Red Strike

by Chris Ryan

  ‘Where’s the fucking money?’ Dog Tag demanded.

  Bald couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe or think. The pain shooting through him was excruciating. Dog Tag unloaded another dig, aiming a few inches lower. A solid gut punch.

  Another wave of pain exploded inside his stomach.

  Harley stood a step behind Dog Tag, blocking the only exit from the garage, letting his mucker take the lead. The guy had whipped out a pistol from the waistband of his jeans. A small semi-automatic Makarov. Bald was vaguely aware of it as Dog Tag loomed over him.

  ‘Where is it?’

  Bald still didn’t reply. He was too busy trying to breathe, sucking in shallow draws of air, his pain sensors screaming inside him. Dog Tag took a step back and recovered his right arm. Ready to unleash another blow, Bald saw. The Latvian was already thinking about his next move. He had it all planned out in his head. A neat combo. A couple of disabling punches, followed by a knockout blow. The big-budget sequel to the original indie hit.

  He wasn’t worried about a counter-punch. The blows to the torso had stunned Bald, taking his arms out of the equation.

  But not his head.

  Bald was still bent slightly forward at the waist, head lowered. Which meant he was within easy striking range of his opponent. But which also gave him the perfect opportunity for a head-butt. Bald rode the next surge of pain and nausea and stepped into Dog Tag, surprising the Latvian with a quick upward jerk of his head. There was a dull crack as the hard shell of Bald’s forehead slammed against the guy’s nose, shattering the bones, doing all kinds of damage to the cartilage. Dog Tag let out a nasal grunt of pain as he staggered backwards, blinking rapidly, blood streaming out of his flared nostrils. Before he could recover Bald shoved him backwards and sent the guy crashing into Harley. The latter lost his balance and fell backwards, the Makarov tumbling from his grip, taking him out of the fight. Not for long, Bald knew. No more than a second or two. But long enough to give Bald a chance to take care of Dog Tag and level the odds. Following the oldest rule of fighting.

  Deal with the threat right in front of you first.

  In the next half-second Dog Tag launched himself at Bald again, throwing a wild right hook at his opponent’s face. He wasn’t thinking clearly now. Anger was taking over, telling him to drop Bald, and fast. Teach him a lesson. Dog Tag cocked his right arm back as he wound up for the punch, generating as much force as possible. Bald saw the blow coming. It was so telegraphed the guy might as well have live-streamed it on Facebook.

  Bald had stayed clear of trouble since he’d rocked up in Mexico. But he still knew how to handle himself in a scrap. He’d spent the best part of thirty years fighting and killing for his country. He didn’t try to evade the punch. In his experience, defensive action was a waste of time. It didn’t bring you any closer to winning the fight. It was better to counter the attack, rather than evade it.

  Meet the threat head-on.

  He stepped into the Latvian, left foot forward, bending his left arm at an angle. Turning his elbow into a lethal weapon. Bald parried the incoming punch with his raised right forearm and swung out with his left elbow, clubbing Dog Tag on the jaw. The Latvian grunted and jerked backwards, his arms going slack, his face registering shock and pain. He stayed vertical for a moment longer before he fell away to the side, crashing into a rack of BMWs in a loud clatter of metal, tyres and moving parts.

  Round one to Bald.

  He looked round for a weapon. Spied a torque wrench lying on the sales counter. Bald grabbed it and spun back round to face Harley. Ready to deal with the second threat.

  Then he froze.

  Harley had recovered his weapon. He stood two metres away, holding the Makarov in a two-handed grip. Business end of the weapon trained on Bald’s centre mass.

  ‘Drop the tool,’ he said.

  Bald released the wrench. It clanged as it hit the floor, the sound echoing around the garage.

  Harley kept the Makarov fixed on the ex-SAS man as he muttered something to his mucker. Dog Tag scraped himself off the floor and stood upright, grimacing in pain. He looked like he’d walked into a lamp post. Gouts of blood, gristle and snot bubbled beneath his nostrils. His lower lip was badly cut. He shook his head clear and dug out a pistol stuffed down the back of his jeans. Another Makarov. The guy glowered at Bald, spat out blood on the newly swept garage floor.

