Ghost Target (Ryan Drake)

by Will Jordan

  ‘Don’t tell me to calm down. They almost died,’ she said, her voice low.

  If she was hoping for any kind of concession from him, she was to be disappointed. ‘And what if they had?’

  ‘This wasn’t our deal, Marcus,’ she said, though her resolve was wavering now. ‘I didn’t sign up for this.’

  ‘And what exactly did you sign up for, Samantha? To keep Drake out of trouble? To tell me his favourite movies?’ He paused for a moment, and she sensed something devastating was about to come. ‘What about fucking him? Was that part of our agreement?’

  At this, she felt the colour drain from her face, her heart beating wildly in her chest. He knew. He knew everything. How could he not? Marcus Cain had made a career out of finding out what people didn’t want him to know.

  ‘You asked me to gain his trust. I did what I had to do,’ she said once she’d recovered her composure sufficiently to speak.

  ‘I bet you did.’ His disdain was obvious, and she felt hatred swell up inside her at the notion of him watching them together. ‘But maybe you’re confused about the nature of our agreement, Samantha. If you think this is some kind of partnership where you get to pick and choose which directives to follow, you’re very wrong. You were nothing when I pulled you out of that military prison – just another dumb jarhead who got caught with her hand in the cookie jar. I gave you a second chance; a chance at a fresh start. But I can’t emphasize enough how easily I could take that away again.’

  McKnight tried to swallow, but her throat was like sandpaper, tight and dry and constricted. He was right, of course. Every word he said was the truth. He had given her a second chance, pulled her out of a 15-year prison sentence with an offer she simply couldn’t refuse.

  But many times since then, she wished she had. She’d made a deal with the devil when she accepted Cain’s offer. When this was over, she doubted he would lose any sleep over what happened to her. She was simply a tool to be used until it had served its purpose.

  And what a terrible purpose it was.

  ‘Are we clear on that?’

  She had to force the words out. ‘Yes. We’re clear.’

  ‘Good. Now talk about me about Drake. What does he intend to do now?’

  She and Drake had planned for many contingencies during their time here, and she could guess well enough what was on his mind now. Once he reunited with Mason, he would want to hit back, to take the fight to his enemy. And if she tipped Cain off about it now, she was effectively signing their death warrants.

  Until now she’d always told herself there was no alternative but to play Cain’s game, that Drake and the others were doomed to failure no matter what they did. They were up against an enemy that was far beyond any of them. That was why she had actively tried to stop them taking action against Cain, believing that if she could maintain the uneasy ceasefire between them, then she could protect Drake’s life.

  No longer.

  At that crucial moment, Samantha did something even she hadn’t expected – she hesitated. Reaching down, she laid a hand gently on her stomach, still hard and flat, giving no outward sign of the tiny life growing within. But it was there.

  Her child. Drake’s child.

  ‘Nothing.’ The word had escaped her lips almost before she knew it.

  Silence greeted that statement. She could practically sense his doubt, his suspicion. Cain wasn’t stupid, nor was he gullible. He was a shrewd enough judge of character to know that running and hiding wasn’t Drake’s style, especially not when his friend’s lives had been put at risk.

  ‘Nothing?’

  Samantha stared out to sea, watching the distant shape of a helicopter skimming a few hundred feet above the choppy waters. A sightseeing flight perhaps, or one of the wealthier yacht owners looking to arrive in Marseille in style. Angling in towards the coast, soon disappeared beyond the rocky headland on the other side of the bay.

  ‘He doesn’t have a plan. I don’t think he ever did,’ she said. ‘And now he’s all out of options.’

  She could barely believe she’d said it. Just like that, she’d crossed a line, making an enemy not just of the friends she had betrayed all this time, but also of the man who held a noose around her neck. And yet, for the first time in a long time, she didn’t hate herself. For the first time in a long time, she had done the right thing.

  ‘Not holding out on me, are you, Samantha?’

  She knew she was going to have to sell this one, to flesh out the details and keep the lie alive. Simply asking him to believe her wouldn’t be enough now.

