by Alex Shaw
‘INCOMING!’ Tate yelled.
Pang, eyes wide, pushed the nose of the Gulfstream down to gain instant speed. Their stomachs tried to escape through their chests. Pang stabbed at a button on the dashboard. A flare and then a cloud of metal foil burst from the rear of the jet – countermeasures retrofitted by the plane’s owners. There was an explosion behind them, violently rocking the Gulfstream. The jet dropped through the clouds, and both men saw the ground, a dark mass of greens and browns, growing increasingly larger.
The engines whined; Tate swore. He imagined he could hear the rivets popping off the fuselage as the Gulfstream continued to dive. He had no idea where the helo was. If it fired again, everything ended; they could outrun the helo but not its payload.
Pang yanked the Gulfstream to starboard and then tried to pull the nose up. The engine note changed to an angry roar – the executive jet had not been designed for this.
Tate caught a glimpse of a distant smoke trail … A second missile was inbound. They couldn’t escape. The jet was doomed. It was a modified commercial airframe, not a fast-jet – it had an emergency exit but no ejector seats. Tate had one option, and it would kill Pang. He had no time to warn, no time to explain, no time to apologise. Tate undid his seatbelt, aimed his Glock at the glass – the only barrier between him and the outside world – and squeezed the trigger. The Glock boomed, a hole appeared in his part of the screen, cracks instantly spread across its entire length like bolts of lightning, and the howling slipstream ripped away the panel. Tate was viciously tugged forward by invisible claws and hurled into the void …
Head hunkered into his shoulders, eyes screwed shut, Tate spun. Two seconds, three, four … He thrust his arms and legs out in a starfish shape to create drag and control his fall. Opening his eyes, they immediately streamed as the frigid air attacked. Above the thundering of the wind in his ears, there was an explosion; the jet and Pang were no more. Tate’s rapidly stiffening fingers found the toggle on his harness and yanked it. He felt as though he’d been punched in the gut as the canopy deployed and he instantly slowed.
Tate was helpless, defenceless as he floated ground-ward. He searched, with streaming eyes, for the helo. Had his attackers seen him escape before the missile struck? There was nothing he could do either way. A crosswind picked up. He had to concentrate on his landing. Tate saw empty fields and buildings devoid of light. He was short of Washington, but how short he had no idea. As he started to feel ground rush, he heard rotor blades above, but to look up now would be fatal. A road appeared, dissecting the fields. He managed to ride the wind, crabbing away from a fast-approaching homestead and over the now defunct telephone lines toward a green field. As he prepared himself to land, the retort of a heavy machine gun filled his ears and rounds ripped through his silk canopy …
Tate dropped, his feet lost in the heads of a tall crop. He stumbled, tumbled, fell. Landing heavily, the air was forced out of his lungs as he was dragged forward by his billowing parachute. Head dizzy, Tate struggled with the release mechanism, finally managing to undo the harness. He squirmed free and lay still, crop heads fluttering above him, peering down, seemingly indignant to his unannounced and uninvited arrival.
The helo passed overhead. He had to move. ‘Who dares, wins,’ Tate muttered to himself, and with a monumental effort pushed up onto his haunches. Through the crops, he could see the helo sitting in the adjacent grassy field. As the rotors slowed, three figures dressed in black fatigues and helmets got out, the commando manning an exterior-mounted 0.50-calibre machine gun from one side and two passengers from the other. They tactically advanced toward his parachute, which had come to rest further ahead in the crops.
Tate turned his head. Behind him stood the road, and beyond that another grassy field with a driveway gently sloping uphill to trees and a large house. He was in the only bit of cover. He was a sitting duck and they’d find him sooner rather than later. Tate slowed his breathing; if he made a dash for it now, perhaps he could get across the road and partway up the drive before they opened fire?
Tate pushed off. One … two … three strides, increasing his speed through the thigh-high crops. There was a shout from behind. Four … five … six … He broke free onto the road. A metallic bark and something pinged the blacktop in front and to the left – he powered on. Another shout and more rounds raked the road. Tate reached the other side. Oblivious to the incline, he pounded up the driveway. He stumbled on a piece of loose asphalt and fell forward, catching a glimpse of the scene behind; one of the gunmen had returned to the helo while the other two tore after him.
