by Matthew Dunn
Will agreed. “At stop, get Dmitriev as far away from the plane as possible.”
“No shit!”
Will’s heart was racing, his body covered in perspiration and aching from the impacts. Was this how it was going to end? Most of the Spartan Section wiped out in a plane crash? He forced himself to think about other matters: fire, smoke, evacuating the plane, fuel leakage, keeping Dmitriev alive.
The plane was bouncing through the air, so quickly Will wondered if it would just tear apart before it hit the ground.
The land was rushing faster past them, was closer, closer. One hundred yards away.
Fifty.
Will looked at Roger and his men. Might be the last time he’d see them.
Roger stuck his thumb up and smiled at Will.
It’s been fun working together.
That’s what the gesture meant. Or something similar.
Twenty yards.
Derksen thrust Dmitriev’s head down and held it firm while silently mouthing words.
Maybe a prayer.
Ten yards.
All of the men were silent now. Preparing for death.
Thoughts raced through Will’s mind. What would it be like? As quick as a bullet? Or body lacerated by shards of metal? Did he regret anything? Yeah, every damn fucking thing.
Five yards.
I’ll soon be with you, Dad. Finally get a chance to grab that beer together. Is Mum with you? Do they have beer where you are?
Two yards, runway racing beneath them.
One yard.
Good-bye, Sarah. I’m sorry about James’s shirt. Don’t join me and the parents anytime soon.
Bang.
The noise was deafening. Movement everywhere. Men shaken in their seats; the unconscious ones being flipped up and down. Sparks streaming alongside the outside of the windows. Metal screeching, bits of it falling off. Glass smashing. Wind rushing through the cabin. Men shouting. Screaming. The plane twisting and shuddering.
It was like this for fifteen seconds.
The plane tilted. Half of a wing was ripped off, the remainder dug into the runway, sparks spewing out of the trail. The plane spun, lifted off the ground, walloped back down, spun again.
Blood in Will’s mouth. Brain banging against the inside of his skull. Pain everywhere. And confusion.
Plane still spinning, heading off the runway toward grassland. Good or bad thing? Will had no idea. Off the runway, mud and grass flying up the sides of the craft, some of it entering the plane and covering faces and bodies.
Different noise now. Rough ground. Slowing down. Tail snapped off. Shit! Back end of plane upending. Two bodies flying your way. Cover your head. No idea which way’s up or down.
Thwack.
Will lay still, men on top of him. Movement? No, everything seemed to have stopped. No sound. No sight. Does that mean death?
Then shouting. Familiar voices.
Roger. “Fucking move!”
Derksen. “Fire in the rear! Get that door open!”
Mark. “Shit! Shit!”
Mikhail. “Will?”
Weight being lifted off him. Breathing easier. Light, but acrid. Mikhail over him. Arms grabbing him. “Come on, Will.”
On his feet. Going to collapse. No, being held firm by the Russian. Carnage everywhere. Laith and Adam yanking on the emergency exit’s handles, faces covered in crap, clothes ripped. Derksen barking orders.
“Come on, Will.”
You’re alive. Think. Action.
Will rushed to the door and grabbed a piece of the handle. “One, two, three. Now!”
They turned the handles, Will and Laith simultaneously kicked the door, and it fell away.
“We’ve got an exit!” Will glanced at the three unconscious Dutch operatives, piled by the cockpit door. “One each, fifty yards from plane.” He hauled one of the men onto his shoulder, clambered out of the wreckage, and ran as fast as he could before lowering the man onto grass and sprinting back to the plane. Laith and Adam passed him in the opposite direction, carrying the other injured men. Inside the plane, Derksen and the remaining two DSI operatives were moving up the aisle while holding guns in one hand and Dmitriev with the other. The old man had cuts on his face, looked ashen and in shock, but otherwise seemed unharmed. Roger and Mark were in the cockpit checking the pilots. Blood was pouring down the copilot’s face; his colleague had his head tilted back, eyes screwed tight, and was moaning.
