Deathlist

by Chris Ryan

  As soon as the Lincoln was secure Bald scooped up the Hilti drill from beside the dump truck and hurried over to the principal car, while Porter grabbed the petrol container and the climbing tape. As he spun around he saw a glimmer of movement coming from the burnt-out Audi five metres to the rear of the Lincoln. Through the cobwebbed smoke Porter saw one of the bodyguards staggering out of the rear Audi. The guy was seriously fucked up. His skin was peeling and blistered. His hands and face were covered in flash burns and blood leaked out of his perforated ear drums, staining his shirt collar. Then Porter saw the Glock in the bodyguard’s trembling right hand. He had the barrel trained directly at Bald. The Jock was eight metres away. Point blank. Bald was beating a rapid path towards the front of the Lincoln. He hadn’t yet spotted the imminent threat at his flank.

  ‘Mucker, look out!’ Porter shouted.

  Bald stopped in his tracks. Turned towards his ten o’clock. The bodyguard went to pull the trigger. A loud ca-rack echoed through the tunnel. The bodyguard’s head snapped back as a bullet tore into the back of his skull, exiting through his jaw and painting blood and brain matter across the concrete tunnel wall. The guy hit the ground, hard and heavy and dead. Porter looked up and saw Coles standing ten metres further back from the slotted guard. He was gripping the Sig P226 he’d concealed under his leather motorcycle jacket. Coles gave the two operators a quick nod. Then he turned away to keep watch over the eastern entrance to the tunnel while Porter and Bald raced towards the Lincoln.

  There was no time to lose. Porter set the petrol container down beside the front of the motor while Bald vaulted onto the Lincoln bonnet, gripping the Hilti hammer drill in his right hand. Porter consulted his G-Shock. 0742 hours. Sixty seconds since the first charge had detonated. By his reckoning the team had four minutes to lift the target before the cops rocked up. He looked back up at Bald, the clock ticking inside his head. Bald pressed the drill bit to the Lincoln roof at a point roughly over the driver’s seat and began drilling. The Hilti made a high-speed whining sound as the drill bit bored through the roof, throwing up sparks in every direction.

  Eighty seconds gone.

  0742 hours.

  Up on the bridge, Devereaux manoeuvred the Landy into position. He waited for a lull in the traffic before reversing and then steered the vehicle forward so it was at a ninety-degree angle to the hard shoulder, with the front bumper facing the metal railings head-on. The hard shoulders on Swiss roads were wider than the ones in Britain and it was just about wide enough to accommodate the Landy side-on without blocking traffic. Keeping the engine running, Devereaux debussed from the Landy. He took the remote control for the winch and his Sig Sauer P226 pistol from the glove compartment.

  He hooked around to the front of the Landy, pausing to glance up and down the motorway. The motorists were speeding past, oblivious to the attack going on below. The two explosions had been contained inside the tunnel, with only a few faint threads of smoke drifting up from the entrance to the bridge. If anyone looked out of their window and saw the smoke, they’d simply assume it was a small fire or a car crash. Now Devereaux picked up the coil of extended winch cable and started paying it out over the side of the parapet so that the safety hook reached down to the road fifteen metres below, ready for the guys to clip on with their carabiners.

  Devereaux finished lowering the winch cable. Lifted his gaze to the road east of the tunnel. A couple of vehicles had pulled up sixty metres short of the tunnel entrance. Civvies. Devereaux figured they must have seen the smoke, heard the gunshots and explosions, and hit their brakes. The drivers of both cars were stepping out onto the blacktop and rubbernecking the scene at the tunnel. One of the civvies reached for his mobile. Getting on the blower to the cops, no doubt. The other guy got out his handheld digital camera and started filming.

  Shit, thought Devereaux. He leaned over the railings and shouted down to Coles.

  ‘Get a fucking move on!’

  His voice carried down into the tunnel, catching the South African’s attention. Coles looked up at the bridge. Devereaux pointed to the cars that had stopped further along the road. ‘Cops are on the way, fellas!’

  Ninety seconds since the attack began.

  Two-and-a-half minutes to go.

  Down in the tunnel, Bald drilled.

