Deathlist

by Chris Ryan

  Then it was gone.

  They were a mile outside Puerto Banus when Bald finally lost his rag.

  ‘The fuck was that about?’ he snapped angrily. He was looking at Porter. ‘Shoving the hooker. Jesus, you almost let the bastard get away.’

  ‘She was in the way,’ Porter hit back. ‘What the fuck was I supposed to do? Let Deeds escape?’

  Bald simmered. It took every ounce of self-control to stop himself from lashing out. ‘You were supposed to not fuck up the mission. You were supposed to not make a ton of noise and warn the target before we had him cornered. That’s basic, that.’

  ‘We got him, mate,’ said Porter. ‘That’s all that matters.’

  Bald snorted through his nostrils. ‘But we nearly fucking didn’t. Deeds was a cunt hair from giving us the slip. If I hadn’t slotted the driver, he might have escaped. That would’ve been on you. Mate.’

  He looked away. Porter stared silently out of the window. He hated to admit it, but Bald was right. Porter had nearly shafted the mission. He was in serious danger of losing his touch. He didn’t respect Bald as a personality, but the guy was a first-class operator in the field. Porter had just seen that with his own eyes. The guy was sharp. Surgical. Lethal. But seeing the Jock’s skills reminded Porter of just how far he’d let his own standards drop.

  You got lucky this time, the voice in the back of his head said. But you won’t get a second chance. If I’m going to complete the mission, then I’m gonna have to sharpen up my act.

  TWENTY-SIX

  0128 hours.

  The safe house in Fuengirola was a thirty-minute ride away, on the AP-7 motorway that ran between Guadirao to the west and Malaga to the east. Devereaux drove under the limit, keeping the Sprinter purring along at fifty miles per. They stopped to change vehicles at Ojén, a nothing town a couple of miles north of Marbella. There had to have been at least a dozen witnesses to the shooting in Puerto Banus and the van would soon be hot, if it wasn’t already. They pulled into the back of a disused garage on Calle Avellano, bundled Deeds out of the Sprinter and shoved him into the boot of a white SEAT Toledo that Devereaux had stashed the previous day. Then Coles took a jerry can filled with petrol, doused the Sprinter and lit the fucker up. Thirty seconds later they were pulling out onto the main road and motoring east to the safe house. By the time the cops showed up, any DNA evidence or fingerprints would have gone up in smoke.

  Twenty-one minutes later the strike team pulled up outside an address on the outskirts of the town, away from the souvenir shops and the London-themed boozers along the bustling seafront. Places with names like the Elephant and Castle, the Mods and Rockers, the Nag’s Head. The safe house was a basement apartment set at the end of a rubbish-strewn street, flanked by ramshackle high-rises and shuttered shop fronts. The walls of the apartment had been soundproofed and they were half a mile from the centre of town. No one would hear Deeds once he started screaming.

  The apartment was filthy. Bald had visited it two days before the mission to get the place ready for the grab. There were piss stains on the floor and bars on the windows, and a large brown stain covered most of the ceiling in the living room. The team had laid out clear plastic sheeting on the floor to cover any blood splatters. A single metal chair stood in the middle of the main room with a naked lightbulb hanging directly above. There was a fold-out DIY table to one side of the room with a bunch of tools laid out on it, along with a piece of 2 x 4 and a Bosch cordless power drill. There was also a portable blowtorch and a can of lighter fluid and a box of matches. They had more tools than Homebase, but they wouldn’t be putting together any kitchens tonight.

  Bald ran his hands slowly over the tools while Porter and Devereaux hustled Deeds into the room. They stripped him naked and shoved him down onto the chair. Then they wrapped duct tape around his chest to bind him to the chair and tied his ankles to the chair legs with a length of paracord.

  ‘You can’t fucking do this,’ Deeds snarled. ‘You hear? I got friends in high places, pal. I’m talking serious fucking players. People will be out looking for me.’

  They didn’t say a word. Porter and Devereaux finished tying Deeds to the chair. Then Devereaux left to stow the car in a back street while Coles waited outside to keep watch. Suddenly Bald and Porter were alone with the ex-squaddie. He groaned nasally. They’d slapped Deeds up a bit in the back of the Sprinter and now he looked like crap. Blood bubbled under his bruised nose. His bottom lip was purpled and badly cut. His right eye had swollen to the size of a walnut. Deeds spat blood on the floor then lifted his eyes to Bald and glared at him.

