Ghost Target (Ryan Drake)

by Will Jordan

  Drake let out a breath. ‘That’ll do.’

  ‘What are you thinking, Ryan?’ McKnight asked.

  Tearing his eyes away from the screen, Drake briefly outlined his plan to them. It was unorthodox to say the least, and not something he expected to be met with great enthusiasm.

  He wasn’t wrong.

  ‘Are you fucking kidding me?’ Frost protested. ‘That’s some James Bond bullshit you’re talking about there. This is reality, Ryan. Even if we don’t fall to our deaths, they’d see us coming a mile away. We might as well paint a target on our heads.’

  ‘It can work,’ he insisted, careful not to say that it would work, because given all the variables at play, that would be a bold claim indeed. ‘I’ve seen it done before, and the safe house is well within range. If you can think of a better way in, I’m all ears.’

  Frost threw her hands in the air. ‘Just because I’ve got nothing better doesn’t make your idea good.’

  Drake shrugged. ‘It’s a proven concept that works. That’s good enough.’

  ‘So let me get this straight. We break into this apartment building nearby, get up on the roof without anyone seeing us, take control of the safe house security system, then make like Tarzan across the rooftops, get inside, taking out any guards who stand in our way, all without Cain or his buddies noticing us. Then we fight our way past an unknown number of ISI and CIA agents to reach a man that’s been one step ahead of us every time we’ve gone up against him. Then, assuming we somehow manage to take him out, we somehow get our asses out of a hostile country before the wrath of two whole intelligence agencies descends on us.’ Mason exhaled slowly. ‘That’s pretty fucking thin, Ryan.’

  When he put it like that, it didn’t exactly sound like a winning scheme.

  ‘Thin is all we’ve got right now,’ he conceded. ‘But we’ve done this before, and there’s nobody I trust more than you three.’

  ‘Isn’t that the point, though? Four of us, one of whom is still hurt,’ McKnight added with a glance at Frost. ‘That’s not enough. If we were planning this as a legitimate op, we’d need a team twice as big to even consider it.’

  ‘Sam’s right; we’re way short on manpower,’ Frost added. ‘I don’t want to sound like a pussy, but I don’t want this to be our last stand either. We need more guns on our side, Ryan.’

  Drake looked at her, contemplating what she was asking. She was right, of course. They were woefully undermanned for taking on an enemy like Cain on foreign soil. Fortunately for them, they weren’t entirely without allies in this fight.

  Whether or not that ally was still prepared to help, and whether his team would accept that help was another matter.

  ‘I might know someone.’

  Chapter 23

  The Pentagon, Washington DC – 3 August 1985

  Both Cain and his ward Anya were seated in uncomfortable silence, Cain keeping himself occupied by watching the constant ebb and flow of military personnel as they traversed the long corridor.

  The seat of American military power since the Second World War, its sheer dimensions were almost mind boggling. Six million square feet of floor space, seventeen miles of corridors and over 25,000 employees resided within its high imposing walls. It was enough to make Langley look like a hobby farm.

  The five concentric rings of office blocks that made up the entire facility were designated A through to E, with the E ring office blocks being the only ones whose windows actually offered views of the outside world.

  The corridor in which they were seated was part of the A ring; the innermost ring of the building. This was where the most secretive and sensitive of operations were conceived. The uniformed men and women who trod these corridors reflected the clandestine nature of the work being done. Nobody made eye contact, because they knew better than that.

  He supposed that was one thing the place had in common with Langley.

  Beside him, the young woman remained resolutely silent. Her expression was hard to read, but he’d come to know the subtle changes that came over her when she was nervous or agitated. A lot rested on the outcome of this meeting, and they both knew it.

  His thoughts were interrupted when the door opposite him was opened and a young female secretary emerged into the corridor. ‘Mr Cain, the colonel will see you now.’

  ‘Let’s go,’ he said, rising to his feet.

