by Andy Maslen
Outside there were shouts, screams of pain, automatic gunfire and the squealing ricochets of bullets bouncing off the steel wreckage of thousands of Estonians’ material aspirations.
“I’ll come back. I promise.”
Then he turned and ran back to the outside door of the cabin. The fighting between the Russians and the two remaining Chechens seemed to be coming from the western side of the scrapyard. There were bursts of automatic fire and the rapid crack-crack-crack of the semi-automatic Glocks.
Gabriel crawled along the front of the cabins, keeping his belly on the ground and the muzzle of his M16 pointed upwards at what would be waist height for anyone he met coming the other way. At the end of the row of buildings, there was another of the car-lined canyons stretching away towards a partially dismantled truck that blocked the end of the path between the stacks of dead autos.
This had turned into street fighting, something he guessed the Chechens were better at than the Russians. He decided to get off the street. Slinging his M16 over his back, he climbed up one of the walls of squashed cars to the top layer. The surface was mainly even, comprising roofs, boots and bonnets, the passenger cells having been flattened by one of the huge machines that stood idle in the yard. He crept to the far edge and slid himself forward on elbows, knees and ankles until he could just peep over and down onto an open space of rough ground between the mountain of cars and the perimeter fence.
Below him, Konstantin and another Chechen – was this Drezna? – circled each other. Behind them lay discarded firearms. The Russian’s M16 and Glock, and a Kalashnikov and another semi-auto pistol, presumably dumped by the Chechen. Out of ammo. Gabriel sighted on the Chechen. Then dropped the barrel a fraction. Why not let them kill each other? Two fewer deaths on his hands.
Each man held a knife. The Russian’s blade was a monstrous hunting knife half as long as his forearm. God alone knew where he’d been hiding it. It had a wicked point and a deep-bellied blade. The Chechen wielded a long, narrow switchblade, its edge glinting.
Both men were panting. Both appeared to have sustained bullet wounds. The Russian had a bloody patch on the left thigh of his jeans, just above the knee. The denim was dark, and shining wetly. He was favouring that leg, but still putting weight on it – a flesh wound, then, not a broken bone or a severed artery. The Chechen had been shot in the right arm. It dangled by his side, blood dripping from his fingers.
Suddenly, as if weary of the game of feint and counter-feint, Konstantin lunged, the point of his knife angled towards the other man’s belly. The Chechen stumbled backwards and half-turned in a fall. It was a ruse. As Konstantin bellowed in triumph, preparing to stab upwards and eviscerate his foe, the Chechen swivelled on his heels, and swept his left arm in a tight arc. The edge of his knife caught Konstantin across the throat and swept on, opening a horrific gash that severed the carotid artery and jugular vein on his right side. Blood flew from his ruined neck in six-foot jets that caught the Chechen full in the face before he ducked and thrust again, this time burying the blade up to the hilt in Konstantin’s chest.
The Chechen, shorter by about nine inches than Konstantin, but proportionately more solid, held the Russian as he slipped to his knees before keeling over, blood still coursing from his opened blood vessels and pooling under his body. The victor stood and wiped his knife on his trouser leg. At that moment, Gabriel’s rifle barrel slipped on the mangled sheet of rusty steel it was resting on. The scrape wasn’t loud, but the Chechen heard it. He looked up. And then he smiled.
Chapter 44
“You win,” he shouted. “I am out of ammunition. And I don’t think I can throw this,” he held up the switchblade by the point of its blade, “accurately enough to hit you before you shoot me.”
“Are you Kasym Drezna?” Gabriel shouted.
“One and the same,” Drezna shouted back, then smiled, though his eyes were screwed up against the pain from his wound. “Enjoy this moment, stranger. You may not have many more left.”
Gabriel looked down the barrel of his M16, the iron sights aligned on the man’s chest, noticing the subtle change of grip on the knife. I wish I had more of a reason than logistics to do this. Then he fired. A three-round burst. And another three.
Drezna staggered under the impact of the rounds as they tore into him. He fell heavily.
