Global Strike

by Chris Ryan

  They left the FBI agent screaming into the rag and stepped out of the cabin. Onto the second part of their clean-up op. The dead guy.

  Porter wrapped his hands around the dead agent’s broad chest in a clinch. Bald took the feet. Then they rose together, lugging the guy towards the cabin. Like carrying a piece of furniture. It was hard work. There was a lot of muscle, buried under even more fat. By the time they’d carried him up the steps and through the door, Porter and Bald were both drenched in sweat.

  They dumped the body on the kitchen floor. No need to handcuff this one. He was all the way gone. Porter retrieved the dead man’s service pistol, ammo and BlackBerry phone. He prised open the case, flipped out the battery and SIM card, then crushed the card using the butt of the Glock.

  Bald did the same with the other BlackBerry. With the phones disabled, there would be no way for Silver Hair to reach out and alert his buddies, even if he somehow managed to break free of his shackles. Which Porter considered highly unlikely.

  When they’d finished cleaning up the scene, Porter unlocked the home screen on his burner phone. He swiped left, tapped on the Twitter icon. Tapped again on the search bar at the top of the screen. Then Porter entered the first Twitter handle from the list Moorcroft had given them.

  A generic account picture of a thirty-something woman appeared at the top of the search results, along with a few lines listing her hobbies and interests. Porter hit Follow, then closed the app.

  Fifty seconds later, his burner rang.

  Unknown Number.

  Porter answered.

  The voice on the other end of the line belonged to Moorcroft.

  ‘John? Where the devil are you?’

  Moorcroft sounded hoarse. Irritable. Tired. Porter checked the time. 1927 hours. Which meant it was past midnight in London.

  ‘West Virginia,’ Porter replied. ‘Cooper’s with us.’

  There was a sudden urgency to Moorcroft’s voice. ‘Do you have the package?’

  ‘We’ve got it.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘But there’s a problem.’

  There was a long pause.

  ‘What sort of problem, exactly?’

  ‘We ran into some trouble. It went noisy. People are down.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Friendlies. Law enforcement.’

  Moorcroft muttered something under his breath that Porter didn’t quite catch. ‘For fuck’s sake, man! Can’t you two fools do anything right?’

  ‘We weren’t the only ones looking for the package.’

  ‘Don’t say anything more on the phone, for God’s sake,’ Moorcroft snapped. Porter gripped the phone tightly as he waited for Moorcroft to calm down. On the other side of the cabin Cooper emerged from the bathroom clutching a thick brown A4 envelope. The dossier, presumably.

  ‘Listen carefully,’ Moorcroft continued. ‘You need to get off the grid. We can’t afford to let the Americans get hold of the package.’

  ‘Just tell us where to go.’

  ‘There’s a safe house over in Monroe, Virginia. I’ll send you the housekeeper’s details. He’ll give you directions.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘Peter Stillman. Call him an hour from now to sort out the details. He’ll be expecting to hear from you. We’ll talk more, once you’ve arrived.’

  Click.

  The line went dead. Porter listened to the dead air for a beat.

  ‘Well?’ Cooper said.

  ‘Moorcroft’s going to send through the details for a safe house in Virginia. We’ll call the housekeeper once we’re on the road.’

  ‘Fine. Let’s get moving.’

  Cooper crossed the room and made for the door. The guy looked composed. Which surprised Porter. Most of the senior staff at Vauxhall were desk jockeys. They spent the majority of their days in open-plan offices, sipping flat whites and staring at computer screens. Not dealing with slotted federal agents. Any other officer in this situation would be bricking it.

  Maybe he’s been in this sort of situation before, thought Porter.

  Or maybe he’s really fucking good at hiding his emotions.

  As he approached the cabin door his burner vibrated. He opened the encrypted messaging app that had been pre-downloaded to the phone. Two new messages flashed up, both from an unidentified UK number. The first was a simple text listing a phone number for Peter Stillman, the housekeeper.

  The second message included a photo attachment. A profile shot of Stillman, so they knew who to look for. He had a forgettable face, late middle age, with more miles on the clock than he had road ahead of him. Sagging jowls, thinning hair shaped into a widow’s peak, small blue eyes, the irises faded to the colour of worn denim.

