Chris Ryan Extreme: Hard Target: Mission Two: The Rock
Page 8
‘A boat engine!’
In a flurry they darted into the industrial yard.
‘There’s no boats coming in or out. I don’t understand,’ Golan said.
‘The noise – it’s coming from further down the way,’ said Gardner. Then he remembered something he’d spotted earlier when spying on the Wren. He raced down Rosia Road, legs pumping so hard he could feel the burning in his calves, as if someone was holding matchsticks to them. His breathing was short, fitful.
After fifty metres he rested by the side of the artillery placement. It stood on the edge of a cliff face, the surrounding banks dotted with unfinished apartment blocks. He kneeled beside the reinforced armour plating fixed to the metre-long cannon. Below lay an isolated inlet.
‘Earlier I remembered spotting a cove,’ Gardner said. ‘There was a small opening at the bottom. A tunnel.’ His eyes searched the inky sea. ‘It stuck in my mind because I’d read somewhere that smugglers used it back in the day, to hide contraband.’
Surf white as soap suds bobbed on the surface leading out from the tunnel, like a jet stream that had fallen from the sky. Gardner’s eyes ran along the surf trail. And there! Barely a hundred metres beyond the cove, a cruiser yacht rose and dipped as it skimmed across the waves at a high speed. Had to be doing eighteen, twenty knots an hour, he figured.
‘No,’ Golan said, a trace of disgust in his tone. ‘I do not believe it. All this time the signal was true.’
‘John was under us. Under the fucking Rock.’
That’s John all right, Gardner thought: hanging over the rails and puffing on a fucking victory cigar. Bald faced away from Gibraltar, looking out across the vista of Algeciras on the Spanish coastline.
‘He is not alone,’ said Golan.
‘Figured as much,’ said Gardner. Bald couldn’t pilot a boat for all the money in the world. Someone else had to be manning the controls. As if on cue, a second face presented itself. This one was rounder and redder than Bald’s, and his fleece and tracksuit bottoms hung loose from his portly frame. But he moved with the speed and balance of a man who’d spent many years honing his sea legs. He exited the wheelhouse and scaled the ladder down to the deck, gathering up the ropes.
‘Pete Maston,’ Gardner said.
‘You know this man?’
‘He taught me everything I know.’ Gardner suddenly recalled how he’d respected Maston as the Major of his squadron in the Regiment. How Maston had taught him how to pilot a ship one day and survive sub-zero temperatures the next. Maston had moulded him into an expert in the art of warfare. A graduate in death and destruction.
Gardner watched the boat shrink down the Strait.
‘What about the sniper?’ Golan asked.
‘Once he realizes that the target has escaped, he’ll be worrying about getting the fuck off Gibraltar. Matter of fact, he’s probably already quit the Upper Rock.’
‘That is good.’
A cold spot formed at the back of Gardner’s neck.
‘Son of a bitch,’ he hissed, and felt Golan press the barrel of his pistol harder against his flesh. Should’ve disarmed him back at the pier, when I had the fucking chance.
‘For a man who claims his job is to protect the mark, you seem to know a lot of John Bald’s enemies,’ said Golan.
‘What can I say?’ The sun was lightening the sky to gunmetal grey. Waves crashed against the coast, spraying salt water into his face. ‘It’s a small world.’
‘How about I make it one man smaller?’
‘You sure that’s a wise move – killing an MI6 operator?’
‘But you said you weren’t with the government.’
‘And you believed me?’ Gardner replied, trying to mask his fear by giving it some lip.
He waited for a reply that never came. The circle on his neck warmed. Then above him he heard a pulsating din, fast and furious and devastating. A carriage of cold air hit him like a fist, almost knocking him over the edge of the cliff. He clung on to the cannon to stabilize himself. Felt as if the world’s biggest fan was blasting in his direction.
Gardner managed to swivel around on the battery mount. Sixty metres out from the coast a UH-60 Black Hawk helicopter hovered over a patch of water. Its four main blades whirled frantically, whipping up the waves into an electric swell. One of the crew lowered a rope ladder, bridging the forty-metre drop between the chopper and the sea.
Out of the waves, a long, sturdy hand grabbed a hold of the final rung. Golan steadily climbed the rope ladder. He paused near the top. The Black Hawk banked south. Wrapping his left hand fully around the width of the ladder, Golan turned and grinned at Gardner, waving his right hand like a President at his inauguration.
Gardner watched as the chopper powered into the breaking dawn.
Who the fuck is that guy? he wondered. To be able to call upon an emergency evac with a Black Hawk told Gardner that Golan had to be a top-level operator. More than that, it also meant protecting Bald was high on someone else’s agenda.
He stumbled back up Rosia Road. His mobile squawked. The comms systems were back up and running. Then he heard the nasal voice on the other end of the line.
‘Where are you? Where the devil is Bald?’
‘He escaped.’
Land breathed his relief, heavily. ‘Meet me at Europa Point. I’m at Harding’s Observation Post, next to the rather charming lighthouse. Do hurry along. It’s important.’
17
0645 hours.
Europa Point lay at the southernmost tip of Gibraltar. Morocco’s Atlas mountains were a faint wash in the distance. Gardner passed the Ibrahim al-Ibrahim mosque to his left, cricket field to his right, the crease a strip of grass surrounded by sand.
At the very edge of the cliffs stood the lighthouse. Below it, three chimneys protruded like blocks of salt. And east of the lighthouse stood Harding’s Observation Post.
Land stared down at a shiny metal plaque fixed to the ground that indicated the direction of North Africa across the Strait. He didn’t turn to greet Gardner as he strode up the concrete path fixed between the cricket ground and the mosque.
