Night Strike

by Chris Ryan

  Hauser pulled the trigger.

  The nail punch was so fast Bald didn’t even feel it go in. His cheek was intact one second and the next a long thick nail had surgically pierced his flesh and now he could feel the tip of the nail scraping against his molars, could feel the sting of its cold metal stem. Hauser pulled away the nail gun. It hurt like fuck, but at least there were no vital arteries in the cheek. The wound wouldn’t kill him.

  ‘How’s that for you, John? That feel good? You want me to give you a matching one for your other cheek?’ Hauser was leaning across the table. He pressed the tool’s head down on Bald’s left cheek. ‘Or you want to tell me where we can find your partner?’

  ‘I don’t fucking know.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Hauser.

  He halfway depressed the trigger.

  ‘Wait . . .’ Bald said.

  Hauser rested his finger.

  ‘. . . I need to tell you something.’

  Hauser leaned in closer.

  Bald jerked his head forward and bit Hauser’s right ear. He chewed through gritty cartilage and bit the lobe clean off, spitting the flap of skin at the wall. Hauser pulled back to the door, clasping a hand over his mangled ear and hissing under his breath. He’d managed to scoop up the nail gun.

  ‘All right, asswipe. You want me to get all Afghanistan on your ass? You got it.’

  Hauser looked like he wanted to punch Bald full of holes, regardless of whether he got his int.

  Bald said, ‘How does it feel? Turning your back on your own tribe?’

  Hauser looked quizzically at Bald. He still had a hand pressed to his ear. Blood rivered down the gaps between his fingers and forged red trails down his hand all the way to his white sleeve.

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘I’m talking about you and Xia. I’m talking about you going behind the backs of your bosses at the Agency to do some dodgy deal with the Chinese.’ Bald paused. Hauser was lowering the nail gun. Bald continued, ‘You’re selling your own kind down the river.’

  Hauser pulled his hand away from his ear and pointed an accusing finger at Bald. ‘I read about what you did in Serbia.’

  ‘This is different,’ said Bald. ‘You’re out here on a fucking limb, doing dodgy deals behind the CIA’s back. Betraying your country.’

  Hauser shook his head and said, ‘You got the wrong end of the stick, hombre. Everything was cut by people way above my pay grade.’

  ‘You expect me to believe the CIA is in bed with the Ching-chongs?’

  Hauser glared at Bald and said, ‘This goes above the Agency.’

  Bald went to reply but Hauser broke him off and plunged the nail gun against his forehead. ‘You know what, I’m done with this shit already. Last chance to tell me where to find your partner.’

  Bald didn’t answer.

  ‘Fuck it, then,’ Hauser said.

  He was interrupted by the stern clank-clank of knuckles rapping on dense metal. Both men looked to the door. Hauser grudgingly set the nail gun down on the table and limped over to the door, cursing under his breath.

  He cracked the door ajar.

  fifty-one

  1902 hours.

  The doorway framed the bleached-out corridor. Nobody was waiting the other side. Now Hauser pulled the door open fully. He stood uncertainly in the doorway, trying to work out who had just knocked. Then he took a single curious step outside. He stopped. Looked to his right. Nothing.

  Looked to his left.

  Phttt.

  A sound from nowhere, a flinch of movement in the corridor, a flash of black. Hauser swatted at his throat, like he’d been stung by a wasp. As he peeled his hand away, blood spurted out and Bald saw a black bolt sticking out of his throat just above his collar. The Yank seemed about to collapse in the doorway. Then a shadowy form collided with him and barged him back into the room. Hauser tripped, did a giddy pirouette and tumbled against the empty chair. His legs gave way gracelessly and he half-dropped to the floor, his head slapping against the wall and painting it in lustrous red blood. Bald directed his gaze at the figure in the doorway, his frame rinsed in fluorescent light.

  Joe Gardner bent down over Hauser. He gripped the screwdriver spearing Hauser’s neck and pulled. He was pulling emphatically with his left arm, the fingers of his prosthetic hand fastened tight around the handle. The veins and muscle in Hauser’s trachea squirmed and squelched. Finally Gardner managed to extract the screwdriver and now the blood really got pumping: it looked like gallons of it gushing out of the hole in Hauser’s neck. Gardner tossed the screwdriver onto the table. Mucus-like bits of muscle were hanging from the tip.

