Extracted

by RR Haywood

  ‘That’ll do.’ Safa is off. Running in and aiming for that man. ‘HARRY, WATCH OUT . . .’

  Harry turns as the chair slams into his chest. He goes down amongst a shower of broken wood and men diving in with kicks, punches and stamping feet. Safa goes in fast. Her eyes locked on the man that hit Harry with the chair. He turns to face her. The rage on his face morphing into a puzzled expression as she sidesteps as though to go past him but then hooks her arm out across his neck, slamming him down into the ground. She follows through with a fist ramming into his nose, breaking it instantly. She twists as she rises. One step into the maelstrom of violence centred on Harry and she leg sweeps one away and throat punches another, who drops back gargling for air with his hands clutching his neck. She hits two more away before the mass realise what’s happening and go for her. She’s fast, though, and tough too. She hits hard and ducks to weave and bob, using her knees and elbows to hit and strike anything that comes at her. She is brutal. She is efficiency of training in doing a thing she excels at. Every move is calculated. Every punch is aimed. An arm comes round her neck from behind. She drops instantly on to her back to kick up with the heel of her foot into the man’s face. She rolls over and away before rising swiftly as Harry surges up, sending men sprawling as he roars to fight on.

  Ben just watches. His mind now empty. His eyes watching, but his head detaching from the present reality. In that chaos he almost calmly takes in just how bloody tough Safa is. She’s vicious. Totally and utterly vicious.

  The fight gets worse. The violence increases. The men are hurt and angry. They grab staves of wood from the broken chairs and rush at Harry and Safa with weapons. In return they get broken arms, dislocated shoulders, snapped fingers, fractured wrists and busted noses. Still it increases. Still it gets worse. Safa is struck by a fist hammering into the side of her face, snapping her head over as a blond-haired man slams a length of broken chair into the back of her legs. She goes down hard and tries to roll away as Harry is taken down by two men launching at his legs and a third grabbing him round the neck. Safa rolls and tries to rise but the blond-haired man runs at her, battering her down with the length of wood with a wild, raging scream.

  For Ben, time slows the same as it did twice before. Once when he was seventeen and the other just a few hours ago on the platform at Holborn. Everything in perfect clarity. Every move predicted and laid out.

  Safa lashes out with her legs and trips the blond man with the piece of wood. He sprawls out over her as yet more rush in to kick and batter down at her. Men grab her arms. Others punch her face. Harry tries to rise but more men dive on top of him. The blond man gets up on to his knees and with a flash of pure spite he drives a fist down into Safa’s face with such force it hammers the back of her head into the concrete.

  Ben goes in hard and low with his arms spread out to sweep them off Safa. They land in a heap of tangled limbs but he moves faster than they and rises to rain a barrage of punches on the blond man, driving his fists into his nose, eyes and mouth. The blond man fights back for a few seconds but his nose breaks, his jaw dislocates and his eye socket fractures. The blond man goes limp and suddenly unconscious as another man wrenches Ben away, sending him spinning across the floor. Safa rises to take him down, tripping him from behind and slamming a fist into the back of his head as he falls.

  A fist hits Ben on the side of his face so he hits back. He gets hit again and he hits out again. Safa on the floor rolls from one before springing to her feet with eyes on the man coming at her. A sidestep and she drives the blade of her hand into his throat then spins behind him to slam vicious little punches into his kidneys.

  Harry back on his feet with two men unconscious on the floor. Another one goes at him from the right but gets swatted away by a stinging backhand.

  An arm comes round Ben’s throat from behind. Safa is punched hard but she rallies and drives a knee up into the stomach of the man that hit her. He sinks with a blast of air as she spins round, locks eyes on Ben being choked from behind and charges.

  ‘Drop your legs,’ she hisses. Ben does as told. Letting his body weight sink down, forcing the man to lower with him as Safa starts hitting the heels of her hands into the sides of his head, snapping it side to side. The man releases Ben, dropping him to the floor, where he twists on to his back and kicks up into the man’s groin as Safa keeps hitting him back and away. She goes like a demon but gets swarmed by men coming at her from the side. Ben rises quickly but two grab his arms. He tries kicking one away and gets his right hand free but someone hits him in the back of the head. He staggers forward, feeling the dizziness, then is ripped from his feet.

