Tom Clancy Duty and Honor (A Jack Ryan Jr. Novel)

by Grant Blackwood

  “We’ll find out soon enough,” Jack replied. “I’m going in.”

  He drew his HK, stepped out from under the trees, raised the gun, and stalked forward. He was facing the hollow portion of the structure’s L-shape, most of which was crowded with wheelbarrows, cement mixers, and sawhorse tables. With both his gun and his eyes alternating between the windows above and the ground ahead Jack picked his way through the maze to a broad archway he assumed would eventually be the lobby entrance. He ducked right, pressed himself against the inner wall. The sounds of Optimolwerke’s revelers and pumping music faded slightly. He looked around.

  Though the building’s exterior was nearly finished, the interior had a long way to go. The lobby was a slab of rough concrete crisscrossed with power cables and pneumatic hoses. The interior beams were exposed along with the water pipes and electrical conduits. Half-finished ducting snaked above Jack’s head. Directly ahead lay an open elevator shaft and on either side of this a pair of stairwells leading upward.

  Effrem radioed, “Jack, I see something.”

  Jack cupped his hand around the headset microphone. “What and where?”

  “Light, just a flicker. Second floor—no, third floor, my side.”

  To my left and above, Jack thought. Instinctively he pointed the NVG that way. He answered Effrem, “Roger. Don’t make me ask next time.”

  They’d gone over this: The more radio silence Jack maintained, the better his chances. Effrem’s reports needed to be concise but thorough.

  “Yeah, sorry,” he said.

  “I’m moving up to the second floor.”

  Effrem replied “Roger” with a double click.

  Jack headed to the left-hand stairwell and started upward. At the first landing he stopped, leaned forward, peeked up, saw nothing, and kept going until he reached the second floor. Here there was an opening for a door, but no door. Jack stepped forward with his HK at relaxed high-ready, until he could see left through the opening.

  Effrem called, “A car just pulled up to the gate. Two men getting out.”

  Shit.

  “Car’s pulling away . . . Oh, damn!” Effrem went silent for ten seconds then came back: “It turned onto Grafinger Strasse. I don’t think they saw me.”

  “License plate?”

  “Missed it, sorry. Okay, the guys are at the gate. It’s not locked, Jack, they’re just pulling the chain.”

  That tended to confirm Effrem’s report of seeing light on the third floor. Möller’s men were already here, and now more were arriving. Either that or these newcomers were construction-site security guards and someone had forgotten to padlock the gate.

  “I’m looking for weapons,” Effrem whispered. “I can’t tell. Okay, they’re through the gate, heading your way . . . Lost sight of them.”

  Jack double-clicked.

  He took another step forward, peeked right, and saw nothing.

  From somewhere above came the crackle of a portable radio, then in German: “Ja . . . dritten Etage.” Yes, third floor.

  Jack heard the scuff of shoes on the stairs. He looked over the handrail and saw a pair of men trotting up the stairs. Each was carrying a compact assault weapon—a FAMAS bullpup or one of its variants. These men weren’t security guards. Jack stepped through the door, then sidestepped four paces down the wall and raised the HK to shoulder height. He took a breath, let it out. Slowed his breathing.

  Let both of them get through the door first, he told himself.

  The footsteps reached the landing, then started up the next flight of stairs.

  The party’s on the third floor.

  Jack counted to five, then paced forward, peeked around the corner in time to see the men turning onto the next landing. Moving on flat feet, Jack stepped out and followed. He reached the landing and leaned sideways over the railing in time to see the two men disappearing through the doorway. He started up the stairs.

  He was two steps from the third-floor landing when Effrem’s voice came over the headset: “Jack, you there?”

  Jack froze and gave the radio a double click.

  “I miscounted. The light I saw was on the fourth floor. It just started moving again. I’m so sorry—”

  Fourth floor. Men above me.

  He spun left, brought the HK up. A darkened figure was pacing down the steps. The man saw Jack, muttered, “Scheisse,” and jerked his rifle up. Jack shot him twice in the chest, dropping him. The already limp body slid down the steps and landed in a heap at Jack’s feet. The report of Jack’s HK sounded like a phone book being whacked with a wooden mallet.

