Shadow Conflict

by Shadow Conflict (epub)

  Almost there.

  All his attention was centred on the gun now as the world seemed to go into slow motion around him, each ponderous step bringing him closer to his enemy. He saw the barrel rise up as the giant worked the pump action, saw the brightly coloured shell casing ejected from the breech, gunpowder smoke still trailing. He could almost picture the fresh round being drawn in as the pump handle slid forward once more.

  A few more paces.

  Another step, and the weapon barrel began to drop as his opponent took aim, finger already tightening on the trigger. For a moment Drake had a hideous vision of the blinding flash of the weapon discharging right into his face, followed by the bone-breaking impact as the round hit home.

  He ducked down to buy himself a fraction of a second, the giant forced to adjust his aim.

  Now.

  Rising from his near-crouching position, Drake snatched the shotgun by the barrel and jerked it upwards. The vibration as the round blasted outwards jarred Drake’s arm to the bone, but somehow he maintained his grip, knowing he couldn’t afford to let the giant bring the weapon to bear on him again.

  It was only then, locked in a desperate struggle for survival inches from his enemy, that Drake got his first proper look at the man’s face. Cast into sharp relief by the electric lights behind them, it was like something from a horror movie. A ragged vertical slice ran from the corner of his mouth up to his forehead, his right eye socket a mass of torn tissue that would never function again.

  It wasn’t fast reactions that had saved Drake from being shot: his opponent’s partial blindness had affected his aim. The improvised weapon that allowed Drake to saw through his restraints had proven gruesomely effective.

  He felt not a twinge of pity or regret for what he’d done. There were no awards for fair play in fights like this. It was kill or be killed, and Drake wasn’t done killing yet.

  Neither was his enemy. Injured and bleeding he might have been, but he was still very much in the fight. His remaining eye was on Drake, his mouth a snarl of fury as he yanked the weapon so hard Drake was practically lifted off his feet. Unable to maintain his hold, he dropped to the ground just as the giant rounded on him again, ducking as the bigger man swung the shotgun like a club, barely missing his head.

  He couldn’t dodge or block the next blow however, a rock-solid punch that slammed into his side, almost knocking him over. Pain blazed outwards from the point of impact, muscles and joints flexing to their limits as they tried to absorb the blow.

  The devastating punch was followed by a headbutt that would have taken Drake out of the game immediately if he hadn’t turned his head away at the last moment. As it was, he felt like someone had struck his skull with a hammer, and for a moment darkness encroached on his vision and blood roared in his ears. His body threatened to quit on him.

  Dazed, Drake felt a giant hand clamp around his neck, lift him off the ground and hurl him onto the table like a rag doll. Straightaway he knew what the giant had in mind – put some distance between them so he could finish Drake off with the shotgun.

  Landing hard on the table’s scored wooden surface, Drake threw out a hand and gripped the edge as he slid across it. The transfer of momentum caused the table to tip over, just as the giant worked the pump on his shotgun and levelled the weapon.

  With a violent crash, Drake landed on the other side of the now overturned table. An instant later, the bark of the shotgun was followed by a powerful thump and the crunch of splintering wood less than a foot from his head, and Drake turned to look at the fist-sized dent that suddenly appeared in the thick wooden surface beside him.

  ‘You’re fucked now, you little son of a bitch,’ the giant snarled, his deep voice echoing off the cold brick walls. ‘Nowhere left to run.’

  Drake had been a fighter once upon a time, used to taking body and head shots, but this guy was in a different league. He was simply a monster, far stronger than any opponent Drake had faced inside or outside the ring. Going toe to toe against a man like that was suicide, even if he’d been in peak condition. Drake knew the only option was to end this fight quickly.

  For that he would need a weapon.

  He reached up for the nearest table leg, now protruding horizontally from the overturned table, and pulled on it with savage force. Wood splintered and cracked, and the nails holding it in place slipped free with a creaking groan. He was now armed, after a fashion. The only question was how best to use his new weapon.