  He’d already cut an inch-wide hole through the Lincoln roof. Now he was drilling a second hole next to the first one. As he worked the Hilti a staccato series of dense thumps sounded from inside the blacked-out Lincoln. Ker-thump! Ker-thump! Ker-thump! Like someone striking at the roof with a hammer. The bodyguards are trying to blast away at Bald, Porter realised. The thought momentarily flashed through his head that the roof must be armoured too. That’s why the shots weren’t penetrating the roof. They were deflecting off the armour plating. The armour had been designed to stop anyone from shooting into the car. It would stop a bullet from shooting out of it too. But it wouldn’t stop the Hilti. And once Bald had punched a larger hole in the roof, the occupants were in for a nasty shock.

  Bald kept drilling. The Hilti screeched. The bodyguards kept blasting away. Bald finished putting two more identical holes in the roof next to the first one, creating a single three-inch hole. He set down the Hilti and looked down towards Porter, gesturing frantically.

  A hundred and twenty seconds. Two minutes down.

  Two to go.

  ‘Now!’ Bald shouted.

  Porter took the petrol container and passed it up. Bald grabbed it and unscrewed the black cap, attaching the short pouring nozzle. Then he inserted the nozzle into the hole in the Lincoln roof and tipped the petrol over the heads of the two bodyguards in the front seats. Porter heard muffled screams from inside the Lincoln. Bald finished tipping the last few drops of petrol into the car. Chucked the container aside and hopped down from the Lincoln. Porter deholstered his Sig adopting a solid firing stance. He trained his semi-automatic at the passenger door. In the corner of his vision he saw Bald drawing his own weapon. He was aiming at the driver’s side.

  A second passed. Then another. The occupants screamed. Bald and Porter kept pointing their Sigs at the side doors. Hearts racing. The burning Audis had turned the tunnel into a sauna and Porter could feel beads of hot sweat slicking down his spine, clinging to his overalls. His hair was soaked through with sweat. His muscles pounded. After five seconds, the two bodyguards inside the Lincoln did exactly what anyone else would do when they’d just been doused in a highly flammable liquid. They panicked. They feared that Bald was going to toss a lit match into the hole and set the pair of them on fire. Nothing motivates a human being like the fear of being burned alive. The bodyguards forgot all about their SOPs and their basic training. They popped open the doors and sprang out of the Lincoln, shouting and flapping their arms and desperately trying to throw off their petrol-soaked jackets. They walked right into the line of fire. Porter had the driver lined up as soon as he set foot on the asphalt. The driver froze. Turned dumbly towards the Sig pointed at his chest. His podgy face registered something like surprise.

  Then Porter squeezed the trigger.

  The Sig barked. Porter could feel the moving parts of the Sig working in tandem, the slider moving backwards and then shunting forwards, ejecting the first round out of the snout and chambering the next bullet. The bullet spurted out of the pistol and hit the driver in the sternum, punching a hole clean through his heart. The driver jolted and crumpled to the ground. In the corner of his eye Porter glimpsed the second bodyguard’s head jerking backwards as Bald emptied a round into a spot right between the eyes. The bodyguard went into a tailspin and then flopped backwards. He joined his mate on the ground, landing in a ragged heap and leaking blood all over the place.

  Six bodyguards down, Porter thought.

  Now we’ve just got to grab the target.

  He swung around to the left side of the Lincoln and made for the open door, stepping over the slotted bodyguard. Armoured cars usually had a master-switch located on the front pass
enger side to control the locking mechanism on each of the individual doors. Porter ducked inside the car, eyes searching for the switch. The leather seats reeked of petrol. Porter located the master-switch and flicked it, unlocking the doors. Then he stepped out and hurried towards the rear passenger door. A hundred and forty seconds now. Bald was already beating a path towards the rear door on the opposite side of the vehicle, keeping his weapon drawn and his aim steady. Porter tugged on the handle, springing the door open and sweeping around it in a smooth motion, his Sig pointed at the figures inside and his index finger caressing the trigger.

  A squat, stocky figure in a tailored suit sat in the back of the Lincoln, waving his arms at Porter. He had thick bushy eyebrows and a small mouth and a shock of balding grey hair like a bird’s nest on top of his head. His eyes were narrow and black, like someone had carved them out with the point of a knife. He looked plumper than in the photographs Porter had seen, and his features were a little more haggard and worn. But it was unmistakeably him. It was the face Porter had seen staring back at him before, on wanted posters and news reports. The Tiger.

  Radoslav Brozovic.

