by Chris Ryan
Soon they were bulleting down the motorway. Heading north in the direction of Founex and the abandoned farm. The sirens faded. Devereaux kept the Landy to a steady eighty miles per. Brozovic sat in the back, silent and brooding and plasticuffed. Devereaux puffed out his cheeks and breathed a sigh of relief.
‘Christ, fellas. That was fucking close.’
‘We’re not out of the woods yet,’ Porter replied. He tore off his face mask. Blinked sweat out of his eyes. ‘We’ve got to get this twat to the RV first and hand him over to the Firm. Then we’ll get the beers in.’
THIRTY-SEVEN
0759 hours.
The team drove in silence along the A1. Devereaux stayed under the speed limit and kept flicking his eyes up at the rear-view, but there was no sign of any pursuing cops. After five miles Porter could feel the adrenaline starting to wear off. Like the comedown from a drug. A bunch of pains announced themselves across his chest. His neck muscles were stiff and sore, like rusted cables. His ribs flared up in agony every time he took in a draw of breath. Christ, Porter thought to himself. I could do with a bloody stiff drink right now.
A few more hours and I’ll be sipping beers on a BA flight to Heathrow. I can’t bloody wait.
After eight miles of rolling green and brown fields they passed a Best Western hotel on their right. Devereaux eased down to fifty per. They took the turn-off on Exit 10 and followed the road as it veered off to the right before merging onto Route de Divonne. After a mile Devereaux made a left onto Route de Chataigneriaz. The landscape flattened. An endless tract of farmland stretched out either side of the road, interspersed with neat terraced vineyards and the occasional farmstead. Porter looked out across the fields and for the first time in a long time started to think about the future. About how he’d get his life back on track. I’ll give Diana a bell when this is over, he thought. Tell her I’m sorry. Tell her I’ve cleaned up my act and I want to be a part of Sandy’s life again. That I’ll do whatever it takes to make things right.
I’m her old man, for Christ’s sake. I should be there for her.
They stayed on Route de Chataigneriaz for half a mile. There were no other cars on the road. They passed wild grasslands and vast orchards. The road got narrow and bumpy. To his right Porter could just about see Lake Geneva in the distance, a strip of silver like foil wrapping paper, backgrounded by jagged mountains. Devereaux made a series of quick turns until they hit a rutted dirt track running between a couple of barren fields. They were officially in the middle of nowhere. The Landy bounced and juddered as Devereaux steered north along the track. After two hundred metres they hit the farmhouse.
The place was a two-storey building set back from the road with a gently sloped roof and French shutters on the windows. It looked like it had stood empty for a long time. The paintwork on the shutters was peeling. The windows were filthy. The stonework was chipped and worn like enamel on a set of rotten teeth. There was a large pile of debris to the right of the farmhouse and a ramshackle barn off to the left. The team had learned about the farmhouse through their Templar contact. Templar had estate agents on its books in every major city in Europe. For a monthly retainer, the agents supplied lists of vacant properties that could be used as safe houses in an emergency. Porter and Bald had scoped the place out the previous day, checking for squatters. Then they’d stashed the second getaway motor inside the barn.
Devereaux pulled up to the side of the farmhouse. Killed the engine, got out. Coles followed him. Then Porter. Bald pressed the Sig’s cold metal tip against Brozovic’s flabby paunch and ordered the Serb out of the Landy. Then Devereaux hurried over to the barn and got behind the wheel of the white Mercedes-Benz C-class stowed inside. At the same time Coles retrieved a couple of three-litre plastic bottles of industrial bleach from the back of the Landy. Then he started dousing the interior of the vehicle, bleaching out any residual DNA and fingerprints the team had left inside the vehicle.
Devereaux reversed the Merc out of the barn and parked up in front of the farmhouse. He climbed out. Swung around the back of the motor and popped the boot. Then Porter and Bald hustled Brozovic over to the rear of the Merc. The warlord staggered forwards, muttering prayers in Serbian. He had gone through a bunch of emotions since the team had captured him. First he’d been terrified. Then he got angry. Now he was just desperate.
Porter gestured to the open boot and said, ‘Get in.’
