Deathlist

by Chris Ryan

  No sign of Vowden and Skimm.

  They’re probably on the top of the Fan. Clansman’s probably shafted. All this way for a poxy radio.

  He thought back to McCanliss. He’d have to deal with the chief instructor after the Fan Dance. Porter had already been looking forward to beating the crap out of McCanliss. But now he had an extra motivation to hurry up and get back down to the Storey Arms. Porter would bide his time until the Fan Dance was over. Then I’m going to batter the cunt.

  Bald was blowing hard. He blinked sweat out of his eyes, his face shading red with the strain. In the Regiment, everyone blows in different ways. There were the greyhounds, the guys who were superfit and lean and could run for hours without breaking into a sweat. And then there were the bigger guys like Bald. The ones who were more muscular, but who struggled more when it came to the runs. But they kept going. They kept pushing. Because they were Blades, not retreads like Bob fucking McCanliss. Because it wasn’t in their nature to quit.

  ‘Fuck’s sake,’ Bald gasped. ‘It’s true what they say. No matter how many times you climb this bastard, it never gets any easier.’

  Porter grinned. ‘You’ve been hitting the weights down the gym too hard, Jock. Should’ve worked on your cardio a bit.’

  Bald glared at his mucker and caught his ragged breath. ‘That’s rich coming from you, mate. The only thing you’ve been lifting is a whisky bottle to your lips. Christ, I can smell your breath from here.’

  ‘I had a few jars last night,’ Porter replied.

  ‘A few shelves, more like.’ Bald snorted and shook his head. ‘Sod it. A few hours from now I’ll be getting shitfaced too. Smudge Staunton is having his leaving do tonight down the Newmarket Arms. Half the Regiment’s gonna be there. I could do with a drink after that shite at the Killing House.’

  Porter frowned. ‘What really happened up there, Jock?’

  Bald paused again in his tracks. He stared levelly at Porter. ‘It was an accident.’

  ‘But if something did happen . . .’

  ‘It didn’t, all right?’ Bald snapped. ‘But that prick McCanliss is right. The top brass are looking for a scapegoat. Someone to hang this mess on. My arse is on the line here, mate.’ He fell silent for a beat as the two Blades moved on up the trail. ‘Maybe I should take a leaf out of Smudge’s book. Get out of Hereford before the CO gives me the boot. Cash in my chips and go on the Circuit.’

  Porter looked at his mucker. ‘That’s what Smudge is going to do?’

  ‘Too fucking right,’ said Bald. ‘He’s got himself a gig down at Templar, the lucky sod.’

  Porter listened keenly. Templar. The name vaguely rang a bell. He’d heard of them somewhere before. A secretive PMC based down in swish Mayfair, headed up by an elusive former CO of the Regiment by the name of Marcus Keppel. Templar was big money. Or so Porter had heard.

  ‘Ten grand a month,’ Bald said between erratic draws of breath. ‘That’s what Smudge reckons he’ll be on at Templar. Think about it, mate. Ten large. That’s some proper wedge. Way more than we’ll ever earn if we stick around Hereford.’

  Porter cast a doubtful look at Bald. ‘You’d really turn your back on the Regiment?’

  ‘For that kind of money, I’d turn my back on my own mother.’ Porter opened his mouth to reply but Bald quickly threw up a hand. ‘Before you get started, don’t give me all that crap about loyalty. The top brass don’t know the fucking meaning of the word. I should know, after what those pricks did to me in Belfast.’

  There was a dangerous gleam in his cold blue eyes as he spoke. Porter nodded and said nothing. He knew about Belfast. All the Blades did. A few years back Bald had crossed the Irish border, risking his life to rescue an MI5 handler who’d been kidnapped by the Notting Squad, the IRA’s internal security unit. The illegal crossing had very nearly triggered an international incident, and instead of being congratulated on saving the handler’s life, Bald had been severely reprimanded by the head shed. His actions had turned him into a pariah and almost cost him his career.

  ‘Maybe I’ll join you at Templar,’ Porter said with a smile. ‘Maybe it’s time for us both to get out.’

  ‘You’ll have to sort your breath out first,’ Bald said. ‘Jesus, mate. You could strip the paint off the Sistine Chapel with breath like that.’

