Ghost Target (Ryan Drake)

by Will Jordan

  ‘Why?’

  She rose slowly to her feet, keeping a tight grip of her weapon. ‘Because he has already found us.’

  Chapter 31

  The reaction of the Shepherd operatives was immediate and instinctive. Whirling around to face this new and unexpected arrival, Drake immediately went for his weapon, as did his three companions.

  A trio of shadowy figures had appeared not 20 yards away, seemingly having emerged from the darkened forest like ghosts. They were dressed in dark cloaks that masked outlines and covered even their faces, leaving only their eyes exposed, and had likely allowed them to approach so close unseen. But even in the general darkness in which they lurked, Drake was able to recognize the distinctive frames of AK family assault rifles pointed his way.

  There were many variants – and reproductions – of these legendary old Soviet rifles, but it didn’t matter too much at that moment which ones were pointed at him. They all went boom on command and they were all capable of punching a sizeable hole in pretty much anything they hit. All three firing on full automatic were more than enough to reduce his team to bloodied corpses in seconds.

  ‘Don’t,’ Anya warned, likely harbouring similar thoughts. ‘Make no move.’

  ‘They’ve got the drop on us,’ Frost hissed.

  Ignoring her, Anya holstered her weapon and slowly approached the new arrivals, keeping her hands in plain sight. Her face betrayed no hint of fear or hostility, but Drake could see the tension in her body, like a coiled spring straining to be released.

  ‘Malak,’ she began, before continuing in Pashto, one of the many languages used amongst tribesmen in this part of the world.

  Drake himself had a working knowledge of Arabic, but Pashto was too far removed for him to make any sense of her conversation. He could only hope the three masked gunmen were more receptive.

  Having said her piece, Anya fell silent. In the uneasy stand-off that followed, Drake could have sworn he’d have heard a pin drop. Even the ubiquitous cicadas seemed to have ceased their song.

  Then, just as suddenly as they had appeared, one of the figures lowered his weapon and pulled back his hood, exposing a craggy, thickly bearded face that looked like it had lived a life neither short nor easy. One dark, hawkish eye was fixed on the woman. The other was a gaping, empty socket partially covered by old scar tissue.

  But to Drake’s surprise, the man he presumed was called Malak let out a peal of hearty laughter, the jovial sound of genuine amusement quite at odds with his grim visage.

  ‘Your Pashto is as ugly as my face, Anya,’ he remarked in English, striding towards her with one gloved hand outstretched.

  The tension seemed to leave Anya’s body then as she met him halfway, grasping his hand as if he were an old friend. The other two gunmen had lowered their weapons, and Drake silently nodded to his own teammates to do likewise.

  ‘It is good to see you again, Malak,’ Anya replied, releasing her grip. ‘Your tracking skills are getting better.’

  ‘Better than yours, I think. But then, we were waiting for you.’

  She said nothing to that, instead turning her attention to matters closer at hand. ‘Did you bring everything I requested?’

  ‘Straight to business, as always,’ Malak observed. ‘Of course I got everything. Have I ever let you down?’

  ‘Would you like me to be honest?’

  The man grinned, exposing a set of white, perfectly aligned teeth that would have been the envy of any Hollywood movie star. Strange that he should have invested so much money in his dental care when a simple eye patch might have served him better, Drake couldn’t help thinking. But then, perhaps his friends were simply too frightened to tell him so.

  ‘Ha! Still got some fire in you, just like the old days,’ he said, slapping her on the arm. ‘Speaking of which, why are you back in Pakistan? Surely you are not working for the CIA again?’

  Anya’s expression made it plain this was one conversation that wasn’t going anywhere. ‘I would like to see the gear, Malak.’

  Malak regarded her a moment longer, then shrugged. ‘As you wish. Come, our truck is not far from here.’

  Without saying a word to Drake and the rest of the team, he turned away and began to stride off down the forested slope, making remarkably little noise considering the rough terrain they were traversing. Drake was beginning to realize it hadn’t just been a lapse in vigilance that had allowed these men to approach so close; likely they had spent most of their lives in these mountains, and could move through them as silently as shadows.

