Firefight

by Chris Ryan

  Will had gone beyond tiredness now. Perhaps he would be able to grab some sleep here and there when Priestley was in meetings, but if not it didn't matter. He was surviving on raw adrenaline at the moment and he felt as if he could stay awake for days. For as long as it took to get the job done.

  Priestley was an early riser and it wasn't long after dawn that Will heard him moving about in his bedroom. He knocked on the door, then opened it to see the American walking around wearing nothing but a pair of boxer shorts. He had more of a gut than Will might have expected from seeing him fully clothed and he looked over in annoyance. 'A bit of privacy would be nice.'

  Will ignored him. He strode over to the bathroom, checked it out, then turned to Priestley. 'You can shower now,' he said. 'Any longer than a minute and I'm coming in.'

  Priestley looked as if he were about to say something, but clearly thought better of it. He grabbed a towel and, with a scowl at Will, stomped into the bathroom.

  Fifteen minutes later they were leaving the house - Will first. There was a different armed police officer at the door, but Will recognised him from a previous shift. He greeted the officer with a brief, comradely nod, while Priestley stood in the doorway without even seeming to notice him. The car was waiting just outside. Priestley stayed at the front of the house while Will examined the undercarriage of the vehicle for anything suspicious. Once he was satisfied that all was as it should be, he returned to the house, took Priestley rather brusquely by the arm and ushered him into the back seat. Moments later they were off.

  Will drove towards Thames House, where Priestley was due to meet Lowther Pankhurst. He couldn't help feeling a twinge of anxiety, not because of Ahmed - even he, Will thought to himself, would not be so foolish as to try a hit within the confines of MI5's London headquarters - but because he had had no contact with Lowther Pankhurst since that night on the North Downs. No doubt the Director General knew what Will was doing; what he thought about a former SAS man plying his trade for the CIA was another matter.

  At Thames House they were swiftly ushered up to Pankhurst's office, Will leading the way. As they waited for the Director General to invite Priestley in, Will looked around. Was it really only twelve days since he was first summoned here? Only twelve days since he first heard the name of Faisal Ahmed? As the two of them waited in silence in the comfortable anteroom, it seemed to Will as if Faisal Ahmed had been in his mind far longer than that. The idea of catching up with him had become an obsession.

  The idea of killing him.

  A door opened and Pankhurst appeared. The Director General smiled tersely at Priestley, then looked over at Will and gave him a meaningful look. 'Do come in, Don,' he said, politely. 'If you can be spared, that is.'

  Priestley looked over at Will, who nodded, and the CIA man disappeared into Pankhurst's office. Will took a seat and rested his head against the wall. He should sleep, he thought to himself, now he was somewhere safe. He shut his eyes and tried to relax, but for some reason sleep wouldn't come. A secretary appeared and offered him coffee, which he accepted gratefully.

  A large window faced out on to the street below and Will clutched his hot mug of coffee as he looked down. Despite the early hour it was already crowded with busy commuters making their way to work. Will had barely been near a television in the past few days, but on the one occasion he had seen the news it had been filled with the jowly features of the Commissioner of the Met, warning Londoners to be on high alert. How many of these people would be getting on the Tube, he wondered, with a sense of apprehension? Would they feel comforted by the sight of heavily armed police officers in the street? For a second, he felt a twinge of doubt. Perhaps he was going about this the wrong way. Perhaps he was letting his own vendetta compromise the safety of other people. The Director General of MI5 was just in the next room. Will had access; he knew he'd be heard out. Maybe he should just walk in there and tell Pankhurst everything Ahmed had said. About Operation Firefight. About what the CIA were up to.

  He took a gulp of his coffee and allowed the hot liquid to burn his throat. No. It would be too high-risk. Operation Firefight was easily deniable - Will would never be believed by the British. God knows he'd racked his brains trying to think of ways to prove what he knew, people he could go to. But, ultimately, it would be foolish. If it leaked out to the CIA that he knew what they'd been doing, he felt sure that at some point in the none too distant future, he himself would be meeting with a mysterious accident.

  Will turned aside from the window and the bustling commuters. He was going to do this his way.

  The door opened and Priestley walked out. Pankhurst was there too. 'I wonder, Don,' he addressed the CIA man, 'if I might have a private word with Will.'

  A look of nervousness crossed Priestley's face and Will opened his mouth to object. But before he did so, Pankhurst interrupted. 'Come now, gentlemen,' he said, quietly. 'I hardly think we're at risk within the confines of Thames House, do you?'

  Will sniffed. 'All right,' he told Pankhurst, before turning to the American. 'Don't leave this room,' he instructed. 'And stay away from the window.'

