‘Tell me what you want, Miri. Tell me what to do.’
Miri smokes and looks over at Emily, then round at the beautiful English countryside, so different to what she is used to in California. Tell me what to do? Hell. She’s never heard an agent say such a thing. ‘You want to go?’
Emily thinks. She looks round at the field and the hedgerow and up to the blue sky that should all feel like home, but it doesn’t compare to the sterile bunker and the Cretaceous sky they have on the hill that looks down into the valley. She should be homesick for this, for here, but she sat outside on a balmy evening and ate strawberries and chocolate. She told Safa she would cut her hair. She smiles at the thought and being called fuckstick, spy, shithead and twat every five minutes. She’s laughed more in the last twenty-five days than the last ten years. She has introduced Harry Madden to Harry Potter, stood with him under an umbrella in the rain and played a game to see who could draw faster. She did that.
She can go back to her side now and claim the victory, but with a very real risk of being killed, and suddenly it’s so obvious. She is on an operation run by Maggie Sanderson in a team of Safa Patel, Ben Ryder and Harry Madden.
Miri rolls her eyes at the painstaking indecision in the agent. This is a no-brainer. Why is she even thinking about it? She puts the cigarette out and places it in the bag with the first. ‘You can take these with you. Mother will DNA test them and confirm you’re being truthful. It’s all I can do to help buy you back into your club.’
‘Thanks,’ Emily says.
‘Jesus wept. Pick a side, Tango Two, but I will win . . . And if I don’t, then everyone dies.’
Twenty-Five
Water pools on the floor. Dripping from bodies and hair. Soaked. Breathing hard. Faces flushed. Clothes drenched and tight against bodies. Harry pushes a hand through his beard to remove the excess moisture. Safa flicks her head to the side, spraying droplets from the strands worked loose from her ponytail. Ben shifts to free up his right hand to rub it down his leg in a vain effort to dry it.
‘Ready?’ Safa asks.
They stare at the Blue. Grim with determination.
‘Okay,’ Safa says, ‘on three . . . One . . . two . . . three!’
She goes first. Running through the blue light with her assault rifle up and aimed, sweeping round in a circle. She holds position, assessing the ground on all sides before sticking a hand back through the light with a thumbs-up.
Emily goes through. Her own assault rifle braced into her shoulder as she aims round.
‘Clear,’ Emily snaps. ‘Move out.’
‘Moving out.’ Safa paces further across the uneven ground and drops to a knee. The rain pelting into her face. A wall of water pouring from the sky. It’s hot too. The humidity is staggering. She shakes her head to rid the droplets of water going into her eyes. ‘Clear.’
Emily’s hand goes through the light. A thumbs-up to Harry, who comes running through. His right hand holding the heavy machine gun to his waist. His left hand holding the big metal box of belt-fed ammunition connected to the weapon. He moves out and drops to a knee with the butt of the heavy machine gun pressed into his stomach. ‘H clear,’ Emily reports.
‘B out,’ Safa says tightly.
Emily’s hand goes through to give the signal. Ben comes running into the rain and heat and humidity.
‘I’m out,’ he says.
‘On me.’ Safa starts moving ahead at a brisk pace while aiming and checking the front and sides. Emily runs past Ben and Harry to gain the front with Safa. The two side by side going forward to press the attack. Faces fixed. Eyes set and glaring. Water pouring down cheeks to drip from jaws. Hair slick to heads.
‘LEFT SIDE, LEFT SIDE,’ Emily shouts, opening fire into the figure looming from the tree line. The air erupts with gunfire. The figure drops back. The pace increases. The pressure on.
‘HOUSE AHEAD,’ Safa shouts, seeing the stately home through the driving rain.
‘RIGHT SIDE,’ Ben shouts.
Emily spins to seek the figure and fires a strafing burst to suppress anything coming. She twists back to the left and fires again. Safa presses on. Watching ahead. A figure moves. She fires a controlled burst.
‘CONTACT AHEAD,’ she yells.
‘LEFT SIDE,’ Emily shouts.
The air fills with gunfire from ahead, from the left, from the right. They run fast. Sprinting towards the house.
‘GRENADE,’ Safa roars, seeing the object flying through the air. They drop into the mud. All four landing on their backs to keep weapons clear of the gunge beneath them. A huge boom, a flash of light as the flash-bang detonates. ‘UP! UP!’ Safa screams out, vaulting on to her feet to strafe round from the right side to ahead. Emily a split second behind her, on her knees, then up on to her feet, strafing left side to ahead. Magazines come out. Magazines go in.
