by Will Jordan
The older man looked at him for several moments, then finally nodded, rallying whatever reserves of strength remained and steeling himself for what was to come. Bracing himself against the wall with his good leg, he pushed off hard and released his grip on the hitch, gritting his teeth against the pain.
Last of all, Drake turned to Maras, standing with him at the edge of the parapet. ‘Can you do this?’
She offered a strange lopsided grimace that might have been a smile. ‘It has been a while for me.’
With that, she clambered up over the edge. Then she stopped and looked at him for a moment. She said nothing. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought perhaps he saw a hint of gratitude in her eyes.
Then she pushed off from the wall, released her brake, and was gone.
It was done. Drake turned back towards the prison. It was a scene of absolute chaos. Prisoners were running riot, smoke rose from the windows of both major cell blocks, and the rattle of weapons fire resounded in the open exercise yard. If there were any guards still operating as a cohesive group, they were going to have a nightmare bringing this situation under control. He imagined that none of the prisoners were under any illusions about their fate here – they would fight to the last man.
Keegan had had the presence of mind to leave a thermite grenade beside their pile of discarded equipment. Seizing it up, Drake returned to the parapet and clipped himself onto the descent rope, then pulled himself up over the edge. His bruised back and shoulder blazed with pain, but adrenalin was doing a good job of suppressing it.
Now ready, he pulled the pin from the cylindrical grenade and hurled it into the observation room, then pushed himself away from the edge and released his brake.
He had made it about halfway down the wall when a bright orange flash erupted above, lighting up the terrain around the prison like a signal flare. The grenade had done its work well.
One last push brought him down to ground level, and he touched down with a bump that sent a jolt up his legs. Still, he was on solid ground, and never had it felt so good.
Keegan was waiting for him. ‘Let’s go, buddy.’
Unclipping himself from the rope, Drake followed him as he sprinted away from the prison, heading for the chopper about 100 metres away. He could just make out the child-like shape of Frost as she helped a heavily limping Dietrich aboard.
The pilot was already increasing engine power by the time Drake and Keegan fought their way up the rear cargo ramp, snow and ice swirling around them.
Staggering aboard, Drake switched radio channels to speak to the pilot. ‘That’s it, Zulu. We’re all in. You’re clear to lift off.’
The pilot was in no mood to hang around. Engines roaring and rotors hammering the air, the massive chopper lurched skyward, buffeted and blasted by vicious crosswinds as the storm bore down on them.
Staring out the rear of the aircraft, Drake was just able to glimpse the outline of the embattled prison receding into the darkness before the cargo ramp slammed shut.
Chapter 24
AS SOON AS they were clear of the prison, the Chinook turned and headed north-east at full speed, following one of the low valleys that criss-crossed the region. To avoid any radar installations in the vicinity, their altitude barely exceeded 50 feet, though it meant they took a hammering from the storm bearing down on them. The deck swayed and lurched beneath them like a ship in a typhoon, and more than a few shouts and curses were heard from the cockpit.
Still, they were alive, airborne and heading for home.
Drake removed his sweaty, clammy balaclava, closed his eyes and exhaled, allowing his heartbeat to slow to something approaching normal.
It was all behind them now. All the planning, the preparation, the fear, the worry, the danger and the problems. Somehow, against all the odds, they had succeeded.
He should have felt elation and exhilaration, but no such emotion stirred in him at that moment. The only thing he felt was crushing fatigue. For two days and one night he had been keyed up and consumed with his work. Now that the pressure was off, exhaustion was catching up with him at last.
The woman they had risked everything for was sitting opposite, staring right ahead but seeing nothing. She was a pathetic sight; thin, bedraggled, bloodied and filthy, she looked as if she’d just been liberated from a concentration camp.
‘Keegan, keep an eye on Maras, would you?’
She didn’t seem like much of a threat, but he was taking no chances after the earlier incident with the guard.
The old sniper nodded. ‘On it, buddy.’
Undoing his seat belt, Drake stood up and, negotiating the lurching deck with some difficulty, staggered over to join Dietrich.