  Priestley looked over at the window in alarm, then made his way to the far side of the room. Will strode past Pankhurst into his office. The Director General closed the door behind him and took a seat at his desk.

  'Sit down, Will.'

  'I'll stand.'

  'Whatever suits,' Pankhurst murmured. He took a deep breath, collecting his thoughts. 'I was a little taken aback that you decided to debrief yourself to Donald Priestley and not to me after the little debacle on the North Downs.'

  'I don't work for you,' Will replied flatly.

  'Agreed,' Pankhurst replied. 'But I did rather think you were working with me.' He stared at Will for a moment. 'I'm not sure if you're aware,' he continued, 'but they're burying Mark Drew and Nathan Kennedy this afternoon. Three o'clock.'

  Will felt his jaw clenching. He hadn't known that, as it happened. And frankly, just at that moment, he could do without the image of his unit being lowered into the ground, their families weeping at the side of the grave. He could do without the thought of the Regiment gossip and disapproval at his absence. He knew how easily it could have been him.

  'I know that there's an army myth, Will, that people like me don't care when people like you get killed on active service. But it's not true. We're the guys that send you into battle and, when things go wrong, we might not feel it in the gut as much as the soldiers, but we do feel it, Will. We feel it. Mark Drew and Nathan Kennedy should be spending Christmas with their families. My job is to make sure that their deaths mean something.'

  He continued to stare at Will for a long, uncomfortable time.

  'So would you care to tell me,' he asked plainly, 'what the hell is going on?'

  Will took a deep breath. For some reason it filled him with anger to hear Pankhurst talking about Drew and Kennedy in that way; yet there was no doubting the simple sincerity in the DG's voice. Still, Will had made his decision. He knew how he was going to play this.

  'I'm sure Priestley filled you in,' he said.

  Pankhurst leaned back in his chair, his fingers pressed lightly together. 'Don Priestley has told me a lot of things,' he said. 'Not many of them make a great deal of sense.'

  Will remained tight-lipped.

  'All right, Will,' Pankhurst continued, his voice oozing patience. 'If you're not going to put your cards on the table, perhaps you'll allow me to tell you what I've been thinking.'

  'Go ahead,' Will replied, unemotionally.

  'I understand why you're sticking to Priestley like a limpet: you think Faisal Ahmed is going to make an assassination attempt. But why? What has Priestley done, personally, to warrant that? You're a clever man, Will. I don't believe you haven't asked yourself that question. Or maybe you already know the answer.'

  Will didn't reply, leaving the Director General's accusation hanging in the air.

  Pankhurst shrugged. 'Have it your way, Will,' he said. 'B
ut at least tell me one thing. London is on high terror alert. It costs us millions to do this and I can't help thinking we're barking up the wrong tree. Are we barking up the wrong tree, Will?'

  Will blinked. Pankhurst was perceptive - he had to grudgingly admit that. But he couldn't answer the question, not without giving the game away. 'I'm not your security adviser, sir,' he said quietly.

  Pankhurst breathed out deeply. 'Very well, Will,' he said, passing his hand over his eyes. 'You'd better get back to him. He's acting like a frightened schoolgirl.'

  Will nodded, then turned towards the door. But before he could open it, Pankhurst spoke again.

  'Will?' he said. There was something in his voice. It was less official. Friendly almost.

  He turned. 'Sir?'

  Pankhurst was looking at him with intense concentration.

  'Good luck, Will,' he said. 'Whatever it is you're doing.'

  Will inclined his head slightly. 'Thank you, sir,' he replied, before leaving the DG's office and closing the door behind him.

  *

  It was gone six in the evening by the time Will parked outside Priestley's Belgravia residence once more and the strains of their enforced proximity were becoming even more evident. As soon as the car came to a halt, Priestley made to open his door.

  'Don't move!' Will shouted at him and the American froze.

  'What is it?' he asked, breathlessly.

  'For Christ's sake,' Will told him. 'You know the drill by now.' He opened his own door, handgun at the ready, checked up and down the street and did a visual sweep of the rooftops. Only when he was satisfied that he had the all-clear did he open Priestley's door and hustle him up past the armed police officer. Will entered the house first, then gave Priestley the sign that he could come in.

  Priestley strode impatiently down the chequerboard hallway, slung his coat over the banister of the stairs and started making his way up. 'Don't take this the wrong way, Will,' he drawled, his voice grumpy, 'but I'm starting to wonder if a bullet in the head isn't preferable to another evening of us sitting upstairs scowling at each other.'

  'Your call,' Will murmured.

