The Berlin Conspiracy (The Division Book 4)

by Angus McLean

  Archer grabbed for the driver’s leg, trying desperately to free it from the accelerator, knowing they had barely seconds to avoid catastrophe. It was no use, he had a handful of the guy’s pants leg but couldn’t budge it. If he yanked on the emergency brake at this speed they would roll, and be in a worse position than before.

  A fresh burst of gunfire raked the driver’s window, showering Archer with glass, hornets cracking close by his head as he desperately tried to swerve back onto the road and avoid the inevitable collision. The ditch and berm were screaming towards them like a looming mountainside.

  ‘Hold on!’ he bellowed, throwing himself back into the rear of the vehicle. He crashed into Eva as she was getting up and they hit the deck with her beneath him. A split second later there was a sickening lurch, a deafening crash and thump, the vehicle dropped and shuddered, metal screeched and glass shattered, and the side windows blew out as the SMG cut loose again.

  The MPV stopped moving with its nose jammed down into the ditch. The engine still roared, and he could feel the wheels churning into the earth or whatever was beneath them.

  ‘Move! Move!’ Archer pushed up and crabbed to the sliding side door, yanking at it with the urgency borne of impending death.

  The door was jammed, twisted out of alignment by the impact, and he reached for his suitcase instead. Bullets thudded into the right hand side panels as he slammed the suitcase against the windows opposite, smashing the door window with his third strike. He shoved the case through the opening to clear as much of the glass as possible before reaching back for Eva.

  She had blood running from a cut to her forehead but was moving.

  ‘Out!’

  He helped her out the window, shoving her head first and letting her drop to the ground. He turned towards the heavy in the back, shouting at him to move.

  His eyes were open but not focussing. One look told him the guy was out of the game. He’d taken at least one round through the chest and was splayed across his seat, leaking blood. His carotid pulse was visibly pumping in his neck. Hopefully they could get through this and get him medical attention, quick smart. Without urgent help he was a goner.

  Archer left him and scuttled towards the door window to follow Eva. As he did so he saw that the BMW had skidded to a halt near them and the rear passenger had alighted with his SMG in his hands. He was changing mags as he moved towards the stricken MPV. He was dressed in jeans and a casual jacket, and had a shaggy mop of hair hanging from beneath a black balaclava.

  The designated hitter, sent to finish off the occupants.

  Throwing a quick look behind them, Archer could see the white VW, now blowing steam from beneath a crumpled bonnet, was stopped further back. Two guys from it were blocking the road, weapons raised, both also wearing balaclavas and casual kit.

  Archer poked his head out the window, seeing Eva crouching in the ditch, now mud-spattered to go with her bloodied face. ‘Move round the back!’ he hissed. ‘Guy with a gun!’

  She moved quickly and he stayed low in the back of the vehicle, seeing the gunman approaching the right hand side. He searched desperately for a weapon on the floor, anything that might help him right now. He knew that if he didn’t do something, they were all fucked.

  His fingers played over tiny fragments of glass, a discarded napkin from a café, searching for something more substantial. As the footsteps approached he found it. A piece of glass about the size of his thumb, jagged on both sides and tapering to a point of sorts.

  The gunman paused to check the driver then moved to the shattered window behind him to check the rear. He poked his head in the opening, scanning with his eyes, the SMG staying outside the vehicle.

  And that was his mistake.

  Archer reached up from beneath the shattered window, grabbing a handful of the guy’s jacket collar with one hand. Archer’s other hand stabbed into the man’s face with the shard of glass. He made contact with his cheek through the fabric, opening it up and producing a scream, then shifted his aim, ramming it at the guy’s eye instead, holding onto his collar for dear life.

  The glass missed the eye but sliced across his temple instead, bringing another scream and a shout from the direction of the BMW.

  Archer knew it was only seconds before the gunman’s back-up arrived. He yanked on the guy’s head, raising himself to his knees now and twisting the head to expose his vulnerable points. The man clicked to what was happening and fought against it, dropping his chin to protect his throat.

