Shadow Kill: A Strikeback Novel

by Chris Ryan

  Porter glowered at Tully. ‘Why didn’t you tell us about this before?’

  ‘I couldn’t, mate. Soames gave me a job on the Circuit when no other bastard was willing to take me on. I’ve got a good life out here, thanks to him. If he wants to cook up a few dodgy deals in the back office, it’s none of my fucking business, is it?’

  Porter stayed quiet for a beat. He remembered what Tannon had told him in the hotel bar the previous evening, before the assault. The diamond mine makes Fort Knox look like a branch of Abbey National.

  The diamond stash, Porter thought. That’s what Soames has been hiding there. He stared into the middle distance and thought, Soames has been nicking diamonds and hiding them at the mine. That’s why the Russians were after him. To find out where he had buried the treasure and rob him. But something was wrong, Porter thought. I’m missing something here, but I can’t figure out what it is. He nodded at Tully.

  ‘How far is it to Kono from here?’

  ‘Two hundred and fifty miles or so. Six hours, depending on how many rebel checkpoints you’ve got to pass through. It’s mostly dirt roads cutting through the jungle.’

  Porter consulted his G-Shock. 1416 hours. According to the Nigerian soldier, the Russians had lifted Soames at approximately 1345 hours. Which meant the Russians had a thirty-minute head start. He shook his head bitterly.

  ‘It’s too late. We’ll never catch them in time.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ said Tully.

  ‘How’d you mean?’

  ‘I’ve been here for six months, fella. I’ve done that trip more times than a hooker to the clap clinic. There’s a few shortcuts the Russians won’t have a clue about. If we leave now, we can still catch up with them. We can intercept the fuckers before they hit Kono.’

  Porter needed about a second to decide. It wasn’t a brilliant plan, but it was the only one they had. We’ve got to get Soames back. This is our only shot.

  ‘All right. Let’s move. We’ll take the Range Rover. Bob, you’re coming with us. We’ll need you to point out the shortcuts.’

  ‘What about ammo?’ Tully said. ‘We’ve got sod-all left.’

  ‘We’ve still got the two Makarovs.’

  Tully shook his head. ‘We’re gonna need more than that. Way fucking more. The jungle’s crawling with child soldiers fighting for the West Side Boys, and they’ve got some serious firepower. A few pistols won’t do us much good if we run into trouble.’

  ‘Then we’ll nick whatever we can from the dead rebels outside.’

  ‘What are we gonna do with this cunt?’ Bald said.

  He pointed to the Russian with his guts hanging out. The guy’s lips were dry and cracked, his breathing reduced to a light whimper. He had maybe an hour to live. Maybe less. Porter didn’t know for sure. He wasn’t a doctor.

  The Russian looked up at him with heavily-lidded eyes.

  ‘Please,’ he begged. ‘Don’t leave me here.’

  Porter spotted the green satchel bag filled with medical supplies lying nearby. He gave his back to the Russian, reached down for the satchel and unzipped it. Inside was a pair of first-aid scissors, some sterile bandages and gauze swabs, a pack of plasters and a roll of zinc oxide tape. Plus several foil packets of pills with labels on the front. Aspirin, codeine, antihistamines. An impressive variety of sedatives. There were ten pills to each pack. Porter grabbed one of the foil packets and shuffled back over to the Russian. Crouched down next to the guy, and popped all ten pills out of the packet. The noise of the Black Hawks had faded. They were circling a cluster of nearby buildings, scouring for targets.

  ‘Take these,’ Porter said, offering the Russian the pills. ‘They’ll help with the pain.’

  The Russian tilted his head forward and opened his mouth. Porter shoved the pills into his gob. Then he took one of the water bottles and pressed it to the guy’s lips. He swallowed the pills greedily and croaked a word of thanks.

  Porter said, ‘We’re going to send for help.’

  ‘No,’ the Russian gasped. ‘Don’t go . . . please.’

  ‘We can’t move you. You’re gonna have to stay put until we can get you lifted to a hospital.’

  The guy swallowed painfully. ‘But the sun . . . I’ll die.’