  ‘If you thought it was bad before, wait ’til you see what’s coming,’ his enemy taunted him. ‘Before I kill you, I’m gonna carve you into pieces.’

  He heard the distinctive double click as the shotgun was reloaded, followed by the heavy tread and scuff of boots on the stone floor. The giant was keeping his distance as he circled around the table to get a clean shot at Drake, but by doing so he was allowing himself to be backed into a corner.

  Bracing his shoulder against the overturned table, Drake began to push it forward, digging his feet into the gaps between the worn flagstones. He barely noticed the pain as the table edge bumped onwards, picking up speed and momentum as he put more force into it.

  With nowhere to retreat to, the giant was left with only one option. The table shuddered as a round slammed into it, punching another dent in its surface, but failing to break through. Then, a second or so later, Drake’s moving shield came to a sudden halt as a massive boot jammed against it.

  Drake looked up as the shotgun appeared over the edge of the table. Unable to advance, Drake was now a sitting duck as the giant simply leaned over the top of his cover, ready to fire at point-blank range.

  There was only one thing he hadn’t counted on.

  Playing his final card, Drake seized the table leg and swung upwards, aiming for anything that looked unprotected. A soft, wet thump was followed by a roar, as the nails still sticking from the leg’s upper section embedded themselves deep in the giant’s forearm, severing nerves and tendons.

  Tearing the improvised weapon free, Drake jumped up and launched himself at his ailing enemy. Just get in and do as much damage as humanly possible; that was what he’d been taught when it came to unarmed combat. Technique and strategy was useful up to a point, but when you’re fighting for your life against long odds, sometimes there’s no substitute for sheer, raw aggression.

  He swung again, landing a second crippling blow on a heavily muscled shoulder, before finally bringing the weapon around against his head like a baseball player swinging for a home run. He felt the vicious impact as wood slammed into his opponent’s skull and nails penetrated through to the vital organ within, heard a confused grunt as the blow registered, then watched as the damage took effect.

  There was no dramatic fall; the giant just seemed to go limp and stop fighting back. He staggered once with the nails and table leg still embedded in the side of his head, reached up half-heartedly as if to pull it out, then let out a mumbled groan as his legs gave way and he slumped onto the floor. And there he lay, twitching and jerking spasmodically, a mountain of flesh at last laid low.

  Then, for a few unbelievable seconds, silence descended, broken only by the sound of Drake’s strained breathing.

  Only then did he hear movement on the other side of the room, Moore crawling slowly towards the weapon that had been knocked from his grasp at the start of the fight.

  Drake wasn’t about to let him get to it. Taking the shotgun from the giant’s dead hand, he rose to his feet, calmly took aim, and fired.

  As the bean bag round hit Moore in the abdomen, he immediately doubled over and vomited across the floor, steam rising from the acrid-smelling liquid.

  Working the pump action, Drake advanced on his target and knelt down beside him. He reached for the man’s jacket, lifting his head so they had eye contact.

  ‘Where’s Frost?’ Drake demanded.

  ‘Fuck you!’ he spat back.

  That was all the excuse Drake needed. Jamming the shotgun barrel against the ma
n’s groin, he pulled the trigger.

  The blast of the weapon discharge was muted this time by fabric and flesh, but the sound of the man’s screams were almost as loud. Drake watched with a curiously satisfied feeling as his former tormentor curled up into a foetal position, hands clutched against what was left of his genitals.

  ‘Don’t make me ask again,’ he advised, cocking the shotgun. ‘Where’s Frost? Where have you taken her?’

  The man looked at him, blood from his nose mixing with the vomit still trailing from his mouth. ‘Don’t… know,’ he managed. ‘They… moved her. Another location. Didn’t… tell us where.’

  He wasn’t going to get much else from this guy. Bean bag rounds might have been designed as non-lethal, but Drake was pretty certain a strike to the head from this range would still do the trick.

  He took aim and pulled the trigger.

  Click.

  Of course, Drake thought. Four rounds fired during his battle with the giant, another two used on this man. The shotgun was empty.

