by Will Jordan
As the two operatives slid off their chairs and onto the floor, Anya glanced at the bank of television monitors facing her. There were cameras covering every conceivable angle of the building, including the rooftop helicopter pad.
A Bell 205 chopper had just touched down. Its rotors were still turning, which meant the pilot expected to take off again shortly. It was here to pick someone up, and she had a feeling she knew who.
Hitting the button behind her to unlock the door, she waited a few seconds while Frost entered, clutching her own weapon in a death grip. The young woman surveyed the two captives on the ground and their dead companion on the far side of the room, saying nothing.
‘Can you handle these two?’ Anya asked without lowering her weapon.
She nodded. ‘I’ve got them.’
‘Good.’ Lowering the carbine, Anya turned to face her. ‘Disable the door lock when I leave. You’ll be safe here until help arrives.’
Designed as it was to resist intruders, Frost could hold out in this room for days if need be. The armoured walls had even muffled the sound of the gunshot.
‘What about you?’
Anya glanced at the image of the chopper waiting for its high-priority passenger. ‘I have to pay a visit to an old friend.’
She was just reaching for the door release when the young woman spoke up again. ‘Anya, look …’ She sighed, struggling to express what she was feeling. ‘For what it’s worth … I still don’t like you.’
Anya glanced at her, offering a small, barely perceptible smile. ‘The feeling is mutual. Good luck, Frost.’
With that, she hit the door release button, slipped through and was gone.
‘They’ll be coming,’ Drake said, checking the semi-transparent magazine on his P90 to see how many rounds were left. ‘Everyone get ready.’
With the chopper destroyed, there was only one more loose end to tie up, and that was them. The Horizon strike team would come at them with everything they had now, wanting to finish this quickly.
Drake turned his attention to Keegan, who had clambered up a set of stone steps to a low parapet running along the top of the wall. That position afforded the sniper a far greater field of fire.
‘John, how many rounds have you got?’
‘Last mag,’ the sniper replied without taking his eye off the weapon’s sights. ‘Not much to hold them off with.’
‘Then make every round count.’
The old man flashed a wolfish grin. ‘Always do, buddy.’
McKnight had taken up position on the other side of the compound, crouched by the collapsed pile of stones that had once been a shed or dwelling, the barrel of her weapon sweeping the darkness. Drake hurried over to her.
‘What about you, Sam?’ he asked, speaking low and quiet.
‘One clip in the weapon, plus one spare.’ She glanced at Drake and managed a weak smile. ‘I guess waving a white flag’s out of the question, huh?’
Drake shook his head. ‘Wouldn’t hold my breath.’
‘Figured as much.’
Drake hesitated, about to move away. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t leave her here alone to hold this position.
‘Sam, get over there,’ he said, pointing over to the far corner of the compound, where stood the remains of some kind of kiln or oven.
She shook her head. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’
‘You’ll be safer there.’ Unwilling to debate the matter, he grabbed her by the arm and pulled her away from the gap. Pain burned outwards from his broken rib.
‘Damn it, Ryan,’ she hissed, shoving him away. ‘It doesn’t matter where I am. If they get in here, we’re all dead. So shut the hell up and get on that wall. I’ll cover this position.’
Drake was about to argue, but a shout from Keegan silenced further debate.
‘Movement, fifty yards. This is it.’
Drake glanced back at the woman.
‘Trust me, Ryan. Go,’ she implored him, eyes shining in the light of the burning chopper.
Reaching out, Drake grasped her hand tight, wishing he had time to say the things he wanted to say. But this wasn’t the time, and it certainly wasn’t the place. Instead he let go and took up position on the other side of the breach.
No way were those bastards getting in here. Only one side was getting out of this alive, and he would make sure it was his.
Not far away, concealed in the darkness and tangled scrub, Piet Vermaak surveyed the old farm compound with the keen, analytical gaze of a born soldier.
