Deathlist

by Chris Ryan

  The motorcade took the same route to school each morning. Once the cars rolled out of the gates they hooked a left and rode west on Route du Creux-de-Genthod for several hundred metres. Then they took a right and arrowed north for six hundred metres until they hit Route de Valavran, exactly a mile east of the tunnel at Bald and Porter’s two o’clock. On a normal day the Serb and his heavies motored down Route de Valavran for a couple of miles then fish-hooked their way around the edge of the airport before taking the slip road leading north onto the A1. But today was not going to be a normal day for Radoslav Brozovic. Today, he wasn’t going to make it out of that tunnel.

  Porter looked to his three o’clock. To the east. Towards the motorway bridge running over the tunnel. He could just about see the Land Rover parked on the hard shoulder. Right now Devereaux was sitting behind the Landy wheel. Watching and waiting. Five hundred metres to the east, Coles was sitting on a Yamaha R1 motorbike and doing the same. The team was ready. The trap was set.

  The plan was all about timing, Porter knew. A second too early or too late, and the whole operation could go sideways. There had been little time to rehearse the attack beforehand. With the cops retrieving Ninkovic’s body from the lake in Serbia, it was only a matter of time before Brozovic realised he was being targeted. If the guy didn’t know already. The team had to act now, before the target went deeper underground. They had one chance to pull off the attack. One chance to lift Brozovic and end their mission.

  Porter checked his G-Shock again.

  0729 hours.

  Eleven minutes to go.

  0730 hours.

  At exactly half-past seven in the morning, Radoslav Brozovic emerged from his mansion and paced across the driveway towards the fleet of cars waiting outside. He was flanked by Nastasic and his two children, Filip and Danica, with the other five bodyguards following close behind. Brozovic moved briskly past the marble statue of Poseidon that had pride of place in the middle of an expensive water feature. He strode past the perfectly manicured lawn and the Victorian lampposts lining the front drive. He followed his kids into the back of the black Lincoln Town Car, while Nastasic and one of the other bodyguards climbed into the front. At the same time the four other bodyguards swept towards the two sleek Audi A6s. They were all packing Glock 17 semi-automatic pistols clipped to their belt holsters. If anyone tried to attack Brozovic, they were going to have to get past his outer layer of security first. Even if they succeeded, they would still have to find a way inside the Lincoln, which wouldn’t be easy. The windows were made of tempered bulletproof glass. The panels and floor were fitted with armour plating designed to protect against a car bomb or an RPG attack. No one was getting through the security bubble.

  Thirty seconds later the wrought-iron gates at the front of the mansion whirred open and the three armoured cars slithered out in single file onto the main road. The front Audi lead the way, followed by the Lincoln, with the second Audi bringing up the rear. The motorcade slung a right onto Route du Creux-de-Genthod. Then it rumbled south, heading towards Route de Valavran.

  Towards the tunnel.

  0736 hours.

  Four minutes to go, Devereaux finally got tired of the europop blaring out of the speakers and switched off the Land Rover radio.

  He was parked on the hard shoulder of the A1 motorway, at the midway point on the bridge overlooking Route de Valavran. Devereaux had steered the Landy into position fifteen minutes earlier, turning on the hazard lights to make it look like he’d suffered an emergency breakdown. He was parallel to the section of railing immediately above the eastern entrance to the tunnel below. There was a drop of fifteen metres from the parapet to the road below. From his position Devereaux had a clear view of the approach to the tunnel from the east. The road ran straight for four hundred metres into the distance until it reached a bend and curved off to the left, disappearing behind a dense cluster of pine trees.

  Now it was just a question of waiting.

  There was an electric winch system fitted to the Landy’s front bumper. A lot of Land Rover owners seemed to have them fitted as standard these days. Especially in the cities. Devereaux wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was some kind of fashion accessory. The winch rope was thirty metres of galvanised steel, thinner than climbing rope and with a safety hook fitted to the end. The winch was plugged directly in to the Landy’s battery. Devereaux could operate it using the remote control. He’d fully unwound the cable as soon as he had parked up at the side of the motorway. Right now the cable was coiled in a heap in front of the Landy, ready to be thrown over the side of the parapet at a moment’s notice.

