by Will Jordan
‘Be advised, Alpha. This is a civilian area,’ Overlord cautioned him. ‘Mission will be compromised.’
‘Understood. This is my call.’
There would be repercussions from this, of course. A single woman found dead in a remote house could be covered up, but a drone strike against a civilian target was a whole different level. Lies about terrorist activity would have to be spun. The Agency’s reputation would take a hit, but he knew it would be worth it. Cain would see to that.
‘Roger that, Alpha. It’s your call. Overlord is weapons free.’
Hawkins felt a fleeting sense of disappointment as he imagined the building disintegrating under the impacts of several Hellfire missiles. Such an impersonal way to kill someone.
‘Overlord to Alpha, be advised we have friendly units inside the kill area,’ the terse voice of the drone pilot informed him. ‘Aborting strike run.’
‘Say again, Overlord?’ Hawkins demanded.
‘We have friendlies in the vicinity of the house. Looks like ground teams are moving in to breech.’
It took no small measure of self control to stop himself yelling in anger. There was only one person he could think of who would have ordered the ground team to move in. Mitchell had taken matters into her own hands.
Unfortunately for her, she had no idea what she was getting into.
In an instant, he made his decision. ‘Swing us around, take us back toward the house,’ he called out to the pilot.
‘I can’t, sir.’ He glanced around at Hawkins, the fear in his eyes making it plain they were in serious trouble. ‘That shot took out our hydraulics. I can barely keep us level.’
Hawkins had heard enough of this shit. He hadn’t come halfway around the world to give up when he was mere yards away from his prize. Reaching into his jacket, he drew a Beretta automatic and jammed it against the pilot’s face.
‘You take us back around,’ he said through clenched teeth, pressing the barrel in a little tighter. ‘Now.’
Few men would argue about something like this with a gun to their head, and the pilot wasn’t one of them. Wrestling with the controls, he brought the stricken chopper around in a wide, clumsy arc, swinging the nose around towards the house.
‘I can’t hold it steady for a shot,’ the pilot warned.
‘You don’t need to,’ Hawkins replied, holstering his weapon and moving closer to the open doorway. ‘Just get us in low, close to the shore.’
*
Gathering herself up, Mitchell leapt over a fallen log as she pounded through the woodland towards the lakeside house. The MP5 submachine gun was a familiar, reassuring weight at her shoulder, and as she glanced left she saw Argento about twenty yards away, armed in the same fashion.
Two other operatives were also converging on the house from either flank, all armed and able to support one another in the event of a fire-fight.
She was under no illusions about the effectiveness of the Kevlar vest covering her torso, having seen similar armour easily defeated by the 7.62 mm rounds fired by Afghan insurgents. Of greater value to her was the GPS transponder fixed to the shoulder pads of the vest, which broadcast a coded signal identifying her as a friendly to the remotely piloted aircraft overhead, essentially allowing the operators to distinguish Mitchell and her comrades from whomever else might be in the area. Without it they would all appear as identical white blobs of heat on the drone’s thermal cameras, making it impossible to tell friend from foe.
Still, all this technology was nothing more than an aid; it could help them but it couldn’t protect them. Mitchell and her team still had to cross the open ground between the house and the treeline, and no drone or spy satellite could change that. Assaults like this always carried an element of risk, as she had learned from hard experience.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sudden crack of a gunshot from the direction of the house. Instinctively she threw herself to the ground just as something whizzed by on her left side, burying itself in the trunk of a nearby tree in a shower of splinters and fragments of bark.
‘Contact front. Sniper!’ she called out, backing up against a low boulder surmounted by tangled tree roots.
Another gunshot echoed through the woods, followed by a third.
‘Anyone got eyes-on?’ she asked, reluctant to expose herself. She’d felt the slight change in air pressure as the first round zipped by dangerously close, and guessed the shooter had her position zeroed in.
