Reaching out, Drake laid a hand on Mitchell’s shoulder. “You did what you had to. If he followed you, that was his choice. And as for Hawkins… he’ll answer for what he did.”
Mitchell desperately wanted to believe him. She knew that a man like Hawkins would never stand trial before any judge or jury, would never answer to the kind of justice she’d spent her entire career trying to uphold. The only justice he would find was at the business end of a gun, and that was fine by her.
“Transport’s standing by at the extraction point,” Mason reported. “He says he can’t stay much longer without being spotted.”
Drake was about to reply when a noise from outside caused him to freeze. Mitchell heard it too. A high-pitched whine, accompanied by a dull, steady beating sound, distant but growing closer.
A chopper.
“We’ve got company,” Mason said, his tone quickly switching up a gear as his mind went into survival mode. Sprinting over to the building entrance, he leaned out from the doorway enough to survey the darkened landscape beyond. “One chopper inbound. Must have flown in through the valleys to the north.”
“How long?” Drake asked.
“Twenty seconds, tops.”
“Shit,” Drake said under his breath. “I thought they’d take longer to find us.”
“Ryan, we have to go!” Frost called out from the other side of the cavernous room. “We’re out of time here.”
Drake looked at Mitchell. “Can you move?”
“Yeah, I can move. But if they’ve got a chopper…”
“Don’t worry, we’ll hold them off until you’re clear,” he said, helping her to her feet. “Just do exactly what I say and you’ll get through this. All right?”
Mitchell felt utterly helpless. “Not like I’ll get a better offer tonight.”
She rose slowly, painfully, but trying not to show it. Whatever he’d said, she knew he cared a hell of a lot less about her than about his own team. If she slowed them down too much, he was sure to cut her loose.
“Where are we going?” she asked, looking around the deserted factory as Frost and Mason gathered up their weapons. In some part of her mind, she caught herself wondering where McKnight had disappeared to, but quickly dismissed it in favour of more urgent concerns.
“Trust me,” Drake said, helping her over to the far side of the room.
Chapter 8
“Ten seconds!” the pilot called out.
Nose flaring upward to slow their forward momentum, the chopper came in hard, settling on the rough open ground about fifty yards beyond the cement works with a thump that seemed to rattle through every inch of the airframe.
“Out! Go!” Wheeler ordered, yelling at the top of his voice to be heard over the din of the rotor blades. “Move it!”
The field team spilled out, their boots pounding the dusty ground as they fanned out in both directions, forming a skirmish line to advance on the cement works.
Wheeler was last out, sprinting clear of the chopper before taking cover behind a section of rusted pipe work. Even as he took cover, the chopper rose upward into the night sky, engines roaring with increased power. The downwash was almost enough to flatten him against the ground.
“Ghost One is on station and standing by,” the pilot confirmed over the radio as the aircraft began orbiting the area, its powerful infrared cameras on the lookout for thermal blooms that would indicate the presence of their enemies. In the absence of satellite coverage, the chopper was their only eye in the sky.
“Copy that, Ghost One,” he replied. “You got anything on infrared?”
“We’re scanning now. No sign of – Oh, shit! RPG!”
A sudden flash from the building directly ahead caught Wheeler’s attention, and he watched in horror as the little unguided rocket propelled grenade streaked skyward, heading straight for the chopper. Normally used to cripple tanks and armoured vehicles, an RPG in the right hands was more than capable of bringing down a low-flying aircraft.
His reaction had been fast, but the pilot’s was even faster. Jinking the stick hard over, he put the chopper into a violent roll to starboard. The rocket streaked harmlessly by, several metres to port, as he wrestled the aircraft back under control, gaining height and distance with every second.
“Ghost One, you okay?” Wheeler called out.
“We’re good. Shit, that was close.” For the first time, the pilot actually sounded rattled, and Wheeler couldn’t blame him. “Ghost One is falling back. We can’t risk another shot like that.”