Tate ran on. His body recognised no pain, no fatigue as the adrenalin fuelled his charge. He made it to the tree line and burst through the other side and into a turning circle outside the house.
The homestead loomed large in front of him, a handsome, hefty wood-panelled house, at odds with the semi-rural DC countryside. He had to get inside. It was his only hope, and his attackers would be forced to follow him in. He just hoped that his SAS training would mean his close-quarter combat skills were better than theirs.
As he pelted towards the house, Tate saw no signs of life from within; none of the curtains twitched and there were no cars or vehicles parked outside. He swerved to head for the stoop that led up to the front door and as he did so rounds raked the steps in front of him. Cursing, he increased his pace even more and jinked to the left of the building, taking the access road to the back between the outer wall and tall, mature trees. At the back of the house, the trees gave way to a large yard with a barn on the left, open countryside ahead and the nearest neighbour half a mile away to the right and parallel to the road. Tate took a sharp right.
The back door looked less sturdy than the front but further on past this an extension, an orangery with oversized, sliding glass patio doors had been added. The wood around the windows was thin and the paint flaky. It didn’t seem that solid, looked like a DIY job. It was Tate’s best chance of entry. Ducking his head down and pumping his arms, Tate powered towards the extension. He launched himself into the air and hit the central glass pane with his right shoulder and elbow. For a moment it was almost imperceptible; the glass flexed, held firm, then shattered. Tate crashed into the kitchen. Flooded with adrenalin, he felt no pain as he skidded across the tiled floor before coming to a halt with a jarring thud against an island. If the place wasn’t empty, he’d soon know.
Panting like a dog on a hot day, but knowing that he couldn’t pause for a single breath, Tate grabbed at the top of the kitchen island for support. His hands were slick with blood from the crash but he managed to pull himself to his feet. He was unarmed. The Glock had been whipped away in the slipstream as he’d escaped the doomed Gulfstream. Eyes darting around the duck-egg-coloured country kitchen, he searched for a weapon, anything. A set of kitchen knives sat on the worktop to his right, safely sheathed in a wooden block. He grabbed the entire thing then made for the kitchen door, which led – he presumed – into the house itself. The door was wood, locked. He booted it just below the lock and on the second attempt it swung open. Stale air and dust immediately attacked his nose.
Tate now heard noise outside, the slapping of feet on the hardstanding. He spun and dived back into concealment, behind the island. Tate pulled two knives out of the block. The first was small, with both the top and bottom of its blade sharp and curved like a spear. The second was a stubby oyster knife. He discounted the oyster knife. Outside, feet scuffed on the concrete as his pursuers came to a stuttering halt. He imagined the lead gunman aiming his firearm into the room, assessing the scene and seeing the open door at the far end. He’d either enter the building with caution or speed, and Tate guessed the guy would use speed – knowing that he had the advantage of tactical equipment, backup and most of all an assault rifle.
‘Davai! Davai!’
There was a crunching of glass and then scratching as the lead commando’s rubber-soled boots dragged the glass across the kitchen floor. Tate got to his haunch
es ready to spring up. The first commando sped past him, through the door and into the hallway beyond. To Tate, time slowed. In his head he counted twenty seconds, but it felt like twenty minutes.
The first commando called back to the second: ‘Chisto!’ Clear.
More glass crunched as the second man entered the kitchen. Tate pictured him, weapon up, advancing tactically, moving past the island towards the door, relying on his comrade’s call of “clear”, falling into the trap of tunnel vision as he focused on the space ahead and ignored the room that was already “safe”.
This was Tate’s only chance. If he ran he’d be cut down either by the unknown remaining number of gunmen in the helo or by the two in the house. He had to attack, and attack now. He sprang up behind the second commando and with furious speed his left arm looped around the man’s neck, his left hand grabbing his face, clamping his mouth whilst at the same time his right drove the spear-pointed paring knife into the commando’s head directly behind his right ear. The knife sank up to its hilt; Tate twisted it for good measure and the commando immediately started to drop but not before his finger tightened and sent a burst of rounds from his stubby rifle down the hall. Tate tugged the rifle from the dead man’s grip, noting the body armour he was wearing under his black coveralls, and went prone on the kitchen floor next to him.
