by Ray Carole
His direction was dictated by the maze now, not his compass or tactical intuition, Antarctica was again the master in his high-stakes battle.
He moved forward looking over his shoulder every few steps knowing a man with an M4 rifle could appear and start firing in his direction, killing him instantly, he went over his plan in his mind again.
‘Right, I reckon they are both still on me but they will be spread out, the two other guys will be guarding the other man or taking care of bodies. They know I have a pistol. That tells them they have superior firepower and reach. They also know they will have to spread out to limit the threat I pose with this pistol. If they are within 5, 10, 20 metres of each other, I will kill them both within a second if I get the drop. They must know this, so I think they have split up unless they’re scared. Safety in numbers could be an option especially in this maze with limited visibility.
‘I still have no idea who they are. Is it this covert organisation I named The Fear that are real now or was that the guy earlier helpless on his knees being taken hostage or prisoner?’
Decker brushed this debate from his mind, ‘It doesn’t matter who it is. I have to kill them all.’ He bent down low and started to crouch as he walked methodically, poised with only his head clearly visible above the fog.
Luckily for once the environment was on his side. The ground was hard ice pack making it impossible to track his footprints especially with the lingering fog.
With little wind present WHITEOUT removed his goggles and let them hang around his neck, his instincts told him that this situation was going to erupt shortly. Classic indicators were present, his hairs were standing up on the back of his neck to match his sweaty palms, as he held the pistol directly in front of his eye line. Removing his goggles gave him twenty-twenty vision again, primed to lock on to anything that crossed his path.
Stopping sporadically, he could clearly identify the white tip of the foresight blade on the top of the pistol’s upper receiver. This white tip would be aimed at the centre of any intruder’s face, before two bullets penetrated through it in quick succession. He gritted his teeth as he approached each sharp corner of the steep trench banks where he would expose his body, in doing so he made a dynamic move punching hard and fast around the corner, pistol up on aim waiting to acquisition the target who might be lying in wait.
He kept his SAS training constantly in his mind, it had flooded back to him today like the natural born instincts of a professional killer.
‘If he’s at 15 metres or more close the left eye, gain a clear sight picture aiming at his body mass and squeeze the trigger gently. Double tap again, but a little slower for accuracy.
‘It doesn’t matter if he’s aiming at you, just keep it slow and keep it smooth. Slow is smooth, smooth is fast. You know this worked the day that attempted kidnapping happened, they shot at you first from only 5 metres away and you still nailed those assholes.’
Sweat was starting to run down his temples, ironically it was the slowest he had moved in nearly a month and the weather was probably the coolest, being trapped down in this labyrinth was creating a pressure-cooker nearing the point of combustion.
As the droplet of sweat ran past his ear and flowed fast down his neck, he knew it was time to listen to his body.
He paused.
50-60 metres to his front he could make out a kind of crossroads. It was four trench systems meeting, with walls 15 feet high all around. Crouched over just above the fog line he was motionless watching the choke point.
This was a great place for an ambush if he was the first to get there, providing of course that they came this way.
Remaining static and running the decision cycle through his head he was sold on it.
‘Right let’s get to the ambush point, tuck myself in tight on one of the walls so I can see all four routes meet in the centre. That’s the killing zone. I can wait there until it gets too cold to wait any longer, but I’ve got an hour in me I reckon before it gets dire and hypothermia sets in.’
Checking over his shoulder before moving to the identified ambush point he turned to move off again.
‘Holy fuck.’
Crouching down beneath the fog line Decker caught sight of a figure crossing his killing zone. ‘Damn my ambush plan is two minutes too late.’ It was too far to fire he observed. Tucked into the snow bank and hanging low beneath the fog, he predicted that the guy would stop and have a look this way, he waited 20 seconds without looking up, bracing his body once more to receive high velocity gunshot wounds. 18, 19, 20 seconds and cautiously he raised his head.
Just catching the back of the figure passing through the killing zone he knew he should just remain static and observe, knowing full well that he may come back.
‘In a minute or so the other figures should pass by behind him, then I can start pursuing them.’ Decker felt infuriated.
‘Fucking typical, two minutes earlier I could have had them. Right just stay cool, the others will pass by shortly then I can get on their tail and hunt them down.’
After another two minutes he concluded that they weren’t together and made the decision to stand up and start walking to the killing zone.
Okay now’s the time Decker . Let’s get to it and end this nightmare.
He froze along with his inner rhetoric to decipher the new immediate threat.
That’s a barrel of an M4 rifle in my back and that voice that just said stay fucking still and don’t turn around or I will kill you is the other man, and he’s Eastern bloc but must be Russian, they have an outstation here.
He just asked me to drop my pistol. My pistol is in my right hand about shoulder height with my arm bent at about 60 degrees pointing forward.