  Harry goes down again. A mound of human forms pinning him to the floor. Safa the same. Screaming madly but held down. Still she fights. Kicking, bucking and biting, but they hit hard and keep her down.

  Sharp pricks in necks. Plungers sunk down. Warmth spreading from drugs that add to those already in their systems. They fight on but slower now, weaker and with failing energy. The fight ebbs from limbs as they are pulled down once more into chemically induced sleep.

  Eight

  He backs the van up, stops the engine and grabs the plain black briefcase before dropping down to walk in through the main doors to the reception desk.

  ‘Can I help?’ the receptionist asks in German.

  ‘I have some injured men,’ Konrad replies in fluent German, biting his bottom lip with nerves.

  ‘Okay,’ the receptionist says, leaning to look past Konrad. ‘Where are they?’

  ‘Outside.’

  ‘I see. How many do you have?’

  ‘Twelve.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘I heard you don’t ask questions.’

  ‘Payment?’ the receptionist asks, still without a flicker of reaction.

  ‘This do?’ Konrad hefts the case on to the desk and turns it so the locks face the receptionist. He clicks it open and lifts the lid enough to allow the receptionist a good view of the banknotes stacked inside.

  ‘Fine,’ she says, standing smoothly. She closes the lid and swings the case under the desk. ‘Bring them in.’

  ‘I can’t,’ Konrad says, heading for the doors. ‘Have you got cameras here?’

  ‘No cameras,’ she says.

  Konrad nods and rushes outside, leaving the unmarked van where he parked it. Keys in the ignition. Unregistered and bought with cash. The same van he used to collect the men and take them to the bunker. Untraceable and no doubt it will be used towards the medical costs of the private clinic that specialises in giving treatment to conflict-injured private security personnel.

  Three are dead. Three more will probably die. The rest have severe injuries of broken bones, concussions, fractured eye sockets, torn ligaments and tendons, broken wrists and fingers, and all done by three people still suffering the effects of strong sedation.

  Those men worked for Hans Markel and it was Herr Markel that drew the attention.

  It was his security company Konrad contacted to hire a dozen men. Now six of them are dead and the other six are severely injured.

  The clinic would not divulge information other than the fees had been paid in advance. In truth, it wasn’t about the money. The owner was paid a briefcase full of money when Konrad hired the men and, as far as the owner knew, the job was to assess the security of a prototype underground detention centre, but he did not know where it was.

  The twelve hired men were blindfolded then driven round Berlin for a few hours before being led downstairs to a cellar, where the portal was open against a wall covered by a thick curtain that gave the impression they were moving from one room to another through a standard doorway.

  None of those survivors could say who hurt them other than it was two men and a woman. One of the men was called Harry and he was English. That was it. They didn’t know where they had been taken or who ran the prototype detention centre.

  Herr Markel put the word out. His men were tough. They were all ex-military. T
hey were professionals and now six were dead. Who did this?

  The security services in Berlin react in the manner of a close-knit community, reeling from the impact of six operatives killed in one unknown job. That catches the attention of the local intelligence services. In turn, that feeds into the immensely heightened state of surveillance currently under way.

  That attention instantly shifts to Berlin. They have a location. They have a start point. Berlin is immediately geofenced. Hundreds of analysts from dozens of organisations are put to work scouring every social networking account, every email, every text message and every voicemail going into or coming out of Berlin.

  Agents are despatched to put boots on the ground. Airports become thick with countermeasures to lay false trails.

  The secret, silent hunt begins in earnest.

  Nine

  Three austere, sterile rooms. Concrete walls. Concrete floors and ceilings. A single metal-framed bed in each room. Two of the rooms have metal shutters indicating the placement of a window.

  ‘Shit,’ Ben mutters at the pain in his retinas. Pain in his face. Pain in his knuckles and pain that seems to be coming from every part of his body at the same time. The memories come back quickly. The attack on the Underground. Waking up in here. Meeting Harry and Safa. Going into that big room, then the fight.

  On his feet and again the dizziness rushes through him but he makes it to the door before his vision closes and he slides down the metal rivets into a crumpled, groaning heap on the floor.