They move on. Flash-bangs blow. Disorientating. Loud. They press towards the house.
‘HERE,’ Safa yells. She drops to a knee and aims ahead to the windows of the house. Sweeping her view across the ground-floor windows, past the front door to the windows of the drawing room as Harry places the Browning down on the bipod. The metal box of ammunition goes down. His right hand finds the trigger. His left stabilises the belt feed. ‘FIRING,’ his huge voice booms. The gun comes to life. A solid, heavy, sustained thud of a large-calibre weapon. He aims at the window of the drawing room as Safa and Emily turn in circles to give Harry cover as he fires. Figures are seen and fired at. Gunshots sound back. Flash-bangs explode. The noise is immense. Ben lifts his weapon and aims through the sight. Breathing as deeply and as steadily as he can. The fucking thing weighs a ton. He spots a figure through the sight and fires. The recoil whams into his shoulder. He braces, snarls and recovers the aim to fire again into the tree line.
‘MOVE ON,’ Safa shouts. Harry rises, pulling the gun up with his right hand still on the trigger and his left clutching the box. Safa leads. Emily covers her. The path is picked. The firefight continues. Water plumes from the explosions going off all around them.
‘BEN,’ Safa shouts.
Ben moves up as Harry fires a heavy machine gun from the waist. His whole body juddering from the recoiling impact against his frame. Ben lifts and aims at the house. He does as he’s told and finds the front door as the marker, moving up and to the right to see through the second-floor windows. He aims, fires and works to steady his body, then fires again. The huge boom of the fifty-calibre sniper rifle so distinctive. He moves position. His right foot hits mud and slides. He goes down hard. Shouting from the pain of hitting the ground while trying to keep his rifle up and out of the surface water.
Harry covers. Safa and Emily drop to either side and pull Ben up. He aims for the door, but his breathing is wrong now. He can’t aim properly. The sights are wavering. He fires anyway.
‘SLOW DOWN,’ Safa shouts.
He winces, breathes and shoots again.
‘MOVE OUT . . .’ Safa gives the order. They move on, running now. To the last, they flinch at the sound of the chopper blades filling the air, whumping so deep and full of bass. They aim for the corner of the house. Sprinting while guns fire and water plumes from detonations. Smoke billowing from somewhere on the right. Then more on the left. They run down past the side of the house towards the back. Safa in the lead. Ben and Harry in the middle. Emily at their backs.
‘FASTER,’ Safa shouts. They slip and slide, cursing foully. They run and shake heads to rid water from eyes.
‘HERE,’ Safa shouts again. Harry moves to present his back to Ben. Ben slings his rifle to the rear and works to pull the missile launcher from Harry’s back. Safa and Emily fire at the tree lines, into the air, at anything that may pose a threat. Magazines are changed fast. Everything frantic and rushed.
‘Got it,’ Ben grunts, pulling the missile launcher free from Harry’s back by unclipping the straps holding it in place. He steps back, flicks the sight up, readies the weapon and aims as the air fills with explosions, chopper blades a
nd gunfire, and his view is obscured by water in his eyes and thick smoke billowing everywhere. ‘READY,’ he shouts.
‘FIRE,’ Safa shouts back.
‘BANG . . . WHOOSH . . . BANG AGAIN . . . OH NO, THE CHOPPER’S BEEN HIT . . . CRUNCHBANGWALLOP . . . MAYDAY, MAYDAY . . . ARGH!’
‘FALL BACK,’ Safa shouts, trying not to laugh.
‘RETREAT,’ Ben shouts.
‘FALL BACK, NOT RETREAT,’ Harry bellows.
‘RUN AWAY,’ Ben shouts as Emily bursts out laughing. ‘LEG IT . . .’
‘Ben,’ Safa gasps, ‘stop it . . .’
‘RUN AWAAYYYYYY.’
‘GRENADE! DOWN! DOWN!’ Emily shouts the warning. They drop again on to backs as the boom sounds out and sends a plume of water sailing into the air.
‘UP, UP.’ Safa springs to her feet, firing in the direction the grenade came from. She glances back to see Harry and Emily rising, but Ben lying on his back in the water. ‘BEN, GET UP . . .’
‘I’m hit,’ he cries out. ‘Go on without me . . .’
