Murder Team (Kindle Single)

by Chris Ryan

  It didn’t come. The grenade was a dud.

  Danny cursed viciously under his breath. The militants were still shouting, but they had clearly realised the grenade wasn’t going to blow. A couple of loose rounds flew over Danny’s head. He gripped the Diemaco firmly, ready to swing round and open up.

  But something stopped him.

  It was a sound. Like a sudden, high-pitched wind, very fast, coming from the skies on the far side of the settlement. Air displacement. It lasted only a couple of seconds, but it was enough time for Danny to brace himself. The Israelis’ ordnance was finally arriving.

  The strike, when it came, seemed to move the whole earth. The Land Rover shifted several inches across the ground, and Danny’s bones seemed to shake within his body. The noise was so thunderous that, for a moment, he worried that he’d marked the target incorrectly and the strike had occurred much closer to the settlement than he wanted. For a few seconds the air lit up, as bright as day, hot and orange. And when the blast subsided, the heat was still there as a cloud of hot, sharp dust saturated the vicinity.

  Danny grabbed his moment. He stood up, assault rifle engaged, its butt pressed hard into his shoulder. He could tell at a glance that the nearby militants were in a state of confusion. Four of them had fallen to the ground. The other three were looking back toward the settlement in sudden anxiety, obviously unsure whether they were under attack. Danny went for these three first. With his weapon switched to semi-automatic, he discharged three quick-fire rounds. Each bullet hit his man square in the back – the broadest target area, and the easiest to hit. Before they’d even finished falling he’d turned to the four men on the ground. Another four rounds and they were down.

  Everything in this remote desert location was suddenly different. A thick, dense cloud hung above it. Dust was still drifting over from the far side of the settlement, and the sound of the debris against the chassis of the Land Rover was like a mess of white noise. There was panicked shouting coming from the settlement – screaming, even.

  Good. The Israelis didn’t know it, but they had just given Danny the mother of all diversions. Whether they’d hit the convoy was a different matter – the strike had been late, so Danny’s speed and distance calculation would be out. He had to assume that Abu Bakr and people were still alive.

  But so, he hoped, was Spud. With one arm he swiped the few shards of shattered windscreen glass from the driver’s seat, jumped back behind the wheel and hit the throttle. Wind and dust slammed against his sweat-soaked face as he advanced at speed toward his objective.

  13

  The earth shook underneath Spud’s feet. The dog, still chained up close to him, whimpered, then howled. The body of the butchered kid jolted on the ground. And the manacles that bound Spud’s wrists dug harshly into his wrists. The skin there felt damp – Spud knew he was probably bleeding from the contact – and the muscles in his arms shrieked from the unnatural stress position in which they’d positioned him.

  The noise of the nearby explosion was immense. Seconds later, the acrid smell of burning arrived at his nostrils. There were shouts of panic outside the hut, and the ugly barking of instructions. But Spud, the only living human still in the hut, felt a surge of hope. He didn’t know what the explosion was, or how close, or who had caused it. But he knew this: a strike of that magnitude was beyond the capabilities of the militants who were holding him captive at the moment. Which meant someone else know of their position. Eritrean authorities? A foreign power? Hell, could an SAS squadron even be on its way?

  He put that thought from his head. If the Regiment had arrived, the militants would be dead before they even knew of the soldiers’ presence. Spud’s colleagues wouldn’t announce themselves like that. But one thing was for sure: his captors hadn’t expected this sudden turn of events. He didn’t know what that meant, but something told him that he had a last roll of the dice.

  Gunfire in the distance. It was too muffled to estimate accurately how far away, but he counted three shots in quick succession. They definitely came from a single assault rifle. But if it wasn’t the Regiment, who was it?

  A pause. Four more shots.

  Spud grimaced. He licked his dry, parched lips and mustered the very last of his strength. He had a feeling he was going to need it.