  He said, ‘You’re gonna pay for that, bitch.’

  Bald kept his mouth shut. Hands by his sides as he warily eyed his attackers, trying to figure a way out of his situation.

  Harley said, ‘The money. Where is it?’

  ‘Don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  That drew an amused smile from Harley. ‘Yeah. Yeah, you fucking do. The money you stole from our boss. A million, in gold bars.’

  Several pennies dropped simultaneously inside Bald’s head. He understood at once who these guys were, and why they had ambushed him in his garage. They’re not Latvians, he realised. They’re Russians.

  Here to collect what I stole from them.

  ‘We know you took it,’ Harley went on, moving a step closer to Bald. ‘We spoke to your friend in Manila. Ramos, the black-market dealer.’

  ‘Don’t know him,’ Bald said.

  ‘Suit yourself.’ Harley shrugged. ‘But Ramos told us an interesting story. Said you showed up at his office a few months ago, looking to sell some gold bullion. Told us he bought a few bars from you. We’re here to collect the rest.’

  ‘I don’t have it. It was stolen from me.’

  ‘Bullshit.’

  ‘It’s the truth.’ Bald took a step back, retreating deeper into the garage. ‘My fiancée, she cleaned me out. Took off with most of it and left me with fuck all.’

  Dog Tag spat on the ground and bared his blood-stained teeth at Bald. ‘You want to play games, fuck face? We can play it that way. Make you scream like a little bitch.’

  ‘Spare us the hard luck story,’ Harley said. ‘Where is it?’

  ‘I’m telling you, I haven’t got it.’ Bald gestured to his surroundings. ‘Christ, if I had taken all the gold and legged it, do you really think I’d be living in this dump?’

  ‘You think we’re idiots? Think you can trick our boss, eh? We know your game, bitch. You hid the cash some place. Gonna wait until no one is looking for it.’

  ‘I was robbed,’ Bald said. ‘These four walls are all I’ve got.’

  ‘Bastard’s lying,’ Dog Tag cut in. ‘I can see it, Sergei. He’s hidden the gold somewhere.’

  ‘Take a look for yourselves. Search the place. You’ll find nothing.’

  Harley shook his head. ‘We’re not going to do that,’ he said.

  He took another step forward, sidestepping the toppled motorbikes. Stopped a metre away from Bald, the Makarov barrel pointed directly at Bald’s eyes. Dog Tag at his three o’clock, shoulder muscles heaving up and down with exertion and rage, pistol at his side.

  Harley smirked.

  He said, ‘This is what’s going to happen. I’m going to count to three. Before I’m done, you’re going to tell me where the gold is. Otherwise, you get to fucking die.’

  ‘This is a mistake,’ Bald said. ‘I don’t have it.’

  ‘One.’

  Harley didn’t get to two.

  Because in the next half-second the shutter door flew open.

  SEVEN

  Bald saw them first. He glanced past Dog Tag’s shoulder and glimpsed a pair of young familiar figures sweeping through the garage doorway. A slender guy with a deep suntan, followed by a muscle-bound freak with a goatee. Lyden and Rowe, in that order.

  The Brits.

  Lyden was a half-metre ahead of Rowe. The guy was gripping what Bald’s professional eye instantly identified as an FN Five-Seven semi-automatic pistol. A large handgun, with a wide grip, chambered for FN Herstal’s very own 5.7 x 28mm round. A small but fast bullet, with a lot of stopping power. Originally designed for submachine guns, not pistols. There
was a suppressor screwed to the barrel.

  Rowe was carrying the same suppressed weapon. He was arcing the Five-Seven up towards eye level, going through the same process as Lyden as he surged into the garage.

  Lyden already had his Five-Seven fully drawn. Arms extended, eyes level with the sights as he zeroed on the nearest target.

  Dog Tag.

  The Russian was still turning towards the door when Lyden depressed the trigger.

  A single round exploded out of the Five-Seven’s snout. It didn’t sound like a gunshot, the suppressor blunting the sound of the discharge, softened the bark to a dull, whip-like crack. The round struck Dog Tag behind the ear and punched through his skull in an explosive spray of blood and shattered bone. His head snapped round to the other side, as if someone had just given him the world’s biggest bitch slap. Then his legs gave way and he slam-dropped head first to the concrete. He was dead before he’d even kissed the ground.