  Porter closed the app. Stuffed the burner in his back pocket, with the Glock concealed at the back of his cargos. Bald wiped down the P30, handed it back to Cooper and shoved the other Glock down the waistband of his trousers. Cooper inspected it, then stashed the pistol in his jacket pocket.

  The agent followed Porter and Bald through the door. He darted to the right as he stepped out onto the porch and made his way over to Street. The ex-spy was still resting on the Adirondack chair to the side of the porch, head lowered, staring at his hands.

  Porter had taken three paces outside when he saw a snarling blur of movement at his nine o’clock. He spun to his left and looked out across the driveway, squinting in the gathering dusk.

  Then he saw the dog.

  From a distance of twenty metres it looked like an Alsatian, but skinnier. Medium-build and short-haired, with a tan coat and black-tipped ears. Teeth bared. Confederate bandana tied around its neck.

  Tearing straight towards him.

  TWENTY

  Porter knew the breed just by looking at it. A Belgian Malinois. Herding dogs. Pure muscle. Killing machines, fast and intelligent and ferociously loyal. Often used on ops by the Regiment and Yank SF to detect IEDS or take down suspects.

  The Malinois was galloping down the drive at a frightening speed. Ten metres away from Porter now. A second or two until it pounced on him.

  Bald had followed Porter out onto the porch. He had stopped to the right of his mucker and looked in the same direction. Saw the Malinois rushing towards them from the driveway.

  There was no time to reach for his Glock, Porter knew. The dog would rip him apart before he could line up his sights and loose off a round. Instead Porter threw up his left arm, bending it at the elbow and presenting his forearm to the Malinois. An irresistible target, to an animal whose natural aggressive instincts were to chase and bite its prey.

  The Malinois leapt up on its hind legs. A burning pain shot through Porter as the dog clamped its jaws around his forearm and bit down, tearing through the fabric of his flannel shirt, teeth sinking into his flesh, drawing blood. The dog wrenching its neck from side to side in an effort to drag him to the ground.

  ‘Help us!’ Porter yelled at Bald. ‘Put this fucking thing down!’

  It was impossible to try and shake the Malinois off. Once that dog had a firm grip on its victim, it wouldn’t let go. There was only one way to stop that fucker. By working as a pair.

  Bald swung around Porter, grabbing the dog with both hands as it hung from Porter’s forearm, rocking from side to side. Then Porter and Bald both went down, clinching the dog between them as they dropped to the porch, like a couple of guys wrestling over a sack of gold coins. They landed on top of the Malinois and pressed down with the combined weight of their bodies, crushing the animal beneath them.

  The dog thrashed wildly, snarling and kicking out with its hind legs. Its teeth sank deeper into Porter’s left arm, tightening its grip on him. Cooper and Street were on the other side of the porch, staying back from the animal, hypnotised by the sheer ferocity of its attack.

  Bald kept the Malinois pinned down with his left arm while he reached around and retrieved the Glock from the back of his cargos. Now he shoved the muzzle against the underside of the dog’s chest, ai
ming just below the front legs. Right on the spot where he knew the heart was located.

  The dog flinched as Bald emptied a round into its chest. It made a light yelping noise, then went limp.

  A voice at the far end of the drive screamed hysterically. ‘Cato! Those sumbitches killed Cato!’

  ‘Shit,’ Cooper said as he turned towards the drive.

  Porter tugged his arm free. The wound stung like fuck. He looked up at the driveway and saw that a pickup truck had drawn to a halt on the dirt track, several metres back from the Civic.

  Toyota Hilux. Dark green, with a Dixie flag.

  The same one they’ had seen parked outside the main office.

  Three rednecks were swarming forward from the truck now. They had already reached the driveway and were twenty metres away from the cabin. And they were armed.

  Two of them had their guns raised at Bald and Porter. The third guy was skinnier and younger-looking. He was running a metre behind the others, tears streaming down his eyes as he pointed at the dog bleeding out on the steps of the porch.

  The two guys with the guns were wiry and weathered, as if they’d been worn down to the nub. The one on the left was five-nine, dressed in a plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, a pair of muddied jeans and a watch cap. His gaunt face was the texture of petrified wood. The guy on the left was the same build, with the same slow-witted inbred look. He wore a pair of faded overalls and gave away four or five inches in height.