  ‘You’re a fucking dead man.’ He looked to Porter. ‘You too. You’re all fucking dead.’

  Bald said nothing. Porter lit up a cigarette, watching the Jock as he calmly picked up a set of heavy-duty Stanley bolt-cutters. The two operators had agreed on a strategy before heading to the safe house. Bald would handle the torture, while Porter would play the role of the good cop. That way Deeds would naturally look towards Porter as the more reasonable of the two interrogators.

  Bald tested the bolt-cutters. They made a delicate snipping noise that quickly got Deeds’ undivided attention. He glanced at the bolt-cutters then looked back to Porter, his face twitching with fear.

  ‘You got the wrong man,’ he said. He was trying to put on a brave face, but his voice was cracking around the edges. ‘I don’t know shit. That’s the truth, I swear. I can’t tell you nothing.’

  Porter smoked some more, the nicotine helping to settle his nerves. Bald still said nothing. He turned his attention to a Spear and Jackson hacksaw. He held the blade up to the light and ran his fingers gently over the stainless-steel teeth. Deeds started shaking like a Scouse at a job interview.

  ‘Scarsdale will find you. Mark my words. He knows every nook and cranny between here and Malaga. He’ll find you and he’ll cut the pair of you up. You’ll fucking see.’

  Porter went on giving Deeds the silent treatment and stubbed out his cigarette on the bare floor. Over at the DIY table, Bald set down the hacksaw and returned to the bolt-cutters. He picked them up along with the blowtorch and without saying a word paced over to Deeds. Porter took a dirty soiled rag and stuffed it in the guy’s mouth. Then Bald dropped to a knee in front of the ex-Para and placed the toe on his right foot between the steel jaws, making sure the edges were at a right angle to get a nice clean cut. The colour drained instantly from Deeds’s face. His eyes went so wide they looked like they might pop out of their sockets. He hadn’t been expecting this. He’d probably figured that they would start off with a few questions, rough him up a bit more first.

  He figured wrong.

  Bald gripped the cutter handles and spread them apart as far as they would go. Then he brought them firmly together. Deeds gave a muffled scream as the jaws sliced clean through his toe, clipping bone and gristle and flesh. Blood spurted out of the torn ragged stump, spilling across the plastic sheeting. The guy kept on screaming, breathing furiously through his nostrils. Bald reached for the blowtorch. He turned on the gas. Took a matchstick from a box of matches, lit it. Held the naked flame to the torch nozzle. There was a sharp hissing noise as a bluish flame lit up. Then Bald took the blowtorch and held the flame close to Deeds’s bleeding toe, cauterising the wound. Deeds screamed again through the rag in his mouth. The smell of burning flesh filled the room as he thrashed wildly in his chair, rocking back and forth and convulsing with pain. He struggled to breathe. Then Bald took the flame away and Porter tore the dirty rag out of Deeds’ mouth. He promptly leaned forward and puked up, emptying his guts onto the floor.

  Bald stood back and watched. The blowtorch flame was still running. Deeds spat out blood and made a weird sound that was somewhere between a dry heave and a moan. The flesh around his big toe was charred black. He groaned again.

  ‘Jesus, okay. Christ. I’ll talk. I’ll tell you fucking everything. Just please, no more.’

  Porter stared at the guy in puzzlement. ‘Tell us what? We h
aven’t asked you a fucking question yet.’

  There was a glimmer of fear in Deeds’ eyes. His lips quivered. The guy was absolutely bricking it. His imagination was working overtime now as he wondered how much worse the pain was going to get before he got the chance to spill his guts.

  Porter stuffed the rag back in Deeds’ mouth. Bald reached for the bolt-cutters and fit the jaws snug around another of the guy’s toes. Deeds tensed as he braced himself for the pain. Porter clamped his hands down on the guy’s shoulders to keep him still while Bald worked the bolt-cutters and cut through his second toe. Blood oozed out of the stump, spattering the sheet dark red. Deeds screamed hysterically. Piss was running down his legs now, forming a puddle between his feet. Bald took the blowtorch to the wound and the sickly sweet odour of burnt flesh mingled with the rancid stench of urine. When he was finished, Bald stepped back and took a moment to admire his work. Deeds’s foot was in rag order. He wouldn’t be turning out for his Sunday league team anytime soon.

