Run or drive, whatever way she looked at the situation there was no choice. Their target was already there, and so too were Gridley-Brooks and his team. If her special forces team didn’t move, they would lose Simon Ashcroft. And they weren’t likely to get another chance to snatch him this soon in the game.
“Wilks, Pfündl, out of the car with me.” She turned to Cassian in the seat next to her, Delta Four. The young man was the complete ‘fashion model’ combination of neat dark hair, smooth skin and expensive clothes. His demeanor screamed ‘privileged white college boy’ who hadn’t yet figured out that intelligence work required you to fit in, not stand out. “Cassian, you get behind the wheel. Get to the target site as fast as you can and back us up.”
“Yes Ma’am.”
Out of the vehicle, she readjusted the body armor under her blouse and reeled against the oppressive heat. She pulled back on the slide on her SIG Sauer P228 handgun as she chambered the first .357 round into the breach. The P228 was the standard issue sidearm for Secret Service agents, a weapon she was familiar with. She was glad to have it.
Wilks and Pfündl carried USSOCOM MARK 23 semi-automatic pistols with .45 ACP rounds, handguns designed for durability in harsh environments. Being waterproof and corrosion-resistant they were ideal side arms for special forces soldiers, with the bonus they had enough stopping power to bring down any foe with a single, well-placed shot. They readied those weapons now.
The trio took off through the busy streets, pushing past men hauling carts with tinned lunches, under colored billboards blanketing unfinished yet occupied tower apartments and through commuters running and walking everywhere, ignoring the motorcycles and mopeds zipping close to them.
The colorful streets were a claustrophobic cacophony of noise. She willed her surroundings to offer more personal space, but her thoughts seemed to have the opposite effect. Soon she was gasping for breath, pushing against the multitudes of sweaty, smelly bodies brushing past her, forcing herself to keep moving despite the crowds. Aches raged through her body and she wheezed for breath. She hated that malaria kept beating her.
She looked up. Wilks and Pfündl were well ahead.
A few seconds more and they moved out of her line of sight.
“Delta One, this is Delta Two. What is your sitrep?” Wilks demanded through her earbud.
“Don’t wait for me. Find and capture X-ray Two.”
“You okay Ma’am?”
“Yes, I’m fine. Stick with the call signs, Delta Two.”
“Copy that… Delta One.”
Feeling embarrassed and stupid, Peri pushed on. Only a week ago she had been complaining about the bitter cold of North America. Now it seemed the heat affected her worse.
She remembered Major Fitzgerald’s warnings. Was she up to this? Should she pass command to someone else on the team more competent and field-ready than she was?
Shaking her head, Peri pushed on. She could do this.
Ten minutes of agonized jogging elapsed before she reached Pankot Palace Hotel. Only then did Peri stop to breathe, a hundred meters from the main entrance in an ideal position to survey the scene. It seemed a typical Mumbai Street. The stalls next to her sold sandals, sliced open mangos and watermelons. Three wheeled mini-trucks crawled past. A woman wearing an orange sari knocked her, tipping her matching orange parasol as an unspoken apology. Of Wilks and Pfündl, or Simon Ashcroft and Casey Skaffen they were nowhere.
She looked up to check every window, both in the Pankot Palace Hotel and along every building with a direct line of sight to the target building.
Within minutes she spotted a Caucasian man with binoculars peering from one window, watching the hotel with an intense stare.
Wilks’ voice crackled in her ear. “Delta One, this is Delta Two. What is your delay, Ma’am?”
She touched her pod to talk. “You have eyes on me Delta Two?”
“Copy that.”
“I’ve identified Yankee surveillance team.”
“I have too. Second building to south from target hotel, east side, third-floor, second window from the right.”
She counted the floors and windows as instructed. “Yes, copy that. What is your sitrep, Delta Two?”
“I’m assessing Yankee team now. X-Ray Two gave us the slip. Delta Three searching for him.”
“You on comms Delta Three?”
“Yes Ma’am,” came Pfündl’s voice across the radio waves. “No sign of X-ray Two, but he’s here somewhere.”
