by Chris Ryan
CONTENTS
Cover
About the Book
Title Page
Briefing Document
1. Stupid Old Man
2. Incarceration Unit 3B
3. Palm Print
4. Meeting Point 3
5. Sniper
6. Greasy Spoon
7. Decoy
8. The Cradle Will Rock
9. Alas
10. Brainiac
11. Video Nasty
12. Anchorage Away
13. Ordinary Kids
14. Fire-starter
15. Frozen
16. Grizzly
17. Tasha
18. The Shack
19. The Plan
20. Snow
21. Moriarty
22. Takeoff
23. Impact
24. Between Yesterday and Tomorrow
25. Plan B
26. The Right Side of the Track
27. 1H
28. Attack
29. Everybody Dies
About the Author
Also by Chris Ryan
Praise
Copyright
About the Book
‘Don’t come after us . . . remember the first thing I ever taught you – that your first duty is to stay alive.’
Zak Darke has been operating solo, in total secrecy, for a shadowy government organization.
When his handlers are abducted by somebody with a serious personal vendetta against him, Zak has no choice but to go after them. And heading across the world to find them – into danger like he’s never known before – is something that he cannot do alone . . .
* * *
AGENT 21: BRIEFING DOCUMENT
* * *
AGENT 21
Real name: Zak Darke
Known pseudonyms: Harry Gold, Jason Cole
Age: 15
Date of birth: March 27
Parents: Al and Janet Darke [DECEASED]
Operational skills: Weapons handling, navigation, excellent facility with languages, excellent computer and technical skills.
AGENT 22
Real name: Ricky Mahoney
Age: 14
Date of birth: August 8
Parents: Fred and Elaine Mahoney [DECEASED]
Operational skills: Pickpocketing, covert entry, weapons handling, self-defence.
AGENT 17
Real name: classified
Known pseudonyms: ‘Gabriella’, ‘Gabs’
Age: 27
Operational skills: Advanced combat and self-defence, surveillance, tracking.
Currently charged with ongoing training of Agent 21 on remote Scottish island of St Peter’s Crag.
AGENT 16
Real name: classified
Known pseudonyms: ‘Raphael’, ‘Raf’
Age: 30
Operational skills: Advanced combat and self-defence, sub-aqua, land-vehicle control.
Currently charged with ongoing training of Agent 21 on remote Scottish island of St Peter’s Crag.
‘MICHAEL’
Real name: classified
Known pseudonyms: ‘Mr Bartholomew’
Age: classified
Recruited Agent 21 after death of his parents. Currently his handler. Has links with MI5, but represents a classified government agency.
‘FELIX’
Real name: classified
Age: classified
Recruited Agent 22 after identifying his potential during a chance encounter. Currently his handler. Represents the same classified government agency as ‘Michael’.
CRUZ MARTINEZ
Age: 17
Significant information: Succeeded Cesar Martinez as head of largest Mexican drug cartel. Ruthless, possibly psychopathic. Thought to blame Agent 21 for death of father. Highly intelligent.
MALCOLM MANN
Age: 14
Significant information: Borderline autistic computer hacker. Known to have cracked the security of a number of intelligence agencies. Has provided help to Agent 21 in the past.
1
STUPID OLD MAN
It’s always dark at night. But some places are darker than others. St Peter’s Crag was one of those places.
It was 2 a.m. on 3 January. Christmas was long forgotten, as were any New Year celebrations. Not that many celebrations ever occurred here. A strong wind howled as it circled this bleak rocky outcrop in the North Sea. Waves crashed against the sharp rocks that surrounded the island. Even in fine weather, it was very difficult to approach by sea. Tonight it would be impossible.
A solitary figure in a black oilskin coat struggled across the barren terrain towards the building that sat alone in the middle of St Peter’s Crag. His name was Stan. Stan had learned long ago that, on nights like this, it was better to stay in the warm protection of his small stone house on the north of the island. But on this particular night, he had work to do, so he was braving the storm.
Stan thought of himself as a caretaker. As a young man he had been a soldier, and this job suited someone who was used to taking orders and not asking questions. He looked after the strange inhabitants of this island. There were three of them, most of the time. A man and a woman in their late-twenties, who called themselves Raf and Gabs, though Stan strongly suspected these were not their real names. And a teenager called Zak. Occasionally a fourth man, who called himself Michael, would arrive. The others looked up to him – he was obviously their boss. From time to time, a helicopter would arrive to ferry everyone except Stan from the island. Sometimes they were gone for weeks. Whenever they returned they were tired and grimy, and in need of the food and other supplies with which Stan kept the house well stocked.
Stan wasn’t stupid. He knew that Raf, Gabs and Zak had jobs that could only be described as ‘secret’ – although what a kid like Zak could offer this secret world, Stan had no idea. He also understood that he would never know the whole story.
At first he hadn’t minded being kept in the dark. His job was simply to look after the place. But as time passed he had grown resentful. He didn’t like the way conversations suddenly stopped when he entered the room. He didn’t like the way he was expected to stay, by himself, in his lonely quarters while the others had the thing that was in shortest supply on this desolate island: company. He didn’t like how, whenever his fellow islanders saw him, they said to each other: ‘It’s only Stan.’