  Bald looked at Gardner looking at Hauser. The Yank wasn’t going over to the other side at speed. He was crawling to that dark place on his hands and knees. A wet, flopping noise escaped his mouth. Someone had cut the power cords behind his eyes, rendering them dull and blinking and lifeless.

  Gardner spoke first.

  ‘Screwdriver in the throat, and the wanker is still breathing,’ he said. Gardner was wearing dark-blue construction overalls, combat boots and a utility belt equipped with several pouches. He caught sight of the nail head sticking out of Bald’s cheek.

  ‘Looks like I got here just before the party got into full swing.’

  ‘I had it under control,’ Bald said.

  Gardner looked him in the eye.

  ‘I just saved your shitty life, John. You owe me big time.’

  ‘You’re forgetting all the shit I’ve pulled you out of in the past. Consider us even.’

  Hauser was pawing uselessly at the blood fountaining from his neck. Making all kinds of weird, throaty noises. Gardner patted him down. He had a pistol in a shoulder holster under his jacket. Gardner removed it, pulled back the slider and checked the chamber. An FN Five-Seven.

  ‘How did you find me?’ Bald said. ‘And this place?’

  ‘I followed Xia.’

  Gardner stood upright. He had the universal cuff key in his hand, fresh from Hauser’s trouser pocket.

  ‘What the fuck’s going on, Joe?’

  ‘Land sent me here, you fuckwit.’

  Gardner looked disbelievingly at Bald. ‘Land didn’t tell you? He arranged for me to RV with you in Jinchun. Said that he couldn’t afford for this op to go down the shitter and two old Blades are better than one.’

  ‘Bullshit. You were gonna kill me in Libya, first chance you got.’

  Gardner shook his head vigorously. ‘That was Bill’s idea. It had nothing to do with me. Believe me, John, I would never kill another Blade. Never.’

  Bald looked into Gardner’s eyes. They were nominally green, but in this pit of darkness and harsh glowing lights they took on a greyish hue. His brain told him that Gardner was telling the truth. That Joe Gardner was a yes man, and when you cut down to the nub of it, lying didn’t come naturally to him.

  ‘Land didn’t say a word about you being on this op,’ Bald said. ‘Why would he keep that from me? And the opium den? You were inside when it burned down.’

  ‘I hid in the basement and waited for the smoke to clear. Then I escaped.’ Gardner studied the cuff key in the palm of his hand. ‘I saw what happened to Bill.’

  Bald gritted his teeth. ‘Fourie had it coming.’

  ‘I met Land at the hotel. We talked.’

  ‘Something’s missing. You’re not on the level with me.’

  ‘Think what you want. If I wasn’t here, you’d be fucked.’

  Then it hit Bald, like a slap across the face. ‘Xia. The Chinese bitch. She was asking about a friend.’

  Gardner lingered by the table.

  ‘I thought she meant Edgar Mallory.’ Gardner shrugged at this. Only he wouldn’t pull a disgusted face at the mention of that tosser, thought Bald. His hatred for Gardner was building minute by minute. He went on, ‘Someone did a bit of DIY surgery on Mallory’s skull.’

  They both turned as Hauser made a gurgling sound, like a blocked wastepipe. He spat out shit and s
aid something, but his voice was whispery and mangled and gasping, and Bald couldn’t understand a word.

  ‘Time to leave,’ said Gardner. ‘Xia will be back any minute.’

  ‘Uncuff me, Joe.’

  Gardner frowned at Bald. ‘I’m tired of getting you out of scrapes all the time. I could just kill Xia and extract on my own. I get to keep the two million for myself, and you disappear from my life.’

  Bald smiled on the inside at the thought of Land short-changing him to the tune of eight million. It only proved to him the legendary capacity Joe Gardner had for taking it up the shitter from the Firm.

  ‘Just tell me what you want,’ Bald said.

  Gardner dangled the cuff key from his middle finger, as if trying to hypnotize him. ‘You know what I really want?’

  ‘Name it.’

  ‘I want you to feel like I did back in London. The interview. Remember? How you humiliated me and said I wasn’t up to the job? Because I sure as fuck remember. I felt like shit. I want you to feel the same way.’

  Bald lowered his head.

  ‘I want you to admit you’re a useless cunt, John.’

