‘Exfil,’ Alpha transmits through his covert microphone as the last operative is shot.
The other agents with the truck at the far end by the junction stare at them, and even with faces covered, they telegraph shock at the executions they just witnessed, and to the last they take a step back as the five start running towards them.
‘Fire in the hole.’ Echo’s arm hurts like hell, but he squeezes the detonation switch that sends the signal to the receiver in the charges set in the houses they used as observation points. A split second later, the front walls blow out so hard the bricks sail across the road to smash through the wall of the warehouse. The noises are immense. Windows breaking. Wood splintering. Gas mains flaming.
‘POLICE ARE HERE . . .’ An operative at the junction shouts the warning through the radio as the first sirens warble down the main street. A single police car forcing a path through the heavy traffic as the people going by try to snatch a view at the fire raging down the side street. Bystanders gather near the junction. People running from shops, stores and cafés in response to the explosions. The disguised workers who erected the screens that blocked the view draw weapons from tool bags.
‘Hold them off,’ Alpha transmits.
A second later, the windscreen of the police car is peppered with holes created by the rounds fired from the junction. Screams sound out. People that were running towards the explosions stop to yell, and either duck or start running away. More guns open up. Pouring fire into the police car with metallic dinks as the bullets strike the engine block. The two officers are killed outright. Control of the car is lost as it ploughs into the back of a taxi. The airbags inside the police car deploy as the already dead occupants slam forward. More sirens coming. More police cars with officers inside who heard the shots fired over the radio transmission from the first vehicle. The local police control room dispatches all units. Every officer on duty across the city bursts away from what they are doing and runs to vehicles that come to life with lights and sirens. Helicopters and drones are scrambled as the police control room staff move into emergency procedures.
Alpha reaches the truck with the four operatives at his side. An unmarked heavy goods vehicle used to block the junction and bring the operatives and the screens needed to seal the view. Now all that matters is getting the bodies away. Mother will not be pleased at the aborted mission. Alpha has to claw something back, and failing again is not an option.
He takes the front with Bravo. Charlie, Delta and Echo get into the rear with the corpses as the two uninjured agents work to apply a dressing to Echo’s bleeding arm.
‘Keep them back, then bug out . . .’ Alpha transmits to the operatives in the street, knowing each is wearing lightweight clothing under their black covert kit and can strip down before running to blend into the chaos.
Two police cars pull up twenty metres away from the first one – now wedged in the back of the taxi. The officers draw pistols as automatic weapons open fire from the junction. A black-clad figure darts out to throw a flash-bang down the street. The officers return fire, plucking single shots with nine-millimetre rounds that lack the punch and range to be effective. The flash-bang explodes with a wall of sheer bright light and a huge detonation of noise. Alpha takes the chance to egress, pressing his foot down on the accelerator to move the truck out into the now-jammed road. Cars, bikes, trucks and delivery lorries everywhere. He rams them aside as he builds speed.
More police cars slew to a stop on both sides. The officers stunned by the flash-bang cover their ears and blink the retina burn away as they duck from the barrage of incoming fire.
Alpha builds speed as Bravo cocks his weapon and leans out of the passenger-side window to strafe down the street towards one of the police cars. People run screaming. Police officers fire handguns at the truck, heedless in the panic of the moment to the rounds pinging off the hard metal sides and slamming into the crowds of people trying to flee.
The operatives at the junction know they will be hemmed in, and start working to punch out and make a run for it, covering each other as they strip the black outer layers off to reveal normal street clothes. Smoke grenades and flash-bangs are made ready for release to create the distraction needed to bug out.
Bravo drops back inside the cab to change magazines, and uses the wing mirror to check the gap between them and the junction before glancing at Alpha. ‘I think we’re almost clear.’
The street blows.
The whole of the street from the warehouse already on fire to the junction detonates in one solid, rumbling explosion of bricks and tarmac. The whole of it. Every building.
