Embrace the Fire (Shadow Warriors Book 3)

by Stephen England

  That was the idea, Harry thought coldly, squeezing off another round as the man’s partner tried to break cover to retrieve him. Slow them down, give them casualties.

  Wounded talked. It was a risk they weren’t going to be able to afford.

  And then the door came open beside him, movement out of the corner of his eye. The muzzle of a suppressed pistol leading the way out.

  No hesitation—pivoting on the balls of his feet, he threw his body weight against the steel door, slamming it back on the man’s gun hand with a sickening crunch.

  A scream, an unearthly sound barely muffled by the door—the clatter of a pistol falling to the concrete.

  Harry kicked it away, ripping the door back open to reveal his assailant just within, his face twisted in anguish—his right arm hanging useless at his side.

  He glanced up, giving Harry a brief look at the face of a man perhaps ten years younger than himself—hard eyes, the close-cropped hair of a man not long out of the military. Perhaps he was still in.

  The type of man he had spent the last fifteen years serving beside, Harry thought, the Sig-Sauer coming up in his hands. Sights framing his opponent’s face.

  He saw the hardness turn to fear, saw the plea begin to form on the man’s lips.

  And he shook his head.

  When death came, it was with a suppressed cough.

  Chapter 15

  4:53 P.M.

  Colville’s Estate

  The Midlands

  “…Pearson, in your interview with Sky News yesterday, you issued an angry call for British citizens to ‘rise up,’ to ‘take a stand’ against what you called the Islamist threat. In the light of these provocative comments, what do you have to say regarding today’s bombing of London’s Madina Mosque by a right-wing group whose rhetoric seems to take a page from your friends at the British Defence Coalition?”

  The camera zoomed in on Daniel Pearson’s face as the reporter finished asking his question, and they could see the MP falter, sweat showing on his face. “Well, I think it’s too soon to know who was genuinely behind the attacks, uh, anyone can post anything on the ‘Net. But speaking for myself and the BDC—not that I speak for the BDC, of course—but their stance, and mine, on violence has always been, uh, exceptionally clear. The type of carnage that wreaked havoc in London earlier today is unconscionable and I—”

  “Pathetic,” Colville snarled, flicking the television off before returning the remote to his desk. He glanced across his den to where the former sergeant stood, arms folded as he leaned against the door. “But I could have told you he would fold the moment there was real pressure. Our nation’s ‘leaders’—spineless cowards, the lot of them. Which is why it falls to us to do what needs to be done.”

  He paused, pacing back to the window. “How long has it been?”

  “Ten minutes since I got the text from Martin,” Hale replied calmly. “Three minutes since you last asked.”

  The publisher halted his pacing for a moment, stabbing a finger in Hale’s direction. “It’s been too long. I told you we should have used a sniper to handle things with Flaharty. It would have been simple.”

  “On the telly,” the sergeant snorted, waving a hand to the now-darkened screen. “In real life…”

  He walked over to the desk and poured himself a finger of brandy. “Nothing is ever simple. And a sniper? That was one thing they taught us in the Regiment—most of the world over, eliminating a target with a marksman sends a clear message: state sponsorship.”

  “Or in our case,” he added, draining the glass, “state training. I have good men, but we don’t need to draw any more scrutiny than absolutely necessary, sir. Not yet. Leave the operations end of this to me.”

  4:56 P.M.

  Hammersmith, West London

  Feels good, feels good. Fired up.

  Harry’s boots pounded into the broken-up asphalt of the alley as he ran, the words of the old cadence song replaying itself through his brain as he forced himself to move past the pain, ignore the throbbing of his ankle.

  Conjuring up memories of Agency training. Of the endless nights and longer days at Camp Peary—later in the mountains of North Carolina. SERE School.

  Survive. Evade. Resist. Escape. The mantra that had preserved him…and survive he had.

  He’d also been fifteen years younger then. Hard to believe the difference that made.

  Shouts. They’d caught sight of him, a thought which found confirmation a moment later in the form of a bullet creasing the air past his head. He ducked to one side, his leg nearly giving out from under him.

