Red Strike

by Chris Ryan

  Five rounds emptied.

  All failed to hit their targets.

  The younger lads are showing us how it’s done. And all we’re doing is brassing up thin fucking air.

  Bald shut the voice up.

  Time to get moving.

  He called out towards Lyden and Rowe, ‘Moving forward!’

  The operators knew the drill. As soon as the words left Bald’s mouth, Lyden and Rowe went into suppressive fire mode, putting down three-round bursts on the front Lexus, keeping Flat-Top and Widow’s Peak pinned down.

  Bald and Porter broke forward, long-striding across the open ground as bullets thunked against the SUV’s armoured plating, the dull repetitive clank of metal hammering against metal. A couple of metres to the right of the front Lexus, Bald could see Volkov lying face down on the tarmac, body jolting with every rifle report. The Malinoises were still tearing into the Shithouse Twins beside the rear Lexus, gnawing at exposed flesh while the heavies screamed for help.

  There was no danger of the Russians in either Lexus reversing away and escaping, thought Bald. Not with their prize asset pinned down on the ground. As long as we keep up the suppressive fire, they won’t be able to grab Volkov and make a run for it.

  Bald and Porter advanced ten metres, dropped to a knee, trained their red-dot sights on the wagon. Fired. One burst each. Three rounds. The bullets struck the front end of the Lexus in a symphony of cracks and ricochets and thumps.

  Ten metres behind them, Lyden yelled, ‘Moving!’

  Bald and Porter put another couple of bursts down on the front Lexus. Pinning down Widow’s Peak and Flat-Top, giving Lyden and Rowe time to rush forward.

  Bald thought, Nine rounds expended. Plus the four I’ve already fired. Thirteen rounds in total.

  Seventeen left in the clip.

  As soon as Lyden and Rowe had caught up with them, Bald and Porter rushed forward again. At his four o’clock, Bald could hear the rolling-thunder boom of rifle discharges as Lyden and Rowe put down covering fire on the Russians behind the front Lexus. The four operators were working like a well-oiled machine, moving in a coordinated pattern, with one pair unloading bursts at the Russians while the other pair hurried forward in ten-metre increments. Steadily closing the gap on the aircraft.

  Between the rapid-fire bursts the two Russians returned fire, loosing off wild shots at the onrushing Blades. Bullets whipped and fizzed past Bald and Porter, striking the tarmac behind them. Bald heard a sharp piercing ring as another pair of rounds glanced off the grille on the front of the fire tender, twenty metres further back.

  Keep going. Don’t stop.

  Bald was acutely conscious of the fact that they were running across exposed ground, with no cover in sight. And their enemies were crouching behind a heavily armoured car. If they allowed a lull in the suppressive fire they were putting down, they were going to be in serious fucking trouble.

  He ran forward again with Porter.

  Took a knee on the tarmac.

  Eighty metres to the aircraft.

  Lyden shouted, ‘Moving!’

  Bald tensed his finger on the trigger as he shaped to put down the next burst on the front wagon. Then he spied a flicker of movement at his eleven o’clock, coming from the rear Lexus. The passenger-side door was swinging open. Bald arced his sights across and saw the driver climbing out, holding a Kalashnikov MA rifle in a two-handed grip. The driver had already raised the weapon to shoulder height, the black mouth of the barrel pointing directly at Bald and Porter.

  The muzzle flamed.

  A pair of rounds struck low, whip-cracking the tarmac to the right of Porter, missing him by inches.

  Bald saw the threat.

  His mind instantly worked the angles. He could foresee that the driver would get his next shot off before Porter could adjust his aim and centre his sights on the Russian.

  The driver’s first shot had struck dangerously close to Porter. The second wouldn’t miss.

  Bald reacted in a fraction of a second. Faster than the Russian. Decades of Regiment training, beasting himself on the ranges and the hills and the jungle, compensating for his ring-rustiness. He centred the red-dot side on the driver’s upper torso and fired off a quick three-round burst, hitting him before the guy could fire. The first two rounds tore a chunk out of the Russian’s shoulder, pulverising bone and muscle, knocking the guy off balance. The third was the money shot, smacking the driver on the side of his head. His skull exploded like a watermelon in a stunt video. His cranium disappeared in a carmine mist. Blood and brain matter splattered the side window, painting the luxury interior of the Lexus. The guy fell away, the Kalashnikov clattering to the ground beside his limp frame.

