by Will Jordan
‘What do you want?’
‘What do I want?’ she repeated, taking another step towards him. ‘Twenty years of my life I sacrificed for you. I want to take back what you took from me.’
Resisting the urge to swallow, Carpenter glanced down at the briefcase lying on his desk. ‘If this is about money …’
‘It was always about money with you, Richard,’ she said, glaring at him with cold fury. ‘That was your problem – you were willing to give up everything and everyone for it. And believe me, you will be punished for that. But first I want you to get on your radio.’
Struggling to see through eyes clogged with blood and dust, Drake rolled over and heaved himself slowly up from the ground. Every bone and muscle in his body blazed with agony.
He coughed, trying to draw breath. Warm air laden with dust and smoke filled his lungs, choking him.
Wiping his eyes, he looked over at McKnight. She was lying half buried by rubble from the collapsed wall, her eyes closed. He couldn’t tell if she was breathing or not.
With the world lurching sickeningly in and out of focus, he tried to reach out to her, tried to feel for a pulse.
‘She can’t hear you now, man,’ a low, menacing South African voice said.
Crawford’s pistol was still lying in the dead man’s lap. Summoning up his waning strength, Drake snatched it up, bringing the weapon to bear on Vermaak.
It was a feeble effort, and easily blocked with a well-placed kick that sent the weapon flying out of his grasp. A second kick to the face knocked Drake sprawling, stars dancing across his vision while blood pounded in his ears.
His head lolled to the side, and through blurry eyes he saw something protruding from the ground beside him. A twisted length of metal rod, perhaps once part of the wall that had so recently been demolished.
Piet Vermaak stared down at the injured man, eyes glittering with malice and hatred. Behind him, two other Horizon operatives stood with their weapons at the ready, silhouetted by the flickering orange glow of the burning chopper.
Suddenly his eyes fastened onto the burned and crumpled folder shoved down the front of Drake’s shirt. It didn’t take him long to put the pieces together.
‘What do we have here?’ Throwing his AK-47 aside, he knelt down and snatched the folder from its hiding place, easily defeating Drake’s attempts to hold on to it.
As he leafed through the pages, a smile spread over Vermaak’s face. ‘This is what you risked everything for, man. A few burned pieces of paper.’
But no sooner had he spoken than his radio crackled into life, Carpenter’s grainy voice filtering over the airwaves. ‘Strike team, what’s your sit rep?’
Still smiling, Vermaak hit his transmitter. ‘We have it all. Drake, and the evidence. I’m about to get rid of both.’
‘Negative. Stand down,’ Carpenter ordered. ‘Fall back to the vehicles and get out of there.’
The smile vanished then. ‘Say again? We have Drake. It’s over.’
‘I said stand down,’ Carpenter repeated. Was his voice trembling? ‘Do not touch Drake. Acknowledge my last.’
Drake wasn’t listening. All his attention was focused on that shard of metal protruding from the ground. With desperate, feeble strength, he started to crawl towards it, inch by painful inch, his hands clawing at soil and rubble.
Almost there. He could almost reach it.
After a moment of indecision, Vermaak shook his head. He hadn’t come this far, hadn’t lost all these operatives, to turn tail and run now. Reaching up, he switched off his radio and glanced at his two companions.
‘There were no survivors tonight. Understand?’
Neither man said a word. Both knew better than to argue with him.
Satisfied, he turned his attention back to Drake. But the brief hesitation had bought him a few precious seconds.
As Vermaak took a step towards him, Drake closed his fingers around the metal rod, yanked it from the ground and with a primal snarl of hatred, twisted around and plunged it into the man’s thigh with all the force he could command. He felt the taut resistance of skin and flesh, felt the ragged end tear and cleave its way through thick muscle.
Growling in pain, Vermaak responded with a kick to Drake’s injured ribs. Agony exploded through him and he fell backwards, pain and darkness threatening to overwhelm him.
