by Will Jordan
You won’t take me so easily this time.
There was a rasp as the deadbolt was thrown back, then suddenly something slammed into the door with such force that it flew inward, old hinges creaking under the abuse.
She jumped, startled by the violent movement. And when her eyes took in the three figures standing there before her, she let out an involuntary gasp of shock.
Chapter 17
Twenty minutes earlier
DRAKE WAS FLOATING in a void, a world without shape or dimension. There were no landmarks, no points of reference, nothing.
The parachute harness bit into his shoulders and crotch. Freezing wind whipped past his faceplate, the cold slowly seeping into his limbs despite the layers of thermal insulation between his body and the outside world.
He checked his altimeter: 6,500 feet.
The temperature was 22 degrees below freezing. It had been creeping up as they descended through the cloud layer, but it was still bitterly cold. Wind chill only compounded the problem.
His gaze swept to the GPS unit on his left wrist, though he was forced to wipe away a thin layer of ice to make out the image. They were just over 5 miles from their target, and slightly below their intended glide path. This was going to be close.
After they had exited the aircraft, there had been a few seconds of sickening, tumbling weightlessness before his parachute deployed, ripping him back with such violence that he felt as if he was about to be torn in half. There had been a few more moments of frantic effort as he fought to gain control and stabilise himself, then at last he was able to communicate with the rest of his team over the radio.
Forming up into a loose line known as a ‘chalk’, they had then begun their descent towards Khatyrgan, using satellite navigation and a fixed series of waypoints to measure their progress.
Covering ground was vital. They could do nothing to stop their descent; but they had to reach the prison before they ran out of altitude.
The first few minutes had seen them lose precious height as they struggled to orient themselves and fight with high-altitude crosswinds. By the time they were lined up and heading in the right direction, they were well below their intended flight line.
Only a sudden and unexpected northerly wind had aided their progress, increasing their speed and allowing them to claw back some precious ground. Now they were beginning their final approach, and there was still a chance they wouldn’t even make the roof.
He checked his altimeter and GSP readings again: 5,400 feet, 4 miles to target.
His radio earpiece crackled into life. ‘I think I see it.’
It was Keegan.
Squinting into the darkness ahead and below, Drake watched as the ragged strips of cloud gave way, revealing a dizzying panorama stretching out before him.
The terrain around Khatyrgan was formed in a series of undulating ridges and valleys running from north to south, as if some massive hand had been drawn across the landscape. Most of these ridges were no more than 100 feet high, their tops scoured down to the bare rock by devastating winter winds. Only in the most sheltered valleys did anything grow; gnarled pine and spruce, strong and resilient enough to eke out an existence in such a harsh environment.
It was an empty, wind-blown, desolate landscape, and one utterly devoid of people. Not a single light was visible from horizon to horizon, except for the uncompromising square of the prison complex lit up like a beacon in the darkness. It was impossible to miss.
‘I see it too,’ Drake confirmed, then checked his GPS: 3 miles. ‘We’re close. Stay tight.’
The imposing walls of the prison drifted closer, and so did the ground. They were travelling at close to 20 knots, but their speed was gradually slowing as they reached lower altitude. He could only pray that it was enough to get them over the wall.
He checked his readings again: 2 miles, 2,100 feet and descending fast.
Khatyrgan had looked an imposing, brutal structure even in the satellite photos, but seeing it with his own eyes, he was daunted. Grim concrete walls rose up from the frozen ground, devoid of windows or features of any kind. Squat watchtowers stood guard at each corner of the building, looking more like fortresses than guard posts, their tops enclosed by observation windows.
Beyond the grim walls he could see the exercise yard; a muddy, snow-streaked patch of earth illuminated by floodlights from several angles. No hope for anyone unlucky enough to land there.
‘One mile to target,’ he said, checking his readings again. ‘Nine hundred feet.’
Christ, this was going to be close.
‘Tango spotted,’ Keegan reported, his voice flat calm. ‘One tango. North-east tower.’
