Hunter Killer

by Chris Ryan

  Also by Chris Ryan

  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

  Killing for the Company

  Osama

  Masters of War

  Chris Ryan Extreme

  Hard Target

  Night Strike

  Most Wanted

  In the Alpha Force Series

  Survival

  Rat-Catcher

  Desert Pursuit

  Hostage

  Red Centre

  Hunted

  Black Gold

  Blood Money

  Fault Line

  Untouchable

  In the Red Code Series

  Flash Flood

  Wildfire

  Outbreak

  Vortex

  Twister

  Hunter Killer

  Chris Ryan

  www.hodder.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain in 2014 Coronet

  An imprint of Hodder & Stoughton

  An Hachette UK company

  Copyright © Chris Ryan 2014

  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 9781444753615

  Hodder & Stoughton Ltd

  338 Euston Road

  London NW1 3BH

  www.hodder.co.uk

  ‘If you have to kill a snake, kill it once and for all.’

  –– Japanese proverb

  Contents

  Prologue

  Part One

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Part Two

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Part Three

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Part Four

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Epilogue

  Chris Ryan

  Prologue

  They drove a Mercedes.

  Nothing flash: a 30-year-old W123 that had once served as a minicab and which still had marks on the roof where the sign had been. Nobody was likely to stop and search an old Merc, carefully driven through the pouring rain.

  The driver’s name was Jamal. He wore plain brown trousers and a neatly pressed checked shirt, open at the collar. He was cleanshaven, and his hair had been cut just two days ago. He had a pair of Ray-Bans aviator shades hooked over the top of his shirt. He kept glancing at himself in the rear-view mirror, as though he was still a curiosity to himself. There were beads of sweat on his forehead. They had the heating on full.

  ‘Sarim,’ Jamal said finally. ‘Stop doing that. You making me nervous, innit?’

  Sarim looked down. There was a paper wallet on his lap with the words ‘National Rail’ printed on the front. He had been slapping it against his left palm. Now he stopped. ‘Turn left up here,’ he said.

  ‘I know, I know. Been here enough times before.’ Jamal indicated left and checked his rear-view mirror, then swung the Mercedes into a street lined with terraced houses. The street sign said Heath Road. And, in smaller letters, London Borough of Sutton.

  Heath Road was a dump. At least a quarter of the houses looked like they’d been condemned. Steel sheets boarded up their windows and doors in an attempt to deter squatters. But the squatters had moved in anyway. The signs were there – a door slightly ajar, smoke emerging from the occasional chimney.

  The house they stopped outside, however, was not condemned or boarded up. Just messy. The bins were overflowing and the small, scrubby front garden hadn’t been tended for months.

  Jamal killed the engine and turned to Sarim. Rain hammered against the car, so heavy that they couldn’t see out. ‘You go get him,’ he said. ‘He likes you best. Make sure he’s packed his bag, yeah?’

  ‘What am I?’ Sarim said as he opened the passenger door. ‘Stupid?’

  He didn’t wait for the answer. As he stepped out of the car, he caught sight of himself in the side mirror. He wore an Abercrombie and Fitch hooded top – now he pulled it up to protect his head from the driving rain – and there were two nicks on his chin where he had cut himself shaving. He wasn’t used to shaving. He stepped out into the road, ran to the pavement and up to the front door. He knew the bell didn’t work, so he knocked.

  The door opened almost immediately.

  The face of the young man who appeared in the doorway was like sunshine. It glowed with an excitement that was apparent even though he had the characteristic features of Down’s syndrome. Or maybe, Sarim thought to himself, it was because he had Down’s syndrome that he looked so excited. A child’s excitement, on the face of a man.

  Sarim grinned. ‘Alfie!’ he said. ‘Mate!’

  Alfie grinned back. A strand of greasy black hair fell across his face, which was podgy through lack of exercise. He blew it upwards, then giggled.

  ‘You going to invite me in, buddy?’ Sarim asked. ‘I’m getting wet here!’

  Alfie’s grin grew broader as he stepped to one side. ‘Come on in,’ he said, his voice sounding slightly clumsy, as it always did.

  Sarim squeezed past. He knew to expect the musty smell of unwashed clothes and neglected rubbish bins, and managed to stop his distaste registering on his face. He walked down the dark hallway and into the bedsit beyond. To his left-hand side, a small kitchenette. To his right, a bedroom area with an unmade double bed, a two-seater Ikea sofa and a TV in one corner. A suitcase was open on the bed, but it was empty. Piles of half-folded clothes littered the room.

  ‘Packing,’ Alfie said as he walked over to the bed. He bent down awkwardly, picked up a pile of clothes seemingly at random, and crammed them into the suitcase.

  Sarim wandered over to the kitchen area. The floor tiles were stained with drops of tea, and one of the units was open, revealing the waste bin. Sarim glanced inside. It was brimful of empty crisp wrappers. Blue. Walkers cheese and onion. Sarim had the impression that Alfie seldom ate anything else.

