by Andy Remic
And he thought about himself: Scott; eighteen-year Spiral veteran; fucked up the arse by his superiors and given one of the lamest protection gigs ever devised by the shadowy Spiral planners. To protect Vladimir Kachenyav, Chechen rebel sympathiser and member of VKW, an underground Grozny action group. Vladimir was a hunted man. Scott was merely tired; and he wanted to go home. Wanted to be out of the game. Wanted - that elusive word he never, ever thought he would stoop to consider - retirement.
Scott laughed to himself, and leaned out over the rail. It creaked, the noise lost in the wind as he gazed down into that black water. His fear made manifest, close at hand ...
Scott licked his salt-dry lips and finished the cigarette. He flicked the butt out over the water and the glow disappeared in an instant.
Retirement.
I thought only old men got tired, his inner voice taunted him.
I thought you were a soldier. A fighter. A warrior.
He had seen enough after the Siege of Qingdao to last a man a hundred lifetimes.
Toffee was right, he thought as he moved to the stairwell and caught his breath away from the wild wind. This is a shite gig; a full eight-man team locked away on this desolate piece of junk for a whole two weeks with Vladimir, a slightly crazy Russian.
Scott shook his head and spat into the howling wind.
He stomped down the stairs, rigged with emergency lighting that hung untidily from low ceilings, and strode on towards the canteen, his boots hammering the metal, his torso twisting and turning to fit through the narrow doorways with their heavy bastard rims and gunmetal-grey decor.
‘You get that coffee on?’ Scott grinned as he stepped into the canteen. The smile was wiped instantly from his face. Bodies were strewn across the floor, blood pooling on the grey metal. Blood was spattered up the walls, across the stainless-steel worktops, dripping from the tables and benches. Toffee was sprawled on his back, mouth slack, dead eyes staring as the flickering fluorescent tube above him strobed over his corpse.
Scott did not move; slowly, very slowly, he unslung the Sterling and flicked off its safety. His gaze moved to the right. His teeth clamped tightly and he tasted blood in his mouth.
Fuck, screamed his brain.
Fuck.
Powell was dead, trailing backwards off a bench, blood-speckled fingers clasping the cord of his SA80. Holloway lay face down against the iron-studded flooring. And Worm, arms outstretched, face twisted in abject agony, a huge hole smashed through his throat, looked sightlessly up at the ceiling, blank eyes pleading with the God who had abandoned him.
Focus. Think…
There had been no sound of gunfire; the assassin - or assassins - had used silenced weapons. The poor fuckers - Toffee and the others - hadn’t even known what had hit them. And that meant the assassins were—
Fast.
A blur raced across the edge of Scott’s vision and he kicked himself backwards purely from reflex. Bullets sprayed up the iron wall, splashing bright firework sparks that burnt his face. Scott hit the deck hard, rolled onto his front and squeezed the trigger of his own weapon. The base of the stairwell was filled with a deafening roar of gunfire, and ricochets peppered the canteen with hot bright metal flashes as Scott scrambled up and sprinted for his life.
His booted feet pounded along the corridor and the blueprints for the rig flickered back into his brain: corridors, ramps, cranes, derrick - all now seemed a blur and Scott halted, slowed his breathing, and took a quick glance behind him. He stepped sideways into a doorway and waited, his breathing suddenly calm, his professionalism kicking him into—
Reality.
Nothing, no sounds of pursuit, and—
The figure glided into view, its attention focused up ahead, and sensed rather than saw Scott by its side. The head, mere inches from the levelled sub-machine gun, snapped left - and Scott found himself staring into bright copper eyes...
He squeezed the trigger.
The world seemed to explode as the Sterling hammered in the confines of the corridor. The assassin was smashed up against the wall and drilled with a whole magazine of bullets whose impacts held the body upright, dancing and twitching, until the ‘dead man’s click’ reverberated in Scott’s skull and brought the world to a sudden echoing silence. Scott fumbled for a fresh magazine with gore-slippery gloves, trying not to look at the pulped brains that covered his arms, trying not to choke on the cordite reek that filled his nose and throat.
