Viper Nine
Page 30
Cupping her hands behind her head, a part of Driver wanted to laugh. Another part wanted to cry. Was she going to end up back in Siberia, after all this?
As the Russian troops gathered around with their rifles, it appeared likely. Yet as they ordered the team to their knees, more soldiers arrived on the scene.
From their accents and uniforms, a mix of American, Chinese, French and British. They stood and debated with the Russians – who Driver and the team were, and what they should do with them. It was agreed they’d place calls back to their assorted military commanders and let them decide.
In the meantime, Driver and the others would have to kneel at gunpoint on the hard concrete, waiting for processing.
‘Maybe they’ll divide the spoils,’ Wells suggested. ‘Lock us up back home.’
‘In that case, who’s gonna take me?’ Pope asked.
Lim shrugged. ‘Whoever pulls the shortest straw.’
Held in place at the front of the compound, Driver had a good view of the approaching dirt road. It ran miles into the distance, most of it masked by a liquid haze. Yet out broke a line of white SUVs driven at speed.
There was an armoured truck too – the closer it got, the more it resembled the kind used for transporting prisoners.
The assembled special forces commanders appeared as confused as Driver. Had Gilmore cut a deal in Washington? They had to know who she was at the very least.
Sweeping into the compound, the convoy pulled up sharp. The armoured transporter reversed as if ready to receive a fresh batch of prisoners. No prizes for guessing who.
In the meantime, a gang of six in khaki and linen climbed out of the white Ford SUVs. To a man they sported thick beards, short, functional haircuts and wrap shades.
‘Who are these assholes?’ Rios wondered out loud.
‘CIA,’ Driver replied. ‘The more they try and blend in, the more they stand out.’
The leader of the group had a black beard with a stripe of grey. It reminded her of a skunk, the man leading his posse on a march and meeting with the unit commanders.
The man flashed them a badge and announced himself as CIA Section Chief Ritter.
He handed them a paper document, chewing hard on a lump of gum. The decree was sure to be a warrant for their arrest and extradition. After all, Driver knew her old employers. They never missed an opportunity. And she, for one, was a former asset they would not want out there in the world.
‘You think they’re here to free us?’ Wells asked, the closest Wildcard had to an optimist.
‘What do you reckon?’ Pope replied as the military commanders yielded to the agency men.
Ritter approached with his lieutenants in tow. Wearing a firearm on his hip and a cream shirt buttoned low over a hairy chest, the CIA chief made a beeline for Driver. He swaggered to a stop, planted his feet wide apart and tore his shades from his pinhole eyes.
‘Where’s the Serb?’ he asked, squinting in the sunlight through bunched wrinkles and a Deep South twang.
Driver didn’t answer. They’d find Kovac soon enough and the less they said about their involvement, the better.
Ritter grew impatient. ‘All right Samantha, we know who you are. Who are the rest of these fine folks?’
Driver maintained her silence. Ritter ran a hand over his beard and looked around the compound. ‘So it’s like that, huh?’
Driver answered with a blank stare.
‘Fine,’ the CIA chief continued. ‘We’ll see how quiet you are when we get you home.’
He turned to the US military commander, now joined by the rest of his team. By the lack of markings on their uniforms, Driver figured they had to be Task Force Green, better known as Delta Force.
Ritter whirled a finger in the air. ‘Okay boys, round ’em up.’ He stood and chewed as Driver and the others were restrained by a combination of Delta Force and his own agents.
Made to lie face-down on the floor, the team were cuffed at the wrists and ankles. Each was dragged to their feet and led single-file towards the rear of the waiting transporter, Driver the first in line.
In all the excitement, she’d forgotten about the young herder and his goat. He stood nearby next to his animal, squinting in confusion.
‘What about the boy and the animal?’ one of Ritter’s agents asked. ‘They going too?’
‘Of course they’re not fucking going,’ the despairing chief replied. ‘Give them some water and see what they know.’
‘You want us to question the goat?’ another agent asked, as Driver stepped up into the transporter.
Ritter threw his hands in the air. ‘It was a figure of speech.’ He walked away muttering. ‘I ask for agents, they send me clowns.’
Shuffling along the inside of the truck, Driver took her place on the bench between Rios and Lim. Pope plonked himself down across and alongside Wells, a pair of Delta Force soldiers seating themselves by the door.
Being members of a secret unit, their identities were concealed behind balaclavas and sunglasses. With combat helmets removed, they sweated at the hairline and had the air of men who thought the task beneath them.
Clearly, Ritter can’t have been that stupid. He must have known his own agents weren’t up to the task of guarding Driver and her team.