  Porter glanced quickly up at Bald. Nodded his thanks. A split-second acknowledgement.

  Five heavies down.

  Three to go.

  Fifteen rounds left in the clip.

  Porter and Bald emptied another couple of bursts at the front Lexus, buying time for Lyden and Rowe to advance. Bullets hammered against the side windows, spider-webbing the reinforced glass. Widow’s Peak and Flat-Top shrank from view, ducking behind the front wheelbase. Another three-round burst and the clicker-counter in his head told Bald that he was down to his last six bullets.

  ‘Moving forward!’ he shouted.

  They broke into a run. Closing the distance to the Russians, metre by grim metre. Gunshots intermittently split the air to the right of Bald and Porter as Lyden and Rowe gave them covering fire. Although he wasn’t wearing a jacket and the temperature was in the low single digits, Bald was sweating freely. Beads of it dripped down his back, pasting his shirt to his skin. Alongside him Porter was moving effortlessly, and somewhere in the back of his mind Bald realised that his mucker had kept himself in good nick.

  Maybe you’re wrong about him, the voice inside his head said. Maybe Porter isn’t the lame old soldier you think he is.

  Or maybe you’re not as sharp you thought.

  He snapped his attention back to the front Lexus, saw a series of white-hot muzzle flashes erupting from the far side of the wagon. Three of them. Six rounds snapped past Bald and Porter, whipping over their heads and glancing off the tarmac. Three separate shooters. Which meant the driver had debussed from the door on the other side of the wagon, joining his mates behind cover.

  Now it’s four against three, the voice in Bald’s head told him. And the Russians have got the advantage of cover.

  You’ve got to close the gap. Get near enough to push left, sweep around the side of the two SUVs and put the drop on the remaining heavies. Before they kill you first.

  Fifty metres ahead the Malinoises were still attacking the Shithouse Twins. Jaws ripping apart jacket fabric and exposed flesh, drawing blood, tails wagging with the excitement of born predators. The twins were screaming something. Begging for help from their mates, Bald guessed.

  Two metres away from them, Nikolai Volkov was still lying face down on the ground.

  Bald and Porter kept firing and moving. Lyden and Rowe were coming up fast behind them. Drawing closer to the heavies.

  Forty metres to the aircraft now.

  Almost there.

  Bald rushed forward, caught up with Porter and dropped to a knee beside his old mucker, loosed off another two bursts and got the dead man’s click. Out of ammo. Porter kept firing while Bald pressed the mag-release button on the side of the receiver, ejecting the spent coupler clip. He inserted the second clip attached to the side of the emptied mag and tugged on the charging lever. The benefit of coupler magazines. Instant tactical reloading. No need to faff around reaching for a new clip.

  Another trio of muzzle flashes sparked up from just above the bonnet and boot of the front Lexus. Two bullets struck the tarmac a few inches to the left of Bald, forcing him to lower his head, shrinking his profile.

  ‘Fuckers are getting closer,’ Porter shouted. ‘Too close.’

  Ten metres behind them, Lyden and Rowe had stopped firing as they hurried
forward. Bald looked over at Porter. ‘We’ve got to get forward, fucking now!’

  Porter didn’t move. Instead he dropped to the ground, taking up a prone shooting position. Bald scowled at him.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing?’

  ‘I’ve got a better idea, Jock.’

  Lying flat on his front, Porter calmly lined up his red-dot sights, aiming for the space below the underside of the Lexus chassis. Then Bald understood. There was a six-inch gap between the chassis and the ground, giving Porter a clear line of sight to the lower legs of the three shooters crouching behind the far side of the vehicle. The L119A2 barrel lit up as Porter emptied four controlled rounds at the Russians, spent brass tinkling on the tarmac. Bald heard an agonised cry coming from behind the Lexus. He couldn’t see the impact, but he didn’t need to. At close range, a 5.56 x 45mm NATO round could do all kinds of damage to the human body. The Russian caught on the other side of the SUV would be writhing on the ground right about now, his leg riddled with hot metal, his ankle hanging off.

