Turning and dropping to one knee, Drake levelled the Glock at the fist-sized hole in the door and opened fire, spraying a trio of rapid-fire shots. The bark of the 9mm weapon discharging was enough to leave his ears ringing.
‘Cover!’ a voice yelled. Another shotgun blast punched a second massive hole through the wood.
Drake snapped off a couple more rounds before turning, seeking a way out. His desperate burst of gunfire might have bought him a little time, but seconds only. Now was the time to use them.
The room’s only window lay directly ahead of him, about two feet wide and twice as high. It was fitted with a security latch preventing it being opened more than six inches, which he’d disabled not long after arriving. Still, he had no time to roll the window up and hold it in place while he clambered out.
Levelling the Glock at the centre of the window, he put two rounds through it. The glass pane shattered, adding to the general destruction of the room.
Drake paid it no heed, sprinting forward and launching himself through the gap, disappearing out into the night just as the door finally gave way under the relentless assault and armed men stormed in.
Chapter 38
Anya circled the heavy bag, bandaged fists raised and head down. Her vest was damp with sweat, but still she kept up the furious assault.
She laid into the bag with a burst of punches and kicks, letting out aggressive snarls as she connected with it again and again. The heavy leather swayed and lurched, its surface marked from previous blows.
She was hurting. Her hands were bruised, her arms aching from the effort, the injury at her side burning as stitches threatened to give way, but she didn’t care. She wanted the pain. It helped focus the mind, sharpen her thoughts.
But this time it wasn’t working. This time her thoughts drifted.
She saw herself seated with Alex in the Polish bar, heard his words of warning.
‘This is the world we live in, Alex. He would do the same.’
‘Then what does that say about the two of you?’
* * *
Drake was falling. The world turned into a blur as he tumbled through the air, bracing himself for the inevitable landing.
He had chosen this particular hotel for two reasons. The first and most obvious was that it was cheap and asked few questions of its guests.
The second reason only came into play when Drake made his seemingly suicidal leap through a second-floor window.
The hotel’s main entrance, set slightly back from the street, featured an outdoor seating area, protected from inclement weather by a canvas awning extending about ten feet on either side of the building’s main doors. Drake had made sure to secure a room directly above it.
The impact came about two seconds later. A sudden lurching deceleration, a violent pressure against his back as the canvas took his weight, then a loud crack as metal support roles ripped free of their mountings and the awning collapsed beneath him, accompanied by the screams of terrified passers-by.
He fell again. It was over faster this time, the drop barely more than ten feet, but the landing was far more painful with nothing to break his fall. Instinctively he drew in his arms and allowed his legs to relax just before he hit the pavement, just as his parachute training had taught him. Let your body and legs absorb the landing, slow yourself down, roll with it.
He did, but no amount of preparation could compete with a hard landing on concrete. Pain reverberated up through his skeleton as he came down with a violent crunch, surrounded by torn canvas, broken poles and collapsed tables.
Don’t think about it, he told himself, just get up and move! Get up now!
* * *
Anya threw a final series of rapid hooks that hammered the bag like machine-gun fire. Every shot promised to short out the memories, yet none succeeded.
‘My dad told me all about a woman named Anya. How he took her in, trained her, gave her a chance when nobody else would. And in return she lied to him, betrayed his trust, tried to destroy his career. And now you’re back, taking another shot at him. What the hell is wrong with you? Why can’t you just let it go and move on? Haven’t you got anything else in your life apart from him?’
* * *
Drake managed to get his feet beneath him and forced himself up from the wreckage, ignoring the shocked stares from those nearby. One or two even had their camera phones out, eagerly recording the unfolding drama.
‘Holy shit, bro. You okay?’ a distinctively American voice asked. ‘You just jumped through a fucking window.’
Drake found himself confronted by a man in faded jeans and crumpled linen shirt, and with a rucksack slung over one shoulder. Tall and gangly, with unruly blonde hair and a scruffy beard, he had the kind of deep perma-tan that suggested he should have been carrying a surfboard under his arm.
‘Man, watch yourself,’ a stocky kid of about the same age warned him. ‘This guy’s fucked up.’
An unfortunately accurate assessment, Drake thought. However, he had more pressing matters to contend with. The hotel faced out onto several busy streets, with crowded shops and bars, and cars backed up by red lights everywhere. The central location offered plenty of avenues for escape, and the heavy traffic would make blending in easier.
The space between the roads and buildings was crisscrossed by a confusing mess of phone cables and tram lines. Tempting as it was to simply run, he knew that would be suicidal. Such an open area would immediately become a killing ground both for himself and anyone caught in the crossfire, particularly with his enemies firing from an elevated position.
And that wasn’t his only problem. Glancing past his new surfer bro, he spotted three men moving purposefully through the passing pedestrians, hands already inside their jackets, eyes locked on him. Every one of them looked like they lived in a gym, and they certainly weren’t here to admire the scenery. An Agency field team, probably assigned to guard the hotel entrance in case backup was needed.
