Chris Ryan Extreme: Hard Target: Mission Two: The Rock

by Chris Ryan

  He slipped on a fresh pair of Gap combats and a dark-green, short-sleeved shirt. The combats felt a little loose around the waist. Seven days of working for the Firm had its bonuses.

  Gardner sipped on a Diet Coke from the mini-bar and carb-loaded with four slices of yesterday’s pizza. It tasted like salted leather, but his stomach didn’t seem to mind and rumbled its contentment. He switched on the fourteen-inch TV resting on the tattered desk. Flicked over to BBC News 24. Generally Gardner had little time for the media. Back in the line of duty he’d witnessed first-hand how much of the real action went unreported. Journalists instead were spoon-fed bullshit by the head shed and repeated every word to Joe Public.

  Between the stories of teenage rape and cancer scares, one item caught his attention.

  A dilapidated Arab street at dusk. Onlookers stared at a smoking black object in the road. Ambulance lights illuminated a twisted metal wreckage. Stretcher-bearers rushed across the scene. Men and women hollered at the sky.

  A blonde journalist in a shawl gave the lowdown.

  ‘This is the scene tonight in Herat, Afghanistan, near the border with Iran. Eye-witnesses described a loud bang jolting the street at around 9pm local time. The target, it appears, was former Iranian general Mahmoud Reza.’

  Gardner tossed the pizza to one side. Reza. The name clawed at his guts. He remembered Iraq at the height of the insurgency. He remembered two mates of his, good Blades by the names of Luke Williamson and Loke Snuka, a Fijian who ate bullets with his oatmeal.

  He remembered the pictures of Williamson and Snuka, their torsos charred and dismembered, swinging from Baghdad lampposts.

  ‘Authorities claim Reza, a former cadet in the Iranian military who rose through the ranks, is responsible for a series of cross-border attacks against coalition forces in Iraq. Tehran strongly denies these claims.’

  The blonde was replaced by a parade shot of Reza, thick-bearded and flour-faced. He looked like he needed to relax, a night out on the tiles.

  ‘It is thought that Reza, who received drill training in the US, was planning to launch a series of raids on NATO targets in northern Afghanistan. Unconfirmed reports suggest US special forces carried out a long-range air strike on Reza.’

  Gardner hoped to fuck the Yanks had slotted Reza.

  He killed the TV and fetched his belongings from the safe. Fake passport, credit card and three hundred euros. Gardner figured Land would have already cancelled the AmEx, but the passport and cash ought to be good to ferry him back to Blighty. And then? Gardner wasn’t quite sure. He’d be going home with nothing – to nothing. In a weird way, that’s how he liked it. He lived an honest life. Maybe it wasn’t glamorous. It was certainly hard. But as long as it kept him away from two-faced pricks like Land, it was a life that suited him down to the ground.

  He zipped up his backpack and cast a final look around the room.

  Felt a circle of cool air on his back.

  Gardner didn’t turn around. He already knew who was standing in the doorway.

  ‘Packing your bags already? Looks like we got here just in time.’

  Killen.

  ‘What the fuck do you want?’

  ‘To say goodbye, mate.’

  12

  0229 hours.

  ‘Give us a smile then, lad,’ Killen said. ‘Thought you’d be pleased to see me.’

  Killen had a Glock in his hands. Stainless steel, 17 edition. The Glock eyefucked Gardner.

  ‘Shut the door, Eddie.’

  Stone obeyed, a task that required him to move several tons of muscle bulk. He slipped the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign over the knob and clicked the lock on the opposite side. Stone’s head leached sweat. He gasped for breath. Gardner figured walking took it out of a guy when he had basketballs for biceps.

  ‘We heard what you did to Terry,’ Killen said.

  ‘He had it coming.’

  ‘Just like you. I’m a big believer in an eye for an eye. You do something to a mate of mine, you can fucking expect the same shit done to you.’ Killen gave Gardner a screw-face served with a side order of sneers. ‘Think you’re so smart, don’t you? Well, guess what: I never liked you. Told Terry as much, but he rated anyone who’d done their time in the Regiment. Me, I reckon you’re a bunch of wankers. Us Para boys were always first into the action, clearing up the shit so you Blades had it nice and easy and took all the glory.’

  ‘Just keep telling yourself that, mate.’