‘I saw movement. Ground-floor window, second from the end,’ Argento replied. ‘They might have relocated.’
It made sense. No sniper worth their salt would remain in the same place after giving their position away. The question was what to do now.
Their own weapons were ineffective at such range. They could spit out a high rate of fire, but they were designed for close-quarters fighting. Advancing on the house might well cost them heavy casualties, and there was no telling how difficult it might be to clear the place out room by room.
Still, they would achieve nothing by sitting here waiting. The sounds of the brief gunfight would have been heard at other properties nearby, and it wouldn’t be long before local police arrived on the scene to investigate. They had to act now.
Reaching up, she pressed the radio microphone at her throat. ‘This is Charlie. Bravo, on me. Delta and Echo get ready with suppressing fire. We’re moving in.’
The only logical approach was the cover-and-advance method. With two operatives watching the house at all times while the others moved, they could at least respond if they came under fire again.
She was just getting ready to move when her radio crackled in response.
‘Delta to all units. I got vehicle noises coming from the garage on the west side.’
Catching her breath, Mitchell strained to listen. Sure enough, she could hear the deep rumble of a big engine echoing from the house’s integrated garage, revving hard as if someone was stamping awkwardly on the accelerator. The metal doors were still closed, however, prompting a quizzical glance from Argento.
‘What the—?’
Suddenly the noise rose to a crescendo, and the garage doors buckled and threatened to give way as something slammed into them from inside. A moment later the thin metal split and tore free, revealing a big civilian 4x4 that rocketed out of the garage, heading for the road leading away from the house.
‘Target dead ahead!’ Mitchell hissed, raising her weapon.
The windows were tinted, making it hard to identify the driver, but no way was she allowing them to leave. Sighting the driver’s side front wheel, she squeezed off a short burst of automatic fire.
The MP5’s 9 mm rounds weren’t powerful enough to cause much recoil, but a sustained burst nonetheless made the lightweight weapon difficult for novices to control. Mitchell however was well used to such submachine guns, and her aim was true.
At least three of her shots found their mark, tearing through the rubber tyre walls with ease. There was a loud pop and hiss as the tyre gave way, and suddenly the vehicle slewed off to the left.
Lowering the gun, Mitchell watched as it careened off the road, bumped over a drainage ditch and finally slammed headlong into the unyielding trunk of a tree, the wheels still spinning and clawing at the dirt.
‘It’s down!’ she called out, loud enough that she no longer needed the radio. ‘All units move in!’
Without waiting for acknowledgement she closed in on the wrecked vehicle, her weapon up and ready once more. The engine was still running despite the clouds of steam billowing from beneath the hood, the wheels throwing up clods of dirt and mud as they continued to turn.
‘Overlord has you covered, Charlie.’ The drone orbiting overhead would have fixed its cameras on the crashed vehicle.
She wondered if the driver had been knocked unconscious by the collision, and was perhaps lying slumped over the wheel with their foot pressed on the accelerator. Whatever, they were certainly making no effort to reverse or manoeuvre arou
nd the obstacle barring their path.
‘Charlie, on your nine!’ she heard Argento call out as she approached the driver’s door, having to yell to be heard over the noise of the engine. Mitchell felt a moment of relief that someone was there to back her up.
‘Cover me,’ she hissed, glancing at him to confirm he understood.
He nodded while keeping the weapon at his shoulder. ‘On it.’
Gripping the MP5 in one hand and the handle in the other, she took a single breath, tensed herself up, and hauled the driver’s door open.
‘Shit.’
Now she knew why the 4x4 wasn’t going anywhere. The accelerator had been wedged down by what looked like the snapped handle of a broom, the steering wheel tied in place with a length of bungee cord to keep the car on a roughly straight heading.
The car was a decoy. And she had fallen for it.
‘Trunk’s clear too,’ Argento said, having popped the rear door to check the car’s storage area, just in case their targets had hidden themselves away in there.
