by Will Jordan
She was almost there now. She could see daylight outside.
‘Yelena! Keep moving!’ she screamed, yanking her friend’s hand with a fierce strength that defied her malnourished body. ‘We have to—’
She never got a chance to finish. A mother of one of the children, running in blind panic, tripped and fell into her from the side. The impact of the larger and heavier adult knocked her off balance so that she landed hard on the ground. She tried to keep hold of Yelena’s hand, but they were being pulled in opposite directions and before she knew what was happening, her friend was gone.
‘Yelena!’ she cried, trying to get up. But every time she did, someone would run into her or trip over her, knocking her down once more. ‘Yelena, wait!’
She gasped in pain as a boot slammed into her chest, bruising her breasts and forcing the air from her lungs. She coughed, trying in vain to breathe the hot, smoke-filled air. She felt as if her ribcage had been caved in.
Then, above the roar of the fire, the chatter of machine-gun fire, the pounding of her heart and the screams of terrified people, she heard her friend’s high, thin voice. ‘Tasha! I can’t! I can’t!’
She caught a momentary glimpse of the young woman’s frightened face as she was carried away by the press of people, and just like that her friend was gone.
She tried to follow, but instead found herself jerked backwards as strong hands clamped around her neck, dragging her away from the hole in the wall. One of the gunmen had seized her, she realised. In desperation she kicked and struggled against his hold, summoning up the last reserves of her failing strength in a vain effort to break free.
It was no use. He was twice her size and many times her match in strength. With one arm locked around her neck, he used his free hand to cuff her across the side of her head. White light and pain exploded through her mind as she went limp in his arms.
With a hard yank, she was pulled right off her feet and hauled back through the burning gym. Vaguely, through clouded vision, she realised she was now in the corridor running between the gym and the school cafeteria. The corridor was streaked with bloody footprints, and on her left she saw a body lying curled against the wall, clothes and flesh shredded by bullet holes.
Rounding a corner, her captor dragged her into the food hall. The place was in chaos, windows smashed out, chairs scattered everywhere and tables upended to serve as temporary barricades for the dozen or so gunmen who had decided to make a stand there.
‘They’ve betrayed us!’ one of them shouted in Russian as he fumbled to insert a magazine into his weapon with trembling hands. ‘They’re going to kill us all!’
His companions were firing indiscriminately at the row of apartment buildings beyond the school gates, the roar of their weapons deafening in the confined space. The floor was covered with broken glass, empty bullet casings, discarded magazines and blood.
‘Move!’ her captor yelled in her ear as he pushed her towards the windows. ‘Move!’
She tried to comply, but her legs wouldn’t work. She was still groggy from the blow to her head, but a hard kick to her back was enough to move her. She fell forwards, gashing her knees on the broken glass. She barely felt the pain now.
Staring out into the open space beyond the windows, she froze in horror at the scene unfolding before her eyes. The school yard was littered with the bodies of children, teachers and parents unlucky enough to have been caught in the crossfire between the two sides. Amongst them, curled into a ball as if to hide, she saw the body of a plump girl with dark hair. Yelena.
Whatever grief she should have felt at the sight, there was no time for it to sink in.
A deep rumble off to her left caught her attention, and she stared open-mouthed as the massive bulk of a battle tank rumbled through the brick wall that marked the boundary of the school yard, crashing through the solid barrier as if it wasn’t even there. Its domed turret swung around in a measured, unhurried fashion, the long barrel of its main gun eagerly searching for a target. Then it stopped, a brief moment of inaction passed, and with a roar that shook the very ground, it fired. The shell hit one of the classrooms on the first floor of the main building, sending glass and burning debris raining down on the playground.
She was not alone by the windows, she realised now. Several men and women of various ages had been lined up next to her, and all stood unmoving, some crying in fear, others strangely silent as if resigned to what was happening. Gunmen were crouched behind them, using them as human shields.
Before Natasha could recover enough to get up, she was once more grabbed by the arm and forced to her feet. She could feel the bulk of his body armour pressed against her back, and the rough bristle of his beard brushing her cheek. Thunder erupted beside her as he opened fire, spraying bullets into the school yard almost without bothering to aim.
To her left, one of the hostages cried out in pain and fell to the ground, blood flowing from his chest and legs. He was followed a moment later by the woman beside him, who took a round to the head that shattered her skull like an eggshell. She crumpled without as much as a sound.
With dawning horror, Natasha realised that it wasn’t the gunmen who had killed them, it was the Russian soldiers fighting their way into the school. She bucked and lashed out with her feet, screaming, arching her back in a last desperate attempt to get away.
This wasn’t real, her mind screamed at her. This couldn’t be happening. Her life had been one of safety and security, each day like the one before. Things like this couldn’t happen to her. This wasn’t—
All such thoughts were silenced when a 7.62mm projectile penetrated her chest, shattering ribs, tearing through internal organs and blasting out through her back before doing the same to her captor. Her legs gave way beneath her and she fell to the floor, eyes staring blankly up at the ceiling as the last few seconds of her short life played out.