Brozovic hesitated. He looked pleadingly at Bald and Porter in turn. ‘Please,’ he said. ‘Please, no. I give you money. Women. Shit, whatever the fuck you want, it’s yours. Just let me go. Eh?’
Bald pressed the cold tip of the barrel to the spot between Brozovic’s eyes. Shot him a savage look and said, ‘Get in the fucking boot right now, or I’ll drop you faster than a sack of hammers.’
Brozovic tensed with fear. He shivered and clambered awkwardly into the back of the Merc, curling up into a ball with his knees pressed tight against his chin. Moaning, begging for his life in stunted English. Porter stuffed a gag into his mouth, shutting him up. He closed the boot. We’re almost there, he told himself. Now all we’ve got to do is get to the RV without getting killed. The thought of handing over Brozovic still left a bad taste in his mouth, but as far as Porter was concerned they’d already had their vengeance. The gunmen behind the Selection attack were all dead. Brozovic was just the icing on the cake. If the Firm wanted the fucker alive then they were welcome to him.
Porter nodded at Bald. ‘Let’s get out of here, mate.’
Devereaux made for the front driver’s side of the Merc. Coles was done bleaching the Land Rover. He tossed the plastic bottles aside. Bald and Porter turned away from the boot, ignoring the muffled whimpers of Brozovic inside. In a little over an hour they would reach the pick-up point at the airfield at Clarmont. Once the handover was complete they would fly back to the safe house in London for the mission debrief and their shiny new contracts with Templar. A new start, thought Porter. A clean slate. That’s what I bloody need. He could finally bury his demons. Put all the shit with the Regiment behind him once and for all. Templar were offering him a decent salary and a chance to get back to doing what he did best. Being on the front line.
It’s what I’ve been trained for. It’s all I know.
As he turned away a distinct trilling reached his ears. The sound of a mobile phone ringing. Porter stopped in his tracks and looked towards Bald. The sound was coming from Bald’s jacket pocket.
The burner.
Bald frowned. The first thought he had was: Who the fuck’s ringing me? As far as he knew only one person had the number for his burner. The blonde over in Hereford. Sally Higgins. It must be her. Bald’s second thought was, Something must be wrong with the tapes. Why else would Sally ring out of the blue? He fished the mobile out of his pocket and glanced down at the luminous green display. Unknown number. He took a few steps away from the Merc so the other lads wouldn’t overhear. Tapped the answer button. Pressed the Nokia to his ear.
‘Sally?’ he said. ‘What is it, love? What’s wrong?’
There was a series of clicks and whirs down the end of the line. Then a male voice said, ‘John? Are you there?’
Bald stood absolutely still. Felt the blood draining from his head to his toes. Shit. It wasn’t Sally. Wasn’t even close. But it was a voice Bald recognised all the same.
Hawkridge.
How did he get this number? And what the fuck does he want?
‘Yeah,’ Bald replied numbly. ‘I’m here.’
Hawkridge sighed with relief. The sound came down the line like a shiver. ‘Jesus Christ, man. Where the hell have you been? We’ve been trying to get hold of you for the past twenty minutes.’
‘Bad reception,’ said Bald. In the corner of his eye he could see Devereaux and Coles swapping questioning looks. They were both thinking the same thing, wondering why Bald had a mobile on him. ‘We’re out in the sticks. On our way to the RV now.’
Hawkridge took a deep breath and sai
d, ‘Listen to me, John. You’re walking into a trap.’
The words moved like a knife through Bald. He stood rooted to the spot, a chill clamping around his neck. A vicious thumping triggered between his temples. He kept the phone pressed to his ear but slid his eyes across to Porter. To Devereaux, and Coles.
Thinking, Someone’s double-crossing me here.
‘John? Did you hear me? For Christ’s sake, man. It’s a set-up. Get the hell out of—’
There was a sudden flash of movement. Bald saw it in the corner of his eye. He looked back across to the Merc. Saw Coles retrieving his Sig Sauer P226. Drawing the weapon level with Bald’s face. Bald still had the Nokia glued to his ear. He stood rooted to the spot and looked on helplessly as the South African tensed his index finger on the pistol trigger. Ready to send Bald over to the dark side.