He gritted his teeth, knowing it was the prudent thing to do, but none too pleased that he and his team had just been robbed of their advantage. “Understood, Ghost One.”
As the chopper faded off northward, Krasinski moved in close and grabbed him by the arm. “We’re on our own out here. What do we do?”
It took Wheeler all of two seconds to make his decision. “Stick to the plan. Backup’s on the way. We only have to keep Drake occupied until they get here.”
“But—”
“I said we stick to the plan. You got a problem with that?”
Krasinski stared at him for a moment or two before shaking his head.
“Good. Now get moving.”
* * *
“I’ve got them,” Mason whispered, crouched by the building’s entrance as he stared down the tritium night sight on his PP-19 Bizon submachine gun. “Five… no, make that six tangos. They’re splitting into two fire teams. Standard flanking approach.”
“Got them,” Drake replied. The AKS-74 assault rifle, a cut-down version of the larger AK-74 designed for use by Russian vehicle crews, was a heavy but reassuring weight against his shoulder as he sighted the first group advancing on his position. They were moving fast, making effective use of cover and keeping decent spacing to avoid bunching up.
He flicked the fire selector to full automatic and leaned into the weapon, preparing himself for the sizeable recoil. He wasn’t normally a big fan of Russian infantry weapons, finding them bulky and less accurate than their American counterparts, but the AKS was cheap and easy to get hold of in this part of the world, which had made it a winner by default for this operation. And what it lacked in subtlety, it made up for in noise and sheer firepower – two factors he was counting on tonight.
“Contact,” he said calmly as he pulled the trigger.
Forty yards away, Krasinski flattened himself against the ground as a burst of high velocity rounds slammed into the slab of concrete he was veering around. Chunks of broken rock and dust flew in all directions, accompanied by the distinctive whine as ricochets tore off skyward. The staccato boom of the heavy calibre weapon firing on full automatic split the night air like thunder.
“Contact front!” he called out in the brief interlude between firing. Already his ears were ringing. “Covering fire!”
Moments later, four or five automatic weapons opened fire around him, spraying the doorway and the walls around it with 9mm slugs. In the near total darkness, the world was lit only by the camera-flashes of muzzle flares, and the occasional shower of sparks as rounds struck metal.
“First team, move up!” he shouted.
Drake might have the advantage of cover, but they had superior numbers and firepower – and they would be the deciding factors tonight.
* * *
Not far away, Mitchell flinched at the unmistakable sounds of battle being joined behind them, her laboured steps slowing as she tried to turn around.
“Don’t look back,” Frost said firmly, pulling her onward. “Nothing we can do for them.”
Mitchell swallowed hard, trying to wipe the sweat from her eyes. Her lungs gulped greedily for air that wouldn’t seem to come, her heart beating fast and urgent. “But Drake—”
At this, Frost spun the injured woman around to face her. “Drake’s doing what he has to so we can get away. Our job’s to get to the extraction point, and that’s exactly what we’re going to do. Now move your ass!”
Mitchell
tried to match the young woman’s stride, but the energy seemed to have drained out of her body. She could feel her feet dragging, could hear the blood roaring in her ears, and suddenly her legs gave way and she stumbled forward, practically dragging Frost down with her.
Vaguely, through a fog of exhaustion and darkness, she was aware of a voice shouting and a hand tugging at her arm, but it was so hard to listen. And she was so tired. She wanted nothing more than to rest and let the darkness swallow her.
That was when she saw it. The memory of that moment on the rooftop in Istanbul. She saw Argento throw the cup of steaming coffee at one of their captors, heard the groan of pain as she turned to run, and at the last second saw the weapon raised at her friend.
People kept giving up their lives to save hers. Better people who deserved to live more than she did. And now she was lying on the ground wanting to give up.
Her eyes snapped open, and the dull roar of the blood in her ears seemed to recede enough for her to hear the voice now yelling at her.
