Firefight

by Chris Ryan

  Priestley's face twitched and he nodded his head sharply at Will. That nod was easily interpreted: Do it.

  But Will did nothing. He just kept the gun to Ahmed's head.

  The Afghan spoke again. 'If you wanted me dead, Will Jackson,' he said quietly, but clearly, 'you would have killed me already.'

  'Oh, I want you dead, Ahmed. You needn't make any mistake about that.'

  'And yet,' Ahmed replied,'here I am. You have been clever, Will. Cleverer than I have given you credit for.' There was something about the way Ahmed addressed him in so familiar a fashion that made Will feel very uncomfortable. 'Could it be that there is something you want me to do for you first, Will? Something you cannot do yourself?'

  'You've got the idea, Ahmed,' Will replied. 'So go ahead. In your own time.'

  'What the hell are you both talking about?' Priestley demanded, his voice urgent. 'Jackson, do it!' He took a step forward. 'Kill him!'

  'If you make another move,' Will hissed at him, 'I'll kill you myself.'

  Priestley stopped still and his eyes widened as a sudden realisation hit him. 'What do you mean?' he whispered.

  'I would have thought it was clear,' Ahmed replied. 'He wants revenge. He is, after all, only human. But it is not just me he blames for his family's death, Don. It is you, too, and rightly so. Am I right, Will?'

  'Get on with it, Ahmed.'

  'You see, Don, he cannot shoot you with impunity, so he is gambling that I will do it for him. He is gambling that I want you dead so badly that I am willing to make it the last thing I do before he takes his revenge on me. That is correct, is it not, Will?'

  'Got it in one, Ahmed,' Will growled.

  Priestley's eyes flickered, terrified, from one man to the other, and then towards the open door.

  'You needn't worry,' Ahmed spoke, softly, 'that anyone is coming to save you. The cameras have been disabled and a loop of footage recorded earlier today is being transmitted out of here. An old CIA trick, Don - I'm a little surprised you didn't predict it.'

  'This is madness—!' Priestley choked, but his outburst was cut short. Because as he spoke, Ahmed fired - not into his head, as Will had expected - but directly into his thigh. Ahmed's suppressed weapon let out a faint whistling thud and instantly the CIA man crumpled to the ground. Blood oozed on to the floor, but he didn't scream. Instead, he started shaking violently. Shock, Will told himself in a detached fashion. He'd seen the symptoms enough times to recognise them.

  And then Ahmed spoke again. He still sounded calm and in control - it was not the voice of a man whose life was on the line. Will found himself wishing that he could see his face rather than just the back of his head, wishing that he could look into the man's eyes before he killed him.

  'It seems,' Ahmed intoned, 'that I have been outmanoeuvred. My sister tried to warn me of this. She had more faith in your abilities than I did.'

  Will remained silent. For some reason the mention of Latifa made him feel uneasy. Her devotion to her brother was complete and he could only imagine the feelings of hate she would harbour towards him when she found out that he had killed Ahmed.

  At the side of the room, Priestley continued to tremble, little more than a frightened, wounded animal. The image of Laura and Anna lying dead on the ground flashed through Will's head.

  'Your gamble has paid off,' Ahmed continued. 'I came here to assassinate Donald Priestley and I will not leave until that is done. If that means you're going to kill me, then so be it. In many ways it will be a release. But there is something I want you to do for me.'

  Will blinked. 'You're not in a position to be asking me for favours, Ahmed.'

  'It is not for me,' he whispered. 'But for my sister.'

  Will paused. His target seemed unnaturally still. Unnaturally calm. It put Will even more on his guard. 'Go on.'

  'When I am dead, there will be no one to look after her. She knows about Operation Firefight. The Americans will see her as a risk. They will try to eliminate her.'

  For the first time, Will detected a sense of tension in Ahmed. His breathing was shallow and measured, but it trembled slightly.

  'Operation Firefight has claimed enough victims, Will,' the Afghan continued. 'Your family to start with and now me. Latifa does not deserve to be next on that list. I do not blame you for killing me - in your position I would do the same. But if Latifa is right about you, then I think you will understand and I think you will do the right thing by her.'

  Will found his hand trembling. He steadied it. 'Where is she?'

  'In hiding. In a safe house. I have a mobile telephone in my pocket. You will find a number for her there. When you see her, tell her—' Ahmed's voice suddenly cracked with emotion, but he instantly conquered it. 'Tell her she was right. And tell her I am sorry.'

  From the floor, Priestley whimpered - the first sound he had made since the bullet had entered his leg. His breathing was heavy and he seemed to be sweating.

  'And I am truly sorry for you, too, Will,' Ahmed continued. 'It is no consolation, I know, but I understand what it is to lose your family. Your wife and daughter were not meant to die. No one was meant to die. It has haunted me ever since.'

