The Black Hornet: James Ryker Book 2

by Rob Sinclair

  ‘Kick it over,’ Ryker said. ‘Hands in the air.’

  She did so and the gun bounced and clanked toward Ryker.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ Ryker asked.

  ‘I told you my name already,’ she said, turning to face him. ‘A courtesy you’re yet to return.’

  ‘Yeah. Though I figure by now you know a lot more about me than I do about you.’

  ‘You’d be right about that.’

  It hadn’t escaped Ryker’s attention that she now appeared calm and in control, the nerves she’d shown moments earlier gone. Ryker could only conclude she was a great actor. But which version of her was the real one?

  Ryker’s phone, still buzzing on the ground, went silent. But only for a few seconds. ‘I could do with answering that,’ he said.

  ‘Go ahead.’

  Ryker moved forward cautiously, his eyes never leaving Willoughby. Ryker crouched down and picked up the phone just as the call stopped. He hit the redial button, but Powell didn’t answer. Maybe Powell was trying to call at the same time.

  ‘Let’s try again,’ Ryker said as he awaited Powell’s return call. ‘Who are you? And why are you here?’

  Willoughby’s mouth turned upward into the faintest of smiles as she spoke. Ryker didn’t return the look.

  ‘Ryker, I work for the JIA. They sent me here.’

  Vasquez was becoming impatient with Sanders’s continued delaying tactics, and agitated by the man’s grating small talk.

  ‘Why don’t you show me around the place?’ Sanders said.

  ‘I thought your goods were arriving imminently.’

  ‘They will, trust me.’

  ‘Then we’ll wait here. You don’t need to see the inside of an empty warehouse, do you?’

  No, Sanders, you really don’t, Vasquez thought. Because if I open those doors and give the word, half a dozen automatic weapons will be ready to take you down.

  Sanders again removed his phone and took a few steps away. Vasquez clenched his teeth to hold back his growing anger. He turned to Hector. ‘Last chance.’

  ‘Okay,’ Sanders said as he turned back round. He looked far more relaxed than he had moments earlier. ‘They’re less than a mile out. Come on, let’s get to the gates.’

  Vasquez bit down even harder at Sanders’s instruction; he was the one who called the shots. But Sanders didn’t give Vasquez a chance to respond. He moved toward the still-open entrance and Vasquez and Hector moved with him, two steps behind.

  ‘So?’ Hector whispered to his boss.

  By that point, Vasquez had already had enough. He didn’t need to kill Sanders straight off, but he would at least take control of the situation from here; round up the Americans and shackle them inside the warehouse while he determined his next move. He would have also given the order straight away, but he was too busy peering into the darkness beyond the warehouse gates. Because he was sure he could see several dark-clad figures inching forward across the road toward him. But Vasquez or Hector hadn’t yet given the men he had stationed out there an order, so what the hell were they doing?

  Sanders stopped walking and turned to face Vasquez. Vasquez realised too late that it wasn’t his own men he could see. The startled look on Sanders’s face told him they weren’t his men either.

  Which likely meant two things; Vasquez’s backup were already dead, and the new arrivals were about to attack everyone in sight on the warehouse grounds.

  ‘Now!’ Vasquez screamed as he reached for the gun strapped to his hip.

  Hector pulled up his hand as he pressed on the button of his walkie-talkie. He just got the message out before the road and the jungle in front of Vasquez came alive with flashes of automatic gunfire. A bullet caught Hector square in the face and blood spattered outward, some of it hitting Vasquez, who was still pulling on his own weapon as he rushed for cover behind a Jeep. There was a cascade of gunfire from behind Vasquez too – guns blasting in every direction.

  Sanders’s body shuddered as bullets tore through his back and he collapsed, his death stare fixed on Vasquez as though blaming him for the assault.

  Vasquez felt a wave of panic. Sanders hadn’t set him up. Sanders was just as much a target as every other man there, but Vasquez had just ordered his men to kill the Americans. His men were shooting at the wrong people! But just who the hell was attacking them?

  A burning sensation swept through Vasquez’s hand as he grasped the butt of his gun. It took his muddled brain a second to realise he’d been shot.