  His two kids were sitting in the back either side of the warlord. A blonde-haired girl no older than nine or ten, and a dark-haired boy of around seven. Both were wearing their school uniform with the badges sewn onto the lapels of their navy-blue jackets. Their school satchels were lying next to them. Bald cranked open the opposite door. Brozovic’s eyes darted from left to right as he tried to back away from the operators, holding his kids close.

  ‘No, no!’ he cried. ‘Please, no!’

  The warlord kept shaking his head, shielding his kids with his thick arms. Like he thought his attackers were going to kill him on the spot. Brozovic had a distinctive red cross on his neck, Porter noticed. The same one he’d seen on Bill Deeds. The images from the Brecons came flooding back to him just then. Driving like icepicks into his skull. His veins pounded. He tightened his jaw and bunched his arm muscles and felt his index finger tensing on the Sig trigger. Christ, it was tempting. Do it, the voice at the back of his head niggled at Porter. Drop him now. Sod Lakes. Sod the fucking orders. Slot this bastard.

  Make him pay.

  Porter shrugged off the thought. He reached out and grabbed Brozovic by the jacket and hauled him out of the Lincoln. Bald kept his aim on the Serb. The kids screamed for their father. The boy wrapped his arms around his dad’s leg, clinging on to him as tears streamed down his face. Bald pulled the kid away. The girl reached out towards Brozovic as he fell to the ground outside the car. Porter pushed the girl back with his free hand, shouting at her.

  ‘Stay where you are!’

  He didn’t know if the girl understood English or not. But she seemed to get the message. She retreated inside the Lincoln; silent and afraid. The boy was still bawling his eyes out, calling out to his dad. Outside the car, Brozovic tried to scrape himself off the ground but Bald was on him in a flash, sprinting around the back of the Lincoln and then booting the warlord in the small of his back. Brozovic grunted as the air exploded out of his lungs and he landed on his front. Bald grabbed the Serb’s arms and pinned them behind his back. Then he dug a pair of plasticuffs out of his overalls pocket and fastened them around Brozovic’s wrists. The guy swore under his breath as Bald yanked the cuffs tight. Then Porter grabbed Brozovic by his shirt collar and hauled him to his feet.

  A hundred and sixty seconds gone.

  Eighty seconds left.

  There was no time to piss about. The clock was well and truly ticking now. Porter and Bald hustled the Tiger down the tunnel towards the eastern exit, thirty metres away. Brozovic stumbled along, moaning in pain and glancing back at the Lincoln.

  ‘My kids,’ he said in broken English. ‘Please, my kids . . .’

  ‘Shut the fuck up,’ said Porter. ‘Keep moving.’

  He picked up the pace. Brozovic stumbled forward, snatching at the air and almost tripping over himself. They passed the burning wreckage of the rear Audi. Smoke was still seething out of the motor. Flames licked at the leather interior. The explosion had punched a huge hole through the front windscreen. Porter could see the driver slumped over the steering wheel. His head had been ripped apart literally. Bits of his jaw and the gooey residue of an eyeball were visible on the dash, amid the shards of broken glass.

  The smoke cleared beyond the Audi. They were ten metres from the tunnel exit now. Porter could hear Devereaux shouting down from the parapet, urging them to get a fucking move on. Coles was standing just outside the tunnel, hurriedly waving them over. Porter shoved Brozovic ahead of him, digging the Sig barrel into the nape of his neck and barking at him to hurry up. They hit the tunnel entrance in a dozen frantic strides. All three of them were covered in sweat from the heat and the fumes. Porter released his grip on Brozovic. The warlord stumbled forward a couple of steps then dropped to his knees, his fat hands splayed in front of him as he gasped frantically for breath.

  Porter looked up. Half a dozen cars had halted sixty metres further back on Route de Valavran and a crowd had started to form. People were climbing out of their motors and talking into their phones, pointing out the three guys in plastic face masks. The Swiss weren’t shy in coming forward and two bystanders started to approach the tunnel, gesticulating angrily at Coles and the others.

  We’ve got to get out of here, Porter told himself.

  Right fucking now.

