‘That,’ he said, pointing over his shoulder at the smoking crater in the ground, ‘is a very nasty piece of kit, Chris.’
The man next to him shaded his eyes with his right hand and nodded. ‘Apparently they were found on a guy apprehended at a checkpoint on the Israeli border. Hezbollah of course…’
‘Had the Israelis come across anything like this before?’ asked Dan.
Chris shook his head. ‘No, that’s why they shared a few with us – and why we called you. Figured we’d work out how the hell to disarm them and test their capability to see what we’re up against.’
Dan nodded. Since leaving the British Army after being injured in an IED blast in Iraq, he’d started to dedicate himself to learning everything he could about new terrorist weapons to make some sense of what had happened to him, and try to save someone from going through the same hell he’d lived through.
Although his nightmares had gradually faded, it took only a news report to flick the switch for him to have sleepless nights for weeks. Working as a consultant to the British Army and using his skills as an EOD operator, he found the work satisfying and cathartic.
For the past few months, he’d teamed up with Chris Lewis, an ex-SEALS munitions expert pensioned out of the US Navy following a training accident which had left him with two fingers missing from his left hand.
Dan turned and walked over to one of the four-wheel drive vehicles. Under the shade of the tarpaulin, he began to strip off the layers of Kevlar body armour.
Chris followed him into the makeshift tent, and helped him lift the heavy protective jacket over his head. Dan almost staggered with the effort. As Chris dumped the jacket on the ground, Dan pulled off his boots then wriggled out of the armoured trousers. Underneath, he wore blue jeans and a black polo shirt, both faded from years of wear. While Chris put the Kevlar body armour onto the back seat of one of the vehicles, Dan re-laced his boots, then strode over to a mini-refrigerator hooked up to a small generator and took out a soft drink. Popping the lid, he drained half the contents in three gulps, and then belched.
He put the can on top of the refrigerator. On the floor next to it, a tarpaulin spread out over the ground held a display of butchered metal, wires, and detonating devices. Bending down, he pulled gloves over his hands, and retrieved one of the pieces of stripped parts. He turned it in his fingers, his blue eyes squinting at the parts, trying to work out how they’d been designed.
He turned and held it up to Chris. ‘It’s almost like a small limpet mine, but with a directional blast mechanism.’
Chris crouched down. ‘How come the one we just detonated tore a fucking great crater in the General’s paddock?’
‘That’s exactly what I’d like to know.’
Both men looked up as a shadow passed over them, and then stood and looked at the smouldering hole in the ground.
‘Rogue one?’ suggested Dan.
The newcomer rolled up the sleeves of his denim shirt, twitched the baseball cap on his head and scratched his ear. ‘Some rogue.’
In his late sixties, General Bartholomew ‘Bart’ Collins retired from the US Army, bought acreage in the middle of Arizona and continued to fight terrorism in his own way, which provided both the US and British armies, and any consultants such as Dan, the opportunity to team up with other experts and pool their knowledge.
Dan looked over the General’s shoulder and frowned. ‘I didn’t hear you pull up. Where’s your truck?’
A deep rumbling snort from behind one of the vehicles pre-empted the General’s response.
He smiled. ‘I didn’t buy a ranch so I could drive all day son. I was out for a ride – saw the explosion and thought I’d better head over here to make sure you were both still in one piece.’
Dan turned, stretching his back, and looked at the General who was frowning at the crater.
‘What are you thinking, General?’
The older man turned. ‘There are some very nasty bastards out there.’ He shrugged, unhitched his horse from the four-wheel drive vehicle’s bull bars and launched himself into the saddle with the agility of someone twenty years younger.
‘Sorry about your paddock,’ said Dan.
The man shrugged. ‘Shit happens. I was going to plough it over this year anyway. You’ve saved me a job.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘You’d better clean up here and head back to the house before Wendy serves dinner.’