  Porter glanced up, grinned at Bald. ‘Still fucking got it.’

  Bald nodded approvingly.

  Six heavies down.

  Two to go.

  There was another burst of gunfire from behind the Lexus. Coming from the shooter at the bonnet. The bullets missed their target, sparking like firecrackers on the ground a metre to the right of Porter. He traced his weapon across a few inches until the red-dot was lined up with the rear wheelbase on the wagon. Three rounds spat out of the L119A2 snout as he squeezed the trigger. Bald heard a brittle sound like an axe splitting through wood. Then another hideous scream, followed by a dull thud and clatter, man and gun toppling to the ground next to one another. Porter fired again, emptying three rounds into the maimed Russian’s torso.

  He stopped screaming.

  Which left just the one shooter left to deal with. And the screaming Russian with the rag-order leg, Bald thought, but he wasn’t going to present much of a threat.

  We’ll finish them two off, grab Volkov. And then we’re going home.

  Bald was about to call out to Lyden and Rowe at their four o’clock. Let them know we’re moving forward again, so they’re on the ball with the suppressive fire.

  Then he spied a blur of movement at his one o’clock. Forty metres away.

  Widow’s Peak.

  The Russian had rushed forward from the Lexus while the two Blades were dealing with the shooter near the bonnet. Now the heavy had hauled Volkov to his feet and the two of them were hurrying across the tarmac stand.

  Escaping towards the jet.

  THIRTY-SIX

  Volkov and Widow’s Peak were ten metres from the airstairs. The heavy was having to slow his stride, matching the ex-spy’s pace as the latter shuffled along, moving as fast as he could in spite of his frail condition. With a sick feeling of dread Bald could see that they would reach the airstairs at the side of the Phenom in a few more seconds.

  Fuck.

  His first instinct was to drop the heavy. Bald swung his L119A2 across to his one o’clock, training his sights on the fleeing figures. But the two of them were struggling along in a tight formation, side-by-side. Volkov on the right, Widow’s Peak on the left. The heavy held his Kalashnikov MA in his left hand, with his right hand firmly gripping the ex-spy’s bicep. He was using Volkov as a human shield, putting the ex-spy between himself and the four operators to the east.

  No way we can take a pop at him. Not from this angle.

  ‘No clear shot,’ Bald said.

  ‘Shit,’ Porter hissed. ‘Bastards are getting away.’

  Bald glanced over his shoulder and called across the tarmac to Lyden and Rowe, pointing to the fleeing Russians. ‘Get those fucking dogs over there! NOW!’

  Lyden and Rowe darted forward, running towards the mangled bodies of the Shithouse Twins forty metres away. To the right, Porter and Bald kept up their rates of suppressive fire on the front Lexus. Porter shooting below the underside, Bald aiming for the space above the bonnet, in case the wounded Russian popped his head above cover.

  Volkov and Widow’s Peak reached the foot of the airstairs.

  Dread seeped into Bald’s guts.

  Any second now, the target will get on the plane. The door will shut. And Volkov will be gone.

  ‘Fucking hurry!’ he bellowed. ‘They’re getting away!’

  Lyden and Rowe swept into view at Bald’s one o’clock, dropping down beside the two Malinoises, grabbing them by their collars and yanking them away from the Shithouse Twins. Lyden bellowed an order at his dog, pointing towards Volkov and Widow’s Peak, fifteen metres away. A moment later, the ex-spy and the heavy hit the top of the airstairs and plunged through the open doorway. Bald could hear the crescendo burr of the jet engine as it increased power, the Phenom rolling slowly across the tarmac stand, steering towards another taxiway, a hundred metres further to the west. He looked on helplessly, his guts burning.

  No.

  We’re too late.

  They’re going to escape.

  The first Malinois dashed across the stand, chasing down the Phenom as it crept forward. The second dog hurried after the first, lagging four or five metres behind. Although the plane was slowly gaining momentum the airstairs were still in the lowered position, Bald noticed. From his angle he could half-see Widow’s Peak standing in the open doorway, grappling with the operating lever next to the entry door, pulling it up to retract the stairway.