Reaching inside, Mitchell switched off the ignition and slammed the door shut.
‘All units be advised, the car is a decoy,’ she said, speaking the instructions into her radio through gritted teeth. ‘I say again, the car is a decoy.’
But the sudden silence had afforded her a moment or two to tune into the sounds of her surroundings. In the peaceful wooded glade she could hear the whistle of birds in the treetops overhead, the distant thump of Hawkins’ damaged chopper, and closer at hand, faint but unmistakable, the high pitched rattle of a small engine.
Her keen eyes surveyed the wooded area around the house, and in particular the lake beyond, its mirror-like surface reflecting the blue sky overhead. And standing at the shore not more than twenty yards from the house, was a small boatshed partially screened by trees and bushes.
‘Son of a bitch,’ she said under her breath, then reached for her radio again. ‘All units, tangos may be trying to escape by boat. Delta and Echo converge on the lake. Move!’
Her transmission complete, she turned to Argento. ‘Move in on the house. Let’s go.’
Yates and the woman might be making good their escape across the lake, but she wanted to secure the house before they moved on. It was only a matter of time before the Norwegian police arrived on the scene, and she wanted to gather what evidence she could before they showed up.
He nodded, and together the two of them advanced across the wide turning circle in front of the building, their boots crunching on the gravel as they sprinted across the open space. Here they split up, with Mitchell heading for the now open garage and Argento taking the front door. When they breached, they would go in from two directions simultaneously.
Despite the twisted and crumpled doors lying strewn across the ground outside, the house’s integral garage was a neat, well-ordered work space, with rows of tools hanging from racks along the walls. There were no real hiding places in there, so Mitchell was content to bypass it as she closed in on the door leading into the house itself.
Backing up next to it, she checked her weapon and hit the radio transmitter at her throat. ‘Charlie in position.’
‘Bravo good to go,’ Argento replied a second later.
Taking a breath, Mitchell nodded to herself. ‘In three, two, one… go!’
One look at the solid door barring her way was enough to forestall any notions of kicking it in. Without a breaching shotgun, it would be both messy and time-consuming to make a forced entry. In any case, Yates or his companion must have come through this door to start the car up, which meant it was unlikely to be locked.
Reaching out, Mitchell gripped the handle and turned it. As expected, there was a click as the lock disengaged. Now free to enter, she shoved the door open and advanced inside.
The open-plan kitchen facing her looked like it had come straight out of a catalogue; all expensive granite worktops, polished floors and stainless-steel units. However, this particular kitchen bore the scars of a recent firefight. Several of the units had been punctured by high-velocity rounds fired from the chopper, and a wall-mounted television had been reduced to so much broken scrap by another hit.
Jesus, what the fuck had Hawkins been thinking?
She could see something in her peripheral vision, and turned right to survey the living room. There she caught sight of the first casualty, and moved closer to investigate.
One look was enough to tell her it was a fatality. He’d taken a direct hit to the head, the catastrophic damage rendering him almost unidentifiable. For a moment she wondered if it might be Yates, but his overweight frame bore no relation to the lightly built young man she was hunting for.
She could see no weapons on or near the body, suggesting he’d been caught in the crossfire somehow. He must have been a civilian, perhaps a resident of the house.
Catching movement in the corridor directly ahead, Mitchell raised her weapon and tightened her grip on the trigger, but relaxed a little as Argento crept into view. His expression was focussed and alert, but also tight with anticipation. This was his first house assault, and he was nervous.
It had been the same for her the first time.
‘Hallway clear,’ he hissed. She saw his eyes linger on the dead body.
‘Check the other rooms,’ she instructed, knowing she needed to keep him focussed. ‘I’ll take upstairs.’
As Argento moved deeper into the house, Mitchell hurried forward, heading for the stairs leading to the upper level.
She hadn’t covered more than a few paces before a blur of movement erupted in the corridor. Turning right, she caught sight of a figure emerging from one of the bedrooms with something small and red clutched in one hand.
