Every day she put SIS officers in harm’s way. Every day someone was in danger - somewhere. But Frank was just an analyst. Far from home. Away from Babylon’s comfort blanket. She’d sent him to Germany with a flippancy that now seemed reckless.
What was I thinking?
And, Sam. She wasn’t even on her books.
Sam Green. In deepest Venezuela.
Was she ahead of the marines?
It seemed incredibly unlikely. But, she knew never to underestimate Sam.
Chapter 18
5°16'39.8"N 67°25'48.7"W, Amazonas Jungle, Venezuela
Sam was sitting on a concrete floor with her back to a plastered wall, her knees to her chest and her arms holding them tightly. To look at her, anyone would think she was cold.
She was rocking gently. Trying to relieve the pain. New pain. Pain delivered by Ralph Bell after he and his thuggish pal had thrown her into the cell a couple of hours ago. As she’d lain on the floor Bell had rolled her over, untied her hands and taken off her gag. Then, with the heel of his boot, he exposed her stomach. And then he had kicked her.
Smack!
Right on her old wound. Directly on top of the scar tissue. He knew where to hit her. He knew of her previous injuries. He’d exploited the wound years before - in Sierra Leone. A thump in the stomach that time. Bell was ex-CIA. They knew everything. It would have been on her file: stomach wound; mortar round; Afghanistan.
The pain felt like something inside had broken. It didn’t come in waves. It gnawed at her as if the old wound were open and someone was poking about inside with a pencil. She wanted to pass out, but her brain wouldn’t shut down. It was overactive. It was always overactive. She hated it. Hated herself. Hated her pathetic, abnormal life. Chasing about like James sodding Bond - getting people hurt. Getting people killed.
She was crying - again. This time it was definitely an accompaniment to the pain. It wasn’t about where she found herself. Or what they might do to her. She couldn’t care less about what was going to happen. It was an irrelevance, pushed to the periphery of her mind by the pain. If she had a rope and a spare rafter, she’d do the job for them. Anything to stop the agony.
Pain and tears. And an overactive brain.
Which meant, as she was awake, she couldn’t stop herself taking in everything about the room. It was a large cellar, possibly eight-by-eight metres. New build. A couple of years old? Painted white, or close to. There was a single, dull wall-light encased in glass. No windows.
And then there were the cages. Straight from a Wild West jail. Two cells. Floor to ceiling iron bars, along the length of wall furthest from the only door - which was metal. There was nowhere to pee. And no water.
Sam was in one cell. Austin was in the other, separated by more iron bars. He was unconscious. Initially she thought he was dead, but in the half-light she spotted his chest rising and falling a tiny fraction - at a rate that couldn’t be good for him. He was lying on the polished concrete floor. On his side. The tourniquet was still holding. From what Sam could see there wasn’t any new blood. He’d come to find where his son had died. And now he was going to join him. She was certain of that.
Light. The door opened. Sam wanted to be bothered. Wanted to feel scared. Wanted her overactive brain to come up with a plan. To try something. To do something. But the pain was in charge. It wasn’t taking orders from anyone. She was at its mercy.
Fuck it.
It was Bell.
Why didn’t that register?
Normally fear and Bell came together. Skipping hand in hand through the horrors of life. Not now. Her body was trying to cope with something that was much more immediate.
He had a set of keys in his hand and was heading for her door.
Clunk.
The door was open. She expected her legs to close tighter to her chest; for her head to bury into her knees. But neither of those things happened. Instead she just stared at him blankly - a dripping candle wax of tears staining her face.
‘Hello, Green.’
His voice was deep and resonant. He’d only spoken to her once before today. It was in the hostel. Before Kurt Manning had drugged her and her UN pal, Henry, and then set the place on fire. That’s when he’d thumped her in the stomach - in exactly the same place as he’d kicked her earlier on. He’d pointed at his face, which was a mess after Sam had smacked him with a plank of wood, and said, ‘That was for this.’ She remembered it as if it were five minutes ago. She remembered everything.
My overactive brain.