Adjusting the reins between his fingers, he looked down at Dan. ‘I’ll see you both in the study for drinks and a full debrief at eighteen hundred hours,’ he said, and gave the horse a swift kick.
As the horse cantered off, Dan gave the General a casual salute, and turned back to the task of tidying up. He bent down and began to gather the pieces of the dismantled explosive device, folded away the notes he’d made, tucked them into his back pocket and then started to put each piece of the device into its own separate plastic bag.
Chris used a permanent marker pen to label each bag before placing them into a metal container the size of a large toolbox. Dan threw the last bag towards Chris, stood up, then pulled off his gloves, balled them up and threw them in the passenger footwell of the vehicle.
They pulled down the tarpaulin which had been providing shade all day, rolled it up, and stored it in the back of one of the vehicles. Finally, they bent down and tested the weight of the metal box.
Dan glanced up at Chris and nodded. ‘On three.’
They carefully lifted the heavy box into the back of Dan’s four-wheel drive vehicle, and pushed the door shut.
Dan ran his fingers through his damp hair, a bead of sweat trickling down his neck as he surveyed the test area, checking they’d picked up everything. ‘I’ll follow you out,’ he said to Chris, who nodded and started the first vehicle.
Climbing into his vehicle, Dan threw the empty soft drink can and toolkit onto the passenger seat, swung the door shut and started the engine. He let it idle for a minute, rolled down his window, then swung the truck out onto the rough track and followed the cloud of dust behind Chris.
As he steered the truck along the narrow track towards the General’s house he glanced over at the winter landscape. He was already tanned from spending the previous six months in the barren vastness of Arizona.
Despite its remoteness, the small town where he’d based himself was friendly enough.
Which was just as well, given he was staying in the only available guesthouse.
Chapter 2
Grant Swift opened his eyes. Darkness enveloped him. Blinking, he felt his right arm under his body and realised he was lying on his side. His shoulder hurt where his body weight had been rocking with the motion of the van. Shaking his head, he tried to clear the heavy sensation behind his eyes. The hood scratched his face, and when he brought his hands up to his head to try to remove the rough blindfold, he found his wrists had been bound tightly together, the weakened circulation deadening all feeling in his fingers.
His heart thumped in his chest as his mind devoured and tried to process what had happened. How long had he been unconscious? Where was he?
He strained his ears. He was travelling, the undulating rhythm of the vehicle broken by the occasional pothole, while his body swayed with the motion of each bend in the road. He recalled seeing a van parked behind his Mercedes – how long ago? – and then… and then…
Realising he had probably been bundled into the back of the vehicle, he blocked out the noise of the van’s engine and concentrated on the sound of two voices coming from the front seats. Conversation appeared to be minimal but a radio played. A series of advertisements were on, the upbeat jingle of a large chain of clothing stores playing behind an excited voiceover. Shortly afterwards, the radio station’s own jingle played before another top forty song began. Grant repeated the radio station jingle in his head. He recognised it, but couldn’t quite remember where he’d been travelling to at the time.
He winced as he attempted to shift on the hard floor of the vehicle
, and tried to sit up. He panicked, kicking out, his leg banging against something hard and metallic, which clanged loudly.
A voice from the front of the van carried over the drone of the engine and radio. ‘He’s coming round. How far is it?’
Another voice, muffled. ‘Not long. Keep him quiet.’
Grant tensed. He could see nothing through the hood pulled over his head, but he sensed someone approaching, then smelt the man’s foul body odour as he leaned over him.
‘Please, no…,’ whispered Grant.
Urine trickled between his legs, and he closed his eyes, embarrassed. The cold steel floor of the vehicle made his muscles and joints ache. He tried to shift position, get some circulation back into his legs curled under his body.
A hand clamped down on his shoulder. ‘Be still.’
Grant whimpered as the man inserted another needle into his arm, and felt his world sinking beneath him.