There was a sudden loud whoosh, and in a flash Argento was consumed in a cloud of white smoke. His startled cry was cut off abruptly by a loud metallic clang, followed by the soft thump of a body hitting the floor. Belatedly Mitchell realized her companion had just had the contents of a fire extinguisher sprayed in his face, before being beaten unconscious by the unit itself.
She had no idea how seriously he was hurt, and in an instant she knew there was no time to think about it. With her senses now painfully sharp and the brief smoke screen beginning to clear, Mitchell sighted their attacker and raised her submachine gun to open fire, her lips drawing back in a snarl as her finger tightened on the trigger.
At the same moment, her enemy turned and hurled the small extinguisher straight at her. Reacting instinctively, Mitchell twisted aside to avoid the improvised missile as it whirled through the air, though doing so forced her to turn the weapon away as well, disrupting her aim.
Exploiting the opening, the lone attacker rushed straight at her, covering the five or six yards separating them with terrifying speed. Knowing she would have no time to bring the weapon into the fight again, Mitchell let go of the submachine gun and allowed it to clatter to the floor, raising her fists to defend herself against the sudden onslaught.
She barely had time to block a hard strike aimed at her vulnerable windpipe, and her attempt to retaliate with a knee to the stomach was easily deflected. Anger and adrenaline surging through her veins, she lashed out with a stinging right cross, but her opponent twisted aside with such graceful ease that it was as if they had known what she was going to do before she’d even thought of it.
A heartbeat later she felt her outstretched arm seized in an iron grip, and suddenly her adversary had used their momentum to twist it behind her back. She could feel muscles and sinew straining beyond their limits. Instantly she knew what they were trying to do, and in desperation she lashed out with her elbow, feeling it make contact, with a satisfying thump that jarred her arm but nonetheless caused the grip to slacken.
Tearing herself out of the hold, she turned away, spotted a knife block on the kitchen counter and drew the first blade she could get her hands on. Thus armed, she whirled to face her enemy once more, swinging the knife around in a wild swipe.
&nb
sp; But her attacker was ready again, and before the blade could find a target, her wrist was once again seized in a brutally strong grip. Mitchell had at last come face to face with her enemy, the tip of the knife poised mere inches from their throat.
For a heartbeat, the two enemies remained locked in that silent battle for dominance, their muscles straining, their strength perfectly balanced. Their eyes met during that brief moment, and Mitchell found herself staring into two infinite pools of ice, their depths unknowable, the will behind them indomitable.
The moment passed and her enemy’s weight suddenly shifted, twisted down and away, pulling her with it so that she was pitched forward, landing hard on her back, the knife stolen from her grasp. Through bleary eyes she looked up to see her opponent looming over her, the knife now raised to finish her off, her face betraying no hint of emotion.
‘Anya!’ another voice called out. ‘Stop!’
From the corner of her eye, Mitchell saw a young man standing a few yards away. A young man she recognized straight away as Yates. He was holding one of the MP5s that had been dropped during the confrontation, and to Mitchell’s disbelief seemed to be pointing it at Anya.
Her attacker hesitated, apparently weighing up how seriously to take his implied threat.
‘Don’t kill her,’ Yates went on. ‘Please.’
Glancing back down at her, Anya let out a breath. Mitchell saw her booted foot rise up, then come rushing down towards her. There was an explosion of light followed by gathering darkness as her consciousness departed.
Chapter 27
Once more the house lurched into view as the damaged chopper swung and pitched its way across the lake in sluggish rolls that barely stopped short of completely stalling it.
‘Lower!’ Hawkins called out, gripping his harness tight. Strapped across his back was an MP5 submachine gun that he’d taken up in favour of the heavy and cumbersome sniper rifle he’d tried to use earlier. He wouldn’t be able to unfasten the weapon until he was on the ground, but he intended to put it to good use when he did.