by Chris Ryan
Suddenly he heard a helicopter approaching. Matram had called in reinforcements. Then at his side, he could feel the train juddering to life. A vibration rippled through the several tons of metal, and the wheels strained as they started to turn. The stink of diesel filled the air.
'Fuck it,' shouted Matt. 'They're getting away.'
The train was starting to move again. Its massive engine had broken across the log blocking the track, crushing it into a million splintered fragments of wood. Eleanor was running down the hill, her breath short and furious. 'We're losing them,' she shouted.
'Get back, get back,' he yelled, his face red with fury.
But Eleanor kept moving. A bullet clipped the ground, and Matt reached out, dragging her behind the moving train to get her out of range.
The train was starting to accelerate, dust spitting up from its metal wheels. Thick clouds of diesel fumes blew out from its engine, obscuring Matt's vision. He started running, pulling level with the open doorway.
She can't survive out here herself. Not for a minute. She'll be picked off with the others. I'll have to take her with me.
His right fist reached up, grabbing the handle of the swinging door. With his left hand, Matt reached back and grabbed Eleanor's arm. The momentum of the train was gathering pace, and his arm locked on to the side of the train. He could feel the muscles in his arm being stretched. A sudden burst of acceleration tore his feet clean from the air, and for a moment it felt as if his shoulder was about to be split in two.
Matt twisted his shoulder, pushing all his strength into his arm, and pulled himself and Eleanor forward. He grabbed the side of the door, pulling them both on to the carriage floor. Then he slammed the door behind them. The train was moving faster now. A corpse was lying face down on the pale beige carpet that ran down the length of the carriage, a pool of blood oozing from his wounded gut.
Apart from that they were alone.
Matt took the Glock from his pocket, jabbing it forwards. How many enemies are left on the train? he asked himself.
He hauled Eleanor to her feet. 'Ready?' he whispered.
She nodded, wiping away some of Keith's blood that was still splattered across her T-shirt. 'Let's go make a deal.'
The helicopter took off again, flying low, swooping out over the streets of south London. It turned up into the sky over Wandsworth Bridge, then headed due south until it hit the railway line running down towards the south coast.
'There,' snapped Matram. 'There's the train.'
'I can't see anything?' said Abbott. 'You certain he's on board?'
'Let's get down lower,' said Matram. 'I want to take a closer look.'
The automatic door on the front carriage slid smoothly open. Matt positioned the Glock in his right hand, checked the safety catch was released, placed his finger over the trigger and stepped foward. I'm going to spill some more blood on this smart new carpet.
Lacrierre was sitting in the leather armchair. The laptop was open on his desk. Some music was playing loud on the speakers – the opera Manon – drowning out the sound of the train. He was looking out of his window, his fingers tapping out the melody of the aria.
Matt reached down to switch the music off.
Lacrierre glanced upward, meeting Matt's eyes with his. His face was calm, yet intensely calculating: was he busy trying to figure out how Matt could have got inside the train? Surely he must have heard the gun battle? Perhaps he had been completely confident that Matram would win it for him? Or perhaps this was a trap?
'The English,' said Lacrierre, a sneer in his voice. 'Not a musical race.'
Matt stepped across the floor of the carriage. The train was accelerating away, picking up speed as it moved out into the suburbs of south London. He stood in front of the chair, resting the tip of his Glock pistol against Lacrierre's forehead. One of the lessons he had learnt in the regiment flashed through his mind. If you want to negotiate with a man, let him feel the cold, rounded steel of a gun barrel against his skin.
'Let me guess,' said Lacrierre. 'You're about to make me an offer I can't refuse?'
Matt smiled. 'You can refuse if you like,' he answered, his voice calm and measured. He tapped the gun barrel twice against Lacrierre's forehead. 'But there are six reasons in here why you should think very carefully before you do.'
'I'm a businessman, I know about negotiation. Tell me what you want.'
Eleanor stepped forward. 'We know about XP22,' she said. 'We know how you bought it, tested it and made money from it. Everything. With proof. And we know that all the men it was tested on are being eliminated one by one to stop the truth about its side effects ever being revealed.'
Lacrierre spread out his hands. 'Then you know everything,' he said. 'There is surely nothing else I can help you with?'
'The antidote,' persisted Eleanor. 'We want to know where the antidote is.'
'An antidote?' Lacrierre pushed back in his chair, a slow laugh starting to rise from his throat. 'There is no such thing.'
'Really?' said Matt. 'Orlena was looking for it in that factory in Belarus.'
'Perhaps,' said Lacrierre cautiously. 'But her mission, and yours as well, Matt, was just to destroy the factory. Simple as that.' He looked up towards Matt. 'You're a soldier, and soldiers fight. They don't get involved in any of the bigger questions, that's not their role. Now let's finish this right here, right now. If you want more money, tell me the amount, and we can settle it today.'
