Ghost Target (Ryan Drake)

by Will Jordan

  ‘No,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘You went too far tonight.’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘Killing those men wasn’t for you to do, Anya. It was a decision we should have made together. But you still don’t get that, and that’s what worries me. You’re here, you said you’d help, but the fact is don’t trust any of us. Your fucking paranoia is going to get us all killed.’

  ‘Paranoia has kept me alive this far.’

  ‘And those people over there have kept me alive more times than I can remember,’ Drake countered, pointing towards his team. ‘I’ve been with them through more shit than even you can imagine. I’d trust any one of them with my life, any time.’

  This time he saw a flicker of something behind those eyes. Pain. Old pain, long buried, but no less raw. ‘I was like that once,’ she admitted with some reluctance. ‘But I learned that trust is a dangerous thing to give. And even more dangerous to receive.’

  ‘Do you trust me?’

  She didn’t answer right away. Not because she was trying to put him off guard or avoid the question, but because she didn’t know how.

  ‘I trust your intentions, Ryan.’

  That was about as good as he was going to get.

  ‘Then stop treating my team like the enemy, otherwise that’s exactly what you’ll make them.’ He let out a breath, holding his mounting temper and natural protectiveness towards his friends in check. ‘You don’t like them? Fine, I’m sure the feeling’s mutual. But you’ve got to find a way to work with them, because like it or not, you need them. This is one thing you can’t do alone.’

  Leaving that thought to weigh on her mind, Drake brushed past, heading to confer with the others. Anya made no move to stop him. Instead she watched him go in sullen, brooding silence.

  Chapter 38

  Forward Operating Base ‘Foxtail’, Afghan–Pakistan border – 23 February 1986

  Marcus Cain shivered as another chilly blast of wind whipped into his face, carrying stinging pellets of rain and sleet that stung his exposed skin. The weather was lousy, as he’d been warned to expect at this time of year, and made all the worse by their remote location high in the Hindu Kush mountains.

  Then again, that was the idea. No Soviet patrols would be foolhardy enough to venture this far into the mountainous border region, where tanks and artillery couldn’t support them, and where aircraft were vulnerable to ground fire. Places like this were by now far outside their control.

  Even for Cain, who had no such concerns, getting here had been an ordeal, requiring a tortuous four-hour drive by jeep from Islamabad, then another hour of slogging on foot when the ill-defined jeep trail finally became impassable.

  Not for the first time, he was glad of the regular daily exercise he took, otherwise he doubted he would have made it here. He was the first non-field operative to venture this far out, to come within a few scant miles of the Afghan border. A few of his colleagues had tried to dissuade him, but he’d ignored their warnings, knowing he had to come.

  Knowing who he had to come here for.

  Pulling the collar of his heavy winter jacket a little tighter, he pressed forward, his boots squelching in the mud with each step. Looking around the meagre encampment, he saw little that was heartening. The term ‘Forward Operating Base’ conjured up images of a fully equipped military establishment, of choppers thundering overhead, trucks and armoured vehicles roaring past, troops marching back and forth.

  That was the fantasy. This was the reality of the CIA’s clandestine war in Afghanistan. A squalid collection of rain-soaked tents, mud and freezing rain, populated by hunched figures with rifles cradled to their chests like newborn infants.

  ‘Where is she?’ he asked the soldier who had accompanied him in.

  ‘Over there. Third tent in,’ the man grunted, pointing with a gloved hand. ‘She just got back a few hours ago.’

  Cain nodded. ‘Thanks.’

  Leaving his handler behind, he plodded towards the tent. For the first time in months, he felt a sense of anticipation, even excitement at the prospect of seeing the young woman again. A woman he hadn’t seen since her departure from Andrews AFB.

  The tent was a decent size, and tall enough for a man to stand upright in. The door was pegged shut, and lacking any means of announcing his arrival, he settled for just pulling it open and stepping inside, grateful to be out of the wind and rain.

  In the dim orange glow cast by a couple of kerosene lamps, Cain was able to take in the interior of the shelter. Ammunition and supply crates stacked haphazardly together, weapons dismantled for servicing and repair, a big regional map covered in handwritten annotations pinned to a cork board, along with kit bags, dirty boots, uniforms and countless other pieces of military paraphernalia.

  One of the only concessions to comfort were a couple of collapsible beds and a steel water basin heated by a gas burner below. It was over this makeshift sink that Anya was standing, bent over as she splashed warm water on her face and down her neck.

  ‘If Luka wants my report, tell him I’ll be there soon,’ she said without looking up. ‘I haven’t eaten hot food in a week.’

  Cain smiled in spite of himself. ‘I don’t think many restaurants deliver out here.’

  Caught off guard by the unexpected voice, Anya whirled around, her face still dripping water. It was then that Cain was afforded his first look at the woman he’d last seen boarding that plane six months ago.

  His first impression was that she had aged a great deal in that short time. Not her face as such, but rather that a profound change had been wrought in the person behind it. It was clear she had seen things most people could scarcely imagine.

  He’d heard stories of her exploits here, read the mission reports filtering through from their assets in the field. If they were even half true then it was little wonder she’d been changed by her experiences.