He was finished. He coughed, blood streaking the ground beneath him. All he could see were McKnight’s eyes, wide and staring.
Nearby, Vermaak yanked the rod from his leg and threw it aside. Blood flowed down his combat trousers, gleaming in the firelight, but he barely seemed to notice. He was no stranger to pain. This wasn’t enough to stop him.
‘Persistent little fuck, aren’t you?’
Drawing his side arm, Vermaak took a step towards his helpless adversary, kicked him over and knelt down atop him, forcing a knee into his throat. He wanted the man to see his death coming.
‘You should have gone home when you had the chance, Drake.’
He smiled with malicious hatred as he raised the automatic.
Suddenly, a volley of shots rang out behind him, accompanied by the dull thumps of bodies hitting the ground.
Teeth clenched in anger, Vermaak whirled to face this unexpected threat, bringing the weapon around at the same moment.
Shrouded in pain and darkness, Drake had no idea what was happening. All he could hear was gunfire. And dimly he was aware of Vermaak turning towards it.
‘Ryan …’ a weak voice called out.
Turning his head with great effort, he saw McKnight staring at him. She was alive, and with a trembling hand she had managed to push Crawford’s side arm across the ground to him.
Groping out, as much from instinct as rational thought, Drake felt his fingers close around the butt of the gun. His heart was pounding, adrenalin surging through his veins. Images of Keegan, of Frost and Mitchell and Anya and Crawford, whirled through his mind as he raised the weapon up, jammed it against Vermaak’s thick muscular neck and fired.
The report of the shot was muffled by human flesh. Drake heard only a dull pop, and saw a faint cloud of red mist ejected from the other side of the man’s neck.
Vermaak’s body went rigid as if hit by lightning. Then, slowly, he turned to look at Drake, his eyes holding no malice or hatred now; only utter shock.
He opened his mouth as if to speak, blood dripping from one corner, but only succeeded in making a strangled, gurgling moan. Then the shock faded from his eyes, the rigid body went limp and he pitched sideways with an exhausted groan, landing in a heap.
One hand was still outstretched, trying to grasp the burned and torn folder that held the ruin of one man and the salvation of another.
Managing to prop himself up on one arm, Drake surveyed the scene. The two operatives who had accompanied Vermaak were lying in crumpled heaps with their blood staining the ground.
‘I couldn’t do it, Ryan,’ a familiar voice said.
Drake’s head snapped around.
Cunningham was standing at one of the holes blasted in the outer wall, an AK-47 in his arms. Smoke still trailed from the barrel.
‘I couldn’t let them kill you.’ The look in his eyes was one of absolute grief and guilt as he surveyed the carnage within the compound. ‘You were right. That was a sacrifice I wasn’t prepared to make.’
Drake glanced down at the weapon in his hands. The slide had flown back to reveal an empty breech. He had used the last round on Vermaak.
‘This doesn’t change a thing,’ he warned his former friend. ‘It doesn’t undo what you did, Matt.’
Cunningham swallowed, but nodded. ‘I know. But maybe it’s a start.’
He made to turn away, but hesitated, looking back over his shoulder.
‘I’ll see you around.’
With that, he turned and vanished like a ghost into the darkness.
Chapter 55
CIA Training Facility ‘Camp Peary’, Virginia,
27 N
ovember 1985
She could feel Carpenter increasing the pressure, could feel his hands pressing down on her with murderous strength, forcing her head beneath the surface once more. This time she knew he wouldn’t release her until it was over.
And just like that, something snapped inside her. Months of pain and resentment and humiliation finally broke free of the tenuous control she had maintained all this time.
Summoning whatever strength she had left, she drove her right knee up between his legs. She was half blinded by the muddy water but her aim was true, and she felt the satisfying impact as her knee connected with his groin.