She looked blankly at Bell; he was silhouetted by the dim light. A monster. He was dressed the same as earlier. Same gilet. Same bulge covering his handgun.
Sam didn’t bother trying to reply. She wouldn’t have been able to get the words out.
‘Cat got your tongue? Never mind Green. I have some news. Today is a red-letter day.’ He was standing over her, his feet slightly apart. One hand was formed into a fist; the other was massaging it. ‘In a few minutes, Green, we are going to commit an act so inflammatory that it will stop the world. Nothing will ever be the same again. It is a great day.’
He paused. Was he expecting a reply? An hurrah? Some gold stars? She’d have said something comical if all the receptors in her mind weren’t focused on a stomach that was shouting louder than she could bear.
‘But, much more important - I have a more pressing job. There is a hole outside with your name on it.’ He separated his hands so that they were about a foot apart. He then drove his fist into the open hand.
He did it again.
She hadn’t changed her blank expression. What did he want? Was he expecting her to plead?
I would if I could be bothered.
Her lack of emotion was bothering him. He smacked his fist against his hand again.
‘Well, Green?’
Well, what? Come on, for fuck’s sake. Get this over with.
Bell lost it.
With one hand he grabbed her by the hair and, in a single movement, lifted her onto her feet. She was a large doll. Floppy. Dangling from his arm by her hair - her feet only just on the floor.
Smack!
He hit her in the stomach with a force that might as well have killed her. She thought she screamed. Maybe she was still screaming? She didn’t know. Whatever, the noise that she emitted surprised him. He let go of her - she fell to her knees. And then onto all fours. Fuck! That couldn’t happen again. It was never going to happen again. It was a sensation off the scale. It broke all barriers. Yes, she wanted to die - to end all the suffering. But that didn’t include experiencing that terror again.
She crawled. Quickly. A scamper on all fours. To the corner of the cell. It was only a couple of metres, but it put distance between her and Bell. Between her, his fist and the broken threshold.
She turned, still on all fours. Was she still screaming? Was it panting? New colours. New sounds. It was psychedelic. She’d had enough morphine to know what that was like. This was a new drug. They should bottle it. Someone would make a fortune.
Bell was dazed. He was shaking his head. He turned to her and, in a voice that Sam didn’t recognise - it was now slow and distorted - said, ‘You don’t like that Green? Well, well.’
He walked towards her; fist smacking his open hand.
That was enough. She’d had as much as she could bear. This wasn’t happening. It wasn’t going to happen again.
Sam waited until he was a few feet from her. And then she launched herself at him. She knew it wouldn’t end well for her. She was spent - he was fit and strong. She was broken - he was upright and unhurt. He was a man - she was a pathetic, weak woman. She got that. It never meant more than it did now.
They met in a bundle. She with bent back and straight arms - her hands on his chest. If she had proper female fingernails they would have been scratching at him. She was probably screaming - like a fanatical witch; she couldn’t be sure. It was a blur. Her arms collapsed quickly, but her momentum kept her going - her bro
ken cheek, followed by the weight of her shoulders, smashed against his chest. Sparkly stars filled her vision.
Bell was surprised by the ferocity of the attack; he almost toppled over. She was pushing him backwards, and he was stepping back to accommodate the thrust of the possessed woman. In three steps he was against the bars of the second cell.
Sam pushed and pushed, but Bell wasn’t going anywhere. Was she trying to squeeze him through the gap in the bars? It made no sense.
It makes no sense.
Peripherally she saw him reach for his pistol. It was over. He was raising his arm to bring the weapon down on the top of her head. She flinched as she pushed. Pushed as she flinched. She was tiring. It had only been a second’s worth of effort, maybe two. But the tank was empty. The adrenalin was shot. The pain was back - on steroids.
But Bell didn’t strike her. Instead, the handgun flew across the room and smacked against the wall. As she lost energy and pushed less, the man didn’t fall - she wasn’t assaulted as she expected. Instead his hands raised to his throat. Sam slipped some more, but Bell remained upright, his legs jumping and starting.
And now there was a new noise. Gurgling. Panting.
What?