  ‘You don’t understand Drake; not like I do. He’s been different ever since what happened in Libya.’ After all, the best lies were the ones closest to the truth. ‘He’s not looking for ways to fight back any more, he’s not trying to win this thing. He’s already lost so much, I think… all that’s on his mind now is survival, for him and the others.’

  She could still hear the distinctive thump of the helicopter as it lurked somewhere beyond the hillside that blocked her view, though the noise was barely noticeable over the hammering of her own heartbeat.

  ‘I see.’ His tone of voice made it impossible to gauge whether he did or not. ‘So you don’t think he’s a threat any longer?’

  He was pressing her, and she knew that her next answer would be crucial. To be too emphatic in her denials would alert him that she was lying, whereas sticking too closely to the truth might prompt Cain to act anyway.

  ‘I don’t know yet,’ she replied, though she had to hold the phone closer to her ear to shield it from the growing noise of the chopper. ‘But I know he cares more about his friends than he does about fighting you. As long as they’re safe, he won’t risk getting involved.’

  ‘Interesting,’ Cain mused, intrigued by the possibility.

  Samantha let out a breath, for a moment daring to hope that perhaps she’d managed to avert further bloodshed. Perhaps she had done enough to convince Cain that Drake and the others were no longer worth his attention.

  ‘Maybe you’re right,’ Cain went on. ‘Maybe everything you’ve told me is true. But then, maybe it isn’t. I’m afraid I can’t afford to take that chance.’

  Suddenly a dark shape rose up from behind the rocky hillside on the other side of the bay, silhouetted against the setting sun, wide rotor blades swiping the air as it descended towards her. Only then did she realise this was no sightseeing flight, no rich playboy looking to impress his peers.

  Oh Christ, her mind screamed. Oh God, no!

  ‘Marcus, please,’ she said, her voice trembling. ‘You don’t have to—’

  ‘You knew it would come down to this in the end. Did you really think I could leave Drake and the others alive, after everything they’ve done? The man will always be a threat, no matter how much you try to rein him in. I’m sorry, but that’s one threat I have to deal with.’

  It was all a ploy, to draw them together, get them to close ranks so that Cain could kill Drake and his team in one strike. How stupid she’d been to think otherwise.

  ‘If I were you, I’d put some distance between myself and that villa, fast,’ Cain advised. ‘The chopper crew are under orders not to fire on anyone outside their zone of engagement, but I can’t protect you if you don’t help yourself. Walk away, come home and consider your mission completed. I’ll take care of the rest.’

  She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Cain was offering her a way out; a final chance to come home and have her slate wiped clean. Put all this behind her, start a new life. At the cost of her friends’.

  She knew right away that was a deal she could never live with.

  ‘Fireworks are about to start, Samantha. You can’t do anything for Drake now, but you can save your own life. Isn’t that worth anything to you?’ he asked. ‘Your call, but for what it’s worth I hope you make the right choice.’

  With those parting words, Cain closed down the call. McKnight no longer cared. Abandoning the phone, she turned and sprinted tow
ards the house even as the chopper swept across the bay, downwash from the rotors whipping up the sea below.

  ‘Ryan! Chopper coming in!’ she screamed, pounding towards the building, fear and adrenaline lending greater urgency to her frantic burst of speed.

  Inside the villa, Drake started at the sound of her voice, and turned instinctively towards the windows. Peering through the blinds, he caught a glimpse of the aircraft as it swung round towards them, nose flaring upward to slow its forward motion out over the water.

  He could make out the blue and white fuselage that marked it as a civilian aircraft, probably a variant of the Bell Huey. Sunlight glinted across the curved dome of the cockpit, while the side door rolled back to reveal two men in the crew area, both of whom were armed.

  Instinct took over in that moment. Turning away from the window, he rushed towards Frost who was just now rising from the table, caught her around the waist and forced her to the ground. At the same moment, the villa’s back door flew open and McKnight practically threw herself inside.

  ‘Get down!’ Drake called out.