He waited. There was a shout from inside the house and then the first commando appeared, leaning over the bannister on the stairs at the end of the hallway. Tate depressed the trigger and a line of rounds slammed into the man’s centre mass. Before the lead commando had finished falling, Tate was on his feet, weapon up and sprinting towards him, knowing that if he too was wearing body armour, he’d be injured perhaps but definitely not dead.
The first commando lay sprawled on his back, half on and half off the stairs. His rifle had landed out of reach near the front door. He was starting to regain his senses, and trying to fight gravity and reach back up the stairs to his thigh for his secondary weapon – a handgun on a leg holster.
He made eye contact with Tate and said in a pleading voice, ‘Niet!’
‘Da,’ Tate said, and shot him at point-blank range in the face.
There was eerie silence. The thunderous retort of rounds fired in a confined space and the heady stench of gunpowder mixed with the stale air made Tate’s head throb. He put his arm out against the wall, to ward off the dizziness that threatened to engulf him. His body screamed at him to stop, lie down and rest. But Tate knew there was no rest for the wicked, and the very wicked were outside, and they had a helicopter.
He wobbled back to the kitchen and quickly rooted around for something to numb the pain. Inside a cabinet, above a kettle, he found a Tupperware container. He opened it. Ignoring the prescription codeine tablets, which he’d love to take but couldn’t because of the drowsiness they’d induce, he took a packet of generic ibuprofen and a blister sheet of paracetamol. He popped three tablets of each into his mouth then moved to the kitchen sink and let the water run. He bent down and filled his mouth. The water tasted wonderful but the tablets scratched his throat as he swallowed them in one go. Gulping another mouthful, he then splashed his face before he knelt down next to the corpse of the first commando.
As quickly as he could he removed the body armour from the corpse and strapped it over his own clothes. He then searched the webbing and found a spare magazine. Tate exited the kitchen, shut the door as best he could and went back into the hall. He collected the second man’s rifle. Like the one he was holding, it was the short-barrelled HK416 A5-11. Exactly the same weapon he’d taken from Oleg Sokol’s Tahoe. Tate collected a further two spare magazines that protruded from this man’s webbing and then jogged up the stairs.
The team in the helo knew he was in the house, and as both dead commandos were wearing comms they had to know their two men were dead, or incapacitated at the very least. This gave Tate time whilst they regrouped. Tate had no idea how many more commandos were in the Bell. It could hold up to seven passengers plus the pilot, but how many had been dispatched to shoot down the Gulfstream? They’d only really needed the pilot and the gunner – who could have also acted as a spotter. Why bring an assault team, unless they were on their way somewhere else or perhaps wanted to come along for the ride? So how many more men were there?
From experience he knew that soldiers, especially Special Forces operators – which these guys he presumed had once been – were a strange, superstitious lot. Odd numbers were messy, and mess was the enemy of discipline. They liked routine and even numbers. If he counted the pilot, the gunner and the two whose bodies were littering the house that made four. So it was either no more commandos, two more or four more. Would the assault team just count themselves and ignore the pilot?
Tate realised that fatigue and pain was creating in him a strange type of delirium. All he could be sure of was that whoever entered the house next was not coming to sell him a time share in Marbella.
A door met Tate at the top of the stairs. He kicked it open – a bathroom. Tate turned right on the landing and saw four more doors, two on his left and two straight ahead. He quickly opened each and peered in – three bedrooms and a study. The first bedroom was painted pink and the second blue. He entered the third room, the largest upstairs room. It was pastel peach and had an outsized bed in the middle with a gold headboard and black bedding. A wide window with a wooden window seat covered with cushions gave him a view back across the road to the field he’d landed in. His abandoned parachute rolled and bellowed in the gentle breeze.