  Porter stepped forward and dropped to a knee in front of Deeds. He took out the rag. Fixed his gaze on the guy.

  Said, ‘Listen to me carefully, because I’m only going to say this once. You’re going to die tonight. That’s going to happen, and there’s fuck-all you can do about it. How you die, that’s up to you.’

  Deeds started crying. Tears streamed down his face. He was muttering under his breath, begging for help. From God or his torturers, Porter couldn’t tell. Either way it wouldn’t do him much good.

  ‘Bill,’ he said. ‘Look at me.’

  Deeds stopped bawling like a baby. He lifted his eyes to Porter. They were big and wide and scared.

  Porter said, ‘Here’s what’s going to happen, Bill. You’ve got one chance to tell us the truth. Not some of the truth. We want all of it. Do you understand? If you level with us, then I’ll give you a soldier’s death. A bullet to the head, nice and quick. It’ll be painless. You won’t feel a thing. You have my word.’

  Porter paused. He was deliberately using Deeds’ first name. Trying to make the guy think that the two of them had an understanding. That he could trust Porter. Bald stood close by, wielding the bolt-cutters.

  ‘But if you lie to us, or if you hold back, then my mate here will rip you apart.’ Porter tipped his head at the Jock. ‘He’ll cut off the rest of your toes first. Then your fingers. Then your bollocks. By the time he’s finished you’ll have more stumps than the rainforest. It’ll take you days to die, and it’ll hurt like fuck.’

  Deeds hung his head low. He was utterly broken now. He wept uncontrollably, shaking his head and whimpering. ‘This isn’t fucking happening,’ he kept saying, over and over. ‘This isn’t happening. It can’t be.’

  ‘It is,’ said Porter. ‘And if you want me to make it quick, you’d better start talking.’

  Deeds clamped his eyes shut and clenched his brow. His face was a picture of torment as he wrestled with the agonising decision. ‘Fuck it. What do you want to know?’

  ‘You know who we are, Bill?’ Porter asked.

  Deeds nodded. Barely. ‘You’re Regiment. You were there that day. At the Brecons.’

  ‘Then you know why we’re here.’

  Deeds didn’t say anything this time. He didn’t need to. His face gave him away.

  ‘Who else was involved?’ Porter demanded.

  ‘There were six of us,’ Deeds said between ragged draws of breath.

  ‘Who were the others, Bill?’

  ‘Serbs. They were Serbs.’

  Porter glanced at Bald in surprise. He thought back to what Lakes had said. About Deeds going underground after he’d tried to smuggle weapons. It’s possible the Serbian mafia was involved, she’d said.

  Maybe he’s just one link in a very long chain.

  Jesus, thought Porter.

  Did the Serb mafia order the hit on the Regiment?

  He looked back to Deeds. ‘All of them? They were all Serbs?’

  Deeds managed a nod. His eyes were dim and he was slipping in and out of consciousness. The adrenaline was starting to wear off and the pain was kicking in. Any moment now the guy would go floppy.

  ‘Where are the others now?’ Porter said. ‘Are they here, in Spain?’

  ‘Scattered,’ said Deeds. ‘All over. That was the plan. That’s what we were told to do.’

  ‘By who?’

  But Deeds didn’t answer. His head fell forward and his shoulders sagged. Spittle dangled out of the corners of his slack mouth, forming a neat pool on the floor. Porter gestured to Bald.

  ‘Wake this fucker up.’

  Bald returned to the table and picked up the can of lighter fluid. He flipped up the red nozzle and paced over to Deeds. Gave the can a squeeze and poured fluid on his chest. Then he struck a match and chucked it at Deeds. His chest went up in flames. Deeds jolted upright. He howled, writhing in pain. When the guy was nice and toasted Bald unscrewed the cap on a bottle of water and chucked it over Deeds, dousing the flames.

  ‘Jesus,’ he gasped, clenching his teeth. ‘Oh fuck, oh Jesus. Fuck!’

  Bald went to light Deeds up again but Porter shot him a look that said, That’s enough. They needed Deeds awake. Not dead. Not yet, anyway. Bald reluctantly lowered the can of lighter fluid and took a step back. Porter swung his gaze back to Deeds. The guy looked all kinds of fucked up.

