Deathlist

by Chris Ryan

  Porter turned to Keppel and jerked a thumb at the gunmen. ‘I’m guessing this lot belong to you. What’d she offer you? A lifetime of far-right bollocks? An invitation to the BNP’s Christmas party?’

  Porter was stalling, trying to buy himself time. He didn’t know what for. But every second was another second he was still drawing breath, and kept alive his faint hope of finding some way of escaping.

  Keppel raised a smile. It wrinkled his smooth face. ‘Something better, actually. Contracts.’

  Lakes saw the puzzled look on Porter’s face and said, ‘Once I’m calling the shots at Vauxhall, I’ll have the final say on who gets awarded dozens of major contracts. We’re talking tens of millions of pounds. Templar will be at the top of the pile. With a commission skimmed off the top for myself, of course.’

  ‘Bastard.’ Porter glared at Lakes. ‘I thought the Serbs were bad enough. But you’re a real fucking piece of work.’

  She suppressed a laugh. ‘No, John. I’m just a lot smarter than you. That’s why you’re in the gutter, and I’m about to become the chief of Six.’ She turned to the Scouse gunman. ‘You can kill them now.’

  The Scouse grinned and took a step forwards. He drew up his MP5 so that the snout was level with a point between Porter’s eyes. Porter stared back. He wasn’t afraid of dying. But he hated the thought of getting killed while Lakes and Keppel lorded it up over at the Firm. He gritted his teeth and braced himself for the gunshot. Imagined the nine-milli round smashing into his face and tearing through his skull before punching out of his neck. Blood all over the fucking place. The last thought to enter his mind was, I never got to see my Sandy again.

  I never got to see her smile one last time.

  Porter closed his eyes and waited to die.

  THIRTY-NINE

  1142 hours.

  The gunshot rang out.

  Porter opened his eyes.

  I’m still breathing.

  The shot hadn’t come from the Scouse’s MP5. It sounded from further away to the right. At Porter’s three o’clock. Another crack split the air, and then a third. The Scouse spun away from Porter and glanced across at the treeline. Porter looked in the same direction, just in time to see the two gunmen on the right side of the road spasming as bullets thumped into their backs. Between the gaps in the trees Porter could see half a dozen figures moving through the woods towards the road from thirty metres away. Five of them were gripping Heckler & Koch UMP submachine guns with the foldable stocks fully extended and pressed tight to their shoulders. They were pissing bullets at the mercenaries in rapid two-round bursts. The sixth shooter wielded a Colt Commando assault rifle, a cut-down and more compact version of the regular M16, with thirty rounds of 5.56x45mm in the clip. Porter recognised the operator at once.

  Ophelia.

  It’s a counter-ambush. The Firm’s here.

  The two gunmen at Porter’s three o’clock were already dead. They were slumped on the blacktop six metres away. The other four gunmen all turned towards the Firm operators rushing towards them from the cover of the woods. So did Keppel and Lakes. The two mercenaries over at the Defender arced their weapons towards the treeline. Ophelia got there first and squeezed off a three-round burst from the Commando. One of the mercenaries let out a throated cry as the bullets punched into his groin in a close grouping, shredding his balls. He fell away, cupping a hand to his testicles. The second gunman grabbed Brozovic and dragged him behind the Defender’s front wheelbase as Ophelia unleashed another three-round burst. Bullets pinged and clattered off the Defender.

  The Scouse spun away from Bald and Porter. He put down a two-round burst with his MP5 before diving for cover behind the Beemer. His mucker never made it. Two of the Firm operators had almost reached the treeline and let off a couple of bursts at the mercenary. Evelyn stood among them, brandishing a UMP. The first rounds slapped into the asphalt less than six inches from Bald and Porter, forcing them to hit the deck next to the Merc. The second burst nailed the mercenary through the upper chest, exiting through his neck and killing him instantly. He dropped four metres from Bald and Porter, four away from the Scouse. Porter glanced at his six and saw Lakes and Keppel scrambling past the Merc towards the Defender, eight metres to the rear of the Merc.

