Deathlist

by Chris Ryan

  There was no sign of Tank. Porter figured the guy was still hunched down behind the truck. Probably reloading his weapon. Probably waiting for Goatee to catch up with him.

  ‘They’ve got us pinned down!’ Bald shouted above the clamour.

  Porter thought for a beat. ‘Give me some covering fire. I’ll hook around the truck and give this prick the good news.’

  Bald nodded. They did a three-count. Then Bald sprang up from behind cover and started putting down suppressive fire at the four-tonner in a controlled rhythm. The bullets struck the front end of the truck in a close grouping, keeping Goatee pinned down. In the same movement Porter broke to the left, kicking aside the spent brass as he moved to swing around the side of the four-tonner. He had the AK-47 raised, the metal stock tucked tight against his shoulder and his index finger resting on the trigger. His booze-soaked heart was beating so fast it felt like it might burst out of his chest at any moment.

  Porter was twelve metres to the left of the Range Rover when Bald reached the end of his clip. Porter heard the dreaded click-click. The Jock dropped down to his haunches behind the vehicle. Then Goatee sprang out from behind the four-tonner. He didn’t see Porter. His focus was purely on the shooter behind the Range Rover. Porter lined up Goatee down the AK-47’s metal sights. He didn’t panic. He’d fired thousands of rounds before, on the ranges and in combat. Shooting a bad guy came as easily to him as brushing his teeth. He tightened his core, relaxed his shoulder. Exhaled.

  Then he depressed the trigger.

  The AK-47 jerked. The muzzle flashed. Two rounds spat out of the snout in quick succession and thumped into Goatee. The guy spasmed. Like someone had struck him in the back with a sledgehammer. Blood spayed across the front end of the truck. He dropped like a sigh, the AK-47 clattering to the ground next to him. Porter and Bald sprinted towards him. Porter got there first, kicking away the rifle. He raced past the wounded gunman and headed for the other side of the truck, the blood pounding savagely in his veins.

  One rambler down. One to go.

  He was surprised that Tank hadn’t put down any covering fire for his companion. Maybe the guy had suffered a stoppage, Porter thought. Or maybe he was out of ammo. He moved cautiously around the front end of the truck. Weapon raised, eyes peering down the sights. Finger tense on the trigger. Tank had to be hiding on the other side of the four-tonners. Porter’s heart skipped a beat. Got him now.

  Got the bastard right where I want him.

  Then he swept around to the other side of the truck and froze.

  Tank wasn’t there.

  Porter stood rooted to the spot for a long moment. He kept his weapon raised as he glanced frantically around the trucks. Bald joined him a moment later, a puzzled expression etched across his face. Porter looked out beyond the car park. Thinking, Where the fuck is this guy? He was right under our noses, and now he’s gone.

  Then he spotted something in the middle distance. A smudge of colour faintly visible beyond the billowing smoke. The smoke cleared, revealing a heavyset figure in a brightly-coloured jacket four hundred metres away, charging up the ridgeline at Fan Fawr. A cold dread sank through Porter as he watched the figure legging it towards the mist-wreathed peak.

  Shit.

  Tank was getting away.

  SIXTEEN

  0724 hours.

  Bald turned to race up the slope. Porter didn’t move. He could see Tank pounding towards the ridgeline. Another couple of seconds and the guy would be out of sight behind the ridge. He was too far away to try and drop with a couple of rounds. Anything over four hundred metres, the AK-47 was about as accurate as a Chinese fortune cookie.

  Bald stopped and looked back to Porter, clenching his brow.

  ‘The fuck are we waiting for?’

  Porter shook his head and said, ‘I know where he’s going.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘That trail leads one way.’ Porter pointed to the ridgeline along Fan Fawr. By now Tank had disappeared from view behind the ridge. ‘It drops down the other side of that ridge and brings you out to the Beacons reservoir. That’s where he’s headed. He’s gonna double back on himself and hit the road to the south of here.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Bald. He chewed on the thought like it was gum. ‘Or maybe he’s pissing off in another direction. There’s no way of knowing.’

  Porter shook his head again. ‘There’s fuck-all to the west of that ridge. The only way he’s getting off that mountain is by going south and hitting the main road. Trust me, mate. He’s headed for the reservoir. If we head south on the main road we can cut him off at the other end before he legs it.’ He tipped his head in the direction of the main road then looked back to Bald. ‘He won’t be expecting that.’