My left arm is to my side.
Barrel of the M4 firmly in my back still, I don’t have much time and it’s now or never. I know it’s the worst move you can make to put a weapon in someone’s back. It means you have closed down the immediate space to maneouver and he is attached to the weapon. I know exactly where he is in simple terms.
I would have stayed a few metres away, shot a few bullets or shouted a warning not to turn around, simply drop your weapon. You need that gap for the variables.
One of those variables I have to do now if I want to take control again.
Fuck it! I have to go for it. I have practised this move but I have never heard of anyone having to use it for real.
Make it clearly visible you’re going to drop the pistol by raising your right hand high in the air. He will be watching this like a hawk, tracking my right hand taking his attention away from my left lower arm.
The moment I drop it, I spin anticlockwise smashing his weapon away with my left outer upper arm. It will be an almost reverse elbow strike. He may have fired but in training when the gun fires it’s too late and misses the target. I then lock my left arm over the weapon underneath the armpit then I either go for a dynamic chop or blow to the head or neck.
After that it’s just sheer physical violence, fighting to the death trying to keep the weapon away or trying to get hold of it. I know it will be on a sling so attached to his body, more bullets may be fired during the struggle my pistol will be on the floor a metre away.
I don’t even know how big this fucker is but all-out aggression is my only hope. No hesitation.
Again all he could hear was a Russian accent telling him one more time to drop the weapon.
‘Okay, okay. Who the hell are you anyway?’
The Russian began counting to three.
‘3,2,1 drop the pistol. Turn, turn’
He dropped the pistol, his instincts were correct and the window of opportunity had arisen. He spun as he’d vividly rehearsed in his head and smashed the M4 violently with his forearm, the M4 fired four rounds into the ice bank. Clearly shocked, the Russian had pulled the
trigger as many times as he could before he saw the maniac eyes of a ruthless killer screaming in a voice that can only be described as a sound of a man who thought he was about to die.
A ferocious two punches to the Russian’s temple stunned him as his weapon dropped and hung on his sling attached around his neck.
Decker quickly wrapped one of the loose sling straps around his neck creating a noose, immediately followed up with four rapid close-range headbutts to his face. Only his balaclava prevented his face exploding into the air. The sling wrapped tight around his neck prevented the screams ringing out throughout the trench complex. Throwing the guy on his back and tightening the sling around his neck, Decker felt back in the zone.
Ripping his dented and cracked goggles off he saw his assailant’s eyes looking at him in complete shock as they rolled to the back of his head.
Shaking his head violently Decker started his shock-of-capture treatment.
‘Who the fuck are you? Who are you, who are you?’
Holding him till his eyes began to focus on him Decker started again.
‘Who the fuck are you?’
In true Spetnaz fashion the Russian had a large hunting knife attached to his outer left thigh. Decker in full control of an almost unconscious casualty ripped it out of its scabbard.
The Russian’s eyes quickly focused on it as Decker held it in his right hand.
Decker now had his left knee rammed in the Russian’s throat. His weapon was lying across his chest but it was in no position to be grabbed. Competing with Decker now was impossible; negotiating was now on the agenda.
‘You understand English I take it YES?’ Decker asked.
The Russian just about managed a slight head movement and blink to signify yes.
‘Good because I want answers or this knife will be rammed straight into your right eyeball.’
Blinking again Decker took that as a yes.
‘Right, why are you trying to kill me? And again who are you?’
Decker eased the sling that was restricting the Russian’s capacity to breathe.
Spitting out blood and breathing heavily the Russian prepared himself to give an answer.
Decker moved the knife in front of his right eye.
‘We heard the team following you and trying to kill you communicating with their satellite phones to their HQ,’ the guy managed to answer.
‘Who exactly? Who is trying to kill me, is it The FEAR? Are they British? Are they called The FEAR?’ Decker pushed.
‘We just know you’re so important to something that they want you dead, some psychological programme, warfare or something you know about. A world-changing thing they say, we don’t know what it is, we just had orders to catch you and bring you back before they killed you.’
‘Was the FEAR mentioned, The FEAR?’
The Russian grimiced with pain.
‘You Spetnaz? Are you Russian Special Forces?’ Decker was unrelenting.
The Russian confused asked, ‘What do you mean by The FEAR?’ Decker tightened the sling again digging his knee further into his chest.
‘Who they are? What they are a part of, their organisation’s name, do they call themselves The FEAR?’ Decker was desperate for the Russian to say yes and put all his assumptions to bed.
‘We just know they call themselves The Clinic, whatever they are that is what they are called.’
‘The Clinic you say?’
‘Yes, yes, The Clinic, they want you dead and it’s British voices.’
‘How many of you?’
‘Just two.’