  He spun around as Bald lunged forward and clasped his right hand around the UMP lying on the ground next to the slotted gunman. Bald swiftly brought the submachine gun up and took aim at the Scouse. The mercenary was still putting down suppressive fire at the treeline. He turned towards Bald. Too late. Bald fired before the Scouse could get a shot away, emptying a pair of rounds into his guts. The guy fell back, clutching his stomach and hissing sharply between his gritted teeth. There was a sudden break in the fire coming from the treeline. Bald raced forwards and jammed the barrel against the Scouse’s neck and fired twice. The Scouse jerked, then went still. He was good and fucking dead. He wouldn’t be claiming any more Jobseekers in this lifetime. Bald grabbed the guy’s MP5 and chucked it to Porter.

  ‘Mucker!’ he shouted, nodding towards the Defender.

  Porter seized the weapon. Shot to his feet and glanced at his six o’clock. Lakes and Keppel had reached the Defender. The last remaining mercenary was crouching by the wheelbase, spraying rounds wildly at the treeline and keeping the operators pinned down. Eight metres south of the Defender, Brozovic was hurrying back down the bend in the road in a lumbering gait, his hands still cuffed behind his back. Lakes yelled at Keppel. The ex-CO turned towards the warlord and raised his USP. He’s going to slot Brozovic, Porter realised.

  He’s going to kill the target before the Firm can get their hands on him.

  Porter had a second. Less than that, even. There was no time to properly aim. He had to rely on his instincts and his training, and the feel of the MP5 in his grip.

  He depressed the trigger, twice. There was a bright flash and a puff of smoke as the muzzle lit up. Two jackets spat out of the ejector located on the side of the weapon. Porter’s aim was surgical. Keppel jolted before he could let off a round. The bullets punched into his upper back with a deadly whump-whump. The ex-CO fell away. As if someone had cut the strings on him.

  Three metres to the left of Keppel, the remaining mercenary heard the gunshots and swung his weapon towards Porter. He unloaded a three-round burst. Porter ducked low to his left. He felt the heat from the rounds as they grazed past him and slapped into the Beemer. The mercenary was already zeroing in on Porter before he could heft up his UMP and get a shot off. Shit, thought Porter. I’m fucked.

  Then Bald sprang forward. UMP raised, the mercenary lined up in the sights. The UMP barked as the Jock fired off two rounds at the gunman. The first round missed by several inches, ricocheting off the Defender hood. The second round struck the mercenary in the throat, right on the Adam’s apple. The guy made a garbled scream and went limp by the front wheel on the Defender. Blood fountained out of the hole in his neck and splashed down his front, gleaming sickly red.

  Porter swung his gaze back across the road. Beyond the Defender. Brozovic had tripped and fallen to the ground. He was moaning and writhing and struggling to get to his feet. Seven metres away, Lakes had grabbed the USP pistol from beside Keppel’s lifeless corpse. Now she moved towards the warlord, drawing the barrel level with his head. Porter brought up his submachine gun in an instant and trained it on Lakes, shouting at the top of his voice.

  ‘Put the fucking gun down!’

  Lakes was still holding the USP. Aiming it at Brozovic.

  ‘I said, drop the fucking weapon,’ Porter yelled.

  Lakes kept her finger on the trigger. In the same moment, a figure swept into view from behind the rear of the Defender.

  Ophelia.

  She had the Colt Commando tight to her shoulder and her sights centred on Lakes. She unleashed a rapid burst. The rounds struck Lakes in the back of the head before she could depress the trigger. Her head snapped forward, spraying Brozovic with bits of her skull, brain and eyeball. Her fingers l
oosened on the USP’s polymer grip. Then Lakes fell away. A second later, Evelyn and the other Firm operators were pouring forward across the road.

  Porter lowered his weapon.

  It was over.

  He slumped to the ground. He was shattered. Never mind a beer, he thought. I need a flagon of Bushmills after that.

  As soon as the firefight was over two more vehicles raced into view beyond the bend in the road and pulled up just short of the Beemer. A pair of Ford Sierras. Evelyn and Ophelia hauled Brozovic to his feet and dragged him over to the Defender. A well-dressed figure debussed from the front car and ran his eyes across the scene. Clarence Hawkridge was wearing a Barbour jacket and corduroys and Wellington boots. He looked like a banker heading down to the country for a weekend of wine-tasting and clay-pigeon shooting. He narrowed his eyes briefly at Brozovic as the two Firm lasses bundled the Serb into the boot of the other Sierra. Then he marched over to Bald and Porter. He took great care to avoid the spent brass and puddles of oily blood.