Walls blow out. Concrete chunks, bricks and debris fly in all directions. The operatives left behind at the junction are reduced to molecular form. Dozens of innocent people in the street are killed. Buildings collapse. Huge holes form in the surface of the road. Flaming wood and parts of buildings rain down, causing chaos and panic. Pressure waves blast out down the street, knocking people off their feet. The immensity of the explosive force and the charge of energy makes the very ground seem to heave and shake. The truck rocks on its chassis. Car windows implode from bricks sailing through the air. The plate glass windows in the storefronts shatter into thousands of glittering pieces. Flaming chunks embed into wood. Smoke everywhere. Instant, overwhelming carnage.
The three agents in the back of the truck slam into the sides, falling over each other and the dead bodies of Malcolm and Konrad as the truck slews and bounces. Alpha grips the wheel. His face a mask of focus while he fights for control of the vehicle.
‘What the fuck was that?’ he shouts at Bravo as he steers left to avoid the huge chunk of masonry that just fell in front of the truck.
Bravo leans out to look back, seeing the fireball scorching up into the air and the huge plumes of filthy black smoke billowing up. He sees the debris behind them. Bodies lying everywhere. Cars on fire. It looks like a war zone.
‘Echo, old chap . . . did you do that?’ Bravo asks into his radio, his cultured tones so calm amidst the destruction surrounding them.
‘Negative . . . Not us. I repeat. Not us.’
‘Check those bodies,’ Alpha says tightly as the truck trundles on down the carriageway, ramming other cars and vehicles aside.
‘At least no one is looking at us now,’ Bravo says.
In the back of the truck, Charlie and Delta work the bodies, going through pockets to pull wallets and phones. Society has moved on. People rarely use cash now. Everything is binary code, done by the devices they carry that link to their bank and are used to pay for goods and services. Governments still insist on physical identity cards. Even if they are embedded with chips that record biometric data.
‘Malcolm Phillips, born UK, and Konrad Johans, born Germany,’ Echo transmits, holding the two cards passed to him by the others. ‘Er . . . Alpha, you there?’
‘Go ahead,’ Alpha says from the front.
‘Malcolm Phillips was born on 4 April 2010 . . . Konrad was born on 20 June 2011. . . Neither of these two are fifty years old . . . Both early forties, for sure.’
‘Roger that. Stand by . . .’ Alpha says with a glance at Bravo, who inclines his head. Alpha dials the number and transfers the call to his earpiece.
‘Alfie, darling,’ Mother says in a tone that shows instant worry, ‘are you okay? The news feeds are showing an awful incident going on in Berlin.’
‘We’ve no idea what caused it,’ Alpha says, daring to push the boundary of coded speech in his desperation to tell Mother they didn’t just make this happen. ‘We’re fine, Mother. We’re away from any danger now. Listen, we’ve got our new friends with us. You’ll need their details to book us somewhere.’
‘Oh, that is good,’ Mother says, opening a blank document within the hologram display still hovering in front of her. ‘Okay, I have a pen . . .’
‘Malcolm Phillips, date of birth, fourth of April two zero one zero, and Konrad Johans, twentieth of June two zero one one. They look good f
or their ages though. I would put at around forty.’
‘Oh, they do sound nice,’ Mother says, holding that pleasant tone while her fingers blur over the keyboard. ‘I shall have a look for you . . . Is it okay if I call you back?’
‘That’s fine, Mother.’
‘Speak soon, darling.’
She works quickly, with a glance to the monitor fixed on the wall of her office that shows the news channel drone footage of Berlin. It looks terrible. A whole street blown apart like something from a war movie. Bodies everywhere. Dead, injured, mangled and writhing in agony as they scream out silently on the muted screen.
The dates of birth put Malcolm and Konrad at fifty-two and fifty-one years old respectively. Her team said they looked forty years old, not fifty. Ten years is a significant time gap in descriptions, and she knows her agents are exceptional at estimating ages from a glimpse alone. She accesses databases, search engines, Interpol and many more. Her hands swipe, lunge and drag to bring virtual screens forward, while others are pushed back or to the side.