Carpenter let out a gasp of pain, and for a brief moment his grip slackened. That was her chance. Throwing another punch that connected flush with his jaw and jarred her arm, she managed to stun him long enough to shove him sideways, using her leg to kick him off her.
She was on top of him in a heartbeat, and almost before she knew what was happening she had unsheathed his knife and pressed it against his throat. Now she was the one with murder in her eyes.
For a long moment they remained frozen like that, their eyes locked, rain sluicing down on them both. Carpenter was staring at her, but she didn’t see the usual disdain or resentment in him now.
For the first time she saw fear, and some part of her relished it.
Just as Luka had said, Carpenter had been trying to make her snap. Well, today he had finally succeeded and this was the result. It was as if another person had taken over her. She ached to kill him, to revisit on him all the months of torment he had inflicted on her.
‘I will show … no mercy,’ she hissed, raising the knife above her head and plunging it down with all the strength she could summon, driving the blade into the muddy ground only inches from his head.
‘Remember this,’ she said, releasing her grip on him. ‘Remember what I could have done to you.’
‘I did what you asked.’ Carpenter surveyed Anya across his desk. ‘It’s over.’
She remained unmoved by his attempt at supplication. ‘No. It’s not over, Richard. Not yet.’
She looked around, slowly surveying the plush office; the expensive furniture, the books, the computers, the big floor-to-ceiling windows and the expansive view beyond. Spoils of war.
‘I know what you did,’ she said, her voice low and quiet now. ‘Twenty years ago. I know it was you who sold us out.’ Seeing the look in his eyes, she smiled in satisfaction. ‘You thought your dirty little secret would never come out? You ought to choose your business partners more carefully. My captors at Khatyrgan prison took great pleasure in telling me all about the deal you two struck. They even played me a recording of the conversation.
‘We were loyal to you. We risked our lives for you, and you sold us out for a few extra zeros in your bank account. And when I made it home, like the coward you were, you blamed the whole thing on Luka. He was my brother in arms. He was a friend, a father, and you sent me to kill him.’
She looked at him again, and for a moment the mask slipped aside. He saw the depth of the hurt and betrayal that still lingered in her soul.
‘He took it, Richard. He took the blame, for me. He let me kill him to save my life. He was a better man than you could ever be.’
He took a step towards her, hands raised. ‘Anya, what happened was—’
‘Don’t,’ she warned, raising her weapon. She regarded him with a look of utter contempt. ‘You disgust me, Richard. You’re a coward and a liar. You had no right to ever call yourself a soldier. In fact, the only reason you are still alive is because I want something from you – a name.’
He frowned. ‘Whose name?’
‘The Russian you sold me out to.’
‘Anya, you don’t understand. This … this is bigger than you or me. There was more at stake …’
Jerking the weapon left, she squeezed a single shot that tore into his office chair, blasting away leather padding and fragments of wood. She made a show of training the weapon on him, aiming low, not to kill but to maim. He got the message.
Sighing, he at last gave her the name she wanted.
Straight away the colour drained from her face, and she felt her heart begin to pound. He hadn’t lied when he said this was bigger than both of them. What would a man like that want with her?
‘Whatever they paid you, I hope it was worth it,’ she said at last.
He knew what was coming, knew any attempt to placate her would be futile. Reaching for the glass of whisky on his desk, he took a long slow drink, savouring the taste. He knew it would be his last.
‘You still don’t get it, do you?’ he said, making no effort to conceal his hatred now. ‘You were expendable, Anya. People like you are always expendable.’
Anya realised now that he would never understand the depths of his crimes. He had betrayed people willing to fight and die for him; he had used them up and thrown them away when they had served his purpose. And she had allowed herself to be part of it.
Just for a moment she thought of Luka’s final words to her, right before she took his life.
It’s all right, don’t be afraid. You’re doing what you must, proving your loyalty. You were always the best of us. Remember that.
But he’d been wrong. Luka had been the best of them, not her. He had been willing to sacrifice his life, to destroy the trust and loyalty she had always felt towards him, to see his memory tarnished and his accomplishments forgotten.