  And then, almost as quickly as the gunfire had erupted, everything went silent again.

  Vasquez turned and looked around him. He could just about make out the bodies of several men slumped on the warehouse grounds. The three men Sanders had travelled with were among them, their bullet-riddled bodies twisted into awkward shapes where they’d fallen down. Vasquez turned back to the gates.

  And found himself staring down the barrel of a handgun.

  The figure holding the gun was clad in black, his face streaked with dark polish that made his eyes seem like two beacons of white. Vasquez straightened up, trying to show his authority.

  ‘Not exactly how I’d intended tonight to go,’ the man said. Another American. What the fuck was this?

  ‘No. Me neither,’ Vasquez said, sounding way more calm and confident than he had any right to be.

  ‘At least the backup plan worked though.’ The man’s face broke into a smile revealing dazzling teeth that matched the sheer brilliant white of his eyes.

  ‘Yours did,’ Vasquez said, not quite sure what the man meant. ‘Mine didn’t.’

  And there was nothing more Vasquez could say than that. He knew this meeting would only end one way. Exactly why his life was ending, he would never know.

  ‘Goodbye, Comisario,’ said the man, whoever the hell he was.

  There was a flash of light as fire flared out from the barrel of the man’s gun. It was the last thing Comisario Vasquez saw before the bullet hit him in the forehead and his body collapsed.

  38

  The explosion of noise and light coming from the distant warehouse and the dense jungle that surrounded it caught Ryker’s and Willoughby’s attention. The sound of gunfire echoed and reverberated across the town’s buildings for nearly a minute, and then all was dark and quiet once more.

  Ryker and Willoughby looked at each other.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Ryker asked.

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘You’re going to have to do better than that,’ Ryker said. ‘If you want to get off this rooftop without a bullet in your head.’

  ‘You’re being set up. The guy who sprung you from jail. He’s setting you up for Vasquez’s murder.’

  ‘And you know that how?’

  ‘Not here. We need to get away. Powell set you up.’

  It wasn’t the biggest surprise, but still, how did Willoughby know?

  ‘Who is he?’ Ryker asked. ‘Who does he really work for?’

  ‘We need to go. I can explain when we’re safe.’

  The phone in Ryker’s hand buzzed. That at least confirmed to Ryker who had shot who over at the warehouse. Vasquez was certainly dead by now. Ryker was a little disappointed he hadn’t pulled the trigger himself. Ryker answered the call, his right hand still pointing the Glock toward Willoughby, his eyes still locked on hers.

  ‘What happened?’ Ryker asked.

  ‘I was going to ask you the same thing,’ Powell responded. He sounded out of breath. Engine noise crackled down the line. Ryker guessed Powell was in the midst of his getaway from having slaughtered Vasquez, Sanchez, and every other man who’d got in the way.

  ‘We had a deal,’ Powell said. ‘You’re going to regret this.’

  ‘We still have a deal,’ Ryker said, his mind immediately taking him to thoughts of Lisa. ‘You jumped the gun. I was ready.’

  ‘Ready? You were ten minutes late. I had to act before the opportunity was wasted.’

  ‘You lied to me.
Who was Vasquez meeting with tonight?’

  ‘I told you what you needed to know. Have you any idea how many men we just had to kill because of you? Their deaths are on you.’

  Down below on the street Ryker heard noise. Car engines, revving fast. He moved over to the railing and peered down below. Three cars pulled to a stop at the bottom of the building. At first Ryker wondered whether it was the PF, called by Powell to come and arrest Ryker for Vasquez’s death – the set-up Willoughby had just suggested. But there were no sirens, no uniforms. This was Powell’s crew.

  Men rushed from the vehicles and descended on the building’s entrance. Ryker had no doubt what was about to happen.

  ‘You’ve got thirty seconds, Ryker,’ Powell said. ‘Thirty seconds to tell me you’re still on board for this operation.’

  Ryker looked over at Willoughby again. She’d lied to him. Powell had too. In fact not a single person had been straight with Ryker since he’d arrived in the damn country. He wasn’t finished with Powell; Ryker had to find out what he knew about Lisa. But he would do it on his terms. He wouldn’t tie himself to Powell and be further blackmailed into helping him now that Vasquez – the one target Ryker really wanted to kill – was already dead. Ryker didn’t want to trust anyone, but in the end the choice came down to who he felt he could trust the most.