Like penned sheep, their enemies were all confined within those ancient walls. At least one was heavily wounded, as Vermaak himself had made sure. Dead comrades could be left behind if need be, but few could stand to abandon a wounded man. Instead he became a drain on his own side, requiring people to treat and tend him.
That left three able-bodied defenders, surrounded, with limited ammunition, standing against a dozen heavily armed operatives. Vermaak might have smiled if the situation had been different, if there wasn’t so much at stake.
His radio earpiece crackled. ‘We’re in position. RPG’s standing by.’
Time to put an end to this.
Vermaak hit his radio’s transmit button. ‘Fire.’
‘Incoming!’ Keegan cried out in warning.
Instinctively they flattened themselves against the ground as a volley of rocket-propelled grenades arced in from several different directions, all converging on the compound they had sought shelter in. Designed for knocking out tanks, they were also ruthlessly effective against lightly armoured structures.
One sailed right overhead, its rocket motor still trailing exhaust gases, and exploded about 50 feet away. Another found its mark, however, striking the north wall of the compound and blasting a gaping hole in the ancient stonework.
Drake covered his head as chunks of masonry rained down on them, dust and smoke filling the air. Decades-old mud brick was just no match for several pounds of high explosive.
These rockets had a smaller kill radius than fragmentation rounds, but they were doing a pretty effective job of reducing the compound walls to broken rubble. Several breaches had been opened by the first salvo. More than they could cover.
Shaking his head, Drake picked himself up. Dust swirled around him, stinging his eyes and choking his throat.
‘Contact! Targets, thirty yards and closing!’ McKnight raised her P90 and started snapping off shots.
‘How many?’ Drake called, his ears ringing.
A burst of fire slammed into the wall that McKnight was crouched behind, showering her with stone fragments. ‘Shit!’ She pressed a hand against the fresh cut on her cheek. ‘Lots, and they’re not stopping.’
Drake took a deep breath, rallying whatever reserves of strength remained to him, and rose to his feet. Rushing over to the newly opened gap in the north wall, he took up position on the left side, raised his weapon up to the shoulder just as he’d done a thousand times before, and peered out.
He caught a momentary glimpse of dark figures emerging from the dry scrub barely 20 yards distant, before at least two of them opened up on him, firing in sustained automatic bursts. Ducking down, he watched as several tracer rounds zipped through the gap mere feet from his head.
He waited for a break in the fire. There was no time to ponder the risks, to analyse the situation and consider alternatives. When the chance came, he acted, leaning out with the P90 at his shoulder, and sighted his target.
Taking first pressure on the trigger, he put down a dozen rounds on semi-automatic, gritting his teeth as the weapon kicked back into his shoulder again and again. His target crumpled beneath the relentless hail of fire, and straight away he switched his attention to another, the barrel of his sub-machine gun trailing smoke as he brought it to bear.
Carpenter could do no more here. The final assault on the compound was by now well under way, bright flashes illuminating the screen as RPG rounds exploded and tracer fire was spat in different directions.
Nonetheless, Carpenter intended to be far away from here by dawn. He could hear the distinctive thump of rotor blades as his chopper settled on the rooftop helipad, signalling that it was time to leave.
Spinning around in his chair, he removed a picture from the wall behind him to reveal a safe with an electronic keypad. Inputting his access code, he heard a faint hum as the bolts were withdrawn, then grabbed the handle and pulled the door open. Within the armoured box lay bundles of money in assorted denominations – $250,000 in total.
The first rule of any military engagement was to always have an exit strategy.
After transferring the better portion of the money into his leather briefcase, he snapped the safe closed once more, grabbed his case and rose from his chair.
‘Spoils of war, Richard?’ a voice asked mockingly.
Startled, Carpenter spun around to face the unexpected arrival. And just like that, he froze, rooted to the spot, his eyes wide and staring in absolute, uncomprehending shock.
‘What’s the matter?’ Anya asked, her eyes pools of ice as she stared at him down the sights of her assault rifle. ‘You don’t look pleased to see me.’