“What’s their condition?”
Roger’s answered, “Copilot’s out of it but alive; pilot’s conscious.”
“Broken neck or back?”
“Don’t know.”
Will cursed and looked toward the rear of the plane. Black smoke was billowing in the rear compartment, and he could see flames. If they moved the pilots and they had broken necks or backs, they could kill them. “Fuck it! Plane could go up any second. We’ve got to get them out of here.”
Roger and Mark began unstrapping the pilots as Derksen and his men guided Dmitriev out of the craft.
Will called out to Derksen, “There are aircraft buildings about three hundred yards away, forest beyond that; couldn’t see any other cover apart from the control tower, which is four hundred yards in the opposite direction.”
“Okay. We’ll take him to the buildings.”
Will looked at Mikhail. “Go with them.” He helped his colleagues one by one carry the pilots and lay them on the ground adjacent to the plane. Removing his thick overcoat, he laid it flat. With Roger, they rested the pilot on top of the coat, grabbed corners of the coat, and ran the makeshift stretcher to the part of the field containing the unconscious DSI men. He glanced at Roger and said, “Stay on Dmitriev,” grabbed the coat, and rushed back to Mark and the copilot. They repeated the drill, placing the injured man in the coat, and began carrying the copilot away from the plane.
They were thirty yards from the wreckage when the plane exploded and sent them crashing to the ground. Will covered his head as shards and chunks of metal flew through the air, waiting helplessly for a bit of the craft to smash through his skull. He breathed deeply; nothing had hit him. Rolling onto his side, his stomach wrenched as he looked at Mark. A jagged piece of metal was protruding from his thigh; his shredded trousers were covered in blood.
Mark said between gritted teeth, “I can make it to the others . . . but can’t help you with the copilot anymore. Sorry.”
“Shit!” Will dashed to him, saw that the metal had gone right through Mark’s leg, and prayed that it hadn’t severed a major artery. Removing his belt, he said, “Got to get a tourniquet on there before—”
“I know what to do.” Mark grabbed the belt and began wrapping it around his thigh. “Help the others.” After fixing the strap in place, he crawled past Will, beads of sweat on his grubby face, while trying to ignore his agonizing injury.
Will lifted the copilot and used a fireman’s carry to get him to the other injured men. Roger, Derksen, Mikhail, and the two other Dutch operatives were one hundred yards away, taking Dmitriev toward three white buildings and two stationary Islander planes. Laith and Adam were examining each man, trying to ascertain their injuries and make them as comfortable as possible. “Where the hell are the damn emergency services?” He glanced toward the distant control tower. “The air traffic controller called them at least ten minutes ago.”
Laith shrugged. “Appears we’re in the middle of frickin’ nowhere.”
Will looked around the airport. Aside from the three buildings, the tower, the strip of runway and open grassland on either side of it, there was nothing else here save forest on all sides of the complex.
Something felt wrong.
A tiny, isolated airport.
Hidden away.
Zero security.
Fuck!
This was m
eant to happen.
Laith screamed, crumpled to the ground. Adam yelped, flipped sideways.
Will dived forward, just before a third bullet struck ground where his feet had been. “Sniper! Sniper!” He glanced at his colleagues, saw both had been shot in their calves, sprinted, zigzagged, dived again, and rolled. Sprinting ahead to Roger and the others, he screamed, “Get to cover!”
Derksen turned to face him, 150 yards away, then collapsed. Three seconds later, his two colleagues were lying next to him, all of them writhing in pain from the leg shots. Roger and Mikhail grabbed Dmitriev and tried to move the old man as fast as they could, but they only managed a few paces before Roger shouted, “Fuck!” He released Dmitriev, staggered, and collapsed while holding his hand over the gun wound to his knee. A moment later, Mikhail was knocked off his feet and fell on top of him, the back of his knee a bloody mess.