  “Was ist das?” a voice whispered.

  Where? Behind me.

  He turned, saw a man stepping through the doorway, a second man on his heels. Jack fired once, stepped forward, fired again, then charged forward and bulldozed the man backward into the second man, who instinctively reached out to grab his collapsing partner. As he did so Jack shot him in the forehead. Tangled together, the two men crumpled. One of their rifles clattered to the concrete floor.

  Jack turned again, checked the up and down stairways.

  Both were clear.

  He stepped through the door, looked right, then left. He checked the faces of the two downed men. Neither was Stephan Möller. He sidestepped the bodies and crouched behind a garbage can. His heart was pounding. He could taste acid in his mouth. He switched the HK to his left hand and wiped his sweaty right palm on his pant leg.

  Effrem called, “Jack, what’s going on? I heard—”

  Jack double-clicked.

  Effrem went silent.

  Three men down, Jack thought. Four rounds fired, eight left.

  Was there anyone else upstairs? Probably at least one. Möller, maybe? Three men made little sense. Paired teams seemed more likely. If so, Jack had to assume whoever was left upstairs knew something had gone awry. Jack’s HK was quiet, but not that quiet, especially to someone with a trained ear.

  Jack put himself in their shoes. What’s the best play?

  Stay put, prepare an ambush, and make the attacker come to you. Force him to check every room and doorway on the fourth floor. Let the fear gnaw at him. Call for reinforcements.

  Jack crouch-walked to the two fallen men, quickly searched each one and came up with two wallets and two cell phones, all of which he stuffed into his jacket pockets. He picked up the nearest rifle he saw, a FAMAS F1, and slung it over his back. Next he returned to the stairwell and frisked the other man, but found neither a wallet nor a cell phone. He was, however, carrying a pair of car keys.

  What’s it going to be, Jack? He’d gotten some intel—how worthwhile, he didn’t yet know—but if there was a chance Möller was upstairs, Jack wasn’t going to let him go.

  Jack returned to his hiding spot behind the garbage can and keyed his headset. “Effrem.”

  “I’m here. Are you okay?”

  “Fine. Anything going on out there?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I’m moving up to the fourth floor. Keep a sharp eye out. If any more vehicles pull up, give me as much warning as possible.”

  “Will do.”

  Jack crossed the floor to the opposite stairwell, posted himself beside the doorway, then did his peek-check before starting up the steps. Just below the landing he froze.

  Somewhere above, a crackling sound. A snap, a rustle.

  The wind had picked up, he realized, shifting the temporary tarpaulin roof.

  Jack kept climbing until he reached the fourth floor, where he again paused. Through the doorway he could see a hallway, and beyond this an open space in the midst of being framed into offices, conference rooms, and communal work areas.

  Jack scanned from left to right with his NVGs but saw nothing.

  Clang!

  Jack turned and cocked his head, trying to pinpoint the sound’s
location.

  Effrem called, “Jack, I’ve got movement again. I can barely make him out through the trees. Hold on, I’m getting out for a better look.”

  “Don’t,” Jack rasped. “Stay put.”

  “I’m almost there.”

  Jack heard another clang and then recognized the sound: scaffolding.

  Effrem whispered, “I see him. He’s outside, on the scaffolding stuff. My side, uhm, the north side. What do you want me to do?”

  “Get back to the car and leave,” Jack ordered. If Effrem could see the man, it was safe to assume the man could see Effrem. “Circle the block and park farther down Grafinger Strasse. I’ll find you.”

  “Okay, okay, I’m going.”

  Jack stepped into the hallway and turned right, heading to the building’s north side. Halfway there he heard a faint pop, pop, pop. Gunfire. Jack started running.

  Effrem called, “Shit, what was that? Uh, Jack, I’ve got a problem. I need help!”

  Jack picked up speed. He heard the clang of feet on the scaffolding but couldn’t tell from what direction. The strap to his night-vision goggles slackened, and his vision began to vibrate, the images a jumbled gray mosaic of empty rooms, hallways, framing studs . . . He charged into an open space, looked left. A figure crouched in the nearest window, half on the scaffolding, half inside the room.

