Night Strike

by Chris Ryan

  Fourie’s world was black and white. He called his mates ‘son’ and everyone else was ‘prick’. Bald spotted a brand-new Breitling on his wrist. Chronomat Evolution. Stainless-steel case, sapphire-crystal display. Whatever Bill Fourie had been up to, it hadn’t been scrimping around the fringes of society like Gardner.

  Fourie caught Bald glaring at the Breitling. ‘You like it, son? I can get you one, if you want. Plenty more where that came from.’ He smiled uncomfortably at Bald, like someone was shining a torch directly in his face.

  Then it jumped Bald. The migraine. It came without warning this time. No slow build-up. Just a crack like his skull splitting in two, like a hand grenade had popped off inside his head. The pain plunged all the way down to his toes and for a second he thought he was going to lose control of his body and pass out. Then, as quickly as it had arrived, the pain and dizziness and numbness subsided.

  He tensed his wrist flexors. Get a grip, John.

  ‘What about you, Joe? What brings you to this corner of the world?’

  Gardner ignored the question and said, ‘Drop the gun.’

  Bald laughed. ‘Or you’ll hurt my feelings?’ He shook his head in pity. ‘I see you’re still making the same old mistakes, Joe. Thinking you’re smarter than everyone else. When are you gonna learn? This didn’t work out too well for you last time out, mate, and it won’t be any different this time.’

  Gardner wrinkled a smile out of his bruised features. His prosthetic left hand lightly rested by his side. He seemed to be in pain. He shifted his stance and moved his left hand to his ribcage, and his smile deformed into a wince.

  ‘You look like shit,’ said Bald.

  Then he shot a glance at Fourie. ‘You both look like shit.’

  To Gardner he said, ‘What the fuck are you doing here? Who sent you?’

  Gardner didn’t answer.

  Bald cocked the Makarov’s hammer. He was already thinking about what he’d tell Cave. The guy just jumped me. He had a gun in his hand. I fired first. Tragic, but these things happen.

  ‘Fucking tell me.’

  Gardner still didn’t answer.

  ‘Last chance, Joe.’

  He was about to introduce Mr Hot Lead to Mrs Skull when Fourie piped up. ‘Cave hired us. He told us you’re not up to the job.’

  thirty-eight

  1211 hours.

  The migraine hit Bald for the second time in three minutes. It donkey-punched him in the back of the head. A million different pains announced themselves. The ground seemed to tilt and shift under his feet like an earthquake simulator. He clocked Fourie in the corner of his eye. Shuffling closer towards him.

  ‘Another hangover, John? Aye. Can I get you an aspirin?’

  Bald tried shaking the pain out of his head and said, ‘Why would the Firm post you halfway across the world?’

  Cobwebs of the migraine clung behind his eyeballs. Gardner didn’t answer.

  ‘You’re no good to Cave. You’re just a loser with a hand from a fucking crash-test dummy.’ He swung around ninety degrees and pulled a screw-face at Fourie. ‘And you, Bill? Fuck me, the Firm wouldn’t touch you with a barge pole. Not after the way you took Whitehall money and subcontracted the Kabul jobs to a bunch of Chinkies.’

  Gardner said, ‘He wanted us to keep an eye on you. He said he couldn’t give the gig to some jumped-up field agent with a PhD in being a cunt. Said that he wanted people who knew how you worked.’

  ‘So he chose a fucking Regiment crackhead and a guy with one arm?’

  Fourie said, ‘I’m clean these days, John.’

  ‘Bollocks.’

  Fourie did a thing with his eyes that gave Bald a fair idea of what he’d like to do with him. Bald went on, ‘Why would Cave think he needed two guys to keep tabs on me?’

  ‘You’re a danger to the mission. He couldn’t take any more risks. That’s what he said.’

  Bald couldn’t help notice that Gardner’s false hand was brand-new, not the piece-of-shit NHS job he’d been sporting the last time Bald had seen him. This one looked fucking real. The fingers moved fluidly, like real fingers. The texture of the skin was eerily close to the real thing.

  Gardner went on, ‘See, the way Cave saw it, you made such a cock-up of the Florida job that he couldn’t trust you with this one. He visited me in the hospital. Said, did I fancy a job? I said yes.’ Gardner had his smile on full beam now. He was enjoying this.

  ‘And guess what, John? It’s your name that’s dirt inside the Firm now. That’s you. Mate.’