“Get up, goddamn it!” Frost cried. “Get up or I leave you here!”
Reaching for some unknown reserve of strength, Mitchell fought her way to her feet, leaning heavily on the younger woman for support.
“I’m not… done yet,” she managed to gasp as they resumed their slow, desperate trudge away from the battle unfolding behind them.
* * *
“Changing mags!” Mason called out, ejecting the spent clip from his Bizon submachine gun and reaching for a fresh one from his harness.
The Russian weapon had an unusual cylindrical magazine mounted parallel with the underside of the barrel, which allowed it to carry a large amount of ammunition while keeping the gun small and compact. The downside was that it was completely counter-intuitive for a man who had spent his entire career using magazines that were inserted in a conventional port on the bottom of the weapon.
As he ducked behind cover to insert the new mag, rounds slammed into the concrete wall mere inches from him. Mason didn’t even flinch. He’d been in firefights like this more times than he could count.
“I’ve got you covered,” Drake replied, swinging his weapon to the right and putting a burst down on the muzzle flashes lighting the darkness beyond their building. The AKS-74 kicked back into his shoulder with bruising force, spent shell casings clattering off the wall beside him to land in a growing pile by his feet.
Both men knew the short but intense battle was coming to an end. Their enemies had the weight of numbers and firepower. Drake and Mason could do little more than delay their advance. He could only hope they’d bought Frost the time she needed to get Mitchell clear of the area.
The weapon’s firing mechanism clicked, its receiver bolt flying back to expose an empty breech.
“I’m out!” Drake warned, dropping the now useless weapon.
Outside, Krasinski reached into the pouch in his webbing and withdrew a small, olive green flashbang grenade. The bright light and concussive boom it produced was unlikely to prove fatal, but with luck it would disorient their enemies and buy time for the assault team to take them down.
“Flash out!” he called, yanking the pin and hurling the grenade into the building.
Even from this range, the thunderous report of the explosion was enough to reverberate inside his skull. He could only imagine the effect it had had on the men caught in its stun radius.
It served them right, he thought with satisfaction. Drake especially.
“Move in!” he yelled, rising from behind cover and advancing on the building. He could see other shapes in the darkness moving forward as well, converging on the building with their weapons up at their shoulders. Ready to put a dozen rounds in anything that moved. Mercifully, none of them appeared to be hurt.
Maybe Drake and his team weren’t all they were cracked up to be.
It was eerily silent as they advanced into the building, turning on their barrel-mounted flashlights to illuminate their surroundings. There were no panicked shouts, no groans of pain, nothing.
His flashlight beam swept the building’s cavernous interior. Nearby he saw the Volkswagen hatchback that Rogers had identified from the security footage, and over in another corner sat a collapsible camp bed, a work light and some scattered medical supplies.
“Clear!” he called out. “Anyone got any targets?”
“Nothing here,” one of his fellow operatives replied.
“All clear,” another added.
“Someone talk to me,” Krasinski demanded. “If they’re not here, where did they go?”
Scanning the dusty ground nearby, he caught sight of footprints amongst the spent shell casings. Footprints leading towards the far side of the room.
“Jenkins, Telford, on me,” he ordered, following the tracks. Two more beams quickly joined his own as he crossed the room, seemingly heading for a solid concrete wall. No way out through that.
Then suddenly his flashlight beam illuminated the metal inspection hatch mounted atop a rusting outlet pipe, and he began to see what Drake had planned. There was no way through, but there was a way down.
* * *
Drake and Mason, sweating and out of breath after their hard run, caught up with Frost and her injured charge a couple of hundred yards down the underground tunnel that sloped away from the cement plant at a shallow angle.
One thing a plant like this needed was water, and lots of it. Fortunately, its designers had situated it less than half a mile from the Gulf of Izmit, cutting underground aqueducts through the bedrock, able to pump all the water they could ever need. The plant had long since been shut down, but the aqueduct network remained more or less intact.