  In the next breath the lead Malinois caught up with the jet, vaulted up the treads and launched itself at Widow’s Peak. The heavy howled, losing his grip on the lever as the Malinois tugged viciously at his arm, dragging him to the floor. The Russian tumbled and crash-landed in the space between the cabin and the stair treads, blocking the cabin doorway, punching the dog with his spare hand as he tried to prise his arm free. Then the second Malinois pounced on him, sinking its teeth into the side of his neck, pinning him down with its paws. The heavy had no chance of wriggling free from his attackers. Bald could see the dogs’ arses and tails hanging out of the open doorway as they ripped and clawed at the Russian.

  The jet rolled forward, the cabin entry door gaping open.

  Bald heard a series of cracks, flicked his gaze to the left. Saw Lyden and Rowe standing over the bloodied, dog-torn bodies of the Shithouse Twins, emptying rounds into their torsos. The Russians spasming as the bullets slapped into them, as if someone had just placed a couple of defibrillator paddles on their chests and hit the shock button.

  Fifty metres until the Phenom reached the taxiway. The road led north for three hundred metres, back to the main runway.

  We need to stop that fucking thing from taking off.

  ‘Keep putting rounds down on that wounded fucker,’ Bald said, turning to Porter. ‘I’ll push left. Get that wagon moving.’

  Porter looked up at him. ‘The fuck are you doing?’

  Bald grinned. ‘You’re not the only one with a good idea.’

  He took off, breaking left across the stand as Porter kept up his steady rate of fire on the front Lexus, placing single-shot rounds either side of the rear wheelbase, pinning down the last surviving heavy. Bald hooked around the back of the rear wagon and pushed on, sweat flowing freely down his back now, heart pounding madly, the air thick with the metallic tang of blood. In another three strides he hit the back end of the front Lexus, brought up his L119A2 and swept round to the far side of the wagon. Flat-Top lay on the ground beside the rear tyres, his pale face blood-drained, white hand pawing at his fucked-up ankle. Blood and spent brass all over the fucking place. His weapon was lying across the tarmac, out of easy reach.

  The Russian looked up at Bald. He saw the look in the Scot’s eyes. The cold, merciless glare of a trained killer. Flat-Top raised his hands in terror. ‘I surrender! Shit, please—’

  Bald didn’t let him finish. He tapped the rifle trigger twice, putting a couple of rounds in the Russian’s head. There was a backspray of blood against the tarmac
as the rounds smashed through his skull at extreme close range, turning his brains to mush. An easy kill, but it still felt good. It felt like winning. The Russian fell back, still and lifeless, as if he was doing the mannequin challenge.

  Bald kicked him aside and prised open the driver’s door on the Lexus. Threw himself behind the wheel, dumped the rifle on the passenger seat. The engine was running, key fob next to the gearstick. He shifted into Drive and released the handbrake, mashing the accelerator. The Lexus bulleted forwards, bouncing over outstretched limbs of newly dead Russians. Bald broke clear of the bodies littering the stand and jerked the wheel to the right, chasing down the Phenom. The whirr of the jet engines was louder now. Bald could see the aircraft a hundred metres ahead of him, entry door hanging open, dogs faintly visible in the glow of the cabin, still mauling Widow’s Peak. The plane swerved sharply to the right as it veered off the tarmac stand before arrowing down the taxiway.

  Heading for the runway, three hundred metres to the north.

  Bald crunched through the gears, foot to the floor, pushing the Lexus hard. If the plane reached the runway, it was over. Only a matter of time before one of the pilots managed to get the cabin door closed. Then the jet would be free to take off, Volkov would be flown back to Russia. And President Kolotov would win again.

  Bald wasn’t going to let that happen.

  He was tired of being pissed on.

  He didn’t give a flying fuck about politics, or the future of NATO, or the populists and their crank conspiracy theories. He wasn’t a moralist like Porter. But the Russians had messed with him in Mexico. Kolotov had sent his best men out there to put a hole in the back of his head. Bald had taken that shit personally.