She felt no pain now. She felt nothing except a vague sense of sadness and regret that she would never see her family again, never hear her mother’s laugh or listen to her father chastise her for not drinking her water at dinner.
Her last thought was a simple one. Why us?
Then her vision faded and she saw and thought no more.
Part One
Intrusion
In what became known as the Beslan Massacre 334 people were killed and 728 injured. The majority of those casualties were women and children.
Chapter 1
CIA Headquarters, Langley, 19 December 2008
Ryan Drake watched as the man before him shifted his weight from one foot to the other, trying and failing to find a comfortable firing stance. The M4 assault rifle at his shoulder was held at an awkward angle that he was sure would cause problems when the shooting started, but he made no move to intervene.
He was here as an observer, nothing more. His role was to evaluate the candidate’s performance and ultimately decide whether or not he was suitable to join the Shepherd programme. It was a task he didn’t relish. Drake wasn’t accustomed to sitting back and watching good men fail.
‘Candidate ready?’ he asked when it seemed the shooter had settled down. He couldn’t blame the man for being nervous. They both knew what rested on this.
There were no second chances when it came to the Shepherd teams. Either you made the grade first time, or you went home.
‘Been a while since I heard that.’ Cole Mason glanced at him and managed a strained smile, before turning his attention back to the rifle range stretching out in front of him. The tension in his body was obvious, even to Drake. ‘I’m ready.’
‘Go hot,’ Drake instructed, watching as he thumbed off the safety on his weapon. It was loaded with live ammunition for this exercise, and even amongst experienced professionals there was no room for complacency.
Giving Mason a few seconds to prepare, Drake checked his ear protectors were firmly in place, then pressed the little remote trigger in his hand to start the live-fire exercise.
Straight aw
ay the light levels on the rifle range decreased, and the strained silence of moments earlier was replaced with the loud boom of explosions, the chatter of heavy machine-gun fire and the screams of panicked civilians, all of it blasting through speakers strategically placed around the room. The explosions were accompanied by strobe light flashes and vicious orange glows, designed to simulate the confusion and disorientation of a real combat situation.
To his credit, Mason stood his ground, unfazed by the disturbing visual and aural stimulus. He’d experienced this stuff for real plenty of times and certainly wasn’t going to panic at a simulation. Anyway, he knew what he was looking for.
And a few moments later, it came.
The cardboard representation of a gun-toting militant sprang up from behind a wall, accompanied by another burst of simulated gunfire.
Mason reacted immediately. Swinging the barrel of his assault rifle left, he paused a heartbeat to take aim, leaned into it and fired a burst. His shots impacted a couple of inches off-centre, but still within the kill zone. The target toppled backwards, effectively ‘dead’.
‘Come on, Cole,’ Drake whispered, willing the man to succeed.
His next grouping was better, landing more or less dead centre in a target that popped up just 10 yards away. Maybe he’d been wrong, Drake thought. Maybe Mason’s years of experience and training would overcome his physical limitations.
His hopes were soon dashed when the next target popped up in the window of a building at the far end of the range, meant to represent a sniper taking potshots at them. Mason’s first burst missed entirely, and though his second found its mark, the rounds were scattered all across the cardboard figure. Drake saw Mason flinch at the weapon’s recoil, rolling his shoulder as if to loosen it up. Already the air reeked of burned cordite.
Hastily ejecting the spent magazine, he reached for a new one on the table in front of him and slapped it into place just as three more figures popped up. Two of them were innocent civilians, meant to represent hostages, while the third was their captor.
Knowing he had only moments to react, Mason brought his rifle to bear and, driven by the pressure of the moment, opened fire.
His hastily aimed burst slammed into the cardboard hostage next to his intended target, undoubtedly dealing a fatal injury had it been a real person.
Drake looked down, unwilling to watch as the exercise continued. Already he knew the result, but delivering it was one task that the machines here couldn’t help him with.
That unpleasant duty fell to him alone.
It was a cold, damp Friday evening in the capital, with icy flurries of sleet carried on the fitful breeze as commuters fought their way through rush-hour traffic. This close to Christmas, many were heading home via the nearest shopping mall, hoping to grab a few last-minute bargains before the weekend.
A woman paused at a busy intersection, waiting for a gap in the traffic so she could cross. She was dressed in a heavy winter overcoat, the collar drawn up to offer some protection from the chill wind. Her short blonde hair was hidden beneath a black stocking cap.
A leather gym bag was slung across one shoulder. Just another DC office worker squeezing in a workout before the excesses of the festive season. An older woman, plump and tired, offered her a sympathetic smile as she passed by. She didn’t acknowledge it.
Spotting a let-up in the traffic, she moved with fast, measured steps across the road, heading down a quieter residential street towards an apartment building overlooking the nearby freeway. The rumble of traffic and the occasional blast of car horns filtered through the air towards her as she turned left and strode towards the main entrance, unlocking the security door.
The public stairwell beyond was clean and well maintained, just as it had been the last time she came here two days ago. There had been a bike chained to the stair banister then, but it was gone now. The place wasn’t heated, but warmth from the various apartments had bled out into it, raising the temperature a few degrees higher than outside.