Sam took a knee in the face from Bell, but it seemed unintentional. She moved back, away from his legs, her emotions flitting like a dying fly.
What is happening?
Another kick from Bell. To her chest. Not the side with the broken ribs. But she’d have a bruise.
She had to get out of harm’s way.
The pistol!
Sam dragged herself left to the wall. It was only a couple of paces, but it took a monumental effort.
Quicker! Damn you. Quicker!
She had the gun in her hands, she turned, propping herself up against the wall. It was one movement. Instinctively she took aim …
… and then all was clear.
Bell was being pinned against the railings by Austin; they were both at full height.
Austin had taken off his tourniquet. When Sam had presented Bell’s neck, Austin must have threaded it through the bars? Bell had both hands on the rope, but he was losing the battle. Austin was wearing the grimace of a demonic man. He was dribbling - his body was shaking. But he was winning.
He’s winning.
Bell was thrashing now, his eyes wide and alive. Sam watched this over the foresight of the pistol. She had it trained on Bell’s chest. If Austin fell, so would Bell. She would make sure of that. Thump! Thump! from the chamber of the pistol. It would all be over.
But she didn’t need to shoot. Bell’s thrashing was his final act. His body slowed. His legs twitched. His arms fell. And then he was still.
Austin was panting; dribbling. His mouth was open. Out of his mouth came an incongruous whine. He wasn’t letting go. Not till the job was done.
Without dropping her aim, Sam glanced at Austin’s leg. It was bleeding again. She had to get him settled. Arrest the bleeding. It was the only way to keep him alive.
‘Austin.’ It was a pathetic attempt at communication. Austin stuck with his whine in response. It was as though she wasn’t in the room.
‘Austin!’ She screamed. He looked across at her - startled.
She was just about to give him the good news that Bell was dead, when they got a second visitation.
The doorway was filled by Bell’s pal. The second thug. The man who had shot Austin.
‘What the fuck!’ He reached for his own pistol.
Sam was bored by the continuous effort. She hurt like never before. She had a friend of hers to patch up - a man who had killed her nemesis. A man who had certainly saved her life.
And now there was a new challenge. A man with a gun.
Fuck it.
She changed her aim. It took a millisecond. There were bars between her and the target - but that was the same for both of them. 70/30? In the shooter’s favour.
His handgun was rising, now at waist height.
But Sam was well ahead of him. And she was sitting - a much steadier firing position. Everything was going her way.
Foresight - rear sight - chest.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
A triple tap.
Ping! Thud! Thud!
One ricochet. Two rounds through the gap. 66/33. She’d been right. Two out of three. Good drills.
The thug froze, his pistol not even close to being in the aim position. He stepped sideward - and then fell backwards through the door frame, leaving just his boots in the room.
Sam kept her aim on the door. The smell of cordite filled the room. The sound now dissipated. But it had been loud. Loud enough to get someone else’s attention. If there were more, they’d be on their way now.
Thud. Austin had fallen to the floor. Bell followed suit. Two bodies. One dead. One dying. She had work to do.
I have to move.
Now.
She took two deep breaths and with energy she found from a reserve she didn’t know she had, she stood. She was unsteady; she used the wall and then the bars for support.
The first thing she did was check Bell for a pulse. Nothing. Good.
She took his keys, felt for any spare ammunition, but found none. She studied Bell’s pistol. Browning 9mm. A sound weapon. Big magazine. Either 13 or 15 rounds. Experts don’t fill them to max; a stressed spring can cause a stoppage. There were probably nine rounds left. Tick.
Next was the thug; she staggered across to him, steadying herself on the door frame. He was on his back. He had two entry wounds in the middle of his chest. Blood seeped out from under him. She checked his pulse.
Dead.
She picked up his pistol, a Glock 17. Another 9mm. Seventeen rounds. The clue was in the title. She checked for additional ammunition. None.
Austin.
Sam found the key for his cell, let herself in and re-secured his tourniquet, taking 30-second breathers every so often. He was out of it again. She put him in the recovery position, with his wounded leg on top - and checked his pulse. It was weak. But he had one.
