43
The third explosion on board the Nephilim told Mikhail Viskhan that the battle had turned for the worse. That was what happened having lost the use of actual trained professionals who knew how to fight – he now regretted wasting Sean Cahill’s team on a personal vendetta – and relying on big-mouthed criminals who talked the talk but couldn’t walk the walk. Joe Hunter and a companion, most likely Jared Rington, had gone through his hired killers like a barbed-wire enema, reaming a butthole in the yacht. How many had died aboard was to be seen, but it wasn’t so much the deaths as the chaos they’d wrought among his people that was important. Whilst fighting the invaders, they weren’t bombarding Mar-a-Lago or the civilians on the beach. Hunter and his pal had shut down both his heavy machine guns and his mortar crews had abandoned their stations while they took up guns to help defend him – more likely defend themselves. And now, minutes after he’d supposedly died in the sea, Rington had turned one of their grenade launchers against them.
Without any supporting fire, his landing party was exposed to counter-attack, and the general lack of gunshots from the estate told him that they had all been killed, or surrendered. Smoke wreathed the heavens over the presidential retreat but he’d no way of telling how much damage had been done. But did it actually matter? The attack was more about symbolism than causing destruction, and in that case his operation had been an unquestioned success. Pretty soon the world’s press would be on the scene and images of the attack’s aftermath beamed to every household on the planet. His Islamic State sponsors would be more than thrilled with the impact – he’d promised them something spectacular and he’d delivered. They must now give him the promised riches, the position and land he’d demanded, and the protection he was due. He could finally go home.
But for one important fact: his getaway helicopter was trashed, shot to pieces by his own gunner during a firefight with Hunter. Even if it hadn’t been turned to scrap, his helicopter no longer offered a way off the yacht as the Apaches would have blown it out of the sky. He had expected that once the attack was underway a swift response would be launched, but Viskhan had counted on it being by a Coast Guard boat or two, which he was confident could be handled by his gunners, not from the military. By the time any Special Forces could be mobilised against him, he had planned on being far away from the Nephilim. Judging by the rapid response of the three Navy helicopters, he had to now accept that they’d been forewarned about his intentions and had only been waiting for the green light to launch a counter-assault. His money was on Trey being the leak. But his wife had never been party to the plans he’d made to target Mar-a-Lago, only the initial, and subsequently diversionary, suicide attack on the South Beach parade. Still, only Trey could have known about his association with Fedor Stepanov, and the depraved Russian’s pleasure boat. She must have sent Hunter and Rington in pursuit of him, ruining everything, and together they must have concluded where he was going, and to what reason. Her betrayal of him had cost him a magnificent victory, and had definitely thrown the proverbial wrench in his getaway plan.
He thought furiously of a way off the yacht. Only the yacht’s skiff remained to be taken. If he could get to it he might still be able to slip away while all the attention was on taking the Nephilim from his men that remained board. He’d planned with Sean that they’d escape together, but as it was, Sean would have to look after himself this time. Being abandoned, Sean would be devastated, but Viskhan couldn’t concern himself with his old friend’s feelings: his weren’t as mutually strong after all, and besides, if Sean cared for him so deeply then he’d be happy that Viskhan had escaped.
He was currently in the living quarters at aft of the second deck, and through the glass doors could see that the balcony area was clear of opposition. After his brief skirmish with Hunter upstairs he’d used the elevator as a secure escape route, but had gotten off at the next floor down so he could easily ascend to the heli-deck. He’d witnessed the aftermath of the battle between Hunter and his gunners, seen the steaming wreckage left of his chopper’s cockpit and had even spotted his nemesis slinking away even as the Navy helicopters thundered into view. Instead of going up he’d stayed put, craning to watch the Chinook launch an RIB bristling with armed Special Forces soldiers in full combat gear. The inflatable boat was currently scudding across the sea towards the Nephilim. He checked his weapon, a pistol holding half a mag of ammunition, and his tattered anti-ballistic vest. He wasn’t equipped to take on a team of highly trained and superbly armed soldiers, and that was before he discounted his wound. Hunter had shot him, drilling his left tricep and his arm was almost useless.