So when, during one of his infrequent trips to the mainland, someone had approached Stan and offered him a life-changing amount of money to perform them a certain service, they’d got lucky. Stan wanted to retire, and his paltry pension wouldn’t cover much. Even worse, in his solitude he’d developed a habit for online poker. An expensive habit. He now owed more than he could ever repay.
I heard you had some money troubles, Stan, the man had said. You think your employers will help you with that? You think they care about your problems? But we can, Stan. We can make those troubles go away just like that . . . The man had clicked his fingers. You just need to do us a little favour . . .
‘This blimmin’ wind,’ Stan muttered to himself as he struggled against the elements. It felt like the gale was pushing him back from the house. He slipped and fell, jarring his knee badly and making him drop the briefcase he was holding. He cursed, then pushed himself to his feet again and continued towards the house.
The big main door was firmly locked. To its side there was an electronic keypad. Stan faced it and typed in a number. A beam of red light shot from the keypad and scanned his retina. Stan’s eyeball allowed him to gain access to this secret place.
It has to be you, you see, Stan? You’re the only person who can get around that island without raising suspicion.
The main door clicked open. Stan
stepped inside.
Water dripped from his oilskin onto the chequerboard floor of the dark hallway as he closed the door behind him. The howling of the wind immediately stopped. This was a solid old house. He removed his wet coat, let it fall to the floor, then put the briefcase down and opened it up. It contained two hypodermic syringes in plastic casings, and a torch. Stan took the syringes and headed through the pitch black towards the big old staircase leading up from the hallway.
Thirty seconds later he was walking along a first-floor corridor. At the very end of the corridor was the room young Zak used. But Zak wasn’t here tonight. He was off doing something ‘secret’, whisked off just after noon that very day by helicopter.
It will be when the kid isn’t there, the man had said. That’s very important, Stan. Do you understand? Soon as we see him leave, it needs to happen.
Of the three of them, he liked Zak best. Stan was glad he wasn’t on the island tonight.
He continued along the corridor and stopped outside the third door on the left. He touched his thumb to the white doorknob. It recognized his fingerprint and clicked quietly open.
Stan knew better than to step inside immediately. This was Raf’s bedroom, and Raf would be aware of an intruder immediately. Sure enough, as the door swung open, he made out the silhouette of a broad-shouldered figure approaching him.
‘’S only me,’ said Stan.
The figure stopped two metres from the doorway. Stan could see that he was wearing pyjama bottoms, but was bare-chested.
‘Blimey, mate,’ said Raf. ‘What are you doing here in the middle of the night?’
‘Intruders on the island, sir. Thought you ought to know.’
Stan could just make out Raf’s blond hair and chiselled face. Raf frowned. ‘I didn’t hear any aircraft,’ he said as he strode through the doorway. Stan stepped aside to let him past. Then, as soon as Raf had his back to him, he lifted one of the syringes and stabbed it firmly into the muscular flesh of Raf’s shoulder blades just as he’d been instructed.
Time slowed down. Stan’s stomach sank as he saw Raf spin round, his face suddenly creased with anger.
The injection hadn’t worked.
But a fraction of a second later, the broad-shouldered man’s eyes rolled into the top of his head and he collapsed.
Stan was breathing deeply, and sweating. He knew he didn’t have time to regain his breath. He walked to the next door on the right. Once again, he pressed his thumbprint onto the white doorknob. Once again, it clicked open.
‘’S only Stan,’ he said.
There was even less time now. Clearly alerted by the noise in the corridor, Gabs was already in the doorway. She wore a tight vest top and pyjama bottoms, and her blonde, shoulder-length hair was messy. But she moved like lightning, straight past Stan, whom she barely acknowledged.
Stan raised his second syringe and stabbed it into her shoulder. The muscles here were not as big as Raf’s, but they were at least as tough. For a horrific moment, Stan thought the needle hadn’t entered her body. She spun round and raised one hand, palm out, fingers together. She struck him hard in the neck. Stan’s knees went immediately. Gasping for breath, and losing his grip on the syringe, he sank to the floor.
But so did Gabs. With the syringe still sticking out of her shoulder, she collapsed unconscious, just as Raf had done.
Silence.
Stan rubbed his neck as he got to his feet. He shuffled on the spot for a moment, then suddenly kicked Gabs as hard as he could. Her prone body didn’t move.
Muttering to himself, Stan stumbled back along the corridor, down the stairs and into the hallway, where his oilskin and briefcase were still lying on the floor by the door. He pulled the wet coat on again, then retrieved the torch from the case and opened the door.
Make sure they’re both unconscious before you make the sign. That’s very important, Stan. Can you remember that?
The howling of the wind hit his ears again as he stepped outside. It had grown stronger, and the clouds up above were scudding quickly across the sky. Standing on the threshold of the house, he raised the torch. Using the pulse button, he shot three short beams towards the heavens. There was no visible light – this was an infra-red torch – and although Stan wasn’t expecting any, he still found himself examining it carefully before repeating the sign. He hoped the torch was working, because if Raf and Gabs woke up before reinforcements came, he’d really be in trouble . . . Stan had seen them training, and he knew how fit and strong they were.