  Will gritted his teeth. 'Just do it, Ahmed,' he said.

  Another whimper escaped Priestley's mouth, a sound of such horror that for an instant Will felt a twinge of sympathy.

  And then the American spoke, the dreadful effort sounding clearly in the tone of his voice. 'It was Ahmed who killed your family, Will,' he wheedled.'Ahmed. Not me. You should kill him. Kill him now, Will.'

  As Priestley spoke, all Will's sympathy was stripped away as he revealed himself for the sickening coward that he was.

  'Shut up, Priestley!' he burst out. 'Just shut the fuck up! It's just a fucking game of soldiers to you, isn't it? Who cares if people die? My daughter was six years old. Six years old. How do you live with that, Priestley? How do you fucking live with that?'

  Priestley's body was juddering now; his blood loss was copious. 'Will,' he breathed. 'You're angry -'

  'Damn right I'm angry,' Will retorted, all his fury suddenly spilling out of him. 'I'm angry about Anderson, dead in some shit hole in the Stan. I'm angry about Drew and Kennedy, pushing up the fucking daisies thanks to this arsehole. I don't suppose you stopped to think about them, did you? A few dead soldiers don't mean much in the bigger picture, do they?'

  'Will, please. I—'

  'Save it, Priestley. I don't want to hear your justifications. I don't want to hear your excuses. Save it for the Pearly fucking Gates.' He nudged Ahmed in the back of his head with the gun. 'Do it,' he said.

  Donald Priestley opened his mouth to save his life, but the words never left him. Faisal Ahmed's aim was perfect. The bullet entered Priestley's head directly between the eyes, ripping a hole in his forehead and creating a small, silent explosion of bone and soft brain matter. The CIA man fell dead to the floor.

  An unholy quiet descended upon the room.

  Will felt his finger twitch on the trigger of his gun, the weapon's barrel still pressed hard against Faisal Ahmed's skull. The Afghan lowered his gun. 'If you are going to kill me, Will, I would ask that you do it quickly.'

  He took a deep breath. Now was the moment. The moment when the demons that had plagued him for the past two years could be laid, finally, to rest.

  And yet, something was stopping him. Something was stopping him from pulling that trigger. He didn't know what it was - maybe he just didn't want to shoot a man from behind.

  'Throw the gun to the ground,' he said.

  Ahmed did as he was told. The weapon landed only inches from Priestley's body.

  'Take two steps forward.'

  Ahmed walked.

  'Now put your hands on your head.'

  Will watched as Ahmed slowly followed his instructions.

  'Another three paces, then turn around.'

  'It does not feel as I thought it would,' Ahmed said as he turned around. The sight of his face made Will catch his brea
th. His beard had been shaved off and he looked much younger than he had when they first met several nights ago. His eyes were piercing and clear and the only thing that suggested he felt any fear about what was about to happen was a thin trickle of sweat down the side of his face.

  'What doesn't?'Will asked.

  Ahmed's eyes flickered down to the sight of Priestley's body on the ground. 'Revenge,' he said simply. 'I thought it would feel different to this. Better.' He turned his gaze back to Will. 'You will find this out soon enough.' The Afghan closed his eyes and waited for the inevitable.

  He's manipulating you, a voice spoke in Will's head. Don't listen to him. Do what you have to do.

  But still something stopped him. A sudden doubt that this was the right thing to do. Surely the real criminal had been dealt with. The man who had been ultimately responsible for his family's death lay dead at his feet. The general had been killed; only the foot soldier remained. And as Ahmed stood there, resolutely waiting for death, Will couldn't help a creeping feeling of respect.

  But respect wasn't enough to save Ahmed now.

  'Open your eyes,' Will growled.

  Ahmed's eyelids flickered open and he stared at Will, his face impossible to read.

  'How did you get in here?'

  A faint smile flickered across Ahmed's face. 'You don't really expect me to give away all my secrets, do you, Will?'

  They stood there in silence, Ahmed's hands still firmly on his head, Will's arm outstretched, the handgun pointing straight at his enemy. He took a deep breath and prepared to fire.

  To end it all.

  Now.

  It happened so quickly. At lightning speed, Ahmed's right arm delved into his coat and reappeared holding another weapon.

  A sudden surge of adrenaline rushed through Will's body. He squeezed the trigger. But it was too late.

  Ahmed's bullets were almost noiseless as they exploded from the suppressed firearm, but they slammed into Will's left shoulder with a thumping ferocity. He was knocked back against the wall and, as if in slow motion, he saw a hole explode in the wall where his own stray bullets made contact; then he saw Ahmed repositioning his gun, aiming it at his head.