  Both the old-timers were gripping rifles. Long steel barrels with brown laminate stocks and rifle scopes mounted above the receivers.

  Porter recognised them as Remington 798s. Bolt-action rifles, chambered for the .300 Winchester Magnum. Good hunting weapons. The kind of thing rednecks took on camping weekends to shoot elk or moose. Effective up to a range of at least six hundred metres.

  ‘You’d best lose that piece, boy,’ the guy in the watch cap slow-drawled. ‘Else you’re gonna git got.’

  Bald slowly set down the Glock. At his side, Porter stood still. So did Cooper and Street. All four kept their hands by their sides, not wanting to give the rednecks any encouragement. Even a hillbilly would struggle to miss a target from fifteen metres away. Especially when they were packing something as heavy as a Remington 798.

  ‘Look what those bitches did, Uncle!’ the younger guy shouted. ‘They killed Cato!’

  ‘I heard you the first time!’ Watch Cap snapped. ‘Now quit your hollerin’.’

  The younger guy fell into a moody silence, evil-eyeing Bald and Porter. He looked like the runt of the litter. He was dressed in a pair of baggy combats and scuffed military boots, with a Kid Rock t-shirt underneath an army surplus jacket and a baseball cap with the words DON’T TREAD ON ME etched across the front.

  Kid Rock had some sort of revolver stuffed down the front of his combats. The hardwood grip and stainless-steel cylinder were sticking out above the waistline. One of the big Smith & Wesson double-action variants, Porter guessed. A 686, maybe. A grizzly bear-killer, with the extra-long barrel. To compensate for erectile dysfunction, presumably. With his man boobs and bumfluff moustache, Kid Rock looked like the sort of bloke who had problems downstairs.

  The guy in the watch cap took a couple of steps forward. He kept his hunting rifle trained on Porter while the old-timer in the overalls cautiously eyed Bald. Kid Rock hung back a couple of paces, his body trembling, his eyes welled-up. He didn’t make any move to draw his revolver. Maybe he liked the feel of the steel against his balls, thought Porter.

  ‘What in the name of fuck are you boys doing here?’ Watch Cap snarled.

  He spoke in a dull, slow voice. A combination of cheap beer, several generations of inbreeding and the gaps in his front teeth. It sounded more like Wad in de name of fud are ew boys duin?

  Porter said nothing.

  The old-timers took another step towards the two operators. They were ten metres away now. Watch Cap spat out a wad of chewing tobacco before he went on.

  ‘Can’t you boys read? Like the sign says, this here is private property. No trespassin’. You ain’t the rightful owners of this hut. And you sure as hell ain’t renting no place else, or Billy Bob here would know about it.’

  He cocked his head at the guy in the overalls.

  ‘Which means you boys are intrudin’ on private property. And you just killed Tucker’s dog, which is gettin’ him all kinds of worked up.’

  He nodded at Kid Rock, then took a step closer to Porter, keeping his Remington pointed at the latter.

  ‘Now, you boys have got three seconds to tell me what the fuck you’re doin’. Otherwise we’re gonna git all Hiroshima on your asses.’

  Watch Cap waited for an answer. He was the leader of the gang, Porter decided. Or at least the one capable of fully formed sentences. Porter raised his arms.

  ‘Mate, we’re not looking for any trouble here.’

  ‘Could have fooled me, son.’

  ‘We’re friends of the owner.’

  ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Linda,’ Street croaked. ‘Linda Kenny. My ex-wife. She’s letting us stay here for a few days.’

  ‘Bullshit.’

  ‘It’s the truth,’ Porter insisted.

  ‘Son, us Claytons have been running this place for forty years. Our daddy ran it before us, and our granddaddy before him. We’ve heard just about every excuse you care to name. So don’t get wise with me.’

  ‘We’re not lying.’

  ‘Says you. Miss Kenny didn’t say nothing to me about no guests.’

  ‘She probably forgot,’ said Porter.

  ‘Ain’t like Miss Kenny to forget nothing. Ain’t like her to go letting strangers stay at her place, neither.’

