by Rob Sinclair
Hunt for the Enemy
Rob Sinclair
For my wonderful wife.
Thank you for putting up with me, xxx
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
PART 1 Killer instincts
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
PART 2 The forgotten enemy
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
PART 3 Know your enemy
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
PART 4 Chinks in the armour
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
PART 5 The art of deception
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Epilogue
Books by Rob Sinclair
Copyright
PART 1
Killer instincts
Chapter 1
July 2000
Marrakech, Morocco
It was summer. It was hot. No, not hot, scorching. The sun blazed down, heating the ground and everything around. Humid, sticky air seemed to seep through cracks in the road and from the walls of the sand-coloured buildings, rising upwards, choking everyone who breathed it. Carl Logan drove through the twisting city streets in a rusty old tin can of a car that clunked and jerked and whined every time he changed gear and every time the engine revved. He wore a pair of khaki linen trousers and a thin cotton shirt, but with the windows of the car fully wound down, the stifling air burst against his face and he was dripping wet. A thunderstorm had not long passed, leaving behind wispy grey clouds in the sky. Even though the fierce sun had done its best to burn away the remnants of the rain clouds, the humidity levels remained peaked.
And yet Logan was almost oblivious to the debilitating conditions. Because today was the day.
Three years of gruelling, agonising training had brought him to this point. The training had been more than tough; it had been life-changing, taking him to the brink physically on numerous occasions. He’d suffered terrible injuries, been hospitalised for weeks on end. It had been mentally draining too. From the intensive mock interrogations to the mind-bending psych evaluations, he’d felt like he was losing his mind. In many ways, he probably had. Numerous times during the training he’d questioned why he was going through it at all. Why he was committing his life to this cause that just three years before he’d not once considered.
But those thoughts were buried deep now.
Finally the training was over. It was time to show his true worth.
Logan had been in Marrakech for four weeks, but the full details of his first assignment for the Joint Intelligence Agency had only been relayed the previous evening by his boss back in England, Mackie. No details or explanation had been offered as to why the targets were on the JIA’s radar and Logan hadn’t asked. The targets were on the blacklist and that was all Logan needed to know. The JIA had hammered into him that his job wasn’t to ask questions. It was to carry out orders.
Sitting next to Logan in the passenger seat of the car was John Webb, a fellow JIA agent. Webb was a number of years more senior than Logan and had been a close mentor over the previous twelve months as Logan assimilated himself into the life of a field agent. The first two years with the JIA had been non-stop training, not even a hint of a real assignment. For the last year, he had been shadowing others in the field, learning.
Now it was his time to shine.
Logan had admired Webb from the very first time they’d met. After a troubled upbringing, like Logan’s, Webb had come into his own since joining the JIA ten years previously. He had an air of respect and dignity and yet he was tough and ruthless. The job of an agent was a loner’s one – there wasn’t the time or capacity for close friendships. And yet Logan had enjoyed the time he’d spent with Webb and he could tell the older agent had relished the opportunity to act as guide and tutor.
‘Take this next left,’ Webb said in his bass voice.
Logan took his foot off the accelerator and the car slowed. He was beginning to turn the wheel when a moped came sweeping up on his inside. Logan slammed on the brakes, narrowly avoiding a collision. Oblivious, the moped driver sped off into the distance. Logan clenched his hands on the steering wheel, attempting to return his focus to the task at hand.
‘Everything okay there? You seem a bit distant,’ said Webb.
It was the second time already on the short drive that Webb had questioned Logan’s state of mind.
Logan shot him a look.
‘I’m fine. I didn’t see him. That’s all.’
‘Okay, okay, only asking.’
Logan put the car into first gear and eased around the corner, into a cramped side street. On one side it was lined with industrial bins and bags of rubbish from the various shops, cafes and restaurants that occupied the parallel street at the front of the buildings. On the other was a series of ramshackle buildings, anything from two to five storeys tall. Cars and mopeds were parked tightly up against the buildings here and there.
The alley was narrow and dank – and dark, which at least provided immediate relief from the ferocious sun. They drove for a couple of hundred yards, Logan keeping the pace slow, winding the car through the at times impossibly narrow gaps where other cars had parked a little too far from the side of the road.
‘This is the place here,’ Webb said, ducking down and looking up through the window at the building on the right-hand side. ‘Pull up wherever you can.’