Drake was in his own world now, aware of nothing except the weapon in his hands and the picture down the reflex sight. It was always like that in combat. Even surrounded by comrades, you were alone, fighting your own battle, concentrating on all the things you had to do to survive and keep going.
The bolt snapped back as he squeezed off another round, but didn’t move forward to draw another into the breach. He turned the weapon on its side, seeing about twenty rounds remaining in the partially transparent magazine.
Normally he would have yelled out a warning to his companions, but he resisted the urge now. Nobody could cover him.
Instead he racked back the charging handle to manually draw the next round into the breech. With luck it was just a defective round, or dust or grit might have fouled the moving parts.
Beside him, McKnight was firing in rapid bursts, her face streaked with dust as empty shell casings pattered to the ground at her feet. Keegan added his firepower to the desperate defence, and he even heard the crack of Crawford’s side arm.
Drake was just bringing the newly cleared weapon up to aim when a burst of fire impacted the wall, tracing its way along until one of the rounds hit him on the left side of the chest, spinning him around and knocking him down. He hit the ground with bruising force, sharp rocks tearing his clothes and cutting his skin.
He recovered, rolled over and struggled up to his knees. Every breath brought a fresh stab of pain. Blood pounded in his ears.
Through the thudding of his heartbeat, he heard Keegan’s voice. ‘Ryan! You okay?’
It’s nothing. The vest stopped it. You’re alive – get up and fight. Get up now!
He had been hit by a ricochet, most of its kinetic energy already drained away by the time it found him.
Reaching out, he grabbed his fallen weapon and looked up just as a figure in dark military fatigues appeared in the smouldering gap left by the RPG. Without hesitation, Drake raised the sub-machine gun and emptied the last of his ammunition into his target.
He was about to move when something landed on the ground next to him with a heavy metallic thunk. Glancing down, he saw the round metal body of a fragmentation grenade lying a couple of yards away.
It was an M67, the standard frag grenade of the US Army. It was lighter than the Vietnam-era M61 it had replaced, but more dangerous, with a casualty radius of up to 20 metres. No way could he get clear in time.
M67s have a standard-delay fuse of just over four seconds. Assuming roughly a second for it to fly through the air and land, plus another second for him to react, that gave him about two seconds to play with. Many soldiers ‘cooked’ grenades by pulling the pin and waiting a couple of seconds before throwing, but it took a brave man to hold a live grenade for more than a second or two in the heat of battle. So he had anywhere between zero and two seconds to do something.
Either way, he had no choice but to attempt what he did next. Throwing himself forward, he snatched up the device and hurled it back through the hole in the wall, flattening himself against the ground.
Half a second later the grenade detonated with a concussive boom loud enough to leave his ears ringing, followed by an agonised scream. Drake might have avoided the grenade’s lethal hail of shrapnel, but its owner hadn’t.
He could do no more here. He was out of ammunition.
‘John, I’m out! Fall back!’ Drake cried, heading towards McKnight, who was still snapping off rounds at the west wall.
Up on the parapet, Keegan was singing quietly under his breath even as the desperate firefight raged all around him.
‘Get sixteen gamblers to carry my coffin, six pretty maidens to sing me a song.’
Spotting movement off to his right, he swung the P90 around and put down three rounds, scoring two hits, one of which was almost certainly fatal. If the bastards wanted him, they would pay a heavy price.
‘Take me to the valley and lay soil o’er me.’
Shots tore through the parapet to his left, blasting apart the ancient mud bricks and showering him with dust. Homing in on the weapon’s distinctive muzzle flare, Keegan took careful aim and squeezed the trigger.
He managed two shots before the firing pin hit an empty breech.
‘Cos I’m a young cowboy and I know I done wrong.’
He saw the flash out of the corner of his eye, and the distinctive trail of exhaust smoke as the RPG sailed in gracefully towards him.
