by Will Jordan
To attempt to take him on would be futile, Drake knew. Even an amateur could barely miss at such range, and Cunningham was an excellent marksman.
Releasing his grip on the phone, he raised his hands to show he was no threat, then interlocked them behind his head. His vivid green eyes shone in the darkness, filled with anger and hatred and betrayal.
‘How much did they pay you to turn traitor?’
‘Traitor?’ At last he saw a flicker of emotion in his friend’s eyes. ‘Is that what you think I am, Ryan?’
‘You work for a man who uses terrorists to murder his own people for profit. You helped stall my investigation, and you’re pointing a gun at me right now,’ Drake reminded him. ‘So tell me, what the fuck are you?’
‘Shit,’ Franklin hissed.
Realising at last why Drake had called him, he reached for the phone on his desk and punched in the number for the Agency’s Office of Communications. Being a senior executive, his call took priority over almost all others, and was therefore answered within moments.
‘This is Director Franklin of Special Activities Division. I need a priority trace on the following number …’
His request was immediately relayed to the National Security Agency’s monitoring station at Fort Meade, Maryland. Within a matter of seconds, the NSA’s bank of Cray supercomputers – designed to break some of the most sophisticated codes on earth – had locked in on his cellphone, analysed the unsecured connection to an active device, traced it back to its source and triangulated a position to within 10 feet.
Armed with this information, Franklin made a call to the Agency’s switchboard requesting to be transferred to the case officer assigned to Drake’s team.
‘You just don’t get it, do you?’ Cunningham shot back. ‘This is bigger than you and me. It’s bigger than Carpenter, bigger than Horizon. If you could see past your self-righteous shite, you’d realise we both want the same thing.’
Drake’s eyes narrowed. ‘And what’s that?’
‘A way out,’ he said. ‘This war’s bleeding us dry. ISAF’s spending a hundred billion a year in Afghanistan and getting fuck all in return, except body bags and cripples. We both know the Americans will order a withdrawal sooner or later. What do you think will happen then?’
Drake said nothing, just waited for him to go on.
‘It’ll be the same as when the fucking Soviets pulled out – history repeating itself. It’ll be civil war, torture, genocide – you name it. Tens of thousands will die, and all the sacrifices we made will be for nothing. I’m going to stop that.’
‘By killing the same soldiers you’re supposed to be protecting?’ Drake demanded, bristling with cold anger at his friend’s betrayal.
‘By forcing a withdrawal now, and replacing them with something better,’ Cunningham retorted. ‘The army wasn’t made for this kind of war – we both know that. They can’t take a shit without authorisation from the UN. Horizon on the other hand … they can fight this war the way it needs to be fought, for a fraction of the cost.’
Drake understood all too well. PMCs weren’t compelled to report casualties, weren’t duty bound to fly flag-draped coffins back home in very public admissions of their losses. And most important, they weren’t subject to the same oversight as the military, weren’t held accountable for their actions.
The war in Afghanistan could carry on just like before, the politicians in Washington could bask in the success of having brought their boys home, and meanwhile people would carry on fighting and dying out here. It would become a quiet, dirty little war that the average American voter no longer had to concern himself with.
And for men like Carpenter, the resulting contracts would be worth billions. War had become business, and business would be booming for years to come.
Crawford’s cellphone was ringing. Leaving Keegan to hunt for Drake’s trail, he flipped the phone open to take the call. ‘Yeah?’
‘Agent Crawford, this is Dan Franklin, director of Special Activities Division. Do I have your attention?’
Crawford’s heartbeat doubled within seconds, though he gave little outward sign of it. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good. You’re looking for Ryan Drake, correct?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Well, you’ve found him,’ Franklin announced. ‘And he needs your help.’
Barely twenty seconds later, the call was over. Flipping his phone closed, Crawford hurried over to Keegan.
‘We’ve got him,’ he announced without preamble. ‘Drake’s cellphone just went active. NSA have locked down a location.’
Keegan’s eyes opened wide in disbelief. ‘Where?’
‘The safe house we were at yesterday.’ Without waiting for a response, he turned around. ‘Faulkner, get over here!’
The big field agent was there within seconds.
‘Prepare an assault team, fully armed. And get some air assets on this. I want that entire area locked down, airtight. Understand?’
‘Completely, sir.’
‘Good. And get in contact with McKnight, tell her where we’re headed. Go now!’
‘Why would Ryan do something so stupid?’ Keegan asked. ‘He’d have to know we’d track him down.’
Crawford’s expression was as dark as the night around them. ‘If what Director Franklin told me is true, that’s exactly what he wants.’
‘Christ, Matt, listen to yourself,’ Drake implored his friend. ‘You were working with the same men you’re supposed to be fighting. How many people have died because of this?’
Drake saw the muscles in his throat rise and fall as Cunningham swallowed, saw a flicker of remorse in his eyes.
‘It’s a war. Every war means sacrifices. We had to let Anwari have a few successes to get the other insurgent groups to trust him. Once they did, they were easy for us to take down. Don’t you understand? He was our fucking silver bullet. We’ve killed more Taliban commanders in the past few months than ISAF managed in the past three years.’