  Colonel Richard Carpenter was seated behind his desk, staring down at the stack of paperwork before him with the look of casual disdain that field officers often reserved for admin tasks. A big, tall man in his mid-forties, he still had the square build and broad shoulders of one used to hard physical exercise. Only a light smattering of grey at his temples suggested a wavering battle with age.

  He looked up from his work as Cain approached, flashing a smile that seemed at least somewhat genuine. ‘Marcus, damn good to see you.’

  He rose from his chair to shake hands, drawing himself up to his full height. The US Army uniform sat on his intimidating frame like he’d been born to wear it, and indeed, from what Cain knew of the man, he’d spent most of his adult life doing just that. Military through and through, he’d come from a long line of Carpenters that had served in the forces, and didn’t seem likely to quit any time soon.

  ‘You too, Rich.’ Cain exchanged a handshake, then gestured to his female companion. ‘This is Anya. I wanted you to meet her face to face.’

  Carpenter’s smile faded a little as he regarded the young woman. Already she’d become a source of tension in the ambitious project he was trying to get off the ground, and meeting her in the flesh had clearly done little to change his opinion.

  ‘So you’re Marcus’s pet project, huh?’ Without waiting for a reply, he gestured to a couple of spare chairs facing his desk. ‘Okay. Take a seat.’

  Without saying a word, Anya lowered herself into a chair. Cain was grateful for the restraint she’d shown thus far. She knew when to speak, and more importantly when to stay quiet.

  As he’d come to expect when she was in a new environment, her eyes were everywhere, taking in the details of the small but comfortably appointed office. Carpenter wasn’t top brass, wasn’t a starred general, but he certainly had a sense of style, Cain mused. And a keen interest in military history.

  Anya had noticed it too. Her attention had rested on the framed painting hanging on the wall behind Carpenter’s desk. Unsurprisingly it depicted a historical battle scene, though oddly it wasn’t some rendering of American heroism. Rather, this one showed Napoleon Bonaparte in his distinctive bicorne hat and grey overcoat addressing his assembled troops from horseback, the mud and gunpowder smoke suggesting a battle was still being fought.

  ‘You like it?’ Carpenter prompted, noting her interest. ‘Napoleon at Waterloo, right before the Imperial Guard went into battle.’

  Cain knew enough history to understand the significance. At the very climax of the battle, Napoleon had unleashed his hitherto undefeated Imperial Guard to break through the Allied lines. But instead of completing his victory, the Guard had walked into a trap and been driven back, the shock of their retreat quickly causing the entire French army to collapse.

  ‘I like to keep it here as a reminder. Every soldier can be broken, no matter their reputation,’ Carpenter explained, smiling at her without warmth. ‘Kind of makes you wonder, doesn’t it? What was going through his mind when he saw the Old Guard break and run. I wonder if he knew right then that he’d just lost his empire.’

  The young woman said nothing to this, and Cain began to wonder if the colonel’s philosophical musings were falling on deaf ears. He didn’t imagine military history was a great passion of hers.

  ‘Middle Guard,’ she said abruptly.

  Carpenter frowned. ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘The final attack at Waterloo was mounted by the Imperial Middle Guard. The Old Guard stayed with their emperor, fighting to the last man while the rest of the army retreated.’ She turned her head to look at him, flashing a tentat
ive half smile that he’d come to recognize when she felt she’d scored a point. ‘A true soldier never breaks, colonel.’

  For the briefest of moments, Cain saw a scowl forming on Carpenter’s face. A scowl of anger that she’d made him look bad, that she knew more than him, that she had dared correct him.

  ‘You know your history. Very good,’ he allowed reluctantly. ‘But I’m more interested in the present. Marcus here tells me you want to get involved in the unit I’m putting together.’ He shook his head. ‘That’s very noble of you, but I’m afraid it’s the policy of the US military not to allow women to serve in frontline combat units, never mind special forces teams behind enemy lines.’