  Porter pointed towards a corrugated steel sheet that had blown off the roof of the water tower. ‘We’ll put that sheet over you. Keep you shaded. In the meantime, stay quiet. You don’t want to make yourself a target for any X-rays that might be hanging around the hotel.’

  ‘You’re coming back?’

  ‘I promise.’

  Hope flared behind the Russian’s eyes. He gave a weak nod of his head. Then Porter stood up and turned his back on the dying man. Bald pulled a face at his mucker as they moved away from the Russian.

  ‘You’re going soft. Helping out that bastard.’

  Porter laughed and shook his head. ‘I didn’t give him painkillers. He just popped a load of sleeping pills. He’ll die in his sleep before anyone finds him. The pilots won’t see him under that sheet.’

  Bald looked impressed. ‘That’s fucking dark, that.’

  ‘Coming from you, Jock, I’ll take that as a compliment.’

  They shared a warm laugh. Then they hurried across the rooftop. Porter ditched his SLR rifle and retrieved the two remaining Makarov pistols. Porter checked both the clips. Eight rounds in each. Plus the eight rounds in the PSM Bald had lifted from the German the previous day. A total of twenty-four rounds between them. Not enough if they ran into the West Side Boys, Porter knew. But it’s all we’ve bloody got.

  He tucked one of the Makarovs in the waistband of his combats and handed the other pistol to Tully. Along with the PSM, Bald carried the GPMG, stuffing his pockets with spare link as he went. Porter figured they could cobble together enough spare rounds from the slotted rebels to piece together a belt for the machine gun. If they were lucky.

  As they headed for the stairwell, he heard the dull throb of heli blades beating overhead. He stopped and looked up at the sky just in time to see the first Sea Stallion arrive from the direction of the jetty. The two Black Hawks continued to circle the streets as the Stallion banked to the right, closing in on the helipad a hundred metres west of the hotel. The chopper hovered for a few seconds above the helipad before slowly descending, the downwind whipping up fierce swirls of dust on the ground below. The Stallion touched down, the rotor blades continuing to whir as the ramp lowered and a detachment of twenty-six troops debussed. They were decked out in the Marine Corps uniform of desert cammies, olive-green skivvies and combat helmets. All of them wore wraparound shades, and they were all equipped with M16 assault rifles.

  As Porter looked on, sixteen of the marines formed a protective cordon around the Stallion, facing out across the surrounding territory to watch for any approaching threats. The manoeuvre was smooth, quick and efficient. Typically American. The other ten marines moved at a brisk pace towards the hotel.

  ‘Looks like the evacuation’s about to begin,’ Bald said.

  Porter nodded. He felt a slight sense of relief as he watched the marines enter the hotel. At least the civilians are safe, he thought. Even if the mission is fucked, we did a good thing here today.

  ‘Let’s go.’

  He closed the door leading to the rooftop. The janitor’s key was still inserted in the keyhole. He twisted the key in the lock, then smashed the butt of the Makarov against the bow of the key, bending the metal out of shape and trapping the metal stem in the keyhole. If anyone wandered up to the top of the hotel, they would find the door locked. The wounded Russian would be dead long before anyone managed to gain access to the rooftop.

  The three men piled down the stairs at a brisk pace. People were beginning to emerge from their rooms now as word of the imminent evacuation spread. On the third floor, Crowder and a team of half-a-dozen volunteers were moving from room to room, ordering the beleaguered guests down into the lobby so they could begin organising into groups. Tannon was there t
oo, helping to direct the crowd. She was back to her practical, businesslike self. Porter was quietly impressed with the way she had recovered her composure after the hell of the past few hours. She marched over to him.

  ‘The first chopper’s just landed,’ she said. ‘We’re sending everyone down to the reception. You should hurry up if you want to make the chopper.’

  ‘We’re not going,’ Porter said.

  ‘Why?’ Tannon glanced at Tully and Bald in turn. Saw the troubled expressions on their faces. Returned her gaze to Porter. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Soames is gone. Some Russians have lifted him.’

  He hurriedly explained how the Russians had pulled the wool over their eyes. How they had been watching Soames, waiting for an opportune moment to snatch him and escape. He told her about the diamond mine, and the stash Soames had been keeping there, sharing the spoils with the country’s corrupt leaders.