  ‘Ryker?’ Willoughby asked, with growing tension in her voice.

  Ryker could now hear footsteps approaching up the stairwell of the building.

  ‘Ten seconds,’ Powell said. ‘Then I’m gone. I’m sure the Santos cartel would love to have you back at Santa Martha.’

  ‘I’m still on board,’ Ryker said.

  ‘What? No!’ Willoughby protested.

  ‘Good choice,’ Powell said. ‘My men will escort you back to Mexico City. You try anything, you’re a dead man.’

  Ryker took the phone away from his ear and pressed the red button to end the call.

  ‘So what now?’ Willoughby asked, the anger – and apprehension – on her face unmistakable. ‘You’re going to shoot me?’

  ‘No,’ Ryker said. He lowered his gun.

  He looked out across the town’s skyline. The roofs of the nearest buildings were all at least two storeys below the one Ryker and Willoughby were standing on. There would be no Hollywood theatrics, throwing themselves from one rooftop to another to escape the team of men heading their way.

  ‘We’re going to get out of here,’ Ryker said.

  ‘But–’

  ‘The only way off this roof is the stairs, but it would be foolish to take on every man that’s about to come through those doors.’

  ‘I already told you, Powell set you up! They’ll probably shoot you the second they lay eyes on you.’

  It was a risk he’d simply have to be prepared for. ‘They don’t know you’re here. We’ve only got a few more seconds before those men reach us. You stay hidden. Follow us down to the ground, but stay out of sight. When we’re on the street, near the cars, that’s when we’ll take them on.’

  ‘So you do want us to attack them?’

  ‘No. Not unless they ask for it. We just need to make some noise and get away from them – go for one of the cars.’

  Ryker realised he was making a big assumption. Willoughby claimed to be from the JIA but he had no idea what tactical combat training she’d had, if any. He just had to hope that together they had enough guile and guts to get them away from the building alive.

  ‘Get your gun. Take cover,’ Ryker said. ‘They’re almost here.’

  Willoughby grabbed her gun, then positioned herself behind the air duct. Ryker picked up the sniper rifle, its fixtures and case and hauled everything out into the open. He kneeled on the floor, lay down the Glock and took apart the rifle, acting as carefree as he could.

  He didn’t have to wait long. He saw the handle of the door moving.

  A second later, the door sprang open and three men burst out, fanning across the darkened rooftop. Ryker didn’t look up to greet the new arrivals, just carried on packing up the rifle as though the sudden appearance of the armed crew was what he’d expected all along.

  ‘Nice of you to come and pick me up,’ he said. ‘Here, help me with this will you.’

  Ryker spun and tossed the foldable bipod over to one of the men. The guy twitched, lifting his gun as if for a moment he thought Ryker was attacking him. The bipod bounced off his leg and clattered to the floor. Ryker raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Or don’t help,’ Ryker said. ‘Suit yourself.’

  ‘Get to your feet and put your hands in the air,’ the man in the middle said, his voice stern.

  Ryker assumed he was the leader. He looked over the three of them. All were pointing their weapons at him. No, make that four. Another man was just inside the doorway, almost hidden in the shadowed stairwell.

  ‘You seem to be mistaken,’ Ryker said, getting to his feet. ‘Did Powell not tell you we’re on the same team.’

  ‘Hands above your head. We’ll pat you down. Then we’ll cuff you. Then you’ll come down the stairs with us. Got it?’

  ‘You should watch that attitude, mate. It’s going to get you in trouble one day.’

  ‘I could say the same for you.’

  Ryker stood and stared at the leader for a few seconds, then relented; that was enough protest for now. He held his hands in the air and one of the men came forward, somewhat nervously. He kept his eyes fixed on the man as he patted Ryker down. When the guy was finished, Ryker brought his hands down and the guy fixed Ryker’s wrists together with a plastic cable tie.

  ‘I must return this hospitality some time,’ Ryker said. ‘It’s really tip top.’