‘Annie.’
What? Austin was muttering.
‘Annie.’
Shit, that’s me.
Austin was talking to her. Whispering.
‘Shhh. Austin. Everything’s fine.’ No, it isn’t. ‘I need to go and get some help.’ Sam was struggling to get her words out; finding help would be a lottery win.
‘Listen. Please.’ He stuttered. His eyes were closed. Sam put her ear close to his mouth.
‘My son didn’t die in a plane crash.’ He coughed, scrunching his face up as he did. ‘He was murdered. Because he was flying a Reaper.’ He opened his eyes - she was so close she almost couldn’t focus on them. He had the look of, ‘Do you know what a Reaper is?’ He was waiting for confirmation.
‘A US military drone. Perfect for unmanned reconnaissance and then destroying a target.’
He closed his eyes, nodding gently in recognition.
‘The Reaper found a place. Two buildings - big satellite dish. It sent the Reaper off course. Don’t know why. Here. I think we’re here.’
He was exhausted, and now mumbling something that she couldn’t understand. She didn’t want to tell him that she had most of that. That she could probably add something to the story.
‘Thanks, Austin. Thanks. Rest now.’ She touched her lips and transferred her kiss to his cheek. His eyes were closed. She didn’t think there was a lot going on behind the lids.
She was about to stand, when she had a thought. She took the Browning and put it in his right hand. There was a 72% chance that he was right-handed; this time a useful fact. If he were awake, he could have a go at defending himself.
If he were awake.
She stood, turned, almost passed out, stabilised herself and headed for the door.
SIS Headquarters, Vauxhall, London
Jane’s phone rang. It was the DD.
‘Excuse me, Colin.’ She picked up the phone. Colin motioned to Jane as to whether he
should leave - or not. She shook her head.
‘Jane Baker.’
‘We have just launched 28 Tomahawks from the eastern Med. Time to target is 45 minutes. I don’t have a real-time readout, but initial reports have all of the missiles flying on their prepared route. Nothing has gone rogue. The Navy is on the case. They’ll let me know if any one of them diverts.’
‘And the … marines? En route to the village? If that’s who’s in the air.’
There was a snort on the other end of the phone.
‘I couldn’t possibly comment. Time to target is 52 minutes. Then they have to find the control centre. But, unless we’ve missed something, these missiles look like they’re going to do the job they’ve been sent to do. So maybe we’re out of trouble - for now.’
Jane wasn’t sure. Something was bothering her. Something wasn’t right.
‘Uh, OK. Well, that’s good. Will you keep me in the loop?’
‘Yes, Jane, of course. I’ll phone you as soon as we have anything. OK?’
‘Sure. Thanks Linden.’
Jane hung up.
She looked at Colin. He looked tired.
‘Coffee?’ He said.
She let out a short laugh. She needed a wee as it was. Coffee went straight through her.
‘Thanks Colin. Not at the moment.’
‘You look perplexed. Can I help?’
Jane stood. And stretched. She walked over to a whiteboard she had in the corner of her office. She sketched out a map of the Middle East. She drew two comic battleships and a submarine in the eastern Med. And from them she drew the trajectories of the cruise missiles to Syria - pretty much due east. It was, she reckoned, a 500-mile trip. At 550 miles-per-hour (she’d done her cruise missile revision earlier in the afternoon), it was less than an hour’s flight time.
She stood back. Colin had joined her.
‘Talk to me.’ He said politely.
Colin was only just coming up to speed with where they were. He’d been in and out of the office a couple of times with updates about Frank. Frank was OK. He had second-degree burns to both arms and one leg - all of which was manageable. He was now sedated and out of harm’s way. Wolfgang, however, was very poorly. He had third-degree burns to 40% of his body and, due to smoke inhalation, had upper-respiratory thermal injuries, carbon-monoxide poisoning and, likely, other toxicity complications. It was, according to Colin, touch and go. Unfortunately the woman whom Wolfgang had rescued from the blaze had succumbed to her injuries. Apparently, Frank had pulled out an older woman from the fire. She was going to be fine.
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