  ‘We’re leaving now. We’ve got to catch up with them. Get Soames back before they reach the mine.’

  ‘I’ll come with you.’

  Porter shook his head. ‘It’s too dangerous.’

  ‘I can take care of myself. I’m invested in this thing as much as anyone.’

  ‘Sorry, love. But you need to stay here and sort out the evacuation with the Yanks. Make sure everyone gets on those choppers. The rebels won’t come back today, but they’ll have another pop tomorrow if there’s anyone left behind.’

  Tannon gave him a look. For a moment Porter thought she was going to argue the point further. She looks like the kind of bird who’s used to getting her own way. But then she just nodded and said, ‘Okay.’

  Porter turned to leave. Bald and Tully were already piling down the stairs ahead of him.

  ‘John,’ Tannon said.

  He stopped. Looked back at the deputy commissioner.

  ‘Thank you. You saved a lot of lives today.’

  She smiled awkwardly at him. Porter nodded back and absently wondered if he’d ever see her again. Then he turned and headed down the stairs after Bald and Tully. I’ve still got one more life to save, he thought.

  The one person I’d rather leave for dead.

  My old CO.

  TWENTY-ONE

  1421 hours.

  They hit the lobby fifty seconds later. The first hundred or so guests were already assembling next to the reception. A team of volunteers divided them up by nationality. Yanks and Brits in one group, Europeans in another, and a third group of Chinese, Arabs and a few Indians. The guests stared in mute horror at the mangled bodies strewn across the floor. They had been sheltered in their rooms during the worst of the violence. Now they were seeing it up close, the full scale of the bloodshed was beginning to hit home.

  Six marines had spread out across the lobby, keeping a watchful eye on the crowd to make sure the evacuation proceeded in an orderly manner. Another marine and an officer stood beside the entrance, processing each civilian from the first group, checking their documents and patting them down for weapons before they were waved through and directed towards the waiting Sea Stallion. In one corner of the lobby Porter spotted a group of around twenty Nigerians rooting through the kit they had ditched before the initial assault several hours earlier. A few of them had already climbed back into their uniforms. They were trying to get the attention of the Yanks, pointing to their badges and shouting, ‘UN! UN! Let us through!’

  ‘Can you believe those wankers?’ Tully said.

  Bald snorted. ‘With that lot, nothing surprises me.’

  The Yank officer left the entrance and marched over to Porter. He was a short, wiry guy with a stern, angular face. A stubby cigar stuck out of the corner of his mouth, and he carried a service-issue Beretta M9 pistol in a nylon leg holster. The name tape on the left side of his jacket said HENDRICKS in stark bold lettering. The tape on the right side simply said US MARINES. The officer regarded the three bloodied, sweat-soaked men in front of him, their clothing cut to shreds at the elbows and knees.

  ‘I’m guessing you’re the boys who were up on the roof,’ Hendricks said in his heavy Texan twang.

  Porter nodded. Hendricks relaxed his expression into admiration. He thrust out a hand.

  ‘Colonel Hendricks. We spoke on the phone. I’m guessing you fellas are military?’

  ‘British special forces,’ Porter said, shaking his hand.

  Hendricks arched an eyebrow in surprise. ‘That was some fine work you did up there. I’d be interested to hear the full story. Perhaps you can tell us the whole nine once we’re back on the Lauderdale.’

  ‘We’d love to, mate. But we’ve got an alternate mission outside this location, and we don’t have much time. Can we hand over to you?’

  ‘No problem,’ Hendricks said. ‘Ain’t much for us to do here anyway, except clear up and get the hell out.’ He glanced over at the dead rebels to the side of the entrance. ‘Looks like you were really in the shit here.’

  ‘Just doing our job,’ said Bald. ‘We’ve been in worse scrapes.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it.’ Hendricks smiled. ‘You fellas need anything where you’re headed, just holler.’

  Bald tapped the gimpy. ‘If you’ve got any 7.62 milli going spare, we’d be grateful. We’re out of ammo.’

  ‘Consider it done.’

  Colonel Hendricks barked out an order to one of the marines standing guard. The soldier darted outside and hurried over to the Sea Stallion sitting idly on the helipad. He came back ninety seconds later lugging a box of 7.62mm belt ammo. The marine handed the box over to Tully, saluted, and returned to his post.