“Find him Delta Three. Take him alive if possible. I’m with Delta Two.”
“Copy that.”
Sergeant Bodo Pfündl was the only member of her senior team she had not yet had an in-depth conversation with. She knew what motivated Saanvi, Emily and Rashad, but she hadn’t had the chance to work out what drove Pfündl. He was born and raised in Pittsburgh. At the age of eighteen, the U.S. Drug Enforcement Administration had turned down his application to join. Then the Pittsburgh Bureau of Police also rejected him. It was the U.S. Army who took him on and shipped him off to West Africa. Several years in Infantry before he took a path similar to Wilks’, moving into the U.S. Rangers, then Delta Force.
Realizing that she had been standing still for too long, Peri entered a spice shop at the base of the building. Upstairs were the enemy surveillance team. The store was packed tight with hundreds of tins of turmeric, cloves, fennel, chili, pepper, cardamom and a hundred other flavors. Flashing her Secret Service shield at the proprietor, she ignored his confused looks and pushed on, but made sure he could see the gun in her hip holster otherwise covered by her loose blouse.
“Is there a back entrance? Something that takes me upstairs?”
The nervous man nodded and pointed to a door. “Haan adhikaaree, stairwell at the back.”
Peri drew her weapon, covering every corner as she ascended the three floors, gasping for breath when she reached the correct level. Her brow was burning like fire. She shivered now as bad as she had been back in Bagram Airfield when her symptoms first flared.
With no time for self-pity, she assessed her surroundings. Most of the tenants here seemed to be small businesses, men assembling computers from salvaged hardware components, tailors on pedal-powered sewing machines, or women on telephones for a business school. Two young women rushed past, afraid of something behind them. Peri headed in that direction.
She found the office where she had spied the surveillance team. Shouting erupted from inside, men ordering other men to stand down. American and South African accents.
Trying not to stumble with her fever, Peri edged forward with her gun raised. The first man she identified was Rashad Wilks — Delta Two — he had his back to her, weapon raised and pointed at a group of men armed with M16 rifles and semiautomatic pistols that pointed back at him.
She stepped into the room, identifying Roger Gridley-Brooks as one of the threatening men.
Another of the South African mercenaries leveled his assault rifle. He pointed the barrel in her direction ensuring coverage of all targets. In a shootout, Peri and Wilks might take out a few of the enemy, but not all before someone gunned them down. The odds were not in their favor.
“R-r-remember me, Gridley-Brooks?” she said in a calm, level voice despite her shivers. She tried to hide her shuddering but couldn’t. Everyone would see she was unwell.
The fit South African turned to her, amused. The last time she’d seen him, he had been wearing an elegant suit and tie. Today he wore casual clothes, a khaki travel shirt, loose jeans and desert boots. He was good-looking and carried his age well. His face seemed better suited to the cover of a knitting pattern magazine than a grizzled mercenary.
“Here she is, the Secret Service lady,” he grinned as he kept his handgun raised and pointing at Wilks. He showed no surprise when he saw her. “You don’t look so good.”
“You’re interfering with a U.S. sanctioned operation.”
“This is India,” he laughed. “You have about as much right to
be here as I do, which means no rights at all.”
“That’s not true.”
“As I told you in Cape Town, Ashcroft is mine. You and your man need to stand down.”
“You’re out of luck because we’re not going to.”
“I don’t want to make a mess of you both.”
“Buddy, you won’t,” growled Wilks.
Peri counted four mercenaries. Roger Gridley-Brooks, another fifty-something-year-old man with a 9mm pistol called Naas Visser — whom she had also met in Cape Town — and two Africans with the American assault rifles. The surveillance room was a state-of-the-art set up, with tripod-mounted cameras, telephoto lenses, parabolic sound amplifiers, recording equipment and several sets of binoculars. She searched for the Dragunov sniper rifle but could see no sign of the weapon. She looked for the other dark-skinned man Gridley-Brooks had been dining with the day they had met in Cape Town, Ndulu Adebayo. The former Nigerian Army sniper was not in the room. He must already be out ‘in the field’, with orders to assassinate Simon Ashcroft the moment he laid eyes on him. She couldn’t let that happen.