  ‘We’ll take it from here, chaps,’ Hawkridge said. ‘You two should get going.’

  ‘Not even a fucking thank you,’ Bald muttered under his breath. ‘Bloody typical.’

  Hawkridge appeared not to have heard him. Porter said, ‘We’re not coming back with you?’

  Hawkridge rustled up a knowing smile. ‘Of course not, old fruit. You don’t work for the MoD, remember? No, I’m afraid you’re on your own. You’ll have to make your own way back. Take the Mercedes and head back down to Geneva. I’d advise taking the back route to Chamonix. Best to avoid the main roads. It’s a pleasant train ride to Paris from there, I gather.’

  ‘How did you know Lakes and Keppel were going to ambush us here?’

  ‘We’ve been tracking Lakes’s phone ever since we found out she was trying to lead you into a trap. As soon as the signal from her phone went static, we knew she must have set the ambush at precisely this point. Then it was simply a case of moving our chaps into position.’ He glanced at the bodies slumped by the treeline and grinned smugly. ‘We got here just in time, by the looks of it.’

  Bald thought back to the farmhouse and the phone call, and clenched his jaw. ‘Yeah, I’m beginning to think timing’s not your strong point.’

  Hawkridge tutted. ‘Oh, no hard feelings, old fruit. It worked out for the best.’

  ‘That’s why you delayed us,’ Porter replied, suddenly understanding. ‘Because you needed time to get your team together in case Lakes tried it on. But you didn’t want to warn us that we might be blundering into a fucking ambush.’

  Hawkridge said nothing but merely shrugged. Porter shook his head, his mind reeling. Another fucking lie. The Firm was overflowing with them. Lies on top of lies. He couldn’t wait to get away from the bastards.

  He gave his back to Hawkridge. Nodded to Bald. ‘Come on, mate. Let’s get out of here. The stink’s getting unbearable.’

  ‘I’ll see you chaps bright and early on Monday morning, then,’ Hawkridge announced.

  Porter stopped in his tracks. Turned slowly back to Hawkridge. The pounding between his ears returned. Mixing with the sound of the blood rushing in his ears, and the ringing echoes of the firefight. ‘The fuck are you talking about? You just said that we don’t work for you. We’re heading back to Hereford, mate.’

  ‘Actually,’ Hawkridge adjusted his glasses, ‘you’re not.’

  Bald and Porter looked at one another.

  Looked back to Hawkridge.

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ said Bald.

  Hawkridge smiled. ‘Templar will obviously be liquidated after this. Which means your contracts are null and void. You’re being transferred back to the MoD. You’ll report to me.’ He fixed his smile at Bald.

  ‘You can’t do that,’ said Porter.

  ‘Oh, but we can.’ Hawkridge furrowed his smooth brow. ‘You should be grateful, really. We’re going to set up a new unit. Section 20. I’m going to be running the show, and I’ll need a couple of good operators to get things done. You two have done well on this mission. I’m sure you’ll prove yourself worthy of your new positions.’

  Porter and Bald said nothing. They just stared at Hawkridge in disbelief. The agent stood there for a moment, basking in his new glory. Then he checked his watch and cleared his throat. ‘I really must be off now. See you gents on Monday.’

  Porter turned away. So did Bald.

  ‘Oh, and one more thing,’ Hawkridge called out.

  Porter stopped and half-turned. Hawkridge had ditched the smile. His face was deadly serious as he looked towards Bald.

  ‘I’ll be expecting those tapes on my desk first thing, old fruit.’

  ‘Tapes?’ Bald feigned innocence. ‘Don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, pal.’

  Hawkridge chuckled. ‘Don’t play games with me, John. I know you recorded the meeting.’ He took a step closer. Smiled thinly. ‘Remember, both of you. No matter how clever you think you are, we’ll always be one step ahead of you.’

  THE END

  Table of Contents

  Also by Chris Ryan

  Title Page

  Imprint Page

  CONTENTS

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  CHRIS RYAN