Without waiting, Gabriel scrabbled his way down the pile of shattered vehicles, using one hand so he could keep hold of his M16 with the other. He’d almost reached the bottom when Drezna groaned and tried to heave himself up on his elbows. Gabriel ran to the man and kicked him hard in the head, putting him back on the ground. He knelt by his left side and ripped open his windcheater to reveal a khaki-and-black flak jacket, its surface smashed by six bullets. At that range, Drezna’s ribs would have been broken by the impact energy of the rounds. Frothy blood was bubbling from his lips. His breath was rasping as he fought for oxygen. In a battle, enemy fighter or no, Gabriel would have called for the medics or radioed for a chopper. But who could he shout for here? The place was empty apart from two frightened kidnap victims and a maximum of two other fighters, neither of whom cared overmuch for Gabriel.
He’d underestimated Drezna’s strength, though. In the time it took him to conclude he needed to kill his man, Drezna’s heavily muscled left arm swung upwards, switchblade still gripped tightly. Flinching, Gabriel parried the thrust with his right arm and crashed the barrel of the M16 down onto Drezna’s chest, drawing a howl of pain. The Chechen was hurt badly, but his will to survive was immense. He grabbed the M16 and pushed it away, screaming with pain as the muscles in his right arm tensed around the bullet wound. He rolled towards Gabriel and, snake-quick, drew his knife hand back and stabbed him in the right bicep. His strength was failing him though, and the blade only penetrated an inch or so into the flesh. Now the two men were locked together in a trial of strength. Grunting with the pain of the knife wound, Gabriel leaned forward and knelt onto Drezna’s chest. That drained the last of the Chechen’s strength and he fell back, gasping with agony as Gabriel’s weight crushed his broken ribs.
Gabriel reared back, trying to free his M16 to deliver the coup de grace when Erik burst into the small clearing. His face was red, but this was exertion, not blood. Seeing Konstantin on the ground, bled out, Erik howled and body-slammed Gabriel to one side, causing him to stumble and fall, smacking his head against a rusty engine block. Then Erik turned and fell upon Drezna. He smashed the barrel of his Glock into Drezna’s face, shattering his front teeth, then stuck the muzzle into his ruined mouth.
“You scum! You cockroach!” he screamed in Russian. “You killed him. Now you will die yourself. Fuck you and fuck all black-assed Chechens!”
Erik stood, held the Glock in a two-handed grip and started firing.
The bangs were deafening, and Gabriel’s ears rang as Erik fired round after round into the Chechen’s head.
He went on pulling the trigger, brass cartridge cases tinkling around him, until, with eleven rounds fired, the Glock emitted a rapid series of steely clicks. Then he turned towards Gabriel, who had just staggered to his feet, his head pounding.
“This your fault,” he said, pointing at Konstantin’s corpse, then ramming another magazine into the butt of the Glock. “All Chechens dead. One was woman. I shoot her over there.” He pointed in the direction of the Mercedes. “Now you pay. Pay for Konstantin. Pay for everything. Mission over, Terry.”
He levelled the gun, pointing it at Gabriel’s head.
Fuck! When did I start trusting you and leave my weapon pointed at the ground?
Gabriel flicked his eyes past Erik’s right shoulder. It was the oldest trick in the book, yet it always worked. People were programmed to look where other people looked.
Erik glanced to his right and in that moment, Gabriel brought his M16 up and shot him point-bank in the chest. The three rounds were grouped so tightly, they tore a hole through Erik’s body big enough to reach through. Blood and soft tissue spewed
from his body cavity in front and behind. He crumpled forwards and fell face down into a pool of his own blood. Before leaving the body, Gabriel patted it down, found what he was looking for, and stuffed it into his jacket pocket among the spare pistol rounds.
So that was it. Four Chechens down. Two Russians down. Two hostages safe. Now for the easy bit. Get them into the car and call Don to arrange an exfiltration. He made his way back towards the cabins, relieved that the bloodshed was over.
*
Inside the complex of cabins, Gabriel made his way through to the second building. He stepped into the room where Sarah and Chloe Bryant were hiding and called, softly.
“Ladies? It’s over. You can come out.”