An archived news report. She checks the date before reading on. 2052. Malcolm Phillips and Konrad Johans died in a late-night car accident on a motorway in Hampshire, England.
The two men, Malcolm Philips, aged 42, and Konrad Johans, aged 41, both worked for the estate of the late Roland Cavendish. Mr Cavendish was a former government minister and latterly entrepreneur who is believed to have committed suicide in 2046, although his body was never recovered. An early report from the accident investigations unit within Hampshire Police states they were involved in a high-speed, head-on collision. Police are appealing for witnesses . . .
She reads quickly. She processes the information and finds the memory of the news from that time coming to mind. Roland Cavendish walked into the sea. It was on the news because his death saved his family from bankruptcy, but his body was never found. Roland Cavendish worked for the British government and then moved into investments within the private sector. She pushes the virtual screen aside and brings up more search browsers to follow the breadcrumb trail.
Roland Cavendish yields far more results. She filters and discards tabloid or magazine articles. She scans his death reports, the investigation that went on after his apparent suicide and the eventual payout to his family. Family. She reads further, her eyes darting left to right to take it all in. A wife. A daughter. A son. Nothing to indicate the widow re-married. The daughter was seven when Roland died. The son was ten.
Maria Cavendish. Daughter of Roland and Susan Cavendish. Works for a hologram film production company. Mother delves into social media and punches through the weak firewalls and defences to scan the static images, holograms and vids of Maria Cavendish. Bookish in appearance. Straight dark hair. Curvy, bordering on fat. Average. That’s the word. The girl looks entirely average, and she even has the average amount of social networking friends and acquaintances. The average number of replies to posts. The only thing about her that isn’t average is the fact she obviously comes from a very wealthy family.
She follows the trail to Susan Cavendish. Wife of the late Roland. The beautiful widow. Mother pauses. Something in the back of her mind. The name Cavendish. She’s heard it before, but not because of Roland. Something else.
She checks back to find the name of the son. Bertram Cavendish. Born in 2036. Three years older than his sister, Maria. Called Bertie by his family. Academically gifted. Yes, of course. Bertie Cavendish was one of the youngest persons in UK history to graduate with triple Master’s degrees in advanced applied mathematics, theoretical physics and computer science. She delves further. Her sole attention and focus brought to bear on a young man with wild dark hair and the same features as his father. He looks amiable in the few images online. Quick to smile, and seemingly looking at something else in every picture. An archived news report from a few years ago when he obtained the three Master’s at age fourteen.
. . . so, like, I totally want to invent a time machine because my dad committed suicide and, like, then I can go back and totally ask him not to do the suicide . . .
Alpha drives on past the fire engines, ambulances and police vehicles all heading in the other direction. Both of their masks off now so they look normal. Bravo holds a battered-looking tablet with a stylus to give the appearance of delivery workers chatting and organising their route. Bravo glances when Alpha reacts to his phone vibrating.
‘Alfie? It’s Mother . . .’ She works hard to keep that tone soft and warm. ‘I had a chat with your father, and we both think you should all come straight home. Berlin is too dangerous with all that mess going on . . . and we have a nice trip planned here for you . . .’
‘Yep, okay.’
‘We have booked your flights in one hour from Berlin to London . . . Do hurry, Alfie. We are so worried . . .’
‘Okay, Mother.’
Two
‘Been called many things. Maureen. Monica. Maggie. Monique. M. Ma’am. Boss. SB, which stands for Stubborn Bitch. MB, which stands for Mad Bitch, and TB, which stands for That Bitch.’
She bites into the apple and chews while taking them in. Harry Madden. Commando from 1943. Safa Patel. Diplomatic Protection Officer. Ben is Ben Ryder. Saved the woman and kid when he was seventeen, then later stopped the terrorist attack. The last is the man she met when she first walked through the main room. Doctor John Watson. British by birth, but spent most of his medical career in the US.
‘Now I’m Miri.’
She swallows the mouthful and leans back against the large table, while the others stare at her.
