Ghost Target (Ryan Drake)

by Will Jordan

  ‘It’s them!’ she cried, throwing the 4 x 4 into gear. ‘We’re going in. Hold on, Keira.’

  Scarcely had she delivered her warning before her boot stomped down on the accelerator, pressing it all the way to the floor.

  * * *

  ‘Incoming vehicle!’ Mason called, pointing to the 4 x 4 rocketing towards the main gate that still blocked the entrance to the compound.

  Drake could hardly believe what he was seeing. ‘It’s Sam,’ he gasped, realizing she must have seen the red smoke. ‘Get ready to move.’

  The gate itself was constructed of thick steel bars welded together and supported by heavier cross beams, designed to retract automatically when the correct code was entered on the keypad entry system beside it.

  McKnight had no intention of waiting that long. Drake almost winced at the thump and crunch as the vehicle’s bumper and grille took the brunt of the impact, shattering and buckling. But the gate fared little better, unable to resist the force of two tonnes of 4 x 4 moving at high speed, and immediately broke free of its hinges before collapsing across the hood and windshield.

  McKnight jammed on the brakes, the sudden change in momentum causing the broken frame of the gate to slide off the front of the Range Rover, clattering to the ground in a heap of twisted metal. The vehicle’s nose had been reduced to a mass of shattered fibreglass, broken headlights and buckled bodywork, but the engine still roared with defiant power.

  ‘Go! Get them in here!’ she screamed, pointing to Frost.

  The young woman needed no encouragement, drawing her automatic and throwing her door open to venture out and retrieve their two comrades. However, no sooner had her foot touched the ground than a burst of gunfire tore into the tarmac driveway right in front of her, peppering the vehicle’s interior with fragments of broken rock.

  ‘Shit! Incoming!’ she cried, ducking down into the footwell.

  McKnight scarcely had time to throw herself down between the seats before another burst tore a line of ragged holes in the windshield, several bullets punching right through to embed themselves in her seat. She let out a cry of pain and fear as fragments of glass rained down on her.

  Outside, Drake started at the sound of automatic gunfire from somewhere up above, and watched in horror as rounds slammed into the ground around the Range Rover, many tearing into the vehicle itself. McKnight and Frost seemed to have taken cover, and the swirling smoke screen created by the grenade was helping to obscure them to a degree, but it was only a matter of time before the erratic bombardment found a target.

  ‘Defilade above!’ Mason called out, craning his weapon upwards in search of the shooter, only to find his line of sight blocked by the overhang of the upper-floor terrace. ‘I can’t get a shot!’

  ‘I’ll go,’ Anya decided. ‘Get ready to move when the firing stops.’

  She had barely taken two steps before Drake seized her arm. ‘We’re not splitting up.’

  ‘No time to argue.’ Anya yanked her arm from the man’s grasp. ‘Your friends need you here, Ryan. Let me do this.’

  The look of fierce, iron determination in her eyes told him she wouldn’t be dissuaded. As she always had, Anya made her own decisions, and she had chosen to cover their escape. And yet, he felt the significance of this moment press down on him like a physical weight.

  ‘You be right behind us when we leave,’ he said, unable to shake the feeling that she wouldn’t be.

  Anya gave him a simple nod of acknowledgement and turned to go, but hesitated for a moment. ‘Look after Samantha. She is… she will need you when this is over, Ryan.’

  Before Drake could say anything further, she had turned and sprinted back into the house, leaving the two operatives alone.

  High above them, on the terrace they had zip-lined down only minutes earlier, a pair of black-clothed operatives were perched on the edge, their M4 carbines trained on the vehicle just visible through the swirling smoke below. One was concentrating on keeping the occupants pinned down, hoping to kill or incapacitate the driver, while the other focussed his fire on the engine block to the cripple the vehicle and prevent an escape.

  It was no easy task with the smoke masking their target, but both men were battle-hardened professionals, and from their elevated position were able to fire into the courtyard with impunity. Rarely did soldiers like themselves enjoy such overwhelming tactical superiority.