  Bald felt his head sink lower.

  ‘Say it, John.’

  Bald said, ‘I’m a useless cunt.’

  ‘And you’ve got a small dick.’

  Bald said, ‘I’ve got a small dick.’

  ‘And Joe Gardner’s a better man.’

  Bald said, ‘Joe Gardner is a better man than me.’ He craned his neck at Gardner and evil-eyed him, then said, ‘We’re even now.’

  ‘Not quite,’ said Gardner. ‘You’re also going to renegotiate the split.’

  ‘There is no fucking split.’

  Gardner pulled back the key and said, ‘Ninety-ten. In my favour.’

  ‘You think you’re such a clever bastard. But you need me,’ said Bald. ‘This whole area is swarming with jumped-up gooks in uniform. You slot Xia and they’ll be serving you up a whole lot more than rice crackers. It’s a two-man effort to get out of here.’ He saw the undecided look on Gardner’s face and continued, ‘We’ll fight back to back. Just like in the old days. You know there’s no one better than me in a tight corner.’

  ‘Ninety-ten. Take it or leave it.’

  ‘Fine.’

  Gardner unlocked the cuffs. Bald felt the blood pumping into his numbed hands. He tugged the nail out of his cheek and blood leaked from the hole. Gardner held back a metre from him, grasping the Five-Seven by his side. Bald quelled the urge inside him to beat him into next Tuesday. That training voice in his head was telling him: focus on the mission. Kill Xia.

  Bald manoeuvred around the table and crouched by Hauser. The American was quietly alive. His breathing was now just one long, slow wheeze. There was more blood out of him than in. Should be dead. The warrior in Bald had to respect the fight Hauser’s body was putting up.

  He said, ‘Tell me where I can find Xia.’

  ‘Son of a bitch.’

  Bald seized Hauser’s jaw.

  ‘I know it hurts. But I really need you to focus. Give me an RV and we’ll put a round between your eyes. Get it over and done with. That’s my best offer.’

  Hauser tried to nod. His head wobbled, like he was shivering from the cold. He parted his lips a little. Gulped down air painfully. Blood bubbled and popped at the hole in his neck.

  ‘She left already,’ he barely whispered.

  ‘Where’s she going?’

  ‘Back to the surface.’ Each word sapped more of Hauser’s strength. ‘To meet the generals.’

  Hauser gasped. His eyes whited out.

  Gardner peered at the doorway and said, ‘We need to leave, John. Right the fuck now. Before Xia gets away. She’s the one with the ID.’

  ‘Hold on a second,’ said Bald, glaring at him. He looked back at Hauser. ‘Before, when you said the deal with Xia went above the Agency, how far up the food chain was this shit going? All the way to the top?’

  Hauser swallowed air and choked on it. ‘Pentagon. Defence officials. Congress. Everyone.’

  ‘And they were just going to let the Chinese nick your technology? For what?’

  ‘John.’ Gardner’s voice was growing urgent.

  ‘Debt,’ said Hauser. ‘We owed China two trillion. This . . .’

  His voice mutated into a gargle.

  ‘What do you mean, “this”?’ said Bald.

  ‘Giving them the dust – this wipes the debt.’

  Hauser pulled Bald closer and said into his ear, ‘Finish it.’

  Bald turned, faced Gardner and gestured to the Five-Seven dangling by his side. ‘Give the piece to me.’

  Gardner shifted on the balls of his feet. His arm locked in place. ‘I’ll do it myself.’

  Bald shrugged as if to say, ‘Fine by me.’ He stood up and headed for the door, making way for Gardner to pony up to the American as he hacked his guts out. Hauser coughed and his mouth polka-dotted the floor with blood. Gardner didn’t move.

  ‘Jesus, my teeth. So cold . . .’ Hauser groaned.

  ‘Get it over with,’ said Bald.

  Gardner stooped low and pressed the muzzle tip at a spot roughly between the guy’s eyes. He thumbed the safety control on the frame above the trigger guard. A red dot blinked. The Five-Seven was ready to fire.

  ‘Hurry up, Joe,’ said Bald.

  Hauser closed his eyes.

  ‘All that fucking debt.’ Hauser forced the last word up like a shard of glass. Spat it out, like so much blood. ‘Not just us. You too. All of us.’ His jaw was shaking. His face was drained of colour. ‘The Chinese will own everything. All of us. They’ve already won.’