A silent sheet of lightning filled the sky. A few seconds later there was a boom of thunder from many miles off. Then a helicopter emerged suddenly from the boiling clouds.
It was clearly having difficulty in the high winds. Stan had seen many helicopters land on St Peter’s Crag. In general, they avoided weather like this, and with good reason. Stan had never seen a helicopter shake and spin so violently as it struggled to land on the open ground in front of the house. He felt his mouth go dry.
You’ll come with us in the helicopter when we leave, the man had said. We’ll give you your money then, and help you disappear . . .
Stan didn’t want to get into the chopper in these high winds, but he knew that staying on the island was no longer an option. He wrapped his oilskin more tightly around him as he watched the chopper touch down and two men emerge. He squinted to see what they looked like. They were wearing black clothes and balaclavas. Ugly-looking guns hung across their chests from slings. With their heads bowed against the downdraught of the helicopter, they sprinted towards the house.
It only took them a few seconds to reach Stan. They said nothing, but one of the masked men put his head to one side, as though asking a question.
‘F-first floor,’ Stan said nervously. ‘’S all done, just like he said.’ He pointed toward the helicopter. ‘Should I . . .?’
‘Stay there, old man,’ said one of the figures. He seemed a lot less friendly than the guy Stan had made the deal with. He had a foreign accent. Spanish, maybe. Or Mexican.
Stan nodded. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Right you are.’
But the men had already slipped into the house, leaving Stan out in the wind, still clutching the infra-red torch. He shuffled on the spot again for a couple of minutes. The men returned. Each of them had a body over his shoulder – Raf and Gabs. They looked very limp. If Stan hadn’t known they were unconscious, he might have thought they were . . .
‘Wait there,’ said one of the masked men.
‘Right,’ Stan muttered. ‘Righto . . .’
The figures hurried with their cargo towards the helicopter. Through the darkness, Stan could just make out some more figures dragging Raf and Gabs into the chopper. He found he was holding his breath. He looked over his shoulder, then back to the chopper. A horrible thought crossed his mind – maybe they weren’t intending to come back for him. Maybe they were just going to fly off and leave him here . . .
But no. With relief, he saw the two figures running back up towards him from the chopper. When they were about ten metres away, they slowed down.
‘Shall I come, then?’ Stan asked. ‘Shall I come along to the heli— W-what – what are you doing?’
Stan’s stomach had turned to ice. One of the two men had lifted his gun and was pointing it directly at him. The other pulled off his balaclava. He was a thin young man – too young, Stan thought, to be carrying a gun – with cold, cruel eyes. He was standing five metres from Stan’s position.
‘Who . . . who are you?’ Stan stammered.
The young man inclined his head. ‘My name is Cruz Martinez.’ His tone of voice indicated that he thought Stan should recognize the name. But Stan didn’t, and it obviously showed in his face. ‘I’m a little disappointed that your precious Agent 21 hasn’t mentioned me.’
Stan blinked heavily. ‘Put them guns down,’ he said.
They didn’t.
Stan staggered backwards. His limbs were heavy with fear.
‘’S only me,�
� he said. ‘’S only Stan.’ He was terrified by the fierce, keen look in the young man’s eyes.
‘You,’ Cruz Martinez said, lowering his gun so that it was pointing at Stan’s knees, and speaking as insultingly as possible, ‘are a stupid . . .’
He fired as he said the word. A single shot that echoed through the air and slammed straight into Stan’s right knee. A shriek of pain shot through him as he collapsed. Blood oozed down his shin.
‘Old . . .’ Cruz said, and he fired a second round into Stan’s left knee.
The pain was beyond imagining. Stan tried to shout out, but the sudden violence had robbed him of his voice.
Cruz Martinez stood above him. Now he was pointing the gun at Stan’s head, the wind blowing his hair wildly, and his cold eyes were brighter than ever.
‘Man,’ he said.
If anyone had been watching from a distance of more than fifty metres, they wouldn’t have heard the bark of Cruz Martinez’s firearm above the howling of the wind. They would simply have seen a muzzle flash as the third round slammed into Stan’s head. And Cruz heartlessly kicking the old man’s body.
They would not have heard him turn to his companion and say, in Spanish: ‘Phase one complete.’ Nor would they have heard the response: ‘Phase two is underway, Señor Martinez.’
They would have seen the two figures turning their back on Stan’s lifeless corpse and running back to the helicopter. And the aircraft lifting shakily into the sky before disappearing quickly behind the thick bank of clouds.
And if they had waited for a few hours, until the wind dropped and the sun rose, they would have seen a single black bird landing on the corpse, and pecking at its wounded flesh, since there was nobody around to shoo it away.
2
INCARCERATION UNIT 3B
Wormwood Scrubs. Strangeways. Parkhurst. They give weird names to ordinary prisons. But special prisons – the prisons nobody really knows about – have very ordinary names.