  The chaotic shouting outside grew more intense. It was mixed with the sound of fine rubble falling on the conical roof of the hut. At the same time, he heard the screaming sound of a vehicle’s engine being pushed to the very limit, and growing closer. Spud tried to picture what was happening out there. The vehicle sounded like it had come to a halt maybe twenty metres from the hut – it was hard to be sure just from the sound. The engine died. Ferocious gunfire followed immediately: Spud easily identified the bursts of an assault rifle set to fully automatic. The bursts were short and well-targeted. It was the unmistakeable sound of a weapon being handled by a professional.

  The shouting grew more frenzied. There was the occasional scream of pain as burst failed to kill its target outright. For a few seconds the gunfire fell silent – Spud found he was holding his breath, wondering if the shooter had been hit. But then the bursts started up again, a little closer this time.

  The shooter was getting nearer.

  The rubble rain had subsided, but the acrid smell of the atmosphere had grown stronger. It burned the back of Spud’s throat and made his eyes water. As he was unable to wipe them clear, the dim interior of the hut – lit only by the fading fire in the centre – became dim and blurred. He sensed a commotion just outside the door, and squinted hard in that direction, trying to make everything clear.

  The door rattled and started to open. Outside, the shooting had subsided. Someone was about to enter. Wildly, Spud found himself praying that the next person to enter his prison would have the kevlar helmet, boom mike, plate hangers and Crye Precision digital camo of an SF soldier.

  A figure entered, and closed the door behind him. Blinded by his watering eyes and the dim room, Spud couldn’t make out his features. But he could see that he was tall and broad, that his shoulders were hunched, and he could sense the urgency emanating from him.

  ‘Who . . .’ Spud croaked.

  But then the figure passed the fire pit in the centre of the room, and Spud saw him more clearly. It was his tormentor. The militant in the black bandana who had murdered the kid before Spud’s eyes, and who now, surely, had arrived to do the same to him.

  His eyes were aflame. There was no fear in them. Just anger, and a touch of madness. His face was set with a curl of contempt. He was carrying a handgun. His gun arm was flailing slightly loosely by his side. He was holding the weapon with the lack of care characteristic of an amateur.

  He strode up to Spud, stood to his right, grabbed a clump of his hair with his left hand and pressed the barrel of the gun hard into his temple. The rank smell of the militant’s sweat overpowered even the burning stench of the nearby explosion. Above everything else, Spud realised, this fucker was nervous. And a nervous man with a fully loaded firearm was the most dangerous kind.

  Spud realised that everything had suddenly fallen quiet immediately outside the hut. There was still the sound of confusion elsewhere, but it was further away, behind the hut.

  Bang. There was a sudden clattering from the other side of the hut: the sound of someone violently kicking the door open. It swung heavily back on its hinges and smashed against the wall. Another figure stood framed in the doorway.

  Again, Spud couldn’t make out his face. But he could make out the assault rifle pressed hard into his shoulder. The polar opposite of the militant who was right now gouging his handgun into the side of Spud’s head: Spud instinctively knew that this was the same pro who had been discharging deadly accurate rounds outside.

  He stepped forward.

  Spud’s vision cleared slightly. The features of the newcomer glowed dusky red in the dim light of the embers. His skin was smeared and dirty, but Spud recognised the dark hair, the black eyes and
the grim, purposeful expression.

  Danny Black.

  There was a silence, broken only by a whine from the dog, and the faint creak of the door swinging shut behind him.

  ‘You drop your gun,’ the militant rasped, ‘or I kill him now.’ He couldn’t hide the slight quaver in his voice, and Spud could feel his hand trembling.

  Spud met Danny’s eyes. He didn’t know how his friend had found him, but he knew his survival depended on the call he made in the next five seconds.

  Spud nodded. It was almost nothing: the merest fraction of a movement. But it was enough. He knew he had made himself understood.

  Danny’s eyes flickered away from Spud as he concentrated on the sights of his rifle. The rest of his body remained absolutely still.

  ‘Drop your gun!’ the militant screamed. ‘You come to rescue him, but I kill him if you don’t drop your gun now!’ He was shaking even more now. Unlike Danny Black, who was like a statue.