  Porter looked away. Hated to admit it, but Bald was right. His drinking was out of control. He’d hit the bottle soon after Beirut. The CO had ordered him to take six months’ leave. Officially it was to allow Porter to decompress and recover from his injuries. Unofficially, he was being blackballed. On his return to Hereford there had been a clear-the-air meeting and Porter had been exonerated of any blame. Killing children was against the Geneva Convention and there was nothing the top brass could do. But that didn’t stop the accusing looks from the other Blades in the Hereford boozers. Guys he’d once counted as good mates giving him wary glances. Porter knew what they were thinking. He could see it in their eyes.

  We can’t trust this guy. No way. When push comes to shove, Porter won’t have our backs.

  He could have left the Regiment, but being a soldier was all Porter knew. So he carried on, a Hereford outcast with the blood of his muckers on his hands. Then the nightmares started, and he turned to the bottle. At first it was a few liveners first thing in the morning, just a little something to help him get through the day. Then it turned into a bottle of Bushmills every day, washed down with a crate of Stella. Diana found out about his drinking. She threatened to walk out on him if he didn’t stop. Porter drank more. Then one day he came home to find a handwritten note on the kitchen counter.

  I’ve leaving, the note had read. The words were stencilled in his mind. I’m sorry, John, but I can’t take it any more. I’m taking Sandy with me. Please don’t try to contact us. Take care. Diana.

  Sandy. His daughter. She was seven. She had hair the colour of sunshine and eyes as big as poker chips, and a laugh so infectious it belonged in a government laboratory. There was no bond like that between a father and his daughter. Some of the other guys in the Regiment struggled to bond with their kids, but Porter had never had that problem with Sandy. She had all of her mum’s good looks and none of her old man’s cynicism. She was the one person who made life worth living.

  And now she was gone.

  He had nothing left. He wasn’t even a true soldier any more. The closest he’d ever get to combat again would be instructing the students on how to assault a building six months from now. His stint on the Training Wing was to be his last posting in the Regiment. What will I do then? Porter wondered. Knock on the door at Templar and ask them to give us a job? He smiled in amusement. One phone call to Hereford and they’d laugh me out of the building. No. The only job I’ll be able to get will be working the doors at a dodgy Romford nightclub.

  He tried to block out the drilling pain in his head and pushed up the mountain. They were a hundred metres beyond the stream when Porter saw the two ramblers.

  They were charging down the track like a couple of bats out of hell, seventy metres ahead of Bald and Porter. They were decked out in matching blue-and-green jackets and beanie hats, Porter noted. One of the ramblers was much bigger than his mate. His chest was wide as a forty-gallon drum. His arms were like a pair of hams stuffed in a sack. His legs were as big as grain silos. The second guy ran along a few paces behind Tank. He was tall and scrawny and he sported a shabby goatee.

  Suddenly Goatee lost his footing and stacked it, crashing to the ground ten or so metres ahead of Bald and Porter. Tank about-turned and hurried over to his mate, helping him to his feet. As he stood up, Tank caught glanced down at Porter and hesitated. Something like recognition flashed behind his eyes. As if he’d seen Porter somewhere before. Then he turned and carried on down the trail with Goatee staggering after him, wincing with pain. Porter watched the pair of them scrabble down towards the Blaen Taf Fawr stream. A few moments later they were lost to the mist.

  ‘Why were those two in s
uch a hurry?’ Porter asked nobody.

  Bald shrugged. ‘Maybe they’re worried they’re going to miss Kilroy.’

  Porter let his gaze linger on the trail a moment longer. Maybe it was nothing. But something about the two ramblers had been off, he thought. A niggling concern picked away at the base of his skull like an icepick. He thought again about that look in Tank’s eyes. Something about that had been familiar.

  ‘Fuck ’em,’ said Bald. ‘Let’s get moving. There’s a beer with my name on it down the Newmarket Arms, and I don’t want to keep it waiting.’

