by Will Jordan
Police follow-up from his escapade on the rooftop was unlikely now. Neither officer had seen his face, and he’d made good his escape from the immediate area before backup could arrive. He’d been obliged to buy a new jacket and jeans from the nearest department store to eliminate the chance of a clothing match, but he could live with that. The only thing they could use against him was his English accent, and even that was unlikely to help much in a city that saw a regular influx of foreign tourists.
For now at least, he was in the clear.
His unhappy contemplation was interrupted when his phone started ringing. It was Franklin. Snatching it up, he inputted his DateCalculator access code and hit the green button to take the call.
‘What have you got, Dan?’
‘News, and none of it good,’ his friend began. ‘You were right about those Mercs. They were part of a Russian diplomatic convoy fresh in from Andrews AFB.’
It didn’t take much effort to spot the link to Anya. She had been incarcerated in a Russian jail when Drake had found her. The exact reasons for her imprisonment were unknown, but clearly she was important to them. And it seemed she was now returning the favour.
‘We’re still getting police reports in, but we know both drivers were killed by high-velocity sniper rounds. The damn things punched right through the bulletproof windshields like they weren’t even there.’
‘Yeah, I saw the gun,’ Drake confirmed. ‘Looked like it could take out a tank.’
‘It gets better. The survivors were executed at close range by small-arms fire. Double taps to the head – real professional.’
Drake wasn’t surprised. He would expect nothing less from any operation that Anya was part of. ‘So the “paramedics” I saw were there to finish the job.’
‘This wasn’t just an assassination,’ Franklin went on. ‘According to the convoy manifest, we’ve got an MIA. Anton Demochev, director of the FSB’s counter-terrorism branch.’
Drake felt as though he was immersed in a bad dream, and it was getting worse by the minute. The convoy that had been hit belonged to Russia’s Federal Security Bureau, better known as the FSB.
When the Soviet Union dissolved in 1991, the old KGB broke up into a number of successor agencies, all vying for power and influence. The FSB had eventually emerged as the dominant entity and was now the main intelligence service of the Russian Federation, responsible for both foreign and domestic security.
Essentially they were the CIA and the FBI rolled into one. As such, their power and resources were considerable. And as many in Russia and elsewhere had learned to their cost, they weren’t shy about flexing their political and military muscles.
‘So this was an abduction,’ he said, stating the obvious.
‘Looks that way. The Russians are going apeshit over this. If they hold him to ransom, it will be a PR disaster.’ Franklin was silent for a moment, and Drake could almost feel his growing anger. ‘Anya might have caused a goddamned international incident.’
Drake looked down at his coffee. He could think of nothing to say to that, because his friend might well be right. Her actions this evening had already resulted in several deaths, not to mention incurring the wrath of one of the world’s most dangerous intelligence services.
‘What are we doing about it?’ he asked instead. With an incident of this magnitude, an Agency response was inevitable.
‘We’re coordinating with FBI and Homeland Security, trying to figure out where they took him. But it’s slow going.’
Drake could guess why. Cooperation between America’s security services was less than impressive at the best of times, and with a sudden attack like this, just piecing together what had happened could take hours. They were a sledgehammer, when what was needed was a scalpel.
Fortunately Drake had just the instrument in mind.
‘I have to go, Dan,’ he said, as his phone buzzed to let him know another caller was trying to reach him. ‘I’ll call you back if I have anything new.’
‘Likewise.’
Ending his call with Franklin, Drake immediately hit the accept button to take one from Frost. He could only hope she had good news.
‘Yeah, Keira?’
‘I think we’ve got them,’ the young woman announced without preamble. ‘Our friends from the freeway dumped the ambulance at an underground parking lot on the east side of DC. Then they switched vehicles. They must have handled the transfer in a blind spot because I couldn’t see it on any of the security cameras, but thirty seconds later they left in a blue Chevrolet Express.’
Drake’s heartbeat had stepped up a gear now. ‘Did you get a look at the plates?’
‘No need,’ she explained. ‘I tracked them to a self-storage facility in Capitol Heights, and I doubt they’re there to offload old furniture.’
Drake was already up and moving, heading for his car, which was parked outside. ‘Good work. Text me the address.’
Capitol Heights was on the east side of the city, no more than a couple of miles away. Assuming he managed to avoid the worst of the traffic, he could be there in five minutes or less.
‘I hope you’re not planning on going in there alone?’
‘You know me,’ he evaded. He needed to know what the hell Anya was involved in, and one way or another he intended to get some answers.
‘That’s what I’m afraid of, Ryan. If … she’s there, I’d go in wearing fashionable Kevlar. And a tank.’
‘Duly noted,’ he promised, closing the phone down.
As he approached his car, Drake instinctively reached into his jacket and felt the reassuring shape of the Sig automatic. He might be going in for Anya, but he was under no illusions about what he might find when he got there. If the welcome was less than friendly, he would do what he had to do to defend himself.
Chapter 8
She couldn’t move, couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe. All around her was darkness, cloying and suffocating. The gag in her mouth pressed tight into her flesh, making it difficult to swallow and impossible to cry out. There was no way to summon help, no chance of escape.