‘Don’t fucking lie to me, how many?
‘Four asshole,’ but this time with a grin as he knew what Decker’s intention was. Telling the truth wouldn’t save his life but it may save his comrades.
For the second time that day Decker held the knife with a reverse grip and rammed it clean into the Russian’s eye, placing his hand over the Russian’s mouth.
Twisting anticlockwise then driving the palm of his hand hard onto the knife handle, he felt the knife grating fully into the socket and beyond into the softness of the brain tissue. Already short of breath and exhausted with Decker on top of him, the shock of the knife in his eyeball sent his body into complete shutdown.
Leaving the knife in his eye Decker grabbed the weapon sling with both hands and pulled the tapered sling in opposite directions completing closing off his airway.
As hard as he could pull the sling, the Russian’s movements faded away as he watched his left eye roll back and become completely still.
Within a minute all signs of life had disappeared.
Another man killed, another resident in the graveyard.
Decker let go of the sling and pulled the knife out and wiped the blade clean of partial eyeball fragments, frayed ligaments and brain tissue.
Panting with all the exertion that had just taken place he remained on top of the Russian, knees either side of his punctured head.
Looking down at another dead body he was exhausted yet elated to be alive and feeling the effects of yet another adrenalin hit.
In cold blood he had just racked up another number on his reactivated kill list, that he thought had had its last member years ago.
Things were getting hazy, trying to understand this latest killing, he closed he eyes and sucked in a few more breaths.
Opening his eyes and looking for the last time at the Russian, he nodded his head and gestured to himself to crack on with the task at hand.
‘This is fucking mental I have some guys called The Clinic who want me dead, a number of Russians want me alive. The Clinic has to be The Fear, it has to be, it must be, I must be right this really is happening.’
It was a moment he was almost relieved to be proving his insanity to be a sane theory. But he still had no conclusive evidence to completely confirm his wild assumption.
He also knew to get to the bottom of this meant getting on his feet again and heading to the RV. With that in mind he assessed his current situation. One M4 weapon and the guy’s equipment lay around him leaving him in a much better position to go on the real offensive with true latent force. He felt positive for the first time in a long time. He might even let himself have a smile he thought, before everything went dark. A perfectly pitched hard blow to the back of his head knocked him clean out and he fell forwards over the Russian’s head and face-planted into the ice.
Decker was down.
Chapter 34
Frozen ice pack had totally numbed Decker’s left cheekbone and eye socket, adding to his sense of helplessness and confusion upon awakening.
Remaining immobile, keeping both eyes closed he tried to take stock of his new-found circumstances. It was evident that he had taken a huge blow to the head. Squinting through his one good eye he saw a trail of blood seeping out over the snow, no doubt from his head as it felt as though an axe had been driven straight into his cranium.
The localised pain and swelling that was causing him acute distress was possibly cerebral spinal fluid, pressing against his arachnoid space. His SAS advanced trauma training told him that with no puncture or fracture to release it, the pressure would eventually crush his brain, reduce blood and oxygen supply and kill him. He lay still and tried to calm his breathing, hoping against all hope that it was just mild concussion.
Fuck I got caught out by the other Russian, he must have side-swiped me or butt-stroked me. My arms have been pressed behind my back and my hands are bound. My legs are bound too, I won’t move at the moment but it’s only a matter of time before he knows I’m conscious.
Coughing Decker moved his head slightly back and forth and licked the thick slush-puppy-like blood he felt around his mouth.
He was greeted instantly with a kick to his ribs. It was not a full-blown kick meant to in
jure, just one to get his attention.
Rolling over to face another Russian he knew what to expect. He was met by another Spetsnaz figure clad in white camouflage clothing and training a weapon on him. Standard. Wannabes but they have got me this time so box clever, the last guy was a lying shit. Remember I have something they want and they need me alive so hold a strong position in this imminent negotiation, no matter how brutal. It’s time to be the prisoner for the first time in my life. God knows, I’ve dished out the good news, punishments and ruthless executions in my time. Looks like the bitter karma pill could be finally here for me to start choking on, Decker thought.
Still tightly bound, he let himself be hauled aggressively into a seated position against the ice walls of the trench. It would only have been a waste of his valuable energy to struggle. This made him consider that this Spetsnaz wannabe may be more swept up and experienced than the last piece of roadkill, especially looking at the barrel of an M4 trained on his every move from a few metres away.
Ivan had witnessed how Decker had just disarmed his fellow comrade from a near-impossible position of power, so he was taking no chances.
He also knew that Decker was of severe importance and had to be captured, not killed, only ‘tortured within reason’ were his commander’s orders.
Whilst he had been unconscious Ivan had confirmed by handheld radio to his other comrades including Mick, who were now moving to his position.