'We told you, we want the antidote,' barked Matt.
'And I just told you, no such thing exists.'
'Likuvannia,' snapped Matt. 'That was the word Orlena was shouting in the factory.'
'My Ukrainian is not what it should be . . .'
'It means cure,' said Matt. 'Or antidote.'
'And an antidote is what you need,' said Eleanor. 'Without one, XP22 is useless. You can do nothing with it. You've already tested it and, as you've discovered this year, the men that take it turn into monsters. No army is ever going to administer it again.' She paused. 'But once you have an antidote to cover the side effects, then it can be used full-scale. Tocah stands to make a fortune.'
Lacrierre ran his thin, bony fingers through his hair. He looked up at Eleanor, examining her, his eyes running up her body, then resting on her face. 'And you are?'
'My name is Eleanor Blackman. My brother was Ken Blackman. XP22 was tested on him, then a few weeks ago he went crazy and killed some people. He's dead now.' Eleanor paused, the words catching in her throat.
'Normally I judge a woman solely by her appearance,' said Lacrierre coldly. 'In your case I may make an exception. You look stupid, but I don't think you are.'
He stood up from the chair, walking over to the window, looking out. He scratched his chin, then turned round to look at Matt and Eleanor. 'Maybe there is an antidote.'
Matram put down the pair of binoculars he had been holding to his eyes. 'Yes,' he snapped. 'Browning's managed to get on board the train.'
Abbott looked across, straining to make out the words over the roar of the blades just a few feet away above him. The helicopter was swaying through the air like a bubble tossed around in the wind as the pilot strained to keep it just a few yards above the train. Abbott was turning pale.
'You sure?' he shouted.
'Look for yourself shouted Matram, handing across the binoculars.
'Damn it,' shouted Abbott.
Matram looked up towards the pilot. 'Send a signal to the rail operator to slow the train down,' he snapped. 'Then bring us down low enough over the roof so that we can get on board.'
He looked back towards Abbott. 'I hope you know how to jump on to a moving object because we're about to get on board.'
Abbott turned a shade paler, clutching on to the side of the helicopter as it tipped on its side, and swerved down low in the direction of the speeding train.
Matram laughed. 'At last we've got him where we want him. Trapped like a fish in a bowl.'
'Where is it?' said M
att.
He had stepped forward two paces, holding the Glock to Lacrierre's head, forcing him to sit back down on the chair. The barrel of the gun was squeezed tight against his forehead, leaving a tiny, circular imprint in his skin. 'I said we want it.'
'It's useless to you,' said Lacrierre. 'We retrieved some interesting material from the computers you and Orlena brought back from the factory. There's a possibility of an antidote. Another drug that would stop the side effects of XP22 ever manifesting themselves in the men who took it. But it's still very experimental.' He glanced towards Eleanor. 'There isn't some nice little blue pill I can give you.'
Matt could feel the train slowing. He moved the gun aside, then slapped Lacrierre hard across the cheek. His knuckles collided hard with the skin just above his cheekbone, sending a bolt of pain down into the neck. Matt could feel the bruising in his own knuckles, but the blow had hurt Lacrierre more: he was ageing, his bones turning brittle, without the suppleness that allowed a younger man to absorb far harder punches. 'Do I look like I'm here for a fucking conversation?' Matt barked. 'Now give us what we've asked for. Then I can get on with deciding whether to kill you or not.'
Lacrierre was rubbing the side of his cheek, nursing the swelling. He looked back up, moving his head away from the pistol that was still just a few inches away from his face. 'I just told you, it's useless, you can't use it.'
'On the list there are fifty men who the drug was tested on,' said Eleanor. 'Five of them disappeared. About another ten or fifteen have killed themselves, or been murdered. That leaves at least thirty men. Their lives could be saved if we had the antidote.'
'Soldiers,' said Lacrierre, his eyes rolling upwards, and his shoulders cast back in a shrug. 'They sign up to die for their governments. They shouldn't start complaining about the method their government chooses to dispose of them.' He looked back up at Matt. 'Unless, of course, they are, maybe, laches.' He paused, rolling his eyes. 'Excuse me, that's French. The English word, I believe, is coward.'
Matt smashed his hand back into Lacrierre's face, his knuckles colliding with the same section of cheek. The swelling reddened, and Lacrierre flinched as the pain swelled up in his neck. If you want to hurt a man, you just keep punching him in the same place again and again, Matt reflected. The pain started to multiply, until it became unbearable. It was simple, brutal and effective.
'Fuck you,' spat Matt.
'Give us the information,' said Eleanor. 'Now.'
The hydraulics within the carriage hissed, then squealed as the automatic doors through which Matt and Eleanor had come slid open again. Matt glanced round anxiously. With his left forearm he pulled tight against Lacrierre's neck, jerking him backwards. With his right arm, he jammed the Glock against the side of his head, pointing the gun an inch below the ear.
