by Will Jordan
Rocky didn’t seem too impressed by his philosophical thoughts, instead turning his attention to licking his paws.
That was the moment when Mason’s world changed.
No sooner had he laid the cup back down than he was jerked out of his thoughts by the crunch of shattering glass as one of the nearby windows was blown apart. At the same moment, something flew through the jagged gap, slamming against the opposite wall before falling to the floor with an audible metallic thump.
Mason barely caught a glimpse of the explosive projectile before he realized what it was, and instinctively tried to turn away just as the grenade detonated. And for a few seconds, the world around him was obliterated by white light.
Opening his eyes, Mason shook his head, dust and fragments of glass falling to the floor around him as he tried in vain to clear the persistent ringing in his ears. His surroundings seemed to be moving in slow motion, once solid shapes rendered vague and dreamlike as his stunned brain tried to catch up with what was going on.
He’d managed to turn away from the flashbang grenade at the last moment, saving him from being blinded and rendered helpless by its intense burst of light. However, he could do nothing to protect his ears from the concussive boom that had deafened and unbalanced him, making it difficult just to move.
But move he would have to, and soon. He knew the effects of such grenades all too well, having used them in plenty of house assaults himself. Usually they were thrown by hand, just like conventional grenades, but there were rifle-launched variants that could be fired from further away. Either way, the intention was the same. They were designed to soften up and confuse an enemy, providing an opening for a strike team to move in and storm the building.
Dragging himself into a crouching position and swallowing back the lingering sense of nausea and vertigo, he chanced a look down into the workshop level below. Several bikes and mopeds were parked in the open space that had probably once served as a loading dock, all awaiting his attention. He doubted he’d be getting around to them now, especially since there were now several uninvited guests down there. The strike team, hurrying between the parked vehicles and converging on the stairwell leading up to his living quarters.
His brain was overcoming the effects of the grenade now, spinning up into survival mode like a chopper powering up, ready to take flight.
He counted at least four operatives, all geared up in body armour and armed with compact submachine guns. At first he thought his vision was still hazy from the effects of the grenade, but he soon realized that a layer of smoke was lingering in the workshop down below, probably caused by more flashbangs launched simultaneously for maximum effect. He hadn’t heard their detonations because the first one had wiped out his hearing.
Despite the poor visibility, he could now see that the strike team were armed with Heckler & Koch MP5s; venerable old submachine guns that had been around for the best part of four decades, and still popular with everyone from special forces to police SWAT units. The long, bulky additions to the barrels told him they were using silencers, though Christ knew why after the racket made by the flashbangs. The red beams of the weapons’ laser sights cut through the haze like crimson scythes, eagerly sweeping left and right as they sought a target.
It wouldn’t take them long to find one if he didn’t act now.
Ducking down so as not to be seen, he hurried over to the workbench where he’d been busily stripping down the damaged bike engine only minutes before. A shout from below told him the sound of his boots on the floorboards had been detected, and he winced as a burst of 9mm gunfire tore upwards through the floor just feet away, showering him with wood splinters.
Ignoring the sting as these slivers of shrapnel embedded themselves in exposed skin, he felt around beneath the workbench until his fingers brushed against what he was looking for. A single electronic switch, fixed to the wooden underside. Praying the mechanism hadn’t been damaged by the grenade blast, Mason flicked back the plastic safety guard and pressed the switch.
There was a loud buzz as an electric motor went to work over near the stairwell, accompanied by a dull rasp as a steel bolt was withdrawn. Then suddenly it was gone, allowing the heavy iron gate it held in place to swing down, slamming into place across the stairwell with a resounding clang.
It was a primitive security measure reminiscent of the ancient portcullis used to protect medieval castles, but it would delay the strike team for at least 30 seconds, perhaps longer if they didn’t have breaching charges. Hopefully enough time for him to escape.