  ‘We need to go,’ said Bald.

  ‘All of us,’ Hauser repeated.

  ‘Now,’ said Bald.

  Gardner pulled the trigger.

  The gun blazed blood red.

  Bald and Gardner looked at each other. A shrill alarm rang out.

  Bald was conscious of two silhouettes merging in the doorway.

  fifty-two

  2000 hours.

  The two guards had a final shared second on earth, and they spent it looking curiously at Hauser, or rather at his brains freshly splattered over the wall. They had enough time to realize that something was badly fucking wrong. They also had just enough time to level their eyes at Gardner as he twisted around and directed the Five-Seven at their skulls. But they had no time to react. They were out of time, and luck. Two decisive double-taps in quick succession, four ca-racks amplified by the confined metal walls, two fluent sprays of blood from the guards’ bellies. They dropped in tandem, and the pools of blood began forming separate rugs underneath their bodies.

  Bald sprang to his feet and nabbed the Norinco one of the guards had unholstered. Its weight told him it was loaded. He pulled back the slider. There it was, nestled snugly in the chamber like a gold nugget buried in the guts of the earth: 9mm of bottleneck brass, quietly waiting to wreak serious damage on somebody. Bald released the slider: it shunted decisively forward. He and Gardner looked at each other. They were rocking. A team again.

  ‘Where the fuck now?’ said Bald, watching the bellies deflate on the pair of guards.

  Gardner said, ‘Xia’s meeting is at ground level.’

  ‘At 2130 hours, Land said.’

  ‘No. We now know it’s happening any minute.’

  ‘Then we’re gonna miss out.’

  ‘We can take a short cut. Intercept Xia before she makes it to her meet.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘The same way I came in. The maintenance stairwell.’

  ‘Who the fuck told you about this?’

  ‘Land,’ Gardner answered simply.

  They hurried out of the interrogation room and back down the corridor, hanging a left in the direction of the freight lift. The route looked unfamiliar now it was bathed in violent red, the alarm cawing over their voices. Bald was in front. Setting the pace. Gardner at his back. Struggling to keep up. Both men had lost much of the fit
ness of their Regiment years. When he was younger Bald had been able to bust out a thirty-kilometre tab in his sleep and still have the energy to launch a frontal assault on an enemy position before breakfast. Now he was sweating out of his arsehole after a few measly minutes. After two hundred metres down the corridor Bald could make out the sequence of metal doors, a hundred metres away. He still couldn’t see the maintenance stairwell Gardner had described.

  Bald felt himself involuntarily slackening the pace. Partly that was down to his lack of fitness. But it was also because he hadn’t had a drink since the Bowmore he’d necked in Mallory’s office. That made it more than six hours since a drop of the jungle juice had passed his lips, and now he could feel the migraine scratching at the back of his brain again. Trying to break in and fuck his shit up.

  You’ve come this far, he told himself. Get through it. Keep going and you’ll be fucking rich.

  Another big push, his lungs burning and his quad and calf muscles swelling, all the accumulated aches and pains of twenty years in the field coming back to haunt him now. Pains in his left knee, his right ankle, his ribcage and his neck, and the new addition to the family in his left shoulder blade. They formed a wall that Bald had to smash through with every step he took.

  London. Mexico City. Clearwater. Tripoli. Jinchun. Bald had travelled tens of thousands of kilometres in search of Xia and the Intelligent Dust. Everything came down to this.

  From somewhere deep in the fibres of his muscles, Bald found an extra five per cent. Gardner did too. They had both broken into a flat-out run, and now Gardner was drawing up alongside Bald, as if the two ex-Blades were locked in a race to the finish line. Bald’s running gait became ragged, lurching, desperate. The air was filled with the pump action of harsh intakes and outflows of breath. They were willing their bodies to keep going.

  They rushed past the dorms. Gardner halted. He yanked the handle on an unmarked metal door and slipped inside. Bald followed. They were in a cramped stairwell, with a spiral staircase twisting vertiginously upwards as far as Bald could see. There were fewer lights in the stairwell than in the corridor, and the red was a shade or two darker. Gardner began shuttling up the staircase, Bald in his wake, saying, ‘You sure this is a short cut? Xia’s taking the lift.’