Matram walked into the carriage. He strode confidently into the narrow chamber, followed by Abbott and two other men. Matt recognised one of them: Harton had been there that day in Bosnia when he'd walked out of the Increment. Both of them had the hard, detached look of professional soldiers, high on the adrenalin of the battle.
Between them, they were carrying enough munitions to wipe out a medium-sized town.
A single thought rattled through Matt's mind. I'm done for.
'Drop him, Browning,' barked Matram. 'Drop him right now, or I'll blow both of your bloody brains out.'
Their eyes met briefly. It had been four years since they'd last set eyes on each other: the last time, Matt had been on his way out of the Increment. Matram's expression was cold and unyielding, but behind the mask of indifference, Matt felt certain he could detect a blind, furious hatred.
Whatever else happens here, he's determined that I should end my day as a corpse.
Matt took a step backwards, dragging Lacrierre by the throat. A few feet ahead of him Eleanor, too, was edging nervously towards the back of the carriage, where two of Lacrierre's heavy Napoleonic swords were hanging in open frames on the wall.
If I'm going to go, we're all going to go, decided Matt. We can finish this party in hell.
'Really, old fruit, this is all getting a trifle tiresome,' said Abbot. 'You need to learn to rub along with people a little better.' He paused, fishing a packet of Dunhill from his pocket, jabbing a cigarette into his mouth. 'Now do what the man says, and we can finish this nice and quick.'
Matt looked first at Abbott, then across to Matram, then behind to Harton and Godsall. Matram was carrying a Smith & Wesson pistol, and both Harton and Godsall were carrying standard-issue MP-5 sub-machine guns. From his time in the Increment, Matt guessed they would both have pistols tucked into their clothing somewhere, and at least one knife as well. Abbott was not holding a weapon in his hand, but that meant nothing: he could have a gun concealed somewhere within that crumpled linen suit.
He jabbed the Glock harder into Lacrierre's head. 'Anyone touches me or her, you're about to discover what this guy's brain looks like when it's splattered across the floor.'
Matram lifted his right arm, the elongated Smith & Wesson pointing straight outwards. He was standing just five feet away. If he looked closely, Matt could see right down the centre of the barrel, into the inner workings of the weapon.
'Who says I care, Browning?' snapped Matram. 'Drop him if you want to. It's your brains that will be joining his on the floor.'
'Nice try, Matram,' said Matt. 'But I'm not buying. You need him. You see, this was never a job for the Firm. It was never a job for the Increment. It was a conspiracy all along between you and Abbott and Lacrierre.' He paused. 'And he's the boss. He has been all along. You need him. He's your paymaster.'
Matt could see the frown on Matram's face: the anger was surging through him, like a wave crashing against a beach. He inched fowards, the pistol still trained on Matt's forehead. A thin trickle of sweat started to drip down Matt's spine. This is not working, he told himself. The bastard is going to kill me.
I don't mind dying if I have to. But not from his hand.
A tense, unsteady silence hung through the carriage: Matt could hear the wheels of the train beating against the track, and the breathing of Lacrierre's strangled throat next to his arms, but otherwise nothing. Then, six feet to the left, Matt could see Abbott lighting his cigarette, blowing a thick cloud of smoke up into the already fetid air.
Then with sudden, unexpected agility, Abbott darted swiftly towards Eleanor, knocking her sideways. Behind him, Harton and Godsall stepped forward one pace, holding their MP-5s at shoulder level, their fingers poised on the triggers. A scream erupted from Eleanor's lips as Abbott punched her hard in the stomach. She doubled over in pain, and by the time her eyes rolled upwards, Abbott's fist was jammed hard into her throat.
He glanced back at Matt and smiled. 'The muffins, old fruit, that's your weakness,' he said softly. 'Just the jolly old Sir Lancelot. All very nifty with the spear, but show him a bit of hemline and he was all over the place.' The cigarette, still alight, was dangling from his lips. With his right hand squeezed into Eleanor's throat, Abbott took the Dunhill from his mouth with his left hand, flicking the ash down the front of her T-shirt. 'Give up, old fruit,' he said. 'You played a good innings, but your time at the crease is done. Now, you know we're going to execute you. I won't piss about saying we might spare you, because we won't and you know it. But the muffin.' He looked down at Eleanor. 'There's no need to blow this pretty little head apart. So you be a good boy, and put that gun down. We'll make it nice and quick for you, then we can all get out of here.'
Matt looked into Eleanor's eyes. He could see the fear written into the bloodshot rims of her eyes, into the trembling of her lips and the nervous quivering of her hands. An hour ago, she was all bravado and defiance, but now that had all evaporated. She was not a soldier, Matt reflected. She had never been to that abyss, never looked down at her own mortality, and she had no idea how to handle it.