Coles was halfway to depressing the trigger when Devereaux lunged at him. He was four metres away and shaping to tackle the South African to the ground before he could get a shot off. Coles spun towards Devereaux in a blur of motion and fired. Devereaux was less than two metres away when the pistol muzzle lit up. The bullet smacked into his upper chest and took him clean off his feet. Devereaux made a grunt then dropped and rolled away, collapsing face-down in the dirt next to the Merc.
Porter reacted in an instant and reached for his holstered Sig. Coles spotted the move and spun towards him. The Sig flashed and cracked. The round pinged off the Merc in a flurry of sparks. Porter dropped to his haunches and rolled two metres to his left, then brought his gun arm level with his shoulder. A month ago he was rusty. He’d lost his edge. But not now. Porter was sharp as fuck. He transitioned into a crouching firing stance and drew his gun arm level with his shoulder, pointing the Sig directly at Coles. The South African was slow. He was still turning when Porter pulled on the trigger.
The Sig kicked up in his grip. The bullet struck Coles several inches above his chest and buried itself in his right shoulder. His joint exploded in a gout of blood and tissue. Coles gave out a pained grunt before dropping backwards and landing on his back. The Sig tumbled out of his grip, clattering to the ground beside Devereaux. Coles clenched his jaws through the pain and rolled onto his side, reaching for the Sig with his one good arm. Now Bald burst forward and charged at the South African, kicking the gun away from him and following up with a brutal side-foot to the jaw. Coles groaned. In the same beat Porter scraped himself off the ground and moved forward, training his weapon on Coles. Devereaux lay two metres away. His left leg twitched a couple of times, then stopped. A pool of gleaming blood had formed beneath his body. Porter stared at Coles, rage brewing in his veins.
‘The fuck are you doing?’
Coles said nothing. Bald glowered at him. His brow was so furrowed his whole face looked like a bunch of knots in a rope. ‘Coles was flipped,’ he said. ‘It’s a trap, mate. Hawkridge was trying to warn us.’
Coles spat out blood. His eyes were bloodshot and wide. Blood continued to disgorge from his wound, gushing down his front and staining his jacket. ‘I knew the plan was blown as soon as your burner started ringing,’ he said. ‘You’re a stupid cunt, Jock. Nobody was supposed to have a phone on the op. Nobody was supposed to be in contact with us.’
Porter scowled. ‘Who the fuck are you working for?’
Coles went silent again. There was a look of fear in his eyes, but something else too. Defiance. Porter tightened his grip on the Sig and pressed the gun to Coles’s stomach, digging the cold tip between his ribs.
‘I said, Who are you working for?’
‘Piss off.’
Porter turned to Bald and nodded. ‘Get to this cunt’s wound.’
Bald didn’t need any encouragement. He tore off the South African’s jacket and ripped open his shirt. Then he found the entry wound, a ragged hole oozing dark, greasy blood. Bald jammed his left thumb into the wound right up to the knuckle joint and rooted around inside, digging into his tendons and muscle. Coles howled in agony.
‘Jesus,’ he cried. ‘Oh, Christ. Fucking hell, Jesus.’
Bald pulled his thumb out of the bullet wound. Tears were streaming down Coles’s face. Then Bald stepped back and Porter dropped to one knee beside the South African and pressed the tip of the Sig to the wound, drawing another agonised cry from the guy.
‘You’re not fucking blind,’ he said. ‘You saw what we did to those Serbian bastards. Mark my words, we’ll make sure it’s a hundred times worse for you. Now, tell us who you’re working for.’
Coles remained mute. Porter smashed the butt of the Sig into the South African’s face. Coles groaned as the pistol slammed into his mouth, shattering a few of his front teeth. He raised a hand to try and defend himself against the next blow. Porter jabbed him in the ribs, forcing Coles to involuntarily lower his arms. Then Porter clubbed him on the temple, crashing the barrel against the side of his skull.
‘Tell us what you know, and I’ll make it quick. Otherwise me and Jock will make your death real fucking slow. You’ll be begging us to double-tap you by the time we’re done torturing you.’
