by Will Jordan
And as he’d expected, Anya was waiting for him.
‘The security room is neutralized. I’ve cut the hard lines outside,’ she said, leading him deeper into the building. ‘This way.’
With luck, it would be some time before anyone realized something was wrong. At least, Alex fervently hoped so. He had no idea how difficult it might be to locate the Black List amongst the millions of other files stored on the servers here, or the kind of difficulties he might encounter retrieving it.
Don’t be an arsehole and doubt yourself now, he thought, giving himself a mental slapping. Just concentrate on not fucking up.
Spotting a stairwell leading down, Anya headed straight for it. ‘The servers are down there.’
The heat and noise generated by such a vast collection of highly stressed electronics made their storage and maintenance problematic to say the least. For this reason, most server rooms were located underground.
As she moved, Anya keyed the small radio unit fixed to her shoulder. ‘Kristian, we’re inside. Heading for the server room now.’
‘Copy that,’ came his grainy reply. ‘Standing by.’
Keeping her weapon to hand, Anya shoved the door open and hurried down the steps, with Alex close behind.
*
Up on the rooftop, Mitchell could do nothing to resist as one of Hawkins’s men reached into her jacket and withdrew her weapon. Argento was given similar treatment, though his attempt to shove his captor away was promptly rewarded with a rifle butt to the stomach that dropped him to his knees, coughing and gasping for air.
It was the kind of foolish bravery that seemed to come so naturally to young men.
‘Keep pushin’, son,’ the operative advised, apparently relishing the opportunity to put him down for good. ‘You’ll get there.’
Mitchell would have happily torn out the man’s windpipe in that moment, though such an effort would have been suicidal. He could kill her a dozen times over with the assault rifle in his arms, not to mention his two companions.
‘How you doing, Vince?’ she asked, feigning only casual interest.
‘Having … the time of my life,’ he replied, struggling to raise himself off the ground. He looked up at their captor and flashed a defiant grin. ‘Our friend here hits … like a faggot.’
That was all the excuse he needed. Taking a step back to allow himself more room to build momentum, he planted a kick square in the young man’s side, delivered with enough brutal force to snap ribs. Argento was sent rolling across the rooftop by the force of the impact, coming to rest several yards away in a limp sprawl.
‘You son of a—’ Mitchell began, taking a step towards him.
She never got a chance to finish. Taking a step between them, Hawkins swung a lightning fast right hook that caught her just above the left eye. The impact was like a grenade going off in her head, and immediately she hit the ground, blood pounding in her ears and her vision swimming in and out of focus.
There would be no fighting back from this, she knew. She’d never had the pleasure of being knocked out before, but even she could tell that blow had come perilously close to sealing the deal. If clandestine operations didn’t work out for him, Hawkins could have had a hell of a career as a professional boxer.
‘I’m pissed at you, Mitchell,’ she heard Hawkins say. ‘You could have been a real asset to us. Instead here we are. Shame, really.’
She was going to die up here on this rooftop, she realized then. So was Argento, assuming he was still alive. On reflection, she felt worse for him than she did for herself.
He didn’t deserve it.
‘Didn’t think you had a problem killing people,’ she said, breathing hard and struggling to focus on the ground in front of her. Her fingers clawed at the gravel-covered rooftop as she tried to lift herself up.
‘Never did,’ he admitted. ‘It just means more paperwork.’
It was then that her vision snapped back into focus and she saw him. Argento, lying several yards away after being beaten down by one of Hawkins’s men. He was alive, after all, and he was looking right at her.
He was lying beside the low parapet wall from where they’d been observing the target building. She’d assumed the sheer force of the impact had sent him rolling across the rooftop, but now she realized otherwise. He’d baited that man into hitting him so that they’d no longer consider him a threat. He’d intended to end up there, so that he could reach for something that might help them.
Or rather, help her.
Buy her a few precious moments of distraction, at the cost of his own life.
His gaze flicked beyond her, to the other side of the rooftop. From her position it seemed to be just a continuation of the parapet wall, with a fifty-foot drop down to street level on the other side, but she knew otherwise. She knew what he wanted her to do.
No. She couldn’t allow this to happen. Not now. Not him.
She shook her head. A meagre gesture, easily overlooked by the men poised to kill them, but utterly heartfelt in that moment.
She saw a flicker of a smile on the young man’s face, and a tiny nod of encouragement as he reached for the steaming cup of coffee still sitting on the ground where he’d left it. He was going for it no matter what she did, no matter whether she was even able to take advantage of his distraction.
Vincent Argento, stubborn and defiant to the end.
‘This is all on you, Mitchell,’ Hawkins said, raising his weapon. ‘I wanted you to know that.’
The moment had come. Snatching up the cup of coffee, Argento twisted around and hurled it at the man who had attacked him. Instinctively he turned away in an attempt to avoid the improvised missile, but it was far too late. Argento’s aim was true, and the Styrofoam cup disintegrated under the impact, showering the left side of the man’s face with its steaming contents.
It took another second or so for the pain to register, but when it did he growled in pain and clutched at his face, stumbling to his right.
