Gray Redemption

by Alan McDermott

  Owen opened up a lead on the target vehicles before slowing to match their speed.

  “We should reach Wenban in about ten minutes,” he said.

  Having scoped out the route a few days earlier, Harvey knew that there was just one more off-ramp before the highway took them past the compound, and it was just a few minutes up the road. If the truck continued past it, his gamble would have paid off. If it took the turning, it would be another fifteen minutes before they could get off the highway and try to find it again.

  His heart beat faster as the BMW slid past the turn off and he willed the truck to follow. He watched the headlights in the mirror as they appeared to crawl along the tarmac and he muttered to himself as the seconds ticked by.

  “Come on, come on, a little more...”

  He let out an audible sigh of relief as the truck trundled past the off-ramp and continued to follow them.

  “Okay, head for the warehouse opposite the Wenban compound. We’ll park behind it and see what they do once they get there.”

  Owen gunned the engine and they pulled away from the miniature convoy. By the time they pulled off the highway and reached the warehouse they were around four minutes ahead of the truck, and Owen parked up around the back of the derelict building. As Harvey got out he noted that theirs were the only fresh tyre marks in the loose dirt, which meant it was unlikely their quarry would choose the same location — anyone worth their salt would have scoped the area out, and this place hadn’t been visited in months.

  He pushed his way through a hole in the fence and sprinted to the front of the warehouse, where he checked that the front gate he’d oiled on his previous visit moved without making a sound. Satisfied that he could get out of the compound without being heard, he tucked down behind a row of rusting oil drums. A moment later, Owen joined him, zipping up his black jacket as he sank to his knees.

  “Where the hell did you get that?” Harvey asked, looking at the R4 assault rifle Owen was brandishing.

  “Same place I got your pea-shooter,” Owen smiled. “As we don’t know the enemy strength, I thought it best to bring it along, just in case.”

  “Couple that with your muscle car, and you must have the smallest dick in the world.”

  Despite the banter, Harvey was grateful for the extra firepower.

  It was another two minutes before headlights heralded the arrival of the truck. The driver swung the vehicle through the open gates and manoeuvred the flatbed to the back of the compound, where he reversed into a marked bay and climbed out of the cab. Harvey watched him head into the office, and a couple of minutes later he emerged and climbed into a car which sped away into the night.

  There had been no sign of the van, and Harvey was beginning to wonder if they’d followed the wrong container when the Mercedes slowly cruised past his hiding place, the driver concentrating on the road ahead while the passenger’s attention was focused on the haulage company’s yard.

  Just as he was wondering where the second person had appeared from, his phone vibrated. Farsi had sent him the file on Sean Littlefield and he quickly scanned through it, sharing the information with Owen. There was nothing to link him to Farrar or any black ops teams, and none of his known associates matched the name the van was rented under.

  Harvey was still no closer to discovering who his enemy was, and now he and Owen were facing at least two adversaries. There could even be more hidden away in the van, but he couldn’t do anything about that at this late stage. He hadn’t even had time to get a snap of the newcomer to send to Farsi, so all he could do now was exercise caution and hope to bring one of them in alive.

  * * *

  Ben Palmer had spent most of the journey in the back of the van, looking out of the small rear window to see if they were being followed. The BMW had caught his attention soon after they’d joined the highway, but once it had sped past and disappeared into the night, he began to relax.

  Satisfied that they had no tail, he climbed over the central console and into the passenger seat.

  “We’re clean,” he said, and Littlefield looked in his wing mirror, seeing nothing but darkness.

  They watched the truck pull off the highway and Palmer ordered Littlefield to stop two hundred yards short of the compound. A few minutes later, a car drove out of the gates and roared past them, heading towards the city.

  “Do a drive by,” Palmer said. “I want to see if anyone’s still there.”

  Littlefield rolled the van forwards, and as they crept past the gates, Palmer spotted a single car parked outside the office building. Lights shone through the windows, and he knew he’d have to wait a little longer to complete the mission.

