Embrace the Fire (Shadow Warriors Book 3)

by Stephen England

  Just like CERBERUS.

  And they were now utterly blind in the command van…the American UAV had been flying too close to the tower block when the explosion took place and had gone down, crashing into the roof of a nearby house. “Victor Element, what can you give me? Do we have a visual?”

  7:15 A.M.

  Nichols would take the stairs—of that much he was sure. No operator of his experience would risk being caught in the closed-in shooting gallery that an elevator could become. Not with this much on the line.

  Thomas came around the landing and bounded up the next flight of stairs, heading toward the eighth floor. Wishing for what seemed like the hundredth time that he had a gun. Anything.

  He shook his head at the very thought—it was surreal. He had served with Nichols for years. Fighting back-to-back in one godforsaken country after another. Never could have envisioned a day when the two of them would be on opposite sides.

  Even in this.

  A sudden thought struck him as he reached the next landing and he shouldered open the heavy fire door—scanning the hallway which ran down the length of the building to the other stairwell, straight and linear. Displaying all the architectural creativity of council housing the UK over.

  Nichols could already be making his way out of the building down the other staircase, and he’d never know the difference. Could be hiding in any one of a hundred apartments.

  He reached up to his muted earpiece, almost prepared to read Roth in on this—to bring Special Branch in to sweep the tower block.

  But no…if it was Nichols, this was an Agency matter. Their man, their problem.

  Even as he hesitated, he heard a fire door slam shut from above him—one, perhaps two flights up.

  7:17 A.M.

  The MV Percy Phillips

  Port of Grimsby, Lincolnshire

  “Seen anything of Hale?” Gordon asked, passing another former soldier in the passageway ‘tween decks. The man was stripped to his shirtsleeves, the word Sapper inked in flowing script across the length of his forearm.

  “Not lately. Check for’ard—he might be going over our course with the cap’n.”

  The Percy Phillips’ captain was a former warrant officer from the HMS Bulwark—the rest of the crew being former Royal Navy as well. Hand-picked by Conor Hale, all of them.

  Which is why he was going to have to be so careful. “I’m this far,” he replied, knowing all too well where Hale actually was, “might as well check his quarters.”

  He moved past the man, hurrying his steps as soon as he was out of sight. Didn’t have much time—the former sergeant was out on the docks, readying the car.

  “We set sail as soon as we get back.”

  Pausing outside the door to Hale’s quarters, he withdrew a pocketknife and a sturdy paperclip he had taken from the bridge—testing the door briefly to see if it could already be unlocked.

  No such luck.

  7:19 A.M.

  The tower block

  Seacroft, West Yorkshire

  They might only have a couple teams in the field from the looks of it, Harry thought—his right hand tucked into the folds of his jacket gripping the suppressed Sig as he hurried down the stairs, his eyes flickering ahead of him to the landing below. Enough to take down a terrorist—not enough to cordon off a council estate.

  That left him with…what? Eight, nine minutes? You never had as much time as you wanted.

  He crossed the landing hurriedly, cutting the pie as he turned to face the next flight of stairs. Going down.

  The door above him opened without warning, and he heard a familiar voice announce, “Harry.”

  His hand was a blur, the pistol coming out—his left hand sweeping up to support it as he aimed it back up the stairs, a man’s face coming into focus between the sights. “Thomas.”

  7:21 A.M.

  The MV Percy Phillips

  Port of Grimsby, Lincolnshire

  There had to be something, somewhere.

  The American had been right. Hale might have been running this operation, but he wasn’t funding it.

  Paul Gordon turned from the small desk back to the bunk, spotting a rucksack tucked into the shadows near its head. There.

  He laid it on the bunk and unzipped it, noting the Kahr PM9 tucked securely into one of the side pockets along with a pair of spare mags. A tactical light. A few chocolate bars. And a mobile phone.

  It wasn’t the phone Hale usually carried, but it was the one he had seen him using several times—including just this morning, a few hours before.