The man was seated on one of the metal benches running the length of the cargo compartment, tending to his leg injury. He had cut away the fabric around the wound, and was busy applying a compress to slow the bleeding. Drake saw a syringe of morphine lying on the deck beside him.
He didn’t think it was a good idea for the man to be tending his own wounds after self-medicating himself with morphine, but it seemed there wasn’t much choice. Keegan was needed to cover Maras, while Frost was busy tending to Mason.
‘How are you doing, Jonas?’ he asked, his expression grave as he surveyed the wound. The bleeding didn’t look too bad, and judging by the fact that the man still had use of the limb, he suspected the muscle damage was minimal.
Dietrich looked up at him. ‘I’ve got a hole in my leg that wasn’t there this morning,’ he remarked acidly. ‘So not very good.’
‘You’re still alive,’ Drake pointed out.
‘So are you.’ He sounded almost disappointed.
Whatever gratitude he might have felt towards Drake for helping to get him to safety had long since evaporated. It was business as usual as far as Dietrich was concerned.
‘Fine. Let us know if you need anything,’ Drake said, grateful to leave him behind as he made his way further forward to join Frost.
The woman had removed her heavy, cumbersome jumpsuit, webbing, descent harness and armoured vest, leaving her in a sweat-stained T-shirt and combat trousers. She had a bandage pressed against the cut on her forehead.
‘Are you all right?’ Drake asked.
She flashed a defiant grin. ‘Not exactly a career-ending injury, but I won’t be doing any modelling work for a while.’
‘And Mason?’ he asked, gesturing to the injured man lying unconscious on a medical stretcher set up on the deck, IV lines snaking into his arm.
Her smile faded. ‘I’ve sedated him and stabilised him as best I can. He should pull through, but he’s going to need surgery on that shoulder for sure. I can’t tell how bad it is without an X-ray.’
Drake nodded. Of all the shitty, unlucky things to happen, getting hit by a stray round while preparing to evacuate had to be one of the worst. It was one of those freak occurrences that was just impossible to plan for.
Still, at least they had been able to get him out.
‘Do me a favour and take a look at Maras,’ he said, glancing at the woman they had gone through all this to rescue. ‘She doesn’t look good.’
She hadn’t moved a muscle since he’d left her. Keegan was watching her, keeping a weapon to hand in case she tried anything.
Drake wondered if perhaps it had all been too much for her and she’d gone into shock, but there wasn’t much they could do about her mental state. Their orders were to bring her back alive.
‘Why me?’ Frost asked, clearly unhappy.
‘Because you’re a woman.’
Frost glanced down at her breasts in mock surprise. ‘Oh, so that’s what these are.’
Drake gave her a disapproving look. ‘She’ll feel less intimidated by you. Now piss off and get it done. I’ll keep an eye on Mason.’
The young woman flashed a defiant smile, but turned to head aft.
‘Oh, and Keira?’
She paused and glanced over her shoulder.
‘Good job
, yeah?’
She nodded, looking sober and serious for once, then carried on without saying anything.
A satellite phone had been set up just aft of the cockpit where their two pilots were still wrestling against the appalling weather. Drake was in no mood for a full debriefing, but he knew Cain and Franklin would be clamouring for an initial report. Better to get it over with.
His back and shoulder were throbbing. He didn’t know how badly he’d hurt himself during the rough rooftop landing, and wasn’t keen to investigate. Coffee and painkillers would have to do for now.
Summoning up his flagging energy, he picked up the chunky phone unit and dialled the number he’d memorised.
It rang only once before it was answered.
‘Franklin.’
‘We’ve got her,’ Drake reported, deciding not to beat about the bush.
‘Thank Christ. What’s your situation?’
‘There was trouble during the extraction. Mason took a round to the shoulder. He’s stable, but he’ll need medical attention when we land. Dietrich’s also been hit, but he’s still in the fight.’
‘I’ll have medics on standby at Elmendorf.’ He paused for a moment. ‘And … Maras?’