  ‘Watch yourselves, wherever you’re going,’ said Hendricks.

  ‘Cheers,’ Porter replied. ‘We’ll try.’

  Then Porter, Bald and Tully made for the doors leading down to the underground car park.

  Two minutes later they were racing down the Cape Road.

  Porter had the Range Rover wheel. Tully rode shotgun. Bald sat in the back. The GPMG resting across his lap, the box of spare ammo nestled between his feet and the two spare jerry cans next to him. Bald had sniffed the cans to make sure they were filled with diesel before they had set off. With the extra jerry cans they had enough petrol to reach Kono. The clock on the dash read 14:28. Forty minutes since the Russians had bugged out of the hotel with Soames. Porter glanced over at Tully in the front passenger seat.

  ‘How long’s it gonna take us to catch up with the Russians?’

  Tully narrowed his eyes at the dash clock. ‘They’ve got a good head start. But they’ll be taking the Masiaka–Yonibana highway from Freetown all the way to Kono. Which is the newest road in the country. But it’s also the longer route. I reckon they’ll get there around eight o’clock. We’ll follow the highway all the way to Yonibana, then get off the main road and head north. The roads around there are in crap nick, but it’ll shave off fifty miles or so from our journey time. If we push it hard, we should catch up with the Russians just before they reach the diamond mine.’

  ‘How do you know they’ll stick to the highway?’ said Bald.

  Tully shrugged. ‘It’s the most obvious route. The road’s brand-new. Less bumpy.’

  ‘What if you’re wrong? What if they take the shorter route?’

  ‘Then Soames is fucked.’

  And so are we, Porter thought.

  They headed west on Cape Road, hung a right and motored south down the coastline along Lumley Beach for half a mile. Then they steered north-east onto the Spur Road and rolled through the city centre, passing the British Consulate and Soames’s office. It felt like a lifetime since Bald and Porter had rocked up there the previous morning. Back then, Freetown had been in a state of panic. Now the streets were quiet, and strangely empty. The rebels had long since abandoned their positions, but the evidence of their twisted rampage was all around them. Dead bodies and burnt-out vehicles littered the sides of the road. Small fires blazed amid the gutted remains of looted buildings. Most of the corpses had been stripped of their cloth
es by scavengers.

  Tully directed them south along the Spur Road for five miles, past a low peak with several crumbling mansions built around the base. Then the old colonial buildings and apartment blocks disappeared, replaced by sprawls of ramshackle dwellings and huts built into the surrounding hills. Landslides of human filth and waste. Porter kept the Range Rover ticking along at fifty miles per as the road twisted through the fringes of the Western Area National Park, the vehicle bouncing up and down over the craters in the road. After twelve miles they passed a small village called Waterloo and hit the Masiaka–Yonibana Highway. Or what passed for a highway in Sierra Leone. In reality it was an uneven, single-lane stretch of tarmac that snaked through tracts of vast, sprawling jungle.

  Porter kept his foot to the gas as he reached for the sat phone and pulled up the number for Hawkridge. The battery was flashing, indicating it was almost dead. The display showed five missed calls from the same number. Porter hit Dial. Waited.

  Hawkridge picked up on the first ring.

  ‘What the devil is going on? Why haven’t you been answering?’

  ‘We’ve got a problem,’ Porter said. ‘The Russians have taken Soames.’

  There was silence on the other end of the line. Then Hawkridge said, ‘What Russians? The hell are you talking about? I thought you had Soames safe and sound.’

  ‘We did. The Russians were playing us the whole time. They were posing as engineers from Belgium, helping us out on the rooftop against the rebels. They grabbed Soames as soon as our backs were turned.’

  The line kept breaking up. The dense overhead canopy, playing havoc with the signal. Distorting Hawkridge’s voice.

  ‘You mean to tell me you can’t tell the difference between a Russian accent and a Flemish one? You must be even thicker than I thought.’

  ‘Their cover story was solid. They had business cards and everything.’

  ‘I’m not interested in your excuses. Someone with your training should have seen this coming from the start. This is a fucking disaster. You’ve really cocked it up this time. Both of you.’