  ‘We need to hurry, mate,’ he said. ‘Train won’t wait for us, y
ou know.’

  He looked over at Alfie. He had bent down again but this time, instead of picking up a pile of clothes, he retrieved a rolled-up poster from the floor and started cramming it into the suitcase.

  ‘What’s that, mate?’ Sarim asked lightly.

  Alfie looked up at him and gave Sarim one of his innocent, trusting grins. He unrolled the poster to reveal a picture of Miley Cyrus, not wearing much at all and with her hair draped coquettishly round her neck. ‘I’m going to marry her,’ Alfie said, quite sincerely.

  Sarim nodded. ‘Course you are, mate. Come on. I’ll help you finish packing. We’re going to be late.’

  Two minutes later, the suitcase was full, the poster of Miley Cyrus neatly smoothed out on the top. Sarim did up the zips and lifted it off the bed.

  ‘Wait!’ Alfie said.

  Sarim took a deep, calm breath.

  ‘I need my cagoul.’

  ‘Go get it then, mate.’

  A minute later, Alfie had put on his navy blue waterproof and tied the hood tightly around his face. He and Alfie left the flat. It took the young man a full minute to lock the door, while Sarim stood patiently in the rain. Alfie turned to face the road, then stopped.

  ‘Wait!’ he said. A terrible frown creasing his forehead. He was a young man who couldn’t help every emotion showing on his face. ‘I can’t go!’ he shouted over the rain.

  Sarim closed his eyes. ‘Why not, Alfie?’ he asked, his voice quiet but steady.

  ‘My social worker’s coming to see me on Monday.’

  ‘You’ll be back home by Monday, mate. We talked about it, remember? We agreed you weren’t going to tell him anything about this, so he wouldn’t stop you coming. You’ll see him on Monday and it’ll all be fine.’

  ‘Oh. Okay.’ Alfie shrugged and the frown fell away. He followed Sarim to the Mercedes. Sarim opened the boot. There were two smaller suitcases in here, both identical, each with a small padlock holding the zippers together. Alfie clumsily started to lift his own suitcase into the boot, but Sarim stopped him. ‘I’ll do that, mate. No problems.’ He was rewarded with another trusting smile from Alfie. Sarim carefully lifted the larger suitcase and slotted it in next to the others. He shut the boot, then turned back to Alfie, who had rain dripping down his face but looked no less excited for that.

  ‘Ready to go on holiday?’ he asked.

  Jamal was much chattier now that Alfie was in the car. As he weaved his way through the stop-start traffic of south London, he and Sarim kept the young man talking. ‘You like the beach, mate?’

  Yes, Alfie liked the beach.

  ‘You like ice creams, mate?’

  Alfie loved ice creams.

  ‘We’re going to get some buckets and spades, innit?’

  Alfie was quite sure his sandcastles would be much bigger than those of his two friends. He drew a picture of them on his steamed-up window.

  And so the journey to Paddington station passed in pleasant conversation. By 11.30 they were driving along the Westway, and at 11.40 Jamal drove the Mercedes into an NCP car park just off the Edgware Road. They parked up. Sarim opened the boot again, removed Alfie’s suitcase, and handed it to him. He and Jamal took one of the remaining suitcases each, then locked the car.

  Sarim checked his watch. 11.43. ‘Train leaves in 25 minutes,’ he said, casting a sidelong glance at Jamal, who nodded. ‘Come on, Alfie, mate. Let’s get moving.’

  It took five minutes to reach the station. Sarim checked the departure board. ‘Platform seven,’ he told the others, and they walked towards it, trundling their suitcases behind them.

  There were ticket barriers at the platform, but they were lodged permanently open so a friendly man in a British Rail uniform stopped them to check their tickets. ‘Off somewhere nice, fellas?’ he asked them.

  ‘Haverfordwest,’ Sarim said immediately. ‘A short holiday.’

  ‘Hope the weather improves.’ The guard looked at Alfie and winked. ‘You have a good time, sunshine.’ Alfie was busy watching the pigeons high in the station roof, so the guard turned back to Sarim and Jamal. ‘The wife’s sister has a Down’s syndrome boy. Lovely little lad. Very trusting, if you know what I mean. Shame really. But good on you for looking after him, fellas. Good on you.’

  Sarim gave a sincere look as he took back the tickets. ‘Community, mate. It’s what it’s all about, innit?’

  ‘That’s your train,’ said the guard, pointing down the platform. ‘Unreserved seating, Coach G. You want to book a seat next time, mate. Don’t cost nothing.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Sarim said quietly. He pulled his hood up over his head. ‘Next time.’

  The platform was busy. A hundred people, maybe more. As they dragged their suitcases alongside the train, it felt as though Alfie was saying hello to every single one of them in turn. When they arrived at Coach G, however, he stopped and pointed at it. Sarim wondered if Alfie had ever actually been on a train. He seemed excited by the whole prospect.