  His second impression was that however grim and forlorn this encampment might have appeared to him, it likely seemed like the Hilton compared to what she’d been through. Her face was smeared with dirt and grime despite the dousing she’d given it, her hair greasy and tangled, her skin grazed and cut in places. She was still wearing the torn, frayed, mud-splattered battledress uniform that she’d marched over the border in. He didn’t care to imagine when she’d last bathed.

  And yet, in that moment none of those things mattered to him. If anything, they only increased the respect and admiration he felt towards her. She’d endured everything her male comrades had endured, had put up with the same hardships they had, and from what he understood, she’d done it without a word of complaint.

  ‘Marcus,’ she stammered, staring at him as if he were a ghost. ‘I… No one told me you were coming. What are you doing here?’

  He grinned. ‘Had to come visit my protégé, find out if you’ve seen Star Wars.’

  Her expression of shock at his unexpected arrival quickly gave way to relief, and her face lit up with a smile of such unabashed joy that he couldn’t help but respond. Without thinking she strode forward and threw her arms around him, pulling him close in a tight embrace.

  That was something he appreciated so much about Anya. There was no guile, no attempt at deception or flattery when it came to the two of them. She was as open and trusting towards him as one could be, and somehow he felt honoured by it.

  She looked up at him then, and her pale blue eyes no longer seemed cold and intense. There was something else in them now; something he’d sensed when they parted company at Andrews all those months ago, but which burned far stronger and more urgently now. He suddenly became aware of their closeness, of her breath on his neck, the warmth of her body pressed against his, even through her damp clothing.

  He couldn’t explain it, but standing there with her in that rain-soaked tent in the midst of those desolate mountains, he felt more intimate, more personal, more connected than he had lying naked with most women in the throes of passion. It was as if they were two mag
nets inexorably drawn to one another, each pulling the other in no matter the time or distance that separated them.

  Then, just as suddenly as she had approached, Anya pulled away from him, a blush rising to her face as she glanced down at the floor.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she mumbled, and he saw that she was shaking. ‘My clothes are filthy and soaking, I haven’t even washed.’

  Cain too felt his composure and common sense reasserting itself. What the hell was he thinking, letting her get to him like that? She was an asset and he was her case officer, and there was a reason such relationships had to remain detached and professional. Anything else was dangerous to them both.

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ he said, taking a step backward. ‘Take all the time you need. I’ll be outside when you’re done.’

  In truth, he had another reason for being here than simply catching up. Something he hoped would benefit both of them. But it could wait until she was properly ready for it.

  For Anya, he would wait as long as it took.

  * * *

  Polish airspace – March 2010

  Cain took a sip of his scotch, staring out into the darkness beyond the window of his Gulfstream jet. Thousands of feet below lay the rivers and forests of southern Poland, illuminated in places by the scattered lights of towns and small villages. And far to the east, at the end of another eight-hour flight, lay his final destination of Pakistan.

  Just like during that first tentative venture into the field to meet with Anya, there was still a war being fought in neighbouring Afghanistan. A war whose seeds had been sown two decades earlier by men just like him, and which now threatened to consume the entire region in chaos and death.

  If only he could have foreseen the damage they would do with their rash, short-sighted efforts, he reflected sadly. If only they could have recognized the monster they had created in the fragmented and unpredictable Mujahedeen. If only they could have anticipated the civil war that would engulf the country after the Soviets pulled out, the legacy of bitterness and betrayal and radicalization they would leave behind.

  If only…

  ‘Excuse me, sir?’ a female voice asked.

  Cain looked up from the window, his mind dragged from its grim musings as he regarded the young air force corporal standing over him.

  ‘What is it, corporal?’

  ‘The pilot says we could be in for some turbulence. I’d suggest you fasten your seatbelt.’ She paused for a moment, perhaps not wishing to offend a man of Cain’s rank. ‘It’s just a precaution, sir.’

  Cain nodded, draining the remainder of the scotch in one gulp. It wasn’t on a par with the stuff in his own private collection, but it did the job. It would hopefully be enough to quiet his restless thoughts tonight and allow him to grab a few hours’ sleep.

  ‘Get me another, would you?’ he said, handing her the empty glass.

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  ‘What’s your name, by the way? Your first name, I mean.’

  The tag on her uniform said Peters, but he wasn’t interested in a bland, impersonal surname. You couldn’t really know much about a person until you knew their first name.

  The young woman looked briefly taken aback by his question. This had changed the dynamics of the situation, crossed a small but significant line, taken their interaction from professional to personal. He couldn’t blame her for being uneasy.

  ‘Alyssa, sir.’ Then, growing a little bolder, willing to give just a little more than politeness demanded, she flashed a wry smile. ‘But… most people call me Allie. Seems to have a better ring to it.’

  He nodded, reflecting sadly on a time when he’d been as young as the woman standing before him. ‘You like the air force, Allie?’

  ‘I get to serve my country, sir.’ She seemed a little less sure of herself now. She was giving him a standard answer to an awkward question.

  ‘That’s not what I meant.’