  They moved on. The incline quickly steeped beyond the stream. Porter could feel his legs burning with the effort. Beads of sweat clung to his face. The mist thickened. It was like walking through a cloud. Five hundred metres further on Porter spotted a small stone obelisk to the north. The Tommy Jones memorial was named after a miner’s son from Maerys who’d died a hundred years ago after getting lost on the Fan. On a rank winter’s day it was a useful marker. Porter knew they were getting closer to the point where the track split into a V and led towards Pen y Fan. He kept thinking back to the two ramblers they’d passed by. Why had they been tearing down the trail? It wasn’t like walkers to be in such a rush. They usually took their time to walk down, admiring the view. Usually the only people in a hurry on the Fan were the students taking SAS Selection.

  Porter was still wondering about them when Bald stopped dead in his tracks.

  ‘Shit,’ he said.

  Porter looked up. Then he stopped too. He spotted three figures stumbling along the track, fifty metres ahead. A man and a woman in bright-yellow jackets, edging along either side of a heavyset figure wearing army fatigues and a sweater. The man and woman had their arms slung around his shoulders. Even at this distance, Porter could see the guy was a mess. His head hung low, and his arms were limp at his sides. Blood glistened down his front, spattering his legs. Then Porter took a few steps closer to the man, and his blood froze in his veins.

  He was looking at Victor Vowden.

  NINE

  0703 hours.

  Dread seized hold of Porter. Like a hand clasping tight around his throat. He sprinted up the trail, racing towards Vowden and the ramblers. Bald rushed after him, blowing hard. Up ahead the woman caught sight of the two Blades and frantically shouted at them, waving them over. At the same time the other guy was setting Vowden down carefully at the side of the track. The wounded Blade’s arms were hanging by his sides, big and heavy and limp.

  ‘Out of the way!’ Porter barked at the ramblers as he drew close.

  The man and woman stepped back from Vowden, giving Porter room. He could feel his heart pounding as he dropped to one knee beside the wounded sergeant and examined his injuries. Straightaway Porter could see that Vowden was in a bad way. His eyes were dancing wildly in their sockets. His left shoulder had been pulverised and there was a ragged hole in the middle of his chest wide as a tube of Smarties. Blood was bubbling around the wound, disgorging steadily and running down his front. Porter detected a wet sucking noise every time Vowden breathed in. He snapped his gaze to the man and woman.

  ‘What the fuck happened?’

  The pair of them swapped worried looks. For a moment they were too stunned to respond. Then the man spoke. He was a grey-haired guy with the doughy build of someone who spent most of his life sitting in an open plan office. His lips were visibly trembling.

  ‘We found him over there,’ the man said, pointing up the trail, in the distant direction of Pen y Fan. ‘He was on the peak. They both were.’

  ‘Both?’ Bald demanded. ‘Where’s the other one?’

  ‘Dead.’ The man shook his head. ‘My wife, she checked his pulse.’

  ‘So you just left him there?’

  The man hesitated. He looked defensively at Bald. ‘There was nothing we could do for him.’

  Porter glanced quickly at his mucker. The Jock’s fists were so tightly clenched that the knuckles had shaded white. He swung back to Vowden. The guy was making a gargling noise in the back of his throat. He was drowning in his own blood, Porter realised grimly. There was no point trying to grill him. Vowden could hardly breathe, let alone try to speak. Porter looked up at the couple.

  ‘Did you see who did this?’

  The husband said nothing for a long, cold beat. He was staring at Vowden. Watching the blood bubble and hiss around the bullet wound, like water gurgling out of a blocked sink. He was transfixed. The guy had probably never seen a bullet wound in his life, Porter told himself.

  ‘We’ve only seen two ramblers,’ the woman replied falteringly. ‘We saw them leaving the peak, not long before we found him. They were running down, real fast. Like they were in a hurry.’ She turned to the man. ‘Isn’t that right, Gary?’

  Gary nodded. ‘Yeah. A couple of ramblers.’

  ‘Nobody else?’ Porter said.

  ‘Nobody,’ said Gary.

  Porter looked at Bald. Bald looked at Porter. Both of them thinking the same thing.

  The ramblers we just passed.

  Had to be.

  And suddenly he understood why they had been in such a blind hurry to get down the side of the mountain. Because they had just shot two SAS instructors. He looked back to the woman and tried to keep his voice calm and controlled. ‘What did they look like?’

  The woman thought for a beat. ‘One of them was tall. Shabby-looking? He had a beard. The other one, he was bigger. Like a wrestler, you know. That kind of big.’

