Shadow Conflict

by Shadow Conflict (epub)

  Mason was right. He did want something.

  ‘I do.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I want… I suppose… I want to be forgiven.’

  ‘Why?’

  Drake’s voice was strained when he spoke again. ‘Because you died and I didn’t. Because you trusted me, and I let you down, Cole. You didn’t want to go, but you followed me anyway. I wanted you to forgive me, but you shouldn’t. I don’t deserve it.’

  It all came pouring out before he could stop it. All of his guilt, the crushing grief at what he and his friends had lost. All of it came out. Tears ran down his face, unseen in the darkness.

  ‘You’re right, Ryan,’ Mason said. ‘You don’t deserve to be forgiven. Because you haven’t earned it. You haven’t made this right.’

  ‘Made it right,’ Drake repeated mockingly, his laugh brittle and cold. ‘There’s no making this right.’

  ‘Which brings me back to my first question. What’s the plan, Ryan?’ Mason’s voice had taken on a harder, more demanding edge now. ‘Are you going to curl up and cry like a little bitch? Are you going to quit because you’re down and out? Because you gambled and lost? Is Ryan Drake really that much of a goddamn pussy?’

  Drake shook his head, refusing to acknowledge it. ‘You’re a fucking voice in my head…’

  ‘I’m the only voice you need to listen to now!’ Mason shouted back. ‘Because the Ryan Drake I know wouldn’t be sitting in a corner feeling sorry for himself and crying like a fucking baby! So you took a beating? Grow the fuck up. You lost people you care about? Put it behind you and move on, because that’s the way it is!’

  Drake gritted his teeth. He wasn’t trying to block Mason’s words out now. They were everywhere, all around him and within him all at once. And at last, he was listening.

  ‘The Ryan Drake I know wouldn’t give up. He’d keep pushing, keep fighting back, take everything they threw at him, and no matter what it took he’d find a way to make it out the other side, because that’s who you are, Ryan! That’s who you’ve always been. And that’s who you need to be right now. Who are you going to be, Ryan? Who are you going to be?’

  Drake awoke with a jolt, his brow damp with sweat. He looked around, struggling to pierce the darkness that enveloped him.

  It had been a dream, he realized, the rational part of his mind trying to reassert itself. Of course it had been a dream. He must have given in to his exhaustion for a few moments, not realizing how quickly sleep would close in.

  He shook his head and tensed his muscles, trying to quell the shivering that had started up again. He needed to move around, get some blood flowing through his veins again and generate a little warmth, in case hypothermia started to…

  The bang of a door opening deeper in the building alerted him to movement. His captors. He could hear footsteps in the larger room beyond his cell, the soft thump of boots on old flagstones. They were coming for him!

  Drake’s heartbeat, which had only just started to calm down, suddenly kicked into high gear once more. He planted his hands on the ground to heave himself up, only for his fingers to brush against something that rattled across the concrete floor. It was the metal cup he’d been given.

  He reached down and picked it up, using touch alone to determine its shape and dimensions. He hadn’t noticed it before because he’d been too eager to consume its contents, but he quickly discovered that it wasn’t a cup at all: it was a simple tin can, possibly the same one that had contained the processed meat he’d eaten earlier. The rim was still sharp from where it had been opened.

  That was when an idea came to him.

  Feeling around the bottom of the can, he found a distinctive ridge of metal that told him this was a three-piece construction. The bottom and top were joined mechanically to the cylinder to form a sealed container, held in place by little more than friction. That meant the bottom could be removed.

  The steps were almost at the bottom of the stairs now.

  Setting the can upright on the rough concrete floor, Drake gripped it in both hands and began to move it back and forward in a sawing motion, applying as much downward force as possible the whole time. The underside of the rim scraped and scratched across the surface, taking off a layer of metal in the process and weakening the join between the two sections.

  After a few seconds, he lifted the container up, gripped it tight and squeezed with every ounce of strength he could summon. The can creaked, gave slightly under the pressure, but held firm.