Quickly he shucked out of his vest, kicking it behind a plush leather easy chair, where he also dumped his pistol. He checked out his reflection in a mirror. His hair was dishevelled, his faced pained and lacking colour, and better yet his shirt and arm were sodden with blood: he didn’t strike a threat. If he could get to the skiff unchallenged, he might yet make it to the mainland where he could blend with the dozens of innocent victims of the battle. He could then slip away and make it to the private jet waiting for him at Lantana Airport.
Deciding on the ploy as his best chance of escape, he set off, going down an internal stairwell, and making it outside. From his position he couldn’t see the RIB, but the Chinook had flown to a higher elevation so that its guns could be brought to bear on the Nephilim. Only one of the Apaches was visible, streaking low towards the prow of the yacht. There was a second attack copter somewhere nearby: if he were spotted launching the skiff, they’d destroy him in the water. Suddenly he wasn’t as confident in plan B, so he decided on C. Launch the skiff, set it adrift, and then enter the water and use it as a shield until it had drifted clear of the battle zone. From there he could swim ashore, and then plan B would kick back into action.
Taking care to make as small a target as possible, he slunk down into the tender docking bay and unslung the rope tethering the skiff in place on its bracket. He rolled the lightweight aluminium boat over in the water so that it capsized and offered him a breathing space where he could hide beneath the upturned hull as it drifted away. He grinned, feeling confident of escape again. Set his left foot to the rung of a ladder and began to lower himself into the water.
‘Going someplace?’
The voice startled him into immobility.
He stared up at the figure on the balcony above him, and at the AR-15 Joe Hunter aimed at his heart.
44
The third grenade Rink launched had left a smoking crater in the foredeck of the yacht. Scattered around it were lumps of twisted metal, splintered decking, warped duct housing and misshaped machine parts. Also there were the eviscerated corpses of three men and one woman. He gave them no pity. Minutes ago they’d been dropping mortar rounds and grenades on innocent vacationers on Palm Beach, so their violent ending was somewhat karmic. He was only sorry that Daniel StJohn wasn’t among their number. The guy who’d ordered his death only moments earlier, sent men running to their deaths while he stayed behind cover, had made himself scarce the second Rink turned the tables with the M203.
He was unsure if StJohn had sprinted around the corner onto the starboard deck before he’d fully leaned out and point-blank blasted the foredeck and the four fighters taking shelter behind the various machine and equipment housings, or if he’d skipped back inside through doors now smashed to a million glittering shards. Wherever he’d gotten to, Rink intended hunting him down. But not unarmed. He’d dumped the suppressed pistol when going for the grenade launcher, and now without any shells it was useless to him. He checked the weapons of those he’d slain, but their rifles had been damaged in the blast. Even the HMG was bent out of shape and lying on its side alongside the port rail, and besides, Rink was inordinately strong but it couldn’t be easily wielded by a man unless he were a Hollywood action hero.
Downwash from rotors buffeted him.
The SEAL team was incoming, and two of their choppers were taking strategic posi
tions overhead, clearing any opposition. One of the Apaches opened up with its Chain Gun, strafing the upper deck, and the thunder of 30 mm projectiles shredding the yacht almost buried the screams of the dying terrorists it targeted. Holding the M203 grenade launcher, Rink invited friendly fire. He quickly cast it aside and held his open hands overhead, but only as he retreated towards the smashed doors into the living quarters. As soon as he was out of line of sight, Rink drew his KA-BAR: to be fair, he’d gone to war with less in the past. He took stock of his surroundings. He was in a dining room. A better description was a space once reserved for fine dining, except now the shrapnel from his final grenade had tarnished the image. So too did the bloody figure sprawled over a toppled dining table at one side of the room. So StJohn hadn’t fled like a rat; he’d been knocked through the glass doors by the detonating grenade.