  A broad grin played out on Bald’s mug again. ‘We’ll give the fucker a nasty surprise.’

  They turned and hurried past the trucks. Bald stopped beside Goatee and grabbed his AK-47, plus a spare clip from his jacket pocket. There was blood all over him, oozing out of the two exit wounds on his back and forming a slippery puddle of blood. Porter stepped around the body and sprinted towards the main road, Bald hurrying after him. They passed the debris and the dead soldiers and the spent brass. Ahead of them a Ford Escort had stopped in the middle of the road. Porter flagged down the driver, a civvy in a windbreaker. The guy sat frozen in horror behind the wheel, staring at the carnage in front of him. It took him a couple of seconds to peel his eyes away from the body parts strewn across the asphalt. He cranked open his door as Porter rushed over. His eyes were wide with terror.

  ‘Got a phone?’ Porter yelled.

  The man nodded slowly.

  ‘Get on the blower to the police. Tell them there’s a fucking emergency at the Storey Arms. There’s been an attack on 22 SAS. Multiple dead. Armed gunmen spotted leaving the scene in a white Ford Transit. We need everyone down here, five fucking minutes ago. Got all that?’

  The man nodded again. Quickly this time. He was reaching for a brick-sized carphone as Porter and Bald turned and hurried on down the road. Help wouldn’t be on the way for a while, Porter knew. They were slap bang in the middle of the Brecons, thirty miles due west of the Regiment HQ and ten miles from the nearest police station. It would take the cops eight or nine minutes to show up. It would take another twenty minutes for the cops to raise the alarm at Hereford and the Regiment CO to get the Red Team guys briefed and deployed. Say, thirty minutes to get mobilised. By that time, the gunman could have gone to ground. In half an hour the van could have motored down to Pontypridd to the south-west, or Neath to the south. In fifty minutes they could reach Cardiff airport or catch the ferry from Swansea to Cork. Only Porter and Bald could stop him now.

  They slung round a wide bend in the road and raced south. It was still raining. Drops spit-polished the road and tapped against the barrel of Porter’s AK-47 in a steady dull patter. The mist had started to clear now, and past his right shoulder Porter could see the outline of Fan Fawr as it descended steadily towards the reservoir. Four cars had stopped in the middle of the road. The drivers had stepped out of their motors. Three of them were staring ahead in disbelief, or fear. The fourth driver was reaching frantically for his phone. No one paid any attention to the two SAS operators gripping their assault rifles and hurtling down the side of the road. The civvies were all transfixed by the huge column of smoke and fumes still rising above the Storey Arms.

  Past a wooded area to the right Bald and Porter hit the reservoir. The treeline gave way to a wide expanse of water, flat and grey as a sheet of steel. The surface rippled under the constant rain. The reservoir stretched out parallel to the road for five hundred metres. At the far bank Porter could see the water tower marking the reservoir’s edge, separating it from the dam and the spillway on the far side. Porter knew from the days spent running Selection exercises on the Brecons that there was a stone path running past the water tower. That path led from the bottom of Fan Fawr and exited onto the A470 a short distance ahead of a busy lay-by.
Porter could see the lay-by up ahead. Dozens of civvies were crowded outside their VW camper vans and caravans, staring in the direction of the Storey Arms. Porter summoned one last effort in his tired muscles. We’re almost there, he told himself. Don’t give up now. Another two hundred metres. Then we’ll cut Tank off from the main road. He’ll have no choice but to retreat back up Fan Fawr. There won’t be anywhere else for him to go then. He’ll be trapped in the mountains.

  Then we’ll teach the fucker a lesson he won’t live long enough to forget.

  Porter was a hundred and fifty metres from the tower when he spotted Tank.

  The gunman surged into view past the water tower and staggered towards the main road, ninety metres away. Even at this distance, Porter could see that the guy was spent. He was moving along in big lumbering strides, like he was negotiating a bunch of car tyres on an obstacle course. The frantic race up and down Pen y Fan, the firefight and his rushed escape, all of it taking its toll on his body.