  ‘I couldn’t give a toss what Cave thinks,’ Bald said, taking a step back and manoeuvring closer to the door, to put more distance between himself and Fourie. Gardner, Bald knew, was too smart to make a move on him. But Fourie smoked crack and was prone to doing something stupid, and Bald trusted him less than a Chinese human rights pledge.

  Bald said, ‘Put the Sig on the bed, Bill.’

  ‘Come on, lad. We’re all grown-ups here.’

  ‘Fucking do it.’

  ‘Bollocks to it, then,’ Fourie said, digging out the Sig, emptying the chambered round, then the clip and the spare. He tossed the items onto the mattress. Bald scooped them up. Tucked the Sig into the waistband of his jeans. Pointed the Makarov at the blind above the balcony door and said to Gardner, ‘Take the cord off and tie up your new best friend.’

  Gardner hesitated.

  ‘This is stupid,’ said Fourie.

  ‘I’m waiting, Joe,’ said Bald.

  Gardner did a super-slow one-eighty and reached up to the blind. He yanked the cord free, causing the blind to fall in a heap on the floor. Then he skirted around the bed and put Fourie’s hands behind his back and started to bind them.

  ‘Turn him around,’ said Bald. ‘I want it tight enough that it hurts.’

  ‘Prick,’ said Fourie.

  Gardner finished securing Fourie. Bald gestured for him to patrol Fourie around to the other side of the bed and make him squat on the floor.

  Then he said, ‘It’s time, Joe.’

  Gardner blinked his confusion. ‘Time for what?’

  ‘To finish what I started on the bridge.’

  A half-second. That was how long it took for Bald to close the gap on Gardner, and for Gardner to unknot the confusion on his face and realize it was all over for him. Bald lunged at him side on, to present a smaller target, leaning forward with his right foot and pressing on the ball of that foot, feeling the energy transmit all the way up from his leg to his right shoulder muscles. The shoulder was the most important part of a punch. Because punches weren’t really thrown from the fist or even the forearm. A real punch, one that could flatten a fucker in a single blow – that truly began at the shoulder. That’s where you had the biggest muscle groups and could generate the maximum force.

  Bang.

  He lamped Gardner on the side of his head with the butt of the Makarov. Hardwood hammered the vulnerable aspect of the skull between the corner of his eye and his ear. Really fucked him up. The blow made an explosive thud, like a car door slamming shut. The sound was quickly gobbled up by a grunt spilling out of Gardner’s mouth. He fell to his knees. Clamped his hands over the wound. Blood percolated through the dark gaps between his fingers, ran down his wrist and stained the sleeve of his white polo shirt. He dropped to his knees like a Muslim late to the call of prayer and now Bald was on top of him, locking his fingers around his neck while the cunt’s face leaked blood. He dragged Gardner across the floor. Gardner shook his head frantically left to right, wriggled free of his grip and rolled onto the floor and curled himself into a ball. Now Bald kicked him in the balls, then the shins, the most vulnerable parts of his exposed body. This forced Gardner to uncurl himself. And when he did, Bald launched another kick at his face. The tough sole of his trainer connected with the sensitive nasal and frontal bone structures. The blow was devastating. Gardner howled and jerked his head back. His neck muscles tensed. He was stunned. If this had been a boxing match the referee would have been
slapping the floor now, counting Gardner out.

  Bald hauled Gardner into the bathroom. Blood oozed out of Gardner’s nose and dripped onto the cool tiles of the floor. The bathroom was four metres long by three wide. Bath to the right with a shower rail and dirty-white curtain draped over it. Porcelain washbasin to the left, tiled surface, mirror, extractor fan fitted to the side, the blades coated in dust. The toilet was located at the far end. Gardner lay just in front of it, breathing hard. Every time he exhaled the blood on his face bubbled and hissed.

  Bald stepped to the side of Gardner and filled up the bathtub with water.

  ‘Drown, you cunt,’ he said as the cold water filled to the halfway point. From the bedroom Fourie called out, ‘Think about what you’re doing, for fuck’s sake.’

  But Bald was thinking. In fact right now he was perfectly lucid. And he was enjoying it, too. He enjoyed watching Gardner fight to yank his face away from the tub. But Bald had a firm grip on his neck and simply concentrated all his upper-body strength into his forearm. Gardner’s room for movement was limited to twisting his neck an inch to the left, an inch to the right. Not enough to avoid contact with the water.

  Bald applied more pressure.