  Harry wakes the same as before. Opening his eyes slowly to adjust to the glare from the light. He tenses his limbs, feeling pain but knowing nothing is broken. He rises gently to sit on the edge of his bed, compensating for the wave of dizziness by moving gradually. The images of the fight swarm through his mind. The German guards he attacked. Why didn’t they shoot him? He did not expect to wake up again. With a grunt he remembers seeing Safa fighting and pushes a hand through his bushy beard. He’s never seen a woman fight like that before.

  Safa wakes the same as before too. Grunting and rolling over to stop the light burning her eyes. She remembers instantly where she is and what happened. She rises too fast, dizziness surges through her mind, but she staggers to the door to grab the handle and hold on for a second.

  Ben groans on the floor.

  Harry rubs his beard.

  Safa sways.

  Ben gets to his feet and yanks his door open as Harry opens his. They both stop on sight of the other and stand swaying and silent for a few seconds. Ben looks to the third door that’s still closed.

  ‘Safa?’ Ben lurches to the next door and lurches in as she lurches out, making him lurch back. She sags into his arms that are too feeble to hold her, and they both sink down into one bigger crumpled, groaning heap. A big hairy hand grips an arm of each and up they go as the blood drains from Harry’s face from the exertion of pulling them both up. They stagger apart, separating and aiming for the blue chairs, which they sink into with much more moaning and groaning.

  In silence they sit. Heads feeling heavy and light at the same time. Eyes not quite working properly or sending the right signals to their brains.

  ‘Sorry.’ A low voice, distinct and deep, but Ben and Safa still have to look over to check it’s Harry speaking and not someone else. The big man lifts a hand an inch from his lap then lets it fall back down. ‘Sorry,’ he says again.

  ‘Ah,’ Ben says for lack of anything else to say. He squints at Safa. ‘You okay?’

  She shrugs and immediately winces. ‘How do I look?’ she asks, and Ben pauses while trying to find the sarcasm where there isn’t any.

  ‘Yeah,’ Ben says slowly, looking at the bruising on her face.

  ‘That bad?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  They both look at Harry and wince at the sight of the bruises and welts on his cheeks and forehead, his swollen lips and black eyes. He just shrugs.

  ‘Had worse,’ he says in a voice like an old bear.

  ‘Worse?’ Safa asks, still squinting from the harsh lighting.

  ‘Forty-two. Portsmouth . . . Canadians . . .’

  ‘Oh,’ she says, as though that explains everything.

  ‘Fight like bastards they do,’ he muses quietly.

  In silence they sit again with bruised faces, staring down at cut knuckles.

  ‘Well,’ Safa says with an almost reflective tone. ‘That went well.’

  Ben snorts a dry laugh from his sore nose. ‘You think?’

  She smiles, suppressing a laugh. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Nah, it’s fine,’ Ben says. ‘Love getting the shit kicked out of me . . .’ She snorts her own dry laugh as Harry tuts then chuckles with a groan.

  ‘Don’t,’ he says.

  ‘What?’ Ben asks, turning to look at him and wincing at the pain in his neck, which makes Harry chuckle again, which in turn makes Ben snort again.

  ‘Stop it,’ Safa says quietly, trying to suppress the urge to giggle. There is nothing to giggle at but thinking of the word ‘giggle’ makes her giggle again, which sets Harry off, which makes Ben snort again.

  ‘So.’ Ben looks at them both in turn. ‘Did we win?’

  That sets them off again. All three giggling and desperately trying not to as it hurts so much.

  A grunt of a pig comes from Safa, who freezes at her own sound as Harry and Ben both stare then start laughing again.

  ‘What was that?’ Ben asks.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she says. ‘Stop . . . it hurts . . .’

  ‘Your fault,’ Ben gasps, looking at Harry.

  The tension, the fear, the confusion, the pain, the utter incomprehension of where they are or why they are there. Drugged twice, beaten up once and it’s enough for that tension to need a release and so it does, with tears rolling down bruised faces as they all try not to look at each other.

  They don’t speak. They can’t. Any word spoken comes out wrong, which sets them off. So instead they sit and chuckle until the mist clears from their eyes.

