Ghost Target (Ryan Drake)

by Will Jordan

  However, that thought did little to assuage the aching sadness he felt to be leaving this place, knowing he would likely never return.

  He felt a hand on his shoulder, and glanced around at Samantha who was standing beside him. ‘We can find another place,’ she said quietly.

  Drake said nothing as he settled himself in front of the outboard motor and twisted the throttle, accelerating away from the scene.

  Chapter 16

  The sun was low on the horizon by the time Drake eased off the throttle, allowing the little speedboat to drift to a halt about a mile out from the harbour at Marseille. None of them had said much during the fraught journey away from the villa, though they were relieved to have encountered no pursuit.

  At least, none that they could see. For all they knew, there could be a Predator drone shadowing them, or a satellite looking down on their progress.

  ‘You know, sometimes I can’t help thinking we got the shitty deal in life,’ Frost remarked, staring longingly at the big luxury yachts moored near the harbour mouth, the sound of music and revelry already drifting across the water.

  ‘You just realising that now?’ Drake asked, as he fished out his cell phone and started dialling.

  She shrugged. ‘Be nice to see how the other half live.’

  Drake didn’t respond as he waited for his call to connect. To his relief, it was answered within seconds. ‘We’re in position. Give us a signal.’

  Sure enough, a second or two later, he caught the flash of a signal lamp a mile or so to the west. The low sun made it difficult to pick out the source, but Drake had the bearing fixed in his mind.

  ‘Good man. Stand by, we’re on our way.’

  Gunning the throttle once more, he powered the small craft at top speed across the choppy waves, salty spray stinging his eyes and the small cuts on his arms from the earlier attack. He cared little for such minor discomfort, focussing on the task at hand as their destination at last came into view.

  An old, worn out, wooden-hulled fishing trawler that looked like it hadn’t seen a lick of paint in her lifetime, the Alamo seemed painfully outclassed by the ultra-modern pleasure craft that populated the big harbour at Marseille. But then, that was the point. Nobody took much notice of her, least of all the thieves who made a profitable living by slipping aboard untended vessels at night and helping themselves to the valuable equipment on board.

  Drake brought them alongside the bigger vessel and throttled back on the engine, keeping pace with it. A moment or two later, a figure appeared at the guard rail above.

  Drake let out a sigh of relief as Cole Mason grinned down at him, looking tired and dishevelled but heartily glad to see them. The feeling was mutual.

  ‘Ahoy there,’ he said, his grin broadening in amusement. ‘Always wanted to use that in context. Hang tight and I’ll throw you a rope.’

  In short order a line was tossed down to him, which Drake used to secure the inflatable against the side of the Alamo. Holding the line tight to keep them in place, Drake watched as Samantha clambered up the steel rungs fixed to the hull of the vessel, followed a little more tentatively by Frost. He went up last, relieved as much to be on a more substantial vessel as he was to see his friend.

  Mason had greeted McKnight as soon as she was aboard, grabbing the woman in a bear hug that practically lifted her off the deck. ‘Damn good to see you again, Sam.’

  Despite herself, she couldn’t help but return the gesture in equal measure. She hadn’t known him as long as Drake or Frost, but the two had enjoyed an easy, relaxed camaraderie that had only grown stronger over the years.

  ‘And you. I’m glad you got out of Milan in one piece.’

  ‘Hey, dickhead,’ Frost said with a dash of her typical brashness. ‘You’ll forgive me if I don’t pick you up.’

  Mason threw her a glance, ready to reply in kind, though his smile soon faded as he took in her pale and dishevelled appearance. ‘What the hell have you been doing to yourself, Keira?’

  ‘Long story. Don’t get all Florence Nightingale on me, though.’ She gave Drake a meaningful look. ‘Ryan’s already got that covered.’

  Turning his attention to Drake, Mason caught the man’s expression and realised he had his own story to tell. ‘What’s been going on, Ryan?’