  As before, she didn’t respond right away. She was weighing up how much to say, how firm a line to take. It was obvious he didn’t like or respect her, but to appear submissive would only solidify his view. On the other hand, to be defiant and obstinate would mark her out as a troublemaker, someone who couldn’t be counted on. That would be all the excuse he needed to ditch her.

  ‘Is that not the point of having… What is the term you use? Plausible deniability?’ she asked. ‘You want to be able to wash your hands of this unit if they are captured. Who would believe America would send women into combat?’

  ‘She has a point,’ Cain remarked.

  Carpenter wasn’t so easily swayed, however. ‘There’s a reason we don’t send them in, and it’s got nothing to do with deniability. What makes you think you’re up to something like this?’

  ‘You have read my dossier, I assume.’

  ‘Paperwork,’ he said, gesturing to the stack of forms spread across his desk. ‘Never did care for it. Anyway, all the test results in the world don’t mean shit out there in the firing line, where lives are at stake.’ He sighed and leaned back in his chair, surveying her critically. ‘So I ask you again, why should I let you in?’

  ‘I do not want special favours. All I ask is a chance.’ Anya glanced up at the picture hanging above his desk. ‘Let me train with your team, on equal terms. If I break, then it is over.’

  That was when Cain saw it. The smile forming on a face so unaccustomed to it. The smile of a soldier seeing a fatal weakness in his enemy.

  ‘All right,’ he conceded. ‘You’ll get your chance. No favours, no special treatment. You break, you walk. Fair enough?’

  ‘Fair enough,’ the young woman agreed.

  * * *

  Marseille, France

  Twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six…

  Anya could feel beads of sweat forming at her brow as she gripped the metal pipe running along near the ceiling, using it to pull herself up so that the top of her head was almost touching the roof. The muscles in her arms and shoulders, long since accustomed to physical exertion, burned with the strain of raising and lowering her full body weight over and over.

  It was one of the many tests that Carpenter had set for her – 30 pull-ups unaided. The US Marine Corps required its male candidates to do ten, but he had been as inflexible as the pipe from which she now hung. As far as he was concerned, his unit was to be a cut above everything else, with only the mentally and physically strongest candidates making it. He certainly wasn’t going to lower his standards for a woman.

  And he never did.

  Twenty-eight, twenty-nine…

  Letting out a strained breath each time she lowered herself down, and drawing fresh air into her lungs as she pulled herself back up, Anya pressed on with the simple but effective exercise routine that had become so familiar to her over the years it was almost as if she didn’t have to think about it. Her body knew what to do.

  Thirty, thirty-one.

  She always did one more than Carpenter’s old benchmark, just to prove that she could. Satisfied by this petty victory, Anya dropped to the floor and turned away from the improvised exercise equipment, heading into her hotel room’s cramped bathroom.

  Outside she could hear the drone of traffic on the busy roads, the occasional blast of a car or ship’s horn, even music from countless restaurants and apartments. All of it pressed down against her like a suffocating cloak.

  She’d never cared much for big cities, even as a child. The teeming mass of humanity all crowded together, all vying for position and advantage and superiority, the noise and the chaos and the tall buildings seemed foreign to her somehow, as if it were a different world she could observe but never really be part of.

  She dimly recalled one childhood memory of being taken on a school visit to Moscow, far from her own home. The teachers and official guides had been so enthusiastic to be showing them the great metropolis at the heart of the Soviet Union, but almost as soon as Anya arrived there, she’d hated it. To her young eyes it had been a grey, cheerless world of concrete, grotesquely large buildings and exaggerated statues of fallen Soviet heroes.

  The longer she spent in such places, the more she craved silence and isolation.

  After splashing water on her face and cupping her hands to drink a few mouthfuls, she raised her head up to regard her reflection in the mirror. Her cheeks were flushed from the exercise, her blonde hair in disarray, lips slightly parted as her breathing settled down and her heartbeat quietened. The lean, hard muscles in her arms and shoulders stood out sharply beneath tanned skin.