  After loosing one last shot, the first operative felt the charging handle on his weapon fly back and lock in place, signalling that the chamber was empty.

  ‘Changing mags,’ he warned, ejecting the spent clip and hurriedly slipping a fresh one into place.

  With his focus momentarily shifted to the weapon in his hands, he didn’t notice the figure creeping through the shadows near the wall behind him, didn’t hear the faint splash of boots on wet concrete.

  The first hint of danger was pretty much the last thing he felt, as his head was grabbed and yanked back violently, exposing his throat. He saw the momentary gleam of a blade, and let out a gurgling moan of agony as the knife was plunged into his neck, severing arteries and his windpipe.

  He was powerless to resist as the carbine was yanked from his grip and he was turned towards his companion by his unseen killer. His fellow operative had reacted to the sudden scuffle by swinging his rifle towards the source of the noise, perhaps sensing they’d been outflanked and attacked. Seeing his dying comrade being used as a human shield, he opened fire, aiming for the barely visible figure behind, but most of the 5.56mm rounds flattened against the man’s body armour.

  A cry of pain and a spray of crimson told him at least one round had found its target, but it was too little too late. The answering burst, fired one-handed, was aimed at his head. It was a clumsy way to fire an assault rifle, and although several rounds went wide, at such close range at least one found its mark. He grunted almost in surprise as the round entered through his left eye socket, destroying one half of his vision before blasting out through the back of his head.

  Spun around by the force of the impact, he toppled over the edge of the terrace in his death throes, plunging to the ground below.

  Below, Drake and Mason jumped back in shock as the dead operative slammed into the ground mere feet away from them, blood and brain matter from his gory head wound already pooling in the puddles around him.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ Mason gasped, looking up.

  Realizing that the firing overhead had ceased, Drake immediately understood what had happened. ‘She did it,’ he said, eyes widening at the realisation. ‘This is our chance. Go, Cole!’

  Mason needed no encouragement, sprinting towards the Range Rover and hauling the passenger door open to reveal Frost still crouched in the footwell.

  ‘You okay?’ he asked, his usual bravado deserting him as he surveyed the two women, looking for gunshot wounds.

  ‘Never better.’ Frost flashed him a crooked grin. ‘What took you so long?’

  ‘Sightseeing.’ Raising his weapon, he turned it towards the building in case more operatives appeared to fire down on them. ‘Ryan, you’re covered. Let’s go!’

  Shaking fragments of glass from her hair, McKnight clambered back into the driver’s seat. ‘We need to be somewhere else. Now!’

  Drake arrived a moment later. Yanking the rear door open, he hesitated for only a second, his eyes turned upwards to the terrace where the two operatives had been laying down their murderous suppressing fire only seconds before.

  Sure enough, even in the darkness and rain, he was able to discern a lone figure standing up there. A woman, her clothes and blonde hair soaked by the deluge. Anya.

  She might well have saved their lives, but at what cost? She couldn’t jump from such a height without killing or seriously injuring herself, and making her way down through the interior of the house would take precious time they didn’t have. This car was a bullet magnet that his injured and depleted team couldn’t hope to defend, and if it was destroyed then they could kis
s goodbye to any hope of escape.

  Their eyes met for a brief moment, and she nodded to him. It was a nod of acceptance, and of encouragement. She knew the situation as well as he did; she’d known it the moment she volunteered to go. She was telling him to leave her behind.

  ‘Damn it, Anya,’ he whispered, turning away and throwing himself into the vehicle’s rear seat. ‘Get in, Cole! We have to go!’

  Abandoning his position, Mason clambered in and slammed the door shut.

  ‘What about Anya?’ Frost asked as McKnight threw the Range Rover into reverse. ‘We can’t just—’

  ‘We can’t wait for her!’ the driver interrupted, trembling with anger as she twisted around in her seat. ‘We stay here, we all die!’

  As much as he hated to admit it, Drake knew their only chance was to fall back and try to rendezvous with Anya once they were clear. The woman was, if nothing else, a survivor. If anyone could make it out, she could.

