by Ryan, Chris
Chris Ryan Extreme: Hard Target
Mission Three: Die Trying
Also by Chris Ryan
Chris Ryan Extreme: Hard Target
Mission One: Redeemer
Mission Two: The Rock
Mission Three: Die Trying
Mission Four: Fallout
Non-fiction
The One That Got Away
Chris Ryan’s SAS Fitness Book
Chris Ryan’s Ultimate Survival Guide
Fight to Win
Fiction
Stand By, Stand By
Zero Option
The Kremlin Device
Tenth Man Down
Hit List
The Watchman
Land of Fire
Greed
The Increment
Blackout
Ultimate Weapon
Strike Back
Firefight
Who Dares Wins
The Kill Zone
Chris Ryan Extreme: Hard Target
Mission Three: Die Trying
Chris Ryan
Copyright
First published in Great Britain in 2010 by Coronet
An imprint of Hodder & Stoughton
An Hachette UK company
1
Copyright © Chris Ryan 2010
The right of Chris Ryan to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library
ISBN: 9781444708554
Hodder & Stoughton policy is to use papers that are natural, renewable and recyclable products and made from wood grown in sustainable forests. The logging and manufacturing processes are expected to conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin.
Hodder & Stoughton Ltd
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Contents
Also by Chris Ryan
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
‘Death solves all problems. No man, no problem.’
Joseph Stalin
1
Europa Point, Gibraltar. 0800 hours.
Massimo Macca rubbed a hand over his jaw. He had a thin veil of stubble that ran black at the chin, flour-grey higher up the sides. His eyes scanned the foot of the cliff face. He was grizzled and fat and Joe Gardner doubted the guy had ever seen the inside of a gym, but he was sure he’d been in his fair share of scraps.
‘This is Signor Bald’s friend?’
‘He’s no friend of mine,’ snapped Gardner.
Macca suppressed a laugh. ‘Then maybe you are Bald’s consigliere?’ His voice was gruff. ‘You worked together, no?’
‘Not any more we don’t. Look, I don’t know who the hell you are, but I’m warning you.’
‘The signore is a man of violence. That’s good. Nowadays people are so sensitive. They don’t understand that some people are created bad, and bad people have to be crushed.’ He crumbled an imaginary rock in his fist.
‘If you say so.’
‘And which side are you on? Good, or bad?’
‘Massimo, please,’ Leo Land said. He rested a manicured hand on Macca’s shoulder. ‘Joe’s on our side. Lately he’s been of great help to our investigation. Indeed, if it wasn’t for Joe, Bald would be dead by now, along with any hopes we have of bringing some of these bastards to book.’
Macca yawned. He had nostrils so wide he could hide a tank up there.
‘Forgive me, signor. I am afraid trust does not come very easily to a man in my position.’
‘I’d say that depends,’ said Gardner.
‘On what?’
‘Whether your job title is Chief Dickhead.’
Macca shot Gardner a sour look. ‘The men I put behind bars would kill you for less.’
‘Massimo is a prosecutor for the region of Calabria in southern Italy,’ Land said. ‘He’s been chasing the mafia down in those parts for some twenty-five years. A tiring job, I imagine.’ Land frowned at the sun. ‘We should talk somewhere more private.’
Macca nodded. They gave Africa their backs and left Harding’s Observation Post. Gardner noticed that a navy-blue Mercedes CLK Coupé was parked up on the verge of Europa Road. Land offered to drive. Gardner sat in the back, Macca in the front passenger seat.
The car had a milky smell to it, which is to say it smelled exactly how Gardner imagined a car driven by Leo Land would. The dashboard was varnished walnut, the windows at least sixty per cent tinted.
Land fired up the Mercedes and reversed north out of Europa Road, tracing a route west then north on the same stretch of asphalt.
‘The old mafia – the Cosa Nostra – is history these days,’ said Macca. ‘Today the real danger comes from a new source. The ’Ndrangheta. “The Honoured Society”.’
‘Imagine an organization more powerful and secretive than anything in the history of the mafia,’ Land added.
‘The original ’Ndrangheta,’ Macca resumed, ‘was formed a hundred years ago by Calabrian peasants to protect themselves against the landed gentry. For many years they practised extortion and bribery. Then the leaders made a deal with the Colombians. Tonnes of cocaine poured into the docks at Gioia Tauro. Now they have soldiers across the world: Europe, America, Australia. Each picciotto d’onore – or foot soldier – is sworn to a blood oath. They control the cocaine. The heroin. Arms trading. Human trafficking. The construction business. It’s endless.’
Macca shook his head, then went on: ‘I lost my wife to the cancer two years ago. The tumours, they consumed her body. Until there was nothing left of her to give, you understand? This is what the ’Ndrangheta are. A tumour that does not stop.’
They rolled back up past the dockyard.
‘I still don’t see what this has to do with me.’
‘Your friend, Signor Bald—’
‘He’s not my friend.’
