Redemption

by Will Jordan

At forty-seven years old he was pushing it a bit in terms of age, but he was fully certified for airborne operations, and his marksmanship was better than Drake and Franklin combined.

  And that was it. Four specialists, plus himself. Not a large force for such a daunting operation, but between them they could draw on quite a range of skills and experience. And if the shit hit the fan, they were capable of causing a great deal of trouble.

  He just hoped they didn’t have to.

  Franklin nodded. Now they had a rough plan of attack, and a list of the men and women needed to carry it out. Things were coming together.

  ‘All right. Let’s make some calls.’

  Chapter 7

  PRISONER 62 COULD hear footsteps in the hallway. Three sets, coming her way. Two were lighter and closer together. The third was slower, heavy and ponderous.

  She felt her muscles tense up. It was him.

  She didn’t know his real name, didn’t know any of the guards’ names for that matter. There were no names in Khatyrgan. Instead she had come to know them by their physical characteristics. There was Bad Breath, Beer Gut and Lazy Eye to name but a few. Hardly the elite amongst the Russian penal system, otherwise they wouldn’t have been stuck in this shithole at the end of the world.

  The remoteness of the prison meant they couldn’t go home at the end of their shift, couldn’t relax and let off steam by drinking and fucking the way most men did. They were forced to live here, enduring the bad food and claustrophobic living conditions just like everyone else. They were as much prisoners of Khatyrgan as the people they guarded, and that situation was reflected in their outlook.

  Most of the guards were moody and aggressive to varying degrees, sometimes taking out their frustrations on the inmates. It was nothing personal really – they were just bored and pissed off, and even she understood that on some level. She didn’t like it, but she understood.

  But the man she feared and hated most, she simply referred to as Bastard.

  He was well named.

  For him, random acts of violence weren’t enough. He took some kind of macabre pleasure in seeing others suffer, and appeared to devote a great deal of time to dreaming up new ways of indulging his passion.

  Stress positions, starvation, sensory deprivation – he had done all of those things and more, but they were really just variations on other people’s ideas. Every so often, Bastard liked to get creative.

  For example, he had once taken a dozen prisoners out into the snow-covered exercise yard in the middle of winter, forced them to remove their boots and socks, and left a single pair in the centre of the open space. For the next hour, he had watched from one of the towers as the desperate men fought each other like animals over that pair of boots.

  She hadn’t seen it herself, since she was never allowed out of her cell, but she had overheard the guards talking about it. They seemed to hate and fear him almost as much as she did.

  Almost, but not quite.

  She had become something of a fixation for him. He lusted after her while at the same time hating and despising her; she had seen that look enough times in the eyes of others to recognise it in him. Whereas the other guards had learned a certain respect, her resistance only fired his desire to break her. He had taken her many times when she was cuffed or held down and unable to defend herself, deriving immense pleasure from her impotent rage.

  She suspected he was part of the reason the beatings had stopped, and her daily rations had improved beyond the starvation level she’d endured before. In his own perverted way, Bastard was trying to look after her so he could break her all by himself.

  She sat up just as the bolt was drawn back with a harsh rasp and her cell door thrown open. Standing there were two of the regular guards – Lazy Eye and Rash.

  Now in his fifties, she guessed Lazy Eye had suffered a mild stroke at some point, based on the way his left eyelid drooped and the difficulty he had pronouncing certain words. It hadn’t slowed him down much, though – he was still more than happy to employ his fists and boots if he felt like it, letting them do the talking for him.

  Rash was a comparatively young man in his thirties, and appeared almost timid and docile compared to his peers. He could perhaps have been considered handsome if it wasn’t for the eczema that constantly plagued him. The skin around his neck was always red raw where he’d shaved and the collar of his uniform chafed, while his hands and forearms were often covered in scabs and welts.

  Behind them both, towering like a statue, stood Bastard.

  Standing 6 foot 6 inches and weighing at least 300 pounds, he was a massive, dominating physical presence. His uniform struggled to contain his huge barrel chest, wide stooped shoulders, thick bull-like neck and protruding gut.