‘And now he’s dead,’ Drake reminded him. ‘He’s dead because he outlived his usefulness. How long do you think it’ll be before you outlive yours?’
For a moment, he saw a hint of doubt in his friend’s eyes.
‘It doesn’t have to end like this, Matt,’ Drake went on, desperately trying to capitalise on the older man’s wavering resolve. ‘There’s enough information in that file to bring down Carpenter and everyone else involved in this. If you help me, we can make a deal. Immunity from prosecution, a Presidential pardon … whatever you want.’
He took a step forward, his boot brushing against the floorboard he had moved aside earlier. ‘I know you, Matt. This isn’t you. Don’t waste everything you’ve done on an arsehole like Carpenter. He isn’t worth it.’
For a brief, agonising second, Cunningham seemed poised to relent, to lay down his weapon and accept Drake’s offer. His gaze appeared to turn inward, as if seeing his actions, so easy to justify at the time, for what they truly amounted to.
And then, in the blink of an eye, it was gone.
‘Nice try, but it’s a little late for that,’ he said with a grim smile. ‘Step back, Ryan. Away from the folder.’
Drake’s heart sank. He had failed.
‘No,’ he said, standing his ground. ‘I won’t.’
In response, Cunningham thumbed back the hammer on his weapon. ‘Don’t test me, son. Step back.’
‘Or what? You’ll kill me?’ Drake challenged him. ‘We both know you have to do it. I’ve seen too much, I know too much. I’m a threat now.’
Cunningham said nothing, just stood there rooted to the spot, covering Drake with the automatic.
‘Come on. What’s the matter? Lost your nerve?’ Drake taunted. ‘You can kill innocent men, but not your own friend? Is that one sacrifice too many?’
Cunningham shook his head, his eyes hardening with cold resolve. ‘It’s never too many,’ he said, his finger tightening on the trigger. ‘I’m sorry, mate.’
Drake took another step forward, his hands raised as he stared into his friend’s eyes, readying himself for what was about to happen.
‘Yeah, so am I.’
His first impression was of a terrific orange-white flash that seemed to engulf the entire room, wiping away all sense of light and shadow. It was followed an instant later by a vicious, explosive roar like a thousand bonfires all burning at once.
Standing mere feet from the source of ignition, he felt the blast of heat immediately, searing his exposed skin and blistering the surface of his jacket.
But he paid no attention to any of these things. In the half-second after detonation, his sole focus was Cunningham.
He saw the man’s eyes close involuntarily to protect themselves from the blinding light and heat, saw him throw his arm up and back away from the inferno that was now surging upwards from beneath the floor.
This was his chance.
With a primal cry, Drake lowered his shoulder and charged, catching Cunningham across the midriff and driving him backwards through the doorway. His momentum was only halted when his opponent slammed into the wall beyond with bruising force, crumpling the plasterboard facade.
Wasting no time, Drake straightened up, drew back his arm and smacked the automatic from Cunningham’s hand with a powerful backhanded strike. The weapon roared as a single round discharged from the sudden impact, only for Cunningham to lose his grip on it. Drake couldn’t tell where it had landed, but it was no longer in his opponent’s hand, and that was good enough for him.
Now they were even.
With his opponent disarmed, Drake went to work, lashing out with vicious, powerful strikes to his face and body. All of the anger and pain of his betrayal, held in check by sheer willpower, had at last found an outlet. In his mind, Cunningham was no longer a friend. He was an adversary, and a dangerous one at that. He had to be dealt with quickly.
A knee to the stomach doubled Cunningham over, followed by a brutal right hook to the jaw that dropped him to the floor. Drake was on top of him in an instant, pinning him down so he could pummel him again.
The air was rapidly filling with smoke and noxious fumes from the still-burning grenade, stinging his eyes and choking his lungs with each breath. Now burning at 2,500 degrees, the thermite reaction was more than enough to ignite the wooden floorboards and joists around it.
A sudden crash from behind told him the molten thermite had just burned through the floor to drop down into whatever room lay below. Glancing around, he saw a column of flame rising from a metre-wide hole where the grenade had once been.
And lying just feet away from it was Mitchell’s folder. He had to get to it before the flames consumed it. Surrounded by such heat, a paper folder would be incinerated within seconds.
But first he had to finish his enemy. Glaring at Cunningham, he drew back his right arm to deliver a blow that would put him down for good.
But his momentary hesitation had bought Cunningham a precious second or so to recover his wits. Even as Drake swung for one last strike to put him down, Cunningham’s arm swept upwards and parried the blow, deflecting it enough for him to twist aside and avoid it.
Caught off balance, Drake could do nothing to defend himself as Cunningham’s fist drove into his side. His friend knew his injury, knew exactly where to strike to inflict maximum damage, and didn’t hesitate to exploit his advantage. There was a sickening crack as an already weakened rib gave way under the blow.
Once a boxer, Drake knew as well as anyone that a single punch could turn a fight around. Many times he had seen dominant fighters felled by weaker opponents, brought down by one lucky strike that just happened to make contact in the right place at the right moment. There was always that instant of hesitation, that fraction of a second when everything seemed to stop, when the two adversaries stood frozen in time, perfectly balanced.