Argento, rising to his feet and making to grab for the injured man’s weapon, was allowed a single moment of satisfaction that he’d paid his adversary back for what he’d done. A heartbeat before Hawkins dropped him with a quick, efficient burst of silenced gunfire.
Mitchell was oblivious to this however. The moment Hawkins and his comrade started to turn towards the source of the noise, she had clawed her way to her feet and launched herself at the parapet. Her legs were unsteady beneath her and she almost expected them to give way, but somehow she remained upright.
She heard shouting from behind, heard the distinctive thump of a silenced weapon opening up on automatic. She forced herself not to think about Argento as she reached the edge of the roof, gathered herself up and leapt.
Having dispatched Argento, Hawkins turned his weapon towards Mitchell. Resourceful but foolish. The only way off this roof was the single-access door he’d emerged from, and he stood firmly in the way.
She was in his sights. He could barely miss from this range. His finger tightened on the trigger, and the weapon kicked back into his shoulder as the first round discharged.
But his target was no longer there. She had vanished, leaping right over the edge of the building and into the dark void beyond. Only when he heard a loud metallic thump followed by a cry of pain did he realize what had happened.
‘Shit,’ he snarled, sprinting for the parapet.
Ten feet below, Mitchell landed hard on the top level of the fire escape, the impact against the unyielding metal framework feeling like it had broken half the bones in her body.
She had landed at the top of the stairs leading down to the next level, and with desperate strength threw herself down them, trying to get some form of protection between her and Hawkins.
There was no thought of leaping down the steps or controlling her descent in any way. All she could do was grit her teeth and brace herself as she tumbled down the steel stairway fixed to the side of the building, each collision adding to the grow
ing list of cuts and bruises she seemed to be accumulating.
When at last she landed in a heap on the level below, superficial pain had almost become irrelevant. The wild, desperate instinct for survival was what now drove her to pick her battered body up from the floor, to launch herself shoulder-first against the door leading back into the building, to ignore the bruising force of the impact.
The door, old and weathered, gave way under her frenzied assault, and she forced her way through just as another burst of deadly automatic fire scythed down from above, the rounds howling through gaps in the upper platform to ricochet off the steelwork below.
She no longer cared. She was inside, and hurtling down the corridor towards the nearest stairwell, oblivious to the pain and the blood leaking from her right side. She might have avoided the deadly burst that should have killed her, but one round had nonetheless found its mark.
On the rooftop above, Hawkins leaned back from the parapet and lowered his weapon. ‘God damn it,’ he said under his breath, then reached for the tactical radio fixed to his throat. ‘Alpha to all call signs. We’ve got a runaway. Mitchell’s heading down the main stairwell. Anybody have eyes-on?’
He had two more men stationed downstairs in plain clothes, partly to keep an eye on the ISS building and partly to guard against any unwelcome distractions while he dealt with Mitchell.
‘Negative. Foxtrot is Oscar Mike, preparing to intercept.’
‘Copy. Find her and fucking kill her.’
There was no hint of emotion in the man’s voice when he replied. ‘Roger that.’
Satisfied, Hawkins turned his attention back to the two men who had accompanied him. One, Rodriguez, now bore the marks of his brief lapse in concentration. Though hardly boiling when thrown, the coffee had still been hot enough to leave the skin down one side of his face angry red, even in the wan light cast by the street lamps.
He’d regained his composure by now, but his jaw was still clamped tight against the pain.
‘Want me to go after her, sir?’ he asked.
Hawkins shook his head. Much as he would have enjoyed hunting Mitchell down and making her suffer for the trouble she’d caused, he knew they had more important matters to deal with first. He couldn’t afford to split his team any further.
‘Mitchell can wait,’ he said, glancing towards the ISS building. Their real objective was in there somewhere, waiting for them. ‘Converge on the target building. Let’s get this done.’
*
Mitchell tore down the stairs, leaping them two at a time as she made her way down, desperate to get out onto the street. This building was nothing but a trap, and the longer she remained here the more time Hawkins would have to seal it off.
It took her all of five seconds to realize he was way ahead of her.
The pounding of boots on the bare concrete stairs told her that someone was on their way up in a hurry, and it didn’t take a genius to work out that Hawkins had men stationed outside. Mitchell couldn’t hope to fight her way through. She was alone, unarmed, battered and bleeding, and starting to feel the pain of the gunshot wound. Instinctively she reached down and touched her side. Her hand came away slick with blood.
She couldn’t go back up to the roof, and neither could she go down. The only option was to retreat into one of the residential floors, though even that was only delaying the inevitable.
Stopping at the nearest landing, she shoved open the door and staggered through, leaving a smear of blood on the door as she did so.
One floor beneath her, Frank Crichton, better known by his call sign Foxtrot, was ascending the stairs at a more cautious pace now, eyes and ears straining to locate any sign of his target. He’d heard movement on the stairwell above, followed by the creak of a door opening. Mitchell was here somewhere.