  Kid Rock thrust an accusing finger at the Brits. ‘They’re lying, Uncle Wilbur! I knows it! I say we kick their fucking asses! Teach ’em a lesson for killin’ Cato!’

  Wilbur, aka Watch Cap, glanced over at Kid Rock. ‘Shut your damn trap, Tucker! Ain’t nobody getting nothing kicked yet. Leastways not till we get some answers.’

  Tucker went quiet. Wilbur slid his gaze back to Porter, his facial muscles twitching with rage. At his side Billy Bob evidently noticed something by the Lincoln. He nodded at it.

  ‘Heck, Wilbur. That there’s blood.’

  Wilbur caught sight of the bloodied pool near the Lincoln’s rear wheels and tensed. Porter could sense the atmosphere about to turn even uglier. Like a pub on a Friday night, moments before it all kicked off.

  Wilbur looked back towards Porter. His eyes narrowed to mean slits. ‘You care to explain that too, boy?’

  Porter kept his arms raised. ‘We had an accident. That’s all.’

  ‘Don’t look like no accident to me, Wilbur,’ Billy Bob remarked.

  Porter didn’t reply.

  Wilbur took a step closer to the Brits. ‘Step aside from the door.’

  Porter didn’t move. Neither did Bald. Cooper and Street remained standing next to the Adirondack chairs.

  At his six o’clock, Porter could just about hear the strangulated cries of Silver Hair coming from inside the cabin. A faint noise, barely perceptible. The kind that you had to really focus on. Wilbur and his mates showed no indication that they’d heard Silver Hair yet. But if they drew much closer, they’d soon notice it.

  Wilbur tightened his bony finger on the Remington trigger, white-knuckling it. He was ten metres away from Porter now. Another quarter-inch of pressure and he would blow a hole in Porter’s chest big enough to sink a bowling ball into.

  ‘Boy, I ain’t gonna ask again. Move away from that door, or I swear to Jesus I’ll drop you like a bad habit.’

  Porter scanned the driveway, searching for some way of distracting the good ole boys. Nothing. They were boxed in, with two weapons trained on them at point-blank range, by men who were dumb enough and angry enough to use them. A dangerous combination.

  We’re trapped.

  He slowly stepped away from the door, making no sudden m
ovements. The rednecks looked jumpy. Porter didn’t want to do anything that might result in an accidental discharge. He shifted to the right of the porch, with Bald sliding along next to him.

  Kid Rock dug out the giant Smith & Wesson 686 and waved the muzzle at Cooper and Street, at a distance of about eight metres. ‘You two stay right where you are,’ he snarled. ‘Don’t try nuthin’, now, or I’ll pop you. Same way you popped Cato.’

  Street and Cooper said nothing but stayed rooted to the spot beside the Adirondack chairs, a few metres to the left of the cabin door. On the right side of the porch, Billy Bob stood guard over Bald and Porter. The black mouth of the hunting rifle eyefucking them. Wilbur nodded, satisfied that he had the situation under control. He rearranged his balls with his spare hand, then cocked his head at Billy Bob and Kid Rock.

  ‘Wait here,’ he said.

  Then he approached the door.

  Stopped.

  Realisation flickered across Wilbur’s face, telling Porter that the guy had heard the muffled cry from inside the cabin. The old-timer yanked the wrought-iron handle.

  He stepped inside.

  From his position three metres to the right of the porch, Porter could see Wilbur through the sash window. The redneck took three steps into the living area then stopped cold in his tracks when he caught sight of Silver Hair cuffed to the stove-top.

  ‘Uncle?’ Kid Rock called out.

  ‘Stay put, boy, unless you’re itchin’ for a whuppin’,’ came the stringent reply from inside the cabin.

  Through the window, Porter saw Silver Hair gesticulating furiously at Wilbur, jerking his head in the direction of the kitchen. Trying to tell him something. In there. Wilbur took the hint and stepped deeper into the cabin, the floorboards groaning under his mud-caked boots. He reached the kitchen and stopped cold, and Porter knew then that he’d discovered the dead FBI agent.

  Shit. Three or four seconds passed. Then Wilbur swept back out through the door, his face looking as grey as parchment. He flashed an anxious glance at Porter and Bald before he turned towards Kid Rock.