  “Sean, park up further down the road and I’ll walk back. Once the last person’s gone I’ll call you.”

  His friend drove along until they rounded a corner, where he performed a U-turn and went off-road, parking the van behind a row of trees. Palmer hopped out and jogged parallel to the road until he was within a hundred yards of the perimeter fence, where he took a knee next to a bush, his eyes on the prize. He took a ski mask from his jacket pocket and pulled it over his head, a low-tech solution to the three CCTV cameras covering the target.

  The nocturnal orchestra was in full swing, and insects buzzed around him as he waited impatiently for signs of movement. Eventually he was rewarded as the lights went out and the office door opened. A male appeared carrying a bowl, followed by the dog Palmer had encountered a few days earlier. It bounded to the fence to relieve itself, and then ran back to its owner, barking for its food.

  As the dog ate, the man climbed into his car and drove out of the gates, stopping at the road side to lock them before heading into town, another shift over.

  Palmer waited another few minutes, then called Littlefield on his mobile.

  “Bring the van up to the gates. I’ll meet you there.”

  Sean joined him at the entrance thirty seconds later and Palmer rattled the fence next to the gate. The dog came pounding towards him, teeth bared as it growled an ominous warning. When it was within ten feet, Palmer put a silenced bullet between the animal’s eyes and it dropped before it could even register the impact.

  The final level of security to overcome was the chain securing the gates. Palmer slid open the side panel of the van and pulled out the bolt cutters, which made short work of the lock. He pushed the gates open and Littlefield drove the van into the yard, spinning it around so that the nose was pointing towards the entrance, ready for a quick exit.

  * * *

  Harvey watched the masked man swing the gates open and the van drive in, and as soon as the driver jumped out of the cab and ran to the back, he was ready to move.

  “I’m going in,” he said. “Cover me.”

  He squeezed through the warehouse gate and across the road, his rubber-soled sneakers minimising the sound. When he reached the van he saw that the back doors were wide open and he eased his way to the rear, his pistol extended in a two-handed grip.

  Taking two steps to the side, he rounded the door and caught the two men unaware.

  “Hands up, nice and slow, and move away from the van.”

  Palmer froze, one hand on the 3-Methylfentanyl aerosol, one of the improvised grenades in the other. Littlefield had the other two, and he looked over at his friend for guidance. When Palmer gave the slightest of nods, he put the munitions down and raised his hands.

  Palmer depressed the nozzle on the canister and showed his hands. He turned to face Harvey, who gestured with the pistol for him to move away from the vehicle. He complied, Littlefield in tow.

  “Masks off,” Harvey ordered. “Slowly.”

  Both med did as instructed, and then Harvey asked for their weapons.

  “It’s in the back of the van,” Palmer said, and Harvey backed up to the opening. He glanced in and saw the pistol, then reached in to grab it, his eyes back on his prisoners. Once it was tucked into his waistband he ordered Littlefield to surrender his own gun.

&nb
sp; Harvey told them both to unzip their jackets and lift their shirts, and satisfied that they were no longer armed he ordered them to their knees.

  Neither man moved.

  “Down on the grou...”

  The words felt heavy in his throat, and the gun wavered as he tried to focus on the two men. He shook his head to clear it, but all he succeeded in doing was throw himself off balance. He slammed into one of the doors and collapsed to the ground. Palmer was on him in an instant, disarming him and giving him a kicking for good measure. He held his breath as he picked up the canister and threw it towards the fence, making a mental note to collect it on the way out.

  “Drag him clear of the gas,” Palmer told Littlefield as he grabbed all three grenades. He scanned the area but saw no-one else, and the questions came thick and fast. Who was this guy, and who had sent him? Only two people could possibly know about this mission, and between Carl Gordon and James Farrar, he knew who he trusted most.

  It just didn’t make sense for Farrar to double-cross him, but having dealt with the man on more than one occasion, he knew he could trust him about as far as he could throw him.

  He needed to find some answers, and fortunately that was a field he excelled in.

  “Why don’t we just kill him?”