  ‘Nah,’ Killen said, peering down the Glock’s ramped front sights. ‘I’ll just kill you instead. Let’s see how your fucking SAS skills pull you out of this one. Mate.’

  ‘Slot me and you’ll regret it.’

  ‘What, your ghost’s gonna come back and haunt me?’

  Gardner had to go for broke. He was a dead man, unless he gave Killen a reason not to blow his brains out.

  ‘You’re after John, right? But here’s the thing. There are people involved way above my pay grade, and they watch my every move.’

  Killen hesitated, but it was impossible to read the black dots passing themselves off as eyes.

  ‘Nice try, kiddo,’ he said, shaking his head, a smirk on his sunburned mug. ‘I’m not a fucking idiot. Not like Terry. You couldn’t lie your way out of a Frenchman’s pocket.’

  ‘I’m telling the truth.’

  ‘There you fucking go again,’ he went on, ignoring Gardner’s protest. ‘Always thinking you’re smarter than the pack. Not this time you ain’t.’

  Gardner braced himself for the bullet. Pictured the hollow-point Parabellum round penetrating his skull and bouncing around his head like a supersonic squash ball. Shockwaves from it tearing chunks out of his face, neck and shoulders. Dying in a seedy hotel at the hands of a two-bob ex-soldier. Shitty way to go. Five minutes ago he’d been contemplating the next five years of his life. Now I don’t have five fucking seconds, he thought.

  ‘Boom,’ Killen said, gesturing as if he’d popped a round. ‘You don’t get off that easy. You made Terry suffer. It wouldn’t be fair unless me and Eddie here repaid the compliment.’

  Training the pistol at Gardner, he nodded at Stone.

  ‘All right, I’ll give you a choice. Balls or face.’

  ‘I don’t need to hear the story of how your mum and dad met.’

  ‘Funny fucking man,’ Stone said. Either he’d stepped towards Gardner, or a solar eclipse was happening right there in the hotel room.

  He socked Gardner in the bollocks.

  Gardner keeled over, his balls registering a million different types of pain. As Stone laughed the upper half of his body jogged on the spot.

  Killen lifted Gardner’s head up by the chin.

  ‘Eye for an eye, Joe.’

  Stone shoved him towards the bathroom. It was a cramped space, hardly big enough for two people to stand, let alone a third guy the size of a small planet. Killen sat on the toilet, Glock on his lap. Stone squeezed past and ran the bath taps. Water splashed against the porcelain tub.

  ‘They found Terry face down in a toilet. Drowned, they say.’

  ‘Maybe he slipped.’

  He watched the water slowly rise. An inch, then two.

  ‘In about thirty seconds you’re going to know exactly how Terry felt.’

  His mind raced through escape plans. Strike Stone on his solar plexus and throw him into the bath.

  Yeah, and meanwhile Killen puts one through your head.

  Or grab Killen’s gun, slot him and worry about Stone later.

  But soon as you make a move on Killen, Stone’ll crush you.

  Whichever way he looked at it, he was fucked.

  The bathwater hit seven inches.

  Stone forced Gardner’s head over the side of the tub. ‘This is where it ends, motherfucker.’

  Eight inches.

  Nine.

  Gardner flung himself backwards at Killen, using his muscle mass to slam him against the wall. His elbow dug into Killen’s chest, then jabbed him in the gut. Kill
en released the Glock, which zipped along the cracked tiles. This was it! His big chance to bug out. Both guys were stunned. If he could just reach the door…

  A force tugged at him like a bungee rope. Two bloated hands clamped on his shoulders. Stone wiped phlegm from his face and kicked Gardner in the ribcage. He tried to get up but that fat fuck lashed out at him. The pain in his ribs peaked. Breathing was like swallowing razor blades. He had nothing left in the tank.

  ‘My fucking nose!’ Killen shrieked. ‘Shit. Get this over with.’

  Stone grabbed Gardner by his shirt and plunged his head into the bathwater. He fought back. Thrust his right hand out of the water and searched in vain for the guy’s face.

  He felt his lungs compress. A pressure formed behind his eyeballs. He thought they might explode any second. His muscles were dead weight, as if parts of his body had already surrendered. He shook his head from side to side to try to loosen Stone’s grip. No good. The prick had him on lockdown. Struggling only wasted more precious oxygen.