  He slid it open to reveal a darkened screen, pressing the Power button. It came on with a loud tone that caused him to cast a worried glance back over his shoulder to the still-closed door.

  He was a soldier, not a spy. None of this came naturally to him. Not a bit of it.

  A log-in screen came up before him and he felt himself panic, trying to shut the phone back down, but it didn’t work—prompting for the password once more.

  Come on. And then he remembered…a girlfriend of Hale’s from back in the day. Iraq. Remembered him Skyping with her late at night, the packages from home. She’d had an unusual name—what was it?

  Shay. That was it. He tapped the four letters into the phone, his thumbs moving awkwardly across the touchscreen. “Password incorrect.”

  He started to delete it all and start over, then thought better of it, changing first a single letter, then two. $h@y.

  And there it was. The screen opened, his fingers quickly bringing up the menu—a series of numbers displayed under “Contacts.” No names, just a log full of calls. Incoming and outgoing—several daily, each number seeming to have been used sequentially. Stretching back weeks.

  There was the sound of footsteps in the passageway without as he tried to memorize the numbers and his breath caught in his throat. Time to get out of here.

  7:22 A.M.

  The tower block

  Seacroft, West Yorkshire

  “You’re here with Five,” Harry stated simply, lowering his weapon ever so slightly. “I remember now—Kranemeyer was planning to send you over as liaison officer.”

  He paused, his eyes searching his old friend’s face for a long moment before he added, “Congratulations.”

  The New Yorker shrugged easily, keeping his hands away from his sides. In plain view.

  “It’s a dirty job, but somebody had to do it.” It was a moment before he went on, gazing keenly at Harry. “And you?”

  It was a question they both knew the answer to.

  7:24 A.M.

  The harbor

  Grimsby, Lincolnshire

  To take the life of one of their own. Hale shook his head, tucking the rifle case into the boot of his car and covering it over with a tarpaulin. But was he really?

  The MP had paid lip-service to their cause, had been one of their leading voices for years. But since the outbreak of the violence—since being called out by the media for the role his own rhetoric had played, Pearson had quailed.

  Like the politician he was. Securing his own future while better men than he bled and died for what he claimed to have believed.

  Enough. His face darkened. Colville was right…there was no place for such men in the new world. In the world they were prepared to sacrifice themselves to secure.

  He closed the boot with a heavy sigh, only too aware of the reality of that which he was about to do. Looking up, he saw Paul Gordon standing there on the gangway from the Percy Phillips, something of a shadow marking the former Para’s face.

  “You ready, mate?” he asked, walking toward him. “I have some…business to take care of inland—but I can get you on a bus into the city first. Take what time you have. Go see Alice.”

  Time they all had their affairs put in order. “I’ll do that, thanks.”

  “No worries,” Hale responded, putting a hand on his old friend’s shoulder. “Go ahead and get in the car. Just need to grab my mobile.”

  7:25 A.M.


  The tower block

  Seacroft, West Yorkshire

  “I had a feeling you were over here,” Thomas went on after not receiving an answer. Harry’s gunmetal blue eyes never leaving his, his weapon lowered now, but still clutched in the gloved fingers of his right hand, hammer back. “Hunting down the Shaikh. Just like we were. The attack on the surveillance van night before last—that was you, wasn’t it?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.” The lie was delivered perfectly. Nothing, not even a flicker of reaction in his former team leader’s eyes. He could have laughed, if the situation hadn’t been so dire. Quintessential Nichols.

  “My officer is still in the hospital,” he continued, forcing a note of anger into his voice to carry the lie. He had to know, to confirm the truth of what he suspected, or they were looking at a far bigger problem than he had even imagined. “They got her in intensive care. She had really bad asthma before all this, had an attack in the midst of all that CS. Barely got to her in time. She might pull through, might not—hard to say.”

  7:27 A.M.