The corpse slithered to the deck and lay in a slick crimson pool of its own blood.
The fresh magazine clicked firmly into place, and Scott - breathing slowly and heavily through blood-speckled lips - looked left and right. His ears were ringing from the deafening roar in the narrow metal corridor.
What the fuck is going on? he thought.
He stepped gingerly over the corpse, then headed towards the steep stairs ahead. Warily, clasping the rail, he climbed towards the night. Rain was pounding, driven by the wind, a sudden heavy downpour. Above, Scott could see nothing but darkness riddled with diagonal slashes of sheeting rain.
Carefully, and with all his senses on full alert, he pulled free his ECube and, with a twist, initiated the emergency call-up. But instead of the usual flicker of lights the ECube failed to respond. Scott stared at the device in disbelief. In all his years as a Spiral operative an ECube had never failed him.
‘Fucker.’
He licked his lips again. Calm, whispered his raging mind. Focus.
Vladimir: Scott knew that he had to reach the Russian. Had to protect him; save him. Get them both off this desolate rusting graveyard.
The only escape craft that the squad had were boats, moored at a pontoon floater on the other side of the rig. But the most important question now was:
How many killers?
One? Five?
They had killed seven members of a DemolSquad. It had to be more than one. Had to be. Which meant—
The game was not yet over.
Scott peered over the edge; the platform, at eye level, was a riveted monstrosity, slippery like black glass, stretching away into apparent infinity. Scott peered along the platform, towards the ramp at the end that seemed to descend into nothing.
Not far.
But not far is always too far when bullets are clipping your heels.
What to do? Run or wait?
Scott crept up until he was crouching on the platform; the rain needles drove into him and the wind howled though his jangling brain finding a way into his tight military clothing and caressing him with fingers of ice. His eyes followed every contour that the weak natural light could reveal. He searched for every possible sniping position. He tried to think where best to lay an ambush—
If he could sneak down the left flank of the rig, Vladimir’s chamber was nearby; a few easy steps and -hopefully - the fucker would be there, waiting, ready to sprint to the safety of the boats ... Scott nodded to himself. He craved the nicotine buzz of a cigarette.
It was instinct, more than anything else, that made him freeze.
And then it was there, his worst nightmare.
Cold metal, pressing against the back of his skull.
‘No,’ he whispered.
He started to turn, but a warning jab halted him. Slowly, he crouched and placed his sub-machine gun on the deck.
‘Move.’
Scott started to walk ... everything ahead of him was blurring and he realised that he was crying - not from fear, fear was no longer an option, but from sheer rancid frustration. Of all the fucking ways to be caught, of all the fucking ways to die—
The crack echoed dully against the howling wind.
A limp figure toppled from the railings and disappeared in the boiling black sea below.
Copper eyes watched coldly as it fell.
And, an instant later, the Nex had gone.
DemolS-4: sniper squad: Australia
Rain swept across Sydney Harbour Bay, deluging from towering iron-coloured cumulonimbuses in
to the churning, raging waters. Rivulets poured down the slick black contours of the bullet-pocked, shrapnel-scarred Harbour bridge, dripping into the chasm below as the lights of distant buildings glittered through the darkness. One half of the Sydney Opera House shimmered, ghostlike, looking almost silver through the sheets of wind-blown rain, its orange-segment sails raised as if in defiance against the elements themselves. But the crumbling, recently bomb-blasted section was open to the storm - the Opera House was wounded, torn, betrayed. To the people of Australia it was a symbol of their world gone mad.
Rex squatted, rain pounding his Gore-Tex wetproof; he listened to the radio and glanced at the ECube in his hand. Digits flickered blue. A voice in his ear said, ‘They’re on the move.’