  “Because he’s not a local, Sean. This isn’t some guy protecting his property, and I want to know what he’s doing here.”

  Littlefield shrugged and grabbed Harvey’s ankles, dragging him towards the office building while Palmer headed for the truck. He got five yards before the shot rang out and he heard the scream of pain.

  He swiveled to see Littlefield lying next to the prisoner, clutching his thigh as a crimson stain grew between his fingers, his hand outstretched in a plea for help.

  Palmer ignored his cries and ducked behind a flatbed trailer as another round came in, missing his head by a whisker as it ricocheted off the vehicle’s frame.

  What the hell was happening?

  It wasn’t local police, he knew that much. They’d have swarmed the place by now. Everything pointed towards it being just one person with a rifle.

  He got down on his knee and peered between the trailer’s wheels, looking for the shooter.

  There!

  A flash gave away the gunman’s position in the adjacent lot, and he knew his own weapons would be useless at this range. A glance around told him there wasn’t enough cover for him to get closer, so he would have to draw the man in.

  “Sean!” He shouted as loud as he could. “Throw me the detonator!”

  Littlefield was confused. What the hell was Palmer talking about? With his femoral artery shredded, he’d already lost a couple of pints of blood. Combined with the pain, he was unable to think clearly, and he patted his pockets looking for whatever it was Palmer was asking for.

  Dennis Owen had heard the shout, and when he saw the injured man searching his pockets he knew he had to stop him handing over whatever he was carrying. He took careful aim, looking to incapacitate him rather than end his life. The first shot flew an inch high, the second catching the man in the shoulder.

  That was all the time Palmer needed. With the gunman concentrating on Littlefield, he dashed from cover and managed to get behind the cab of the target vehicle just as a volley followed inches behind him.

  Owen cursed, knowing he’d fallen for a feint. Throwing the rifle strap over his shoulder, he drew his Beretta and broke cover, sprinting towards the gate. He stopped when he reached the van, scanning the area for signs of movement but seeing only the prostrate figure of Harvey lying next to Littlefield. He made his way over to them at a crouch, his pistol searching in vain for the other target.

  He’d seen Harvey disappear behind the van and emerge a minute later, being dragged to his current position. At first glance he saw no wounds, and after removing the pistol from Littlefield’s belt he turned Harvey over. Unconscious but breathing, there was a trickle of blood on the back of his head, although it didn’t appear life-threatening.

  Owen slapped him a couple of times on the face but all he got in return was a grunt.

  “What have you done to him?”

  “Gas,” the injured man grimaced.

  Littlefield was in bad shape. Owen pulled the man’s belt free and applied a tourniquet to his thigh. If the other man was willing to use his friend as bait, he was unlikely to cheerfully hand over his weapons and come quietly, so keeping Littlefield alive was their best chance of getting the information Harvey wanted. In his present state he was unlikely to be a danger to Harvey, but just to be safe Owen yanked on Littlefield’s index finger, dislocating it and rendering his good hand useless.

  “You can still use it to apply pressure to the wound,” Owen said, “just don’t try anything funny with my friend. If I come back and he’s dead, I’ll introduce you to some real pain.”

  Not waiting around for an answer, he dashed towards the truck. He’d just reached the cab when he heard the clang of the lock being breached, and a squeal as the rusty door hinges protested at being opened.

  Owen rolled under the truck and saw a pair of legs standing at the back of the vehicle. He took aim as he heard the doors slam shut, and squeezed off a shot that grazed the man’s trouser material as it flew a few millimeters wide of the mark. The legs suddenly disappeared behind an adjacent truck and Owen was searching for his next shot when the whole world seemed to come crashing down around him.

  The first grenade exploded inside the closed container, shaking the entire vehicle. Dirt and rust from the flatbed’s ancient chassis assaulted his eyes, and the deafening noise threatened to burst his eardrums. One of the welds burst at it weakest point buckling the side wall of the container, and blood quickly began dripping onto the dusty ground.

