card says she’s a freelance writer.’

  This was just getting better and better. No doubt she was another wannabe journalist looking to write that Pulitzer-winning article. Rae hated her kind almost as much as he hated the people they were fighting out here.

  ‘I see a laptop and a bunch of papers in the back here,’ Shaw went on, resuming his search.

  ‘Any weapons?’ Rae asked.

  ‘Can’t see any.’

  ‘Leave my stuff alone! That’s my property!’ Taylor cried, her voice high-pitched and irritating. ‘You can’t pull this Gestapo crap. I’m an American, I have rights!’

  Martinez had heard enough. Balling up his fist, he drove it into her stomach with enough force to double her over. He watched with satisfaction as she threw up on the rough asphalt, struggling to draw breath between heaves.

  ‘You have the right to remain silent, so shut the fuck up.’

  ‘Sarge, what do we do with her?’ Shaw asked from the other side of the crashed Toyota, apparently oblivious to what had just happened. ‘We can’t leave her out here. Her car’s fucked and she’s too drunk to find her way home anyway.’

  Rae rolled his eyes. With everything else going on tonight, this was the last thing he needed. Still, Shaw had a point. Drunk and abusive she might be, but Taylor was still an American citizen. If something happened to her, it might well be traced back to them eventually.

  In the end, he made the only decision he could under the circumstances. ‘Secure her and put her in the back,’ he said, gesturing to the RG-31. ‘We’ll take her in – she can sleep this shit off in the cells. And get a tow truck to recover her vehicle.’

  ‘Come on, puking beauty,’ Martinez said, hauling the woman to her feet. ‘I’ve got a great holding cell waiting for you.’

  She was too busy coughing up the remains of that bottle of whisky to resist as he pulled her hands roughly behind her back and snapped on a pair of cuffs.

  Chapter 46

  Darkness had descended on the city by the time Drake and Cunningham reached their destination. Crouched down behind a trickling drainage outlet, both men stared up the stony, scrub-covered slope to the safe house.

  The main gate faced south, opening out onto the main road. There was no possibility of making entry from that direction. Even if they managed to get the gate open, their presence would surely not go unnoticed.

  Their best chance was to approach from the stretch of undeveloped land that seemed to wind its way along the path of what had once been a river, flanked by hous
ing developments.

  From their current position, everything looked quiet and still. There were no lights burning, no sign of habitation, and now that darkness had fallen, the residential street beyond was devoid of traffic.

  ‘This is your show, mate,’ Cunningham said, then shot a dubious glance at his companion. ‘How do you want to do it?’

  Drake swallowed and nodded, wiping a trickle of sweat from his brow. The trip here – a brisk half-hour walk under normal circumstances – had become a grim test of endurance for him. The injury at his side seemed to pulsate in time to his heartbeat, sending ripples of pain flowing outwards through his body. Already he felt weary and drained by the effort.

  Still, they were here now. All their other problems were behind them. The only thing that mattered now was finding Mitchell’s evidence.

  In his mind, he imagined them making entry to the house, locating Mitchell’s hidden cache of evidence and exiting without ever being seen, each stage unfolding without mishap. This was going to work. They were going to succeed.

  ‘We’ll go in that way, over the wall,’ he said quietly. ‘From there we’ll have to pick the lock and disable the alarm.’

  ‘Got it covered,’ Cunningham assured him, then flashed a wry smile. ‘Just like old times, eh?’

  ‘Stop it. You’re making me all misty-eyed.’ Taking a deep breath and rallying his flagging reserves of energy, Drake clapped a hand on his friend’s shoulder. ‘Come on. Let’s go.’

  Keeping low and watching their feet on the uneven ground, they advanced uphill towards the house. It was a balmy night, with a warm and gentle breeze coming up from the south. Drake’s T-shirt was already damp with sweat, brought on by a combination of exertion, stress and anticipation. He did his best to ignore all three, with varying degrees of success.

  The property was surrounded by an 8-foot brick wall. There was no razor wire that they could see, but there was always a chance it was topped with broken glass. If so, they would have to hunt around for something thick and durable enough to lay over it – no easy task in a country where virtually anything of value was picked up as soon as it was discarded.

  Halting next to the wall, Drake turned to his partner in crime and nodded, indicating that he would go first. He hardly felt up to a walk across the street, never mind hauling himself over a brick wall, but there wasn’t much choice.

  With Cunningham providing a boost, Drake launched himself upwards, threw his hands out and managed to grab the top. To his relief the wall was topped by nothing more sinister than stone slabs, with a shallow lip on either side.

  Had this place become operational as a safe house, it was likely the security would have been beefed up massively. As it was, they just might make it inside.

  Using his feet for extra purchase, Drake hauled himself up and over the edge, careful to keep his weight on his good side. This done, he lay flat on the top, breathing hard, watching and waiting for any change in their surroundings. If there were floodlights linked up to motion sensors nearby, he’d soon know about it.

  Several seconds passed, and nothing happened. Traffic rumbled by on the distant main drag, a dog barked somewhere off to the west, and the chirp and buzz of night insects filled the warm air. He leaned back over the wall, looked down at Cunningham and gave him the thumbs-up.

  Rolling over, he allowed himself to drop down on the other side. Cunningham followed a moment later, landing almost without sound.

  There were no lights on in the house itself. Everything looked quiet and undisturbed. Good.