And he had done all of it for her. Taking careful aim, she squeezed off another shot. The round struck Carpenter on the right side of the chest with such force that he was knocked backward, collapsing onto the thick carpet with a muted thud. He coughed, trying to draw breath, but it felt like a lead weight was pressing down on his chest, crushing the life from him. Foamy blood oozed from the hole in his chest.
Anya walked forward to look at him as he tried pathetically to rise. ‘The air from your punctured lung is escaping into your chest cavity. Every breath you take is killing you. But you might survive yet, if someone can get to you and insert a chest drain in time.’
In desperation, he looked up at his desk, at the phone sitting on the polished surface that could summon a dozen of his operatives into the room. Anya followed his line of sight and guessed his thoughts.
She knelt down, eyes still on him as he started to crawl towards his desk. ‘You can make it, but you must hurry. You’re haemorrhaging internally,’ she informed him. ‘Your lungs are collapsing. By my guess, you have about sixty seconds to live.’
Slowly, painfully, inch by inch, he crawled forward. He coughed, blood staining the carpet. His limbs numb as his consciousness started to fail.
‘Come on, you can do better than that,’ she taunted. ‘If you won’t fight for your own pathetic life, how do you expect others to fight for you?’
He reached out for his padded leather chair, hand flailing. He almost managed to pull himself up before his waning strength failed him and he collapsed against it with a ragged, defeated sigh.
‘That’s what I thought,’ Anya concluded.
The old man coughed, spraying frothy blood on the carpet. His vision was growing dim as his body surrendered to the enveloping darkness.
‘That was the one thing you never understood about our work. Sooner or later, everyone is expendable.’ She rose to her feet and looked down at him with a mixture of pity and contempt. ‘You’ve just pissed yourself, Richard.’
With a final strangled gasp, he convulsed and then lay still.
Her work done, she turned and strode out of the room. She left the briefcase where it was – it was blood money and she had no interest in it.
The chopper was still waiting patiently, engines idling, when Anya pushed open the door and strode out onto the roof, assault rifle in hand.
For a few moments, the pilot merely stared her, perplexed as to what this woman was doing on the roof when he had been ordered only to pick up Carpenter.
Moving with long confident stride
s, she walked over to the cockpit window as if to have a word with him, then calmly raised her weapon and levelled it at his head. There was little need to explain herself. She preferred to let the gun do the talking.
Thirty seconds later she was strapped into the co-pilot’s chair, keeping her new friend covered while he spun up the engines and quickly ran through his pre-flight checks.
She should have felt elated as they lifted off and the Horizon compound slowly receded beneath them, yet her mind remained troubled. She had won a victory today, but a small one. If Carpenter was right, there remained a far larger war to fight.
But she was a soldier. No matter what else they had tried to make her, she was a soldier. Fighting wars was the only thing she had ever been good at.
And she would give them a war unlike any they had ever known.
Part Five
Reconciliation
‘A war begun for no wise purpose, carried on with a strange mixture of rashness and timidity, brought to a close after suffering and disaster, without much glory attached either to the government which directed, or the great body of troops which waged it. Not one benefit, political or military, was acquired with this war.’
– Reverend G.R. Gleig, British Army chaplain, speaking of Afghanistan in 1843
Chapter 56
CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia, 26 August 2008
‘Well, I think that just about covers it,’ Franklin said, closing the thick file that represented Drake’s final report. The two men had been in a closed meeting in the Special Activities Division leader’s office for the past two hours, during which Drake had done most of the talking.
Laying the folder aside, Franklin surveyed his friend across the desk.
Two weeks of rest and rehabilitation had done much to restore Drake’s health, though it was clear he had taken a great deal of punishment. His ribs were mending well, and his many cuts, bruises and gashes were also much improved, but some wounds went deeper than that.