“Get to the buildings! Keep moving!”
Dmitriev walked as fast as he could, though he was an easy target. Will dashed right, as a bullet grazed his thigh. Wincing in pain, he kept sprinting, changed direction again, wondering why the sniper was incapacitating the team but not killing them.
He raced past Roger and Mikhail, both alive but unable to move due to their injuries.
Another shot.
Jesus, what was that?
A burning sensation behind one leg.
Severe pain.
Will fell forward, pulled out his handgun, used his elbows to crawl onward.
Couldn’t stand.
Not with a high-velocity bullet having passed through his leg.
Dmitriev was eighty yards from the buildings. Why wasn’t he shot?
Fifty yards behind him, Will crawled inch by inch, his face screwed up, his breathing rapid.
Kronos placed the sniper rifle down, withdrew his pistol and military knife, walked past the bound and gagged air traffic controller, and made his way down the control tower. So far, everything had gone according to plan. With the login info he’d stolen from the Dutch pilot in Frankfurt, he’d logged on to Holland’s AIS air traffic control website and obtained information about general aviation commercial carriers that had lodged their flight plans in Dutch airspace for the day that Dmitriev was being transported. Only one plane was logged to fly between the southern military base and The Hague, and he established that it was currently being serviced and kept in a civilian airport. He’d infiltrated the place and inserted two cigarette-lighter-sized explosive devices into the carrier’s engines. Both were timed to go off at a moment during the flight when the only nearby airstrip was this one. As extra insurance, he’d taken over the air traffic control tower and used its communications system to guide the captain of the plane to this place. The captain had no idea that he was talking to an assassin who had no intention of calling emergency services.
It would have all been so much easier if his plan had been to kill Dmitriev without speaking to him first.
He still had to be careful. By now, Dmitriev would have reached the buildings, and might have decided to continue onward into the forest. That didn’t matter, because he’d easily catch up with the old man. What did matter was that, though injured, the Russian’s security team could still shoot him from a distance. He’d had to keep them alive, because it was possible he needed their help. Moreover, he was a professional, and his orders were to kill Dmitriev; he’d received no instructions to kill anyone else.
Exiting the building, he ran into the forest and sprinted close to its edge. He caught glimpses of the three white buildings. He’d reach them in one minute. Then everything would be concluded.
Fighting every instinct in his body to stop, roll over, and wait for help, Will kept crawling toward the buildings. He was forty yards away, but might as well have been four miles away at the speed he was moving. Dmitriev was there, waiting by one of the walls, looking left and right, no doubt trying to decide what to do. Will attempted to call to him, but blood entered his mouth and made him choke. Dmitriev moved.
No! Stay in sight and within handgun range.
But Dmitriev edged along the wall and then disappeared from view behind the building.
There you are.
Kronos darted between trees as he saw the old man hobbling into the forest while looking wildly around. The Russian hadn’t seen him yet. It wouldn’t matter if he did; he had no chance of escape. Silently, Kronos leapt over broken tree limbs and foliage, then slowed to walking pace. “Nikolai Dmitriev!”
The Russian spun around, terror on his face.
Kronos raised his gun and walked quickly toward the man. “You know who I am and you know why I’m here.”
Dmitriev opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out.
“Stand still.”
The Russian did as he was told. “Why . . . why didn’t you shoot me?”
Kronos moved behind Dmitriev, placed the muzzle of his handgun onto the crown of Dmitriev’s head and the tip of his knife under his throat. “I may still shoot you, or stab you, or both.”
Dmitriev closed his eyes. “I won’t . . . won’t beg for my life.”
Kronos moved his mouth close to the Russian’s ear. “I’d be disappointed if you did.”
Dmitriev opened his eyes, fear and confusion coursing through him. “Then what are you doing? You want to savor the moment before you do it?”