With her hands and feet bound behind her back and a thick burlap sack drawn over her face, she lay helpless on the hard, cold, metal floor of the van. Her body, bruised and battered after the crash that had almost killed her, ached with the pain of countless small injuries, while her head throbbed as blood pulsed through it.
All she could do was lie there with the coarse material of the hood pressed suffocatingly against her face, listening to the sounds of the brutal torture session going on outside.
Even through the thick fabric and the metal walls of the van she was being held inside, she could hear Demochev’s agonised screams as his captors went about their grim work.
Anton Demochev, the man whose safety had been entrusted to her, was being tortured to death mere yards away. And she could do nothing to help him.
All she could do was lie there, fighting back the growing feeling of nausea as she listened to Demochev’s screams echoing around the interior of the van.
Ten minutes after leaving the coffee shop, Drake, along with five members of an Agency tactical team, were crammed into the rear compartment of a Ford Econoline Transit van as it hurtled through the eastern suburbs of DC.
With the Agency on alert after the freeway attack, they had several such units on standby throughout the city. A call to Franklin was all it had taken to place the nearest one at Drake’s disposal for a limited duration.
Drake’s role as a Shepherd team leader afforded him certain powers that most other government officials could only dream of. He could pass through US airports without being searched, enter most government buildings without difficulty, and even commandeer police and military resources in the pursuit of his objective. It wasn’t something he was expected to make use of on a regular basis, and such authority was always strictly monitored, but it did allow him to cut through a lot of red tape in a hurry.
Police and FBI units were converging from
all over town to establish a perimeter around the site and support them, but so far they had the lead. If they moved fast, there was a chance they could end this thing quickly, capture the instigators of a major terrorist attack and perhaps even recover Demochev alive. How Anya would fit into this equation remained to be seen.
Their target was, according to Frost’s online forays, Xcell Self-Storage, a commercial storage facility in the Capitol Heights district of the city. Secure, and used only by the occasional delivery truck, it was the kind of place where one could hold a man hostage for a long time without fear of discovery.
Drake gripped one of the wall-mounted handles as the van rounded a corner at high speed. It was raining hard outside. He could hear the heavy drumming of it on the vehicle’s thin metal roof, and the rhythmic whine of the wipers up front as they fought to keep the windshield clear.
‘According to the facility manager, the only lock-up to have been accessed in the past hour is Unit D7,’ the lead operative said, studying the blueprints of the facility that had been transmitted to his PDA direct from Langley. The name tag on his body armour read O’Rourke. ‘It’s about the size of a double garage, but according to the plans it’s one big open space so we shouldn’t have trouble locating our target.’
Assuming he’s still there, Drake didn’t add. Despite their rapid response there was a chance their opponents had switched vehicles again after reaching the facility. It certainly wasn’t the kind of place one would dig in and defend.
Still, they wouldn’t know for sure until they got there.
‘We’ve got a friendly in there so watch your fire,’ O’Rourke added. ‘But be advised, tangos are armed and should be considered extremely dangerous. Try to take them alive if possible, but don’t take any chances. Clear?’
He was met by a chorus of affirmative remarks. Each of the tactical operatives was geared up for the assault, both mentally and physically. Drake had seen that look enough times on soldiers about to go into battle to recognise it.
Curious how far they still had to go, he craned his neck to see up front, trying to make out the world beyond the rain-streaked windshield.
Capitol Heights was a run-down area, with dirty litter-strewn streets and dreary low-rise apartment buildings crowded close to the main drag. Many of the street lights were out, either because they’d been vandalised or because the bulbs had blown and never been replaced. The few shops that he’d seen all had heavy security shutters down, while most apartments had their curtains closed as if the occupants were trying to shut the world out. Drake couldn’t blame them.
The cars were mostly old Buicks and Chevys; all battered and poorly maintained like everything else around here. There weren’t many people out on the streets given the weather conditions, but a few brave souls trudged doggedly onwards, heads down and shoulders hunched against the rain. They looked as miserable as the buildings around them.
Christmas hadn’t yet come to Capitol Heights, it seemed.
Turning his attention back to the tactical team leader, he leaned forward and tapped O’Rourke on the shoulder. ‘So what’s the plan?’
‘Simple breach, sir. We go in hard through the front door, use flashbangs to cover our entry, and secure Demochev as fast as possible. With luck we can take them by surprise.’
‘What if they make a run for it?’
O’Rourke shrugged. ‘There’s nowhere for them to go. The entire facility’s surrounded by chain-link fence and security cameras. Only way in or out is through the main gate, and we’ll have that covered.’
He paused, bracing his large frame, bulked out by body armour, against the wall as the van swerved. As their course stabilised, he reached into a bag by his feet and handed Drake one of the little portable radio units the assault team wore.
‘Take this. It’s already tied into our radio net.’
The unit was familiar enough to Drake, similar to the ones he’d used as a Shepherd operative during similar assaults. The microphone was attached to a Velcro strap that wrapped around the throat, so that it picked up the actual vibrations in the user’s voice box and allowed them to be heard clearly even when surrounded by loud ambient noise.