  ‘If you’re going to continue being a prick I can always shoot you in the leg,’ the leader said.

  ‘And then what, genius? You’re going to carry me down eight flights of stairs? I weigh over two hundred pounds.’

  ‘Fine. I’ll shoot you in the hand then.’

  ‘You shoot me anywhere and it’ll be the last thing you ever do. Other than dying horribly, of course.’

  Ryker saw a flicker of doubt in the man’s eyes.

  ‘Off we go then,’ Ryker said. ‘You lead the way.’

  Seconds later, Ryker was heading down the concrete stairs, two men in front of him, two behind, a rifle barrel wedged in his lower back. Ryker could hear the sound of sirens somewhere across the town. He had no doubt it was the PF, but were they heading to the warehouse where one of their own had been slain? Or to pick up Ryker, who Willoughby claimed Powell was setting up for Vasquez’s murder? The fact Powell’s men were there, and acting with no apparent haste, suggested the answer was the former. Not that that made Ryker’s current position any less precarious.

  Ryker didn’t look back up the stairs once as he descended, and he heard nothing of Willoughby. Either she was still stuck up on the rooftop waiting, or she was quite the stealthy mover.

  Ryker and the men soon reached the foyer, to be greeted by three more armed foot soldiers, arranged in a triangle to cover the stairwell and the doorway out onto the street. Just where was Powell getting all these men? It certainly wasn’t the way the JIA worked, which once again made Ryker wonder if Powell’s outfit was more military orientated.

  Satisfied that Ryker was in check, the three watchers peeled away and moved toward the boarded up double doors that led outside. One of the men swung open the right hand door and Ryker caught a glimpse of two more men outside, idling by the parked cars.

  Nine armed men in total he’d now seen. Given Ryker’s position – unarmed and wrists tied together – he simply couldn’t see a way to attack. But the nine men wouldn’t be travelling together, in the same vehicle. Ryker would just have to wait for the numbers to reduce.

  The men shepherded Ryker out into the street and almost immediately moved in formation toward the vehicles. They weren’t hanging around; they wanted to be out of there as quickly as possible. The streets were empty in the middle of the night in this part
of town, but nine men lugging rifles and a handcuffed man about the place was hardly discreet.

  Their eagerness to get in the cars and scarper would work in Ryker’s favour.

  Obviously satisfied that their mission was near complete, three of the armed men headed to each car. Ryker was pushed toward the middle vehicle. One of the men reached forward and opened the door on the back passenger side, ready to shove Ryker in.

  When he was just two yards away though, Ryker took a tumble, a little innocuous slip on the fragmented slabs underfoot that sent him down onto one knee. Immediately the two men surrounding Ryker shouted at him and hauled him back up by his armpits. Ryker pulled his weight down, making them work for it.

  In all, in took them about three seconds to get Ryker up and moving again. Not enough time to raise suspicion in the other men, who were still set on getting to their cars, but enough to give Ryker a possible window of opportunity. Would Willoughby see it too?

  By the time Ryker made it alongside the second car, his delay meant that seven of the nine men were already in the vehicles. Three in the first, three in the third, and the driver of Ryker’s car.

  Nine down to two was pretty good going.

  And soon it was only one.

  Ryker was pleased to find that Willoughby was quite the operator. In the brief moment that Ryker was about to launch his attack on the two remaining men, Willoughby opened fire. Her first shot took out one of the men trying to get Ryker into the car – a bullet catching him in the lower leg and causing him to collapse. Then she let rip on the first car. Her shooting was enough to distract every man.

  Except Ryker.

  He spun and lifted up his bound wrists and crashed them down onto the neck of the man standing next to him. The guy folded like a house of cards.

  A second later, Ryker was armed with a Colt handgun, though it wouldn’t be easy to use with his hands cable-tied together.

  Willoughby was sheltered in the building’s doorway and now taking fire from the men in the first and third cars. Ryker was about to come to her aid when the driver’s door in front of him sprang open. Ryker lunged for the driver and smashed the Colt into his head, once, twice. He dragged the unconscious body from the car then lifted his gun and fired in front of him, causing the men from the first car to take cover.