  ‘I’ll get the water,’ Harry says, rising up slowly and holding the wall in expectation of the dizziness.

  ‘You should,’ Safa says after him.

  ‘Don’t make me laugh again,’ Ben says. They wait while he goes in, pours the water and comes out with three cups held together in a triangle within his huge mitts. They take the cups and start drinking as Harry lowers back down into his chair. He downs his water and looks over at Safa.

  ‘Thank you. I didn’t expect your help.’

  ‘Said we’d stick together,’ Safa says, looking back at him.

  ‘Who taught you to fight?’

  ‘Metropolitan Police,’ she says.

  ‘Did well,’ he says, tilting his head with a show of respect.

  ‘Me?’ she says, shaking her head. ‘You were amazing, Harry. Like . . . you had so many.’

  ‘Aye,’ he says as though it was nothing.

  ‘You think we killed any?’ she asks.

  Harry nods. His face impassive. ‘Two at least,’ he tilts his head, ‘maybe one or two more.’

  Safa tuts and winces with a dark look before glancing at Ben. ‘You okay?’

  ‘Huh?’ Ben asks, blinking at her. ‘You killed some of them?’

  ‘Aye,’ Harry says, still as though it was nothing.

  ‘What, like, dead?’ Ben asks, still feeling like he’s drunk.

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Fuck,’ Ben mutters, staring down at the cup in his hands.

  ‘Who taught you to fight?’ Harry asks.

  ‘Me? I’ve never learnt anything about fighting,’ Ben says as Safa watches him closely.

  ‘It shows,’ he says. ‘Natural ability.’

  ‘Natural ability,’ Safa mutters. She doesn’t look away when Ben glances at her but studies him closely. ‘Ben Ryder killed five men once,’ she says softly as though talking just to Harry. ‘He was seventeen,’ she says, ‘walking home on a country lane . . .’

  ‘Seventeen?’ Harry asks
.

  ‘Five men from Birmingham stopped and attacked a woman and her daughter . . . Gita Choudhry . . . the little girl was called Meera. She was six,’ she continues as Ben shifts uncomfortably from the intense scrutiny. ‘Puncture in the rear nearside tyre. Gita was trying to change the wheel when the men stopped . . . they were going to rape the woman but Ben Ryder intervened . . . a seventeen-year-old kid got the knife from one of them and used it to kill five hardened gang members.’ She pauses while Harry stares at Ben with the same searching gaze. ‘Then years later he was on the London Underground when it was attacked and he killed again . . .’ She stares at Ben. Remembering the footage from Holborn she’d watched hundreds of times.

  ‘You believe me now?’ Ben asks gently.

  She hesitates and narrows her eyes before blinking and looking away. ‘No. Ben Ryder died.’

  ‘I am Ben Ryder,’ Ben sighs heavily. ‘I was . . . I’m Ben Calshott now.’

  ‘You fought like Ben Ryder,’ she says, bringing that look back.

  ‘You saw him fight before?’ Harry asks.

  ‘CCTV,’ Safa says, looking from Ben to Harry. ‘The cameras at Holborn captured everything. Our Ben here moved exactly the same way Ben Ryder did . . . five years ago.’

  ‘They have cameras at Holborn?’ Harry asks.

  Safa tuts and rolls her eyes. ‘Full-colour high-definition real-time recording.’

  ‘Safa,’ Ben says. ‘I am Ben Ryder.’

  ‘I am Harry Madden,’ Harry says.

  She snorts and turns away again. ‘Mad Harry Madden . . . whatever.’

  He draws breath to exhale through his hairy nose. ‘They called me that on the base,’ he says. ‘I did missions that I weren’t expected to survive . . .’

  ‘So you must be Safa Patel then,’ Ben says once Harry trails off with a finality that tells them he isn’t going to continue. ‘But if you’re really Harry Madden then that means Safa is ahead of us both . . . in years I mean.’

  ‘Are you an idiot?’ she asks coldly.

  ‘Sometimes,’ Ben admits ruefully. She smirks, then tries to hide it by scowling. ‘Guess you became famous then,’ Ben says as she looks over questioningly. ‘Harry is famous for what he did. I know I was famous from when I was seventeen—’