  The fight in Gardner’s muscles collapsed, and now Bald thrust his head down. Bathwater sploshed up and sluiced over the rim and cascaded onto the tiles. Gardner hurled his screams into the water, and they echoed in the bathtub. His hands flapped and pawed at Bald’s legs. But Bald had a wide, firm stance and he wasn’t about to let go. He did a three-count in his head, then he shoved Gardner’s head deeper into the water, and his screams became garbled and frothy and gagged. Bald did a second three-count. Then a third. On the count of nine he hoisted Gardner’s head up and out.

  ‘Still thirsty, Joe?’

  Gardner sucked in a breath, hoarsely. His face was glistening. A crescent-shaped purple bump had announced itself on his forehead. Beads of water dripped from his bushy eyebrows and the tip of his nose. He blinked droplets out of his eyes and dead-eyed Bald.

  ‘You’re soaking wet, Joe. Let me clean that up for you.’

  ‘Cave will kill you for this,’ Fourie called out.

  Bald plunged Gardner’s head back under the bathwater, deep as it would fucking go, until only the nape of his neck was visible from where Bald was standing. Gardner’s right hand thumped furiously into Bald’s thigh. Bald locked him in that position for twelve seconds. Gardner’s legs flailed wildly. His combat boots scuffed the tiles. On thirteen seconds Bald hoisted him up again. The ex-Blade gasped and dry-heaved. He folded forward loosely, and violently emptied his guts into the bathtub.

  Bald listened to the sound of Gardner retching, and positioned himself directly behind Gardner, shaping to push his head back under the water.

  ‘Wait!’

  Gardner spat the word out between clawing at the humid, close air. Bald released his fingers from his neck and took a step back. He watched Gardner crawl away from the bathtub on all fours. Spittle and stringy vomit dangled from his cracked lips. A pungent smell corrupted the bathroom. Acidic and rancid. Like pressing your nose to a pint of gone-off milk. Gardner wiped his mouth and hack-coughed.

  ‘I can help you,’ he said.

  ‘Bollocks,’ said Bald. ‘You can’t even help yourself.’

  ‘Don’t.’ Fourie’s voice boomed off the walls. ‘Don’t fucking tell him, Joe.’

  ‘Shut up,’ Bald called out, kneeling down beside Gardner. His head was hanging low. A defeated man. Gardner looked dimly at the blood streaked across the floor.

  ‘What is it?’ Bald asked.

  ‘I swear, if you say a word . . .’

  Bald kicked the bathroom door shut. The door was thick, and Fourie’s voice faded to a muzzled, throaty growl.

  ‘I know where he is,’ said Gardner.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Laxman.’ He paused a beat. ‘He’s not coming back here. I can take you to him.’

  thirty-nine

  1309 hours.

  They rode in the Chevrolet Impala Bald had spotted on his approach to the Mansour. Turned out Gardner had the keys. Bald had marched Gardner and Fourie out of the room and down the stairs. They took the back exit from the hotel and crossed the garden to the Impala. It was a brand-new LT four-door sedan with light-grey leather seats and a metallic silver-trim dash and seventeen-inch aluminium wheels. It got Bald thinking that perhaps the Impala had once belonged to a Gaddafi loyalist, someone with a good job and high up the food chain.

  Bald pushed Fourie in the back, Gardner into the driver’s seat, and took the front passenger seat himself. He kept a hold on the Type 56.

  He’d spotted Rachel waiting in the hotel restaurant, nothing but a cup of muddy coffee for company. He told Fourie and Gardner to wait outside while he made a quick trip to the shitter. Then he approached Rachel and told her to sit tight. He didn’t hang around to listen to her protests. He left her there. Right then he only had eyes for the money. He also thought about the fact that Cave had brought Gardner into the fold. If Cave had hired Gardner and Rachel, then maybe Rachel knew about Gardner? Which would mean she had kept that from Bald. Which would make her a lying fucking bitch. Which would make her like every other woman Bald had ever known.

  A splinter of thought had lodged in his brain. He was thinking, fuck Rachel and fuck her coke-snorting arse. Experience had taught Bald that the best way to get over pussy was to bang more of it. All he needed was to ice Laxman and pick up the five million and he’d be knee-deep in it.

  Gardner took the wheel. He drove fast. Gunfire echoed all around them, bodies were festering on the ground, and you didn’t want to be driving slow enough to present yourself as another target. Bald held the Makarov in his right hand. In his left he clutched another length of cord from the blind. Once they’d reached their destination, he’d bind up Gardner too.