  They stopped five metres from the carriage door. ‘Give me a minute, guys,’ Jamal said. He looked meaningfully back towards the station concourse. ‘I need to go take a slash.’

  Alfie looked confused. ‘What’s a slash?’

  ‘Need the toilet, mate. Can’t stand going on the train. All stinky. Won’t be long, innit?’

  ‘We’ll wait here,’ Sarim said.

  Alfie looked alarmed. ‘What if the train goes?’

  ‘Plenty of time, mate,’ he said. And when Alfie continued to look worried, he added: ‘We have to wait for Jamal, Alfie. That’s what friends do for each other.’

  Alfie nodded. He looked disappointed in himself. ‘We’ll wait here,’ he agreed.

  Jamal walked away. Sarim checked his watch. 11.55. He turned to Alfie.

  ‘Why don’t I go and get some snacks for the journey?’ he said.

  Alfie looked alarmed again. He glanced at the train, then back at Sarim. ‘It’s getting full,’ he said.

  ‘You hungry?’ Sarim persisted.

  Alfie shook his head.

  ‘Long journey though, mate. What’s your favourite?’ His eyes narrowed slightly. ‘Cheese and onion crisps? The blue ones? I’ll get a big bag, shall I?’

  Alfie’s face was a picture of indecision, but after a few seconds he nodded. Sarim put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. ‘I’ll only be a couple of minutes,’ he said. He stepped away from Alfie and the little cluster of suitcases. ‘Don’t go wandering off, will you?’ he added. ‘We’ll be in trouble if we leave our bags unattended. They’ll tell us off.’

  The thought of being told off made Alfie look even more anxious. He stepped closer to the suitcases and clutched the handles of two of them.

  Sarim winked at him, just as the platform guard had done, then strode quickly back towards the concourse. As he left the platform, he looked back over his shoulder. He only just caught a glimpse of Alfie through the crowds, his face still tightly framed by the hood of his cagoul.

  It was enough to tell him that the young man was guarding the suitcases diligently.

  Sarim and Jamal met at their prearranged spot outside WHSmith at 11.59. Only when they were out on the street and walking swiftly through the torrential rain away from Paddington did Jamal speak. ‘Fucking hate that geezer,’ he spat. ‘Looks all weird. Gives me the creeps, innit?’

  They turned into a little cobbled mews where there were no pedestrians, but a couple of flash cars – an Aston Martin and a BMW – parked up.

  ‘Have you got it?’ Sarim asked. He had to speak loudly over the rain.

  Jamal put one wet hand in his pocket and pulled out a mobile phone.

  ‘Speed dial one!’ Sarim shouted. ‘That’s what he told us. It’ll do them both.’

  Jamal licked his lips nervously. ‘You trust him?’

  Sarim nodded. ‘With my life,’ he said. ‘Not that I’m afraid to lose it.’

  ‘How can he be so sure we won’t be caught?’ Jamal asked. ‘There were cameras everywhere in that station.
I know we look different to usual, but . . .’

  A pause.

  ‘You scared to do it, Jamal?’ Sarim asked. There was an edge to his voice. ‘You not what we thought you were?’

  Jamal looked uncertain. He didn’t reply.

  Sarim grabbed his upper arm. With his free hand, he pointed up into the sky. ‘Look,’ he shouted. ‘Look up there. Tell me what you see.’

  With a perplexed expression, Jamal looked up. He blinked as the rain fell directly on to his face.

  ‘What do you see?’ Sarim insisted.

  ‘I . . . I don’t know,’ Jamal said. ‘Nothing . . . rain . . . and clouds.’

  Sarim nodded fiercely. ‘Clouds,’ he said. ‘That’s right. Do you like clouds? You like it when it’s cloudy?’

  Jamal shook his head.

  ‘You prefer the sun, yes?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Sarim made a soft hissing sound. ‘In your country – in Pakistan, your country – they pray for clouds. They pray for them. Do you know why?’

  Once more, Jamal shook his head.

  ‘Because when there are clouds, the drones do not come.’

  A moment of silence.

  ‘They think they are our judge, our jury and our executioner, these British and Americans.’ Sarim was loud now, but his voice was almost drowned out by the downpour. ‘They think they can kill our innocent women and children, and that we will be too weak to fight back. Well, are you, Jamal? Are you too weak to fight back?’

  Jamal drew a deep breath. ‘I’m not weak,’ he said. ‘Innit?’ His sopping wet face frowned, and the hand that held the phone trembled.

  ‘Then do it!’ Sarim shouted. ‘Now. The idiot won’t wait forever, and if the bags are unattended someone will raise the alarm.’

  Jamal gritted his teeth. His finger hovered above the ‘1’ button on the phone.

  ‘Do it!’

  Jamal pressed his thumb on to the button, and held it down.

  Alfie knew nothing of the explosion.