Drake’s heart leapt. At least one of the watchtowers was manned. Peering towards it, he was able to make out the shape of a man within the enclosed observation post. He was still too far away to make out anything more detailed, but there was definitely someone up there.
‘I see him. Do you have a shot?’ he asked.
Keegan hesitated only a moment. ‘Roger. I have the shot.’
Drake twisted around, trying to get a look at the veteran sniper, but Keegan was behind and above him, and his own parachute blocked his view.
In any case, he didn’t need to see. He could almost imagine Keegan removing his rifle from its secure harness across his chest, checking the magazine and feed mechanism, bringing it up to bear, getting a good sight picture, correcting for wind and vertical momentum, and …
‘Fire, fire, fire.’
Drake neither saw the flash nor heard the dull thud of the silenced shot. His eyes were focused on the watchtower.
A second or so later, the glass window in front of the guard shattered, and the wall behind him was painted with a sudden spray of blood. Killed instantly by the 7.62 millimetre projectile, he slumped down out of sight, never knowing what had hit him.
And that was it. As easy as pressing a button.
‘Tango down,’ Keegan reported, his voice as emotionless as a machine. However laid-back and relaxed he acted in daily life, when it came to his job there was no room for joking around. ‘The other towers look clear.’
Drake had been so focused on the drama unfolding in the watchtower that he’d almost forgotten about their descent. The altimeter informed him they were at 200 feet, the dark walls of the prison looming up beneath him.
‘This is it,’ he said over the radio. ‘Brace, brace, brace.’
There was nothing more he could do. Everyone was on their own now.
He watched as the north wall of the prison sailed beneath, leaving him with an unobstructed view of the brightly lit exercise yard. Rows of grim, barred windows looked out onto the yard, but he paid no heed.
The south block was coming up fast, but he was so low. Normally he would have pulled back to flare the parachute and slow his velocity, but in this case there was no choice but to keep going. If he slowed down now, he would slam into the unyielding wall with bone-breaking force.
He winced as the wall rushed at him, his feet just clearing the edge of the roof. It was beneath him now, rushing by at close to 20 miles per hour, hard and cold and uncompromising, littered with air vents and snow and accumulated ice.
He yanked back on his control lines. The canopy flared and the rooftop rushed up to meet him.
He landed hard, rolling instinctively to lessen the impact, only to slam into the metal frame of a heating outlet. The structure shuddered, and he stifled a groan as pain blossomed across his back and left shoulder.
It didn’t matter. He could still move his limbs. Nothing was broken.
Robbed of its aerodynamic lift, his canopy collapsed in on itself, flopping down a few yards away. It was still a liability if an errant gust of wind caught it. The last thing he wanted was to survive the jump only to be pulled off the edge of the roof to his doom by his own chute.
Grabbing the limp lines and ignoring the pain of his bruised back and shoulder, he pulled the fallen parachute towards him, then
unbuckled the harness and dropped it beside the vent. He couldn’t see the others, but he wasn’t really looking yet. His focus had to be on sorting himself out.
Freed from the parachute, he reached for the MP5 sub-machine gun strapped to his left leg and unzipped the harness holding it in place.
Compact, reliable and superbly designed, Drake had used them countless times over the years and never had cause for complaint.
He had it out within moments, and quickly pressed a magazine into the empty port, racking back the priming handle to chamber the first round.
He was still on internal oxygen. Disengaging the internal air supply, he pulled his clammy, restrictive face mask off and dropped it next to the other discarded gear. Straight away, freezing air and pellets of dry snow attacked his face, numbing his exposed skin.
He was wearing a balaclava beneath the oxygen mask, folded up so that it covered just his head. He wasted no time pulling it down to protect his face.
Kneeling down next to the vent, he did nothing for the next few seconds – just listened and waited, allowing his mind and body to tune into his new environment.