Logan drove just past the building and the nearest space, then put the car into reverse. He swung the vehicle back toward the wall, only stopping and re-aligning the steering when the rear of the car was a few inches from making contact. He misjudged it. As he turned the car in, there was a scraping noise: the bumper raking against the building.
‘Easy there!’ Webb shouted. ‘Come on, man. Just keep it cool.’
‘I am cool,’ Logan said.
‘Then straighten this thing up and let’s get inside.’
Logan pulled the car forward a couple of feet, then eased it back into the space, this time missing the wall without any trouble. He and Webb opened their doors in unison. Webb squeezed his muscled frame through the six-inch gap that Logan had given him – it was the only way to park the car and still allow other vehicles to pass. They couldn’t afford to block the street, which would cause unnecessary commotion.
Logan went around to the boot and opened it up. He picked up the larger of the two black aluminium cases that lay there. Webb took the smaller, lighter one. After shutting
the boot, Logan followed Webb around to the door of the building. It was derelict, a set of apartments that was in the process of being sold on for refurbishment. Most of the other buildings either side were in a similar state of disrepair, including those that were still occupied. The worn door to the building had a simple lock. Logan stood watch, eyes darting up and down the street and over the surrounding buildings, as Webb expertly picked the lock. It took less than ten seconds. Webb pushed the door open, its warped wood creaking and straining.
‘Come on, follow me,’ Webb said, heading in.
The building was dusty and dark inside but the air felt cool and dry. Webb did a quick recce of the ground floor, looking for any signs of life. There were none. He headed for the bare wooden staircase and Logan followed, lugging the heavy case with him.
‘You’re sure you’re ready for this?’ Webb asked without turning.
‘Yeah,’ Logan responded.
‘You know, it would be understandable if you were nervous. This isn’t for everyone.’
‘I’m not nervous.’
‘I’m just saying, don’t feel bad if you are. Training is one thing. But doing this for real? Not everyone can hack it.’
‘Whatever you say.’
‘But I know you can do it. I wouldn’t have let Mackie pass this job to you otherwise.’
‘Okay, I get it.’
‘You ask me, I’d say you’re a natural. Some people just don’t have it. Others do. I’m sure you’ll be fine.’
‘I never said I wouldn’t be.’
‘Okay, okay. So let’s just get this done.’
They passed the fifth and final floor, after which the staircase became narrower and steeper. At the top, they came to a stop at a gun-metal door. Webb pushed down the security bar and the door swung open to reveal the flat roof of the building.
Webb walked out and Logan followed, wincing as the blast of superheated air smacked him in the face. He followed Webb across the burning roof tiles to the far southerly corner. From there they had an unobstructed view toward the Kasbah district with its mix of old-world charm – the sumptuous colours of the rooftop gardens of luxury riads and the minarets from its many mosques poking proudly into the sky – together with the deep blue of the rooftop pools and gleaming glass of flash new hotels.
Webb kneeled down and opened up his case, then took out his spotter’s scope. Logan came down beside him and placed his larger case next to Webb’s. He undid the thick clasps and opened the lid to reveal the green and black AWSM sniper rifle, snug in the deep foam interior of the box.
Logan took out the rifle and attached the bipod, then quickly gave the rifle a once-over, making sure the mounted scope was securely in place. He opened a pouch on the case lid to reveal five shiny .338 Lapua Magnum cartridges and placed them one at a time into the rifle’s detachable magazine. With all five cartridges neatly inside, Logan clipped the magazine onto the assembled rifle and set it down on the ground.
‘Fifteen forty,’ Webb said, looking at his watch. ‘The target isn’t scheduled to arrive back until sixteen hundred.’
‘May as well set up the spotting position now,’ Logan said. ‘Get our sights ready.’
‘Agreed,’ said Webb. He lay flat on the ground and pushed his scope through a gap in the worn concrete wall that lined the rooftop.
But Logan didn’t lie down next to Webb to align the sights on the rifle. There was still plenty of time for that. Instead, he stood up, leaving the assembled rifle on the floor, and fished in his pocket for the plastic cord that he’d stashed there just a few minutes before the two agents had left the safe house.
‘The distance to the front entrance of the hotel is six hundred and seventy-three yards,’ Webb said. ‘The drop is forty-three feet.’