  ‘A lot.’ Drake let out a breath. ‘Better if we talk it over below. Have you secured the main cabin?’

  The older man shook his head. ‘Nah, just the engine room and wheelhouse. Only what I needed to put this tub to sea.’

  Nodding, Drake approached the rusty steel-covered hatch leading below decks and knelt down beside it. It was secured with a heavy-duty padlock, which he disengaged and removed. Pulling the hatch open an inch or so, he felt around for the length of fishing line he’d secured there. A single deft motion was enough to unhook it, preventing it from triggering the homemade scuttling device that McKnight installed as a precaution against unwanted boarding.

  He certainly didn’t want the contents of the vessel to fall into the wrong hands.

  ‘Let’s go,’ he said, helping the injured young woman down the hatchway into the belly of the ship. It was no easy task given the steep angle of the stairs, but with some coaxing and support he was able to get her below. The others followed behind.

  Flicking on the light switch by the entrance, Drake watched as the darkened cabin flickered into life.

  ‘I’ll say one thing for you, Ryan,’ Frost said, taking it all in. ‘You certainly plan ahead.’

  To casual observers the Alamo appeared to be a neglected, dilapidated old fishing smack, likely one storm away from sinking. But as Drake had learned all too well, appearances could be deceptive.

  The main cabin, measuring about 30 feet long and 15 across, was, in contrast to the exterior, clean, orderly and well maintained. The floor was sanded and polished smooth, the walls recently repainted, the fixtures and fittings brand new.

  A communications terminal and work area had been set up on the port side, with a pair of laptop computers linked to a larger flat-screen monitor fixed to the bulkhead above. Alongside them was an encrypted radio unit, a radar console and a satellite phone plugged into a charging port.

  On the other side of the cabin was a simple but efficient galley, with a couple of storage units stocked with fresh water and tinned foods. The Alamo was, at Drake’s insistence, stocked with enough food, fuel and provisions to sustain a crew of four for up to a month. In his view the only thing better than a safe house was a safe house that could relocate virtually anywhere with a port.

  Toilet and washing facilities were located further aft, but it was the berthing area in the bow that Drake was most concerned about. Easing Frost onto the leather chair by the communications terminal, he moved forward, producing a second key from the chain he carried with him.

  Unlocking the padlock that kept the area secured, he swung the hatch open to inspect the small V-shaped room beyond.

  Food and provisions were one thing, but a group such as his might well have need of weapons to defend themselves. For this reason, the Alamo’s berthing room was stocked with an array of assault rifles, submachine guns, shotguns, pistols, cases of ammunition and spare clips. Beside these weapons were several sets of body armour, tactical radios, medical kits, survival gear and just about anything else a small group of field operatives might need.

  Satisfied that the armoury hadn’t been tampered with, Drake returned to the main cabin. ‘We’re good,’ he said simply. ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘I fucking hate boats. How’s that?’

  Drake gave her a disapproving look. ‘There any form of transport you do like?’

  ‘Yeah. Bikes. That’s why I own one.’

  ‘Very funny. You weren’t laughing when you showed up this morning, though,’ Drake reminded her, before turning his attention back to Mason. ‘Cole, tell us everything that happened. Two of my friends have been attacked within hours of each other, and I need to know how and why. Then we have more.’


  It took about ten minutes for Mason to recount his experience of the raid in Milan, for Frost to explain the attack and attempted abduction in Munich, and finally for Drake to relate the assault on their villa.

  ‘Cain came after us first, but not in force,’ Mason said, summing up his thoughts. ‘If he’d wanted us dead, there were easier and more certain ways of making it happen.’

  ‘He was baiting you, trying to hurt you so you’d come to me,’ Drake reasoned. ‘He wanted us all here, so he could kill us together.’

  ‘In short, we be fucked, mateys,’ Frost concluded.

  ‘In short, Cain’s not worried about keeping this behind closed doors any more,’ Drake corrected her with a sharp look. ‘This was a declaration of war.’