  And maybe he’d do more than that. He was of a mind to slot Gardner and Fourie once he had sight of Laxman. There was no good reason to keep the fuckers alive, and even less when he started grilling Gardner.

  ‘Where exactly are you taking me?’ he asked.

  Gardner didn’t answer.

  ‘Come on, Joe, don’t be a cunt.’

  Gardner glared at Bald. ‘I’m not fucking dumb enough to tell you where Laxman is now. Shit, if I do that, what’s to stop you popping me and Bill?’

  Bald decided against telling Gardner that he was right on the money.

  They threaded south through four kilometres of chaos and celebrations. Sometimes it was difficult to tell which was taking place and where. Near the Second Ring Road a throng of locals had gathered in their thousands. They looked angry and shouted and unloaded entire mags from their AK-47s into the air. Thin lines of unshaven, malnourished loyalists trooped past. Most of them stared forlornly at the ground. Their faces were darker, their features more weather-beaten than the average Libyan. Tuaregs, Bald figured. Gaddafi’s hired toughs.

  South of the Second Ring Road they hit Al-Hadhbah Road. Less a road, more a scarred dagger of asphalt that was scattered with shrapnel, the leftovers of recently dropped Paveway and Mark-82 bombs. Democracy hurled down from the skies. Acrid smoke rose slowly out of a row of blacked-out buildings. Liberated Tripoli looked to Bald a lot like rioting London, only without the hoodies.

  ‘How many years since you left Hereford?’ he said to Fourie.

  ‘Two.’

  ‘Everyone thought you were finished after the Mauritania job.’

  ‘Aye, that story’s plenty true. I got in the shit down there big time. Up to my fucking eyeballs in it.’ The smile disintegrated. ‘Ever been to there, son? No? Lucky prick. Let me tell you something about Mauritania. It was the last country in the world to make slavery illegal. Only a few years back. Hey, Johnny, be a lad and open the glove box, won’t you? There’s a little something I could do with right now.’

  Bald popped the catch. Vials of white powder tumbled out, along with a hip flask.

  ‘Just give m
e a bit of the toot, cheers,’ said Fourie.

  Bald scooped up the vials in his left hand. He counted eight in total. Inside the glove box there was also a crack pipe, with a small ball of steel wool shoved in the mouth end as a filter and a pebble of crack cocaine wedged in the lighting end. There was also a plastic baggie containing several ecstasy pills and a syringe loaded with morphine and sealed inside a hygienic packet. Sweet Jesus, there was enough gear there to keep a Hollywood bad boy happy for a week.

  ‘Come on, John,’ said Fourie, widening his eyes at the vials. ‘Just a wee sniff.’

  Bald rolled down his window and chucked the vials and the crack pipe out of the window. Fourie pulled a face and dropped his jaw, like someone had just shoved their dick in his mouth. He frantically rolled in his seat, craning his neck at the window. His eyes were fit to burst.

  ‘You cunt,’ he said to Bald.

  But Bald ignored Fourie and unscrewed the cap of the hip flask. He wafted the flask under his nostrils. The sweet, slightly peaty aroma of single-malt whisky said hello to the olfactory receptor cells at the back of his nose. He took a long sip of Scottish medicine and aah-ed.

  Then he said, ‘What happened in Mauritania?’

  Fourie slumped back on the seat.

  ‘It was a close-protection job. Big deal. I’d seen that in Baghdad and bought the fucking T-shirt in Kabul. Prick by the name of Ould Cheikh Abdallahi. First elected president those fucking barbaric pricks had ever had. The money is top dollar. I’m talking, you know, big money. Capital B. Enough to make Simon Cowell blow a load in his pants. Anyway, I’m down there with that Welsh faggot from Mountain Troop. Jimmy Coyne?’

  Bald nodded. He vaguely remembered the guy.

  ‘Life was easy. For the first six months, anyway. Then, out of fucking nowhere, the army launches a coup. Abdallahi gets his marching orders, and Coyne gets thrown in the slammer. Me? I bugged out of the fucking country in the middle of the night and escaped to Algeria. Had half the army on my case the whole way. Coyne spent the next three years in a jail cell with twenty other blokes. Fucking bucket to shit and piss in and mouldy bread and maggoty rice twice a day. Poor bastard got taken out to the yard each morning and had the guards run a train on his arse. Last thing I heard he was released and had AIDS. Prick died homeless in London.’