  His facial features were blunt and crude, everything somehow bigger and more pronounced than it needed to be. He must have been at least forty-five, but years of harsh winters, heavy smoking and cheap alcohol had aged him prematurely. The flesh of his face sagged, his skin was sallow and marred by wrinkles and small scars. His wide mouth curved back into a sneer as he eyed her up.

  ‘Come on,’ he said in Russian, beckoning her out of the cell. ‘Shower.’

  The one – and perhaps only – thing the guards took seriously about their duty in Khatyrgan was enforcing personal hygiene. Disease was always a problem, as were lice and other parasites, and given that the guards were often in close physical proximity to the prisoners, particularly while administering beatings, it was preferable to keep such things in check. Those prisoners who refused to wash were beaten and subjected to ten minutes of freezing water courtesy of the nearest fire hose.

  Keeping a wary eye on Bastard, she lifted her chin a little and rose up from her mattress. Rash and Lazy Eye gave her plenty of room as she emerged from the cell, keeping their weapons to hand in case she tried anything.

  Out of habit she glanced at their side arms, drawing on the vast well of knowledge she possessed on modern weaponry. Makarov PMs; semi-automatic, blow-back-action pistols. Eight-round magazines, firing 9mm full metal jacket projectiles. Effective range, up to 50 metres.

  They weren’t elegant weapons, but they were simple, cheap and durable. Just as well, because she doubted the idiots here could handle anything more complex.

  Was there a possibility of escape that way? Countless times she had pondered it calmly, with clinical detachment as she followed the familiar route to the shower rooms. Even as broken down as she was, she could certainly take out one man with her bare hands, perhaps even use his weapon to kill a second, but the third would shoot her dead before she could draw down on him. They always came for her in threes.

  Bastard led the way, tracing the familiar route past the other solitary confinement cells. She had never made any effort to communicate with her fellow prisoners, but she was sometimes curious about who else inhabited this shithole with her. Were they good people or bad? Did they deserve to be here? Did anyone?

  Bastard unlocked the security door at the end of the block. It was a huge thing that probably weighed more than he did; the kind of door normally found on bunkers and pillboxes. Beyond the door they passed the cell control station for East Block. Another guard was manning the station, and gave her a leering stare as she passed.

  Passing through a second heavy door, they took a sharp turn right, heading down the main concourse that housed the general population. Sleeping three or four to a cell, these were the prisoners considered a little less dangerous, or who required less severe punishment than herself.

  It took about five seconds for the first inmate to notice her, then the shouting and abuse started. It seemed they spent a great deal of time thinking about what they would do to her if they were ever alone together, because she heard a new insult every time.

  She almost smiled, thinking about what would actually happen if they tried it. Still, at least she encouraged their creativity.

  Bastard took his time, letting everyone have a good look at her. She kept her ey
es forward, showing no reaction to the disgusting epithets that were hurled her way, and carried on walking.

  Almost there.

  The shower room was a vast expanse of cracked tiles, mould, rusted pipework and dripping taps. The entire room could accommodate fifty prisoners at a time, but today she had the place to herself. She was always made to shower alone. She did everything alone.

  ‘Strip,’ Bastard ordered. His commands were always sharp and simple, because he was never sure how much Russian she understood. None of them did – she hadn’t uttered a word since arriving in Khatyrgan.

  With deliberate care, she pulled off her boots, trousers and sweat-stained shirt, finally removing the thin T-shirt beneath.

  Her clothes lying in a pile by her feet, she stood unashamedly naked before him.

  He took his time looking her over. He always did it, just because he could. She didn’t flinch or make any effort to cover herself – there was no point, and she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.

  At long last he pointed to the row of showers on the left side of the room. ‘Go. You have five minutes.’

  She masked a look of surprise. He was being unusually lenient. She had expected some kind of prank by now, but so far things had passed without incident. That made her nervous, but she could see nothing obviously out of place.