Wasting no time, she made for the stairs and started up them. The contents of the sports bag were both heavy and bulky, and by the time she’d reached the third floor she could feel beads of sweat on her forehead. The stocking cap clung uncomfortably to her head, but she ignored it.
‘Hey, you okay?’ a male voice asked from the third-floor landing. ‘Need a hand?’
She looked over at the tall, slightly overweight man with glasses and a goatee, who had just emerged from his apartment. He was dressed for the winter weather and had likely been on his way out when he’d spotted her.
‘Nah. I’m good, thanks,’ she replied, flashing a grateful smile. ‘It’s a better workout than I get in the damn gym.’
He smiled in response, warming to her immediately. ‘I hear ya. Should do a little more myself,’ he added. She noticed he had drawn his stomach in, as men often did when talking to women about exercise.
Turning away, she resumed her difficult climb to the top floor. She was grateful when she heard his footsteps receding below, followed by a heavy clang as the front door opened and shut. He might remember her later, but it wouldn’t matter. She’d be gone by then.
The building’s roof was accessed via a short flight of steps, with a fire door at the top which, naturally, was alarmed. She had already disabled it during her visit two days before, bypassing the door sensor to fool the system into thinking it was locked.
Glancing back down the steps for a moment to check she wasn’t being watched, she pushed firmly down on the bar to open the door and stepped out. Straight away she was greeted by a gust of cold wind that tugged at her coat and made her eyes water. After the relative warmth of the stairwell, the sudden change in temperature was almost a shock to the system.
Still, it provided a welcome moment of refreshment. Her body was by now well adapted to cold climates, and compared to some of the places she had visited, winter in DC was of little concern.
Letting out a breath that steamed in the chill air, she surveyed the area that would act as her vantage point. It was perfect for her needs. Like most buildings in America, the roof was crowded with heating vents, satellite dishes and air-conditioning outlets. The general clutter would provide excellent cover as she went about her work.
Stretching out before her like a river of concrete was the 395 freeway, clogged with slow-moving evening traffic. That was good. The slower her targets were moving, the easier her job would be.
Chapter 2
Seated in his small, cramped and cluttered office on the second floor of Langley’s Old Headquarters Building, Drake looked up from his computer at the knock on the door. He had a fair idea who was there.
‘Come in,’ he called.
Sure enough, the door opened to reveal Cole Mason. A tall, good-looking man in his late thirties, Mason possessed the dark eyes, olive skin and jet-black hair characteristic of his Italian ancestry. Only his name seemed to let him down on that front – the result of his grandmother moving to America to escape Mussolini’s Italy in the 1930s. Smart move on her part.
He had showered and changed out of the T-shirt and combat trousers he’d worn during the live-fire exercise, donning a grey business suit that did little to hide his broad-shouldered and muscular physique. He had been hitting the gym hard over the past few months, determined to regain his former strength and fitness.
But despite this outward display of robust physical health, the look in his eyes betrayed his lack of confidence as he stepped over the threshold. Nonetheless, he managed a wry smile as he glanced around Drake’s disorganised work space.
‘Some things never change, I see.’
Drake avoided his gaze. Some things unfortunately did change.
Mason wasn’t some eager young recruit fresh off the Agency’s basic training programme, but a seasoned veteran who had served alongside Drake on a dozen occasions in the small but elite group known as the Shepherd teams. Their job was to travel to some of the most hostile and dangerous places on ear
th and recover lost, missing, captured or, in rare cases, rogue Agency operatives. As such, only the best of the best made the cut.
Experienced, quick-thinking and cool under pressure, Mason had been a natural choice as second in command during their ill-fated mission into Russia the previous year. Drake had been handed the daunting task of breaking into a Siberian prison and rescuing an operative known only by her code name, Maras. Against the odds they had achieved their objective, but a stray round had shattered Mason’s shoulder during their escape, putting him out of action and very nearly ending his life.
It was a shitty thing to happen to a good man, and more than once Drake had agonised over his responsibility for it. Now, after eighteen months, several surgeries and a gruelling period of rehabilitation, Mason had applied to rejoin the Shepherd teams as an active field agent. Whether or not he was capable of fulfilling this role had been left to Drake to decide. Talk about a poisoned chalice.
‘Have a seat, mate,’ Drake said, gesturing to the chair opposite.
Mason eased himself down and crossed his legs, fidgeting uncomfortably in the awkward silence that followed. Drake hated this shit, hated having to give bad news to good people, hated deciding men’s futures from behind a desk. It wasn’t him. It wasn’t who he was.
Still, he was here, and he had a job to do.
‘First of all, I want you to know that you’ve done an incredible job to get back here,’ he began. ‘The work you’ve put in over the past year—’
‘Ryan, we’ve known each other a long time,’ Mason interrupted. ‘You don’t need to bullshit me. Let’s just get down to it, okay?’
He was smiling as if this was just good-natured banter between friends, perhaps hoping to ease the tension, but Drake could sense the nervous anticipation beneath that disarming smile. He supposed he would have felt the same way in Mason’s shoes.
If Mason wanted the truth, Drake would give it to him.
