Masters of War

by Chris Ryan

  ‘Fucking do it!’ Taff shouted. ‘End it!’

  It required a blow. Nothing else would release the anger building up in Danny’s blood, certainly not the cowardly squeeze of a trigger. He lunged forwards, covering the three metres between them in a fraction of a second. He struck Taff on the side of the face – the blow half fist, half gun metal – and his bulk slammed into Taff’s body, knocking them both to the ground with a solid thump. He felt Taff’s cheekbone crack, but he knew in an instant he’d made the wrong move. There was a flurry of arms and legs, of bones against muscle. Taff was more than thirty years older than Danny, but his strength had never deserted him. Danny felt his gun hand being slammed against the floor. He managed to keep hold of the weapon, but when Taff attacked his wrist for a second time his fingers opened and the weapon fell from his fist on to the thin carpet.

  Taff’s weapon, however, the rope with which he’d clearly intended to eliminate the messenger boy, was still firmly in his grasp.

  Danny tried to drive his fist into Taff’s already broken nose, but Taff caught his arm in time and, with a titanic effort that caused him to grunt from the exertion, rolled Danny over on to his front. Danny felt a knee against his spine. And then a rope around his neck.

  His arms flailed, but although he could reach Taff, who was kneeling on his back, he couldn’t hurt him. He could feel the rope constricting his airway. Taff was twisting the loose ends together, tightening the noose. Within seconds Danny couldn’t speak.

  Couldn’t breathe.

  He moved his arms up, but his fingers could get no purchase between the rope and his skin.

  He started to feel dizzy. Light-headed. He heard Taff’s voice. Whispering. Hissing. Like he was talking to himself, and not to Danny. ‘I gave you a fucking chance. More than one. It’s not my fault if you were too stupid to take it . . .’

  The rope grew tighter.

  Tighter.

  ‘I didn’t want to do this. I never wanted to do this. You’ve been like a son to me, but you’ve forced me into it.’

  Danny’s lungs were burning from a build-up of carbon dioxide. He could feel his system shutting down.

  ‘Your mum was too good for the both of you . . .’

  In the darkness clouding his mind, Danny saw his father, alone in his wheelchair, staring at the photograph that sat on the TV in his tiny home. Saw the look in his eyes. Saw Kyle, half pissed and fully fucked, just another piece of collateral damage in the battle of Taff’s greed.

  Danny’s hands fell from his neck. With his final scrap of strength he wormed his hands down his body, feeling for his chest rig, his fingers edging towards the knife Taff had given him all those years ago.

  ‘A man always has need of a good knife, kiddo.’ The memory flashed through his mind.

  His fingers slipped from the hilt. He tried to grab it again, this time with more success. It slid out. His fist closed round the hilt.

  He knew he only had one chance. That if he didn’t strike in the next few seconds, the last thing he would ever see would be an extreme close-up of the bright orange carpet in this hotel room.

  It was a single movement. Danny yanked the knife out from under him and swung his arm randomly back in towards Taff’s body. He felt the blade puncture the coarse material of Taff’s trousers and plunge deeply into the flesh of his left thigh. Taff roared in pain. He released his grip on the rope. Danny gasped as he inhaled deeply. With a supreme effort, he twisted his body around and threw Taff sideways on to the floor.

  There was a distance of two metres between them. The Sig lay on the ground in the middle. The two men lunged for it at the same time.

  Danny got there first.

  And now Taff was lying on his back, the knife still sticking out of his thigh and blood pissing over the carpet. He had stopped howling, but his face was white with pain. Danny was kneeling, and although rage and confusion surged through him, his gun hand – fully extended, the weapon pointing at Taff’s head – was steady.

  ‘You think I’m going to kill you, Taff ?’ he said. ‘I’m not.’

  Hope flashed across Taff’s face.

  ‘At least, not quickly. I’m going to let you know what it was like when my dad took that bullet to the head.’

  ‘I’ve regretted that all my life,’ Taff said.

  ‘Not enough,’ Danny told him. ‘Not nearly enough.’