  Hesitating a moment, she approached the row he’d indicated, the cold wet tiles sending chills up her legs. Sometimes the water was lukewarm enough to be considered almost comfortable, other times it was freezing as if it had come straight from the prison’s cold water tanks. She’d always suspected the guards could somehow control the temperature of the flow.

  Bracing herself for a jet of cold water, she selected a tap at random and reached out to switch it on.

  Bang!

  Something leapt out from the tap with an audible crack, striking her with such force that she was thrown backward against the tiled wall opposite. She hit hard, slumping to the floor, her ears ringing and with bright blobs of light flashing before her eyes. She couldn’t move. Her entire body was paralysed, muscles locked tight as waves of pain flowed through her.

  Vaguely, through the fog in her mind, she became aware of laughter. Blinking and struggling to focus, she managed to look over at Bastard and the two other guards, snorting and laughing with amusement.

  ‘Did you see her go?’ she heard Lazy Eye say in Russian. ‘She came right off the ground!’

  Bastard was beaming with pride at his accomplishment. ‘See? I told you it would work.’

  Now she understood. Somehow he’d wired the metal water tap into the room’s electrical system, turning it into a giant cattle prod. As soon as she touched it, the resulting discharge had thrown her clear across the room.

  Only Rash seemed to show any concern. ‘I think she’s really hurt,’ he warned. ‘Look at her. What if she dies?’

  No doubt he was more worried than anything else about the repercussions for himself if a prisoner died on his watch. Even here, questions would be asked.

  Striding forward, Bastard knelt down beside her and sat there on his haunches for a few moments, grinning as she tried feebly to move her arm. ‘Had a little accident, did we?’

  Her eyes blazed with anger. She wanted to reach out, to tear the bloated, sagging flesh from his face with her bare hands, to gouge his eyes from their sockets, but her body wasn’t listening to the commands her brain was sending it.

  ‘She’s fine,’ he decided. Rising up, he drew back his boot and slammed the steel toecap into her exposed abdomen. Unable to protect herself, she could do nothing but groan as a fresh wave of agony tore through her.

  ‘See? Nothing wrong at all.’

  The blow was repeated a second time with even greater force. This time she did move, but only to double up and be violently sick across the tiled floor. All of her food for the day, gone in a single moment.

  Satisfied, Bastard took a step back, watching with a kind of amused curiosity as she groped and flailed for his boot. Was she trying to attack him? To plead for mercy?

  She lay naked before him, helpless and vulnerable. Only her eyes still burned with defiance and rage. He could feel himself becoming aroused just looking at her.

  He loved it when he saw that look of helpless rage in her eyes, when her mask of self-control slipped aside and he saw her for who she really was.

  He looked at his two companions. ‘Wait outside.’

  The two men glanced at each other, but neither uttered a word of protest. The sound of their footsteps on the tiled floor receded. She heard the rasp as Bastard unzipped his trousers.

  She was helpless, unable to protect herself, unable to resist as he grabbed her shoulder and rolled her onto her stomach. She could barely feel the chill of the tiles on her naked skin, but she did feel the first gut-wrenching penetration as he thrust inside her.

  She closed her eyes and tried to separate her mind from what was happening, wanting nothing more than for it to be over.

  Chapter 8

  OF THE FOUR specialists that Drake had requested, Keegan was the first to arrive. Living in the small town of Brookeville just a few miles north of DC, he was within easy reach of CIA headquarters.

  A short, wiry man with a wrinkled, deeply tanned face, dishevelled blond hair, pale blue eyes and a bushy moustache, he always looked as though he’d just dragged himself out of bed. He was the sort of guy who could make a thousand-dollar suit look bad, so it was just as well he wasn’t a follower of fashion.

  Ignoring the dress code at Langley, today’s ensemble consisted of a worn brown leather jacket, a crumpled white shirt, faded Levi jeans and a pair of scuffed hiking boots. Pretty much the same thing he’d worn the last time Drake had seen him.