Even as the grate resounded with the sharp impacts of a burst of MP5 fire, Mason sprinted over to the far corner of the room and yanked open the doors of a battered-looking wardrobe, slipping inside and pulling them shut behind him.
In reality it took just over 20 seconds for the strike team to break their way through the temporary barricade, blasting out the hinges using concentrated automatic fire. Kicking the heavy grate to one side, the first two members of the team advanced warily up the steps, their weapons sweeping left and right.
Senses were painfully alert and nerves fraught as they reached Mason’s living space, eagerly searching for their target. They had been warned that this man was dangerous, highly trained and likely armed – a combination none of them relished. However, no target presented itself. The open area, still wreathed in smoke, was eerily quiet.
Their outside spotters had confirmed he hadn’t escaped through the windows, and since the stairwell was the only way off this level, logically he had to be in here somewhere. He was hiding. Pointing left, the team leader directed one man to search the kitchen area, while he advanced further into the room.
Nothing beneath the work benches. None of the other furniture was large enough to conceal a grown man. No obvious hiding places, except…
He felt a tap on his shoulder, and followed the direction his teammate was silently indicating. A battered old wardrobe stood in one corner of the room, big enough for a man to hide inside.
The only hiding place left.
Tightening his grip on the weapon, he nodded affirmation and advanced towards it, broken glass crunching and old floorboards creaking beneath his boots. Ten feet to go.
Five feet.
Pressing the weapon tight against his shoulder, he put a single silenced round into the wardrobe, aiming low so as to injure rather than kill. The dry old wood splintered and fragmented as the 9mm round punched clean through.
But there was no cry of pain or fear from the occupant. No pleas for them to hold their fire, no offer to surrender. Nothing save the dull whang as the round ricocheted off something metallic.
Frowning, he began to sense something was wrong. Without waiting another moment, he reached out and yanked the doors open.
‘Goddamn it,’ he growled in Italian, staring at the metal laundry chute that the wardrobe had clearly been positioned to conceal.
‘Target is on the move. I repeat, target is on the move! All units, be on the lookout!’
More Italian police units were already converging on the building, moving with the speed and efficiency that years of training imparted, quickly forming a tight cordon around the entire area. Unfortunately for them, the target had already slipped beyond their grasp.
The laundry chute had deposited Mason unceremoniously in the building’s basement level, a couple of stacked-up old mattresses helping to absorb the impact of his fall from two floors up. His body had taken a beating on the way down, rattling around inside the metal chute like a brick in a washing machine, but he was still whole and relatively unharmed as he scrambled to his feet and dragged the mattresses out of the way.
Anyone who tried to follow him down was in for a hard landing, but given that they’d just stormed into his home and almost killed him, he felt no remorse.
This task done, he rushed over to the far side of the dimly lit room, where a couple of packing crates had been stacked against the wall. Pulling them aside, he exposed a low opening in the
brick wall, barely large enough for a man to crawl through.
In truth, it wasn’t just the cheap rent that had brought Mason to this place. He’d chosen it because of its proximity to one of the underground service tunnels that criss-crossed the area, used for everything from water to gas to electricity. Once he’d figured out which direction to go, it had been a simple matter of breaking through a section of the basement wall and digging for a short stretch.
Back-breaking and claustrophobic work it might have been, but the effort was paying off today. Crouching down low, Mason felt around for the flashlight he’d stashed at the entrance and flicked it on, illuminating about ten feet of bare earth walls and floor, braced in places with pieces of scavenged wood. It was hardly Great Escape-level engineering, but it did the job.
Within seconds he was crawling down this narrow subterranean passage, flashlight beam bouncing off the walls. He couldn’t hear the rasp of his own breathing yet over the ringing in his ears, but he could feel the urgent pounding of his heart as it hammered away in his chest. He’d never had a great love of confined spaces, and that feeling had never been stronger than at this moment.
Just keep moving. Almost there.