  Tank ran on. Porter was a hundred and twenty metres from Tank now. The guy crashed through the gate at the edge of the footpath and limped into the road. Porter brought his AK-47 to bear and went to loose off a round. Tank caught sight of the two Regiment men charging towards him and let off a quick burst at the civvies in the lay-by. His muzzle flashed six times. Half a dozen rounds zipped past Porter and Bald, smashing into the caravan parked to his immediate right. Bullets shattered the windows and blew the tyres. Air hissed violently out of the punctures. A woman shrieked in terror. Some of the civvies hit the deck. Others scurried for cover behind the camper vans. Several people legged it in the opposite direction of the gunfire, spilling across the road and blocking Porter and Bald’s path.

  ‘Out of my way!’ Bald roared, shoving aside a screaming woman. ‘Fucking move!’

  A hundred metres ahead, Tank turned towards a dark-blue Vauxhall Vectra motoring towards him from the south. He stood in the middle of the road and pointed the AK-47 at the windscreen. As if he was shaping to spray the driver. The Vectra hit the brakes a couple of metres ahead of Tank. He shouted something at the driver. A second later, a dark-haired woman in jeans and a sweater stepped out from behind the wheel. Porter still couldn’t get a clean shot off at the gunman. Tank grabbed the woman roughly by the arm and shoved her aside. Then he flung open the driver’s side door. Glanced up. Saw Bald and Porter finally breaking free of the crowd of panicked civvies and racing towards him. Tank arced his AK-47 slightly to his left. Pointed the barrel in the direction of the terrified bystanders scattered across the lay-by. Pulled the trigger.

  ‘Get down!’ Porter shouted at the civvies. ‘NOW!’

  Tank emptied his clip at the lay-by. He wasn’t even aiming at anything. Just praying and spraying. He just wanted to cause as much chaos as possible. Round after furious round struck the camper vans. A podgy middle-aged guy jerked as he took a bullet to the nape of his neck. He skidded to the ground like he’d slipped on ice. A nearby woman screamed hysterically. Her cries were drowned out by a throated grunt as another man was shot in the guts. Several people rushed over to the guy, screaming for help as he bled out on the rain-spattered tarmac. Everyone else scrambled for cover, rushing past Porter and Bald and slowing them down.

  Porter shoved aside a guy in jogging gear. For a split second he had a clear line of sight to Tank. He brought his AK-47 to bear. Zeroed in on the gunman. Tank was fifty metres away. He’d slotted the driver. She was lying in a bloodied heap on the ground a few steps away from the Vectra, pawing at her gunshot wound. Porter returned his focus to Tank. The guy was folding himself behind the wheel, preparing to take off. Porter took aim and fired twice. The bullets starred the windscreen. Chink-chink. Both rounds missed. Tank ducked out of sight below the dash and gunned the Vectra engine.

  Two rounds fired, plus two back at the car park. I’m down four bullets, Porter told himself. Twenty-six left in the clip.

  He threaded his way past the crowd, trying to get another clear shot. Bald was at his three o’clock, shouting and desperately elbowing aside anyone who got in his way. Forty-five metres to the Vectra now. The engine roared as Tank started to reverse back down the A470. Away from the lay-by. Away from Bald and Porter. There was a sudden loud crunch as the back of the Vectra slammed into the front bumper of the car to the rear. The Vectra ground to a temporary halt. Porter broke free of the crowd and saw Tank through the spiderwebbed windscreen.

  Now’s my chance, thought Porter. Nail this prick.

  There was no time to fuck about with the sights. He had to rely on pure instinct. Porter closed his mind to the outside world and narrowed his eye at Tank. The AK-47 felt like an extension of his arm. He took a shallow draw of breath and depressed the trigger.

  The shot cracked through the windscreen. A split second later, Tank’s shoulder exploded in a gout of blood and bone. Before Porter could adjust his aim the gunman shunted the wheel hard to the right and hit the accelerator. The tyres were spinning madly, snorting out streams of white smoke as the Vectra made a sharp U-turn in the middle of the road. The front end of the Vectra cut across the grass verge next to the road before it straightened out and faced south. Then Tank put his foot to the floor. Porter let off three more rounds, hoping to blow the tyres. But his aim was off. The rounds struck high, glancing off the boot and shattering the right brake light. The Vectra shrieked as it rocketed south.

  Porter kept on running after the Vectra, even as it shrank into the distance. A moment later the car disappeared behind a sharp bend in the road, and Porter finally stopped running. The growl of the engine faded behind the treeline. He was too late.

  Tank was gone.