  Harley instantly spun away from Bald. His Makarov was already raised and ready to fire, which gave him an advantage over his dead friend. But that merely gave him another problem to deal with: which target to go for? Both Lyden and Rowe were fully inside the garage now, spreading out either side of the doorway, both arcing their Five-Sevens towards the one remaining Russian. Harley found himself at the sharp end of a classic two-on-one dilemma. Kill one guy, the other will drop you.

  He was still making his mind up when Rowe fired twice.

  Bald hit the deck. He didn’t want to get accidentally nailed by one of the rounds passing through the Russian. Two sharp pops echoed through the garage as the rounds smacked into the Latvian’s chest, gave him a pair of wound channels as wide as the Eurostar. He spasmed and flopped to the ground, landing face down a couple of metres from Bald, the stink of his blood mixing with the acrid odour of spent gunpowder.

  For a moment, the garage was silent.

  Bald picked himself up. Rowe stepped towards the shutter door while Lyden stepped around the pair of slotted Russians, lowering his Five-Seven as he approached Bald.

  ‘What the fuck’s going on?’ Bald growled. ‘Who are you?’

  Lyden made a face. ‘Is that how you greet another Blade, Jock? Jesus. Next time we won’t bother.’

  He knows my nickname, thought Bald. Only the guys at Hereford know me as Jock.

  Rowe shut the front door behind him. Bald shifted his gaze back to Lyden, gears turning inside his head. Recalling how the two Brits had expertly scanned the garage for cameras when they had first showed up that morning. Their hyper-awareness.

  He said, ‘You’re with the Regiment?’

  Lyden nodded. ‘We just got back from a rotation in Afghan,’ he said. ‘I’m from B Squadron. Jordan here is from D Squadron.’

  Bald nodded slowly. Now he understood why the two guys looked so scruffy. The lads would have grown their beards long before heading out to Afghanistan, to gain respect when meeting with tribal leaders.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing here?’ Bald demanded.

  ‘We’re with the Wing,’ said Lyden. ‘Six sent us.’

  Bald stared at them, letting it all sink in. The Wing was Regiment shorthand for the Revolutionary Warfare Wing: the elite group within 22 SAS that provided support for MI6 operations. A dozen or so guys, trained in everything from electronic warfare to counter-surveillance tactics. Unlike the CIA, Six had no paramilitary wing of its own, so it relied on SAS men to provide the muscle and firepower for operations in the field.

  Bald knew all this because he had been part of the Wing once himself. He knew how it worked.

  ‘How did you find me?’

  ‘Come on, mate,’ Lyden said. ‘This is Six we’re talking about. Did you really think you could hide from them lot?’

  Bald didn’t need to answer that question. He knew the answer. MI6 had long arms. They had probably known his whereabouts all along.

  He shrugged. ‘I thought those twats might have lost interest in us by now.’

  ‘You should be glad they didn’t, otherwise these two would have sent you over to the dark side. The only reason you’re still alive is because of us, Grandad.’

  He waved a hand at the dead Russians. Bald fixed his gaze on Lyden, rage sweeping through his veins. The guy was arrogant, cocky, full of himself and his own abilities.

  Everything Bald had been, fifteen years earlier.

  ‘That’s why they sent you here? To nail these bastards?’

  Lyden nodded and said, ‘We had a tip-off from one of our sources inside the Russian security services. They told us the FSB had found out where you were living and was sending out a team to neutralise you. Two guys on fake passports. President ordered the hit himself, apparently. You’ve made some serious enemies, mate.’

  ‘I’ve made worse.’

  ‘So we’ve heard,’ said Rowe.

  Bald smiled. ‘They still talk about us at Hereford, then?’

  Rowe gave a derisive snort. ‘Yeah. You could say that.’

  He looked at Bald with a very different expression from Lyden. Less friendly. Not hostile. More like professional suspicion. The way a police officer might assess a fellow dirty cop.

  Lyden pistol-pointed at the dead Russians and said, ‘As soon as Six found out about the hit, they flew us out here to shadow the team. We made these two jokers as soon as they arrived at the airport. Been following them around ever since. When we saw them approach the shop this evening, we knew they were going to do you.’

