by Will Jordan
Now, however, it seemed a new story had emerged. Bright yellow ticker-tape messages were scrolling across the bottom of the screen.
BREAKING NEWS: TERRORIST LEADER BELIEVED DEAD – LEADER OF RADICAL ISLAMIC TERRORIST GROUP RUMOURED TO HAVE BEEN KILLED IN AFGHANISTAN
Staring at the screen in disbelief, McKnight watched as the sleek brunette news anchor delivered a hastily composed report on what was clearly a breaking story.
‘Once again, we’re receiving unconfirmed reports from the Reuters news agency that the Islamic terrorist leader identified as Kourash Anwari has been killed in a gun battle with ISAF forces in Afghanistan. Anwari is believed to be the same man responsible for executing an American hostage live on the Internet yesterday, and for a string of attacks on Coalition forces in recent months.’
‘You’ve got to be kidding me.’
‘Shh!’ Keegan hissed, not wanting to miss a thing.
‘The Department of Defense has yet to make an official statement on the issue – however, there is speculation that private military contractors may have been involved in the operation …’
The news anchor paused, head tilted ever so slightly, her eyes unfocused as she received an update via her concealed earpiece. She was good, her commentary barely wavering despite the stream of information being fed to her, but McKnight had seen that same look in operatives enough times to recognise the signs.
Something had changed. Something she needed to know about.
‘We’re now being advised by our sources in Kabul that Richard Carpenter, the CEO of Horizon Defence, has called a special press conference in relation to Anwari’s death, scheduled to begin in just a few minutes.’
As she began recapping the latest developments to fill time until the press conference started, Keegan at last turned away from the screen.
‘Care to explain what the hell is going on here?’
McKnight said nothing, because she had no answer for him.
Chapter 38
Inter-Continental Hotel, Kabul
Eager to reach Frost and the information she had uncovered, Drake took a taxicab back to the hotel, paying the driver extra to avoid the main drags. That had been just fine with him, and Drake had received plenty of toothless smiles as they pulled into the hotel forecourt and he handed over his wad of Afghanis.
Picking his way through the busy lobby area, he headed straight for the elevator bank and hit the call button.
It seemed to take an age for the elevator to arrive. He was about to abandon it and head for the stairs when at last the doors pinged and slid open. He was certain it hadn’t taken this long when they’d arrived.
Then again, he hadn’t been so anxious to get to the room, he thought as he ducked inside and hit the button for the third floor.
The doors were just closing when a voice called out, ‘Hey, hold that elevator, would ya?’
Drake had little desire to share the lift with anyone, but he was unable to intervene when a large, meaty arm thrust itself between the closing doors, forcing them open. A second later its owner pushed his way into the lift, struggling to manoeuvre what looked like a full-sized television camera under his arm. His shirt was damp with sweat patches after carting his heavy load around.
No wonder, Drake thought. He was perspiring enough just getting himself from place to place.
The cameraman’s friend was right behind him, carrying a canvas satchel that looked to be packed with spare cables, batteries, lenses and whatever other crap the camera needed to stay running. He gave Drake an apologetic smile that looked about as genuine as the marble floor he’d just walked across as he shuffled into place beside the control panel.
‘Thanks, buddy,’ the cameraman said, shifting his burden a little as he pressed the button for the fourth floor. ‘No way was I hauling this son of a bitch up four flights of stairs.’
‘No problem,’ Drake lied as the doors shuddered closed.
The elevator’s progress up the shaft was slow and halting, as if it kept forgetting what it was supposed to be doing and had to stop to take stock of the situation.
Drake couldn’t wait to get out. He had no particular fear of enclosed areas, but it was hot and stuffy in there, and the space taken up by his two new friends added to the feeling of entrapment.
‘I swear, I’m sick of Vince riding my ass about image quality,’ the cameraman remarked without turning around. ‘What the hell are we supposed to do with all this dust and shit floating around? It’s a miracle the cameras are even working.’
‘I’ll be glad to see the back of this shithole,’ his friend grunted. ‘The place doesn’t agree with me.’
Drake frowned. Something about the inflection of his voice was familiar. It was an East Coast accent, perhaps New York or New Jersey. He had heard a voice like that recently.
Suddenly wary, Drake surveyed the two men a little closer.
The man with the satchel was the taller and leaner of the two, with curling brown hair and a tanned, weather-beaten complexion. The cameraman was an inch or two shorter than his companion and heavyset, with dark hair receding on top.
Both were clean-shaven; surprisingly so, in fact. Their jawlines were a little lighter than the rest of their faces, as if they had recently sported heavy beard growth.
Like many journalists in this part of the world, they were both dressed in olive-coloured cargo trousers and walking boots. Satchel man sported a white T-shirt with a loose waistcoat covered with pockets and pouches – the sort of thing favoured by anglers who need to have lots of implements on hand.
And yet, looking closer, there didn’t seem to be anything in any of the pouches. None of them bulged outwards as he might have expected if they were filled with technical gear.