‘Fuck’s sake . . . GET UP,’ Safa shouts.
‘Tell Wuffles I love him,’ Ben says.
‘GET . . .’
‘I can’t . . . The chopper landed on me . . . Go on . . . Run for your lives!’
‘BEN. . .’ Safa says, marching back as Emily turns away laughing. Harry lowers the heavy machine gun and turns his face to the rain while chuckling.
‘Poor Wuffles,’ Ben says.
‘GET THE FUCK UP,’ Safa shouts.
Ben looks at her, his eyes finding hers as the corners of his mouth twitch. She tries to stay angry, but bursts out laughing and kicks surface water at him. ‘Who the hell is Wuffles?’ she asks, giving in and lowering the rifle from her shoulder.
‘Our dog,’ Ben says, as though the answer is obvious.
‘Such a twat,’ she says with a smile touching the corners of her mouth.
The noises cease instantly. The whump of the chopper blades, which were still going despite the missile strike, now ends as the gunshots stop, and the air falls silent save for the pattering of rain striking the ground and trees.
‘Best time yet,’ Miri calls ahead, walking through the house dressed in an army-green poncho with a bag over one shoulder and a tablet held in her hands. ‘Despite Ben slipping,’ she adds, emerging from the side wall of the house, which shimmers as she passes through.
‘Not fast enough,’ Safa says, looking at the hologram of the house.
‘My aim was off after slipping,’ Ben says, heaving himself up to his feet using the butt of the huge sniper rifle to brace on the ground.
‘Things happen in live missions,’ Miri says.
‘ARE WE FINISHING?’ Doctor Watson shouts from somewhere in the rain.
‘Harry, tell him we’re taking five,’ Miri says, coming to a stop as she thumbs the tablet and presses the wrong button, which makes the air fill with the sound of the chopper and gunfire for a second. ‘Wet hands,’ she murmurs. The sounds stop again. She looks back at the house and presses another button as Roland’s stately home blinks from view. ‘It’s all just binary,’ she says to herself.
‘TAKING FIVE,’ Harry bellows.
‘THANK GOD,’ the doctor bellows back. ‘I’M SOAKED . . . IS RIA WITH YOU?’
‘OVER HERE,’ a female voice calls out. ‘CAN I GO IN?’
‘Yes,’ Miri says.
‘YES,’ Harry bellows.
‘THANKS,’ Ria shouts.
‘She said thanks,’ Harry says.
‘I heard,’ Miri says, offering him a quick smile, which for Miri is a microscopic twitch of her lips. Safa pulls a face at Harry. Emily lifts her eyebrows as Ben grins at the big man. Miri doesn’t smile at anyone other than Harry.
‘Bloody rain,’ Ben remarks as they start walking back.
‘When you’ve been in a war with rain,’ Emily quips with a grin at Harry.
‘Worse than jungle rain this,’ Harry says, taking no offence at all.
‘It’s very wet rain,’ Safa says as Emily, Ben and Harry all nod and make sounds of agreement.
Miri stares at them from under the hood of the poncho. Only the British could say rain is wet and understand what it means. They can spend hours discussing and dissecting it. They have so many words for it too. Strange people, for sure.
They trudge back across the clearing on the wide plateau on top of the hill above the bunker. The Blue comes back into view slowly. Glimpsed through the rain before shining clearly. Ria stands next to it. Waiting for them in an army-green poncho with an M4 assault rifle gripped in her hands.
‘Hey,’ Ben calls ahead. ‘Chopper landed on me.’
‘Oh, well.’
‘Lots of sympathy then.’ Ben grins at her.
‘No,’ she says. ‘Why did we finish before you got back?’
‘I just said – the chopper landed on me.’
‘It’s not real,’ Ria says, tilting her head back to peer out from the hood.
‘He was being a dick,’ Safa says. ‘Did Bertie do the sound effects?’
‘Nope,’ Ria says. ‘I did.’
‘You did?’ Ben asks. ‘They were brilliant.’
She shrugs and stares round at them. Pain in her eyes masked and hidden. Her voice dull and lifeless.
‘We going through or chatting like twats in the rain?’ Safa asks.
‘Twats in the rain, I think,’ Ben says, smiling at Ria.
They pass through the light to a room only a few hundred metres away. Live connection, Bertie calls it. He did explain something about the manipulation of time so that it simply connects one place to another.