Striding rapidly towards him, Rink spotted the PMC’s assault rifle lying under the wreckage beside him, but out of reach of his twitching fingers. Rink stepped on the rifle, then slid it a few feet away to pick it up. But before he could, StJohn moaned in a mixture of anger and frustration and pushed up to his feet. He was bloody in numerous places, the front of his utility vest shredded, but none of his wounds was immediately life-threatening. He was unaware of Rink’s presence and his first instinct was to rub at his face and scalp to force some lucidity into his spinning brain. StJohn staggered as he pulled free of the overturned table, and then he turned to scan the destruction caused by the grenade he’d luckily survived. His view was blocked. Rink took a moment to enjoy the look on the Englishman’s battered features before he slammed a kick into StJohn’s chest.
StJohn somersaulted over the table and crashed to the floor. Rink swerved around it after him and met the merc as he was rising. He slashed his KA-BAR and opened up another hole in the fabric of StJohn’s vest. The body armour had saved him from grenade shrapnel, and also Rink’s knife, but it wouldn’t deter everything Rink had in mind for him. Rink kicked him again, purposefully in the chest to keep StJohn moving and unable to mount an effective defence. The merc was still reeling from being blown into the room, but Rink recalled their fight at the dock and how their battle could easily have gone a different way. He stabbed for the man’s face, and StJohn whipped his head aside even as he tugged something from his utility vest. Rink thought knife until the small cylindrical object clattered beside his feet. StJohn sneered, then dove away, and Rink leapt the other way. The grenade detonated like a thunderclap, sound and fury. Both men had escaped its immediate killing range but were peppered by the debris cast by the explosion. Thankfully Rink had made it behind another overturned piece of furniture that took the eviscerating force out of the flying shrapnel, but not the concussive effect that left his ears ringing and his vision blurred. He moved on impulse, wary of another grenade being thrown at him, but dropping the grenade had been a desperate move that StJohn wouldn’t risk a second time. As Rink got his bearings, working his jaw to relieve the whistling in his ears, he spotted his enemy through a drifting curtain of acrid smoke, scrabbling through broken furniture for his dropped assault rifle.
Rink rushed him.
StJohn grabbed the shattered remains of a chair and hurled it at him. Rink smashed it aside with his forearm, took a deep lunge to spear StJohn. The KA-BAR gashed the merc’s shoulder as he dodged aside, then sent a sidekick into Rink’s knee. Thankfully Rink was flexing for another attack and his knee didn’t shatter. Nevertheless he wobbled, and StJohn struck at his face. Knuckles raked Rink’s cheek but he took the blow to land one of his own. This time he employed the butt of the KA-BAR to hammer the side of StJohn’s head. The man staggered under the blow, but didn’t go down. He snatched for another chunk of broken furniture and swung it into Rink’s chest. Weathering the pain that pierced his sternum, Rink powered in with a headbutt that almost put out StJohn’s lights, and yet the merc retained a fighting man’s instinct to keep on throwing bombs even when he was almost out on his feet. His punches slammed Rink, but he had fought in knockdown Kyokushinkai karate matches much of his adult life, where combatants gladly accepted punishment to deliver theirs in return. He swept a shin kick into StJohn’s left thigh, a kick he could snap a baseball bat clean in two with, and the merc almost passed out at the debilitating nerve pain that flashed through his entire body: a charley horse from hell. His abused leg collapsed and he went to one knee, just in time for Rink’s second shin kick to slash into his ribs. The body armour took away some of the kick’s force, but not all. StJohn fell to all fours, wheezing for breath. Rink could have killed him then, but there was something that required doing first. He waited while StJohn struggled to stand and then sway in place. From overhead the guns of the Apaches rained down suppressing cover for the SEALs storming aboard. Rink had limited time to end things with StJohn.
‘I’m betting you feel like crap right now,’ he said. ‘Would be unfair of me to kill an unarmed and injured man, right?’
StJohn deflated visibly, his shoulders rounding. ‘Mate, this was never my idea of a fair fight.’
‘You’re a merc, and you took Viskhan’s money.’
‘I was never along for that insane fucker’s sake. I was pulled into this bullshite through my employer. I didn’t like it, man. I’m a professional soldier not a fucking cowardly terrorist!’
‘So it’s only about the money for you, huh?’
‘Yeah, and isn’t that the joke? I’ve never seen any fucking payment.’