  SEVENTEEN

  0751 hours.

  It took Deeds fifteen minutes to hit the abandoned ironworks outside Merthyr. He’d hammered it down the A470, mashing the pedal. The pain clawing at his skull, twisting like a knife point inside his rag-order shoulder. Those two fucking Regiment operators. They’d nearly ruined the entire plan. Only Deeds’s quick thinking had saved him. He’d remembered the route up Fan Fawr, the trail winding down to the Beacons reservoir to the south. That’s why he was still breathing, and Markovic was lying dead in the Storey Arms car park.

  I should have killed them when I had the chance, Deeds thought. When we were bombing down the side of Pen y Fan. I should have dug out my Glock and popped both those fucking Blades.

  He wasn’t sure what had stopped him back then. He replayed the scene in his mind as he raced south in the stolen Vectra. Markovic had stumbled and fallen over a rock. Deeds had stopped to help his companion to his feet. Then he’d looked up and seen the two Regiment men tabbing up the Fan. And hesitated.

  He’d thought about reaching for his rucksack and digging out the Glock. Emptying his clip into the two SAS operators. Sweet Jesus, that would have felt good. But the mist was lifting and the slopes were starting to fill with ramblers. A gunshot might have raised the alarm down at the Storey Arms, jeopardising the mission. Then Deeds had spotted the pistol grip jutting out of the leg holster of the second Blade. That made up his mind. The guy might have put the drop on Deeds and Markovic before they’d retrieved their pistols. So he took the decision to leave the two Regiment men and focus on the core mission.

  That had been a mistake.

  Now Markovic and Dragan were dead. And I nearly fucking joined them.

  Deeds was a hundred metres short of the ironworks when he saw the flames. Bright orange fists, spewing out of the charred skeleton of what had unmistakably been a Ford Transit. Both Vauxhall Astras were gone. Deeds hit the brakes and punched the wheel in frustration. The bastards. Stankovic, Petrovich and Kavlak had driven off without him. It took Deeds a few moments to calm down and coldly assess his situation. He decided it could have been much worse. He still had his forged passport and driving licence. He still had his Visa card, the three grand in cash and the AerLingus ticket.

  Okay, think.

  He reversed out of the ironworks and sped back towards Merth
yr. He’d noticed an old Ford Escort parked near a huge council estate on the drive up, a mile or so east of the ironworks. One of those battered old motors with ninety thousand miles on the clock and a handwritten ‘FOR SALE’ sign tacked to the windscreen. Which meant no one would notice the car gone. At least not for a while. Deeds retraced his steps and parked up next to the Escort. He glanced around to make sure no one was watching him. Smashed open the side window of the Escort with the butt of his AK-47. Cleared away the fragments with the rifle barrel. Dumped the weapon on the front passenger seat and slid behind the wheel. In less than two minutes Deeds had the ancient Escort hotwired and the engine purring.

  He raced west. Mapping out the plan in his head. He’d stop at a pharmacy in Neath. Buy himself a pack of painkillers, a roll of stretch dressing and adhesive tape. Clean out the wound and seal the fucker up. The pills would only dampen the pain in his shoulder, but it didn’t matter. A few hours of hurt was nothing. He could handle it. He could be on the ferry at Fishguard in less than two hours. On a plane out of Dublin in less than seven. With luck he’d land at his destination at around eight o’clock this evening. There was a croak, a veterinary surgeon he knew who could patch him up, for the right price.

  And an old friend who could help him out.

  08.29 hours.

  The sirens wailed their mechanical screams.

  Sixty-nine minutes after the attack happened, Porter and Bald stood at the side of the road and looked on as another ambulance shuttled south, taking the wounded towards Prince Charles Hospital in Merthyr Tydfil. The ambos had been arriving and leaving in an almost continual flow since the emergency services had first arrived on the scene forty minutes ago. Officers from the National Crime Squad had been quick to secure the site of the attack, establishing a cordon either side of the Storey Arms. White tents had been erected. Neon blue lights cracked and popped in the light rain as dozens of scene-of-crime officers dressed in white overalls sifted through the thousands of pieces of evidence. Every shard of debris, every spent bullet jacket and shred of fabric, had to be collected, zip-locked, tagged and logged. It was a painfully slow process to watch, but any scrap of evidence might provide the clue that could ultimately help identify the perpetrators.