It was quiet. He could hear no alarms, no shouts or warnings, nothing. The only sounds were the pounding of his own heartbeat and the keening wail of the wind. Life in Khatyrgan went on as normal, whatever that was.
Hearing the crunch of footsteps on the roof, he glanced around as two dark figures ducked towards him, weapons out and ready. Like him, their faces were covered, but he recognised Mason and Frost straight away by their size and shape.
‘That was interesting,’ Mason remarked with a gleam in his eye as he knelt down beside Drake.
‘We’re in. That’s good enough for me,’ Drake said, then glanced at Frost. ‘How are you feeling?’
Her response was simple but heartfelt. ‘I’m never doing that again as long as I live.’
‘Deal.’ He smiled a little, then hit his radio transmitter. ‘Keegan. Dietrich. Sit rep.’
Their radios were burst transmitter units cycling on a random frequency. To tune in, you needed the frequency key, which only Drake and his team knew. Without it, anyone listening in would hear nothing but the occasional static cough – certainly nothing that came close to human voices.
Dietrich replied straight away. ‘We’re in the south-west tower. Stop fucking around and get over here.’
Drake bit his tongue. Now wasn’t the time for petty bickering. Gathering up his discarded gear, he glanced at Mason and Frost. ‘We move. Three-metre spread. Go!’
He went first, with Frost behind and Mason bringing up the rear. Keeping low, he darted across the rooftop to the nearby watchtower, using whatever scant cover he could find.
The tower’s observation deck was about 10 feet above roof level, accessed via a steel ladder fixed into the brickwork. The steel was corroded in many places, and some of the rungs looked dangerously weak, but nonetheless he made it to the top without incident.
Dietrich was waiting for him on the open parapet at the top. It was impossible to tell since they were both wearing balaclavas, but he could have sworn the man was grinning maliciously.
‘Nice of you to join us,’ he said, offering Drake a hand.
He declined it.
‘Where’s Keegan?’ he asked instead.
Dietrich tilted his head towards the observation room behind him.
‘Help the others,’ Drake instructed, following the parapet around until he found the single door leading inside. The padlock that had once kept it secure was lying on the floor beside it, snapped by a pair of bolt cutters.
The room within was a simple observation post, basic and unadorned, with a few plastic office chairs dotted around, a small desk in one corner with a telephone on it, and a stairwell in the centre that led to the lower levels. The stairwell was secured by a heavy steel door, no doubt locked from the other side. He had the feeling this place wasn’t used much, which was hardly surprising. It was freezing cold and draughty, even with the door shut.
Keegan already had his sniper rifle set up and was sweeping from one tower to the other. He glanced around just for a moment as Drake entered before turning his attention back to the weapon.
‘We’re clear. No movement in any of the other towers.’
Drake nodded, dumping his parachute, harness and face mask in a heap off to one side. The other two men had already done likewise.
Mason and Frost ducked in through the door a moment later. Like him, they added their discarded gear to the growing pile. It had brought them here and sustained them during the hazardous descent, but now it was dead weight.
A thermite incendiary grenade tossed into the pile when the team pulled out would vaporise everything within several metres, eliminating any evidence of their presence.
Drake took a deep breath, trying to steady his wildly beating heart. As hard as it was to believe, they had landed and made entry without mishap.
Phase Two of their plan was complete. Now it was time for Phase Three – taking out the security system.
And time was of the essence. Mason’s earlier warning about the storm front heading their way continued to play on his mind. The last thing he wanted was to rescue Maras only to find their transport was unable to retrieve them.
‘Alpha Team, you’re up,’ Drake said, nodding towards the stairwell. ‘Code names only from now on. Move!’
‘On it,’ Frost replied, withdrawing a small oxyacetylene cutting torch from her pack. They had no time to pick the lock, and using explosives to blow the door was out of the question.
The cutting torch was only a small portable unit, with enough fuel for about sixty seconds of flame. But with luck, that was all they would need.