  Screams of terror began emanating from the container when they were cut off by the second explosion, which caught Owen as he struggled for a breath. He coughed as he ingested a cloud of dirt, choking as the fine particles caked his throat. His lungs refused to co-operate, demanding an inward breath while all Owen wanted to do was clear the mess from his airways. It seemed an eternity before he was able to coax in just enough air to get the natural process going again, then heaved as the contents of his passages fought for a way out.

  By the time he’d managed a few short breaths and regained a semblance of control, the cries from the container had died down to just a couple of barely perceptible moans.

  Owen crawled out from under the truck and lay panting on the ground, staring at the container looming above him. Through the tear in the side he could see the lifeless limbs of a woman, her skin pock-marked with bloody entry wounds.

  He staggered to his feet, anger at the senseless murder gripping him like a vice. He’d seen death in the Gulf War, but that was usually soldier on soldier, not premeditated murder. He tucked the Beretta into his waistband, pulled the R4 off his shoulder and turned to give chase.

  And found himself staring down the barrel of a pistol.

  “You know the drill,” Palmer said, and Owen dropped the rifle and slowly removed the pistol.

  “Kick them under the truck.”

  Owen swiped at them with his foot, and Palmer ordered him to assume the position, hands outstretched on the side of the truck. He expected a quick frisk but instead felt a prick at the base of his skull and moments later his legs gave way beneath him. He scrambled for a hand hold until his arms also refused to obey his commands, and within a minute he found himself lying on his back, staring up at the glacial face of his assailant.

  “You and I are going to have a little chat,” Palmer said.

  He picked Owen up and threw him over his shoulder in a fireman’s lift, and then carried him to the van, throwing him in through the open doors. After grabbing a torch and checking that Littlefield was going to make it, he went back to the container to finish the job.

  The gas he’d brought along would have been useless if he hadn’t already wasted it, given the size of the hole the detonation had c
reated in the side of the container, so he would have to go inside and make sure there were no survivors. He pulled the door open and the fetid combination of coppery blood and cordite hit him square in the face, but he knew the kill had to be confirmed. He climbed in, his feet fighting for grip on the blood-soaked floor, and as he played the beam of light around it was soon apparent that the majority were dead from a combination of shrapnel and blast concussion. He heard a faint moan and moved towards it, where he found a heavily-pregnant woman cradling her bloodstained stomach.

  Palmer stepped over her, ignoring her clutching fingers as he searched for his four targets. He moved the light from face to face, until he reached the pile of bodies at the back of the metal box.

  * * *

  Kyle tapped the wheel of the Jeep to the beat of the eighties classics pumping out of the CD player. Over an hour after Owen and Harvey had taken off, the second truck had left the port and he’d followed it up the M4 until it switched to the N2, heading towards King Shaka International Airport. As instructed, he’d checked regularly for a tail, but the last set of headlights had disappeared from his mirror a few minutes earlier, and the only vehicle ahead was the Wenban Iveco.

  With just fifteen minutes before they reached the junction leading to the cargo terminal, it was a bittersweet moment for Kyle. The prospect of easy money for an evening drive was nice, but a part of him had hoped for something a little more exciting than cruising along at sixty miles an hour listening to Billy Idol.

  The track ended and he returned his attention to the road, spotting the headlights gaining ground fast. Kyle watched a blue Mitsubishi Evo with a yellow stripe on the bonnet power past him and draw level with the truck, and his heart skipped a beat as it matched the Iveco’s pace for a brief moment. Just when he thought he might be called into action, the Evo driver hit the gas and the powerful car sped ahead, its tail lights quickly disappearing in the distance.

  Kyle realised his heart rate had jumped by twenty beats per minute, just as it did before combat, heightening the senses and focusing the mind. With the excitement over, he tried to calm himself, skipping a few tracks on the CD until he found a soothing ballad. The clock on the dashboard suggested they would hit the turn off in just over twelve minutes, after which he would return to the city centre and have a beer in his hotel room before heading back to Johannesburg in the morning. Since he wasn’t due back in the office until Wednesday morning, he could have a couple, perhaps in a local bar where he could look for some female company…