Tonight, the only thing travelling down it was a small group of human fugitives.
“You assholes took your time,” Frost remarked, her usual acerbic wit masking the deep relief she felt at being reunited with them.
“We like to keep people guessing,” Mason retorted as he took Mitchell’s other side, helping support the injured woman, and picking up the pace. “Makes it more dramatic.”
“How you holding up, Mitchell?” Drake asked, eyeing her with concern. Having discarded his empty assault rifle, he was armed only with a handgun.
The woman looked at him in exasperation. “You ever run out of tricks to play, Drake?”
He shrugged. “First rule of field ops. Always have an exit plan.”
“But for the record, the aqueduct was my idea,” Mason chimed in.
Drake ignored the man’s smug look. “Now it’s time to meet up with our transport. Speaking of which…”
He jogged a little ways further down the tunnel, where a ladder rose up to an inspection hatch much like the one they’d descended in the abandoned plant. Climbing the aged but still solid rungs, he fought with the old locking mechanism, then heaved the hatch open. Old hinges flaked and grated but gave way under brute force.
“Right, up we go, then,” he said, motioning for the others to follow.
One by one they ascended. Mitchell was close to collapse by the time she made it to the top and didn’t even pretend she could stand unaided.
“What… happens now?” she managed to ask.
“Now we get our arses to the boat and get the hell out of here,” Drake said, taking one arm and helping her to her feet. “It’s only fifty yards away. You’ll make it.”
Mitchell opened her mouth to respond, but was beaten to it by another voice.
“Not gonna happen, pal,” Wheeler said, emerging from behind the stand of brush he’d been hiding in. About five yards to his left, Santos also appeared from behind cover. Both carried MP5 submachine guns that were now trained on Drake and his team.
Frost tried to reach for her weapon, but Wheeler had the drop on her. “Don’t even think about it,” he warned, the red splash from his weapon’s laser sight painting her chest. “Put your guns down. Nobody needs to die here.”
“Ryan, what are we doing?” Mason asked, eyeing their two adversar
ies. Even an amateur could tell their position was untenable. At such close range, those two weapons spitting fire on full automatic would be more than enough to wipe them all out.
“Do what he says,” Drake said, watching Wheeler the whole time.
“But—” Frost began.
“I said do it,” Drake snapped. “They’ve got us covered.”
The team reluctantly relinquished their weapons, much to Wheeler’s elation. “I was right about you,” the field operative concluded. “You’re a smart man. Using the plant’s water intake system to escape down to the shore… Not many people would have thought of that.”
“You did,” Drake replied acidly.
“Christ, can’t you see what this is?” Mitchell railed at Wheeler, her frustration and anger boiling over at having their escape thwarted at the final hurdle. “You’re being used, you dumb bastard. The operation in Istanbul, your orders to take me in… the Agency’s trying to bury its mistakes. That’s all this is. Another fucking cover-up.”
Wheeler shook his head. “Not my problem. I’m just the messenger.”
Drake sighed and looked at Mitchell, as if to apologise for failing her, before looking to Wheeler once more. “So what happens now?”
“Now we take you in. The boys back at Langley debrief you, and I kick back with a beer and catch up on Breaking Bad.” Wheeler allowed himself a fleeting smile now that he’d finally prevailed against his adversary. “Remember what I said back at the hospital, Drake? I told you we’d find you sooner or later. We always do. Shame you didn’t listen to me.”
“You should have listened to me, too,” Drake replied.
“Let me guess. So I can live longer, right?” He shook his head, mystified that Drake was acting as if there was still a way out of this. “Still believe that?”
“Well, that depends,” another voice said from behind him. “How long do you want to live?”
Wheeler’s head snapped around, the barrel of his weapon following a fraction of a second later as he turned to meet this new and unexpected threat.
Second Chances Page 6