  Devereaux had two jobs. The first was to coordinate the attack, observing the approach to the tunnel and watching for the motorcade. As soon as Devereaux caught sight of the target he’d get on the comms with the other guys, using the Motorola walkie-talkies they’d bought from an electronics store. His second job was to assist with the getaway. Any attack carried a certain amount of risk. But a hit in broad daylight, on a busy road in full view of potentially hundreds of witnesses, was riskier than most. Everything depended on being able to make a speedy exit. Which is where the winch came in. As soon as Bald and Porter had their hands on the principal, they would clip on to the winch with the harnesses they were wearing and Devereaux would hoist them up to the motorway. Then the team would race north, changing cars at a place called Founex, a fifteen-minute drive from the tunnel. There was a dark-blue Mercedes-Benz C-class waiting for them at an abandoned farm at Fainex. From there it was a clean ride all the way to the pick-up point at the airfield outside Lausanne.

  Now Devereaux sat in tense silence, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel and listening to the snarling drone of the traffic sliding past to his left. It was still early in the morning, too early for the rush hour. There wasn’t too much traffic on the roads yet. He stared out of the right passenger-side window. At the pine trees. Somewhere beyond those pines, Coles was sitting on the Yamaha motorbike, listening in to the chatter with an earpiece fitted inside his crash helmet. A hundred and fifty metres away to the west, on the other side of the tunnel, Bald and Porter were inside the dump truck.

  They were all waiting for the signal.

  At 0739 hours, the motorcade slid into view.

  Devereaux saw the first Audi rolling down the bend. Heading straight for the tunnel. The Lincoln followed three metres behind, with the second Audi bringing up the rear. The motorcade was moving at a decent pace but keeping within the strict speed limits. Forty miles per hour, Devereaux figured. Maybe forty-five.

  He grabbed the walkie-talkie and got on the comms.

  ‘Target’s just entered into sight,’ he reported. ‘Four hundred metres.’

  The walkie-talkie crackled.

  ‘Roger that,’ came the reply from Bald.

  0739 hours.

  Five hundred metres to the east, Coles heard the signal and hopped onto the Yamaha. He’d been waiting in a parking lot next to a sprawling industrial estate set back on a leafy side road. The Yamaha had been nicked, same as the truck. Stolen vehicles would make the team harder to trace. There was no paper trail, no chance of the cops somehow tracking the vehicles back to them. Coles had stolen the bike from outside a train station on the other side of Geneva, around the same time Bald and Porter were stealing the truck from the building site.

  Coles glanced around, then reached into the saddlebag fixed to the back of the Yamaha and retrieved a shaped directional charge the size of a small brick. The charge was made of C4 plastic explosive, primed with a strip of det cord and lined with double-sided sticky tape on the underside. The tape would make it stick to the rear windscreen of the Audi on contact. There was a remote radio transmitter attached to the det cord. The cars were armoured and the windows bulletproofed. But more importantly, they weren’t bombproof. An ounce of C4 contained enough explosive material to blow a hole through the windscreen and rip the bodyguards inside to shreds. Once Devereaux remotely activated the detonator and the
charge exploded, the bodyguards sitting in the rear Audi wouldn’t stand a chance.

  Coles kicked the kickstand up and hit the engine switch. The Yamaha purred. He tucked the shaped charge between his legs so it was within easy reach. Then he nosed the bike out of the parking lot and leaned right onto Route de Valavran. Through his helmet visor he could see the rear Audi two hundred metres ahead of him, rolling slowly towards the tunnel under the bridge. Coles twisted the throttle.

  The Yamaha growled, picking up speed.

  Devereaux saw it all happening from his vantage point on the bridge above the tunnel. The front Audi was two hundred metres from the tunnel entrance, with the rear Audi sixteen metres behind. Two hundred metres further back along Route de Valavran, Coles was bombing down the road on the Yamaha and closing in on the motorcade. First the gap was a couple of hundred metres. A few seconds later, it was down to a hundred and fifty. Five more seconds and the distance between the Yamaha and the rear Audi had narrowed to a hundred metres.