  Keeping low, they darted across the meagre remains of the garden and halted next to the front door. The lock had been replaced since Crawford had blasted it apart with a breaching gun the previous day, a large section of new wood visible on the heavy door where the broken, splintered area around the lock had also been removed.

  Getting in was Cunningham’s job, and he would be vulnerable while he went about it. Taking the man’s weapon, a Beretta automatic, Drake turned to cover his back, scanning the shadowy courtyard and the street beyond the wrought-iron gate.

  Knowing his friend was covering him, Cunningham was able to concentrate his attention on the job of making entry.

  The first and most obvious thing to do was to reach out and try the door. The chances of it being unlocked were negligible, but it took only seconds to check. It wouldn’t be the first time an operative had wasted precious minutes trying to pick a lock that was already open.

  Still, no such luck in this case. The lock would have to be defeated.

  One of the benefits of working for a private military company was having access to all kinds of technology that made it easy to get into secured buildings. Reaching into his jacket pocket, Cunningham produced what looked like a small plastic pistol with a flat metal blade instead of a gun barrel.

  Known as a snap gun, the device provided a quick means of picking just about any pin tumbler style lock – a notoriously tricky business using manual tools. The metal blade was inserted into a lock like a regular key, and a single squeeze of the trigger caused the blade to strike all of the lock pins at once, sending the driver pins up into the lock and disengaging the mechanism. It was fast and effective, the only drawback being that it was quite loud. Still, it was their best chance at getting in.

  Taking a deep breath, he pushed the blade into the lower part of the lock with great care. Into the broader upper part he inserted a long flat piece of metal, known as a tension wrench. When the driver pins went up into the lock, the tension wrench would be needed to hold them in place.

  A bead of sweat rolled down his brow and into his eye. He did his best to ignore it, concentrating on the task at hand.

  He pulled the trigger. There was a dull ping followed by a click as the driver pins sprang upward. At the same moment, he pushed the tension wrench in further, feeling it slip past the tumblers.

  Removing the snap gun, he turned the tension wrench 90 degrees to the left. The lock clicked once more, and that was it. They were in.

  Drake let out his breath as his companion tapped him on the shoulder, indicating that the door was open.

  Turning, he watched as Cunningham reached out and grasped the handle. With a single curt nod, he turned it and pushed the door open.

  Without hesitation, Drake advanced inside with the Beretta up and ready.

  They were in.

  Chapter 47

  ‘Some local children were out hunting for rabbits when they found it,’ a small, efficient-looking ANP officer explained as he escorted Keegan and Crawford to the scene. ‘It was buried in shallow ground, but a jackal or some other predator must have been attracted by the smell of blood.’

  He gestured to the cordoned-off area of waste ground where the satchel still lay. Beside it, partially buried in a small depression, was a ripped and bloodstained shirt. Both were covered in dusty soil as if they had recently been excavated.

  ‘They called it in straight away,’ he added. ‘My men made sure not to contaminate the scene.’

  ‘I’m surprised the kids didn’t just steal it,’ Keegan remarked, having noticed several expensive camera lenses and batteries lying near the satchel. He had no children of his own, but he came from a large family and knew all too well how inquisitive children could be.

  The ANP officer gave him a pained smile. ‘Children in Afghanistan quickly learn not to pick up such things.’

  Keegan said nothing to this. The look in the man’s eyes told its own story.

  ‘Let’s take a look,’ Crawford said, ducking beneath the cordon.

  Eager to leave before he put his foot in it again, the old sniper followed, using his flashlight to survey the ground for tracks.

  Having been taught to track and hunt animals from a young age by his father, he considered it an art rather than a science. Some people had the innate ability to discern meaning from a bent blade of grass or a scuff mark in the dust, while others didn’t, and no amount of training could change that. Fortunately, he b
elonged to the former category.

  A couple of footprints, small and light, were undoubtedly those of the children that the ANP officer had mentioned. Sure enough, none of them came within 10 feet of the bag itself.

  ‘Wait here,’ he instructed, circling slowly around the area in a counterclockwise direction, his keen eyes scanning every inch of ground in front of him.

  Crawford was smart enough to say nothing. At times like this, he knew it was far better to let people get on with their work.

  ‘Found him,’ Keegan said at last, hunkering down.

  Crawford hurried over and knelt down beside him. Sure enough, a faint boot print was discernible in the dust. The size and shape confirmed it had belonged to a man, but he could tell little beyond that.

  ‘How can you be sure?’

  ‘I recognise the tread pattern. Plus he was carrying the bag on his left side, so his weight was on the right foot to compensate,’ he explained, then pointed behind him. ‘He came in this way, patched himself up and changed clothes, then left.’

  ‘Guess we can forget about picking him up in local hospitals, huh?’

  The old sniper raised an eyebrow. ‘I’d say so. He made it this far under his own power.’

  ‘Great. The question is, where’s he headed now?’

  For that, Keegan had no answer.

  Crawford’s phone started buzzing. It was McKnight.

  ‘Go, Sam,’ he said, giving Keegan some room.

  ‘Looks like John’s hunch was right,’ the young woman began. ‘We got a make on the laundry truck, ran the plates through the police database. It was reported stolen earlier today from a cleaning company on the south side of the city.’

  Crawford chewed his lip. ‘Any leads on it now?’