Gridley-Brooks and Wilks growled again, like two alpha lions caged too close together.
Knowing testosterone would not defuse this situation, Peri pointed the muzzle of her weapon towards the ceiling and removed her finger from the trigger. “W-we don’t need a sh-sh-shootout, Gridley-Brooks. I d-d-don’t want to die t-today, and I don’t think you d-do either.” She nodded to Wilks to do the same. He complied. They each then holstered their weapons.
Gridley-Brooks chuckled, then told his men to stand down. They too holstered their weapons and flicked on safeties. Peri could still feel an electric current of tension in the room, but felt grateful its intensity had lessened.
“Perhaps we can make a deal,” offered DevWorld Security’s confident managing director. “Let my team take Ashcroft. We’ll have a ‘conversation’ with him,” he made quotation marks with an elaborate gesture. “When he returns the money he stole from us, plus a little fee to cover our expenses, then you can talk to him for an hour or two and ask your questions. Then we’ll take him out of the scene for good.”
Peri shook her head. “Y-you don’t know who you are d-dealing with. This building is surrounded by m-members of every U.S. covert pa-pa-paramilitary or-organization you can imagine, and s-several you’ve n-never heard of. I’m offering you a ch-chance to w-walk out of here alive.”
He laughed. “I thought we were beyond threatening each other.”
“I-It’s a fact Gridley-Brooks, n-not a threat.” She shuddered at the lie, but with her fever no one would suspect it to be anything other than her illness betraying her.
He laughed again. “You’re bluffing. It’s just you, this guy, and his buddy.”
“You’d like to think so,” countered Wilks. “The lady knows what she is talking about. Trust me.”
Gridley-Brooks ignored the operator and looked to Peri. “I don’t think you understand how profitable this venture is turning out to be. One of Ashcroft’s old friends is helping me find him, for a share in the reward for his kill or capture, offered by your very own FBI. Who would have thought so many people would want the man dead?”
“Not me. I need Ashcroft alive.”
“Fine with me, for a short period only. Ultimately: he’s mine.”
“That’s not a deal I’m willing to make.”
“This is a load of dos, boss,” Visser interrupted in his thick Afrikaans accent, far more pronounced than the cultured inflections of his superior. “While we fok around here, foking Ashcroft is giving us the slip.”
Gridley-Brooks nodded, but raised a hand.
A two-way radio on his belt crackled to life interrupting them. A man speaking Afrikaans.
“Ja?” answered Gridley-Brooks.
Peri couldn’t follow what came over the radio, but she heard the name Ashcroft mentioned several times.
“Ek verstaan—”
“You’ve seen Ashcroft?” she asked as he finished the call.
Gridley-Brooks grinned, making no effort to hide his amusement. “Not yet, but I know he’s nearby.”
She sensed the tension rising again. She could see Wilks’ hand resting on his holstered USSOCOM, itching to draw it. One soldier flicked the safety selector of his M16 on and off. Another man was too focused on Wilks to wipe away the beads of sweat about to drip into his eye. That could be the simple trigger to transform this scene into a horrific blood bath. She had to keep her cool despite her trembling hands and try again.
“T-T-Tell me, h-h-how did you even know that Ashcroft w-would be here?” she demanded of no one in particular, looking at each man ensuring that she made eye contact with every single one. “I m-mean, you only f-flew in this morning. H-h-how could you know so quickly?”
Her question seemed to confuse everyone. Gridley-Brooks looked to Visser for answers, but when the miserable old man only shrugged, he asked, “Naas, who told you Ashcroft was here?”
“You fokking asked me to call all your old hotels, boss. You said Ashcroft used to stay here. I got lucky. Lobby Manager said he recognized the bliksem.”
Peri raised a dubious eyebrow, feeling both smug and worried. “Sounds a little convenient.”
“I’ve been in this game far longer than you have, Keser. I know good intel when I get it.”
She shook her head. “This isn’t g-g-good intel. G-Gridley-Brooks, Visser, listen to y-y-yourself. My team’s here. Y-your team’s here. We’re all p-p-pointing guns at each other, and at n-no one else. So, wh-wh-where’s Ashcroft?”