After strapping the unit in place and checking it was switched on, he hit the transmit button. ‘Radio check.’
O’Rourke nodded. ‘Good, copy.’
‘This is it,’ the driver called as they began to slow down. ‘Ten seconds!’
Sure enough, the drab grey housing of Capitol Hill had given way to drab grey commercial storage units; essentially long brick sheds of varying size, with corrugated-iron roofs and rolling steel-shuttered doors. Access to each locker was controlled by a key-card entry system similar to that used in modern hotels, which cut down the chance of theft and also allowed the storage company to monitor usage, since each card swipe was electronically logged.
Alerted in advance of their arrival, the lone security guard manning the main gate had made sure the barrier was open, allowing them to drive right through and into the network of storage lock-ups unhindered. Their van was disguised as a regular commercial goods vehicle, hopefully allowing them to park near the lock-up without raising suspicion.
They would find out soon enough, Drake thought as the van skidded to a halt, the tyres slipping on the slick tarmac.
O’Rourke turned to the rest of the team. ‘Ready up.’
Most of the team were armed with the venerable Heckler & Koch MP5; a compact and reliable sub-machine gun that had been in use with SWAT and Special Forces units for more than forty years. It lacked the punch and range of heavier assault rifles, but it was ideal for use in tight spaces.
Drake also spotted a couple of big Mossberg 590 breaching shotguns, designed to blast open locks and reinforced doors. He’d seen them in action himself on a few occasions and knew the devastating damage they could deal at close range.
Taking up position at the rear of the compartment, O’Rourke gave a single nod to show that he was ready, unlatched the cargo door and shoved it outwards. Two operatives armed with MP5s went first, taking up position on either side of the van to cover their flanks while the rest of the team deployed.
O’Rourke was next, with Drake right behind him. Leaping down on to the wet tarmac, he immediately found himself in the midst of the heavy downpour. Doing his best to ignore the freezing rain that was quickly soaking into his clothes, he turned his attention to the storage lockers around them.
A long row of breeze-block structures stretched out before him, with letters and numbers printed on their doors. As far as he could tell, the storage yard was laid out in a basic grid pattern, with a letter assigned to each section. The number indicated the location within that section.
With that in mind, lock-up D7 should be just around the corner.
Turning to O’Rourke, he nodded off to the right. ‘Send two of your men around the other way. I want to box them in.’
The operative nodded understanding. ‘Telford, Cartwright. Circle around this section. Radio when you’re in position.’
‘Copy that.’
As the two men hurried off to encircle the lock-up, Drake advanced to the next intersection with the Sig gripped tight in numb fingers. The splash of boots in the puddles behind told him the rest of the team were close.
Backing up against a rough breeze-block wall, he took a breath and waited for a signal from their flanking force.
‘I see it,’ a voice reported over the radio a few moments later. ‘Doors are shut. No vehicles, no sign of activity.’
‘Copy that,’ Drake replied. ‘Watch the rooftops. We’re moving in now.’
Drake had been in this situation countless times before, preparing to make entry to a building with no idea what was on the other side of the door, wondering if they were going to be fired upon at any moment, anxiously watching every corner, every shadowy recess.
Taking another breath and wiping the rainwater out of his eyes, Drake rounded the corner and advanced towards lock-up D7. At t
he same moment he spotted the two operatives moving in from the opposite intersection, weapons up and ready.
As they had said, there was no sign of any activity in the lock-up. The rolling steel doors were down and locked. Drake couldn’t tell if there were any lights on inside.
‘Telford, get that breaching gun ready,’ O’Rourke ordered, motioning forward one of the operatives armed with a heavy-gauge shotgun. ‘Flashbangs on standby. Everyone ready?’
Before anyone could reply, they froze as an engine suddenly rumbled into life inside the lock-up. Someone had just started up a vehicle in there.
‘They’re getting ready to move!’ Drake hissed, realising the priceless opportunity that now presented itself. In order to leave, they would have to open the lock-up doors. ‘Flashbangs on my order. Everyone else get ready to move in. Understand?’
He was met by a round of affirmatives. Backing up beside the lock-up, Drake checked his weapon and waited, his heart pounding. Adrenalin was keeping his body temperature up, allowing him to ignore the freezing rain that had by now soaked him to the skin.
All his attention was now focused on the steel doors beside him.
He heard an electronic buzz from inside, and suddenly the doors began to roll upwards, their metal links folding around the mechanism at the top as the winch inside clanked and groaned under the strain. Harsh light spilled out from the gap now opened – headlights from the vehicle or internal lighting, he couldn’t tell.
Either way, he’d seen enough.
‘Breach!’ he called out. ‘Flash out!’
Stepping out from cover, two of O’Rourke’s operatives pulled the pins on their stun grenades and tossed the little metal cylinders in through the gap. There was a pause, perhaps a second or so, followed by twin explosions that echoed around the confined space of the storage lock-up like the crack of thunder.
The flashbang grenades, producing a blinding flash of light and a concussive boom designed to temporarily blind and deafen potential enemies, would hopefully buy the assault team a few precious seconds to move in.