  ‘Must be your lucky day,’ Drake said, tossing the useless shotgun aside.

  Rising to his feet, he walked calmly over to where the Glock 17 had fallen during their struggle, picked the automatic up and took aim. The old Ryan Drake might have spared this man’s life, might have seen it as unfair to kill an enemy who was no longer a threat, but that Ryan Drake was gone.

  This was a new kind of war. One that took no prisoners, and left no survivors.

  ‘Say hello to your colleagues when you see them,’ Drake advised as his finger tightened on the trigger. He saw his enemy’s blank terror. ‘Tell them there’s more coming.’

  One last gunshot echoed through the room.

  Chapter 10

  Anya was waiting for Alex as he emerged from the steaming bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist, his damp hair sticking up at all angles. The young man paused, looking confused by her presence.

  ‘Anya. I thought you’d be long gone,’ he remarked suspiciously. ‘Isn’t that your style? Kind of like the Milk Tray Man in reverse.’

  ‘I wanted to thank you for helping me.’ She gestured to the kitchen counter, where she’d laid out a breakfast of toast, scrambled eggs, coffee and orange juice. There hadn’t been much to work with in his fridge, and she hardly considered herself a gifted cook at the best of times, but it was the best she could conjure up while he was showering. ‘I thought you could use some breakfast after working all night.’

  She saw the realization dawn on him as her uncharacteristically altruistic act was revealed for what it was.

  ‘No,’ he said, pointing a finger accusingly. ‘I’m not doing it.’

  ‘Doing what?’ she asked, feigning innocence.

  ‘Whatever horrible and probably life-threatening thing you’re about to ask me to do,’ he said, snatching up yesterday’s dirty clothes from the bathroom floor. ‘I know your game – you made breakfast to butter me up. Well, it’s not happening. I got you the information you need, so we’re all square now.’

  ‘I need your help to get close to her,’ Anya persisted, following him across the room as he dumped the clothes in the laundry basket.

  ‘You mean, you need me to help kidnap her,’ Alex fired back. ‘Isn’t that your area of expertise?’

  ‘It is, but I can’t do it alone. Lauren is a university student, Alex. I need someone who can blend in, move around the campus without arousing suspicion.’

  What she was telling him was certainly true, but it wasn’t the entire truth. Anya sensed he would refuse outright if she told him why he was really needed. At least this way she had a fighting chance.

  Alex rounded on her. ‘Jesus, isn’t it enough that I’m wanted for stealing top-secret information by everyone from the NSA to the CIA to fucking AC/DC? Want to add kidnapping to the list?’

  Anya decided not to mention that if he was captured by the authorities, he’d quickly find himself handed over to a CIA black ops team for interrogation and probably execution. One more crime wasn’t going to change his prospects.

  ‘You would not be directly involved. All I need is for you to be my eyes and ears. The rest I will handle myself,’ she promised.

  Alex hesitated. ‘That wasn’t our deal.’

  Clearly he was going to need a little extra motivation. ‘Then we make a new deal.’

  His brows narrowed in a frown. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Fifty thousand euros,’ she said simply. ‘Paid into a bank account of your choice, once we have her secured.’

  There was no need to ask whether he had the necessary savvy to open a secure numbered bank account. She was quite certain he had that covered already. The question was whether he would bite.

  Alex’s face went blank, betraying his surprise that she could toss such a figure around. The look was quickly masked, replaced by one of shrewd calculation, but Anya had seen enough already. She knew she had him.

  ‘I’d want sixty,’ he said.

  ‘Fifty-five,’ she countered, mostly because she wanted him to believe it was a tough sell and he was being a slick negotiator. ‘That should be enough to sustain your life here for some time, without having to get on the wrong side of Russian gangsters. It’s also my final offer. You can take it, or I can find someone more willing.’

  ‘But less trustworthy,’ he remarked, articulating her fundamental dilemma. Having made his point, he walked over to the breakfast bar, picked up a fork and helped himself to a mouthful of scrambled eggs.