Drake reacted immediately, drawing the Glock and waving it in the air.
‘Oh, shit,’ the surfer gasped. ‘Chill, man. It’s okay, we’re leaving.’
Drake pointed the Glock skywards and fired a couple of shots. As the gunshots echoed, the small crowd of onlookers scattered in panic.
Taking advantage of the confusion, Drake turned right and ran for it, limping slightly on an injured leg, and keeping as close as he could to the hotel wall without backing up against it. With luck, the building’s projecting window sills would make it difficult for the men above to get a decent shot, while the fleeing bystanders would cover his retreat.
Either way, there was little choice but to go for it and hope for the best, pounding down the street as fast as his body would carry him.
* * *
Her strength waning, Anya swept her leg around in a powerful right kick, following it up with a pair of uppercuts as the bag swung back into position.
She wanted to focus on the sensations of the moment, but instead she saw herself outside a warehouse in Pakistan, up against a wall, in a fraught confrontation with Drake just hours before they went into battle. She was so close she could see a little scar above his left eye that she hadn’t noticed before.
‘Leaving you behind was one of the hardest things I ever did. But I did it to protect you… from me, from the same thing that happens to everyone who gets close to me. You don’t deserve that, because you are a good man. Better than this… better than me.’
* * *
Drake was running for his life, ignoring the curious and frightened looks from locals as he shoved past them. He turned right down a narrow residential street, putting in as many angles between him and his pursuers as possible.
His only chance was to disappear amongst the city’s complex network of side streets, alleyways and interconnected courtyards. Every block he covered would dramatically widen the search area, making it virtually impossible for them to seal him in unless they had serious manpower at their disposal.
Hi
s vision was weakening, his equilibrium disrupted as blood loss started to tell. He leaned against a wall to steady himself, leaving a bloody hand print on the stonework.
His stop gave him a moment to tune into his surroundings. He was vaguely aware of the wail of police sirens, and knew they were converging on this area. Reports of an armed man jumping from a hotel window then firing shots in the air tended to attract that kind of attention.
Being picked up by Czech police would be no better than having Hawkins’ men catch him. Sooner or later the Agency would get to him, either through an extradition order or a simple snatch-and-grab operation.
Keep moving, he told himself. Don’t stop until there’s no more breath in your lungs.
Pushing himself off the wall, Drake dashed along the street, spotting a service alley running between two big apartment blocks off to his left.
Stumbling down the alleyway, dodging trash cans and bags of discarded refuse, he could see a road, then open ground and trees at the far end. A park, perhaps, or a playing field.
Encouraged by the hope of escape, he pressed on, digging deep into whatever reserves of energy he had left.
A screech of tyres announced the sudden arrival of a van or truck of some kind, practically blocking the entrance to the alleyway.
Drake skidded to a halt and raised his weapon, ready to open fire on anyone who tried to force their way in.
But no such thing happened. As the van’s side door slid open, revealing a pair of shockingly familiar figures in the cargo area, Drake let out a gasp of horror.
‘Drop the gun, Ryan,’ Hawkins said, pressing his automatic against the side of Frost’s head. The young woman, bound and gagged, was held in front of him as a human shield. ‘Drop it now or things are about to get real messy.’
All hope of escape evaporated. Drake knew Hawkins would have left nothing to chance. He’d engineered this entire thing, and he was ready. He knew Drake would rather die than surrender, so he’d brought with him the only thing that would hold him back.
Drake considered opening fire on his enemy anyway, even if it meant sacrificing Frost’s life. The two of them were almost certainly going to die after tonight’s events, and perhaps he could spare her whatever agony Hawkins had in mind.
He saw the look of hope and expectation in her eyes as his grip tightened on the weapon. She understood what he was thinking, what it meant for her, and she wanted him to do it.
But as he stared at Hawkins down the sights, he knew he couldn’t pull the trigger. In his condition, with shaking hands and failing vision, his chances of scoring a hit were fanciful at best, and his adversary was almost certainly wearing body armour. Frost was not.
‘Don’t make me ask twice, Ryan. Drop the gun.’
He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t kill her.
Tossing aside the weapon, Drake placed his hands behind his head as the three operatives from back at the hotel approached with weapons trained on him. He felt the cold steel of handcuffs being snapped around his wrists.
‘I knew we’d see eye to eye.’
Drake looked up as the imposing form of Hawkins loomed over him, still wearing that malicious smile.
‘You didn’t think I’d kill you after all this, did you Ryan?’ he asked. ‘Today’s your lucky day. We have other plans for you.’
A curt nod, and two operatives seized him by the arms, dragging him towards the waiting van. Drake was powerless to resist as he was hauled into the cargo compartment and the door rolled closed, slamming shut with a thunderous bang.
* * *
With an exhausted cry, Anya threw one last punch at the bag before falling to her knees. Her hands were shaking, and when she looked down she noticed bloodstains on the thin wrappings.
She wiped the perspiration from her eyes, knowing but not quite acknowledging that they were wet for a different reason.