  Porter glanced down the track, his mind racing ahead of him. Working the angles. The two ramblers had been tearing down the trail towards the Blaen Taf Fawr stream. That trail led only one way, Porter knew. Back up a low rise before it descended steeply towards the Storey Arms.

  Towards the instructors and the students.

  Porter turned towards the husband and wife. There was no time to lose. He cocked his head at the man.

  ‘Have you got a wallet on you? Driver’s licence, credit card, anything like that?’

  The man blinked. ‘What for?’

  ‘Just hand it over!’

  The husband nodded anxiously, then dug his wallet out of his jacket pocket. His hand was shaking as he passed it to Porter. The Blade flipped open the wallet and fished out the husband’s driving licence. Then he took the small laminate card and placed it over the gaping hole in Vowden’s chest. Like all SAS operators Porter had a secondary level of expertise alongside his specialist skill, and he’d done training as a medic during his time at Hereford. The strip of plastic would act as an emergency occlusive dressing, letting in enough air to help Vowden breathe, but at the same time stopping any excess air from escaping and causing his lungs to collapse.

  ‘Stay here,’ Porter said to the man, handing his wallet back minus the blood-stained licence. ‘Keep the wound sealed and whatever you do, don’t move him or you’ll fuck up his spinal cord. Got it?’

  The man stared at Vowden for a beat. Then he snapped out of his stupor and looked at Porter. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘To send for help. Mountain rescue will have to get up here and lift him out.’

  If the poor fucker isn’t already dead by then, Porter didn’t add.

  The man nodded. Porter shot to his feet and looked to Bald. They didn’t need to say anything. They both knew the score. What had to be done. At that moment two armed SAS killers were scrambling down the side of the mountain and heading directly for the students and their instructors. Porter didn’t know what they were planning. He didn’t know who they were, or why they’d put the drop on two Regiment sergeants on a bitter windswept morning in the Brecon Beacons. All he knew was that his mates were in danger, and he had to stop the ramblers before they got to them.

  He spun away from Vowden and hurried back down the track in the direction of the Storey Arms, praying that he wasn’t too late.

  TEN

  0705 hours.

  It was time.

  Stankovic crept back from the window and left D
ragan on OP duty. He took out his phone, pulled up the basic menu showing the last incoming call and hit Dial. His heart was starting to beat faster now. He could feel the adrenaline coursing through his veins. Dragan and a couple of the other guys had taken a load of speed to keep themselves alert, but Stankovic didn’t need drugs to stay focused. Never had. The thrill of the mission was enough for him. The thought of how many men were going to die, that was like the world’s best high. It made him horny.

  The driver of the Mondeo answered on the third buzz.

  Stankovic said, ‘We’re ready. Targets all in place.’

  There was nothing to commemorate the moment. No big statement, no one saying, ‘Well, this is it, now,’ or any other crap, like they did in all the big Hollywood movies Stankovic used to watch in his apartment in Belgrade.

  Kavlak simply said, ‘Okay.’

  Stankovic said, ‘Park in the south-west corner. As close as you can get to the students. Just make sure you steer clear of the trucks.’ He hesitated, anticipating the other man’s concern. ‘It’s going to attract attention, parking that close. But it’s our best point of attack.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ll find a way.’

  Stankovic killed the call. Then he checked the time.

  0706 hours.

  Fourteen minutes to go.

  Twenty seconds later, Kavlak fired up the Mondeo and steered out of the lay-by. He headed south on the A470 towards the Storey Arms. He kept his eyes on the road and kept the Mondeo purring along at forty per, well below the speed limit. He was Zen calm.

  This was it. There was no going back. After six months of planning, poring over maps and figuring out routes and possible scenarios, they were moving forward now. The ball was finally rolling.

  It felt good.

  Petrovich sat up straight in the front passenger seat. His knees were bouncing twice as fast now. The speed in his bloodstream mixing with the adrenaline and the anxiety he was feeling. Kavlak ignored his jumpy nephew and focused on the road. The rain was drumming its fingers against the windscreen. They passed a few cars heading in the opposite direction. They passed a lorry parked in a lay-by on the other side of the road next to a greasy mobile food van. They passed trees and hills the colour of granite.