  The front Audi was a hundred metres from the eastern entrance to the tunnel now. It’s time, Devereaux thought. He got back on the walkie-talkie.

  ‘A hundred metres,’ he said. ‘Get ready.’

  ‘Roger that,’ said Porter.

  He set the Motorola down on the dash and turned to Bald.

  ‘We’re on, Jock.’

  ‘At fucking last,’ Bald said, grinning. ‘These bastards won’t know what’s hit ’em.’

  They put on their safety goggles over their face masks and shoved their gum shields into their mouths. They pulled their seatbelts as tight as they would go, strapping themselves into their seats. Bald gunned the engine. The Actros shuddered into life as he held the clutch to the floor and shifted into second gear. Then Bald stepped down on the accelerator and the truck started rumbling down the blacktop towards the main road, fifty metres away. He quickly shifted through the gears, picking up speed. Chewing up blacktop. After fifty metres he steered a hard right onto Route de Valavran. The truck engine was roaring like mad as he accelerated towards the tunnel entrance a hundred metres away. Now ninety metres. Now eighty.

  Seventy.

  Fifty metres to the east of the tunnel, Coles was breathing down the neck of the rear Audi. The target was forty metres from the tunnel entrance and twenty ahead of Coles on the Yamaha. Coles glanced up and saw the Landy parked up on the hard shoulder directly above the entrance to the tunnel. Right now Devereaux was looking down at the road, eyes on Coles. Waiting for him to place the charge. Coles figured they had ten seconds until things got noisy. He lowered his gaze to the Audi and started counting down the seconds inside his head.

  He gave the throttle another twist and sped forward. On eight seconds Coles caught up with the rear Audi. His heart started to beat faster with tension. He was intensely aware that his balls were on the line here. Fail to place the charge in time, and Devereaux might trigger the detonator while it was still between Cole’s legs, blowing him to shreds. The entrance to the tunnel was twenty metres ahead of Coles now. Five metres between the Audi and the tunnel. The rest of the motorcade was already moving under the bridge. On seven seconds Coles edged dangerously close to the Audi, leaving a gap of no more than an inch between the bike’s front wheel and the Audi’s rear bumper. He reached down with his right hand and grabbed the shaped charge from between his legs, keeping his speed steady so he remained uber close to the target car.

  Five seconds to go.

  Coles took the charge and slapped it on the midway point on the Audi’s rear windscreen with four seconds left on the clock. The charge stuck. Coles pulled heavily on the brakes and slid back from the Audi, skidding to a halt just inside the tunnel entrance. He killed the Yamaha engine, the sweat running down his face inside his crash helmet as he watched the rear Audi carry into the gloom of the tunnel.

  ‘Armed,’ he reported down the mike. ‘We’re ready.’

  Three seconds to go.

  0740 hours.

  Twenty metres west of the tunnel, Bald nudged the dump truck up to eighty miles per.

  They were bulleting towards the mouth of the tunnel. Bald could see the lead Audi in the motorcade thirty metres ahead, on the other side of the road. Travelling towards the Actros Bald could see the Lincoln further back. The second Audi’s brake lights flashed as it braked. The front Audi’s rear-view was blocked by the Lincoln. The driver continued rolling on towards the tunnel exit at a steady fifty per. The distance between the truck and the front Audi was now twelve metres and closing. Bald yanked the wheel to the left and steered the dump truck directly into the path of the onrushing Audi. Ten metres now. Nine. Eight. Porter tensed his jaw and braced himself for impact. Seven. Six. At the very last moment Bald took his hands off the steering wheel so the impact wouldn’t break his wrist joints. Five, four.

  Half a second later, the dump truck ploughed into the front Audi.

  The impact was catastrophic. Deafening. There was a mechanical screech and wail as the dump truck creamed into the front-end of the engine compartment. It crushed and crumpled, like an empty beer can being flattened. The windscreen shattered, spilling debris across the tarmac like cubes tumbling out of a hole in a bag of ice. Bald and Porter lurched forward. Their seat belts snapped tight across their chests, the shudder reverberating through their bones. The sheer force of the collision briefly lifted the front Audi off its wheels. Then it crashed back down to earth and skidded backwards. The dump truck jerked to a stop at a ninety-degree angle to the road, blocking the Lincoln and the second Audi from the tunnel exit.