  He increased the pressure, adrenaline lending extra strength to his effort, and with a sudden pop the circular bottom section sprang free. Setting down the open metal cylinder, Drake snatched up the bottom piece and bent it quickly between his hands, forming a semi-circle of metal with a smooth flat edge on one side, and a ragged, wickedly sharp curve on the other.

  They were outside the door now. In a second or two they would open it and come for him. With no other place to conceal his improvised weapon, Drake had little choice but to shove it into the back pocket of his trousers.

  Scrambling to his feet, he turned towards the door just as the viewing port snapped open.

  Chapter 9

  ‘Back up and face the rear wall,’ Jacob Moore commanded, shining his flashlight straight into the eyes of the blinking, filthy prisoner who stood hunched and cowering in the cell. ‘Hands on your head. Move!’

  There was no hesitation this time. Drake flinched like a startled animal, backed away and turned to face the wall with his fingers interlocked behind his head. Compliant, just as he’d been when they brought him food earlier.

  Moore glanced at his fellow guard Aaron Parker, who held his riot shotgun at the ready. The normally rugged and intimidating weapon looked like a toy in Parker’s massive hands. The big man gave Moore a nod, letting him know he was ready.

  Taking a breath, Moore undid the bolt and shoved the door inwards. Parker went first, his considerable frame nearly filling the doorway as he advanced, keeping the prisoner covered at all times. They’d been well warned about Drake and what he was capable of, and however cowed and beaten he might appear now, they were taking no chances.

  Moore went in next, a pair of plastic handcuffs clutched in his left hand. His flashlight beam briefly scanned the floor, spotting the tin can they’d given him to drink from sitting upright and empty.

  Satisfied that nothing was out of place, he returned his attention to the prisoner. Parker’s under-barrel flashlight was pointed straight at Drake, keeping him illuminated the whole time.

  ‘Not gonna give us any trouble, are you, tough guy?’ Moore asked as he yanked Drake’s left arm downwards and slipped the plastic cuff over it, tightening it without concern for the prisoner’s comfort or safety. The right hand went next, similarly locked in place so that his hands were trapped behind his back.

  Drake said nothing throughout the process.

  ‘Didn’t think so,’ Moore went on, feeling more secure now that their prisoner was properly restrained. ‘Come on, let’s go for a walk.’

  Taking him by the arm, Moore led Drake back through to the main room. The table was still laid out in the centre where they’d left it after the last interrogation session, though a pair of wooden blocks had been wedged beneath the legs at one end, leaving it inclined at an angle. Moore had had a feeling they might need it again, and he was about to be proven all too right.

  ‘Take a seat, man. Make yourself comfortable,’ he said, forcing Drake to sit on the edge of the table. This done, he stepped back a pace and just looked at the prisoner for a long moment, taking the measure of the man.

  Drake looked back at him in silence.

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to stare,’ Moore said at last. ‘It’s just, this is the first time I’ve really looked at you, face to face. We were guarding you before, had ourselves a good laugh when the boss was interrogating you, but I guess I never really saw you. And I wanted to see you – the guy everyone’s talking about, everyone’s afraid of.
But here’s the thing – I don’t think you’re such a tough guy underneath all that bullshit and reputation, Drake.’

  Parker snorted in amusement, having set his shotgun down against the wall so that he could prepare for what was coming next. ‘Nobody really is once they get to a place like this.’

  Moore’s smile was malicious. He was going to enjoy this. ‘That’s true. You know, I’ve seen Taliban leaders crying like babies. I’ve seen ISIS warlords down on their knees begging for mercy. All it takes is a little patience and hard work.’ He leaned closer to Drake. ‘And I want you to know I’m a patient man.’

  Approaching from behind, Parker threw a black fabric hood over Drake’s head, yanking him backwards so that he fell onto the table, and applying enough force to the hood that it was impossible for him to rise again.

  ‘See, we just got word from the boss,’ Moore went on, watching as Drake thrashed and kicked, trying to free himself from the hood’s claustrophobic hold. ‘About the little surprise you left for him in France. Three men dead – not bad work for a helpless prisoner in a cell.’