He had done what he could. Leaping down from the parapet, he landed and flattened himself on the ground just as the RPG round impacted. With a thunderous roar, the parapet on which he’d been standing disintegrated in a cloud of dust and smoke and flame.
‘John! Are you all right?’ Drake cried, half deaf from explosions and gunfire.
‘Ask me in the morning.’ Bruised and bleeding but still whole, Keegan scrambled to his feet and started towards Drake.
No sooner had he taken a step than something thumped hard into his back, knocking the wind from his lungs. He staggered forward a few more paces, still in shock, not realising he’d been hit. His legs gave way beneath him and he fell, only to be caught by Drake.
‘Come on, mate! Move!’ Drake yelled in his ear, dragging him over to Crawford who was still lying propped against the outer wall.
There was no recognition in the man’s eyes as Drake approached. They were glassy and staring, seeing nothing. His arms hung limp by his sides, one hand still clutching his automatic.
He was gone.
Cursing himself for abandoning the critically wounded man, Drake glanced up as McKnight rushed over, throwing aside her empty P90.
‘What happened?’ she asked, looking down at Keegan.
‘He took a round through the chest.’ The grave tone of Drake’s voice was more chilling than Keegan’s groans of pain and ragged breathing. ‘Crawford’s dead.’
McKnight glanced at the agent slumped against the wall, tears in her eyes.
Drake’s attention, however, was focused on those who were still living. Gently he laid his friend down and tore his shirt open to examine the injury. The AK round had passed straight through him. Frothy blood was leaking from the exit wound on his chest.
They had no medical gear with them, particularly the chest-draining kit that he so desperately needed. Each breath was filling Keegan’s chest cavity with air, crushing his lungs under the pressure.
He was finished, and they both knew it.
‘How am I doing?’ Keegan asked, struggling to draw breath. ‘No … no bullshit.’
Drake gripped his hand, obeying the older man’s wish. He wouldn’t lie to him now. ‘You’re lung-shot, mate. I’m sorry. There’s nothing I can do.’
He saw a pained, grim smile. ‘Figured as much.’
Reaching into his torn, bloodstained shirt, Keegan’s trembling hand found the lucky charm necklace he always wore. It had kept him safe all this time, but it seemed even his luck had finally run out.
‘It’s okay, man,’ he whispered. ‘I’m … ready.’
His eyes were growing dim and unfocused. With one last convulsive breath, his body shuddered and lay still, his unseeing eyes still staring at Drake.
Drake bowed his head in grief, unable to look at him. Another good man dead.
His grief was short-lived. A faint whoosh beyond the compound’s shattered walls announced the launch of another RPG.
In a final desperate act, Drake reached for McKnight, trying to shield her with his body as the wall beside him erupted in a storm of smoke and masonry.
Chapter 54
For several seconds, neither of them spoke a word or moved a muscle. They both stood there on opposite sides of the room, staring at each other. It was the first time Carpenter had laid eyes on Anya in almost a decade.
She hadn’t changed much in that time. Standing tall and unbowed, she seemed to possess the same subtle grace and poise that had so caught his attention the first time he had met her.
Her hair was shorter than he remembered, her skin a little more tanned from long exposure to the sun. But her eyes remained the same. Those vivid, intense, remorseless eyes were now locked with his.
Years of pent-up rage and hatred and pain burned behind them.
‘I like what you have done with the place, Richard,’ Anya remarked, glancing at their opulent surroundings. ‘It is … more comfortable than the last time I was here.’
Carpenter winced inwardly. He knew exactly what she was referring to, knew there were some things she could never put behind her. And he was the cause of it.
‘How did you get in?’ he asked. He couldn’t help it. He had to know.
She flashed a faint, knowing smile. ‘With your training, Richard. You taught me everything I know, remember?’
Yes, he did remember. How could he ever forget? He had taught her to use everything at her disposal to complete her mission, how to shut out pain and weakness and fear, how to kill without hesitation. He had helped mould her into the perfect soldier. And now here she was with a gun trained on him.