‘He will strike a deal with the ’Ndrangheta for his cocaine—’
‘Bully for him.’
‘And you are going to witness it.’
‘Yeah? And at what point did you became my fucking boss?’
Gardner then directed his rage at Land. ‘We had a deal, and I’ve more than fulfilled my end of the bargain.’
The MI6 man’s face crinkled in the rear-view mirror like a wet rag. ‘You brought this on yourself, Joe. The incident at the King’s Hotel, the business with Killen – because of you things got a tad too noisy. As a result Bald fears for his life, and he’s changing plans.’
Land nudged
the Mercedes up Winston Churchill Avenue and into the parking lot next to the Victoria Stadium. The lot was empty.
‘Our original aim had been to simply detain Bald once he docked in Gioia Tauro in western Calabria – Massimo’s back yard. Now it appears Bald isn’t happy about meeting the Italians on their own soil. We’ve picked up communications which indicate that Bald is rearranging the venue for neutral turf.’
‘Communications? I thought all your systems were down?’
‘The land-based ones, yes. But we’ve had a Navy submarine tapping into the optic fibres running along the seabed. You know, the ones that carry all that internet and landline chitter-chatter back and forth. It’s more common than the public and media would have you believe. Our SIGINT chaps listened in to a conversation between Bald and a fellow he refers to as the Pallbearer. We believe this is code for Gianni Petruzzi. His nickname is known only to his immediate family – or so he thinks.’
‘This Petruzzi bloke – he’s ’Ndrangheta?’
‘A capo crimini,’ Macca said, passing Gardner a black-and-white snap of the man himself. Whatever ideas he had about the style of a mafia head honcho, the photograph quickly dispelled. Here was a bloated, flabby man, loose jowls and drooping eyelids. The only young thing about him was the twentysomething bimbo hanging from his arm.
‘He is the chief of a local clan. He and his brothers once carried a coffin through the streets of San Luca. A coffin filled with cocaine. That’s where his name comes from. Now it has an additional layer of meaning: when people owe him money, Petruzzi buries them alive.’
‘Bald said that he felt someone was watching him,’ said Land.
‘So where is he now?’
‘Currently making his way along the Alboran Sea heading east. He’s en route to Algeria. The ’Ndrangheta have contacts there, established through the human trafficking network. We believe a private jet awaits Bald in Algiers.’
Gardner nodded, soaking up the int. ‘And the jet’s taking him where?’
‘Belgrade,’ Land said, patting himself down for his cigarettes.
‘Serbia has strong links to the ’Ndrangheta,’ Macca put in.
‘So go to the fucking Serbs for help,’ Gardner said.
Macca shook his head. ‘You cannot ask rats to hunt other rats.’
‘Then ask Interpol. Or the fucking A-Team, I don’t care.’
‘We need someone who knows Bald, who can track him. Face it, Joe. You’re the man for the job.’
Gardner weighed it up. As much as he felt like taking a hot shower every time he spoke to Land, he had unfinished business with John. Gardner was the kind of guy who liked to see things through. He’d never been one for quitting halfway into a job.
‘My government,’ said Macca, ‘wishes to recognize your, how do you say, courage in waging war against the scum of the ’Ndrangheta. Anyone who helps to kill this cancer is a good friend of Italia.’
Land found his smokes, rolled down his window. He sucked on the unlit tab in the left corner of his mouth and spoke with his right. ‘What Massimo is saying is that you’ll be amply rewarded for the mission.’
‘Half a million euros,’ Macca said.
‘Fuck you.’
‘Don’t be a bloody fool,’ Land said. ‘With that money you can buy all the women and lagers you want. Or spend it on whatever else you Regiment people do in your free time. Take the money, Joe.’
‘If I do this one last mission for you, I want my old job back – fucking end of.’
‘Stubborn as well as a fool, eh?’ Land lit his cigarette. The smoke tickled Gardner’s nostrils and settled like fog in his empty stomach. He suddenly felt painfully hungry.
Land unlocked the Merc’s doors.
‘Massimo, my dear chap. It is time for us to part.’
Macca climbed out of the car with difficulty, without another word. Back problems, old face, despairing eyes: that old bastard time hadn’t been kind to him. A Porsche pulled into the parking lot and drew up alongside the stooping Italian.
‘Fun guy,’ Gardner said as the Porsche gobbled Macca up.
‘He’s quite a nut in his own way. Legend has it he killed more than two hundred mafiosi.’ Land frowned. ‘Now, a quick word. My chiefs are very upset at the damage Bald has caused so far.’
‘Scared of any mud sticking?’
‘Not at all. But they feel it would be better if perhaps he wasn’t given any public exposure.’ Land spoke slowly, emphasizing each word like a primary school teacher. ‘If he were arrested, that might bring some unwanted coverage in the news. Not the kind of thing HMG needs at this point in time.’
‘You want him dead?’