‘Lakes,’ Coles coughed. ‘I work for Lakes.’
Porter jolted. A cold fear clamped around his neck, percolating down his spine. He clenched his fists so hard his fingernails almost drew blood.
Coles went on, ‘Lakes got me a spot on the team. She told me to keep a close eye on you and Jock. I had orders to stop you from handing Brozovic over to the Firm.’
‘Stop us how?’ Porter demanded.
Coles clamped his eyes shut for a beat. ‘Lakes said I had to wait until we’d snatched Brozovic. Then I had to stop you before we made it to the RV, grab Brozovic and take him to the alternative RV. Lakes is waiting there. She was gonna put Brozovic on a plane before the Firm could get hold of him.’
Porter felt as if mice were fumbling around inside his bowels. ‘The mission was to take Brozovic alive. Why would Lakes want to sabotage it?’
‘They’re on the same side,’ Coles said. ‘Her and Brozovic. She supported him back in the Bosnian war, feeding him int. Helping him stay one step ahead of NATO. Lakes was working both sides. She couldn’t afford to let the Firm get to the Tiger, in case he spilled his guts and exposed her involvement.’
Bald stepped towards Coles. He made a face like he was choking on someone else’s spit. ‘Bullshit. Why would Lakes get into bed with a fucking war criminal?’
‘She’s part of a movement.’ Coles grimaced. He spoke through a mouthful of blood and broken teeth. ‘Her and some of the Yanks over at the CIA. They supply the cash to the group. They’re secretive. They’ve got long arms. That’s how they recruited me. I was doing close protection work for a brother down in Johannesburg when they offered me a job.’
‘What movement?’ Porter asked.
‘They’re like the Crusaders. Right-wing. Hardcore. Even more than me. They think it’s their mission in life to defeat Islam. Protect the West.’
A thought gripped Porter just then. The kind of thought that could make an iceberg sweat. He remembered what Ninkovic had told them on the deck of the boat back in Serbia. Brozovic has friends, the 2i/c had said. There were influential people who supported the Tiger from the outside.
He glared at Coles. ‘You mean to tell me this underground movement was supporting our enemies, in the middle of a bloody war?’
The South African parted his lips to reveal a bloodstained smile. ‘How else do you think Brozovic escaped the bombing that day in Zvornik? Someone warned him in advance. He had someone on the inside feeding him int. Lakes . . . she was the one who saved his arse that day.’
‘What about the Selection attack?’ Bald snarled. ‘Was she in on that too?’
‘Nah,’ said Coles. ‘That was all Brozovic. But Lakes knew he’d overstepped the mark. That the security forces wouldn’t stop until they’d hunted Brozovic down. That’s when Keppel reached out to me and put me on the team, to make sure it never got that far. And if it did, I’d take care of it.’
‘He’s in on it too?’
Coles swallowed blood and nodded faintly. He’d lost a shitload of blood and his skin had turned white. ‘Course he fucking is. Keppel and Lakes are tight. He’s the one who recommended you and Jock for the team. He reckoned you were so washed-up you didn’t stand a chance of locating Brozovic.’
Porter clamped his jaws shut. Who else is in on this thing? he wondered. He glanced quickly at Bald. Was Jock in on it? Maybe Hawkridge too. I don’t know who to trust any more. Then another tought jumped out at him.
‘I don’t understand. Lakes told us she needed Brozovic alive. Why bother getting us to kidnap him if she wanted him out of the way? She could’ve just given us an order to slot the bastard.’
‘She couldn’t,’ Coles said. ‘She said her orders came from the very top. She had to be seen to be following them. That’s why she needed me. To get to Brozovic after the op. It was the only way.’
The sound of the Nokia ringing interrupted Porter’s thoughts. Bald stared at the burner for a second. Then he took the call.
‘What happened?’ Hawkridge asked breathlessly.
Bald gripped the burner so tight he thought the casing might shatter. ‘Next time, how about you give us some more fucking notice.’
‘Calm down, old fruit,’ said Hawkridge. ‘We only just found out about Lakes ourselves. I tried to warn you as soon as we realised she was leading you into a trap. It’s not my fault the reception where you are is dreadful.’