  At the same moment as the dump truck was totalling the front Audi, Devereaux finished counting to three from behind the wheel of the Landy. He depressed the remote detonator. Triggering the det cord in the shaped charge stuck to the rear windscreen of the second Audi. The driver had hit the brakes as soon as he’d clocked the Yamaha in the rear-view mirror and the motor was thirty metres from Bald and Porter when the charge exploded. A fraction of a second later a flash of brilliant orange lit up the tunnel. There was a violent boom that sounded like a jet engine during takeoff. The explosion ripped through the Audi windscreen, blasting out the windows and tearing into the two bodyguards trapped inside. White-hot smoke spewed out of the tunnel in both directions, spitting out a vicious hail of glass shards and twisted metal and burnt plastic. The Audi rolled to a stop. The Lincoln, sandwiched between the two trashed cars, hit the brakes and screeched to a sudden halt.

  Porter and Bald didn’t fuck about. They unbuckled their seat belts as soon as the truck had stopped, ripping off their safety goggles and Pro-Tec helmets. Porter reached down and grabbed the link chain and the petrol container. Bald seized the cordless hammer drill and a one-ounce shaped charge, identical to the one Coles had slapped on to the back of the rear Audi. Porter also grabbed a length of climbing tape from under his seat, an inch-thick nylon rope in a loop that could be used as a makeshift harness. He flung open his passenger door and dropped down to the side steps. He left a padded envelope stuffed full of Croatian receipts and currency on the dash. A parting gift for the forensics team.

  The temperature was a million fucking degrees inside the tunnel. Smoke belched out from the burning rear Audi, choking the air. Porter could taste the bitter metallic tang of burnt flesh. Later on Bald and Porter would both be feeling the bruises from the collision, but right now the pair of them were running on pure adrenaline. Bald set down the drill and made straight for the wrecked Audi with the C4 charge. There was dust and glass and metal all over the place. The crumpled bonnet had lifted up. Smoke gushed out of the engine compartment. The front bumper was hanging off like a torn fingernail and the front windscreen had a spiderwebbed crack in it. There was no sign of either bodyguard but Bald wasn’t taking any chances. He placed the small charge on the windscreen, right over the crack. The bulletproof glass was made of layers of polycarbonate material inserted between ordinary glass. It was tough. Resilient. Even when it was cracked, Bald wouldn’t be able to shoot through it.
But a well-placed charge would severely fuck up the two bodyguards inside.

  Bald swung around to the other side of the dump truck. Dropped down to his knee beside the wheelbase alongside Porter. Took the clacker and depressed it. The charge popped. The shockwave tore through the glass, shredding the bodyguards in a savage hail of shrapnel before blasting out the back windscreen. The two guys inside were either dead or blinded. Bald didn’t know which. He wasn’t a medical professional. Either way, they were out of the picture. They wouldn’t be playing the hero today.

  Porter was keeping count of the bodies. Two guys dead in the front Audi. Plus the two dead guys in the rear Audi. That left Brozovic and his two kids in the Lincoln, with the two remaining bodyguards in the front seats.

  Almost there.

  He took one end of the link chain and clipped it to the bumper on the front of the dump truck. Then he moved past the trashed Audi and hurried towards the Lincoln, gripping the other end of the chain. There was a distance of eight metres between the Lincoln and the front end of the dump truck. Close enough for the chain to stretch between them. Porter dropped down next to the front left side of the principal car and wrapped the chain around the wheel. The strike team had done their homework on Brozovic’s bodyguard detail prior to the op. They knew these guys were a cut above the average toughs. In a situation like this, any bodyguard worth his salt would go into emergency SOP mode and try to ram his way out of the trap by driving forward, then reversing into the burning Audi. If he picked up enough speed, the driver could barge the Audi out of the way and clear a path to reverse out of the tunnel. But with the chain securing the Lincoln to the dump truck, the target wasn’t going anywhere.