Rex edged forward, then glanced down, checking the magazine of the Bergmann 7.65mm sniper rifle. He raised himself, peering from the top of the forward segment of the Opera House. The bridge was hazy in the gloom of the storm, the harbour spread out before him like some majestic oil painting. Rex reached out and steadied himself on the narrow galvanised walkway - he felt like the King of the World up here, wind and driving rain buffeting him. He felt alive. He lifted the rifle and touched the ECube to the side of the electronic sight; there was a tiny click, and a buzz as the ECube integrated with the advanced sniper weapon. For a second Rex watched the scope rotate and focus; then he placed his eye against it and the world seemed to spring into clarity.
The bridge was daylight-clear, bathed in a gentle purple tint; he zoomed the scope quickly forward, until he could see each rivet in the steel sections, each bullet hole and shrapnel scar. Then he pulled back and swept left and right, searching for the vans that he knew were coming—
‘You OK, Rex?’ said a sultry voice in his ear.
‘Sure thing, sugar,’ Rex said softly, picturing Amber’s beautiful lashes fluttering at him over the lip of the telescopic sight on her own weapon. He shifted his weight, sighting on the distant tower block and the position that he knew Amber had secured. She waved, and he returned the signal. ‘Is Scope set up?’
Scope grunted over the communication link. He rarely spoke, and Rex’s comment was obviously below derision.
Rex moved his own sniper sight back to focus on the bridge, the top of the huge arch. Scope was there, all in black, ready and steady. He had picked the most dangerous positioning of the three, on the Sydney Harbour itself, and despite being clipped securely in place himself Rex shivered involuntarily. But then, he thought, Scope was a wild fucker, untamed. Some said he was insane; Rex decided that the man probably was.
‘Game on.’
The words came from the supporting ground soldiers, Australian Anti-Terrorist Special Forces led by a huge ex-marine named Callum, who were waiting in the wings as the scene unfolded. They were monitoring the suspected terrorist vehicles from the ground. The Spiral DemolSquad was positioned as sniper support.
‘Tracking two vehicles: black Ford vans, six occupants. ETA four minutes. Over.’
Rex waited.
There was little else that he could do...
Amber went over her drill for the tenth time, checking her weapon, scope, ECube integration, body armour, hair and nails. ‘Damn fucking rain,’ she muttered, and shifted her weight slightly to ease the cramping in her calf muscles. The crumbling bullet-marked parapet was low, but not quite low enough, meaning that she had to support her weight at an odd angle. After an hour, cramps were inevitable.
Amber swept the scene with her scope. Through the audio link she was listening to the ground soldiers tailing the suspect vans.
The tip-off had come from an extremely reliable source: an ex-KGB agent turned arms dealer who was about to be tried for numerous crimes. He had given them reams of information on terrorist activity - as one of the main weapons suppliers to the Middle East and South America he was in a good position to do so. So far everything had checked out fine and the Australian government had high hopes for this gig. Six Egyptian terrorists were going to blow up Sydney Harbour bridge. They had schematics for the structure and knew exactly where to place the charges.
‘Fucking terrorists,’ snorted Amber, and swept the site once more.
No vans.
Come to think of it, no ground troops.
‘GF 10 through 30, call in. Over.’
No response.
‘GF 10 through 30, call in. Over!’
Again, no response.
‘You hear me, Rex?’
‘I’m here.’
‘You see anything?’
‘Not a donkey.’
‘There’s something wrong,’ came the sibilant whisper that was Scope’s rarely heard voice; both Amber and Rex felt a chill course through their souls. And yet on ChannelJ they could still hear the tail - the pursuit - of the vans. ‘Heading east away from the Circle Bay area, down Alfred Street, heading towards—‘
Amber swept the area once more. There was a movement of air beside her, a mere parting of the rain - and then the garrotte was around her throat before she knew what was happening. Her gloved hand slammed up beneath the cheese-cutter wire as her eyes suddenly widened and pain sliced into both sides of her throat - she felt blood sluice down her neck and over her breasts beneath her armour as her rifle clattered to the parapet.