Feet-first, the two women shuffled their out from under the double bed. He helped them up and then sat on the bed, his body suddenly a fuel-free zone as the last of the adrenaline from the firefight was metabolised.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t introduce myself before. My name is Gabriel Wolfe. I’m working for the British Government.”
“Does Dad know we’re safe?” Chloe asked.
“No. Not yet. But we can phone him if you like.”
Gabriel pulled his phone from an inside pocket and handed it over.
Chloe’s thumb danced on the screen, then she pushed the phone against her ear.
They all waited as the invisible packets of data were split, transmitted and reassembled before being sent to a phone sixteen hundred miles away.
Chloe’s face broke into a huge grin.
“Daddy? It’s Chloe . . . Yes. We’re safe. There’s a man here called Gabriel. He saved us. He . . .”
The young woman couldn’t go on. Her voice thickened in her throat then died. Tears were running freely through the dirt on her face, and she handed the phone to her mother.
“Darling, it’s me . . . No, she’s fine . . . Yes, I am too. Look, I want to talk and I love you so terribly much, but we have to go. I’ll call you again as soon as I can . . . Yes. Bye darling. Bye . . . I love you too. Bye.”
Sarah handed the phone back to Gabriel.
“I’m right, aren’t I?” she said. “It’s not safe here.”
“Hmm?” Gabriel said. “What? No. Definitely, one hundred per cent not safe.”
He wiped his hand over his face; it came away grimy and dark with sweat and the particles of blood and tissue that had sprayed back when he killed Erik.
Even though their ordeal had been far worse than his, Sarah Bryant immediately began to take care of him.
“Oh, you poor man. At least let’s get you cleaned up before we go. Wait there.”
She hurried through to a further cabin beyond the living quarters and he heard the sound of a tap running. A few moments later she reappeared carrying a pale-pink washcloth.
“Now then,” she said, tipping his head up by lifting his chin, “let’s tidy you up so you don’t frighten the horses.” With brisk but gentle strokes she wiped the muck away with the warm flannel, then smoothed his hair down with her fingers. “There. Much more presentable. Shall we go?”
“Could you take a look at my arm first? I may have a bit of a cut there.”
“Of course! How stupid of me to be cleaning your face when you’re hurt.”
Sarah helped him out of his hoodie and pulled the T-shirt over his head. She winced when she saw the stab wound in his bicep.
“It looks worse than it is, I think. It’s still bleeding but it’s dark, so no arteries hurt.” She caught his quizzical stare. “Qualified first-aider.”
She went back to the room she had shared with Chloe, and reappeared a few moments later with a strip of bed sheet in her hand. With deft movements, she wound it tightly around his bicep, and then split the last six inches of the improvised bandage to tie it off. With the bleeding stanched, she helped him back into his clothes.
Gabriel realised he had been sinking into a trance under the woman’s ministrations. He stood now, ready to take charge and complete the mission.
“Chloe, Sarah, I have a car here. We’re going to walk quickly out of here and turn immediately left. It’s about a third of a mile away, but this place is deserted now, so there’s no more danger. Whatever you see, ignore it and keep on walking, yes?”
“Yes,” they said in unison, mother and daughter ready to go by the look of their faces, which were set in determined frowns. Then Chloe’s eyes widened.
“Our stuff,” she said. “Can we bring it?”
“Of course. Just be quick.”
“Come on, Mum,” Chloe said, “I don’t want to leave anything here. Not even a sock.”
Two minutes later, Gabriel led them out of the nest of cabins, reloaded M16 in the ready position at hip height, finger covering the trigger. Outside, the late-afternoon sun was throwing long shadows across the yard and pushing the narrow gaps between the walls of cars into premature dusk. The yard was totally silent. He walked at a fast marching pace back to the car, rifle barrel moving constantly, left to right, right to left again. Nobody sprang out, blood spouting from a missing eye or cradling their guts in their hands. They had a clear run all the way to the car, which sat exactly where he had left it, with the key in the ignition.
Gabriel opened the tailgate, and Chloe and Sarah pushed their bags in. For a moment, Gabriel debated holding onto the M16, then he turned and hurled it back down the road. He walked to the nearside passenger door and pulled it open.