  Gotta run. Feels good.

  Just another lie you told yourself in an effort to stave off the inevitable.

  And he was coming to the end of his rope. Another few minutes. A lucky shot. That’s all they’d need.

  Time to end this.

  He could see the end of the alley ahead, light shining through from the street as he slipped, boots sliding in mud left by the previous day’s rain. Twisting, weight hard on the sprain.

  He threw up a hand, catching himself against the wall of the adjoining building even as another round caromed into the brick only inches away from his hand. Bits of mortar spraying outward, peppering his face. Drawing blood.

  Pain. He reeled, staggering blindly toward the end of the alley as he struggled to clear his vision. Hearing the rush of footsteps behind him—certain that the next moment he would feel a slug bite into his back.

  He made the corner and rounded it, breath coming in heavy gasps—wiping the blood from his eyes as he leaned back against the wall, getting his bearings.

  The lot was empty—or nearly so, converted at one time into a makeshift basketball court, a few young Asian men shooting baskets in a pick-up game. Opening out onto a busy London street, filled with pedestrians and cars. If this became a shooting gallery…

  There didn’t seem to be much way to avoid it.

  He saw one of the players look his way, appearing to react to the sight of the limping, bloodied man. He ducked his head to avoid further attention, carefully drawing the Sig-Sauer and holding it within his jacket.

  Then the sound of running footsteps focused his attention back on the alleyway. He’d expected them to come out slow—“cutting the pie” to cover their angles, eliminate blind spots—but it was easy to lose sight of your training in the heat of the chase.

  To make mistakes. And in this life, you only got one to a customer.

  The foremost pursuer took the corner tight, feet pounding against the gravel and broken asphalt. He sensed the presence there a moment too late—looked up, just as Harry’s left elbow smashed into the point of his chin.

  The ex-soldier’s head snapped back under the impact, body crumpling to the ground in a heap.

  He heard one of the Asian kids yelling, something incoherent amidst the curses as the players realized something was wrong. Very wrong.

  Harry’s hand shot out, fingers twisting in the man’s collar as he pulled him close—wrapping an arm around his waist to keep him from falling as he dragged the soldier backward into the open lot, bringing the pistol up in his free hand as the final two pursuers exploded out of the alleyway, weapons leveled.

  He could dimly hear the curses, the shouts of fear from behind him as the lot emptied, players scattering. It could be only minutes until the police were alerted. Minutes he didn’t have.

  The two men seemed to hesitate at the sight of him standing there, using the limp body of their comrade as a human shield—then the leader nodded and they began to separate, going right and left. Circling, their weapons never leaving him.

  He shifted the muzzle of the Sig-Sauer up, until the cold metal of the suppressor pressed firmly into the young soldier’s temple. “Take one more step,” he warned, “and I blow out his brains.”

  5:07 P.M.

  The warehouse

  Ashton-under-Lyne

  Come on, Harry…where are you? Mehreen glanced at the still-dark screen of the
burner phone and shook her head, glancing from the warehouse back to the churning rotors of the Eurocopter. It was time to leave, she knew that.

  The Lancashire firearms unit was already packing their gear back into the S-Max vans, their multiple sweeps of the property complete.

  Nothing. A dead hole. Her eyes swept the buildings once more, searching. Nichols had led her out here for some reason.

  What was it? What was his agenda?

  But there was no answer to that question, and she could delay no longer in the hopes of intel that clearly wasn’t coming.

  Mehreen tucked the burner into the pocket of her windbreaker and turned back toward the helicopter, ducking as rotor wash whipped hair into her eyes.

  Levering herself up into the seat beside the American, she leaned forward, her hand on the pilot’s shoulder. “Get us in the air. It’s time to get back to London.”

  5:08 P.M.

  Hammersmith

  West London

  “We have no fight with you, mate,” the man with the gun said, a faint accent of Yorkshire tingeing his words, the muzzle of his H&K never leaving Harry’s face. “Our orders were only for your boss. Just put down the gun and walk away.”