  Drake caught Samantha’s eye in the rear-view mirror. ‘Do it, Sam.’

  Unwilling to debate the issue further, she hit the accelerator. The engine, though battered by the impact with the gate and possibly damaged by gunfire, still had some grunt left in it, and the vehicle rocketed backwards, bumping over pieces of debris.

  Clearing the destroyed remains of the compound entrance, McKnight twisted the wheel hard, sending them into a skidding left turn. No sooner had the nose swung around to face the roadway opposite than she engaged first gear and floored it once again, sending them screaming forward in a spray of water.

  On the terrace high above, Anya watched the vehicle go with a sense of heartfelt relief. The others had made it out of the trap Cain had set for them. That much at least she could feel good about.

  As the rain continued to lash down, she glanced at the blood seeping from the gunshot wound at her side. One of the rounds fired at point-blank range must have punched through a weak point in her body armour, cracking a rib as it did so. It hurt just to breathe, and she knew the injury would slow her down severely.

  That was why she’d told Drake to go. She never would have made it to the waiting car in time, and all of this would have been for nothing.

  Groaning in pain, she pushed herself away from the terrace railing and stumbled back inside. One way or another, she was on her own now.

  ‘This whole thing was a set-up,’ Frost said as the safe house receded into the distance. ‘All of it. The override code, the meeting, the surveillance footage… Cain was just trying to draw us out. He knew everything we were planning.’

  McKnight spared the young woman a brief, uncomfortable glance, but quickly refocused her attention on the road ahead.

  ‘He set a trap. We never had a chance,’ Mason replied, shoulders slumped in defeat.

  Frost closed her eyes, breathing hard, muscles locked rigid. Then suddenly she slammed her fist into the dashboard in front of her, striking it hard enough to crack the plastic.

  ‘Motherfucker!’ she screamed, punching it again in her frustration. ‘We did all of this for nothing!’

  ‘Stop it, Keira. Stop it!’ Drake snapped. ‘We’re all thinking the same thing. Screaming about it isn’t going to change anything.’

  McKnight was about to weigh into the burgeoning argument, only for movement on the road up ahead to divert her attention. A single figure had walked right onto the road, blocking their path.

  For an instant she wondered if it were some oblivious pedestrian on their way home. Only when they turned towards the car and raised what they were holding in their right hand did she realize what it truly was.

  ‘Oh no,’ she gasped, jamming on the brakes and swinging the wheel over, desperately trying to take evasive action.

  A single flash from the metal tube told her she was too late. Her last act was to turn towards Drake to yell a warning of what was coming, then the 40mm grenade impacted against the vehicle’s front left wheel and detonated.

  Chapter 55

  The time had come to make his play.

  ‘Very well,’ Qalat conceded at last. ‘I can get him for you.’

  Cain leaned back a little on the couch, though he remained as icy and focussed as before. ‘All right. Talk.’

  ‘I have some conditions first, obviously.’

  At this, Cain cocked an eyebrow. ‘Still trying to overplay your hand, huh? Explain to me why I should negotiate, when I could take you somewhere very far off the map and torture it out of you?’

  He didn’t doubt it. Cain was more than capable of running his own black sites, far beyond the knowledge of the US government or even the rest of the CIA. Not to mention the ISI, who would likely never learn what had become of him.

  ‘Because I don’t have the information you need.’ Qalat raised a hand. ‘Not yet, at least. But I can get it for you.’

  ‘Keep going,’ Cain prompted.

  ‘The ISI is much like your own agency. Everything is compartmentalized, hidden away, known only to a few key personnel to guard against precisely the situation we now find ourselves in.’

  ‘And you’re not one of them.’

  ‘No,’ he conceded. ‘But I know how to get in.’

  He heard the slow exhalation of breath as Cain prepared himself for what his adversary was about to ask. ‘And how exactly can the CIA help with that?’

  Qalat smiled. ‘I’m going to need you to kill someone for me.’