Armed Delta Force were a different story. Especially when she and the others had their wrists and ankles cuffed to the floor of the prisoner transit.
As the steel door swung shut, the engine fired and the truck pulled away from the compound.
Pope blew the air from his red cheeks, his heavy stubble dusted with sand. ‘Well life’s just a big pile of shit sangers, isn’t it?’
No one else appeared in the mood to talk as the Australian wriggled to get comfortable.
‘At least they’ve got air con,’ Driver replied, enjoying the gentle current cool her skin.
‘No talking,’ grumbled the soldier on the end of her bench.
His orders mattered little to Rios. She leaned forward across the aisle. ‘Uh, where’s Baptiste?’ she said quietly.
‘I said, no talking,’ the soldier repeated.
‘It’s called whispering, fuck-face,’ Rios snapped.
‘Ah, what do I care,’ the soldier sighed in defeat, resting his head against the wall of the truck. ‘Shouldn’t be doing this anyway.’
Driver leaned forward into the conversation. ‘What do you mean, where’s Baptiste? He’s in a coma.’
‘Not since he woke up,’ Lim muttered absently, examining her cuffs.
‘Shoulda known,’ Pope moaned. ‘Frog bastard did a runner.’
‘I’m Russian, remember?’ the remaining soldier said, lunging up out of his seat.
He slammed the butt of his M4 into the face of his fellow Delta Force soldier. The man went limp as his attacker whipped off his sunglasses and pulled down the balaclava.
Driver gasped. Rios laughed. It was Baptiste.
‘Aw mate, am I glad to see you,’ a guilty Pope grinned. ‘I never doubted you for a second.’
The Russian shook his head and took out a key. He undid Lim’s cuffs and left her to work her way through the rest.
Freed from her restraints, Driver rubbed the deep cuts and bruises on her wrists. She took a good look at Baptiste and Lim. Both appeared as if they’d been dragged through hell.
In fact, they all did.
Baptiste slammed a fist on the wall of the cab. A letter-box shaped viewing hatch slid open. The Russian pointed the rifle through the hole and asked politely for the driver to stop the truck.
As the transporter pulled to a halt on the way to the highway, Wells threw the rear door open and hauled the unconscious soldier out by the armpits.
The driver joined him by the side of the road, stripped of all communication and facing a long walk back to the compound. With their wrists cuffed and balaclava’s worn as blindfolds, Driver shoved them both in the direction of the old jail.
They’d reach their destination in one piece, but a slow
return to the base would buy the team the time they needed.
‘The truck’s got GPS,’ Baptiste said, lingering by the cab. ‘I’ll do the driving.’
‘Don’t be a galah, mate, you’ve been in a coma,’ a repentant Pope said, returning from relieving himself in the sand. ‘You should be recovering.’
He slapped Baptiste hard on the back. The Russian winced with undeclared pain as Pope hopped up behind the wheel.
Driver joined the rest of the team in the rear of the truck. She swung the door shut, the soldiers staggering blind towards their destination.
She flopped down on the solid metal bench as if it was the world’s most comfortable chair. Baptiste tossed her a phone across the aisle of the truck. ‘You want to make the call, boss?’
Driver hit the call button and held the phone to her ear with her last ounce of strength.
Anna answered on the second ring.
‘Hey, it’s Driver.’
‘Did everyone make it?’ Anna said, sounding relieved.
‘All present and correct,’ she sighed. ‘Can you track the phone’s location?’
‘Already got you,’ Anna said. ‘There’s an airfield twenty minutes from you.’
‘Prep a jet for exfil,’ Driver said. ‘We’re coming home.’
She ended the call and tossed the phone back to Baptiste. He handed it to Wells, who slid it through the viewing hatch to Pope.
The former MI6 agent dropped back in place across from her. They exchanged a look. Subtle, but enough. He seemed as exhausted as she was. But Driver doubted anyone could be aching as much as her.
She looked around the back of the truck and saw four other exhausted operatives speckled with blood and sand.
Baptiste was already lolling himself to sleep. Rios slouched low and buried in her own arms. Lim doubled over, a hand nursing the back of her neck. And Wells stretching big with a yawn.
Driver rested her head against the wall of the truck. She turned to the left and gazed out of the narrow window running along the rear of the armoured transport.
With eyelids closing, she looked out across the desert, beyond the dying mushroom cloud, to the unbroken blue skies.
The Sam Driver Thrillers
Crisis Point
Viper Nine
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First published in the United Kingdom in 2019 by Canelo
Canelo Digital Publishing Limited
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Copyright © Rob Aspinall, 2019
The moral right of Rob Aspinall to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781788632652
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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