  “My boss?” A taut smile tugged at the corner of Harry’s lips. “I don’t have one—not anymore. As for walking away, afraid I can’t do that either.”

  He nodded at the leader, taking the measure of the man in a sweeping glance. The close-cropped sandy hair, the hard eyes. The military bearing, the way his hands wrapped around the H&K, anchoring it in a rock-steady two-handed grip.

  Time to stall. Every second he could buy until the bullets started flying…

  “Who were you with? The 1 Yorks, Prince of Wales’s Own? I worked with A Company at Shaibah back in ’07. Good men, all.”

  “No.” A shake of the head, but he could tell from the startled look in the man’s eyes that he had hit uncomfortably close to home. “The Green Howards.”

  “Ah,” he replied, keeping an eye on the second gunman out of the corner of his eye. He was getting antsy, his gaze continually shifting between Harry and his own leader.

  The Yorkshire Regiment’s 2nd Battalion had been deployed to Afghanistan, not Iraq. Helmand Province to be exact. “I was up north on temporary deployment when you lads went into Musa Qala…three days of some of the toughest fighting that’d been seen down there in years, or so I was told.”

  The ex-soldier nodded, a grimace passing across his face at the memory. “It was.”

  A curse exploded from the lips of the gunman. “Enough of this, Martin—he’s stallin’.”

  The oath seemed to bring the leader back to his senses, the distant wail of police sirens punctuating the words. Harry saw him rock slightly forward on the balls of his feet, finger tightening around the H&K’s trigger.

  The next moment, a shot shattered the London air.

  5:11 P.M.

  The surveillance van

  Leeds, England

  “What’s our status on Rahman?” Darren Roth asked, sliding the van’s side door closed as he deposited the tray of coffees onto one of the seats.

  “He went out for a walk,” came the response from the officer sitting in front of the screens lining one side of the van, the bright glow casting his pale face into dark shadows. “He’s down at the mini-mart—likely picking up a packet of crisps.”

  Roth slid into the seat beside him, handing over a coffee. “Do we have a visual?”

  Given the lower traffic of the area surrounding the imam’s flat, they had been forced to fall back on the local CCTV. Any tails would have been made on the first day. Not to mention that the ethnic make-up of the neighborhood was…unforgiving. All these years into the War on Terror and Five’s recruitment efforts in the Asian community were still lagging.

  “Negative,” came a woman’s voice from behind him and he looked back to see the second officer sitting there. She was one of the Americans, on loan from Jimenez as part of Parker’s team. Her name, what was it? Traeg, something. “We’ve got a camera—there—on the corner across the street from the market covering the entrance, but the angle’s wrong to see inside the store.”

  Something felt wrong about this, a vague sense of disquiet lurking in the dark corners of his mind. Instinct.

  Roth shifted in his seat, watching the screen the woman had indicated as the minutes passed.

  “How long has he been in there?”

  His officer shrugged. “Ten minutes, maybe a little more.”

  “He left the apartment at 4:51,” the American cut in, her hands moving over the keyboard in front of her to bring up the footage. And there it was. Hashim Rahman exiting the flat dressed in a light blue hoodie and jeans, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket as he made his way down the street. Taking his time, stopping at one moment to tie shoes that hadn’t come untied—one of the oldest countersurveillance tricks in the book.

  This guy was good…which once again led him to ask: What was he doing in the mini-mart?

  “I’m going to go take a look,” he said, running a hand over his shaved scalp as he reached for a hat. Of any of his officers, he stood the best chance of blending in.

  “No—wait, hold up—he’s coming out,” his man announced, pointing to the screen as Roth got to his feet. “Heading back to the flat.”

  He could see him on the screen, hurrying along the sidewalk in the fading light of day. Hurrying—and something was…

  “There,” Roth said, leaning forward to tap the screen. “Take that back.”

  Tapping a command into the keyboard, the field officer rewound the footage, showing Hashim Rahman leaving the mini-mart—moving down the street.