  With little choice, Anya, Drake and the others followed behind. Instinctively they formed a standard patrol column, keeping about five yards between each member to avoid bunching up and making themselves an easy target.

  Drake, however, slowed his pace, allowing Anya to catch up with him so they could converse without being overheard by their new guides.

  ‘Doesn’t seem too interested in us,’ he observed.

  It wasn’t as if he was eager to swap names and addresses with a Pakistani arms dealer, but he was surprised Malak didn’t want to know anything about them. In his experience, such men were notoriously paranoid, as well they should be. The Agency had run plenty of sting operations against his kind.

  ‘Malak knows the situation. No names, no details. Nothing that could compromise us if he is caught.’ The woman shrugged. ‘And he trusts me.’

  Drake was curiously reminded of the Russian pilot who had brought them here. ‘I take it this is another one of those long stories, right?’

  Anya said nothing.

  He shook his head, dismissing it. There was something more important he needed to address anyway. ‘Listen, about what happened with the others—’

  ‘Save your breath,’ she interrupted. ‘I don’t care if your team likes me. All I’m interested in is Cain. Once we have him, they will not see me again.’

  There wasn’t much he could say to that. She had made her views perfectly clear. Drake quickened his pace a little, giving her some space. But as he did so, she called out after him. ‘Ryan.’

  He glanced over his shoulder.

  ‘What you did for me… up there,’ she said, looking suddenly unsure of herself. The way she always did when she had to let down her guard. ‘I won’t forget it.’

  It wasn’t much, but it was about as close to a ‘thank you’ as he was likely to get. And he supposed, given what they were about to face together, it was enough for now.

  Chapter 32

  St Luke’s Medical Center Denver

  Jack Taylor made his way along the corridor at a slow, casual pace, doing his best not to look uncomfortable at the smell of antiseptic, the whitewashed walls and the doctors in medical scrubs doing the rounds of the wards.

  Hospitals had never sat well with him, even as a kid, and that feeling had only intensified during his career in the military. Too many of his buddies had ended up in places like this – proud and dedicated soldiers reduced to broken, burned, mutilated shells of men.

  Most of the time it had been nothing more than bad luck. Maybe they’d tried to walk across the wrong field, driven down the wrong road, made a wrong turn. He’d visited each of them after it happened, offered reassurance and even shared a few jokes with one or two, but he’d always hated it. Hated the feeling of desperation, the despair, the loneliness that seemed to linger around such places.

  Pushing past these thoughts, he followed the corridor as it took a right turn, keeping his eye on the door numbers. He’d been sent here by an old friend, to find her father and escort him to safety. He’d promised Samantha that if the need ever arose, he would be there for her, and he had no intention of breaking that promise.

  He knew all too well what she’d sacrificed, what she’d given up to protect the other members of her group, including him, after their foolish adventure in Iraq. A plan that should have made them all rich, but instead landed her a 15-year prison term.

  Finding Room 6C at last, Taylor paused
for a moment outside the door to straighten his jacket and check his shirt for creases. He was wearing casual clothes, but old habits die hard, and he wanted to make a good impression on Pete McKnight.

  There was no reply to his polite knock. Perhaps the old man was dozing. She’d warned Taylor that he was sick and likely weak from his treatment. He knocked again, a little harder this time to give the man fair warning, then pushed it open.

  But there was no sign of Pete McKnight, either in the bed or on the seats over by the window. Not only was he missing, but there was no trace of his presence. No clothes, no personal effects on the bedside table, no books or magazines.

  ‘Shit,’ he said under his breath.

  Leaving the room, he hurried back around to the nurse’s station and approached the duty nurse, a middle-aged black woman who looked like she was at the tail end of a long shift. A stack of folders were piled up on the desk in front of her.