  Unfastening a pocket in his jacket, Moore pulled out a plastic device little bigger than a TV remote, with a pair of electrical conductors mounted on the end. Pressing it against Drake’s leg, he flicked the safety guard aside and depressed the trigger.

  Drake jerked and cried out as the taser discharged, overloading his neuromuscular system and setting every nerve of his body on fire. Moore kept the button held down for a good ten seconds, relishing the pain elicited.

  Drake went limp, but the steady rise and fall of the hood’s fabric told Moore he was still alive.

  ‘Just so you know, one of my good buddies was on that assault team,’ Moore went on, calmly replacing the taser in his pocket. ‘Knew the guy for ten years, fought alongside him in Africa and Iraq. We were like brothers. And now he’s dead.’

  Moore knew Hawkins was on his way back, but he intended to have some fun with Drake first. The kind that wouldn’t leave any permanent marks. Anyway, Hoffmann was upstairs, ensuring they weren’t disturbed while they went about their work.

  Moore reached for the bucket of cold water he’d placed beside the table and picked it up, positioning it over Drake’s head.

  ‘The boss told us not to hurt you, and we’re men of our word.’ He smiled. ‘Not a scratch.’

  The moment the icy water hit the hood and began to seep through the fabric, Drake started to fight back weakly, his body still partially paralysed by the effect of the taser.

  There was nothing quite like a waterboarding to get a prisoner squirming. The relentless flow of water created the immediate sensation of drowning. Panic set in quickly, no matter how disciplined the victim. And if the torture carried on long enough, drowning was exactly what would happen.

  ‘You like it, champ?’ Moore taunted. ‘Makes things a little more exciting when you can’t fight against it, huh? Parker and I both went through this before we deployed to Iraq, part of our survival training. We used to call it the shock and drop. The average candidate lasted 14 seconds.’ He grinned. ‘I made it to 22. Wonder if you can do better, huh?’

  He intended to find out. Not a mark on him – that was what they’d promised Hawkins. But they could do this all night without fear of causing permanent injury. The trick was knowing when to stop, but he figured Drake would let them know.

  ‘That’s ten seconds,’ Parker said, as he held the struggling man down. ‘You know they tried to make us stop doing this to terror suspects? Said the intel was unreliable, that guys will say just about anything. Lucky for us, we don’t want intel from you.’

  Drake was choking as the water filled his nose and mouth, his limbs flailing. Moore kept on pouring the water, a steady stream, perfectly happy to use the entire bucket before relenting.

  ‘Once we’re done with you, we’ll bring the little bitch with the big mouth down and work on her for a while,’ Moore mused thoughtfully. ‘Might take her clothes off first, of course. No sense them getting wet.’

  Then, suddenly, the struggling stopped. Drake lay still, his chest no longer rising and falling. Moore carried on applying the water for a few more seconds, convinced that Drake was faking it.

  ‘Christ, quit it, will you? He’s had enough,’ Parker growled, releasing his grip and yanking the hood from Drake’s head. His face was pale, eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. ‘Ah, fuck! I think he’s stopped breathing.’

  Moore felt a well of fear rise up inside him. Having their fun with Drake was one thing, but killing him was something Hawkins would not tolerate. His order had been specific – Drake was to be kept alive until his return. And Hawkins was a man whose orders you didn’t want to disobey.

  ‘Check his pulse,’ he said, dropping the bucket, which landed on the concrete floor with a clatter.

  Tossing the soaking hood aside, Parker moved in to feel the pulse at Drake’s neck. Moore considered whether to summon Hoffmann and have him bring down the kit with adrenaline syringes. They might need it if Drake had gone into cardiac arrest.

  His thoughts were interrupted as the apparently unconscious man abruptly sprang from the table, whipping his right hand towards Parker’s face. Moore caught a momentary gleam of something metallic in the harsh electric lights, and an instant later Parker was lurching backwards, screaming in pain and clutching at his face. Blood spurted from between his fingers.