“Which one of you wants to ride shotgun?” he asked. Chloe answered him by climbing into the rear seat behind the driver.
When they were all seated and belted in, Gabriel pushed the engine start button and the engine growled into life.
“The main gates are locked,” Gabriel said. “I’m not going to stop. These cars are solid enough so I’m going to hit them hard and ram our way out. Hold on tight.”
He pulled the gear selector into Drive and put his foot down. A thousand yards away lay the access road and after that, a straight run to an extraction point he would set up with Don once they’d left Tartu behind them. There were no obstructions on the roadway leading to the complex of buildings where the Bryants had been held, and nothing beyond.
Grit and gravel spurted from under the massive rear tyres as the Mercedes struggled for grip on the loose surface, then the rubber bit down onto the tarmac beneath and the car surged forward. They passed the cabins doing forty, the right speed to smash through the gates without risking losing control.
Then, halfway between them and the gleaming steel gates in the distance, a figure stepped out into the roadway, carrying a Kalashnikov AK-47 assault rifle.
A figure with long, tangled dirty blonde hair, matted with blood.
Chapter 45
“It’s Elsbeta,” Sarah said, in a dull, defeated tone.
In the few seconds remaining to him Gabriel made his decision.
The Chechen had adopted a markswoman’s stance: turned side-on, leaning forward, rifle butt pulled into her shoulder.
Gabriel shouted “Duck!” and pushed down hard on the accelerator pedal. Chloe and Sarah twisted in their seat belts and threw themselves sideways.
He slumped in his seat and braced his arms to keep the steering at the dead-ahead as the Mercedes sensed the change in throttle pressure and leapt forwards, dropping from fourth to second gear in a couple of hundred milliseconds.
Then Elsbeta opened up with the Kalashnikov.
The muzzle flashed as the rounds exploded out towards Gabriel. The roar of the weapon was reduced to a muffled chatter by the expensive sound-deadening of the Mercedes. He flinched reflexively but kept his course.
The AK’s rounds should have smashed through the windscreen, shattering it into a million razor-edged fragments. They did not.
Instead, they punched fist-sized craters that blistered inwards in crazed stars. Loud metallic bangs echoed inside the car as rounds hit the bodywork at the front. But the engine kept roaring and the car kept moving.
Gabriel had only time for one
thought, which burst from his lips.
“It’s armoured.”
Then he hit the last Chechen, Elsbeta Daspireva, amidships.
The force of the impact threw her twenty feet into the air, up and over the roof of the Mercedes, the Kalashnikov taking a separate path away from her to clatter into a pile of broken up truck engines. In the rear-view mirror, Gabriel saw the body fall.
He swapped from throttle to brake and brought the Mercedes to a stop, the anti-lock brakes shuddering, before pushing the gear lever to Park.
“Wait here,” he said, as he climbed out.
He walked back to where the woman lay on her back, her left leg twisted under her, like a dropped marionette. She was alive; he could see her chest rising and falling as he got closer. Blood was leaking from her ears, nose and mouth. Keeping his SIG aimed at her chest, he stood above her, then crouched beside her head. That was when he noticed the acute triangle of bloodied steel plate protruding from her chest, just to the right of her sternum. She had landed on a piece of scrap left in the roadway.
Her eyes opened and for a moment he was struck by their startling sapphire-blue irises, made even brighter by the blood-filled corneas. In a voice roughened by pain, she whispered, “Come closer. My last wish.”
As Gabriel bent, turning his ear to her mouth, he caught a movement at her waist. Her left hand came up gripping a short-bladed knife. But her strength was gone and he simply caught her wrist and twisted the knife from her fingers. He stood back. No medics. No choppers. No chance of an ambulance. But hours more pain for this enemy fighter.
He levelled his SIG, aimed at her forehead, and fired twice.
Then he ran back to the car. This time there would be no more delays. He gunned the engine and tore off towards the gates.
“Hold tight!” he shouted, accelerating up to forty and passing a tower of cars.
He aimed for the centre-line of the gates, where the loop of chain dangled like a necklace. The armoured steel front end of the Mercedes burst the gates open with a bang and the protesting shriek of tearing metal. They were out.