  Only then did she properly make eye contact with him, engaging with him for the first time as one human being to another. ‘It’s what I wanted to do since I was a kid,’ she said, confidence and conviction in her voice now. ‘I might not be flying fighter jets but I wouldn’t change it for the world.’

  Christ, when was the last time I thought like that, he wondered?

  ‘That’s good,’ he acknowledged. ‘Keep that. Hang on to it. It’s more precious than you think. And a lot more fragile.’

  ‘Will do, sir,’ she said, turning away and leaving him alone, though she glanced at him once over her shoulder as she retreated to the galley. Perhaps she was wondering at the hidden burdens he carried that had prompted such an odd line of questioning.

  Cain was oblivious, his gaze already returned to the darkened world outside.

  Chapter 39

  Drake took a gulp from the garishly coloured can of energy drink. He didn’t recognize the logo boldly emblazoned across the side, not that it mattered much – it contained more sugar and caffeine than he was probably meant to consume in a week. And it was doing its job of keeping him awake.

  He was seated in the midst of their makeshift ops planning area, the laptop connected to their wireless security cameras humming away in front of him. Aside from a small work light, the ghostly pale glow of its screen was about the only source of illumination in the big darkened warehouse, the internal lights turned off to avoid attracting attention.

  In the past two hours, the most exciting thing he’d seen outside had been a mangy-looking stray cat prowling around in search of food. And every so often, the screen would flicker into darkness as the laptop tried to go to power-saving mode, forcing him to lean forward and hit a key to prove he was still alive.

  He could have disabled the feature, but it served its purpose of forcing him to move regularly, whereas inactivity might have lulled him off into sleep.

  He’d volunteered to take first watch of the night, allowing the rest of his team to grab some much-needed rest before sunrise. The accommodation here wasn’t exactly luxurious, consisting of nothing more than a couple of sleeping bags laid out on the floors of the empty offices at the rear of the warehouse, but he imagined they would find a way to make it work. Hell, Anya seemed to prefer a hard floor over a warm bed anyway, so he doubted she would have any problems.

  It was fair to say he had a number of headaches at that moment, the biggest of which seemed to be Anya herself. He hadn’t been naive enough to expect smooth sailing where she was concerned, but the strife she was causing amongst the others was bordering on intolerable.

  He had ventured into dangerous situations before as a Shepherd operative, but always with a unified team behind him. The prospect of trying to lead the house assault tomorrow night with a group who didn’t trust each other and couldn’t work together was a recipe for disaster.

  And yet, trying to make her do anything against her will was an exercise in futility. He reflected that despite all their encounters – the information they’d shared, the plans they’d made, the enemies they’d taken on – he had never once had to integrate her into a larger whole. He had never seen her deal with others as equals, cooperate with them, listen to their opinions, put her trust in them and ask them to do the same.

  Had she simply been out in the cold too long? Was she too far gone to work with his team, or any team for that matter? He didn’t doubt Anya’s commitment or even her bravery in the fight that lay ahead, but it was becoming obvious that she would do her fighting alone.

  ‘Shit,’ he mumbled, taking another gulp of the sickly-sweet drink as he returned to his lonely vigil, feeling like he was no closer to a solution. So much for sorting through his problems.

  Hearing the sound of footsteps on the concrete floor, Drake spun around in the office chair he’d been reclining on as McKnight approached him, emerging from the shadows at the rear of the warehouse.

  ‘Doesn’t quite measure up to the view back at the villa, does it?’ she remarked, nodding to the nondescript black and white images displa
yed on the monitor.

  ‘I don’t know. Somehow I doubt it looks quite as good as it used to,’ Drake mused sadly, then glanced at his watch. ‘Next shift doesn’t start for an hour. You should try to get some sleep.’

  Samantha made a face. ‘Tried it, failed. I figured you could use some company instead.’ She shrugged, looking a little self-conscious. ‘Or if you’d rather be alone—’

  ‘Nope,’ Drake was quick to jump in. ‘Pull up a chair. But I can’t offer you much apart from whatever this shit is.’

  He held out an unopened can to her, which she declined with a weak smile. ‘Not exactly what I had in mind.’

  ‘You and me both,’ he admitted. ‘But don’t worry, once this is over we’ll make up for it. And then some.’

  She smiled at this notion, but he could tell her heart wasn’t really in it. In fact, if anything his mention of what they were going to do after this seemed to have stirred some unpleasant emotion, as if he had reminded her of something she’d tried to forget. She was putting on an act, trying to make him feel better. Trying to hide something.

  Despite his earlier rebuke of Anya for indulging in paranoia and mind games, even he couldn’t deny the change that had come over Samantha of late. If something was worrying her, he wanted to help. As irrational and foolish as it sounded given their occupation, not to mention what they were about to venture into, he wanted to protect her.

  He always had.

  ‘Mind if I ask you something?’ he began, reasoning now was as good a time as any.

  ‘Sounds ominous.’

  Drake took another gulp, grimacing as the sugary liquid settled in his stomach.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  Her dark brows drew together, a frown creasing her forehead. She wouldn’t look at him, which told him a lot. ‘What do you mean?’

  He didn’t want to push too hard, but this could be their last chance to talk privately. ‘Well, you seem a little…’