  ‘Damn, they’re good,’ he said, sounding almost annoyed that she hadn’t messed them up. ‘Why do mine never work out like this?’

  Anya followed, sliding onto a stool beside him. She watched as he poured himself a cup of coffee from the pot, neglecting to offer her one.

  ‘One way or another, I’m leaving within the hour,’ she said gently. She had to persuade him; she couldn’t force his cooperation this time. ‘Am I leaving alone, Alex?’

  Alex sighed before he’d even taken a sip of coffee. The sigh of a man preparing himself for a difficult and likely unpleasant task.

  She could sense his hardening resolve.

  ‘You know you’re not,’ he said.

  Chapter 11

  It took Drake less than two minutes to search both of his former captors and strip them of anything useful, particularly the jacket and boots belonging to the smaller of the two. The boots were a tight fit, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. And it was a hell of a lot better than going barefoot.

  The adrenaline and lust for vengeance that helped overpower his guards had certainly been useful, but now he needed to calm down and play it smart if he was to make use of his new-found freedom. As he’d expected, neither man was carrying any form of identification. Standard protocol was to go into jobs like this sterile in case they were caught or killed, and both men had adhered to it rigidly. He did, however, find a spare magazine for the Glock in a concealed carry pouch strapped to the smaller man’s back, along with about two hundred euros in mixed notes that he wasn’t too proud to help himself to.

  Both men had burner phones, though the giant’s device had been smashed and rendered inoperable during their fight. The other was still up and running, but there were no numbers saved in the directory and the call logs had been deleted. Again, nothing that could compromise the operation if the phone fell into the wrong hands. After muting the ring tone, Drake slipped the phone into his jacket pocket.

  The other item lurking in the pocket of the giant’s jeans would likely prove far more useful, however.

  ‘I’ll be taking these, mate,’ Drake whispered, turning over the set of car keys in his hand. They were stamped with the Toyota symbol, and looked fairly new.

  He had no idea what model they’d used to get here, but Drake guessed it must have been both big and sturdy to accommodate a man of his size. Either way, Drake would have no problem putting it to use as a getaway car.

  But before he went anywhere, his priority was to confirm they had be
en lying about Frost. It was possible she was still on site somewhere and they’d simply been discouraging Drake from searching. If so, there was no way Drake was leaving without her.

  A quick survey revealed more cells like the one he’d been held in, all of which were empty and showed no sign of recent use. It appeared he was alone, whatever and wherever this place was.

  He would learn nothing further here, and had no desire to spend a second longer in such a gloomy shithole. More importantly, he knew that each passing minute increased the chance of his escape being discovered.

  Clutching the Glock tight, he crept up the stairs, watching his footing on the worn stone steps as he picked his way past Hoffmann’s slumped corpse. A quick check of the artery at his neck confirmed he was dead. That was just fine with Drake – one less arsehole in the world.

  The familiar faint green glow of the weapon’s tritium sights was oddly comforting as he resumed his ascent, the weapons training so deeply ingrained it was almost second nature.

  The Glock was a good weapon to have in a tight spot like this. Accurate up to 50 metres, and with seventeen 9mm rounds in the magazine, it was a popular weapon with everyone from police to FBI agents, even Marine special forces, and had become a standard sidearm for most NATO units. The frame used a lot of polymers and composite materials, making it unusually light and easy to handle. If it came to a firefight, Drake knew he could do a fair amount of damage with the Glock.

  Something was staining the wooden steps by his foot, gleaming black in the glow of electric lights. Stooping down, he touched his finger to it and held it up to get a better look. It was blood, most probably Frost’s blood from her maimed hand as they carried her upstairs. It prompted a shudder, and a deep sense of foreboding and urgency.

  It was difficult for Drake to plan his next move until he knew more about his environment and situation. In the unlikely event there were more armed operatives waiting upstairs, he’d react very much as he had previously: go at them with maximum speed and aggression, and use the resulting confusion to fight his way out.