Reaching the next landing, he paused, staring at the dark spots marking the concrete floor. He inhaled, tasting the faint scent of a woman’s perfume, then knelt down and touched one of the spots. As he’d thought, it was blood.
She was hurt.
His eyes travelled upward, to the door leading to the next floor. And sure enough, he saw a bloody handprint marking it.
Clutching her side, Mitchell staggered along the short corridor running the length of the building, desperately searching for anything she could use either as a weapon or a means of escape. There was nothing but doors leading into the residential apartments, all of them no doubt securely locked.
‘Shit,’ she gasped, teeth clenched tight against the mounting tide of pain.
Picking a door at random, she limped over and hammered against it with her fist, leaving a bloodstain on the painted wooden surface. The muted thump of the impact echoed in the apartment beyond, but there was no response.
‘Please,’ she gasped, tears stinging her eyes. ‘I’m hurt. Please, help me.’
She heard a shout coming from inside. A man’s voice, rough and angry, probably telling her to get lost. She didn’t blame him. If she’d been in his position, she doubted she’d have opened up either.
Her brief bid for freedom was going to end here, she realized. Hawkins’s men would see the trail of blood she’d left in her wake, and track her here like hounds following a wounded fox. Even an untrained civilian could have worked out where she’d gone.
They would see her standing alone and unarmed in this corridor, and they would drop her without a second thought.
Her strength draining away along with her hope, she fell against the wall and sank to the floor. Argento’s sacrifice had been for nothing. Another pointless death that she should have prevented. Maybe it was best that it ended here for her; at least then she couldn’t inflict any more suffering on others.
She almost didn’t hear the click of a door being unlatched nearby. Only when it swung open, causing bright electric light to spill out into the hallway, did she look up, finding herself staring at a young and very pregnant woman wrapped in a thick dressing gown.
She stared back at Mitchell, her expression a mixture of alarm and quick, calculating intelligence. Her gaze swept down the corridor and, seeing nobody else there, she turned her attention back to the injured woman lying on the opposite wall.
‘Come,’ she said, beckoning her inside.
With a final surge of strength, Mitchell heaved herself up off the cold floor, staggered across the hallway and practically fell inside the apartment. No sooner was she inside than the pregnant woman closed and locked the door behind her.
*
Easing the door open, Crichton crept into the corridor, his weapon up and ready. The blood trail was leading him onward, though he was careful to keep constant awareness of his surroundings. He wouldn’t put it past Mitchell to use the trail to try to lure him into a trap.
There was no sign of her in the straight, narrow corridor. And, as far as he could tell, there was nowhere for her to hide either.
Glancing down at the spots of blood, he carried onward, advancing past one door, then another, then another, until at last he came to a larger stain down one wall. A body, bleeding and damaged, had collapsed against it before sliding down to floor level.
And beside this stain, a bloody handprint on the nearest apartment door.
Crichton hesitated only a moment before raising his weapon and putting a silenced round through the lock, destroying it with a single shot. Shoving the door open, he advanced into the apartment beyond.
His first contact was a man emerging from the cramped kitchen to his right. Mid-fifties, balding and overweight. He opened his mouth to shout something, but never got the chance. Crichton took aim and put a round through his forehead, the spray of blood from the exit wound coating the cheap tiled floor and worktops, then turned away before the man had even hit the ground.
A woman’s voice was calling out from the living room at the end of the short corridor, probably wondering what the unusual noise was. It wouldn’t take her long to realize something was wrong. Walking with fast, deliberate strides, Crichton adva
nced down the hallway and opened the door.
The woman just rising from the couch looked to be about the same age as her husband. Short and plump, and still wearing the hotel-cleaner uniform he assumed she’d come home in, she froze immediately at the sight of an armed man in her living room.
‘Tell me where the woman is, and you live,’ Crichton said, giving her a chance.
She stared back at him, her expression blank and uncomprehending.
He didn’t have time for this. Raising the gun, he dispatched her in a similar manner to her husband, then turned his attention to sweeping the remainder of the small apartment for Mitchell. There was still a chance she was hiding somewhere.
‘Foxtrot to all units. No sign of her,’ he was obliged to report a minute or so later, much to his chagrin. ‘What are your orders?’
‘Just get over here, Foxtrot,’ came the terse reply. ‘We’ll deal with her later.’
Crichton gritted his teeth. His failure might have been overlooked for now, but it wouldn’t be forgotten.
‘Copy that.’ Leaving the two dead occupants in his wake, he turned away and retreated from the apartment.
Chapter 43
‘It’s here!’ Alex called out, pointing at the sealed security door up ahead.
Anya was on it immediately, striding ahead of him and swiping her stolen card through the electronic reader. There was a single crisp beep, and just like that the bulky fire-resistant door slid open on hydraulic hinges.
Anya was first through the doorway, her silenced automatic sweeping the room beyond. The place was in total darkness, with only rows of green indicator lights trailing off into the distance. However, as soon as she set foot in the room, the overhead lights blazed into life.
‘Motion activated,’ Alex explained, sensing her unspoken question. No sense in keeping lights burning when nobody was here to need them.