  In one swift movement he changed the trajectory of his hand, so now the gun was pointing across Taff’s forehead.

  He fired. He knew it would be noisy, but he didn’t care.

  The round only skimmed Taff’s frontal lobe before slamming into the wall of the hotel room. It was sufficient, though, to take a couple of centimetres’ depth of skull with it. A shard of bone flew across the room, and Danny caught a brief glimpse of brain matter before a curtain of blood slid down over Taff’s face. His eyes widened, and then all his limbs started to shake and judder as the signals from his brain became confused and degraded and he lost control of his body. A gurgling sound came from his throat, like he was trying to say something. But even if the power of speech had not deserted him, Danny wouldn’t have listened.

  The shaking grew more violent, more grotesque. Danny stood up and turned his back on his long-time mentor. He saw that the messenger boy was still unconscious. He approached the bed and started collecting up the bundles of notes and stuffing them into the bag. No time to count them, but he was sure Taff would have done his sums properly. When he was done, he looked over at his old friend. The shaking was beginning to subside, but his face was still a mask of blood and his tongue was lolling from the side of his mouth as if he was having an epileptic fit. He looked helpless. Like a child.

  Danny turned. Without looking back he walked out of the room and back down the corridor, allowing the door to close quietly on the dying man behind him.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  01.03 hrs.

  Someone was waiting for him.

  The RV point was not of Danny’s choosing. The ambassador had suggested it. It made him nervous. It was a T-junction on the M5 heading south. The road itself was surrounded by bleak, flat desert as far as was visible in the moonlight, and although there was no other traffic, it was out in the open and entirely indefensible. There were two cars parked side by side off the highway, five metres between them. Danny estimated that they were ten metres in front of the T-junction. They were alongside the right-hand southbound carriageway, but heading north, clearly ready to move quickly if necessary. Headlamps were off. Danny pulled over at a distance of seventy-five metres, parking the car at right angles to the road so he could at least use the vehicle for some sort of cover. He used his night-sight to zoom in on the two cars. They were certainly occupied, but he couldn’t make out any faces.

  He pulled out the sat phone he’d taken from the embassy and dialled the ambassador’s number, still keeping an eye on the interior of the two cars. He saw a glow inside the one on the right, just as the ambassador’s phone was ringing.

  It rang eight times. Why the delay? What was the ambassador waiting for? What was he discussing?

  ‘Hello?’

  The Czech sounded wary.

  ‘Do you have them?’ Danny asked.

  ‘Do you have the money?’

  ‘That wasn’t the question.’

  A nervous pause.

  ‘Three men, one woman. They have been badly beaten.’

  ‘I want to see them. Tell them to get out one by one and walk round to the far side of the vehicles.’

  ‘I want to see the money first.’

  ‘Forget it, pal. Buyer’s market. You’re not seeing shit until I know you’ve got them.’

  Another pause. And then the passenger door of the left-hand car opened. A figure emerged.

  Even through the green haze of the night-sight, Danny could make out the bruises on Buckingham’s face. His cheeks were swollen, his eyes puffy. He limped as he walked and his body twitched nervously. Whatever had happened to him at the
hands of the Mukhabarat had been severe.

  Clara came next. Her face was not so swollen, but she walked in such a way that suggested her tortures, though less visible, had been more violent. Sexually violent. She seemed to be doing what she could to hold her head up high as she joined Buckingham.

  When the next figure appeared, Danny felt a strange mixture of horror and relief. It was Spud, or at least a version of him. His hair had been shaved off, his nose was clearly broken, his lips split. His left arm hung at an angle from his shoulder, smashed and left untreated. Hard to imagine the pain he must be in. He limped as he walked round to join the others, though Danny noticed how, despite everything, his eyes were scanning the surrounding area, looking for threats. How much did he know about what was happening? Not a lot, Danny figured by the look of suspicion he cast in the direction of his vehicle.

  And then Greg. Jesus, the poor bastard couldn’t even walk. Two Syrian men – Danny could only assume that these were the ambassador’s Mukhabarat contacts – had to carry him with one arm around each of their shoulders. His head – also shaved – lolled, and Danny wasn’t sure that he was even conscious.