Drake chewed his lip. ‘Physically she seems intact. As far as her mental state’s concerned, your guess is as good as mine.’
He was no psychologist, but it didn’t take one to realise she had problems. She’d been physically abused, locked in solitary confinement for God knew how long, deprived of any stimulation. Who knew how she would adapt to this sudden change?
That gave the older man pause for thought. ‘I hear you. Just get her back. We’ll take care of the rest later.’
Drake got the message. Her long-term psychological needs were none of his concern.
Just then, he heard the sound of smashing glass, and Frost’s panicked cry. ‘What the fu—!’
Dumping the phone, he turned in time to see Maras gripping the woman in front of her as a human shield, one arm around her neck. In her other hand, she held a broken glass bottle against her throat.
Keegan and Dietrich, reacting to the sudden disturbance, drew their side arms and levelled them at Maras.
‘Let her go!’ Keegan yelled. ‘Let her go right now.’
Drake’s stomach twisted.
Not now. Not after all this.
Shutting down the satellite phone, Drake staggered aft, struggling to keep his balance on the lurching deck.
‘Nobody fire,’ he ordered. Aside from killing both women, the shots would likely penetrate the aircraft’s fuselage.
Maras had backed up to the rear of the fuselage, still keeping Frost in front of her. Her vivid blue eyes moved constantly between the three men surrounding her.
‘Tell them to lower their weapons,’ Maras said, her gaze resting on Drake. ‘Do it.’
‘Ryan, what are we doing?’ Keegan asked.
‘Shoot her,’ Frost hissed. ‘Shoot the fucking bitch!’
‘Shut up,’ Maras warned, pressing the broken shard into her throat hard enough to draw blood. ‘Drop the guns now or she dies.’
‘You’re wasting your time,’ Keegan said, managing to keep calm despite the situation. ‘Look around. You got nowhere to go.’
She remained unmoved by his reasoning.
‘She’s fucked,’ Dietrich decided. ‘She’s lost it.’
Drake wasn’t hearing them. His eyes were locked with the woman’s, trying to understand what was going on behind them. He had seen the wild lust for blood as she stabbed that guard to death, but it wasn’t there now.
Her look was fearful, anxious, uncertain. She was in an environment she didn’t understand, being taken somewhere she didn’t know, and she was afraid. She was like a cornered animal.
She had reacted to that fear the only way she knew how – by lashing out and trying to take control.
‘Lower your weapons,’ he said at last.
‘What?’ Frost gasped, eyes wide in disbelief.
Dietrich’s gaze flicked to him just for a moment. ‘Ryan, have you lost your mind?’
‘Do it,’ Drake snapped. ‘We didn’t go through all this to lose someone on the flight home. Lower your guns, and then we’ll talk.’
‘Ryan, please …’ Frost said, staring right at him.
‘It’s all right, Keira,’ Drake promised her, wishing he felt as sure as he sounded. ‘Nobody’s going to do anything stupid. Lower your weapons.’
Hesitating, the two men glanced at each other. Then, as if by unspoken consent, they lowered the side arms.
‘All right. It’s done,’ Drake said, keeping his voice low and calm. Shouting would only provoke her fear. ‘We’re not here to hurt you. We came to help you.’
She said nothing, but a little of the tension had left her muscles. She was in control of the situation, or at least she thought she was.
‘Where are you taking me?’ she demanded.
‘We’re going to Elmendorf Air Force Base in Alaska.’
‘And what then?’
‘I don’t know,’ he admitted. ‘We were sent to bring you home, that’s all. The rest is out of our hands.’
She seemed to believe him. ‘Who sent you?’
‘The Agency. We’re a Shepherd team, part of Special Activities Division.’
That made an impact. He saw the shock in her eyes, the recognition, and something else that he couldn’t quite identify. Was it sadness? Nostalgia? Longing?
She swallowed, the muscles in her throat moving up and down. ‘What year is it?’
Drake hesitated a moment, taken aback by her question. Jesus, how long had she been in there? ‘It’s 2007.’