‘So,’ Land said to the sea. ‘You made it.’
‘No thanks to you,’ Gardner replied, hanging back a few feet from the agent.
‘Oh? How so?’
‘That intelligence you had about Bald escaping on the Defiant down at the marina? Bullshit. He’d hidden a boat in the smugglers’ tunnel. If it wasn’t for the Israeli and his transponder, I’d never have found him.’
Land tapped a cigarette from his pack. He rolled it in his hands mournfully.
‘We gave you the best information we had available to us at the time, old boy.’
‘Well, your so-called best stank the place out.’
Land spun round and walked towards Gardner. For the first time, Gardner saw aggression in his face. ‘Look, I’ve already apologized to you. What more do you want from me? Christ, even when we did eventually work out Bald’s escape plan, we had no way of reaching you. All of our radio and mobile systems were down.’
‘Golan mentioned that. Speaking of which, any more news on this guy?’
Land shrugged as he put the cigarette between his lips. The breeze rolling up from the cliffs conspired to extinguish his lighter.
‘We’re getting nowhere. All of our enquiries have hit a dead end. Our best guess is he’s a criminal freelancer.’
‘Could be Mossad.’
‘Not a chance,’ Land said, striking a match and cupping the flame around his cigarette. ‘I spoke to their chief earlier. He assures me that Golan is not one of their people. I’m inclined to believe him. We have a good relationship with the Israelis, you know.’
‘Golan – he got away too. A Black Hawk lifted him out. That’s no criminal.’
‘Well, you might be right,’ he shrugged.
‘They haven’t caught Killen yet?’
‘Matter of time.’
Land stubbed out his half-smoked cigarette on the p
laque.
‘There’s another thing—’ Gardner began.
‘You saw a familiar face on the boat.’
Gardner angled his head at Land.
‘How did you know?’
‘One of our SIGINT listening posts intercepted an exchange two days ago between Bald and Major Pete Maston. Or ex-Major, I should say. Old mentor of yours, I believe?’
‘And you didn’t think to let me know?’
‘The identity of the driver of the boat doesn’t affect your mission directly.’ Land inspected his shoes. ‘And anyway, Maston suffered a bad fall from grace. The head shed had to let him go. Afghanistan did, shall we say, odd things to his mind. He drowned his dog in the bath. Then he tried to do the same to his pregnant girlfriend.’
Gardner said nothing. All Special Forces soldiers were trained in first aid, and every patrol had its specialist medic. Gardner knew of more than one guy who could take out a dozen armed men but struggled to come to terms with his own mind. Some topped themselves. Others destroyed their own lives, or the lives of their loved ones.
‘After he got the old heave-ho, Maston went looking for answers in the bottom of a whisky bottle. He was declared bankrupt late last year and a few months ago the bailiffs seized his house. Been sleeping on friends’ floors since, apparently.’
‘So you’re saying Maston’s doing this for the money?’
‘I’m saying, Joe, the man’s broke. I imagine Bald offered him a cut in exchange for his help.’
Out of the corner of his eye, Gardner noticed a figure sitting on a bench sixty metres to his right, by the cricket clubhouse. The man was tearing chunks off a white loaf. He threw the chunks to the seagulls. Paused, glanced across his shoulder and carried on feeding the birds. He had hair the colour of volcano ash and a hangdog expression. His face, dappled with liver spots, was more creased than an old shirt. Gardner guessed he could be anything from sixty to ninety.
Gardner looked back at Land.
‘So it’s all over? I can go home now?’
Land smiled.
No more Bald, no more fucking Firm. You’ll be back in the line of duty, Gardner thought. Away from the politics and the lies and the mind games.
‘Certainly. But first I would like you to meet someone.’
Land gestured to the old man feeding the birds. He nodded at Land. His large hands gently placed the remainder of the loaf by his side on the bench. The seagulls flocked to the bread as he walked over to the two men, his crisp suit rustling in the breeze, his blank eyes staring right through Gardner.
‘This is Massimo,’ Land said. ‘And he’s here to make you an offer you can’t refuse.’
Faster, Grittier, Darker, Deadlier…Chris Ryan Extreme
Mission 1: REDEEMER
When an old friend makes a desperate call for help, former SAS Warrant Officer Joe Gardner is thrust back into the line of fire. His journey leads him into the deadliest favela in Brazil, where violent gangs, crazed hitmen and trigger-happy paramilitaries lurk. Gardner’s only hope of staying alive is through his supreme survival skills and warrior’s instinct.
Mission 2: THE ROCK
A chance encounter with an agent from MI6 leads Joe Gardner into a perilous mission in Gibraltar. His objective: bust a major cocaine-smuggling ring involving former a Regiment operator and the Royal Navy. But Gardner isn’t alone. A mysterious killer with expert martial arts skills is shadowing his every move. And it’s about to get noisy.
Mission 3: DIE TRYING
Dispatched to a postwar Belgrade crawling with criminals and bad memories, Joe Gardner is on a collision course with his one-time Regiment friend John Bald. Gardner plans to put a stop to Bald once and for all. But with the Russian mafya and Italian mob closing in, is Gardner too late? If he fails, tens of thousands will die.
Mission 4: FALLOUT
In the aftermath of a devastating nuclear attack, Joe Gardner discovers a terrifying secret. In order to protect the truth, he must escort special agent Aimee Milana to safety, all the while hunted by government agents and a former Navy SEAL operator equipped with a lethal weapon. The race is on to reach Parliament Square before the clock runs out – and the world descends into all-out war.
All available in exclusive ebook edition.
For more information go to www.hodder.co.uk
Table of Contents
Also by Chris Ryan
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17