  “And now from earlier,” he ordered, dark eyes flickering from one screen to the next as the earlier footage came up.

  Only a few seconds of the tape rolled before a low curse escaped Roth’s lips. “Those are two different men, that’s not Rahman. Red-flash Thames House—he’s done a runner.”

  5:12 P.M.

  Hammersmith

  West London

  The first rule of a gunfight…was that there were no rules. No secret tricks. No magic words. Just chaos, raw and bloody.

  And the man who could ride that chaos—that was the man who lived where others died.

  The echoes of the unsuppressed gunshot hadn’t even died out over the streets of West London before Harry was moving, taking in a sweeping gaze the sight of the gunman reeling backward—clutching spasmodically at his chest.

  Flaharty. It had to be him, but there was no time to process that as another round came whining in almost simultaneously with the first, ricocheting off the brick.

  Harry put a second bullet into the falling man, the round striking him high in the chest. Insurance.

  His eyes locked with those of the man still standing before him, saw the surprise written there at the sudden gunfire—saw the ex-soldier’s eyes tighten, his trigger finger taking up the slack, a movement born of instinct.

  The muzzle of his own gun moving to cover him. Ride the chaos.

  But it was too late, the pistol recoiling into the man’s hands even as Harry’s Sig-Sauer came to bear.

  He didn’t hear the sound of the pistol firing—the suppressed cough of the H&K drowned out by the screech of car brakes, a cacophony of horns as the shots brought traffic grinding to a standstill in the street behind him.

  But he felt the bullet striking home as if it were a hammer blow slamming into the limp body in his arms—the sickeningly wet sound of a bullet ripping through flesh, shattering bone.

  Sirens.

  He fired the Sig-Sauer off-hand, moving backward and letting the man’s body crumple to the asphalt of the vacant lot—his shots going wild as the soldier ducked for cover.

  Live to fight another day.

  It was past time for him to follow the same advice, Harry thought, the muzzle of his weapon covering his retreat as he moved back on the street, working his way among the stalled cars. />
  Break contact. Forcing himself into a limping run, he threw his free hand out, vaulting himself over the crumpled hood of a Nissan Micra compact that had smashed into the rear of the delivery van in front of it.

  The airbags had deployed—the driver’s seat empty, he saw, staggering painfully as he regained his feet.

  There was a little girl crying in her car seat in the back of the Micra, her mother nowhere in sight. Pistol still extended in front of him in both hands, his head came up—eyes searching the once-quiet city street, picking out the figures of bystanders running in terror. Fear. Chaos.

  Like they had that night in Vegas.

  And then, in the space of a moment, he was back there—standing outside the Bellagio—the sound of the approaching sirens ringing dimly in his ears, a cold sweat breaking out on his forehead. His legs felt suddenly rubbery from the run, his breath coming in sharp, shallow gasps.

  He could feel Carol’s hand on his arm, hear her voice. “You thought I was going to leave you?”

  He closed his eyes, trying to shake the paralysis that seemed to have overcome him, but he could only see her face—white and gasping for breath. Struggling to form those last, painful words. “I’m…sorry.”

  Gone.

  Movement—off to his right—and he swung, bringing the muzzle of the Sig up to cover the threat.

  Flaharty. The Irishman was standing there, his own weapon drawn as his eyes searched Harry’s face, questions written in their depths.

  Questions with no answers. And no time to look for them.

  “It’s time we were leavin’, boyo.”

  6:17 P.M.

  A bus stop

  Leeds

  It seemed hard to believe that he was this close, after so many months. He had been so bold on-line, yet so afraid of actually taking action…and that was to his shame. Even now, it seemed hard to believe that the imam had welcomed him to their ranks so readily.

  Aydin collapsed into a seat near the back of the First Leeds bus, digging into his jacket for his phone. Pulling it out as he did so, to check Rahman’s message one more time.

  A single endeavor in God’s Cause, he thought, recalling the words of the hadith, is better than the world and whatever is in it.