  The MV Percy Phillips

  Port of Grimsby, Lincolnshire

  He needed to be on the road already, Conor Hale thought, pushing open the door of his cabin and moving toward the bunk. All the moralizing in the world wasn’t going to change anything if he wasn’t in position to take the shot.

  But it wasn’t like leaving his mobile was an option. Not with awaiting word from Colville. And he had left it right…he found himself reaching, his hand finding only empty space as he groped for the phone inside the side pocket of the rucksack.

  Nothing.

  He jerked the ruck up onto the bunk, popping open clasps until he located the phone tucked in the pocket just across from where he thought he remembered leaving it.

  But he had. Acting on a sudden impulse, he tapped in the password to unlock the screen, bringing up the Recent tab. Someone had opened his call logs.

  A cold chill ran through Hale’s body. He had personally chosen every man on this boat—a hand-picked few from the ranks of those he had served with in Iraq and Afghanistan. Men chosen for their loyalty, for their love of the country they all called “home.”

  And yet one of them had to be playing him false. Who?

  He replaced the mobile and slung the ruck over his shoulder, locking the cabin door behind him as he moved quickly out into the corridor and toward the stairs, his mind racing.

  Preoccupied with his thoughts, he nearly ran into a soldier descending from the upper deck, the man taking a step backward with a curse.

  Hale registered the elaborate, flowing Sapper tattoo on the man’s arm, recognizing him. Delaney. The two of them had spent time together in Basra, gotten drunk together more than once on leave in Kuwait. “Sorry about that, mate. Wasn’t lookin’ where I was going.”

  The man’s next words stopped him dead in his tracks. “Did Gordon find you?”

  Hale turned on heel, his eyes transfixing the former sapper. “He was looking for me?”

  “Just a few minutes ago,” the man nodded. “He was headed to your quarters last I saw him.”

  7:28 A.M.

  The tower block

  Seacroft, West Yorkshire

  No. It wasn’t possible, Harry thought, only too aware that his face had betrayed him in that moment. Regret and surprise, intermixed. He could see the woman even now, doubled up on the floor in the middle of the gas attack. It hadn’t been meant to take her life.

  Consequences. You tossed a stone into the water, watched as the ripples arced out from the point of impact, folding and unfolding until they were out of sight. A big enough stone could sink ships.

  Destroy worlds.

  Innocents damned. He felt the old bitterness wash over him in a storm surge, looking away down the stairs toward the next landing. “I’d pray that she makes it…but lately, almost think she might be better off without my prayers.”

  Wait. There was something there, behind the words. His head came up suddenly, eyes burning as he glared at Thomas. “But you’re lying.”

  A shrug, the CIA officer still careful to keep his hands visible. “Am I now?”

  “I should know,” Harry fired back, seeing his friend’s game in that moment. “I trained you.”

  Thomas had always been good. Too good.

  His face twisted into a grimace, the Sig coming back up in his hand. Leveled at Parker’s head. “You’re stalling for a reason. Special Branch is on their way up the stairs even as we speak, aren’t they?”

  “Not that I know of,” came the calm reply. “I turned off my comms set when I entered the building. No one knows I’m here.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Thomas shook his head. “What was it you once told me, Harry? Not long after I joined the Agency. ‘That thin line between distrust and paranoia they warn you about…what they never tell you is that to do this job right, you’re going to have to make crossing it part of your daily commute. The trick is not to set up shop on the wrong side of the tracks.’”

  “I haven’t,” Harry replied, a cold certainty in his voice. “But this is where we part company.”

  He reached forward with his left hand, the Sig in his right still covering his friend. “Your earpiece. Take it out and hand it over. Slowly.”

  7:33 A.M.

  The command van

  “Negative, sir. I say again, we do not have a visual on CERBERUS.” It was happening again, Darren realized as his earpiece crackled with static, staring at the map overlay in a measure of disbelief. Once more, they had had him—and once more he had made fools of them all.