  Priestley stopped halfway up the stairs and looked back at Will. His face had morphed into an unpleasant sneer - halfway between fear and contempt, Will thought. 'Come on,' he spat, before turning and climbing the rest of the stairs.

  Will stared balefully at him from the ground floor as he disappeared round the corner. The sooner this was over, he thought to himself, the bett—

  He stopped.

  Something wasn't right.

  At the top of the stairs was a CCTV camera which covered the landing leading to the rooms they were using. Normally a small red light indicated that it was in use, but as he stared at it Will could see that the light was off. He felt his heart in his mouth as he looked over his shoulder at the camera covering the hallway.

  No light.

  Will knew immediately what it meant. The CCTV had been disabled and there could only be one reason for that. How Faisal Ahmed had got into the house, he didn't know. How he had disabled the CCTV without anyone being alerted, he didn't know. But of one thing he was sure.

  Ahmed was here. Now.

  Will looked back towards the front door. It was shut and there was no indication that the police officer outside knew what was going on.

  The next minute was crucial. Everything he had been preparing for up to this point rested on what happened now.

  Ahmed would have been watching them. No doubt about it. Ahmed would know that the first person to enter any room was Will. He would know which rooms they were camping out in. His eyes flickered up. There was no sign of Priestley. He would be approaching the room right now.

  Will bounded up the stairs, quickly but lightly. As he moved, his brain worked as speedily as his feet. Timing was everything now. Critical. He had to play it just right. The first shot had to be his.

  He stopped, as an idea crystallised in his mind.

  Ahmed had respect for his abilities as a soldier; somehow he knew that. He would suspect that Will had seen the cameras were disabled. And he would assume that a good SAS man would follow standard operating procedure in a situation like this and enter the room first. He'd be ready and waiting.

  Something the Afghan had said when they last met flicked through his brain. Sometimes we think we are knights, when in fact we are merely pawns.

  Today they were neither. Today they were both kings, each trying to outwit the other, both one step away from checkmate.

  And it was Will's move.

  At the top of the stairs he saw Priestley waiting obediently by the door of the room. Will walked silently down the corridor, doing his best to look nonchalant. When he was three metres from the door he raised his right hand and flicked it, as if to indicate to Priestley that he should just go in.

  Priestley's brow furrowed. He looked momentarily surprised, then shrugged his shoulders and opened the door.

  Instinctively, Will's hand reached for his gun. In the next five seconds, he knew, he would either hear the sound of gunshot or Ahmed would have been momentarily wrongfooted by the incorrect person entering the room.

  He stepped towards the door. No gunshot, just a sound of shuffling. He held his gun out and entered.

  Ahmed had his back to him and was in the process of throwing Priestley towards the centre of the room. He, too, had his gun arm outstretched, towards the CIA man, and he was just turning round to check his back.

  He never got the chance.

  When you hold a gun for long enough, it becomes part of you, like an extra limb. That was how Will's handgun felt now - an extension of his body, under his control, ready to do his bidding, to respond to his split-second decision. In that moment, as a deadly calm descended on him, it was as though there were only three people in the whole world: himself, Faisal Ahmed and Donald Priestley. Will Jackson and his enemies, and everything was about to come full circle.

  All he had to do was pull the trigger now and it would be over.

  But killing Ahmed would not be enough. The Afghan was not the only person responsible for his family's death. There was someone else, too, and that person was in the room with them.

  Will stepped forward and put the barrel of his gun gently against the back of Faisal Ahmed's head. He sensed Ahmed's body twitch in surprise, but then the Afghan stayed perfectly still.

  'Any sudden move, Ahmed,' he whispered, 'and I swear I'll kill you without a second's hesitation.'

  A hush descended on the room. Ahmed kept his gun trained on Priestley, who crawled backwards up against the wall.

  'Clever,' the Afghan said, softly. 'Very clever.' The mere sound of his voice made Will tingle with hate.

  Another silence. Ahmed, after an initial moment of shock, had instantly regained his composure. He stood like a statue, his gun still aimed at the American. Priestley himself, previously paralysed by abject terror, seemed to relax slightly at the sight of Will holding his gun to Ahmed's head. His body became less tense and stooped. He drew himself up to his full height, a flicker of contempt playing on his lips, his eyes gleaming with a newfound triumph.

  'Well done, Will,' he whispered, his voice little more than a hiss. Will noticed, though, that his eyes still flickered towards Ahmed's gun. 'My man seems to have got the better of you, Faisal,' he continued. 'Time to put the weapon down. It's all over.'

  'No,' Ahmed replied, quietly. 'I do not think so.' Will detected a tone of resignation in his voice.