‘It’s all just binary,’ Ben mumbles, sighing as he moves from the rain to a dry room. Big towels stacked and waiting to dry hair, faces, hands and arms.
‘Is it getting less weird yet?’ Emily asks, looking at Ria.
She shrugs again. ‘Done it so many times now,’ she replies.
‘Say that again,’ Ben says. ‘We going to see Bertie later?’
‘Aye,’ Harry says. ‘Do with a bit of sunshine.’
‘I’m done,’ Emily says, hanging her poncho on a hook on the wall. ‘We going back out?’
‘Yep,’ Safa says to a chorus of groans.
‘Practice makes perfect,’ Miri says.
Rifles are dried off and stacked on metal shelves fitted to the wall. Harry detaches the box of blank firing ammunition in the belt feed from the heavy machine gun and works to clean the excess moisture off the weapon.
‘I’ll get the drinks ready,’ Ria says, walking from the room.
‘We can do it,’ Ben calls out. The sound of the inner door to the main room opening and closing comes clearly as he winces and tuts.
‘She’s fine,’ Emily says. ‘Let her do it.’
‘She’s not a slave,’ Ben says.
‘No,’ Emily says quietly, ‘but she just lost her mother and she’s now outside a hologram of her own home throwing flash-bangs and firing blanks at us while we practise shooting in to the place where her mother died . . . While knowing we can’t go inside and rescue her mother. I think the girl has the right to be weirded out.’
Ben widens his eyes, the corners of his mouth turned down. ‘That messes my head up, let alone hers.’
‘And you’ve had over six months to adapt,’ Emily says. ‘She’s had about a month.’
‘Work helps grief,’ Miri says, as flat and blunt as ever.
‘Blah, blah,’ Safa announces. ‘I’m going to get a drink.’
‘Safa, you talk to her,’ Ben says.
‘Not a chance,’ Safa says, stopping in the doorway.
‘She likes you,’ Ben says.
‘She likes me because I don’t keep asking her if she’s okay and if she wants a beanbag to sit on so she can cry and hug a fucking teddy.’
‘You’re brutal,’ Ben says, walking towards her.
‘You’re a bellend,’ she says, walking backwards. ‘Watch out, the prisoner is behind you.’
‘Still funny,’ Emily says, behind Ben.
Safa comes to a sudden stop as she pushes the door open to the main room to peer suspiciously. ‘Don’t tell me.’
‘I won’t,’ Ria says from the main table.
‘Got it,’ Ben says, smiling smugly at the others.
‘Hate you,’ Safa grumbles. ‘Sofa,’ she says, pointing at a huge dark-red leather sofa against the wall to her right.
‘That was here yesterday,’ Emily says. ‘We sat on it last night.’
‘Oh, yeah,’ Safa says.
‘Table,’ Emily says, nodding at the small table next to the sofa against the wall.
‘No,’ Ria says.
‘Got it,’ Harry says, walking on towards the table.
‘Have you?’ Safa asks. ‘What is it then?’
‘Look,’ Harry says simply.
‘So annoying,’ Safa says, looking round. ‘That chair.’
‘No,’ Ben says.
‘That other sofa,’ Safa says.
‘No,’ Ben says.
‘New rug!’ Emily says, pointing at a red rug on the floor under the chair Safa pointed at.
‘No,’ Ben says.
‘Lampshades,’ Emily says, looking up at the tiffany-style shades fitted over the lights.
‘Two days ago,’ Ria says.
‘Fuck’s sake,’ Safa grumbles.
Miri walks in, pauses, looks round and walks on. ‘Got it.’
‘Oh my god,’ Safa snaps.
Sofas. Armchairs. Pictures on the walls. Rugs on the floor. Standing lamps. Table lamps. New tables. New chairs to sit on when they eat at the new tables. Throws. Side tables. Coffee tables. Vases of flowers. An eclectic blend of shades and colours that all work in perfect harmony to make the big room look somewhere between a luxury hunting lodge and a Swiss chalet. Sumptuous, warm, homely and very inviting.
‘Can we give up? I really want a drink,’ Emily whispers to Safa.
‘Shall we pretend we know?’ Safa whispers back.
‘Got it!’ Emily announces.
‘Ha!’ Safa grins.
‘Twats,’ Ben says.
‘Fuck’s sake,’ Safa mumbles.
‘Give up,’ Emily says.
‘New table,’ Ben says.
‘Where?’ Safa asks.
Extracted Trilogy (Book 2): Executed Page 22