by Peter Darley
As Drake held onto the handgrips, a feeling came over him. There was something familiar about the sensation of being pulled up from the ground, but it wasn’t exactly a memory. It was a sensation akin to déjà vu, although it seemed it should have been a horizontal glide, not upward.
They arrived at the top, climbed over the railing, and detached the cable claws. Drake shook his head trying to assimilate the strange feeling that had come over him.
Slamer ran across the roof to the other side, took out a set of small, advanced, electron binoculars, and brought them up to his eyes. “Got it . . . Oh, fuck.”
Drake hurried over to him. “What’s wrong?”
“Take a look for yourself.”
Drake took the binoculars. “Which apartment is this guy supposed to be in?”
“Third level. Fifth from the left, with the entrance steps at the front.”
Drake immediately saw the problem. Crane’s was the only apartment in the line where the drapes were closed. If they couldn’t see their target, they weren’t going to be able to take him out. “Shit.”
Slamer removed his helmet, took out his sat-scrambler cell phone, and selected his contact. “Wilmot? Slamer. We’re going to have to go directly into the apartment. The son of a bitch has the drapes closed . . . Right, I’ll tell him.” The call ended.
“Tell me what?” Drake said.
“Switch on your helmet camera and radio. He’s gonna be monitoring the operation. We’re taking it from the rear.”
Wilmot stood with Garrett in the Mojave base’s situation room facing a wall of monitor screens. Several technicians attended the control panel.
A young, male technician approached the director and handed him a head set and mike. Wilmot put it on with a hint of urgency.
Two of the screens showed images of the favela, but the movements were shaky and difficult to decipher. Drake and Slamer were apparently leaping down onto the balconies of the homes beneath. Occasionally, the screens became blank flashes of white as the two operatives tore through numerous clotheslines of sheets and threadbare towels. Sweeping shots of screaming women appeared for fleeting seconds. The residents were clearly startled by the two aggressively-contemptuous, armored soldiers wading through their homes.
Drake and Slamer arrived at the bottom and the jerky movements indicated they were running across the street. Perturbed looks on the faces of the pedestrians were cause for concern.
Wilmot gripped the mike. “Boys, you don’t have much time. You’re creating a scene, and there’s a risk of alerting Crane.”
Slamer’s breathless response came through Wilmot’s head set. “You think we don’t know that?”
Wilmot rubbed his eyes with anxious tension. “Don’t screw this up, Slamer.”
The screens became clearer. Drake was ahead of Slamer as they ran along an alley. They turned right and came up behind Crane’s complex. A few steps later, they stopped at a rear, metallic door.
“This is the one,” Drake said. “It’s locked.”
“Blow it!” Wilmot ordered.
Drake took a small C4 charge device from his belt, placed it against the door, and it adhered magnetically. After setting it to five seconds, he and Slamer rapidly moved away a few feet, shielding their faces.
The door blew open. Smoke shrouded the immediate area, accompanied by the unmistakable scent of pitch and burning metal. They drew their automatic rifles, discarded the leather carrying cases on the ground, and ran inside.
Taking three steps at a time, they scaled the stairwell, oblivious to the screams and protestations of the first floor occupants.
They arrived on the second floor. A middle-aged, slightly overweight male, wearing a filthy off-white singlet and what appeared to be pajama pants, stood before them angrily. Without hesitation, Drake drove the butt of his rifle into the man’s face, shattering his nasal bone, and knocking him to the ground.
Within moments, they were on the third floor. Crane’s floor.
Drake heard sounds of commotion coming from below. He looked down the three flights of stairs to see a team of police officers entering through the open rear door.
“No, no, no!” Wilmot said through their headsets. “I covered this and ordered them not to interfere. This is a top secret operation. What the hell are those assholes thinking?
“What do you want us to do?” Drake said.
“It’s on their heads. Blow out the stairwell.”
Drake took a grenade from his belt, pulled the pin out, and dropped it. The first floor steps shattered, the detonation sending two officers flying out through the open door. Two others careened into the walls with bone-shattering force before falling, lifelessly, to the ground.
Flames rose through the remains of the stairwell, filling the complex with smoke.
Slamer turned around, his rifle poised, ready to dispatch any who might try to interfere.
Drake came to Crane’s apartment door and kicked it in, surprised by how easily it came open. It wasn’t even locked.
With his rifle raised, he cautiously stepped inside, rapidly aiming his weapon in every direction. It was a basic room with no wallpaper, paintings, or plants. There were only bare, stone walls, but nobody was in sight. Despite smoke impairing his visibility, it was clear enough to see nobody was there.
He moved around and kicked open the kitchen door. Huddled in the corner was a twenty-something Latina female, weeping and clearly terrified.
“Where’s Jed Crane?” Drake said.
“I-I no know,” she said in broken English, quivering.
“I said where the fuck is he?”
“No know. P-please don’t kill me.”
An excruciating, stabbing pain shot through his head as though his skull was being crushed. The rifle fell from his hands, and he dropped to his knees, screaming.
The smoke and the woman’s words merged into voices from elsewhere:
P-please don’t kill me.
I’m not going to kill you.
“Oh, God!” he cried, and tore his helmet off. He grasped his head, unable to bear the pain, and collapsed into a fetal position.
Wilmot and Garrett looked at one another, mystified. They’d seen enough to know Crane wasn’t in the apartment. Who the woman may have been was irrelevant. A neighbor? A prostitute? Crane’s roommate? It didn’t matter. Whatever was happening to Drake had negated the operation.
“Slamer, abort the mission,” Wilmot said. “Something’s happened to Drake. I’m having you picked up out front. Get him the hell out of there!”
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About the Author
Peter Darley (P.D. to his friends) is a British novelist, whose professional history is in showbusiness. He is a graduate of the Birmingham School of Speech and Dramatic Art, and he studied television drama at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art (RADA). His television credits include guest-starring roles is UK productions such as BBC’s Crime Limited, Stanley’s Dragon for ITV, The Bill, Sky One’s Dream Team, and numerous TV commercials. He also worked as a model, presenter, and voice-over artiste for ten years, and has been an agent for several variety acts.
His lifelong admiration of heroes, and love of roller-coaster-style thrills have been a huge influence on his writings.
He is a keen athlete, a professional close-up magician, and lives in rural England.
Web: www.peterdarley.com
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/PDAuthor
Twitter: @Pete_Darley
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