  But at least he had four positive IDs.

  He spoke into the sat phone again. ‘Get out of the car,’ he told the ambassador. ‘Tell your secret-police mates to stand twenty metres back from the hostages. Then I want to see you standing ten metres in front of the vehicles with the sat phone to your ear. If I get the impression your buddies are listening, the deal’s off.’

  ‘This is not what we agreed. They will not do that.’

  ‘Fine. Nice knowing you, pal.’

  ‘Wait!’

  Ten seconds passed before the ambassador stepped out of his car. He walked towards the others and spoke to them for perhaps thirty seconds. Danny watched as the two Syrians stepped back, as he had instructed, then the ambassador paced nervously northwards in Danny’s direction, the phone pressed to his ear, before coming to a halt out of range of the vehicles.

  ‘If you want your money, you have to do exactly as I say,’ Danny told him over the handset. ‘Are you carrying a weapon?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘A handgun?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Give it to the man called Spud, along with your phone. Then get back in your car and drive towards me. I’ll have a weapon trained on you all the time. Don’t switch your lights on. If you exceed twenty kilometres an hour, or if I see that there’s anyone else in the car with you, I’ll open fire. Stop ten metres from my vehicle and stay behind the wheel. Understood?’

  A silence.

  ‘Understood.’

  Danny watched him walk round to where the hostages were waiting. He handed something to Spud, then hurried back to his car. Seconds later it moved off.

  ‘Spud, can you hear me?’

  ‘Who the fuck’s that?’ His voice sounded rough.

  ‘Danny.’

  A pause.

  ‘Took your fucking time, mucker.’

  ‘RV at 01.30 hrs at a crossroads five klicks south of here. Can you overpower the goons?’

  Another pause.

  ‘We’re in a bad way, mate. I didn’t think Greg was going to make it through another night.’

  ‘We need them to get us through any roadblocks. We don’t have time to fight our way through. I’ll deal with the ambassador first.’

  Danny returned his attention to the approaching car. It had stopped exactly where he had instructed.

  Taff’s bag of money was resting on the passenger seat of the vehicle. Danny leaned in and grabbed a fistful of notes. He didn’t know how much it was, but neither did he expect the ambassador to sit around counting it. Money in one hand, unlocked Sig in the other, he walked towards the car.

  The ambassador lowered his window as Danny approached. By the time he was alongside, pistol fully on view, the Czech had his hands resting on the top of the steering wheel. Sweat dripped from his brow, he licked his lips nervously and his eyes darted towards Danny.

  Danny chucked the bundle of notes on to the ambassador’s lap.

  ‘Go. Now.’

  Immediately the ambassador veered off the side of the road and crossed to the correct lane. His tyres screeched as he accelerated and he’d already travelled thirty metres before he remembered to switch on his lights. In the distance, Danny saw that another car was approaching. It was maybe two kilometres away. Most likely just another civilian, but he didn’t want to make assumptions. He jumped back behind the wheel and drove towards the others.

  As he pulled up ten metres from the remaining vehicles, he could see that Spud had already taken control of the situation. Although his broken arm was still hanging uselessly by his side, he had the ambassador’s pistol aimed at the two Syrians, who had raised their hands in the air and looked very frightened. Danny raised his own weapon in their direction, then edged over to where the others were standing. Buckingham and Clara were holding Greg up now. Buckingham had the thousand-yard stare and was shivering. At least it meant he kept quiet.

  No time for pleasantries. Just instructions.

  ‘We need both vehicles,’ Danny said. ‘Too many of us crammed into one will just raise suspicion if we’re stopped.’

  ‘Leave her,’ Buckingham interrupted.

  Clara turned to him and, quite coolly, slapped his bruised face. Buckingham squealed with pain.

  ‘I’ve been wanting to do that for days,’ Danny muttered, before turning back to Spud. ‘We’ll take one of these Syrian fuckers each in case of roadblocks. They’ll—’

  ‘Danny . . .’ Clara interrupted. She tugged at his sleeve and pointed back along the road.