***
As he floated in and out of consciousness, Grant had a sensation of being carried by two people – his head had rolled back, and he felt a firm grip on his wrists and ankles. He tried to lift his head. His throat was parched and he desperately needed to swallow, but his neck was at an awkward angle and he started to cough violently. A voice swore. The grip on his wrists tightened, and he heard a door being kicked open before he was hauled through the opening.
He turned his head left and right, trying to hear or smell something to tell him where he might be. He gasped as he was lowered to the ground. Cold tiles bore into his exposed skin where his shirt had come untucked from his suit trousers. From his left, he could hear a scuffling sound then the jangle of keys, before one was selected and he heard it being inserted into a lock. The lock turned with a soft squeak, and he heard another door being opened. A faint click – he guessed a light switch – then he was picked up once more.
He panicked and began to struggle as he felt a sensation of descending. Both of his captors cursed.
‘For fuck’s sake!’ said the voice at the end of his feet.
Grant fell, his shoulders and knees taking the brunt of the wooden stair treads. Instinctively, he pulled his head and hands into his chest to protect them. He cried out as his left ankle bent awkwardly and the back of his head hit against a balustrade.
Then he was lying on his back, crying silently, while above him he could hear the chuckles of his captors.
‘That had to hurt,’ laughed one.
‘The boss said no bruises,’ chastised the other.
‘Well it was his fucking fault.’ The first voice had taken on a whining tone. ‘We didn’t do anything.’
A sigh. ‘Let’s take a look at the damage.’
Grant heard footsteps descending towards him. He cringed, turning away from the noise and eased himself up onto his hands and knees. He tried to stand up but his ankle gave way under his weight. He cried out as he crashed to the ground, his knees slapping against the hard stone floor. Again, he raised himself up and began crawling away from the voices.
‘For fuck’s sake! Stay still or you’re going to end up head-butting the wall!’
A hand grabbed him by his shoulder and forced him to the ground. Suddenly, the sack was ripped off his head.
Grant blinked against the harsh light of a suspended light bulb swinging backwards and forwards from the ceiling above him. He turned his head to avoid the glare then gasped as his eyes met those of one of the attackers. A black mask now covered the man’s face. Grant frowned, trying to recall the faces of the men who had attacked him in his car. Whatever drug they had forced into his system had blurred the details of the attack and he couldn’t remember.
‘Who the hell are you?’ he croaked.
A snort emanated from behind the mask. The man turned and called up the stairs to the other. ‘He’ll live. A few scratches. Probably have a couple of bruises on his face by tomorrow but nothing too bad.’
‘What about his ankle?’
Grant turned at the sound of the other man approaching and squinted up at him. He was shorter and skinnier than the first kidnapper.
Grant cried out as the man kicked his ankle.
‘Can you move it?’
Grant tentatively turned his ankle left and right. ‘It’s sore. Twisted. Not broken,’ he gasped.
‘Good.’
The man bent down and flicked a knife in Grant’s face.
‘Don’t!’ he pleaded.
The man laughed, grabbed Grant’s wrists and pulled the knife through the bindings, turned, pushed his colleague in front of him and began to walk up the stairs.
‘Wait!’ Grant crawled unsteadily to his feet, reaching out for the wall to balance. ‘Who are you? Where am I?’
The larger man stopped and turned halfway up the stairs to face Grant. ‘No questions.’ He turned back and climbed the stairs.
Grant heard the door being slammed shut and locked. He blinked then turned and surveyed the room.
A thin mattress had been shoved up against the far wall, a pillow and blanket thrown haphazardly across it. Grant wandered over and picked up the blanket. It was covered in hair and smelled of dogs. He threw it down in disgust and glared at the stained pillow.
He scowled at the grey metal bucket which had been placed in one corner of the room, and noticed a bottle of water next to it. Bending down, he unscrewed the plastic cap and drank half the contents to quench his terrible thirst.
He re-capped the bottle and glanced up at the light bulb which swayed gently from the ceiling, then looked for its power source. He sighed and leaned against the wall in frustration. A light switch, rather than a pull cord. The kidnappers had thought of everything.