  A second later, the shuttered windows disintegrated beneath a storm of automatic fire as the chopper’s two passengers opened up with a pair of light machine guns. Heavy calibre rounds slammed into the far wall, shattering bricks and plaster that then rained down on the kitchen’s three occupants. The roar of both weapons firing on full automatic seemed to blend together into a constant deafening cacophony that echoed and reverberated off every surface.

  ‘Who the fuck is shooting at us?’ Frost screamed. ‘How did they find us?’

  Those were questions to ponder later, assuming they survived that long. In any case, Drake wasn’t listening. Reaching out, he clutched at McKnight’s outstretched hand and pulled her towards him, her body having to force a path through the shattered glass, wood and stonework that littered the floor.

  ‘You okay?’ he asked, yelling right in her face. She didn’t appear injured, but he needed to be sure.

  She nodded, eyes wide with shock. ‘He found us. He’s going to kill us all. What do we do, Ryan?’

  That was the question. To stay here or attempt to fight back would be futile, he knew immediately. Likely the two gunners in that chopper were using belt fed machine guns, likely M60’s or some derivative, based on the familiar noise, which was bad news for him. Those guns were accurate and powerful, and unlikely to fail a competent operator.

  Judging by the amount of fire they were laying down, they had enough ammunition to sit there taking pot shots for quite some time. Anyone who exposed themselves to such murderous fire would be cut down before they could get off a single shot. Then again, to simply cower here hoping to survive might be playing right into their hands, buying time for a ground assault team to storm the house.

  Run or fight. Live or die.

  In that moment, he made his decision.

  ‘Stay low and follow me. Move!’ he hissed, crawling through the debris that now littered the devastated kitchen area, heading towards the main hallway.

  A hundred feet above them in the Bell 206 helicopter, the pilot adjusted his pitch slightly to give the two gunners an optimal line of fire on the villa below.

  Reaching up, he keyed his radio mic to connect him with the two operatives in the crew compartment. ‘Light them up.’

  ‘Copy that,’ came the curt reply. Laying his M60 light machine gun aside, the first gunner hoisted the long slender frame of an RPG-7 grenade launcher up onto his shoulder. These powerful anti-armour weapons had been around since the Soviets developed them in the early 1960’s, and were still the bane of tank commanders the world over. Easy to maintain and use, they could be loaded with everything from fragmentation to armour piercing to gas or smoke rounds, but this one was something special.

  Inserted in its launch tube was a single TBG-7 thermobaric warhead, designed to suck in all the surrounding oxygen when it detonated, creating an intense high temperature explosion and an accompanying blast wave far more powerful than conventional explosives. And they were particularly effective when used in confined spaces like tunnels, bunkers, or civilian houses like the one below.

  There was an audible whoosh as the initial charge forced the projectile from the launcher, followed a second later by a more powerful roar as the rocket’s own propellant ignited. The pilot watched as the single warhead streaked down towards the villa, disappearing through the gaping hole that had once been a window.

  A dull red flash from within the building told him the payload had just detonated. Craning his neck to survey the destruction, he watched as the remaining windows exploded outwards in a hail of fire and glass, the door was torn from its hinges and the tiled roof seemed to bulge upwards, like an overfilled balloon about to pop. Weaker sections gave way under the strain, allowing jets of smoke and flame to erupt into the evening air.

  ‘Good hit,’ the gunner called out, lowering the now empty launch tube. ‘I see no movement below.’

  The pilot was inclined to agree. Anyone caught within that building would have certainly been killed, either by the concussive blast wave or the resulting hail of shrapnel.

  ‘Roger that. They’re toast.’ Keying his radio to a different frequency, he hit his mic again to send out an encrypted burst transmission. ‘Karma One, we have good impact. Target building is neutralised. No survivors on site.’

  ‘Understood, Karma One,’ came the crackly voice over the radio. A man’s voice. Marcus Cain’s voice. ‘Good work. Withdraw.’

  ‘Copy that. Karma One is out of here.’