  So that’s why Dog Tag and his mate had looked so pissed off earlier that day, Bald realised. They had been planning to put a fucking hole in my head, right there and then. Only these two gym freaks had rocked up and had forced the Russians to delay their plan by a few hours.

  ‘You should have told me,’ he said. ‘Given us a warning. I could have skipped town and saved you the hassle.’

  Lyden shook his head. ‘If we had tipped you off, the Russians would have found out. They would’ve realised very quickly that they had a leak at their end. It would have compromised the source. Six was reluctant to put their asset in any danger.’

  ‘So they almost let these pricks slot me instead?’

  ‘I’m sure you’ve been in tighter spots.’ Lyden grinned. ‘Maybe you can tell us a few stories on the flight home.’

  Bald narrowed his eyes. ‘What the fuck are you talking about?’

  ‘We’ve got orders to bring you back to London,’ Rowe said tonelessly. ‘There’s a private charter jet waiting for us at Tulum. You’re flying back with us. Tonight.’

  ‘No fucking way.’

  ‘We’re not asking nicely. That’s an order.’

  ‘I couldn’t give a toss. Go back and tell your bosses thanks for sending the Hitler Youth and Mike Tyson to my rescue, but I’m done working with those back-stabbing twats.’

  Rowe smiled thinly. ‘That’s not how it works. They’re done with you when they say they’re done.’

  Bald said, ‘The last time I dealt with Six, I told them one more job and I was out. They gave me their word.’

  ‘The situation has changed,’ Lyden said.

  ‘See this?’ Bald pointed to his face. ‘This is me giving a shit.’

  ‘At least hear them out, mate.’

  ‘Forget it. Whatever crap they want to rope me into, they can get some other mug to do it. There must be a few lads left at Hereford they haven’t screwed over yet.’

  ‘They specifically requested you,’ said Rowe.

  ‘Why? What’s the op? Pretend I care.’

  ‘We’re not allowed to say,’ Lyden cut in. ‘You know that, mate. Even if we knew what this was about, we couldn’t tell you.’

  ‘I’ll need more than that, if you want me to drop everything and get on a fucking plane.’

  ‘Look, all we can tell you is that we’ve been told to bring you back to the UK for an immediate briefing. That’s it. If you want to know more, you’ll have to come back with us.’

  ‘And if I refuse?’

/>   Rowe shrugged his shoulders. They were huge. The size of wrecking balls. ‘That would be unwise.’

  ‘What are you, my careers adviser?’

  A sudden dull pressure flared up between Bald’s temples, as if someone was pressing their thumbs against the sides of his skull. The migraines had started to come back recently. Bald had been clear of them for a few months after touching down in Mexico, and for a while he’d dared to believe that he was rid of them for good. But in the last few weeks the pressure had started to build up again, a dull throb that reverberated through his head. They hadn’t yet transformed into the crippling pains that Bald had experienced in the past.

  But it was just a matter of time.

  He said, ‘I’m not going anywhere. End of.’

  ‘We can’t force you to leave,’ said Rowe. ‘But if you won’t get on that plane, we can’t guarantee your safety.’

  ‘I’m a big boy. I can look after myself.’

  ‘Like you took care of those two?’

  Rowe nodded at the two dead Russians. Blood was leaking out of their exit wounds, red-pooling across the garage floor.

  Bald didn’t reply.

  ‘You’re looking at this the wrong way,’ Rowe added. ‘This is an opportunity. A second chance. It’s not as if you’re really crushing it out here, is it?’

  Bald still didn’t reply. He stared hard at Rowe, imaging various creative ways of rearranging his face.

  Lyden said, ‘Our source in Russian intelligence said the men sent to slot you were hired toughs. Gangsters, paid upfront in cash. Moscow will be expecting to hear back from them, once they’ve done the job. And when they don’t . . .’

  He shrugged. Left the threat hanging in the air.

  ‘You know what the Russians will do,’ Rowe said. ‘They’ll send another team after you. The second team will be better than the first. Professional killers, not gangsters. And the next time, Six won’t be able to save you.’