“What’s going on?” Flaharty’s pistol was out now, small in his hand as he slid down, crouching on the floor of the Explorer. “Stop arsing about and get us out of here, Davey!”
It wasn’t going to be enough, he thought, throwing a critical glance down the motorway. No exits.
The ballistic glass crystallized over his head, weakening under the impact of the rounds. Bullet-resistant.
Bulletproof didn’t exist. Not outside of Hollywood. And given enough time, the effectiveness of ballistic glass was degraded by sunlight.
They weren’t going to hold for long.
The next moment, Harry felt the vehicle lurch drunkenly to the left, the hideous groan of metal against the surface of the road. He knew what it was without asking. They’d just lost a tire—their last mobility leaving them in that instant.
He saw Malone wrestling with the steering wheel, struggling to bring the Explorer to a controlled stop on the edge of the median without overturning the vehicle.
Out of time. Switching the Sig-Sauer to his left hand, Harry reached across Flaharty, throwing the door open as the vehicle ground to a stop. “Out, out—out!”
He shoved the Irishman from the vehicle, following him closely as they both jumped out onto the median—a bolt of pain shooting its way through Harry’s body as the loose gravel gave way, his bad ankle betraying him in that moment.
There was no time for weakness. Not now.
He risked a glance back through the damaged windows of the shot-up Explorer, just in time to see the SUV pulling to a stop on the other side of the motorway—men fanning out from the vehicle. At least four, perhaps five—shadows moving quickly in the darkness. Military training. They were outnumbered.
And outgunned, he realized, making out the outline of assault rifles in the men’s hands. Long odds.
“What the devil is going on?” Flaharty repeated, punctuating his words with a flurry of curses. “Who are they?”
“They’re not Special Branch,” Harry said, hissing the words through gritted teeth as he leaned back against the side of the armored SUV, his eyes scanning the terrain around them. The ground they’d have to cross. “My guess? You did business with the wrong people this time…outlived your usefulness.”
Too much open ground—not enough cover. Not enough time. There. There was an overpass running above the motorway, perhaps a hundred and fifty meters off. A windbreak of tall pines back of them, across the southbound lanes—some concealment there, but nothing that would stop a rifle bullet.
Either was a long sprint under fire on the best of days—and he was in no shape for a run. “If you can make it to that road above us,” he began, “you should be able to grab transportation and get out of here.”
Flaharty measured the distance with a practiced eye and obviously came to the same conclusion Harry had only moments earlier. “You’re bleedin’ insane.”
“Give me your shotgun,” Harry spat out, glancing back over his shoulder at Malone. “I’ll cover you.”
“Sod that,” the arms dealer retorted, a look of disbelief in his eyes, “now I know you’re insane.”
A burst of full-automatic fire ripped through the night, followed by another. And another. Harry knew what it was—suppressive fire, designed to keep their heads down. They were being flanked.
And all he could remember was another night—lying on his belly in a California oil field with a rifle in his hand, waiting for Korsakov’s mercenaries to move in. Baiting a trap with himself. Gambling his life to protect Carol’s.
It hadn’t saved her in the end.
He shook his head. “You want to stay here and die arguing over my mental state if you want, makes no difference to me. But if you want to live…”
He paused, as if lost momentarily in thought. “Do you have any more plastique?”
12:25 A.M.
Outside Claughton
The wounded man was lying there on the ground in the darkness, moaning helplessly as Conor Hale walked up to him, weapon drawn in his hand.
“Please…” A bloody froth bubbled around the man’s lips as he mouthed the plea. “Don’t.”
The former SAS sergeant shook his head remorselessly from behind the black balaclava mask, his arm coming up. “Fortunes of war, mate.”
The Sig-Sauer coughed twice, 9mm slugs spitting from the barrel—smashing into the skull of the fallen Irishman. It didn’t matter that the man was scarce old enough to have remembered the Troubles, let alone participated in them…killing him was a good feeling.
Justice. For all his brothers killed through the years.
Hale safed the pistol and holstered it, glancing across at the bodies of the other men they had killed, sprawled near the truck—blood pooling around the corpses.
He saw Paul Gordon out of the corner of his eye, the former Para clutching the Beretta Px4 in both hands, head up, his eyes still scanning the area around them.
Ever the soldier.
“How you doing, mate?” Hale asked, noticing that his old comrade was breathing heavily, his hands trembling ever so slightly. It had been a long time out of the saddle for all of them.
“Fine,” Gordon replied, his eyes hollow as he looked toward the bodies of the men they had killed. “They never stood a chance, did they?”
“No they didn’t,” came Hale’s ready retort, his voice even as he stared keenly into the face of his old friend. “Do you have a problem with that?”
There was no reply for a moment and Hale took a step closer to him, lowering his voice. “If you want out, tell me now. It doesn’t get any bloody easier from here. We both lost good mates in Iraq—I trust you to leave without turning tout on us.”
Another moment passed, and then Gordon swallowed hard, seeming to calm down. “No,” he responded at length, holstering the Beretta, “I’m staying. It was all about the money for them—they would have sold those weapons to anyone, even the Muzzies. Deserved what they got.”