And past that, rotor blades turned and the Bell rose into the air, slowly like a boxer beating a ten count. It approached the house. Tate now identified it as a modified variant of the Bell 429 GlobalRanger, modified because of the two empty missile carriers but more importantly and urgently now because of a figure manning a 0.50-calibre machine gun out of the starboard side.
Tate moved to the window, broke the lowermost pane with the butt of his HK and then dropped to his knees. In the room there was three foot of wall before it met the window, Tate rested his HK on the cushions and trained it on the Bell as it grew larger. The gunner swung toward the house. The Bell cut its speed, rearing back and up, like a startled horse, and the gunner opened fire. Heavy rounds slammed into the front of the house below the window. Any one of those would rip him in half. Tate tried to screen out the danger, the fear and concentrate on the gunner. The HK416 A5 wasn’t a precision rifle, especially with the shortened eleven-inch barrel, but he was a skilled shooter, a trained sniper and the range was shortening with each millisecond.
Tate acquired the gunner’s face, a flesh-coloured smudge between black coveralls and helmet, and squeezed the trigger. Rounds raced towards the Bell … and then the magazine emptied. Tate cursed and rolled away at the same time as the helo turned. Fatigue had made him sloppy. Tate sat with his back against the exterior wall and changed magazines. He had three full magazines and whatever was in the second weapon – that would be his last resort, his Hail Mary. Tate took a deep breath and felt a stabbing pain in his chest. He hoped it was just bruising. He darted out of cover to see the Bell retreating. He’d driven them back, for now.
Tate stood, knowing that if he stayed down he’d never get up. He saw his reflection in the mirrors of the built-in wardrobes opposite the bed. He had the hair and clothes of a tramp and his eyes were manic. Then he heard the helo again. The sound of rotors got louder and then it swooped past the window, this time without the gunner hanging out and so close that the downwash made Tate all but stumble. There was a moment of calm and then an explosion on the ground floor.
‘Diversion!’ Tate shouted, at himself.
He flattened himself on the floor next to the bed and readied the HK. The Bell came again, fast, buzzing the house, dust swirling across the room but Tate ignored it. This was the time for the attack. Footsteps sounded on the stairs, almost undetectable amid the noise from outside. Tate caught movement. It wasn’t a target … it was a concussio
n grenade …
The flashbang sailed into the room. Tate forced his palms over his ears, and shut his eyes intuitively. In the SAS he’d had been on the other side of the equation, the one throwing the stun-grenade, the one clearing the room with an HK416. He knew what to expect, but even so, the effect of the flashbang was debilitating. Searing white light and an ear-splitting explosion filled the room.
A second without senses and then the gunmen rushed into the room, professional, trained, their short-stock machine pistols tracing arcs. They were fast but a split second too slow. Tate fired from the floor, his rounds striking the lead commando’s shoulders and then his neck, throwing him backward. The second commando, a step behind and to the left, swivelled and opened fire. Tate scrabbled into cover under the bed as the floorboards splintered around him. Tate flicked the fire selector to full automatic and fired blind up through the mattress, emptying the magazine. His target grunted and fell.
Tate dragged himself back out and threw the empty HK at the commando who was clutching his arm and using his feet to push himself out of the room. The weapon hit him in the face as Tate rushed forward. Using both hands, Tate grabbed the commando’s throat and squeezed. His eyes widened, he bucked, and his arms flailed as he tried to dislodge Tate. A fist connected with the side of Tate’s head, the exact same place the Russian in Camden had hit him. Twice in one day. Not good. Potentially lethal. His vision dimmed, he felt himself drop to the side … and then he saw a glint, a blade.
Acting on instinct alone, Tate rolled as a serrated-edged knife passed his cheek. Groggy, he grabbed at the furniture for support. Tate got to his feet with his back to the door. The room was silent save for the laboured breathing of both men. Six feet apart. His opponent had dark eyes, and the flat forehead and wide cheekbones of Russia’s Far East. He now knew the men were undoubtedly Russian, probably former Spetsnaz.
‘I’m not who you think I am!’ Tate said, in his St Petersburg accented Russian.