  For once, Frost seemed to be at a loss. ‘But we were careful, covered our tracks, used false IDs, the works.’

  For Drake, the answer was chillingly obvious. ‘When you’ve got every police and intelligence service in the western world at your disposal, that has a way of levelling the playing field. Everyone you pass in the street, every traffic camera, every man and woman in a uniform… All of it could be working against us now.’

  ‘But why? Why now, after all this time?’ Frost asked.

  ‘To force our hand,’ Mason surmised. ‘He takes a jab at us, backs us into a corner. He knows we’ll have no choice but to react.’

  ‘So how do we react? Do we relocate, create new identities?’

  Drake shook his head, his expression grim. ‘That’s only delaying the inevitable. Cain wants us dead, and we all know that’s a battle we’ll never win. We can’t fight the Agency, and we can’t run from it – not for long.’

  ‘So what do you suggest?’ Mason asked.

  Saying nothing, Drake stood up and backed away from the impromptu meeting. He needed to clear his head and think this through, because what he was contemplating could be the biggest gamble they had ever taken.

  Emerging up onto the deck, Drake stared out across the sea with his arms folded. Normally this kind of view had a calming effect on him, but not today. Today every muscle in his body felt like it was tensed, ready to spring into action, his instincts compelling him to make that ancient primal choice – fight or flight.

  But the enemy facing him wasn’t one that could be fought with tooth and claw. He knew all too well what the Agency was to those unwise enough to make it an enemy. It was a monster whose insidious tendrils stretched into every aspect of the world around them, able to creep through the darkness and hide in plain sight. The threats it presented were as complex and multifaceted as a diamond, able to wield both overt strength and hidden menace, to turn good people against them, to call on virtually any resource it needed to achieve its aim.

  They were fighting a monster whose body could never be defeated. Only its head remained irrevocably human, and therefore vulnerable.

  ‘I know that look all too well,’ McKnight said, having followed him outside. ‘You’re planning something.’

  ‘Yeah.’ No point in lying to her.

  ‘You want to lash out, hit back after what happened today.’

  Drake said nothing to that. She knew the answer well enough.

  He heard McKnight sigh in frustration. ‘Don’t you see, that’s exactly what Cain wants? If you try to strike back now when we’re off balance and outnumbered, you’re playing right into his hands.’

  ‘Maybe,’ he agreed. ‘But I’d rather make a play while we still can.’

  Like the fighter he’d once been, he’d rather go down punching than throw in the towel and meekly submit to an enemy who would show them no mercy. He’d take a fighting chance over no chance at all.

  ‘But for all Cain knows, we’re dead. Why not leave it that way?’

  ‘Because it’ll never be over,’ Drake said, turning to face her. ‘Sooner or later he’ll figure out there were no bodies in the rubble, then he’ll come after us again. And again, and again until he succeeds. No matter how far we run or how well we hide, he’ll find us.’ He sighed and shook his head. ‘It’ll never be over. Not as long as Cain’s alive.’

  She caught the dangerous glimmer in his eyes, saw the cold determination that was growing in him, and knew then what he was contemplating.

  ‘You’re talking about—’

  ‘I’m talking about Downfall,’ he finished for her.

  He saw her exhale, saw the muscles in her throat tighten as his words sank in. She knew he would never make such a suggestion lightly, would never even mention it unless he was dead serious.

  And now he was.

  In truth, Ryan hadn’t been as idle here as Anya had imagined. The lull in action had given him the time and space he needed. He had tackled the challenge with the same single-minded focus and determination that had marked him out as one of the Agency’s best Shepherd team leaders, ruthlessly tearing through possibilities, theories and conjectures to arrive at a cold, calculated solution.

  Their previous opportunistic and badly coordinated attempts to find incriminating evidence, to blackmail, disrupt or otherwise unravel Cain’s plans had all failed. It had since become clear to him that they’d likely been doomed to fail right from the start, because they were trying to beat Cain at his own game, playing by his rules. He’d been playing those games long before any of them, and his deadly cunning combined with years of experience had allowed him to pre-empt their every move.