Amber was lifted into the air, her legs kicking. She slammed her head backwards, once, twice, three times, hearing a crunch every time. The grip slackened but did not let go. ‘Rex!’ she managed to scream into the ECube, then slammed her elbow back into the breastbone of her assailant with all her strength. The garrotte slackened and Amber stumbled to her knees, coughing, scrabbling at the wire that was biting into her flesh—
Rex sighted on the parapet at the summit of the dimly lit building. He could see Amber struggling, but her attacker was too close for a clear shot and the rain was falling, obscuring his aim. Then Amber struck back. The assailant stumbled in the gloom and Rex squeezed off a shot into the night, then three more in quick succession. He grinned nastily just as the silenced pistol touched the back of his head and blew his brains and face all over the fine stonework of the Sydney Opera house.
Amber heard the hiss of the bullets as they flew past her. She whirled, crouching low as she drew her Beretta 9mm pistol. The figure flew at her, a kick smashing the handgun from her grip and out over the parapet. Confusion spread through her brain - she had heard twin thuds behind her, knew that Rex’s bullets had smashed home. Kevlar? The question flashed through her mind as reflexes took over. One kick, two - she blocked with her forearms, then smashed a straight right that the figure dodged as it circled. Amber met the stare of her assailant - the eyes were copper, bright - and she hammered out a front kick, connecting. The figure twisted, rolled, and kicked Amber’s legs from under her. She hit the ground with sudden shock, the back of her head cracking against the parapet. Stars of concussion flooded her vision - she swung out blindly, but hit nothing. She felt suddenly weightless - and realised with horror that she had been lifted from the ground again. ‘No!’ she yelled, her arms and legs flailing. But wind rushed up past her as her eyes widened and she screamed in terror and despair. Then she hit the ground and the scene, the act and the play were finally over.
Scope was considered a reptile by those who worked with him. He had no friends and was - or seemed to be - emotionless. He was dedicated, professional - and damn near the finest sniper in the whole of Spiral. Rumour had it that he could clip the tip from a mouse’s dick at ten thousand paces and could thread cotton through a needle’s eye with an aimed bullet.
He was appalled that he had not seen them coming. Four figures in black had climbed the war-torn bridge below him without being seen. Impossible! screamed his mind as they closed in for the kill. He swung the Bergmann and shot the first figure in the face - there was a hiss, a spray of blood and teeth, and it fell back limply and bounced its way down through the bridge’s structures into the gloom below.
Lightning crackled across the sky. In the glow, Scope grin
ned nastily.
The three figures pulled silenced pistols in fluid movements and everybody started shooting at the same time. Flashes flickered atop the Sydney Harbour bridge, an accompaniment to the lightning. Another dark-clad shape fell, hurled backwards like a rag doll, and pitched towards the narrow strip of tarmac below. Then a bullet hit Scope in the shoulder, spinning him round as a second smashed into his groin and a third into his throat. Blood spewed from his crimson slick lips. He groaned ‘Fuckers’ as he started to topple, but the security harness that held him whirled him round and he jerked to a halt on the line where he slowly rotated. Blood dripped from his limp corpse. The two remaining dark figures crept closer and put five more bullets into Scope’s body. Copper-eyed stares met for the briefest of instants. Then the shadowy beings sprinted away across the dizzying heights of the bridge.
The truck screeched to a halt, its headlights slicing through the heavy downpour. Callum stared hard past the thumping wipers, then barked ‘Out.’ Ten men leaped from the cab and the truck’s tailgate. They spread out, SA80s covering each other’s arcs of fire. Callum crept back and crouched by the body of the dead soldier. His throat had been cut. Callum swallowed hard, glancing around at the other six bodies. Not a bullet had been fired. ‘They hit them hard and fast, boys. Let’s spread out, see what the score is. Albert, you got that fucking comms up and running yet?’
‘The whole net’s dead, sir.’
Callum nodded, then motioned for the men to move out.
They moved purposefully through the downpour. Lightning flickered overhead, and Callum strained to see the sniper atop the bridge. He could see something, some sort of movement briefly illuminated - but then it was gone to be replaced by a haze of rain and confusion.
And Callum knew. Could feel it.
They had been fucked, hard and proper - but to what purpose? Had the terrorists planted the explosives? Was the bridge about to go the same way as the Opera House?