‘Only if he actually makes the exchange. If he pulls out, even if it’s the last minute, then we’ll have to think of something else. But if Bald hands them the coke, and gets his prize in exchange, he’ll have gone too far, and you have permission to engage.’
‘To kill, you mean?’
‘Do you have a problem with that?’
Gardner thought about it. Revenge had been on his mind ever since Bald had double-crossed him in Rio. Sure as shit he wouldn’t hesitate to fill Gardner with lead if the chance presented.
‘None at all.’
‘Good man. I want you – the Firm wants you – to do whatever it takes.’
Land removed a cream envelope from the breast pocket of his shirt. Gardner wondered how an agent who spent his life living out of suitcases managed to keep his shirts and jackets so neatly ironed. Like the guy was a fucking walking steam press.
The envelope was unsealed. A flick of the thumb and forefinger and it popped open. Inside: ticket to Belgrade, one way; new passport, name of Gary Dutch; American Express, black, same name; pay-as-you-go mobile. He could be getting ready for his stag weekend.
‘You do right by us on this one, Joseph, and I can personally assure you that it will be worth your while.’
‘Let’s just get it over with.’
Land flicked his lights. The police car moved on and two minutes later the Mercedes exited the stadium lot. As it dropped Gardner at the airport, the same bobby in a fancy uniform was mincing about outside.
Gardner climbed out of the car.
‘When you get to Belgrade, call me. There’s a local contact who’ll sort you out,’ said Land, then fucked off.
Gardner was left standing there, wondering if he hadn’t just made the worst decision of his life.
2
Yakutsk, Russia. 1917 hours.
You can always spot a first-timer, thought Aleksandr Nikolai Sotov as he surveyed the private military airfield at Sobransk, some twenty kilometres south of Yakutsk, in north-east Siberia. However tough a man’s constitution, however thick his skin or thin his blood, nothing could prepare him for the cold.
Sotov recognized straight away the man climbing down the steps from the plane. The bug eyes, the bent nose. The swollen cheeks. As if his head had been compressed in a vice.
The man looked lost. The old saying of the English came to mind: like a rabbit caught in the headlights. Only you didn’t get rabbits in Siberia. Not in conditions up to minus fifty.
Sotov exited the black Lexus and approached the runway. The cold pierced his skin like salt in an open wound.
‘Maxim, Maxim, my good friend! So glad you could make it.’
‘What a miserable journey,’ replied Maxim Ledinsky, the chief of the Military Counterintelligence Directorate of the Federal Security Service of the Russian Federation (FSB). ‘The plane was held up for two hours at Moscow. Then we had the worst turbulence I’ve ever experienced. In the old days we would report back and have the pilot killed,’ he said, slitting his throat and winking in a manner which suggested to Sotov that he was only half-joking.
‘You are here now.’
‘And prepared!’ waving to his clothes. Padded jeans, Gore-Tex boots, woolly scarf, hat, gloves and winter coat. Concealing underneath, Sotov was certain, several layers of thermal garments.
&n
bsp; ‘That’s very good, Maxim. But please, take off your glasses.’
Ledinsky blinked his confusion.
‘In this weather the metal will stick to your skin and when you remove them you’ll tear off chunks of flesh.’
‘Yes, yes, of course,’ Ledinsky said, fumbling at the frames with his heavily gloved hands.
‘And the package?’
‘In the back of her,’ said Ledinsky, thumbing the Hercules.
‘Show me,’ Sotov said.
Ledinsky grumbled as he escorted Sotov around to the rear of the aircraft. The turbines whirled out streams of air so fast and so cold that to look directly ahead was like being jabbed in the eyes with cocktail sticks.
The ramp lowered. Sotov moved forward. The Herc’s cargo area was a tangle of cables and ropes. Crates were stacked to the rear. Emergency lights flashed.
‘Where is it?’
‘There,’ Ledinsky signalled to a wooden crate marked with the Red Cross symbol. The crate was a metre wide and about the same high.
‘Open it,’ Sotov said.
‘I can’t feel my fingers,’ Ledinsky protested.
‘Maxim, I need to see it.’
Ledinsky hollered at the crew. Two men in overalls scaled the ramp and used the stocks of their AK-47s to prise open the lid. It took them three tries before the crate began to split open.
‘Quickly, my nose hurts,’ Ledinsky urged them.
‘Be patient,’ he was told.
Sotov peered into the crate. It doesn’t look like much, he thought. No. It really seems like hardly anything at all. A lot of fuss for something so – he reached for the right word –ordinary. Yes, that was it.
‘You sure this is everything, Maxim?’
‘Yes, yes.’
‘OK, I’m satisfied. Now we can leave.’
Sotov marched towards the Lexus, full of renewed vigour. Only Ledinsky’s constant bitching threatened to bring him down from his high. ‘Shit, this weather. They warned me in Moscow, but I didn’t think it would be this bad. I mean… I don’t know how you people survive.’