“Good man,” the former SAS sergeant smiled, surreptitiously easing his hand away from his own weapon. “Then let’s get this mess cleaned up.”
They were committed now. No going back, no retreat for any of them. He had taken a step past Gordon back toward their vehicle when the phone on his hip buzzed.
“Is it done?” a voice demanded as he flipped it open. Arthur Colville.
“Nearly.” Hale looked back to see Gordon and another of his men rolling one of the bodies into a black body bag. “His men are down, here and at the crossroads. Just waiting for a sitrep from Baker Element on the primary.”
“Good. Call me when it’s been taken care of.”
12:29 A.M.
The M6 Motorway
Gunshots. Short, controlled bursts, the sporadic flicker of muzzle flashes in the night above him. They were up against professionals, Harry thought—the type of people a man like Conor Hale would have surrounded himself with.
He was leaning up against the side of a shallow ditch in the very center of the median, cold, slushy water seeping through his pants. The chill, clammy touch of death.
Harry pressed himself back against the rough-cut gravel, holding the Remington 870 across his chest. It was a good weapon for an enforcer like Malone—a tool of intimidation—but the pistol grip made it almost impossible to aim with any degree of accuracy.
He would have been a fool to rely upon it. He waited another moment, hearing the gunshots grow louder as the hostiles moved closer to his position—waiting for his opening.
Whether Malone and Flaharty had made it across the southbound lanes, whether they had made it up to the overpass, he had no idea—had never intended to cover their retreat. They were bait, drawing the kill team into his own trap.
A wince crossed his face, and this time it wasn’t from the pain of the ankle. This was a concept foreign to him—out in the field you lived and you died for the men beside you. For your team. And trusted that they would do the same for you.
But now…there was no more place for t
rust. And they weren’t his team. Now!
He raised himself up on one knee, eyes sweeping the darkness, the detonator Flaharty had given him clutched in his left hand. Target. Target. Target.
Dark figures fanned out around the van—two of them clustered together. First mistake, but their fire was more deliberate now, more purposeful. Aimed shots, not suppressive bursts, as if they’d found their targets.
He risked a glance in the direction of their fire and nearly slammed his fist into the gravel in frustration.
Flaharty and his enforcer hadn’t gone for the overpass—they were pinned down just across the motorway, just short of the treeline. Their deaths were a matter of time.
Movement out of the corner of his eye—off to the left—and Harry wheeled, finding a fifth man almost on top of him. Man? No. Target.
He dropped the detonator…an unavoidable reflex, his left hand closing around the shotgun’s forearm—bringing the barrel up. He saw surprise register on the man’s face, his lips opening to scream a warning. Too late.
The Remington’s trigger broke under the pressure of his finger, the recoil of the twelve-gauge slamming back into his unsupported right hand as a deafening blast ripped through the night.
Chaos.
The load of buckshot struck his target full in the stomach and the man staggered back, his mouth opening and closing in silent spasms. His legs going out from under him.
He had already crumpled to the macadam by the time his screams found their voice. An ungodly, bestial sound.
Harry’s left hand came back, a spent shell flying from the chamber as he racked the action. Chambering another round in the work of a moment.
Not soon enough.
The night exploded around him as two of the gunmen near the Explorer turned, opening fire. He pulled the trigger, the Remington slamming back once more into his palm as he got off a second shot, but it went wild in the darkness.
Lights from an oncoming vehicle along the motorway swept over his position, silhouetting him against their glare. Perfect target.
He threw himself backward down the slight embankment, dropping the shotgun. His hand clawing blindly in the darkness for the detonator.
It had to be there. Had to be. Could it have fallen into the water? He considered the possibility for a moment, then dismissed it. No.
Had to find it while he still had mobility. Before the gunmen moved to flank him.
Before they moved outside the blast radius. He heard the stutter of gunfire—the screech of car tires. Had they fired on the hapless motorist?
There was no time to think of that now. No time to consider the loss of an innocent life. His outstretched fingers touched the hard plastic of the detonator, his hand closing around it—flipping open the cap.
Pain. It was a curiously numb feeling, Flaharty thought, his eyes opening and closing as he lay there—his breathing labored. More heat than anything else, as if someone had slammed him in the ribs with a hot anvil. “Bugger,” he announced simply, his fingers coming away from his side sticky with blood. “I’m hit.”
He glanced over to see Malone lying there beside him, the enforcer’s FNX-45 recoiling into his hand as he got off a wild shot into the dark.
Across the road, Nichols’ weapon had once again fallen silent—the American might have been dead, for all Flaharty knew.
He did know that their fate was sealed as soon as their assailants moved across the road, as soon as they could enfilade their position with fire. A round slammed into the rocks near his head even as he thought it, stone spalling away and peppering his face.
“We’re not making it out of this one, Davey,” he hissed, gritting his teeth against the pain in his side.
His old friend shook his head and Flaharty could have sworn he saw a smile there. Malone had always been one to laugh at death.
“Sod that,” the big man snarled back, wrapping his right arm around the arms dealer’s torso even as he got off another shot—the explosive report hammering Flaharty’s ears. “I’m not leaving you here.”