  Porter said, ‘Who gave the order?’

  Deeds groaned and said, ‘These people. They’re not fucking amateurs, like. They’re big time. They’ve got serious balls on them. You don’t want to mess with them.’

  ‘I’ll take my chances. Tell me now, or you lose another toe.’

  Deeds hesitated. Bald snapped. He moved towards the ex-Para, his face shading white with rage as he wielded the bolt-cutters. ‘You killed our mates, you cunt. You’d better fucking talk.’

  Porter ignored his mucker and focused his gaze on Deeds, appealing to the guy’s judgement. He was playing a craftier game than Bald. The Jock was pure anger. Porter knew it was better to try and tease the int out of Deeds by offering him the incentive of a soldier’s death. He was still going to rip the guy to shreds once they’d got all the information out of him. But Deeds didn’t know that.

  ‘His name,’ Porter said. ‘Tell us who planned the attack, and I’ll make it quick.’

  Deeds took a deep draw of breath. Then he spoke.

  ‘It’s Brozovic,’ he said. ‘His name is Radoslav Brozovic, but everyone calls him the Tiger.’

  A long moment of stunned silence played out in the room. Deeds slumped in his chair. Porter felt a cold dread run down his spine. He looked to Bald. Saw the colour draining from his mucker’s face, like water running down a plughole. Neither of them said a word. They didn’t need to.

  Radoslav Brozovic.

  They’d both heard that name before.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  0204 hours.

  The silence went on for what seemed like a long while, but was probably no more than two or three seconds. Porter just stood there, an invisible band tightening around his chest. Then Bald spoke.

  ‘The Serb warlord?’ He cocked his head at Porter and frowned. ‘Isn’t that the cunt you went after in Bosnia?’

  Porter nodded and said, ‘Yeah. That’s him all right.’

  The memories came rushing back at him. Like a fist to the solar plexus. Images he’d spent the past eighteen months trying to erase. Bosnia, 1997. Porter had been part of a four-man team sent out to put a stop to Radoslav Brozovic. The self-styled Tiger of the Balkans commanded a notorious paramilitary unit, the Red Eagles. His soldiers had been running wild, butchering Muslims, raping women and burying kids alive in the villages along the border with Bosnia. Reports flooded in daily of new atrocities linked to Brozovic and his goons. There were rumours the guy took a golf bag and a caddy wherever he went. Instead of clubs, the golf bag was filled with weapons. A length of wood with rusted nails driven through it. A baseball bat. A pickaxe, a crowbar. All different kinds of weapons. Whe
never they entered a town Brozovic’s men would round up any Muslims and force them to their knees. Then Brozovic would turn to his caddy and ask for the nine iron, or the wedge or the putter. The caddy would hand over the right club. Then Brozovic would batter the victim until their brains were seeping out of their skull. The Red Eagles made Arkan’s toughs look like the Care Bears.

  It had taken months to track Brozovic down. Int suggested the guy was holed up in a remote town close to the border at Zvornik. All the young men had left the village to go and fight for the various sides, leaving the old boys behind. Brozovic’s men moved in and turned the village into a living hell. They lined up every Muslim and had them shot. They kidnapped girls from both sides of the divide and took them to a house on the outskirts of the village. Then they took turns to rape the girls, renting them out to Serbian soldiers who needed to let off steam. When they were done, Brozovic had his men slit the girls’ throats and dump their bodies in a separate room. Porter’s team had gone in covertly and OP’d the village from a lying-up point just to the south. Once they had eyes on the toughs, Porter had called in an artillery barrage right on top of his position, risking his own safety to nail the fuckers. The fast air had narrowly missed Porter. Brozovic had left the village moments before, but most of his lieutenants had been blown to pieces.

  Including his younger brother, Bosko.

  Everyone in the Regiment knew about the op. Every Christmas all the various squadrons got together for the annual cross-brief. Decorations were handed out, missions were discussed and some of the lads from Delta or the SEALs often joined in, giving briefings on ops they’d run. After the Regimental rugby match the lads had a massive scoff and then got shitfaced in the squadron bars. So Bald knew all about Porter’s DCM. He knew all about the op to take down Brozovic. And he knew that Porter had been warning the head shed of the massacres taking place in Bosnia, long before anyone in Whitehall had stared to sit up and take notice.