  Will Jackson knew he only had one chance to save his life.

  He fired three times in quick succession. The shots cracked loudly.

  The first bullet hit Ahmed in the chest, knocking him back half a metre and ensuring that the Afghan's next shot fell wide of its mark.

  The second bullet found his throat. Ahmed dropped his gun and moved his hands up to where the blood was suddenly spurting from him like some grotesque fountain.

  It was the third bullet that killed him as it thudded directly into the upper region of his head.

  The Afghan crumpled to the ground. Motionless. Dead. Will's training demanded that he walk over to his target and despatch a head shot to ensure that the guy had been finished off. But there was no need. No one took that kind of punishment and lived. Not even Faisal Ahmed.

  There is nothing more silent than death and in the stillness that followed, Will almost forgot that he'd been hit. He staggered towards Ahmed's body and looked down at him. The man's face was unrecognisable. A bloodied mess. And as Will stared at the sight he had longed for, he felt curiously numb.

  Ahmed had been right, the thought flashed through his head. Revenge wasn't sweet. Revenge wasn't what he thought it would be at all.

  And then, with a sudden, agonising stab, the pain hit him - a cold, sinister pain spreading from his wound. He felt his legs going weak and, looking down, he saw he was losing blood quickly. He needed help, but there was one thing he had to do first. Will bent down and felt in between the folds of the dead man's clothes. Sure enough there was a mobile phone.

  He pocketed it, then staggered back to the door. Taking one look back at the room - it looked like a fucking slaughterhouse - he stumbled along the landing and down the hall, leaving a trail of blood. He started to feel light-headed and as he went down the stairs he stumbled, smearing blood over the banister as he fell against it.

  At the foot of the stairs he tumbled again. Jesus, the blood was pouring out of him now. He needed help. Quickly. It took all his strength to push himself up to his feet and he slipped slightly in his own blood as he launched himself across the hallway towards the front door.

  The room was spinning. He gritted his teeth and banged weakly on the door. Then collapsed to the ground.

  The door opened and the armed policeman towered above Will. It took him a moment to take in what was happening. 'Fucking hell!' he muttered as he saw the blood flowing out of Will's gunshot wound.

  When Will spoke his voice sounded alarmingly weak, even to him. 'Get me a medic,' he croaked, hoarsely. 'Now!'

  And then, like a black wave crashing over his mind, darkness engulfed him as he passed out.

  TWENTY

  Will awoke gradually. The first thing he noticed was the pain.

  His left shoulder throbbed and pulsated; the rest of his body ached and his head had the woolly stuffiness that instantly told him he had been sedated. There was something on his face and as he forced his bleary eyes open he realised it was an oxygen mask. It was uncomfortable and water vapour from his breath had condensed on the inside. Fumbling to take it off, he noticed a dressing on his shoulder, fresh and white and taped down on to his skin with sticking plaster. Each of his hands had intravenous tubes injected into the skin and on either side of his bed there were clear bags of colourless liquid being drip-fed into his system.

  The curtains in his room were closed and he noticed in his half-awake state that there was carpet on the floor. That meant it was a private room. A private hospital. But where? With difficulty he pushed himself up on to his elbows, but he soon collapsed heavily back down on to the bed and closed his eyes again.

  'How are you feeling, Will?' a voice asked.

  Will forced his eyes open again. He hadn't noticed anyone else in the room and he didn't like the surprise. The voice was familiar, but for the moment his mind was too muddled for him to be able to place it. 'Who's that?' he breathed with difficulty.

  A pause, and then he became aware of a figure standing over his bedside. He opened his eyes and squinted them into focus. A face appeared - thick black hair and square glasses.

  'Pankhurst,' Will said, weakly. 'Where the hell am I?

  'Hospital,' Pankhurst stated, before repeating his question. 'How do you feel?'

  'Like shit.'

  'Then you feel better than you look. It's been touch and go for you. Priestley's house looked like a bloodbath, Will, and our guys seemed to think that a lot of the blood was yours.'

  'Ahmed hit me.'

  'Obviously. But you hit him better. Assuming, that is, that the chap with half a face was indeed Faisal Ahmed.'

  'Yeah,' Will replied. 'That was him.' He groaned as a wave of pain passed through his wound.

  'Then congratulations,' Pankhurst replied, blandly. 'You got what you wanted. Does that make you feel a bit better?'

  For some reason it wasn't a question Will felt inclined to answer. His face screwed up again as another wave of pain hit him.

  'You have a self-administered morphine drip attached to you,' Pankhurst pointed out. He fumbled by Will's bedside and showed him the handheld pump. 'I wouldn't recommend using it, though.' He placed the pump just out of Will's reach.