A simple metal grate covered the far end of the tunnel, placed there as camouflage in case city engineers happened to be inspecting it. A single hard shove with his free hand was enough to dislodge it, allowing him to crawl through.
The service tunnel into which he emerged was barely three feet wide and no more than five feet high, much of its internal space crowded with a confusing network of cables, ducting and pipes of various shapes and sizes, many with different coloured stickers and hand-written notes affixed to them. It was a cramped, narrow, unlit space, but compared to what he’d just crawled through it felt as wide open as a football field.
Fifty yards further along, Mason knew that a short ladder topped with a manhole cover would allow him to ascend to street level and make his escape. From there, he would put his emergency fallback plan into action
‘Sorry, Rock,’ he said under his breath, thinking of the stray cat he’d befriended with a twinge of regret. One way or another, he doubted their paths would cross again. ‘Looks like you’ll have to find a new place.’
With that thought fresh in his mind, he turned and loped off down the tunnel, bent low to avoid cracking his head on the ceiling pipes. Time was against him. He needed to get out of Milan, fast.
Chapter 8
US embassy – Islamabad, Pakistan
If Hayden Quinn had been a diplomat instead of a CIA station chief, he would have described the past couple of days as ‘challenging’. As it was, he considered them to be about as shitty as they come.
After being effectively reprimanded by the deputy director of the Agency over the phone, he’d found himself trapped in limbo, with no clear idea of what the repercussions were going to be. Was he about to be recalled back to Langley to answer for his failures? Was he going to be fired altogether, his once promising career left in tatters?
He had no idea, and he’d been too frightened to call Marcus Cain back to clarify the situation. Thus he’d done what most employees do when their track record is called into question – thrown himself into his work, riding his subordinates as hard as he dared, pushing for reports and assessments as quickly as possible. In some self-deluded part of his mind, he still harboured the hope that a sudden burst of progress might assuage Cain’s anger and restore his reputation.
It was a vain hope, and soon dashed one morning just after his first round of daily briefings, when his desk phone started ringing.
‘Yeah?’ he said, trying to skim-read an intelligence report.
Outside the bulletproof glass of his office window, the streets of downtown Islamabad were already packed with traffic of all shapes and sizes, from lorries to cars and pickup trucks, taxis and tiny motorized scooters that seemed barely large enough to accommodate their riders. Dust kicked up by the passage of countless tyres mingled with the acrid grey smoke of engine fumes to form a choking miasma that lingered over the city like a blanket. He had no idea how the locals tolerated it, but every time he looked out there he found himself missing home just a little more.
‘Gate security here, sir. We’ve got a Mr Stryker here to see you. Says he’s been sent from Langley, and that you’re expecting him.’
Quinn felt his stomach tighten, realising Cain had made good on his threat.
Clearing his throat, he reached for the necktie already lying discarded on his desk. ‘Okay. Send him on up.’
‘Actually, sir, he’s on his way already,’ the guard reported. ‘His security clearance is… well, he doesn’t need our permission to enter, sir.’
Quinn hadn’t thought it was possible to feel worse, but now knew how wrong he’d been. Before he could respond, the door to his office opened and the man he presumed to be Stryker entered without even bothering to knock.
Quinn’s first impression of the man was that he was big. Not just tall and muscular, though he was certainly both of those. Rather, there was a presence about him; an aura of authority and quiet menace that seemed to enhance his already large frame. His walk was measured but purposeful, carrying a hint of the confident swagger that suggested he’d once been military, which wasn’t surprising. Plenty of ex-military guys were snapped up by the Agency, their talents put to good use in field ops.
He was dressed in a dark grey business suit that looked like it had been tailor-made for him, and carrying an expensive leather briefcase. His short brown hair was neatly combed, his face clean shaven, his eyes betraying no hint of the fatigue that one might expect after a long-haul flight from the US to Pakistan. Indeed, in most respects he appeared to be a model Agency employee – clean-cut, fit and motivated.