‘Malcolm and Konrad are both dead.’
‘How?’ Safa demands.
‘Shot and stabbed.’ Miri takes another bite of the apple.
‘By who?’ Safa asks, her voice hardening. ‘Ben, Harry, get ready. We’re moving out . . . Where was it? Who did it? How many of them? Can you find the place again?’
Miri swallows and goes to take another bite, but stops with the apple an inch from her mouth. ‘I don’t know who. I do know where. I do know how many. I can find the place again.’
‘What?’ Safa asks, glaring harder. ‘Who are you? Where’s Roland? How did you get in here?’
‘Safa,’ Ben says.
‘I asked you a question,’ Safa says, louder now.
‘You asked me a series of questions.’
‘I said, who the fuck are you? How did you get in here? Where’s Roland? How do you know Malcolm and Konrad are dead?’
‘Safa, ease up,’ Ben says, gently pulling her back. He looks at Miri. ‘Who are you?’ he asks politely.
‘Miri.’
‘Miri?’ Ben takes in the woman. Swept-back blonde hair streaked with grey. American accent. Heavy lines on her face, a few of which hint at being scars. Cold eyes that look grey in this light. Tanned and weathered – someone who has spent years under the sun. Faded blue jeans. The sleeves of her checked shirt rolled mid-way up her forearms, the top three buttons undone. She looks anything from fifty to sixty years old, but she also looks sharp. ‘I’m Ben. It’s very nice to meet you.’
‘Shake later,’ Miri says as Ben walks towards her with a hand held out.
‘Fair enough,’ Ben says, dropping his hand. ‘Forgive our surprise, but, er . . . can you explain what’s happened, please?’
A nod at the show of manners. A glance at the positions of the others.
‘I was extracted. Roland said you needed help.’
‘Ah,’ Ben says knowingly.
‘We don’t need help,’ Safa says, moving out from behind Ben while gripping the back of a chair, ready to throw with a move noted but left unvoiced by Miri. Miri also notices the step Harry has taken out to the side. Casually and discreetly, but their positioning is tactically sound. Ben, however, stays exactly where he is. ‘I will ask you again,’ Safa says. ‘Exactly who are you?’
This part is not new to Miri. Walking into an established team is pretty much always the same. Safa clearly identifies herself as their leader. Miri h
as to gain that authority while showing she is not affecting the team dynamics but is taking overall control of the mission. She has to gain trust quickly, without asking or appearing to seek consent to do so. Every step is calculated. Every move is measured in advance. Miri remains calm. Showing control of the situation. Safa is growing angry. Miri is not. Control is already being asserted.
The only thing holding Safa and Harry back is Ben’s reaction. Miri senses that to win them, she needs to win Ben first.
‘Where do the pens come from?’ A trick to defuse aggression and deflect tension. Casual, and asked easily. A master at work.
‘What?’ Safa asks, blinking at the weird question.
‘Pens?’ Harry asks.
‘Pens,’ Miri says.
‘What are you on about?’ Safa asks, the aggression rising clearly in her voice and manner.
‘Roland gets them,’ Ben says, holding his hands up in confusion. ‘Or Malcolm or Konrad . . . I’m not sure . . .’ He trails off at seeing Miri looking from her apple to the chairs and tables, then past them to the training equipment stacked at the far end.
‘What the . . .’ Safa says. ‘You’ve got about three seconds to tell me who you are before this goes bad. Ben, move back now. Doc, you too . . .’
‘Oh,’ Ben says slowly, blinking as he connects the dots. He looks at Miri again, then round the room to the things she was looking at, to the food and drinks on the big table, to the swimming aid he made the two men bring back so he could prepare for the ocean rescue, to everything in the bunker and the bunker itself. ‘Oh, I see . . .’
‘Yes,’ Miri says.
Ben drops his head an inch as he smiles that faint smile and rubs a thumb over his jaw. ‘Holy shit . . . He got someone from military intelligence then?’
Extracted Trilogy (Book 2): Executed Page 2