  The hut filled with the sudden, sharp, whiplash crack of a gunshot.

  It was close. Damn close. Spud realised instantly that the rifle Danny was carrying hadn’t been properly zeroed. He felt a rush of displaced air as the round travelled just a couple of inches from his face. He was aware of a flash of red and a spattering of wetness as it clipped the militant’s left cheekbone.

  His tormentor collapsed, taking a small clump of Spud’s hair with him as he fell to the ground. He wasn’t dead. His body was shaking violently, and a horrific gasping noise grated from his throat. Danny was already striding forward. He stepped over the body of the dead kid, his weapon still trained on the prostrate militant. When he was about three paces away, he discharged a second round. It slammed into the bastard’s head, and his body stopped moving, permanently.

  ‘Where are the others?’ Spud breathed.

  ‘No others,’ Danny said. ‘Just me.’

  ‘Then how the . . .’ Spud cut himself short. There was no time for explanations. ‘Key . . .’ he gasped. ‘Round his neck . . .’

  Danny kneeled down and let his weapon hang by its tactical sling. Ten seconds later he was holding the key by its bloodied string. He stood up and unlocked the manacles that held Spud’s arms above his head.

  Spud’s legs instantly gave way underneath him. He collapsed in a heap. Danny had turned to cover the door with his weapon.

  ‘Can you get up?’ he asked tersely.

  Spud’s whole body hurt. He looked at the dead militant lying just a couple of feet from where he had collapsed. A metre beyond the corpse, the dog was straining on a leash. With one glance at the butchered kid, Spud gathered what strength he could and rolled the dead militant toward the dog, who fell hungrily on his open wound. ‘That’s for the kid,’ Spud breathed, as he prised the militant’s handgun from his grasp.

  Danny was standing next to him now. He had one strong arm outstretched. Spud reached up, grabbed it and, with Danny’s help, staggered to his bare feet.

  ‘I was beginning to feel at home here,’ he said weakly.

  ‘We’re not out of the woods yet,’ Danny stated. ‘How many militants do you think there are here?’

  ‘I’ve seen about ten . . .’

  Danny’s face hardened. ‘There’s a lot more than ten,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a vehicle about fifteen metres from the door. We’ll probably come under fire. Can you walk?’

  Spud gave a tentative step forward. He felt like needles were shooting through his legs.

  Still brandishing the militant’s handgun, he staggered alongside his mate toward the exit.

  14

  Danny was shocked by the way Spud looked. But he couldn’t let it show. Weapon engaged, his friend by his side, he advanced carefully toward the closed door.

  Three metres out, it swung open. Danny fired before he even registered who it was – as far as he was concerned, there was nobody here whom he cared about keeping alive. The round slammed into the chest of what he now saw was an armed African militant. He fell backwards with a heavy thump.

  Danny surged ahead of Spud to the doorway. At the opening he gave himself a second to judge the situation outside. There was fifteen metres of open ground between himself and the grey Land Rover. It was littered with the bodies Danny had nailed on his way in: four lying on their back, two on their front. There was no sign of movement up ahead, but they were on the very edge of the settlement. Behind them, and to their left and right, he could hear voices. The voices still had a tinge of panic, but a couple of them, louder than the others, sounded like they were booming instructions, rallying the others. Danny cursed under his breath. The effect of his diversion was wearing off, and they were a long way from safety yet.

  He stood just proud of the door frame, pointing his weapon left, then right. He knew it was just a matter of time before a militant appeared from the interior of the settlement. Spud’s estimate of ten militants was way off. So was Friedman’s of twenty. The settlement was crawling with them. It was important to nail the first one who came into sights immediately. That would discourage any others, and give him and Spud the crucial seconds they needed to get to the vehicle.