Drake looked away, shielding his eyes from the blinding light as the torch went to work, rapidly heating the steel around the locking mechanism to combustible temperature. A secondary button on the cutting tool blasted the semi-molten metal with a high-pressure stream of pure oxygen, feeding it in a similar manner to a wood fire.
In under thirty seconds the lock mechanism was melted away, destroyed by the intense heat. They were in.
‘Alpha, moving in!’ Mason hauled back the door while Frost, gripping her MP5, pushed forward.
‘Clear!’ she hissed.
Within moments, the two members of Alpha Team had vanished, the sound of their footsteps fading as they descended.
Chapter 18
‘THAT’S IT,’ FROST said, indicating the steel door on their right as they rounded a curve in the staircase. Gripping the handle, she turned it just enough to check the mechanism, then glanced at her companion. ‘It isn’t locked.’
Mason raised his weapon and gave a single curt nod, indicating he was ready to move.
With a single deft movement, she turned the handle and pulled the door open. It swung inwards, just as the blueprints had said.
Mason was moving as soon as the door opened, and Frost was right behind him, trying to control her wildly beating heart. Her male comrade showed no emotion whatsoever.
They were in a wide corridor, supported by a series of concrete archways and lit by harsh fluorescent lights overhead. Typical of such prisons, the walls were painted half and half – lime green below, and white on top. At least, it had once been white. Years of cigarette smoke, damp and mould had turned them a horrible mottled yellow colour.
‘Three doors down, on the left,’ she whispered, replaying the route over and over in her mind. She had pored over the designs all day, and on the flight out here, committing every detail to memory.
She glanced up, spotting the telltale red glow of a security camera mounted between two support arches about halfway along the corridor.
‘Camera, one o’clock,’ she said quietly.
‘Got it.’ Mason brought his weapon to bear and squeezed off a single silenced round without breaking stride. There was a thump, a crunch of disintegrating plastic, and the light went out. Frost barely heard the gentle ping as the spent shell casing
bounced off the wall beside her.
They were almost at the door. They were committed now; they had to move fast. The guard manning the security room would soon notice that the hallway camera was out of action.
Two steps ahead, Mason gripped the door handle while Frost shouldered her sub-machine gun and withdrew what looked like a bulky plastic pistol from her webbing. It was an M26; a military version of the taser used by police forces worldwide.
Flicking off the trigger guard that served as a safety catch, Frost took a deep breath and gave the man a nod of acknowledgement.
This was it.
There was a click, and the door swung aside to reveal a low, dimly lit room beyond, filled with the soft glow of video monitors and the hum of machinery. Frost wasn’t paying attention to that. Her eyes were focused on the guard sitting in front of the video screens, engrossed in a magazine.
Alerted by the sound of the door opening, he glanced up and swung around in his chair, no doubt expecting to see one of his comrades.
Without hesitation, Frost levelled the taser at his chest and pulled the trigger.
There was a loud hiss as the two electrodes leapt from their housing on a jet of compressed air, their thin conducting wires trailing back into the device itself.
The guard’s brows drew together in a frown as the tiny metal prongs pierced his uniform and buried themselves in his skin. He opened his mouth to speak, but his sentence was abruptly cut off as the taser discharged thousands of volts into his body. Robbed of control, he jerked as if he was having a fit, flopping off the chair and landing hard on the floor.
The torment carried on for a few more seconds, during which he could manage nothing more than a gurgling, agonised moan. He was paralysed, physically and mentally; out of the fight before it even began.
‘Secure him,’ Frost instructed, replacing the taser in her webbing. As Mason went to work cuffing the incapacitated guard with plastic cable ties, the woman’s sharp eyes scanned the room, her mind quickly analysing and processing what she saw.
It was a basic security set-up – six monitors, each cycling through the feeds coming from various closed-circuit security cameras dotted around the facility. A control board on the desk in front of her allowed the user to access specific cameras if necessary. She guessed each monitor had access to four or five cameras.