That was the turning point.
He couldn’t see it now, but he felt it.
The world around him seemed to grow hazy as a tidal wave of pain exploded outwards from the point of impact, driving all before it. Drake felt as though he had been struck in the side with a sledgehammer, as if his entire ribcage had been caved in, crushing and tearing his internal organs. A sudden burst of warmth told him his makeshift dressing had come away, fresh blood welling up from the reopened wound.
Managing to wedge a knee between himself and Drake, Cunningham drove it upwards with all his strength, throwing Drake backwards through the doorway to land in a sprawl on the rough floorboards beyond.
The room was well and truly ablaze now. Though the thermite had burned right through to the level below, much of the floor was now on fire, with flames licking up through gaps in the boards. Choking smoke filled the air, red and orange in the glow of the fire.
Through hazy, streaming eyes, Drake looked up as Cunningham staggered through the doorway, bloodied and bruised but defiantly on his feet. He stooped down and snatched up the crowbar Drake had discarded earlier, wielding the simple but brutally effective weapon with practised ease.
Drake could do nothing to defend himself. He had no weapons, no objects to use as a shield, nothing with which to deflect the blow.
Staring into Cunningham’s eyes, Drake saw no trace of the man he had once known. A killer stood before him now; a soldier ready to finish his enemy without remorse, without hesitation.
Something was pressing into his back; something hard and square. He had barely noticed it amidst the burning pain of his broken rib and the choking fumes that seared his lungs with every breath, but his subconscious recognised it as something significant. A small, hard, square object lying discarded on the floor …
In a flash, his pain-racked brain assembled the pieces and realised the truth.
Even as Cunningham raised the crowbar to strike, Drake rolled aside, reached beneath him and felt his fingers close around the butt of Cunningham’s Beretta.
It must have landed there when he struck it from the older man’s grasp.
With no time to aim, he brought the weapon up in Cunningham’s general direction, flicked off the safety and pulled the trigger.
There was a sharp crack, and suddenly a cloud of red sprayed outwards from the man’s right shoulder, spinning him around with the force of the impact. For a fleeting moment he saw utter shock reflected in his former friend’s eyes.
Squinting and struggling to hold the weapon level, Drake adjusted his aim and capped off another round just as Cunningham disappeared into the smoke and haze. The bullet sailed harmlessly past him, burying itself in the wall opposite.
Get up, a voice in his mind implored him. Get up now!
Gritting his teeth against the pain that blazed as hot as the fire consuming the room around him, Drake rolled over onto his stomach and forced himself up from the ground, muscles trembling with the effort.
On his feet, if only through sheer force of will, he staggered out through the doorway with the weapon raised, rounding the frame in time to see Cunningham disappearing down the stairs clutching his arm.
‘Shit!’
Turning back into the room, he pulled his T-shirt up against his mouth in a feeble attempt to keep the smoke from his lungs. It didn’t do much good, and already he was coughing and gasping for air.
With water streaming from his eyes, he glanced down at the floor. Mitchell’s folder was still lying where he’d left it, its edges curling in the intense heat. One side was already alight as the flames rapidly spread out to consume it.
Cunningham would have to wait. That folder was the priority.
Braving the intense heat, he rushed forward and snatched up the folder, desperately beating it against his leg to extinguish the flame
s. It was charred and scorched in places, but still intact.
But he wouldn’t be if he stayed here much longer. Already the floor was sagging inwards and flames were licking at the walls eagerly seeking more fuel.
Clutching the documents inside his jacket, Drake turned and fled, bumping into the wall outside before staggering down the corridor. He still gripped the Beretta in case Cunningham returned to finish the job, though his ability to hit anything more than 6 feet away was dubious.
His vision growing vague and hazy, he stumbled down the stairs, almost losing his footing. Smoke was billowing out of the corridor below. Whatever room the thermite had dropped down into must also be ablaze.
There was no sign of Cunningham, but a glance at the front door showed it standing ajar. He had made a run for it, fleeing into the surrounding neighbourhood.
Driven by his own body’s desperate need for oxygen, Drake dashed for the door, kicked it open and staggered outside.
He could go no further. Exhausted, he fell to his knees, still clutching the burned and crumpled folder as though his life depended on it, which it probably did.
Behind him, a tremendous crash announced the collapse of the burning upper floor. Smoke was now streaming from the first-floor windows, and though he couldn’t see it from his position, he was certain flames were now licking at the roof.
With trembling, soot-smeared hands, he laid the folder down. Cunningham had come within seconds of destroying it for ever, yet here it was, safe at last.
Redemption for him, and retribution for men like Carpenter.
The screech of tyres drew his attention to the main gate, where a Ford Explorer had just skidded to a halt, its headlight beams blindingly intense. Moments later, several figures emerged from the vehicle and streamed in through the open gate, all clutching weapons.
‘Ryan!’ he heard a familiar voice call out.
Sure enough, Samantha McKnight came rushing towards him, her eyes flitting between the dirty, injured, haggard-looking man who bore little resemblance to the Ryan Drake she knew, the damaged folder lying beside him, and the burning house behind.