The two South African men looked again to each other for answers, finding none.
“C-c-can’t you see this is a s-setup? A-Ashcroft is a proficient c-c-cyberterrorist. He s-sent us here, hoping for an encounter like this were we all k-k-kill each other — s-s-so he wouldn’t have to!”
She could see by the stunned looks in their eyes they agreed with her.
“I b-bet Ashcroft is at least a hundred m-miles away. Watching us via the internet from a s-s-secure and safe location. L-L-Laughing at us.”
For a long moment, no one said a word. Even Wilks, a veteran Delta Force operator, seemed lost for words and paralyzed into inaction.
The radio in Gridley-Brook’s hand chirped again.
“Ja? Sê dit weer?”
Another man spoke English with a strong West African accent. Ndulu Adebayo no doubt. “Sir. Ashcroft’s woman — Claire Skaffen. I just saw her enter the hotel.”
“Ja, goeie.”
Everyone reacted at the same time. Guns were suddenly pointed everywhere.
Peri watched the aggression unfold without moving, like the slow-motion button on a TV remote had control of her, as Roger Gridley-Brooks, Visser and the two mercenaries raised their handguns and M16 assault rifles, leveling them at Peri and Wilks.
She hadn’t seen her man do the same, but Wilks too had his weapon raised, the fatal end less than a yard from Gridley-Brooks’ head. He couldn’t miss even if first he took a bullet.
Peri was the only one who hadn’t reacted. The only one in the room not pointing a weapon at someone. The only one shaking like a pine sapling in a snow blizzard. She cursed herself for being too slow.
“You’ll all be dead before one of you gets off a shot,” shouted the Delta Force operator. Wilks was in control, despite the tension. Peri was glad he was on her side. She felt useless in comparison, burning up from the inside.
Gridley-Brooks was the only one to lower his weapon. “I will leave now, head downstairs to collect Skaffen. If you try to stop me, my men will shoot you both dead.”
He didn’t wait for an answer as he walked from the room and headed downstairs.
Nobody else moved. Everyone knew that the first one who did would be the first to take a bullet.
Then they heard gunfire, across the street outside. The tap-tap-tap of automatic weapons.
Everyone except Peri and Wilks looked towards the noise.
A brief distraction was all Wilks needed.
Two well-aimed, controlled shots and the two mercenaries crumpled to the ground.
Visser didn’t react fast enough. He aimed his weapon at Peri but switched toward Wilks. As he turned Peri sprang into action, forgetting her fever for a second, and charged the former South African Special Forces soldier, knocking him to the ground.
He had underestimated her and didn’t see her coming. He had time to fire his pistol once, but with his arm knocked backwards he succeeded only in lodging a bullet in the concrete ceiling.
Peri elbowed Visser in the forehead, and he stumbled further. She clobbered him again, knocking the mercenary unconscious.
It was all over in seconds.
Wilks was already running from the room.
She called after him, “What are you doing?”
“Fixing this,” his voice receded in the stairwell as he descended, his tone carrying a distinctive inflection of disdain.
CHAPTER 14
Ashcroft kicked in the back door of the Pankot Palace Hotel, advancing with his handgun raised and finger resting just above the trigger. Most of the men and women he passed screamed and ran as soon as they saw him. Simon ordered those that froze to get to their feet and directed them to leave via the back entrance. He had no intention of harming civilians, and harsh, threatening orders were his best option to get them scampering. Only once the corridors were clear did he advance through the hotel, checking each corner as he progressed.
In the foyer, a Rajasthani style painting of an elephant carrying a maharaja hung over the front desk. Simon’s eyes went straight to the tall slim woman standing beneath it, with dark hair cut to the nape of her neck. She wore the blue and gold sari he had seen earlier. She had been talking with the lobby manager, but hearing the commotion she turned her attention to Simon. He recognized her then and cursed himself for his own stupidity. The red dye he had washed through Casey’s hair in Goa must have rinsed out when she dived into the river. That was why he had not recognized her in the street earlier. He berated himself for making such a rookie mistake.
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