  He reached for the climbing tape he’d slung over his shoulder. At the same time Bald yanked the warlord to his feet and forced him to lift his arms behind his back. Then Porter took the length of webbing and pulled it over Brozovic’s back, slipping the two ends of the loop under his armpits and bringing them across his chest. Porter took the ends and threaded them through the carabiner, locking the makeshift harness in place. The harness wasn’t exactly first-class comfort but it would keep Brozovic secure. Once the harness was fastened Porter reached for the end of the steel winch cable dangling over the side of the bridge and clipped it on to the carabiner. Then Bald and Porter clipped their own harnesses onto the winch hook. The winch could handle a load up to 9,000lbs. It wouldn’t have any problems hoisting all four guys simultaneously.

  Coles stood by the tunnel entrance, waiting for the other three to finish clipping on to the winch cable. The two bystanders were getting dangerously close now. They were less than twenty metres away from the operators at the tunnel entrance, shouting and shaking their fists.

  ‘Zaustavite!’ Coles shouted in Croatian. ‘Zaustavite!’

  Meaning, Stop. Coles had memorised the word from a phrasebook. It would help with the team’s cover posing as Croatian militants. Coles signalled with his hand for the civvies to halt, in case they didn’t understand. But they kept approaching. He hefted up his Sig and fired three times in quick succession, putting down rounds on the tarmac a few metres in front of the two angry Swiss men. The bullets sparked off the ground and sent the civvies scuttling back towards their motors. Everyone else in the crowd heard the gunshots and scurried behind their cars. Coles spun away from the entrance and clipped the hook onto the harness he was wearing under his leather jacket.

  ‘Everyone’s on!’ Porter shouted up at Devereaux. ‘Get the fucking winch up!’

  Three minutes gone. One minute left.

  Up on the bridge, Devereaux operated the winch remote. The cable became taut as the electric motor whirred into action, reeling the four guys in. Suddenly their feet were leaving the ground as they were slowly lifted up towards the parapet. It would take about a minute for the winch to fully haul them up to the bridge, Porter figured. It was going to be fucking close.

  Forty-five seconds to go. Porter could hear the whirr of the winch motor and the rumble of the Landy engine above the relentless buzz of traffic whizzing past above their heads. On thirty seconds the civvies started rushing back out from cover. More traffic was bottlenecking the road now and Porter could feel his heart beating erratically inside his chest. They needed
to be out of here before the cops showed. The strike team would be vulnerable until they changed motors at the abandoned farm in Founex. They would have to put some serious distance between themselves and the cops before they got off the motorway.

  Twenty seconds. Three minutes forty seconds since the first shaped charge had detonated. They were almost at the bridge now. On fifteen seconds Porter caught the faint thrum of police sirens wailing in the distance. More civvies were pouring forward from behind their cars, staring towards the east. Towards the approaching cop cars. Porter willed the winch cable to reel in faster. Ten seconds later they hit the parapet. Devereaux was standing beside the railings, working the remote. Porter clambered over the metal railings and unclipped his harness. Then he and Devereaux took Brozovic by his arms and dragged the warlord over, with Bald and Coles climbing after him. The sirens were getting louder. Some of the bystanders had moved into the middle of the road and were gesturing furiously towards the motorway bridge above. Any second now the cops would be swarming over the tunnel.

  ‘Move!’ Porter boomed. ‘NOW!’

  Devereaux finished winding the rest of the cable back into the winch. Then he raced around to the driver’s door. Coles put three more rounds down below, forcing the crowd to scatter moments before the cop cars swung into view. Then he turned and made for the front passenger door. Bald and Porter quickly disconnected Brozovic from the climbing tape harness and manhandled the warlord towards the rear of the Landy, racing like mad. Porter could feel his heart thumping inside his throat. Brozovic snarled at the operators as they bundled him into the back seat.

  ‘You can’t do this,’ he said. ‘I’m the fucking Tiger. Do you hear? You can’t fucking do this to me.’

  Porter smiled wickedly. ‘You might be the Tiger, mate. But we’re the fucking SAS.’

  Porter clambered into the rear seat and slammed the door shut. Bald did the same, Brozovic trapping between them. Devereaux was already reversing out into traffic. There was a screech to the rear as a Volkswagen Golf slammed on the brakes and swerved into the next lane, narrowly avoiding the Landy. The sirens were deafeningly loud now. Porter could see the police lights flashing and popping on the road below as the cars tore round the bend. Devereaux put his foot to the accelerator. The Landy started pulling away from the bridge. Away from the carnage and the billowing smoke and the slotted bodyguards. Away from the cops.