Rink shrugged. ‘Don’t think you’re ever going to.’
‘So if I’m never going to get paid, what’s the sense of keeping this up? This bullshite has nothing to do with me now. We aren’t enemies any more. There’s no need for us to fight again, is there, mate?’
‘Isn’t there?’ Rink’s left hand snapped forward, clasping StJohn’s right wrist. He squeezed, forcing the PMC’s hand down so that it was trapped against his thigh. He did so even as his right hand plunged in and thumped into StJohn’s abdomen. ‘In that case you won’t be needing this.’
Rink stripped away the knife StJohn had been in the sneaky act of drawing. The merc looked down at the hand still planted tight to his unguarded lower abdomen, watched in dawning horror as Rink withdrew it and the KA-BAR he’d buried to the hilt. Blood seeped through StJohn’s clothing, a rapidly expanding patch. StJohn staggered back on his heels until an upturned table checked him. His blood began dripping between his feet, the stain growing on the once plush carpet. The amount of blood was proof that Rink’s knife had severed a major artery.
‘Y-you took away my knife. Wh-why did you have to gut me?’ he croaked.
‘Unfinished business,’ Rink replied. ‘I shoulda killed you first time we met, saved me the trouble now. You’re not important to me, bub, I want your bosses dead.’
StJohn’s hands went ineffectively to his wound. He tried to staunch the flow but his life could now be measured in minutes.
‘You… you didn’t have to kill me.’
‘No, I didn’t. But go tell that to Jim McTeer and ask him if I did something wrong.’
The name meant nothing to StJohn. If he’d heard the name of the man first murdered on Viskhan’s orders, then it hadn’t been important enough to retain. He only gawped up at Rink as his knees buckled and he sat down hard. Rink dropped StJohn’s knife and stepped in, cupping a palm against the side of the merc’s head. It was no touch of empathy; it was to brace him while he drove the length of the KA-BAR through his neck, but in the end it was a stroke of kindness. Severing his throat meant StJohn died instantly instead of lingering in agony while he bled out from his gut.
Taking a step back, Rink swiped the KA-BAR to one side, flicking off clinging droplets of gore. They spattered the floor, as did StJohn’s spurting blood. Rink moved to avoid the shower as StJohn flopped sideways. The arterial spurts ebbed to a slow trickle; StJohn was dead. Rink eyed the corpse of his enemy, grim-faced. StJohn’s death had been easier than that of others who’d died through Viskhan’s madness
. He gave himself a mental shake. He could hear shouted commands, brief controlled bursts of gunfire. The Navy SEALs had stormed the yacht, and standing there over a murdered corpse probably wasn’t the way he should be found by the good guys.
Despite that, he dragged up StJohn’s assault rifle and strode deeper into the yacht, looking for Hunter. Where his friend had gotten to, so too had Viskhan he’d bet.
45
‘I surrender,’ said Mikhail Viskhan and raised his hands. He struggled to lift the left one, and it pained him to do so. His shirt was soaked with blood all down that side, especially at his upper arm: evidence of where I’d hit him during our skirmish in the corridor.
‘What? You think I signed up to the Geneva Convention?’ I glared over the sights of my gun, seriously tempted to empty the clip into his body. ‘You don’t get to surrender, you piece of shit! The only way you’re getting off this boat is in a fucking body bag.’
I’d made him get off the tender dock and stand on the lower deck where there was less chance of him plunging into the sea. But in doing so, I’d had to adjust my position on the deck above. I was exposed on my right flank to the SEALs storming the yacht, and from my left to the same doorway I’d recently emerged from, and from above by the circling Apache attack choppers. I should shoot the bastard and get it over with. But I wanted him to understand why he was about to die, and surrender was not an option.
‘You murdered my friend,’ I said. ‘You probably don’t care, but he was a good man, and you had him shot to death.’
‘It should have been you,’ he replied, and his tone made no apology for the mix-up.
‘It should have,’ I answered, equally as contrite. ‘But know this, Viskhan, if it had you’d still be right here, right now, about to die, because my friends would have avenged my death exactly as I’ll avenge McTeer’s.’
Marked for Death Page 27