  He didn’t have to wait long. After five seconds, a figure appeared from around the side of the hut to Danny’s left. Distance: five metres. Danny had a choice to make: a clean silent kill, or a noisy, messy one that would stop others from following. He instantly decided to up the noise and confusion – they’d lost any hope of secrecy – and made an effort not to aim at his target’s head or chest. A stomach wound would be more painful, and the screaming of his guy would, he hoped, deter anyone else from venturing too far forward too soon.

  He had the measure of this weapon now. He discharged a single round into the man’s abdomen – low enough to avoid the lungs so that he would be able to scream loudly. The militant didn’t disappoint. A couple of seconds after the bullet entered him, he was writhing on the ground, clutching his guts and screeching like a wounded animal. Strangely enough, nobody else followed from that direction.

  Five metres to Danny’s right, however, two more men appeared. They barely had time to notice Danny and Spud before Danny clicked his weapon to semi-automatic and fired a burst toward them. He knew at a glance that he’d killed one of them outright, but the other had a seam of rounds travelling the length of his left arm, and was now on the ground, screaming in a gratifying manner.

  Danny looked over his shoulder. Spud was just inside the hut, his pale face sweating, leaning with his gun arm against the door frame. Danny let his rifle hang, then pulled his own handgun. He grabbed Spud by the top of his free arm. ‘Ready?’ he said.

  Spud nodded. He set his jaw, grimaced, then stepped forward.

  The first five metres were the easiest. Spud managed a pace every couple of seconds, and the screaming militants seemed to be doing their job of keeping their companions at bay. But as they approached the halfway mark between themselves and the vehicle, Spud’s knees buckled. Danny shouldered the extra weight, but behind him he heard more shouting and he knew they were about to come under fire again.

  ‘Can you shoot?’ he breathlessly asked Spud. But Spud was already swinging his gun arm round to fire behind them and to the right. Danny was limited to his non-dominant left arm, but he followed Spud’s lead and discharged three rounds in quick succession just as a couple of militants appeared from the hut that had been Spud’s prison. One of the rounds clipped the foremost guy in the shoulder. The other went loose, but it was enough to make both of the other targets retreat. Spud had more success with his good arm, nailing two militants in quick succession.

  His accurate marksmanship seemed to give Spud strength and confidence. He still limped heavily, but now they moved toward the vehicle at their original speed. They reached it fifteen seconds later – it felt like much longer – and Spud slumped against the chassis as Danny re-engaged his assault rifle in time to fire two separate bursts to either side of the hut. Warning shots to scuttle the misplaced bravery of anyone thinking of appearing.


  Danny swung round and opened the rear passenger door of the vehicle. He helped Spud haul his squat, stocky, damaged frame in, then ran round to the driver’s seat, slung his rifle inside and got behind the wheel. The open windscreen was at once a vulnerability and of sudden strategic importance. As Danny turned the engine over, he pointed his pistol through the cavity, ready to nail the next unlucky militant who showed himself.

  No-one did. Amid the shouting and the chaos, it looked like the occupants of this small settlement had learned something about self-preservation.

  Danny knocked the Land Rover into reverse, pumped the accelerator and let his foot off the clutch. The vehicle surged backwards like a bullet, bumping so heavily over the rough ground that even the strong suspension of the off-roader groaned and complained at the heavy usage, and the highly revved engine screamed loudly. With one eye in the mirror and one hand on the steering wheel, Danny kept his handgun aimed through the shattered window, ready to fire if necessary.

  They receded ten metres.

  Twenty.

  Thirty.

  It wasn’t nearly enough. They needed to put at least four hundred metres between themselves and the settlement to get out of the range of effective fire.

  A couple of figures emerged in front of the settlement. Danny discharged three rounds, but at this distance and from such an unstable firing position, they fell loose. He could smell burning from the engine now, so he spun the steering wheel hard right, hitting the brake at the same time. The vehicle performed a sudden, jolting 180-degree turn. As Danny knocked it into first gear, three rounds flew past them. He accelerated sharply, but he was cursing under his breath. He’d lost count of the number of men he’d killed, but still they kept coming. How many of those fuckers were there?