I can’t even hang myself.
Grant lowered himself onto the edge of the mattress on the floor, and slowly began to rock backwards and forwards, his arms hugging his knees while he closed his eyes and tried to fathom what the hell he’d done wrong.
Chapter 3
Turning the glass in his hand, Dan savoured the bourbon aroma as ice cubes clinked against the crystal surface.
‘Cheers,’ said the General, holding his glass in the air.
‘Cheers.’ Taking a sip, Dan relished the taste as it burned his throat. He hardly drank following a long dependency on alcohol after Iraq, but when he did now, it was with the knowledge it was a pleasure not a crutch.
He looked up as the door to the living area opened and Chris walked through.
‘Get over here, son,’ said the General. He stood behind a bar built into a corner of the living area, filling a glass with more bourbon which he passed to Chris, who gratefully accepted it.
‘Thanks, General.’
The General moved from behind the bar and walked across the large living area to a stone fireplace which dominated the far wall. He bent down, picked up a couple of small logs and tossed them into the grate, sending sparks flying up the chimney. Standing up, he grinned at Dan who was easing himself into one of the armchairs next to the fireplace. ‘Arizona winters are fine during the day but they can turn damn cold at night.’
Dan smiled. ‘I’d still take them over an English winter any time,’ he said. He stared into the flames, mesmerised and calmed by the flickering light. He started slightly at movement out of the corner of his eye, then relaxed as the General’s dog, a golden retriever by the name of Ripley, brushed against him and padded her way to a space on the hearth rug.
The General’s voice broke his reverie. ‘So – what do you make of those new IEDs?’
Dan shook his head and frowned. ‘Too high tech to be thrown together by a backstreet bomb-maker,’ he said. ‘Looking at the one we dismantled, the parts are too well machined.’
Chris wandered over and flopped down onto an adjoining sofa. ‘You’re saying they’re mass produced?’
‘Not on the scale you’re imagining, no,’ said Dan, ‘but certainly made in large quantities I would think.’
The General stood with his back to the fire, swirling his drink around
in the glass. ‘Is that what determines which ones are directional, and which are more destructive?’
‘I’m not sure yet,’ said Dan, who took a sip of his drink before continuing. ‘We did notice the one we dismantled had a blue band around it. The one we armed and tried to neutralise this afternoon didn’t. Whether that’s the signature of two different bomb-makers, or a deliberate attempt to identify the clout of each – I think we’d have to take a look at that.’
He broke off as the living-room door opened and a willowy blonde walked in. She approached the General, and gave him a light kiss on the cheek before turning to the others.
‘Hi, Dad – hey you two,’ she grinned. ‘We heard you from here this afternoon – Mom swore blind the kitchen window nearly fell out of its frame this time.’
‘It wasn’t that bad, Anna,’ Dan smiled.
Chris laughed. ‘So says the guy who had his head between his hands kissing dirt a nanosecond before it went off.’
‘Really?’ Anna’s eyes opened wide with concern. ‘You’re okay?’
Dan nodded sagely. ‘It’s been a while since I’ve nearly been caught out, but yes, I’m okay.’
‘Will you have nightmares?’ Anna blurted out, and then blushed as she realised her error. ‘I mean, sorry, but…’
Dan held up his hand. ‘It’s okay, don’t worry. I hope not, but we’ll see. Hopefully if I relax tonight, I’ll be fine.’
Anna smiled awkwardly, her green eyes sad.
‘Help yourself to a drink love,’ said the General as he pushed her in the direction of the bar.
Dan watched Anna as she moved smoothly across the room. She was of average height, slim and moved easily, almost gliding across the space, and totally oblivious to the effect she was having on her father’s visitors. Dan shook his head as he saw Chris grinning at him, and then glanced up as he saw the General wave his finger at him.
Under Fire: (A Dan Taylor thriller) Page 2