Together, the two of them staggered to their feet, Malone covering him with his body as they limped back toward the treeline. So exposed.
Flaharty heard the whiplash crack of bullets in the air around them as if through a dream, the bark of Malone’s pistol as he returned fire. They’d made it only a few steps when the night exploded around them…
12:33 A.M.
Charing Cross Hotel
London
Terror. It was all over the news, the “stabbing” at Heaven—with more of the gruesome details emerging by the hour.
It wasn’t a surprise, Daniel Pearson thought, shaking his head as he glanced at the television screen. He had sensed it in the manner of the news anchors, an unspoken fear of something they dared not name.
More importantly, he’d known for years that this day was coming, had warned of it.
Had been called a “radical” himself for his warning, been accused of hate speech—of being an “Islamophobe.” Had nearly lost his seat in the House of Commons in the resulting furor.
And now Priam trembles. A curse escaped his lips, sounding unusually loud in the empty hotel room. Futile. He was past grief, long ago—now the reality of what had happened filled him only with anger, a fury cold as the night outside his hotel room window.
The lives which could have been saved had his warnings only been heeded.
His mobile buzzed from where he had placed it on the nightstand and he walked over to the bed, a grim smile crossing his face as he read the name displayed on-screen.
They’d been friends for years, allies in the fight against all that was coming against Britain. Standing alone.
He hesitated only a moment before answering, his eyes still fixed on the television. “An evil morning, Arthur. I was expecting you to call.”
Evil. That was such a complex notion, Colville thought, staring into the fireplace as he listened to the MP.
Good and evil. Right and wrong. How would history remember what they were about to do? How would they be judged?
Ungratefully, of that he had little doubt. Few would ever understand the sacrifices which had been made for them. The English blood spilt for the preservation of their way of life.
Which was of no consequence, so long as it was preserved. “You’ve been watching the news from Heaven?” he asked after a moment. It was a rhetorical question. They both had.
“Ever since the story first broke,” was Pearson’s response. “It was a Muslim, wasn’t it?”
Colville snorted. “The disk jockey was beheaded, Daniel. His assailant wasn’t Church of England.”
“Do you have details?” He could hear the note of caution in the man’s voice. Ever the politician and at his heart, little different than the rest of his kind.
A useful mouthpiece, little more.
“His name was Javeed Mousa,” the publisher responded. It struck him then, the incongruity of a newspaperman leaking information to a member of government, and he was forced to stifle a laugh. The world turned upside down. “A twenty-three-year-old Libyan national here on a student visa. The Security Services are investigating his ties to homegrown Islamic terrorism.”
It was a moment before Pearson spoke again. “That information hasn’t been on the networks, anywhere. Do I want—”
“No,” Colville replied, cutting him off before he could even voice the question. “You don’t. Now you’ll be wanting to get some sleep—I’ve secured an interview for you on Sky News in the morning. Do us proud.”
12:35 A.M.
M-6 Motorway
Light. The heat washed over him in a wave, the ground rushing up to meet him. Flaharty swore, the breath knocked from his body—the noise of the explosion still reverberating through the night.
He rolled onto his back, shielding his eyes as he looked back toward the roadway—flames leaping into the night sky from the burning shell of the Ford Explorer.
“He did it,” the arms dealer
breathed, glancing over at Malone. “He sodding did it.”
Flaming pieces of the Explorer rained down from the night sky above him, burning metal hissing as it landed in the water of the drainage ditch.
Harry pulled his head up, drawing the Sig-Sauer from within his jacket as he rose up on one knee—scanning the area for threats, the flames casting eerie shadows over the motorway.
Devastation. He saw the bodies of the shooters sprawled along the roadside near the burning SUV, one man’s mangled torso draped over the guardrail, his right leg sheared off north of the knee.
No signs of life.
The bomb had done the work for which he’d intended it, more completely than he had even dared to hope.
A moan seemed to rise from the earth at his feet and he glanced down into the eyes of the soldier he had shot, only moments before. It seemed like an eternity.
He was young, couldn’t have been out of his twenties—eyes wide and staring, a face distorted in agony. He was lying there on his side, nearly disemboweled by the load of buckshot, trying to hold his entrails inside him with a bloody hand.
Bleeding to death there on the cold, hard asphalt.
Dying, Harry thought dispassionately, placing a hand on the young man’s shoulder and gently rolling him onto his back. Nothing he could do about it. Nothing at all.
“Listen to me,” he began, his voice low against the crackle of the flames in the background—the noise of a car speeding by on the southbound lanes. No doubt dialing 999 in a panic. “You were military, so you know you don’t have long…five, six minutes at the most before you bleed out. That’s all. So make it count.”
Tears ran down his cheeks as he stared up into Harry’s face, fighting to maintain his defiance, his body trembling with silent sobs. Struggling to speak, his lips forming an obscenity. “…you, you Provo sods.”
“We’re not that different, you and I,” Harry continued, his expression almost regretful as he reached up to smooth back perspiration-slick hair from the dying man’s brow. The man he had killed. “Soldiers, the both of us. Trapped on opposite sides of a war we haven’t even begun to understand.”
Embrace the Fire (Shadow Warriors Book 3) Page 20