  ‘Ryan. How the hell are ya, buddy?’ he asked with his distinctive South Carolina drawl, cracking a toothy grin as they shook hands. He might have been built like a rake, but there was a robust strength in his wiry old muscles that belied his size.

  ‘Keeping busy, mate.’

  ‘Well, good. I guess you’ve got a real shit bird lined up, huh?’

  Drake couldn’t help but smile. Keegan was closer to the truth than he knew. ‘You’ll find out soon enough.’

  Mason arrived next, having made the 30-mile drive from his home in Baltimore in under an hour. Unlike Keegan, he was a big man, tall and broad shouldered, with a lean, angular face, olive-coloured skin and dark eyes that missed nothing.

  He always kept his hair shaved to the bone, typical of his military background, but Drake suspected he was getting thin on top and just didn’t want to admit to it. In any case, he had dressed for the occasion, wearing a grey business suit that looked as if it had come straight off the peg.

  ‘Jesus, Ryan, you look like shit today,’ he remarked without preamble.

  ‘Better than looking like shit every day,’ Drake returned with a wry smile.

  The older man grinned. ‘I wouldn’t know.’

  Frost was next. She’d been about 100 miles south in Richmond when the call came in, though she arrived only a few minutes behind Mason. God only knew how many speed limits she’d broken on the way here, but Drake wasn’t surprised. Speed limits had never meant much to her.

  She was carrying her leather biker’s jacket over her arm as she approached.

  ‘This had better be good, Ryan,’ she warned, tossing it over the back of the nearest chair. She reached up and brushed a lock of dark hair out of her eye. Frost had a temper like no one he’d ever met, especially in the morning.

  ‘Interrupted your beauty sleep, did we?’ Keegan quipped as he poured himself a coffee.

  Frost gave him the finger.

  ‘Grab a coffee and a chair,’ Drake suggested. ‘We’ll get started in a minute.’

  As it turned out, it was another ten minutes before Dietrich finally showed up, sauntering into the conference room as if he didn’t have a care in the world. He only lived 10 miles away, yet it had taken him longer than any of the other
s to get here.

  Drake was taken aback by the change in him. The Dietrich he’d known had been a muscular, intimidating man with piercing blue eyes and rugged good looks. He’d always worn expensive clothes, top-of-the-range watches, kept himself groomed to the point of vanity.

  In contrast, the man before him was lean and spare, the veins in his exposed arms standing out hard against his skin. His dark hair was longer and dishevelled, greying a little at the sides, and he’d grown a goatee beard. But even that couldn’t hide the hollowness in his face.

  He was wearing a grey polo shirt and jeans – a far cry from the Gucci suits that used to be his apparel of choice.

  But for all that, his eyes still gleamed with quick intelligence, and he moved with the confident, unhurried walk of a man firmly in control of the situation.

  ‘Nice of you to join us, Jonas,’ Drake remarked with a pointed glance at his watch.

  ‘Good to be here, Ryan.’ Taking in Drake’s appearance, he frowned. ‘You’re looking tired these days.’ He leaned in closer and added, ‘Not as easy as you thought being a team leader, is it?’

  Drake met his gaze evenly. ‘Well, that’s not something you have to worry about now.’

  Dietrich’s smile contained no warmth as he locked eyes with Drake. Then, without saying anything he helped himself to a chair and tilted it back, making sure he was quite comfortable before looking expectantly at Drake. ‘Well, aren’t you going to get us started?’

  Chapter 9

  NAKED AND HALF frozen, she was dragged into her cell and dumped on the floor without a word. Her mind barely registered the flash of pain as her head hit the concrete, but she did feel the cold begin to seep through her skin. Her clothes were tossed in a moment later, landing on the stained mattress.

  Bastard had seen to it that she was dragged naked through the general population block, still dazed and struggling to regain control of her muscles after the massive electric shock she’d received. The other inmates had loved that one, yelling and banging on the cell bars. They had even hurled a few new insults her way, though she barely heeded them.