  It didn’t matter – Archer was all over him now, slashing with the shard of glass and ignoring the pain in his own hand as the weapon dug into his flesh, slicing at any exposed surface he could see. The guy twisted backwards, letting his weapon drop on its sling and trying to scrabble for Archer’s face behind him.

  Wrenching back on the guy’s head, Archer drove the glass into his right eye and rammed it in. There was a blood-curdling scream and the guy grabbed at his face as he dropped forward. Archer was dragged half out the window by the dead weight, snatching for the submachine gun.

  Two guys from the BMW were jogging towards them, both with pistols in their hands but holding their fire for now, maybe wary of hitting their own man.

  Archer couldn’t reach the SMG and felt the guy’s body begin to slip from his grasp. One of the approaching men raised his pistol, seeing the opportunity open up.

  At the last second Archer spotted the butt of a pistol protruding from the guy’s waistband and grabbed at it, yanking it free as the man dropped fully to the road surface. He didn’t know if he was dead yet or not, but it didn’t matter right now.

  He dropped the safety with his thumb and triggered a shot towards the two enemy as he fell head first from the window. The shot went skywards but the two guys separated, their guns coming up on line.

  Hitting the deck in an awkward roll, Archer twisted round to his knees and got the pistol up in a two-handed grip. One of the other guys was already firing, his rounds pinging off the bodywork of the Mercedes, standing in a front-on Isosceles stance with his gun in both hands.

  Archer dropped him with a double tap to the centre mass and he went down like a sack of spuds, screaming and holding his guts.

  The other guy was more skilled and had dropped to a prone position, giving Archer the smallest target possible. They exchanged shots, each sending rounds skimming off the tarmac near the other man.

  ‘Behind you!’ a voice screamed in his ear, and Archer jumped with fright, seeing Eva right behind him as if she had appeared from nowhere.

  He sent another shot towards the other gunner and the slide locked open. He dropped the pistol and scrabbled for the submachine gun beneath the guy he’d stabbed in the eye.

  The other man was pushing up, seeing an opportunity to press home their advantage, and another two guys were coming forward from the VW, their pistols flashing.

  Archer was almost deaf now but was well aware of what was happening, all his other senses screaming at full noise. He wrenched the SMG free of the body and raised it, mechanically recognising it as a Heckler and Koch MP7. It fired the 4.6x30mm round from a 30-shot magazine, and was used by the German Army.

  The safety was already off and he stroked the trigger, putting a burst past the approaching BMW gunman. The guy spun on his heel and raced back towards the car, firing a wild shot behind him as he ran.

  Turning towards the other two, Archer stayed in a crouch and fired a short burst. One of the guys stayed and fired back but his mate started backing up, shouting at him.

  Archer gave them another burst, his vision blurring as sweat ran into his eyes. He was aware of Eva by his side, tucking in closer to the side of the Mercedes and covering her ears. He flicked a quick look to the left, seeing that the retreating gunman had come back for his fallen mate. He was trying to drag him by one hand back towards the BMW, shakily waving his pistol in Archer’s general direction with the other.

  The HK kicked in Archer’s hands as he sent another burst their w
ay, missing but close enough to scare the guy into dropping his mate and legging it towards the car.

  The other two had made it back to the VW by the time he swung back their way, and the crippled car was hauling round in a tight turn. Cars were banked up behind it, motorists gawping at the chaos before them. Some had phones out, either calling the emergency services or recording the incident for social media.

  Archer held his fire, knowing the chances of hitting an innocent bystander were catastrophically high. The two gunmen had no such fear and both hung out their car windows, unleashing a last volley of shots as the VW forced its way the wrong direction back down the autobahn.

  He swivelled back to the left, rising to his feet now, the BMW taking off with the tyres smoking, the nearest rear door swinging open, the gunman’s feet disappearing from view as he scrambled into the backseat.