  Wasting no more time here, he swung them away to starboard in a wide arc, heading out to sea to dump the weapons overboard, along with any other evidence of the clandestine raid. Their meeting rally point was a tiny air strip fifty miles to the east, where they would land and quickly change the aircraft’s registration numbers and colour scheme, returning it to its original red and black trim. Within the hour, nobody would even know this chopper had existed.

  As the French coast receded behind him, the pilot glanced one last time at the smoking, ruined building they had left in their wake. Like the rest of his crew, he didn’t know who’d been unlucky enough to be living there or what they’d done to earn such a violent demise.

  As the chopper receded into the distance, silence descended on the ruined villa, broken only by the crackle of smouldering wood and the groan of the partially collapsed roof threatening to give way entirely. The freshening sea breeze whipped across the devastated structure, whistling through empty window frames and stirring up smoke and embers.

  Then, suddenly, the charred and blackened door leading up from the villa’s basement rattled and shuddered, struck by a blow from the other side. The blow was repeated a second time with greater force, and the door juddered open an inch or so in its damaged frame. Then, with a final effort born of pure anger and frustration, the third blow succeeded in forcing the cracked and warped barricade open.

  Emerging into the ruins of what had once been the villa’s main hall with his Browning automatic in hand, Drake’s eyes swept his immediate surroundings. Right behind him was McKnight, also armed, with Frost bringing up the rear.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ the young woman whispered, stunned by the destruction that had been wrought on the once peaceful and secluded dwelling.

  Drake said nothing to this, keeping his thoughts to himself.

  ‘I don’t hear anything,’ McKnight said after a moment or two, head cocked to one side. ‘The chopper’s gone.’

  ‘Must have figured us for dead,’ Frost reasoned. ‘They weren’t too far off. If you hadn’t gotten us into the basement, that fucking thing would have vaporised us.’

  It had been a close-run thing, Drake barely managing to heave the door shut and take cover before the thermobaric warhead detonated on the upper level. Even underground in the relative safety of the basement, they had been thrown against the ground and stunned by the force of the blast, the sudden change in air pressure leaving their
ears ringing and their heads aching.

  But it was more than just material damage. Drake knew all too well what this attack meant. The life he and Samantha had made for themselves here over the past six months had abruptly vanished.

  ‘Christ, I’m so sorry, Ryan,’ Frost said, her voice close to breaking as the realisation dawned on her that this attack had coincided with her arrival. ‘They must have found me, followed me here, used me to get to—’

  ‘Save it, Keira. We need to get out of here,’ Drake decided, lowering his weapon. ‘Everyone within ten miles will have heard that blast. The police are probably on their way already.’

  ‘But where are we supposed to go?’ the young woman asked.

  Drake turned to look at her. ‘I hope you’re up for a climb.’

  * * *

  Though the villa sat on a hillside overlooking a sheltered little bay below, the natural harbour was too shallow to be of much use to yachts or fishing boats, and what little beach existed there was too narrow and rocky to be of interest to tourists. However, it was just fine for what Drake had in mind.

  Hurriedly descending a steep, uneven path that wound its way down the hillside, the three survivors found themselves on a wide spur of rock that jutted out into the bay, forming a natural jetty. Moored close to this was an inflatable boat, big enough to hold three or four passengers, an outboard motor fixed to its backboard.

  ‘Not exactly the QE2, Ryan’, Frost said, eyeing the modest vessel dubiously.

  ‘It’s enough to get us where we need to go. Anyway, the roads are probably being watched. Here, climb aboard,’ Drake said, holding out his hand.

  The young woman was breathing hard after the difficult and painful descent from the villa, and was for once prepared to accept his help. McKnight, having become well acquainted with the craft, leapt aboard without difficulty as Drake dropped the engine into the water and gave the starter cord a sharp pull.

  As the engine coughed into life, Drake stole one last look up at the villa they had abandoned. Smoke was still drifting up through the shattered roof and empty windows, and he imagined the fires started by the blast would consume what remained of the building before fire crews could get out here to tackle it. Good news for them at least; it would buy them some time before the French police realised the owners of the house hadn’t been killed in the blast.