  ‘Excuse me. I’m looking for the patient in Room 6C. Has he been moved to another ward?’

  She glanced up from her work, regarding him dubiously. ‘You his next of kin?’

  ‘Family friend,’ Taylor explained, seeing no point in lying to her. ‘His daughter’s on active duty overseas. She asked me to swing by, check in on him.’

  At this, her expression softened a little, as people’s often did when families were separated by military service. ‘Too late, I’m afraid. He checked himself out this morning.’

  ‘Checked out?’ Taylor’s brows drew together in a frown. ‘Isn’t he going through chemo right now?’

  ‘You know we can’t discuss a patient’s treatment, sir. But for what it’s worth, the doctor did everything to make him stay, short of locking him in his room. Legally we can’t stop a patient of sound mind from discharging himself.’

  Taylor held up a hand, uninterested in the legal details. ‘Did he at least say where he was going?’

  She tilted her head. ‘You tried his house?’

  Taylor was already moving, heading for the elevator that would take him down to the hospital’s underground parking lot. Naturally Samantha had given him her father’s home address in case the man needed to pick up some supplies or personal effects, so at least he knew where he was going next.

  He just hoped Pete McKnight was there waiting for him.

  * * *

  Margalla Hills, Pakistan

  The truck which according to Malak was ‘not far from here’ proved to be over two miles away. An easy 20-minute march under normal circumstances, but made substantially more difficult by the rough terrain and poor visibility.

  The arms dealer and his companions were as sure footed as mountain goats and almost as nimble, easily leaping across narrow gullies or descending unstable scree slopes like they were paved highways. Even Anya, no stranger to terrain like this, was hard pressed to keep up.

  Sure enough, they at last dropped onto a rocky, unpaved track that somewhat resembled a road. It was hardly pristine blacktop, but compared to the difficult ground they’d just covered, it felt like they were walking on air.

  A few hundred yards further down this trail they found a pair of vehicles parked nose to tail. The one at the back was a panel van of some kind, most likely of Russian origin, while the vehicle in front was an old model Isuzu Trooper 4 x 4. One was certainly more suited to this kind of terrain than the other, and Drake had a feeling he knew which one Malak and his mates would be driving away in.

  A fourth member of Malak’s crew was guarding the two vehicles, similarly armed with an AK assault rifle. He tensed a little as the group approached out of the darkness, but a bird-like whistle from Malak was enough to allay his fears.

  ‘Everything you asked for is in the van,’ the arms dealer explained. ‘You want to check it?’

  Anya nodded. ‘Of course.’

  Moving forward, he unlatched the van’s rear doors and pulled them open. Sure enough, several large packing boxes had been laid out in the cargo area, fixed against the walls with bungee cords to keep them from spilling out during the rough drive up here.

  Drake and Anya moved towards the van at the same time, each eager to verify that the gear they needed was present and correct. Anya gave him a sidelong look, perhaps not expecting him to get involved, though she voiced no objection as he went to work on the first box.

  The Alamo had been well provisioned in terms of weapons and gear, some of which they’d brought along with them, but there was only so much they could transport into the country by parachute drop. Staging a complex house assault of the kind Drake had in mind, not to mention gathering the supporting elements needed to sustain the team during their time here, required more than they could be reasonably expected to carry. That was where Malak came in.

  Five minutes of careful examination was enough to satisfy Drake that everything was as it should be. He certainly couldn’t find any obvious flaws or defects that would warn him this deal had gone sour. Of course, some of the equipment was impossible to test properly without actually using it, but as far as he could tell Malak had been true to his word. Whoever this man was, he must have had quite a network of contacts within the military to make this happen. No wonder the guy could afford to fork out for his winning smile.

  ‘This will do,’ Anya decided, closing the box she’d been examining.

  ‘Such praise.’ Malak grinned at her, then gestured to the Russian van. ‘The van is yours as well. The tank is almost full, and the engine is in good order.’

  ‘It’s not stolen, I assume?’ she prompted. The last thing they needed was to be pulled over by Pakistani police for car theft.