The woman let out a faint gasp, almost a sob, and the look in her eyes changed to one of utter, crushing grief. And just like that, she released her grip on Frost.
The younger woman wasted no time twisting out of reach, visibly shaking with a mixture of anger and fear at her sudden brush with death.
‘The goddamn bitch is out of her mind!’ she snarled, rubbing the cut at her throat. ‘Someone taser her, or I’ll do it myself!’
‘No.’ Drake moved forward, putting himself between Maras and Frost. He lowered his voice to speak to the younger woman. ‘I know you want payback. But look at her.’
Maras, who only moments before had seemed so dangerous and formidable, appeared to have crumpled before their eyes. She had sunk onto the bench, shoulders slumped, eyes staring straight ahead but seeing nothing. Her expression was one of utter desolation.
‘Give her a break, yeah?’
Frost glared at the older woman for several seconds, then seemed to see her as Drake did. Her expression softened a little, until finally she sighed and shook her head in resignation.
‘Just keep her the hell away from me.’ With that, she turned and strode forward, making for a seat as far away from Maras as possible.
Releasing his breath, Drake rubbed his eyes and glanced at Maras again. The woman wasn’t seeing him. She was in her own world. In her filthy bloodstained clothes, matted hair falling around her face, she was a pathetic, broken figure.
He had to do something. Leaving Keegan to watch her, he made his way to the front of the aircraft where food and drink had been stowed. Unscrewing a bottle of mineral water, he emptied it onto a hand towel until it was sodden, then poured some hot chocolate from a Thermos into a plastic cup.
Thus armed, he returned to Maras and held the towel out to her. ‘Here,’ he said gently. ‘Clean yourself up.’
Her face and hair were still covered with congealed blood, grime, dirt and all kinds of other shit, but she seemed oblivious to it.
She stared at the towel blankly for several seconds, as if struggling to understand his meaning. Then at last she reached out and took it. Her first effort at cleaning her face was tentative, almost experimental. She kept her eye on Drake the whole time, as if he might suddenly spring at her if she lowered her guard, but gradually she relaxed.
By the
time she was done, the towel was soaked red with blood. Her face was still stained crimson in places, but it was a marked improvement.
She looked down at the towel, as if unsure what to do with it, then finally dropped it on the deck by her feet.
Drake lowered himself onto the bench beside her and held out the cup of steaming liquid. ‘Here, are you thirsty? It’s some hot chocolate. It’s good.’
She eyed him with suspicion for several seconds before accepting the cup.
Drake cocked an eyebrow. ‘You’re not going to try to kill me with it, are you?’ he asked with a wry smile.
Her expression didn’t change.
‘Sorry. Bad humour.’
She sniffed the contents, then finally took a drink. The taste must have pleased her, because straight away she took a much deeper gulp, ignoring the fact that the liquid was close to boiling.
‘We’ve got food too, if you’re hungry,’ he said, gesturing forward.
She kept drinking the chocolate, saying nothing.
‘We’ll get you proper medical attention and clean clothes when we land at Elmendorf. In the mean time we—’
‘Why are you doing this?’ she cut in. She spoke excellent English, but it was obviously not her first language. There was a faint trace of an accent. Russian or Eastern European, he couldn’t tell.
Drake frowned. ‘Doing what?’
She laid the empty cup on the deck at her feet. ‘Treating me with respect. I almost killed one of your team. You should have tasered and handcuffed me by now.’
He looked at her for a long moment. ‘Would you prefer that?’
‘No,’ she decided.
Fair enough. ‘Look, I understand this must be very difficult for you—’
Her eyes lit up. ‘You understand?’
He sighed and looked away for a moment. ‘All right, that was a stupid thing to say. I don’t understand. But I can guess life hasn’t been kind to you recently. I can guess you’re used to protecting yourself, and I’d like to think that’s why you acted the way you did back there.’
She said nothing and her eyes gave away even less, but he took her silence as tacit acknowledgement of his suggestion.