  * * *

  Hawkins smiled in satisfaction as the wreck of the Range Rover came to rest about 20 yards away, lying on its roof now, the impact of the high-explosive round having flipped it over as the driver tried to evade him. All useless – he’d been prepared for every eventuality.

  Slinging the M203 grenade launcher over his shoulder by its carry strap, he reached up and keyed his radio as he walked towards the ruined vehicle at a slow, leisurely pace.

  ‘All units, we have them,’ he said calmly, drawing the USP .45 automatic holstered at his hip. ‘Move in and look for survivors.’

  Half a dozen of his operatives converged on the upturned wreck as he approached, hammering and wrenching the buckled doors open. He saw one young woman dragged out from the front, her body limp and sagging; unconscious or dead, he didn’t care much either way.

  A man was next, big and powerfully built, and still with enough fight in him to lash out at his captors despite the hopeless odds. One or two wild punches struck home, but a rifle butt to the back of his neck was enough to drop him, silencing his feeble attempts at resistance.

  And then, at last, Hawkins saw him.

  Ryan Drake, pulled semi-conscious from the wreckage, bloodied and bruised but still alive. Tough son of a bitch to survive a wreck like that. He looked up with bleary eyes as Hawkins approached, struggling to see as rainwater pelted him.

  ‘Hello, Ryan,’ Hawkins said, relishing the moment he’d been awaiting for seven long years. He was pleased to find Drake alive. For now, at least. ‘It’s been a long time.’

  That was when he saw the shock and fear and horror dawning in Drake’s eyes. The disbelief, the anguish as long-buried memories resurfaced. Hawkins caught himself wondering how much Drake truly remembered of their time together.

  Well, he would find out before he was done. He would find out everything Drake knew. Then he would kill him.

  ‘I’m looking forward to getting to know you again,’ he said, then hunkered down beside him. ‘But first, do your old pal a favour and tell me something. Where’s Anya?’

  Hatred and defiance blazed in Drake’s vivid green eyes. In a sudden blur of movement, his right hand reached down and drew something from a hidden sheath at his waist. Steel flashed, and one of the operatives restraining him cried out in pain and stumbled aside, blood spurting from a gory knife wound to his neck.

  A heartbeat later, Drake swept the knife around at Hawkins, aiming for his chest, only for the blade to jerk to a halt mere inches short of its target. Tightening his iron grip on Drake’s wrist, Hawkins suddenly wrenched the extended
limb back against itself, eliciting a satisfying growl of pain and fury. Tendons and ligaments stretching beyond their limits, Drake’s grip on the knife slackened and the blade fell away, clattering to the ground.

  Hawkins couldn’t help but smile at the man’s valiant but futile attempt to take him out. A little faster, and he might well have succeeded.

  ‘Oh, buddy, I can’t begin to tell you how much you’re going to regret that. But first, I’ve got some things to take care of here.’ Rising to his feet, he turned to the operatives around him. ‘Secure them for transport. We don’t have long before the police get here.’

  Needless to say, such a violent and explosive confrontation had drawn considerable attention from the local residents. Many, fearing a terrorist attack, had taken shelter deep inside their homes, cowering in basements or in some cases panic rooms. Others had emerged onto the street to gawp in shock at the upturned vehicle, and the armed men in tactical gear swarming around it.

  Already they could hear the distant wail of sirens. Straight away Hawkins’ men went to work, dragging the injured survivors into a van that had just pulled up nearby.

  Catching one of his subordinates by the arm, Hawkins moved in close; a dark and menacing presence looming over the man. ‘Give me some good news about Anya or find yourself a new job.’

  ‘We picked up a blood trail leading from the house, and we’ve got men on it now. Looks like she’s injured. She won’t get far.’

  ‘Find her!’ he snapped, anger showing for the first time.

  The man seemed to wilt visibly under such barely restrained fury, and hurried off with one hand already on the transmitter of his radio.

  * * *

  A few hundred yards away, Anya stumbled along a narrow back alley, struggling to breathe as her cracked rib seemed to press against her lungs. She could hear shouts and voices behind, all in English, and even caught the glare of flashlight beams bounding off the rippling puddles as she ran.