  The only option left was to take a far more direct approach. Thus, over the past several months he had composed, discarded and refined more operational plans than he could remember, each focussed on a single, specific objective. And at last he had arrived at one that might just work.

  Downfall was the codename for the plan to assassinate Marcus Cain.

  Chapter 17

  CIA headquarters – Langley, Virginia

  Special Activities divisional leader Dan Franklin eyed up the stretch of carpeted floor that stood between himself and his office desk. Six, maybe seven feet separated him from the simple wooden-topped unit, the short distance stretching out like a yawning gulf before him.

  ‘One small step for man…’

  Taking a breath, he lifted his left foot and planted it firmly on the carpet, working carefully to keep his balance. It was a small step, but an unaided one, and he felt his heart beating faster in excitement. Focussing his mind on the task at hand, he raised his right foot and swung it forward, then straight away used the shift in momentum to bring his left foot back into play.

  He must have looked like a toddler wobbling unsteadily forward, trying to coordinate limbs he was unfamiliar with using, but he didn’t care at that moment. All that mattered was reaching his desk. That was the sole focus of his world.

  Another step, and another. Almost there. He could do it. He would do it.

  A minor wrinkle in the carpet, scarcely enough to impede a vacuum cleaner’s progress, was enough to silence those thoughts. The tip of his left foot catching on the minor obstacle, he suddenly lost his tentative sense of balance and pitched forward, throwing out his arm to catch the edge of his desk and save himself from a painful and humiliating fall.

  He succeeded, just, but his hand clipped a mug of coffee that was resting there, sending it rolling across the table to clatter on the floor.

  ‘Shit,’ he growled, using the solid support of the desk to pull himself upright.

  No sooner had he spoken than the door to his private office flew open and his secretary Barbara approached, quickly surveying the room. The look in her eyes was one of concern and, as she began to understand what had caused the commotion, pity. The one thing Franklin couldn’t abide.

  ‘Mr Franklin, is everything okay?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Franklin replied, straightening his tie. ‘Everything’s fine.’

  The woman nodded, then suddenly spotted the coffee mug lying on the floor. The thick carpet had stopped it from breaking on impact, but the dregs of coffee that had lurked in its depths had spilled out in a wide arc
, staining the floor.

  ‘Oh no. Let me get that for you,’ she said, instinctively moving to pick it up.

  ‘No!’ He’d said it with more heat than he’d intended, and quickly softened his tone. ‘It’s fine. My own stupid fault. I’ll clean it up in a minute.’

  His secretary hesitated, wanting to help but wary of embarrassing him. More than most, she knew how much this meant to him.

  Seeking to ease the uncomfortable situation, Franklin pushed himself away from the desk, standing tall and straight as he could. ‘Since you’re here, though, would you do me a favour and push out my meeting with Breckenridge by half an hour? I need more time to get through the field reports from Baghdad.’

  At this, Barbara nodded, looking grateful to have a reason to leave. Franklin waited until she’d shut the door before slumping forward with an exhausted sigh, resting both hands on the desk for support.

  Threading his way around it like a child clutching at the edge of a swimming pool, he eased himself back down into his padded leather chair and let out a breath of relief. It was a good 30 seconds before he felt ready to bend down and retrieve the fallen coffee cup, and as he straightened up, he found himself staring at something propped against the wall in the corner of the office.

  A walking stick.

  He’d been given it when he’d finally been discharged from hospital after undergoing successful spinal fusion surgery last year. Successful, in that he was no longer plagued by the chronic back pain that had become increasingly debilitating in recent years; the result of a roadside bomb that had ended his military career. However, the long-term merits of the operation were questionable. For a terrifying few days, he’d even lain in bed without any feeling whatsoever in his lower body, facing the prospect of life confined to a wheelchair.