  His world darkened. Killen’s voice, distant and distorted:

  ‘Game over, Joe.’

  Game over.

  The water shaded dark red, and Gardner was sure he was going to die.

  13

  0304 hours.

  A second later Gardner realized he wasn’t being held underwater any more. The blood in the water didn’t belong to him. He jerked his head up, and out. Precious air burned his lungs.

  Stone was face down in the tub, the back of his head like an island.

  An island with a bullet hole.

  Gardner hocked up bathwater. He turned around, clocked Killen on his feet. Glock hanging by his side, looking daggers to his left. Gardner followed his gaze. Land stood in the doorway holding the smallest handgun he’d ever seen, a Ruger LCP .380. Lightweight and less than three inches from stock to barrel, it was the kind of firearm a female spy might conceal in her purse.

  ‘Don’t move,’ Land shouted at Killen, his voice wavering.

  ‘Or what? You’ll shoot me with that fucking peashooter of yours?’ Killen’s eyes drifted to the corpse in the bathtub. ‘Then again, Eddie always did have shit for brains.’

  Gardner felt his energy returning. He focused on Killen. Disarm the fucker. Put that son of a bitch down once and for all.

  ‘This is your last warning,’ Land said.

  Killen chuckled. He glanced at Gardner. ‘You’re a fucking disgrace, Joe. Betraying your own kind with these back-stabbing nonces.’

  Then Killen drew his pistol faster than Wyatt Earp on speed and fired a single shot. The bullet struck the light fitting, plunging the room into darkness. Gardner made a leap for Killen and found thin air. Then he felt himself collide with Land, knocking him aside. The front door slammed. Gardner skipped past the MI6 man’s prone body – and backtracked as the Glock punched holes in the door.

  Killen’s stifled voice carried through the door. ‘Come after me and I’ll fill you in like a fucking survey.’

  Gardner counted to ten. Risked approaching the door, coming at it from the side. Sliding up next to the frame, he rested his hand on the knob, then flung the door open.

  The corridor was empty.

  Killen had fucked off.

  He retreated inside the room. Found Land on the bathroom floor.

  ‘Damn monster butted me with his pistol,’ Land said. Gardner peeled Land’s hand away from his head, revealing a four-inch cut from his temple to the bridge of his nose.

  ‘Needs a few stitches but otherwise you’ll be fine.’ Gardner pressed a wet towel to the wound and ordered Land to hold it in place.

  ‘What did I tell you back in Rio, old chap?’ asked Land.

  ‘My memory’s kind of fuzzy.’

  ‘I said I might be the last friend you’d ever have.’ Land frowned at Stone’s corpse, as if he’d trodden in dog shit, and nodded.

  ‘Give me a hand,’ Gardner said, pulling out the bath plug. The hole slurped the slick red water. Gardner heaved one of Stone’s legs over the side, Land tentatively working the other. The legs felt as if they were weighed down with sandbags. Once they’d laid Stone flat in the tub, they pulled the shower curtain across.

  ‘Gonna need more than a bottle of Cilit Bang to clean this up,’ said Gardner.

  ‘The Firm will take care of it.’

  ‘You boys must be experts at cleaning up your own shit.’

  ‘Admit it. You had me down as the type of chap who didn’t like to get his hands dirty. Leo’s too posh to muck in, you thought. Am I right?’

  ‘I didn’t think you’d be riding to the rescue.’

  ‘Yet here I am. So what does that tell you?’

  ‘That you’re more bent than a boy band.’

  Land scraped brain matter off the sole of his shoe. ‘You and I aren’t so different, you know. We might come from different camps, but we’re fighting a common enemy. And we’re both taught that killing is only acceptable when it achieves a goal. Call it necessary murder.’

  Gardner shook his head. ‘I’ve seen my fair share of dead people. Mates coming home in body bags. Wives and kids breaking down in tears. Killing’s never a good thing.’

  ‘War is different.’

  ‘So they say.’

  Land rested the peashooter on the bathroom counter. ‘John Bald’s the enemy. He must be stopped.’

  Gardner’s mind drifted over the shower curtain. Six months ago he’d been on the piss with Stone, swapping old war stories and jokes about the Kabul nightlife. Allegiances used to count for something. Now he was lying dead in a bathtub, and it seemed like the whole world didn’t give a fuck about loyalty or honour.