  Danny turned. Another vehicle had parked almost exactly where he himself had stopped. The headlamps were on full beam and the driver’s door was opening. Danny raised his scope, wincing slightly as the close-up of the headlamps burned his retina. The figure emerging was short and squat. He carried an assault rifle.

  Danny recognised the face.

  Hector. Bastard must have seen him leaving Al Kamada Street and followed him. Must be here for the money . . .

  ‘Get down!’ he yelled.

  He pulled Clara to the ground. Greg and Buckingham fell with them. Spud dived of his own accord. A burst of gunfire rang out, and suddenly the air was filled with inhuman screaming. One of the secret police had been hit.

  Danny made his way to the front of the Mukhabarat’s vehicle, where he got line of sight with Hector. He saw that De Fries was sitting in the passenger seat. Distance: seventy-five metres. Danny loosed a round. It ricocheted with a spark off the open driver’s door, causing Hector to seek cover in the vehicle.

  ‘I know this cunt,’ Danny shouted over his shoulder to Spud. ‘We don’t want him after us. I can distract him. You need to get the others to the 01.30 RV with the chopper.’

  ‘Roger that!’

  The wounded Syrian was still screaming. Movement from the direction of Hector’s car. He was emerging again . . .

  There was ten metres of open ground between Danny and his own vehicle. If he didn’t move quickly, Hector wouldn’t give him the chance to cover it. He jumped to his feet, raised his Sig and, arm outstretched, released another round as he ran to the car. It took him five seconds to get there, in which time he released another three rounds. The windscreen of Hector’s car shattered to reveal De Fries still in the passenger seat. Hector dived back in.

  As Danny hurled himself into his own vehicle, it crossed his mind to grab his M4 from the passenger seat and open up. He quickly rejected that idea. Two against one. Even if Danny made it through those odds, he couldn’t be sure that his companions wouldn’t be wounded in the crossfire.

  So he didn’t grab his rifle. He grabbed Taff’s bag of money instead. He held it out of his window, in full view of Hector, for three seconds. His message was clear. You want it – come and get it.

  Then he slung the bag back on to the passenger seat, slammed his foot on the accelerator and sped west into
open country.

  The beaten-up Peugeot bounced over the stony desert floor. Immediately Danny started driving in a random, zigzag pattern. He knew he was going to draw fire and he needed to make himself as difficult to hit as possible. Screeching up through the gears, he checked his rear-view mirror. Hector was already chasing him, but Danny was accelerating faster. The distance between them was thirty metres and increasing. They’d pick up speed soon, but at the moment he had the edge. Back by the road, he caught a quick glimpse of the others. Spud was forcing the remaining secret policeman at gunpoint into the driver’s seat of their vehicle. That was all Danny needed to know. The others were in Spud’s hands now. The responsibility of getting them to the RV was his.

  The Peugeot’s ancient engine screeched as Danny forced the speedo up past 90 kph. It rattled its way across the uneven desert. When he was 150 metres from the road he yanked the steering wheel to the left so that he was heading south. Five seconds later the first round hit.

  The Peugeot’s rear windscreen shattered and the noise of the protesting engine was joined by a sudden, deafening rush of air. Danny checked his mirrors. There was forty metres between them and the gap seemed constant. They were moving at the same speed. Which was bad news, because if Danny had to continue to zigzag to avoid being hit – and he did – it meant covering more ground. And that meant Hector would catch up.

  With his right hand still on the wheel, he used his left to point the Sig over his shoulder. He couldn’t aim, of course, but perhaps a couple of loose rounds would make his pursuers think twice about getting too close.

  He let one go, almost deafening himself in the process. It flew harmlessly through the desert air. His second shot was more successful, smashing into Hector’s left headlamp. He zigzagged again, and noted that the gap still remained constant. They’d slowed down. For now.

  No more rounds from behind. Had they spent their ammo? More likely they were saving it for when they had a better chance of a kill. Danny set his eyes on the landscape ahead. The terrain had become more undulating, so he could no longer see the road to his left and every few seconds the vehicle behind him disappeared in a dip.