  He had a clear line of sight past the BMW and used it to good effect, emptying the magazine on the HK in short bursts into the vehicle as it roared away. He could see bullets puncturing the bodywork, pieces of plastic and metal exploding off the vehicle, the rear number plate coming loose and cartwheeling along the road surface.

  The bolt locked open and blue smoke curled from the empty breech and barrel as Archer lowered the weapon, watching the BMW disappear into the distance.

  Sirens were sounding in the background as Archer approached the man he’d shot. He lay flat on his back, his torso a mass of blood. His face was still covered by a black balaclava. The rest of his clothes looked cheap and serviceable. His pistol was discarded to the side. Archer recognised it as another German Army weapon, a HK P8.

  Standing over the guy, Archer could see his eyes were still open. He reached down and peeled the balaclava back. The guy stared up at him, blinking to focus. His lips were thin bloodless lines in a waxy face. He was Caucasian, maybe early forties, with a short brown beard. He didn’t have long to go in this world.

  ‘Who are you working for?’ Archer demanded. He leaned down over the guy, knowing he had only a couple of minutes if he was lucky. ‘Who are you?’

  The guy coughed weakly, blood flecking his lips. He managed the tiniest of smirks but stayed silent.

  ‘Who sent you?’ Archer barked. He was tempted to push the point home, but there were too many watching eyes. Instead, he dropped to a knee and leaned over the guy properly, putting the HK aside and his hands to the man’s chest. To any onlookers it would look like he was attempting to give first aid. ‘Without me you’re going to die right here,’ he hissed. ‘I can help you.’

  The guy coughed again. His eyes were slipping, failing to focus, but despite his situation he hadn’t lost any attitude.

  ‘F…fuck…you,’ he wheezed.

  Archer pressed down on his chest, just enough to make him gasp. He was leaking blood outwardly and probably even more internally, and Archer could smell fecal matter. The guy gasped with the pressure and his eyes widened.

  ‘Don’t die on me, buddy,’ Archer said loudly, for the benefit of anyone listening, before dropping his voice again. ‘Tell me who sent you and I will save you.’

  The guy wheezed some more, a trickle of blood escaping his lips and dribbling down his cheek towards his sweaty neck.

  ‘Dead…any…way…’ he gasped. His voice was barely audible. ‘F…fu…’

  He never got to finish the sentence before his eyes glazed over and stopped moving.

  Archer lowered his head to check the breathing, but he was gone. He turned to see the first police car arriving from the direction of the airport, lights and sirens still blaring as it skidded to a halt on the other side of the autobahn.

  He stood up and put his hands in the air, not wanting to give any nervous cops an excuse to drop him. He saw Eva doing the same, thankfully not waving her ID around. He doubted it would make any difference right now, not with a dead man at his feet, a wrecked car and bullet casings everywhere.

  He felt an adrenal tremor go through him as kept his hands high. No threat here, officer. The exhilaration of the fight had to be tempered now by common sense. No point in doing something stupid and getting himself shot.

  No, he decided, as the two cops approached them cautiously, pistols raised and orders being shouted in German, all-in-all today was probably not such a great day at the office.

  Chapter 26

  The holding cell they had put Archer in was small and airless, with a thin nylon-sheathed mattress on a cold concrete slab and a stainless steel toilet that reeked of piss.

  He had walked a few laps of the cell, concentrating on his breathing, oxygenating his blood and getting his head together. Who knew what was coming next? Probably nothing good. He assessed himself as he slowly paced, checking himself for injuries. There were several minor nicks and scrapes from glass, a decent bump on his left knee that was starting to ache now the adrenaline was wearing off, and his ears were still ringing and made everything sound like he was underwater.

  There was no stress reaction this time. At least, not yet.

  He ran through the incident in his mind, over and over again. A few things stood out to him. They had been an organised hit team, well equipped and well informed. Experienced but not expert. A single man shouldn’t have been able to fight them off, especially starting off unarmed. Five guys – or seven, counting the drivers – with weapons should have been easily able to take out four unarmed, unprepared and unsuspecting opponents. One guy should have been enough.