Logan knew the measurements already. He and Webb had been through every last detail numerous times. Webb’s repetition was just part of the routine. Everything had to be perfect for the shot. They would only get a few seconds. But Logan was confident he would take the shot exactly as planned. The distance wasn’t that difficult. The rifle could handle twice with ease. Logan himself had managed close to two thousand yards in training. Six hundred and seventy-three yards wouldn’t be a problem.
‘Wind speed is close to zero,’ Webb said, looking at his handheld anemometer. ‘But I’ll keep rechecking. And we should take readings from different spots on the rooftop over the next hour just to make sure. If we get another storm coming over, it could change significantly.’
‘Okay,’ Logan said, as much to himself as to Webb.
He took a deep breath.
And then he was ready.
Logan wrapped the cord tightly around both of his hands, leaving just two feet of flex in the middle. He was aware that his breathing and heart rate were speeding up, but he was sure it wasn’t nerves. Just adrenaline and anticipation.
With Webb still preoccupied, Logan stepped over his colleague, one foot either side, then quickly dropped his weight to the ground, his knees pinning down Webb’s arms. Webb immediately let go of the anemometer, squirming for just a second before Logan swept the flex under his colleague’s neck. He used his left hand to wrap the cord around a full turn and then he pulled back and out, hard and fast.
Webb rasped, trying to shout out but unable to with the crushing pressure on his windpipe. He kicked and writhed and squirmed. But Logan had taken him by surprise. The experienced agent simply hadn’t been ready and there was no way he was getting out.
Webb coiled and bucked but Logan held firm. He pulled on the cord, using every ounce of strength he could muster, his arms, his whole body tensing and straining. His face turned red, his knuckles white. Veins throbbed at the side of his head; his biceps bulged. But all the time he focused on just one thing: pulling as hard as he could.
Pained sounds escaped Webb’s lips but they were quickly becoming weak, shallow. He clawed at the ligature cutting into his neck. Droplets of blood dripped onto the ground beneath him. It was wound so tightly there was nothing for him to grasp.
Soon, Webb began to scrape and rake at Logan, but he was too far gone already for it to make a difference.
When Logan felt the resistance from his associate wane, he only pulled harder. The cord dug into his hands, sending a shock of pain up through his arms. But he didn’t let up – he just kept on tugging, harder and harder.
Webb’s body went limp and it flopped down, melting into the rooftop. Even then, Logan held tight a few seconds longer, keeping Webb’s lifeless head suspended in the air.
When Logan finally released the grip, unwinding the cord from around the neck, Webb’s face thudded down against the hard floor with a sickening crack. And then he was completely still.
It was done.
Logan stood up, panting, sweat pouring down his brow. He unwound the cord from around his hands and a rush of blood coursed through them, making them throb and sting. He saw several lines of indented red flesh on his palms and the backs of his hands where the plastic had dug in and cut into his skin. Logan dropped the cord and put his hands to his knees for just a few seconds as he got his breathing back under control. His whole body ached from exertion.
When he was ready, he kneeled down next to Webb’s body and rolled his former colleague onto his side, away from where he had been spotting.
After taking one last look at the man who had so readily mentored and guided him, Logan fished his phone out of his pocket and dialled Mackie. He picked up after just two rings.
‘I’m in position,’ Logan said.
‘Good,’ Mackie replied. ‘And you’re alone?’
‘I am now.’
‘Excellent. Then call me when it’s done.’
Logan ended the call and put the phone back in his pocket.
He didn’t know why the targets had been chosen and he hadn’t asked. They were on the JIA’s blacklist and that was all he needed to know.
That was his job now.
He picked up the rifle and looked t
hrough the scope, eyeing the hotel entrance, six hundred and seventy-three yards away.
And then he lay down and waited for his second target to arrive.
Chapter 2
Present day
Moscow, Russia
When Angela Grainger looked through the spyhole and saw the man standing on the other side of the door, her legs suddenly felt like jelly. Because the face she saw was one she had never expected to see again in her life.
And yet the feeling that washed over her was more than just surprise. There was also delight, relief, embarrassment, confusion and regret. Such an awkward combination.
She wondered for just a second whether she should open the door. Perhaps she should just pretend she wasn’t there, go and lock herself in the bathroom and hope, pray, that he would go away.
But she couldn’t do that. Regardless of the confusion that was sweeping through her, she had to know why he was there. And how he had found her.
More than that, even though seeing him on the other side of the door scared her, if she didn’t open the door, chances were she might never set eyes on him again.
She reached out and turned the handle before she could talk herself out of it.
And there he was.
Carl Logan.