In most respects, save for the scar that bisected his face. It was narrow and clean, suggesting a blade of some kind, running in a wicked curve from his chin, up across his left cheek, and ending just above his eyebrow. It had healed well, but the pink scar tissue suggested it was still fresh, probably within the last year or so. But whatever or whoever had caused it, the effect was to render his already intimidating visage almost frightening.
Killing the phone line, Quinn rose instinctively from behind his desk, his shirt collar still pulled up and the tie stupidly hanging loose around his neck. Talk about being caught with your pants down, he thought bleakly.
‘You must be—’
‘Stryker. Mark Stryker,’ he began, cutting Quinn off. He moved forward and shook Quinn’s hand, nearly crushing it in his grip. Glancing at Quinn’s untied collar, he grinned in amusement. The scar tissue turned it into more of a wicked grimace than a true smile, though he suspected this had been the man’s intention. ‘Caught you at a bad moment?’
‘I was—’
He’d barely begun to stammer a response when Stryker cut him off again. ‘Hey, don’t worry about it. I don’t stand on ceremony, so why should you?’ Glancing down at his own formal attire he shrugged, his strangely feral smile broadening. ‘Tell you the truth, the suit was Marcus’s idea. I’m more of a boots and jeans kind of guy, but he seems to think it sends the wrong message, know what I mean?’
He snorted with amusement and slapped Quinn jovially on the arm, nearly knocking him off balance with the force of it, before turning away and laying the briefcase down on his desk. Talking of messages, Quinn caught himself wondering just what kind this man had been sent to deliver.
‘Now, Mr Quinn, as I’m sure Marcus explained, I’ve been sent here to help out on a few… sensitive matters.’ He clicked open the clasps on his briefcase. ‘First things first, I don’t want you to see me as a threat or a problem. I’m not here to take your job or make you look bad, okay? It’s not that kind of situation.’
‘I understand.’ Quinn might actually have felt reassured had such news been delivered by a different man. ‘So why are you here?’
Stryker glanced up from his briefcase. ‘Think of me as more of a… fac
ilitator.’ He smiled, the newly healed flesh tugging it into a brutal sneer. ‘I know, it’s one of those bullshitty corporate things people say, right? Normally I’d kick my own ass for it, but it’s kind of true in this case. I’m here to… bridge the gap between you and our friends in Pakistani intelligence. I’m good like that, kind of a people person.’
Never had Quinn met a man to whom that moniker was less applicable, and who was more aware of that fact.
‘Now, I’ve been reviewing your workups on potential ISI contacts, and I’ve…’ He trailed off, noticing that Quinn was staring at him. More specifically, the damage to his face. Again he saw that unnerving, sneering smile. ‘Checking out the paint job damage, huh?’
Quinn felt his cheeks turn crimson. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—’
‘Hey, it’s cool. Don’t worry about it. Kinda hard to miss, right?’ Stryker remarked, clapping a hand on his shoulder and squeezing just a little. ‘I don’t want there to be any awkwardness between us. Anyway, I like it. It’s a reminder for me.’
Quinn frowned. ‘Reminder of what?’
‘Not to piss off the wrong woman.’ He chuckled in amusement at his own joke, though there was no trace of humour in his grey eyes. ‘Anyway, that’s all in the past, so let’s get down to business, shall we?’
‘O-of course,’ Quinn agreed, eager to move the conversation on.
‘Good. Now, as I was saying, I’ve been reviewing the list of ISI contacts you sent back to Langley,’ he said, removing a series of personnel dossiers that Quinn’s team had built up on key officers in Pakistan’s Inter-Services Intelligence (ISI) agency. Leafing through them, he selected one in particular. ‘What can you tell me about Majid Reza?’
Quinn frowned at his choice. ‘Reza? He’s an attaché for their Joint Intelligence North division, works in logistics mostly. He’s small time, barely made the cut.’