  So where does that leave John? he wondered. Bottom line, John betrayed me. He’s no more honourable than Killen. Than a fucking snake.

  ‘I just saved your life,’ Land said. ‘The least you can do is see through the mission to tail Bald. If you want to walk away from the Firm afterwards, that’s up to you. You don’t have to take up the job offer; dammit, I’ll even sort an alternative position. Perhaps something not as glamorous. A desk job. Or guard duty for a lesser-known royal maybe.’

  Gardner quit the bathroom. The smell was making him nauseous. Land hovered in the doorway.

  ‘What’s it to be?’

  Gardner’s rucksack sat on the bed. He wanted to pick it up, flip Land the bird and bug out of the Rock. Out of this nightmare.

  ‘We don’t have much time,’ Land continued. ‘Killen’s out there. That bastard’s going to try to intercept Bald by hook or by crook, and we can’t let that happen.’

  ‘Bald’s in hiding. How will Killen know where to look for him?’

  Land snooped out of the hotel window. Main Street was quiet.

  ‘That plunge in the water has dulled your senses a tad, mmm? Think about it: Gibraltar is crawling with police. The border with Spain is on high alert for a crazed gunman on the loose, namely Shai Golan – the man whose acquaintance you made at the King’s Hotel. Given that kind of police presence, Bald isn’t going to risk smuggling the cocaine across the border. And he’d never get the stuff past airport security. So that leaves only one way off.’

  ‘By boat.’

  Land clicked his fingers. ‘He has to leave via the marina. Our sources indicate that a man matching Bald’s description reserved a cruiser yacht called the Defiant two days ago. All Killen has to do is show at the marina and wait for his chance.’

  Gardner recalled something from Rio.

  ‘John can’t pilot a boat. That’s why he called me to Brazil.’

  ‘Either he was telling fibs, or he’s got help. Whichever it is, Bald simply has no choice but to go old-school and ship out his drugs. And MI6 needs him to succeed. Once he’s on the boat we’ve got him red-handed and your mission will be over. This is it, Joe. One more step.’

  Gardner searched his eyelids. Just this last job. ‘If I do this,’ he said, ‘I want be back in the Regiment one hundred per cent.’

  ‘Impossible
. I told you so a week ago.’

  ‘I’ll do whatever undercover work needs doing, but I’m fucked if I have to report back up to some rich prick in a suit with a semi-detached in Fulham. No offence.’

  ‘Plenty taken. But no one can do what you’re asking.’

  ‘Talk to Major Josh Oliver.’

  ‘I hardly think the new Commander of 22 SAS is going to be a sympathetic ear.’

  ‘Just talk to him.’

  Major Oliver. Just plain old Josh back when he and Gardner fought alongside each other. Worked his way up the old-fashioned way, with grit and determination. Promoted to Staff Sergeant, 2iC and then D Squadron’s OC before taking the top job. An old friend and, in Gardner’s eyes, the only decent rupert in the business.

  ‘All right. A quiet word, once this is over. But I’m making no promises.’

  ‘Deal.’

  ‘Then it’s settled. I suggest you head down to the marina immediately if you’re to stop Killen from taking down Bald.’

  ‘The Defiant, you say?’

  Land nodded.

  ‘Topped up and ready to sail, according to the owner.’ Land handed Gardner a photo.

  ‘I’m going to need firepower. And no offence, mate, but that thing you’re packing is about as useful as a one-legged man at an arse-kicking contest.’

  Then Gardner had an idea. He went to the bath, dragged back the curtain and patted the pockets on Stone’s 44-waist jeans. Found a polymer pistol grip jutting out of his back pocket. The grip was attached to a Kel-Tec PMR-30 semi-automatic. It was a newcomer to the weapons block but Gardner had heard a lot of buzz about its capabilities. He snatched the pistol out of Stone’s pocket and held it as if shaking hands with an old friend.

  ‘You won’t be needing this,’ he said to the back of Stone’s head.

  ‘Now, you have my permission to do whatever it takes to protect Bald’s safe passage. But for God’s sake try to keep it covert. I can cover your tracks to a certain extent, but if you go shooting up half the town my job becomes a lot more difficult.’