Cameraman’s loose grey shirt was stained with sweat. At first Drake had assumed that the camera’s heavy weight was causing him to perspire, yet he seemed to be no stranger to heavy loads, and the hotel lobby had been kept cool by air conditioning.
Perhaps he had been running?
There was a certain smell coming from him as well. Not sweat or other bodily odours, but something else. Something rich and strong; something very familiar to a man like Drake who often worked long hours.
Coffee.
His clothes reeked of it, as if he had spilled a cup over himself.
‘You mean the beer’s warm and the women are ugly,’ the cameraman said, snorting in amusement.
He was laughing, but when he glanced over at his companion, his eyes told a different story. They were cold, serious, focused. A look passed between the two men – fleeting and barely visible to most people, but plain as day to a man like Drake who had been trained to look for such visual cues.
At that moment, the cameraman reached down to adjust something on the big unit he was carrying, perhaps checking that nothing had come loose. As he did so, his shirtsleeve was pushed up just a little to expose a tattoo on his forearm.
A tattoo of a sword intersected by three lightning bolts.
In an instant, the pieces fell into place.
As if by unspoken, mutual consent, the two men sprang into action. The man with the satchel reached out and hit the emergency stop button, bringing the elevator shuddering to a halt.
At the same moment, the cameraman opened a port on the bulky television camera and yanked something from it; something small and plastic, with two metallic barbs protruding from the front. Its purpose served, he dropped the now useless camera and rounded on his target.
Another person might have been perplexed or even rooted to the spot by indecision in the face of such a sudden, unexpected attack, but Drake knew better. The moment he’d caught the knowing glance between the two men, he had sensed a takedown and immediately went into survival mode, his mind churning through a list of possible actions, their consequences and chances of success or failure.
How or why these men were trying to subdue him, or who they were working for, were all questions he could attend to later. In that
moment when his survival hung in the balance, all that mattered was what he did.
His heart had begun to beat faster, his breathing to grow deeper as his lungs sucked in more air, adrenalin pumping through his veins investing his muscles with greater strength. The ancient instinct for fight or flight was in full swing now.
And with nowhere to retreat to, his only option was to fight.
The cameraman had removed a taser concealed within the unit, no doubt intending to use it on Drake. All he had to do was jab it into his chest, or indeed any part of his body where both prongs could make good contact, and depress the trigger. The unit would then discharge thousands of volts into him, overloading his nervous system and causing neuromuscular incapacitation, effectively dropping him.
Drake had seen such weapons before, and had even used them himself from time to time. There was no defence against their effects. No matter how strong or resilient the target might have been, they went down first time, every time.
Satchel man could wait. The taser was the biggest threat at that moment.
The world around him seemed to go into slow motion as Drake’s hand shot out, seized the cameraman’s arm by the wrist and yanked it forward, jabbing the weapon hard into the satchel man’s right shoulder.
Before he could recover, Drake clamped down hard on his trigger finger.
There was a harsh, rapid clicking sound as the weapon discharged, followed immediately by an almost animalistic snarl of pain. In the enclosed space, Drake could smell an odd mixture of ozone and burned plastic. The satchel man went down like a dead body, the taser prongs slipping free of his flesh.
It didn’t matter. He was out of the fight for the next thirty seconds or so.
His friend was another matter.
Drake still had the man’s arm in a tight grip, but he needed to get the taser away from him, and fast. The best way, he knew from experience, was to take the arm out of play, and that meant breaking it.
The human arm is composed of three main bones – the humerus above the elbow, and the radius and ulna below. Thick and heavy enough to support the muscles attached to it, the humerus is difficult even for trained fighters to break.
The radius and ulna, however, are a much easier prospect. A sharp blow of sufficient force directed at the midpoint between the wrist and elbow, where the two bones are thinnest, will fracture or snap them altogether. Either result was fine with him.
Gripping his wrist with both hands, Drake forced his arm down and brought his knee up, preparing to use it as a lever on which to snap the bones of the man’s forearm.
He never got the chance.
His opponent was no stranger to fighting. Sensing Drake’s intentions, he swung with his left hand, catching Drake on the right side just below his ribcage. The blow felt like a sledgehammer driven into his stomach, and instinctively he began to buckle, his body trying to curl up to protect its vulnerable parts.
Locked in a desperate struggle for the taser, he was unable to block or avoid the next blow. White light exploded through his brain as the cameraman’s rock-like fist caught him flush on the jaw. Dazed, he staggered sideways, pulling his opponent with him and slamming into the wall of the cramped elevator with bruising force.
Stars were dancing across Drake’s vision as he sank down on one knee, still somehow gripping the taser. Shaking his head, he glanced up at his opponent, knowing the next hit would put him down for good.
Sure enough, the cameraman was already drawing back his arm for another strike. His lips were curled in a vicious snarl, his eyes gleaming as he prepared to finish his enemy. The takedown might not have gone quite as he’d expected, but the end result would be the same.
And yet, despite his dominant position, he was standing awkwardly with his weight on his left side, his footing obstructed by the motionless form of his comrade now lying curled on the floor.