  A muzzle flashed orange and Jack glimpsed Möller’s face; the beard was gone, but it was him.

  Jack dropped and slid like a baseball player while curling himself into what he hoped would be a harder target. His momentum carried him halfway across the room, where he crashed into a sawhorse. The plywood tabletop collapsed, the wooden edge dropping toward his face. He threw his hand up, turned his head, then felt something hard slam into the corner of his eye. He rolled onto his belly, looked around, and tried to get his bearings.

  To his right was the now empty window from which Möller had been firing.

  He crawled out from under the plywood and stumbled that way, gun coming up.

  “Effrem, you there?” Jack called.

  No response.

  Jack reached the window.

  From below came a clang, followed by footsteps pounding on aluminum rungs.

  Jack poked his head out the window, looked left, and glimpsed a figure scrambling down the scaffolding’s cross-braces. Jack took aim, but the man was gone. Jack ducked back inside, hurried to the opposite window, stuck his head through. Möller was below him on the first-floor scaffolding. He looked up, saw Jack, fired, then dashed away.

  Jack sprinted back down the length of the floor to the stairwell, where he took the steps two at a time until he reached the lobby. In seconds he was outside. He looked right. Möller was gone.

  He went still and listened.

  Faintly he heard the slow ding, ding, ding. Jack recognized it as the chime of an open car door.

  He keyed his radio. “Effrem?”

  Silence.

  “Effrem, answer me.”

  No response.

  Jack ran to the main gate. It was standing partially open. He ducked through and, gun still raised, trotted down the sidewalk to the corner.

  Across the street the door to Effrem’s Audi was open, the interior dome light glowing in the darkness.

  Effrem was gone.

  MUNICH, GERMANY

  “. . . Schweinhund!”

  The shout came from behind Jack. He turned in time to see a crowd outside Optimolwerke’s entrance envelop an SUV, and in seconds all Jack could see was its taillights through the multitude of legs.

  SUV, silver or light gray, Jack thought. Maybe.

  He sprinted to Effrem’s Audi, got in, shut the door, and started the engine. He pulled away from the curb and sped down Friedenstrasse. Ahead, the Optimolwerke revelers were dispersing, revealing the SUV’s brake lights in the distance. Jack sped up and swerved around the mob. Angry and drunken faces flashed past his window. Fists pummeled the sides of the Audi. Jack floored the accelerator and the Audi’s engine surged.

  Ahead, the SUV turned right onto Rosenheimer Strasse.

  If Effrem wasn’t in that vehicle, Jack was screwed. If the journalist was, Jack didn’t have the luxury of running a covert pursuit. Once Möller or whoever was driving got Effrem to a secure location, it was over. The only question would be whether they tortured him first or simply put a bullet in his head.

  If they hadn’t already.

  Should have told Effrem no from the start.

  He reached the stop sign a few seconds later, tapped the brakes and glanced left to make sure the road was clear, then spun the wheel and accelerated again. The Audi’s tail swerved momentarily before the tires caught hold and it snapped back. The SUV was fifty yards ahead and appeared to be in no hurry. Jack let the Audi coast a bit, closing the gap but not enough to alarm the SUV’s occupants, until finally he could make out the license plate: MOD ZL 292.

  Through the back window he saw a figure rise up in the rear seat. There was a commotion. The passenger turned in his seat and started batting at the figure until it disappeared from view. Effrem was putting up a fight. Lie still, Jack thought. Don’t be more trouble than you’re worth. Not yet, at least.

  Jack accelerated until his bumper was almost touching the SUV’s, then started flashing his high beams. He didn’t expect them to pull over, of course, but now they knew there was a witness, a thorn. If they wanted to get clear with Effrem, they’d have to deal with Jack first.

  The SUV accelerated, opening a gap, but Jack countered until he was again on their tail. The SUV’s brake lights flashed. Jack braked hard, swerved left, and found himself alongside the SUV. Jack didn’t need to see the vehicle’s window rolling down to know what was coming. He jerked the wheel, crushing the Audi against the SUV. Jack’s passenger window spiderwebbed once, twice, then shattered inward. Wind gushed through the Audi’s interior.