  Firefighters were on-scene now, trying to put out the flames even as West Yorkshire arrived in force, attempting to establish a cordon.

  And the media…oh, yes, the media had been johnny-on-the-spot as well—in response to reports of the explosion, their news cameras aimed all over the place, sticking microphones beneath the noses of policemen.

  It was a sodding circus out there.

  He glanced back to see the SO-15 commander standing there with arms folded across his chest. “If you’d taken the advice I gave, Roth, my tactical teams might have been better placed to respond to the situation as it unfolded.”

  And so the bureaucratic scuffle begins.

  “Save it, Inspector,” he ordered brusquely, sunlight striking him in the face as he rolled the side door of the van back and stepped out onto the street.

  There were people at Five—people like MacCallum—who excelled at the art of commanding from behind a computer screen, finding their skillsets best utilized in an office far removed from the heat of the moment. Working the ‘big picture.’

  He’d never been one of them.

  His eyes roved the council estate as he moved forward along the street, assessing angles. Fields of fire. Someone had tried to take out the Shaikh before he could be taken into custody, that much was clear—his mind flickering back to Marsh’s warning of the previous week.

  “The Americans have placed a member of their Special Activities Division in charge. A paramilitary.”

  Which itself raised another question, in the midst of all this chaos…where was Parker?

  The mobile in his pocket vibrated with an incoming call as if in answer to his question, an unfamiliar number displayed on-screen. “Hello.”

  “This is Parker,” came the American’s voice in reply. “I’ve found the sniper’s perch—roof of the big tower, north corner. The rifle’s still here.”

  Darren’s head came up, shading his eyes against the dawn as he stared up at the looming tower block to the south. “And the sniper?”

  “No sign of him.”

  7:40 A.M.

  Seacroft Bus Station

  West Yorkshire

  Failure. It was a feeling you soon became acquainted with out in the field. The bitter taste of defeat. You couldn’t win them all.

  Couldn’t save the world.

  But someh
ow despite all of that, you always believed you could save the ones you really cared about. That your protection was enough to render them invulnerable.

  Only to find them furthest beyond your grasp.

  “Alpha now moving to clear southeast quadrant,” came the voice through the stolen earpiece as Harry moved out along the roadway leading away from the council estate past the bus station. His pace brisk, but unhurried. Nothing that would have served to attract attention. “Going house to house. We have confirmation, I say again, we have confirmation on the sniper. Keep your head on a swivel.”

  But they were too late. Not only for him, but the Shaikh, most likely.

  Too late. It was a feeling he knew all too well—the moment when you found yourself a moment too slow, a hair’s-breadth behind the pace. Left avenging the ones you hadn’t been able save.

  And sometimes…failing even in that.

  He picked up his pace, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket. Two more kilometers to where he’d stashed the Vauxhall. Assuming it hadn’t been compromised, which was unlikely.

  Time to regroup, he thought. To reevaluate. There had to be an endgame to all of this. Finding that would be the key to finding Tarik once more. To killing him.

  The bruised, bloodied face of Hashim Rahman rose darkly before his eyes. He’d nearly killed the man before he’d left this morning—put him out of his misery. Now he found himself glad he hadn’t acted on that impulse of mercy.

  They weren’t done just yet. Not even close.

  Chapter 25

  9:43 A.M.

  Thames House

  London

  “I am to meet with the PM and the Home Secretary an hour from now,” Julian Marsh announced, taking his seat at the head of the conference table as he swept each member of his team with a critical, piercing gaze. “What, precisely, am I supposed to be telling them?”

  “The operation to take down CERBERUS was an unadulterated failure,” MacCallum began, clearing his throat. “The Shaikh has once more given us the slip, and to compound our problems—if he didn’t know we were tailing him before, he does now. He will either go to ground, or this will only move things up.”

  “The ‘reckoning’ of which he spoke in his call to Rahman.”