  A lot of years had passed since the day Cain first led her into that office in the Pentagon. A lot of things had changed for both of them. Carpenter was dead now of course, killed by her own hand, and she was an outcast from the Agency. A fugitive to be hunted. Only Cain remained, though he wasn’t the same man she’d known back them.

  She wasn’t the same either, she acknowledged. Physically she supposed she wore the extra years about as well as anyone, and training and discipline meant she still possessed much of her hard-won strength and fitness. But more and more, she felt the passage of time deep inside.

  There was a weariness about her that she hadn’t known in those days. It was the weariness of one who had run for too long, witnessed too many bad people do bad things and get away with it, seen too much of their own efforts come to nothing.

  Then, unbidden, she recalled what Drake had said to her during their brief meeting a few days ago.

  You’re afraid of what you’ll do when all the dust settles, and what’s left isn’t fighting and killing, but living. All those long years stretching out in front of you, trying to fit in, trying to be something you’re not. Trying to be… normal. You want to talk about losing focus and perspective? Maybe you should take a look in the mirror.

  Anya wasn’t normally given to deep introspection, considering it self-indulgent and sentimental. But there was a part of her that avoided it for another reason, because she was worried what she would find if she looked too deep, if she exposed the things that lurked in the dark corners of her soul.

  If she did look in the mirror, what would she really see? Not the young and passionate woman she’d once been, that was for sure. Anya feared she would see someone her former self never would have recognized. Someone so filled with bitterness and anger and vengeance that it had become not just a part of her, but the very core of her being.

  Was that to be her true legacy? After everything she’d done, everything she’d risked and sacrificed, was she truly nothing but a ghost for ever condemned to brood over what might have been?

  Her hands gripped the edge of the sink tighter as she lowered her head, closing her eyes and exhaling slowly. She wasn’t even sure why she was still lingering in Marseille when Drake had made it clear he wanted nothing to do with her.

  Not that she could blame him, after the way she’d dealt with him.

  So you can sit there and judge me all you want, but I need this. I need it because I don’t want to end up more afraid of living than dying. I don’t want to end up like you.

  Her head rose up, glaring at the woman she saw before her. Drawing back her fist, she slammed it into the mirror as if it were her most hated enemy, shattering her reflection in an instant. The m
usical tinkle of broken glass clattering into the sink and the tiled floor beneath was lost on her. Looking down at her hand, she frowned at the bright red tracks of blood oozing from her torn knuckles. There was no pain.

  Drake’s words had cut far deeper than the broken glass, and she knew why. Of all the people she’d encountered in this world, good and bad, Ryan Drake was one of few who understood her. Or at least he had accepted her, and that had meant more than she’d ever been able to express. She cared about him, and against her better judgement, she trusted him.

  And she’d pushed him away. Like everyone else in her life.

  She would be leaving Marseille tonight, she knew then. Where she would go next, she hadn’t yet decided, but she knew it was time to move on. She had come here to make contact with Drake, to decide whether his commitment to their mission was still intact. Well, she had her answer.

  So she would leave. She would go her own way, as she had for most of her life. Perhaps it was better for everyone, Drake included. He had made a life for himself here, and as much as it was fragile and vulnerable, it was real. A life away from the Agency, away from Cain. Away from her.

  She was heading back into the bedroom, a towel wrapped around her injured hand, when her phone on the dresser started vibrating. Reaching for it, she felt her heartbeat quicken at the caller’s number.

  It was him. Why was he calling? Normally their communications were done via text message or emails. Something must have changed.

  ‘I’m here.’

  ‘We need to talk. Can you meet today?’

  Curt and to the point, all business now, just as she had been with him.

  ‘I’m surprised you want to meet at all,’ she replied, allowing a little of her simmering frustration to creep into her voice.

  ‘This is important. Can you get here today?’

  She knew he wouldn’t give any details over an unsecure line, but it was clear from his tone that this wasn’t a meeting for personal reasons.