  He slammed on the brakes, letting the SUV pull ahead, then slid in behind it as a train overpass enveloped them. Jack stomped on the gas pedal and smacked into the SUV’s bumper. He backed off and did it again, this time angling the nose of the Audi into the SUV’s quarter panel in hopes of sending it into a spin. The SUV’s driver countersteered into Jack and he lost the angle.

  This couldn’t go on for long, Jack knew. If the police weren’t already on their way, they soon would be. That might solve the issue of Effrem’s rescue, but if the occupants of the SUV opened fire on the police there might be bodies in the street, and at best Jack would end up in jail. He needed to end this quickly.

  The road dipped and the SUV slipped into an underpass with Jack a few feet off its bumper. Headlights flashed through the Audi’s windshield. The blaring of car horns echoed through the underpass. Jack weaved right, trying to pass the SUV, but again the driver countered, swerving and shoving Jack toward the guardrail, forcing him to brake hard. The SUV surged ahead, emerged from the underpass, and turned left at the next intersection. Jack momentarily lost sight of it, but then, as he, too, made the turn, he saw the SUV fishtailing and disappearing through a gate in a long wooden fence. Jack overshot the gate, braked to a stop, then reversed and turned in.

  On either side of the car, massive open-sided bays stacked with lumber flashed past the Audi’s windows. A lumberyard. Bright, pole-mounted security lights cast sharp circles of light on the pavement.

  A forklift emerged from an alley to Jack’s right. He jerked the wheel left, but not enough. The forklift’s blades scraped down the Audi’s side and shattered the rear window. Jack slammed on the brakes, glanced at the sideview mirror, and saw the forklift was still upright, its driver climbing down from the cab. He hit the accelerator again.

  Ahead, the SUV turned right and disappeared behind a warehouse.

  Jack was five seconds behind.

  The SUV was gone.

  To his right was the wa
rehouse wall. The nearest door, lit from above by a spotlight, was fifty yards away and partially closed. Too far. Jack looked left down an alley bordered by tiered stacks of railroad ties. No sign of the SUV. He kept going, glancing down the next alley as he went past. At the third intersection, he saw the SUV’s tail end disappear behind a lumber stack. It was running parallel to him, its lights off.

  Jack jammed the accelerator against the floorboards, pushing the Audi’s accelerator past fifty, then tapped hard on the brakes and spun the wheel left, slewing the car down the next alley. He let the tail end snap back, then accelerated again and reached the next intersection just as the SUV sped past. Jack didn’t slow but raced to the next intersection, did a hand-brake skid-turn to the right. As he raced through an exit gate, the pavement turned to rutted dirt. Out his passenger window was a line of trees, and through these he could see fragmented light that seemed to be moving, keeping pace with him. A train, he realized.

  He sensed movement out his passenger window, glanced that way. The SUV’s headlights filled the Audi’s interior, blinding him. He jammed on the brakes. Through the windshield he saw the SUV fishtail and its rear bumper clip the Audi’s hood. Jack steered into it but overshot. A pyramid of railroad ties loomed through the windshield. He counter-steered, but not quickly enough. The Audi sideswiped the stack of ties, and a pair of them crashed into the hood and spiderwebbed the right half of the windshield before tumbling over the roof and disappearing.

  Jack spun the wheel, bringing the Audi back in behind the SUV.

  Time to end this, he thought. Hold on, Effrem . . .

  He eased left and accelerated. The SUV took the bait and moved to cut him off. Jack tapped the brakes, swerved right and down the SUV’s opposite side, then jerked the wheel hard, ramming the Audi’s bumper into the SUV’s tire. The driver had no choice but to counter, but he overdid it. The SUV’s rear tires, now sideways to the vehicle’s momentum, stuttered over the furrowed ground. The SUV flipped onto its side, then began spinning toward the trees. Dirt and chunks of the vehicle’s chassis peppered Jack’s windshield. He hit the brakes and the Audi skidded to a stop.