  ‘Oh shit!’ Moore gasped, seeing the single plastic cuff around Drake’s wrist, its end hanging limp and frayed where it had been sawn through.

  It had been a ploy, he realized. Drake had faked unconsciousness to get them to remove the hood to check his condition. Now Parker was injured, their prisoner was no longer restrained, and his life was in danger if he didn’t act fast.

  ‘Hoffmann! Get down here!’ he yelled.

  Even as Drake rolled off the table and landed on the floor, Moore whipped back his jacket and yanked the Glock 17 pistol from the holster at the small of his back. Injuring Drake was now unavoidable, but it was the only way to put him down.

  Drake had other ideas. Snatching up the metal bucket that Moore had dropped on the ground moments earlier, he charged straight at his captor with frightening speed, swinging the heavy utensil just as Moore drew down on him.

  The room echoed with the twin sound of metal impacting metal as the bucket struck the side of the weapon, instantly followed by an ear-splitting crack as a round discharged, sailing over Drake’s shoulder to impact the far wall.

  Drake wasn’t about to let him fire again. Dropping the improvised weapon, he charged straight at Moore, driving his shoulder into his chest with all the aggression and energy he could find. The force of the collision caught Moore off guard and he stumbled several paces before his back met the brick wall with bruising force, momentarily stunning him.

  The sound of footsteps on the stairs announced Hoffmann, who had responded to his comrade’s urgent summons, not to mention the sound of gunfire and screaming. He was armed with a weapon like Moore’s, and immediately brought it to bear on the prisoner.

  Drake was faster. Seizing Moore’s arm, he spun towards the stairway, managed to get his finger around the Glock’s trigger, and opened fire on Hoffmann, the room echoing with the weapon’s thunderous report. The first two shots missed, but three more tore through his chest, painting the wall with a spray of dark blood.

  As the stocky man collapsed down the last few stairs, Drake laid into Moore with everything he had, a blur of savage fists and kicks. The gun was knocked from his grip and clattered to the stone floor.

  Drake was in his own world now, consumed by vengeance and rage and fury that finally had an outlet. Grabbing his former captor by the hair, he yanked his head forward into his knee, feeling the satisfying crunch as cartilage broke, accompanied by a gush of warm blood. His enemy cried out, and Drake knew he was out of the fight for now. With his nose broken, his eyes would water profusely, tears and blood combining to temporarily blind him.

 
; That should have been enough, but it wasn’t. Seizing the collar of his jacket, Drake lifted him up and drove his fist into his bleeding face. He couldn’t stop himself, nor did he want to. The monster had risen from the shadows and taken command. Adrenaline was surging through his veins. The pain of his own injuries barely registered as his entire being focussed on inflicting as much damage as possible.

  He was drawing his arm back for another strike when a shadow fell across them both, accompanied by growls of pain and heavy, laboured breathing.

  Drake reacted instinctively, throwing himself aside just as an explosive resounded throughout the underground room, and something slammed into the wall less than a foot away.

  Drake’s head snapped around to see the giant standing not 10 yards away, the riot shotgun clutched in his huge grip. Drake had been so focussed on finishing off Moore he’d almost forgotten about his comrade, who had recovered sufficiently to retrieve his weapon and had barely missed with his first shot.

  He was unlikely to miss a second time. The weapon might have been loaded with non-lethal rounds, but anything that took Drake out of the fight now was as good as killing him later anyway. One way or another, he had to do something.

  Drake made his decision, releasing his grip on the first man and charging at the giant. He had no idea what he was going to do against a guy of that size and strength, but now was no time to question the finer points of strategy. If you’re up against an armed opponent and retreating or taking cover isn’t an option, the only priority is to close the range as fast as possible. At least then the odds are even.

  The pump-action shotgun was devastating at close range, but it was big and cumbersome, and poorly suited to hand-to-hand fighting. If Drake could get inside the weapon’s firing arc before the giant could reload, he might have a chance.

  For a moment, his mind flicked back to the grim thoughts he’d entertained in his cell before being dragged out for interrogation. Dying a slow death was his starting point; anything beyond that was an improvement.