  The weapons and equipment were of course another matter. Drake was under no illusions that they’d been obtained anything close to legally, but that didn’t matter. Once they were done here, everything here would be left behind.

  ‘What do you take me for?’ Malak asked, though his playful words elicited no response from her. ‘So, we are done here?’

  ‘We are,’ she confirmed. Reaching into her webbing, she handed over a thick wad of US dollars. Given that the Pakistani rupee was currently worth somewhere between very little and fuck all, the choice of currency made sense to Drake. Malak certainly wasn’t complaining as he thumbed through the greenback, checking it hadn’t been padded out with one-dollar bills.

  ‘I will not insult you by counting it,’ he said as he pocketed the bills, despite the fact he’d pretty much done just that.

  A quiet order in Pashto prompted his comrades to return to the 4 x 4 up front, and a moment later the engine shuddered into life. With their business concluded, they were no doubt eager to get out of here.

  Lingering a moment longer, Malak took a step towards Anya. ‘I don’t know what you have in mind here in Pakistan, but I wish you luck.’ He glanced at Drake and the others, acknowledging their existence for the first time. ‘All of you.’

  The woman nodded curtly. ‘And you, Malak.’

  Drake doubted Anya would lose much sleep over Malak’s welfare, but he sensed a certain grudging respect for the man all the same. It was more than most people earned from her, at least.

  Leaving them to it, Malak returned to the 4 x 4 and clambered up into the passenger seat. With only one eye, Drake imagined his night-driving skills weren’t exactly top notch. The main beams flicked on then, and with a throaty growl the vehicle took off down the road, the glow of its headlights soon lost as it disappeared around a bend in the valley.

  Once more the group were alone, albeit far better armed and equipped than they had been before, and with a vehicle to get them where they needed to be. It was time to make use of it.

  ‘We’d better be on our way,’ Drake said, pointing towards the van’s rear doors. ‘Cole, up front with me. Everyone else in the back. Let’s move.’

  ‘I’ll drive,’ Anya said.

  Drake looked at her. ‘You’re a woman.’

  Her expression made it plain she didn’t like where this was going. ‘Your point?’
r />   ‘We’re in an Islamic country.’

  ‘So? Women can drive in Pakistan.’

  ‘Yes, but it’s the middle of the night. And this is a van, not a family saloon. And you’re clearly a Western woman. You’d draw attention to us. Isn’t that something you said we should avoid?’

  Drake and Mason both had naturally dark complexions aided by much time spent outdoors in hot countries, and though they wouldn’t fool anyone on close inspection, at night and from a distance they might just pass for locals. The same couldn’t be said for their blonde haired companion.

  Anya crossed her arms, saying nothing. The way she often did when she didn’t want to concede a point. No doubt she was also aware that the whole group was watching to see how this little contest of wills played out.

  Moving forward, Drake took her arm and gently steered her away from the others, lowering his voice so that only she could hear.

  ‘I know this isn’t how you’re used to doing things, but I need you to work with me now, yeah?’ he urged her. ‘This isn’t a competition. Believe me, you’ll get your chance.’

  Anya met his gaze, and for a moment he could have sworn he saw a flicker of amusement. It was hard to tell if she was mocking him, but it was preferable to outright hostility. ‘Are you this diplomatic with your own team?’

  Drake nodded to Frost, who was idly poking around in one of the boxes in the van’s cargo area. ‘I’ve learned to be.’

  Christ knows, I’ve had plenty of practice over the years, he thought.

  This time he definitely saw the beginnings of a smile. ‘Fine. We do it your way,’ she conceded. ‘For now.’

  With the matter reluctantly agreed on, she turned away, marched towards the van and clambered up into the rear compartment. Another obstacle overcome, Drake thought. He wondered how many more stood in their path.

  ‘All right, the night’s not getting any younger,’ he said, pointing towards the vehicle. ‘Get changed into your civvy clothes and get aboard.’