At least now she had some measure of clarity. She knew what she had to do.
Clutching the bag for support, she pulled herself slowly to her feet and glanced up the stairs leading to the main floor of the house.
Chapter 39
Anya felt better when she emerged into the cool darkness outside. She’d needed to release some of her pent-up tension.
She inhaled, tasting the scent of grass and wild flowers and the sharp tang of pine needles from the woodland nearby. There was almost no noise apart from the gentle sway of the trees and the distant drone of a car skirting the lake below.
As she’d expected, Alex was sitting on the open ground by the side of the road, the bottle of vodka resting beside him as he stared out across the darkened mountains.
Anya approached and, without saying anything, sat down next to him. He didn’t even acknowledge her presence.
For a time she said and did nothing, just sat there with him, watching as a thin ribbon of cloud drifted across the moon.
‘When I was a child, there was a hill like this near my home,’ she said. ‘I would run there sometimes when I was angry, or frightened, or I just wanted to be alone. There was something about the movement of the grass stalks in the breeze that always seemed to calm me. I felt like I could picture the anger or the fear or anything else I didn’t want being… carried off by that breeze, leaving just me. Of course, I usually didn’t take a bottle of vodka with me,’ she added with a rueful smile, hoping to add a little levity.
He wasn’t biting, but neither had he asked her to leave.
‘I was wrong to blame you earlier, Alex,’ she said, deciding to cut to the heart of the matter. ‘What happened with Lauren… it was not your fault. I asked you to be something you’re not.’ She sighed. ‘You were right when you said you were nothing like me. You are a trusting man who sees the good in people. I can’t imagine what that must be like.’
She saw him reach for the bottle, but not drink from it. He was waiting to hear what else she had to say.
‘If you wanted to leave now, I wouldn’t blame you,’ Anya went on, speaking frankly. ‘You have done your part. More than we agreed, in fact. If you decide to go, I can get you to the nearest train station, give you money and supplies. You can leave this behind, never see me again.’ She allowed that thought to hang. ‘If that’s what you want.’
He turned to look at her, studying her as if she were some puzzle whose solution eluded him.
‘What do you want?’ he asked.
She shook her head. ‘The choice is yours. I can’t make it for you.’
‘I don’t mean about me,’ Alex explained. ‘I mean you. If this plan of yours somehow works and you get your friends back – and fuck me, it’s looking like a long shot – what then? What do you actually want from all this, Anya?’
She leaned back a little on her grassy perch, her knees drawn up to her chest as she considered his words. She could have humoured him, could have told him what she thought he wanted to hear, but Anya had no interest in spinning lies. Now least of all.
‘Answers,’ was her reply. ‘I did my best, gave everything I had to give. I want to know why that wasn’t enough.’
She heard the glug of liquid in the vodka bottle, glanced over and saw him taking a swig. He grimaced as the alcohol went down, but looked at her with growing resolve.
‘Then I’m still in,’ Alex said, holding the bottle out to her. He shrugged. ‘What the hell, right? A friend in need, and all that.’
Anya smiled as she accepted the bottle, surprised by how relieved she felt. For once it felt good not to be alone.
‘I did not say we were friends, though,’ she remarked, taking a sip.
Alex decided not to pursue that argument. It was enough to be there, to have put their disagreement aside. They stared out across the lake, each privately contemplating what lay ahead.
Chapter 40
Peshawar, Pakistan – 29 September 1988
Cain practically pounced on the phone the moment it started ringing.
‘Don’t speak to me unless you’ve got good news, Sully,’ he began. Sev
eral days without sleep were taking their toll on both his concentration and his patience.
‘I’ve got news, but I don’t think you’ll like it,’ Tom Sullivan, one of his oldest comrades from Langley confirmed, though his tone was distinctly guarded. ‘My guy at the National Reconnaissance Office came through.’
Since Cain’s meeting with the remains of Task Force Black two days earlier, he had put out as many feelers as possible within the Agency, trying to pull together any intel that would help him understand what had happened during the ambush. And more importantly, what had come after.
The official line from Carpenter and Simmons was that the attempted ambush and the desperate battle that followed had ended when the task force slipped the Russian net, but Cain sensed otherwise. There was no way crack Soviet units like that would allow such a group to escape when they could easily have followed up their ground attack with air or artillery strikes.
No, something else had been at work, and Cain was determined to find out what. It seemed now that his covert snooping had yielded some results.
‘He was able to backtrack footage from one of their KH-11s as it passed over the ambush site,’ Sullivan went on. ‘They missed the firefight itself, just like you were briefed, but as it happened they’d made an inclination adjustment to that bird a few days earlier. Because of that, they managed to capture Soviet troop movements in the hours afterwards.’
The KH-11 was one of most advanced satellites in the NRO’s arsenal, orbiting a couple of hundred miles overhead. Their state-of-the-art imaging systems were able to take readings in infrared, display events in real time, and resolve details just a couple of inches across. Not enough to recognize human faces – yet – but about as close to it as technology would allow.
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