In a heartbeat, Drake had taken all of this in. Millions of tiny nerves and synapses lit up, comparing what he had seen with experiences, skills, training that had been drilled into him so many times they were as much a part of him as his instinct to breathe.
In another life, before his career in the military, he had been a boxer, and a good one at that. Most assumed it was because he was simply good at hitting people, but he knew otherwise. The fundamental skill of any fighter wasn’t their ability to hit, it was their ability to avoid being hit. Dodging, weaving, ducking and blocking were vital skills he had spent years mastering, and though he had long since abandoned the sport, the hard-won ability remained imprinted on his brain.
While his opponent drew back his arm to deal the crippling blow, Drake waited. He waited until the left arm began to move forward, propelled by the combined efforts of the thick corded shoulder muscles. He waited until it had built up enough momentum to put it beyond the ability of its owner to stop, until it was past the point of no return.
And at the last moment he released his hold of the taser and ducked aside.
There was a hard metallic thump as a human hand impacted a solid wall at high speed, followed by a dull wet crunch as bones and joints snapped under the pressure.
The cameraman didn’t cry out. It would take another second or so for the pain to reach his brain. All he managed was a confused grunt as his fist hit the elevator wall instead of his opponent’s jaw.
Seizing his chance, Drake lowered his shoulder and launched himself off the wall, driving forwards with all the strength he could summon. He had never been much of a rugby player, but he at least understood the principles of tackling – get low and hit fast and hard.
He accomplished all three things at that moment. He felt the fleshy thump as his shoulder made contact with the cameraman’s chest, and heard the grunt of pain as the air was driven from his lungs. Caught off balance, his adversary fell backward until his back crashed into the far wall with enough force to shatter the cheap wood veneer, sending shards of it tumbling to the floor.
‘Fuck you!’ Drake heard him scream, his voice tight with pain. Only now had he realised he’d just broken several bones in his left hand. ‘Fuck you!’
An elbow struck him across the back, but it was a desperate and uncoordinated hit that lacked power, and his shoulder absorbed most of the impact.
Still, Drake wasn’t about to let him have another go with the taser. Rearing his head up like a bull, he caught the cameraman on the point of the chin, then leaned back as far as he could manage and butted him in the face. He was seeing stars again, but nonetheless felt the satisfying crunch as the bone and cartilage in the cameraman’s nose gave way under the blow.
Drake had never had his nose broken, but he had seen the effects in others, both as a boxer and as an operative. He knew what a crippling injury it could be. At that moment, blood would be filling the cameraman’s sinus cavity, choking him. His eyes would be blinded by involuntary tears.
At last Drake was in control of the fight. A kick to the back of the cameraman’s leg dropped him to his knees, followed by a crushing right hook that finally put him down. The cameraman collapsed in a tangled heap, his blood pooling on the cheap grey carpet.
No sooner had he gone down than Drake heard a muted thump, and suddenly something hard and powerful slammed into his right side, spinning him around with the force of the impact.
With his back now against the wall and the first wave of pain radiating out from the gunshot wound, Drake found himself face to face with his attacker.
It was the satchel man. Incapacitated by the taser burst, he must have come round while Drake was occupied with his comrade, and had evidently recovered enough to yank something from his carry case.
An automatic pistol. Drake couldn’t tell the model from this angle, but he recognised the metallic bulk of a suppressor screwed onto the barrel. Struggling to keep the bulky weapon level with hands that wouldn’t quite cooperate with the instructions his brain was sending out, he was lining up the weapon for another shot.
He was a threat again. A thre
at that had to be dealt with.
Ignoring the pain, Drake rushed forward and slammed his boot down on the man’s wrist, pinning his arm to the floor. There was another muted thud as a second round was discharged, this time burying itself in the wall.
There are times for restraint and compassion. This was not one of those times.
Keeping his opponent’s arm pinned under his boot, Drake snatched the bulky television camera up from the floor. It had been dropped when the brief confrontation began and forgotten by all concerned during the frantic battle for survival.
Drake was surprised by the weight as he raised it over his head. It must have been 30 pounds or more of metal, glass, plastic and delicate internal electronics.
Hardly an efficient weapon, but with no alternative it would serve.
He saw no fear in his opponent’s eyes as he brought the crude club down against him, no panic or shock or dismay. All he saw was simmering anger and disappointment. The look of a player who knows he has lost.
The impact of the camera against the satchel man’s skull jarred Drake’s arm and buckled the casing of the expensive device, sending fragments of shattered glass and plastic tinkling across the floor.
Dropping the heavy camera, Drake snatched up the satchel man’s weapon. It was a Heckler & Koch USP Compact; a small but powerful handgun chambered with .45-calibre rounds. They were designed for Special Forces operations where both stopping power and concealment were priorities.
Its owner was no longer a threat. He was lying slumped against the wall, his eyes staring blankly ahead, blood dripping from the deep gash on top of his head. The impact had crushed his skull, killing him more or less instantly.
Now his companion had to be dealt with. Already he was starting to come round, and Drake was in no condition to go toe to toe with him again. Staggering forward, he knelt in front of the cameraman and jammed the barrel of the pistol against his forehead.