  Archer stopped pacing and sat on the side of the cell bed. He wondered how it would have panned out had he not been there. A slaughter, no doubt. Or would they have taken a prisoner, a hostage? He doubted it. These guys had been playing for keeps.

  He looked up as footsteps sounded outside. There was an electronic buzz, a rattle and the door slid open. A burly police officer looked in at him, then turned and spoke to somebody over his shoulder.

  A nurse entered the cell and a second burly cop joined the other one in the doorway. They stood guard while the nurse tended to Archer’s wounds, cleaning and patching the cuts to his hand where he’d cut himself on the makeshift dagger. He had other minor glass nicks which only required cleaning.

  The nurse worked with silent efficiency, never making eye contact, and left as soon as she was done. One of the cops accompanied her out of the cells, while the other one stood and waited, looking down the corridor. Archer sat on the cot and waited. There was no point trying to engage with these guys. Finally, the big cop turned and gestured for Archer to get up.

  ‘Come,’ he said.

  Archer followed him, his bare feet cold on the concrete floor. Another pair of cops waited there, both in dark suits, blank faces. Detectives, maybe. Here to interview the murderer. He gave them a courteous nod, and was surprised when they both nodded politely back.

  They led him down the corridor, through another secure door, along another corridor and through another door. A short elevator ride down a couple of floors before the doors opened into a basement parking garage. A plain white van waited there with the engine running, the rear doors open to reveal dual cages for prisoners.

  Archer was directed into the left cage where he sat on a steel bench against the internal wall with his knees pressing against the matching bench opposite.

  The cage door was closed, then the rear doors, and the van moved off immediately, pausing for a gate to rattle open then moving up a ramp onto a street that sounded busy with vehicles.

  He had no idea where he was going or with whom, and right now, it didn’t seem like anyone was bothered to tell him. He couldn’t make anything out through the tinted window in the rear door. He sat back and rested as best he could. It was maybe half an hour of driving through city traffic before he was aware of the van slowing, pausing, the rattle of a gate, then the van moved forward again and he sensed they were in another underground car park.

  The van came to a stop and the engine died, and he heard muffled conversation through the wall. The door opened, then the cage, and two m
ore men faced him. Both wore nondescript casuals and had the aura of soldiers about them.

  He followed their silent directions, climbing down from the van to find himself in a sally port such as was found at police stations and prisons. He had the feeling this was neither. They took him to a pedestrian door in the corner, buzzed through and entered a long corridor with no windows or doors. He walked between them, their boots squeaking on the polished floor, to a door at the far end.

  That led them into a lift lobby with doors off it. Eva stood holding one of the doors open, and Archer was escorted past her into a meeting room. He noted she had a small dressing over the cut to her forehead. Four people stood waiting at the front of the room, conversing in hushed tones.

  They stopped and looked up when Archer entered.

  Rawlins and Jessika, looking like they’d just stepped off a plane. Two men in dark suits, one late forties, the other a few years older, both tidy and unremarkable. Spooks.

  ‘Come in,’ the younger man said in accented English. ‘Please, close the door Eva.’

  She did as she was told and accompanied Archer to meet the small group. Introductions were made all round. The younger German, who was obviously in charge, was named Dieter. His older colleague was Ulrich.

  Archer shook their hands and gave a nod to both Rawlins and Jessika. She gave him a frosty glare and Rawlins ignored him. He mentally shrugged. It wasn’t like they wouldn’t have done the same in his shoes. He noticed the surreptitious look that Jessika gave Eva, sussing her out as the only other female in the room.

  ‘Please, let us sit.’ Dieter indicated for them to sit at the table.

  Archer took the closest seat and found himself alone. The two Americans sat opposite him, Dieter took the head of the table with Ulrich to his right, and Eva moved around behind them to sit on his left. Archer rubbed his feet on the woollen carpet beneath the table. It was thick and warm against his bare skin.

  ‘So,’ Dieter began, ‘I think we should begin by discussing the events of today…’