The assassin smiled. “You know that’s never been my style.” His smile vanished. “I want answers, but make sure you take great care to give me the truth. Lie to me, and I’ll kill you without hesitation. First—was my activation authorized at state level? Second—what is the secret that I’ve been deployed to protect?”
Dmitriev frowned. “They . . . they didn’t tell you?”
“Just answer me!”
Sweat streamed down the old man’s face. “The surviving individuals present at the Berlin meeting are no longer in office, though that may change soon. That’s why I need to testify in ten days. I can’t let them assume power.”
“Was it authorized at state level? Testify to what?”
“No . . . no. They’re acting in a private capacity to stop me from telling the world about Slingshot.”
Kronos moved his finger over the trigger. “Slingshot?”
“That’s the secret. It refers to genocide.”
In a flash, Kronos pulled Dmitriev closer to him so that the old man’s body was completely in front of his. “Lower your weapon!”
Will stopped crawling, his breathing labored, his shaking arms pointing his weapon toward the men. “Can’t do that.”
“Englishman?”
Will spat blood, didn’t answer.
“Will Cochrane?”
Mention of his name didn’t surprise Will. Schreiber would have supplied it to Kronos. “Let him go!”
“A silly suggestion.”
“Let him go. Otherwise I’ll put a bullet through Dmitriev’s head to get to you.”
“You’d have done that already if you wanted to.”
Will tried to keep his gun still, felt light-headed, wished he could see even an inch of Kronos’s face, had no idea what to do.
But Kronos did. “I kept you, your men, and Dmitriev alive for a reason. Be grateful for that, and try to establish why I did it. Good-bye, Mr. Cochrane.”
Kronos edged away from him, keeping Dmitriev firmly in his grip.
Will blinked fast. Make a nonlethal shot into Dmitriev to get the man to drop to the ground? Given his age, it could still kill him. Kronos could easily kill him.
The men moved farther away from him, into the forest.
Will’s mind raced. Why didn’t Kronos put kill shots into the team? Why didn’t he just destroy the plane midflight? There had to be a reason.
Answers.
That was it.
Kronos needed answers.
He wa
tched the men disappear from view, lowered his gun, felt his head spinning, then lost consciousness.
Kronos guided Dmitriev deeper into the forest, stopped, took three steps away from him, and pointed his gun at the Russian’s head. “Turn around.”
Dmitriev faced him, a look of resignation on his face. “I thought it would end somewhere like this.”
The assassin was motionless. “Genocide?”
Dmitriev nodded. “Sometime after you pull the trigger, it will happen.”
Kronos narrowed his eyes. “I never trusted Schreiber. When he met me recently, I suspected that he wasn’t there with official authorization. Also, he gave me an instruction that I could never act upon.”
Leaving his family.
“I want to know every detail about the planned genocide. Based on that, I’ll decide whether to pull the trigger.”
Will felt cold hands hitting his face, a voice, something trying to shake him. What was happening? Where was he? Something felt really bad on him. God, it felt awful! Oh yes, gunshot wound. He opened his eyes. A man was leaning over him, talking. Couldn’t make sense of the words. Who was he?
Everything came back to him.
Colonel Nikolai Dmitriev stared at him. “He’s gone.”
“Gone?”
The old man nodded. “He said that he made the right decision keeping you and your men alive, that I needed all the protection I could get before appearing at The Hague.”
Dmitriev extended a hand and helped Will get to his feet. Wincing, and keeping his injured leg off the ground, Will placed a hand on the Russian’s shoulder and hoped the old man could take the weight. “You’re still under threat?”
“No. To Kronos’s knowledge, not from anyone else. And he made it clear that I need never fear him. He swore that he won’t come for me again.”
Will stared at the airport, at the distant wreckage of the airplane, and at the injured men that littered the place. He shivered, felt exhausted, every inch of his body in agony. He reflected on Kronos’s promise to Dmitriev. “Thank God.”
Fifty-Four
James was crouched beside Sarah in the Isle of Wight house, his arms around her, rocking her back and forth.
