by Dawson, Mark
But now this.
He glanced down at the Grizzly and the blocked gateway and the confidence that was flooding back into the routed guards.
This.
He couldn’t have a failure on his résumé.
And he wanted to help Rose, too.
He had meant everything that he had said to Stone.
It was the least that he could do.
Beatrix pushed Faik behind her and held him back with one arm. She had fallen back to just inside the entrance to the main building. The lobby was behind them, the Plexiglas-fronted counter that visitors would pass through before being admitted into the guts of the building. She didn’t want to go deeper inside again. It would have been safer, for a short while, but they would have been trapped. There would be nowhere to go once they were back there again, and it would just be a matter of time before they were hunted down and shot.
Their chances in the other direction were better, but not by very much.
The guards were still in disarray, but that wouldn’t last.
“One, Twelve. Report.”
“I’m in the car.”
“Can you see anything?”
“Trouble. An APC just went by. Heading to the front gate.”
Wonderful.
“Can you get to me?”
“Not easily. They’ve blocked the gates.”
She gripped the rifle tightly.
Faik took her shoulder. “What is happening?”
“Stay there,” she said.
“Why are we waiting here?”
“Stay back,” she said sharply. “Wait. If you don’t, you’ll get shot. Understand?”
“Yes,” he said timidly.
She lowered the rifle and, crouching low, slid around the corner of the building.
She saw the Grizzly just as the 12.7mm machine gun started to fire. The big rounds pulverised the building, a cloud of concrete chips exploded into the air and blooms of dust were thrown out with every fresh impact. The noise was tremendous: the thunderous clatter of the machine gun and the heavy thumps as the rounds slammed into the brick and stone.
Beatrix dropped to her belly and scrabbled back behind the corner.
This was very bad.
“Twelve, One. Come in.”
“Copy. What?”
“Hold position, One.”
“For what?”
“You’re about to get a chance to make a move. Be ready. Twelve out.”
Pope reached back to the large canvas bag that he had brought onto the roof with him. He dragged it closer, and working quickly, he unzipped it. He thumbed the radio.
“Pope, Twelve.”
“Copy that, Pope. What do you want me to do?”
“Sitrep?”
“I’m still here. Heavy activity. Another APC has just gone by.”
“I hear it. Are you still hidden?”
“Affirmative.”
“And ready to go?”
“Affirmative.”
“On my mark.”
Pope reached into the bag and took out an RPG-2. It was an anti-tank grenade launcher, a long tube open at both ends. It was a little higher than his waist when he laid it out on the roof next to him. The launcher was Russian and old. There were hundreds of them swilling around the black economy, and it had been easy for the quartermaster to source. It was much less sophisticated than the LAWs that Pope had been trained to use in the Regiment, but he was close to his target, and all he had to do was aim and fire. It would suit his purposes well enough.
He raised himself to his haunches, hefted the launcher onto his shoulder and held on to both grips. Taking a breath to steady his nerves, he stood up and stepped to the edge of the roof and looked down onto the street below.
The Grizzly was firing into the prison yard, concentrating its destructive attention on a corner of the main building. The wall had been chewed all the way back to its steel columns, a ragged tear as if something monstrous had taken a bite out of it.
He sighted the APC.
“Pope, Twelve. Ready?”
“Twelve, Pope. Copy that.”
“Now!”
He pulled the trigger.
Beatrix knew the sound that an RPG’s propellant made as it ignited: the quick, sibilant whoosh. She pressed herself back against the wall, knowing that it would offer scant protection, and readied herself to die.
The impact didn’t come, at least not the way that she had expected.
The explosion was farther away and much, much louder.
She ducked her head around the corner. The Grizzly that had been firing on her had been popped open, the turret torn off and thrown to the side. She was just in time to see a secondary explosion as the big diesel tank detonated, a raging column of orange fire that scorched up and out of the wreckage of the hull. Debris flew hundreds of feet into the air and razored shrapnel peppered the wall with high-pitched chings.
No time for questions.
“Faik! After me—run!”
She sprinted into the yard and hoped that he was wise enough to follow her lead.
The Grizzly was spewing black smoke and steam into the morning air, the rain still slamming down. The guards, still barely recovering their composure, had either been thrown to the floor or had turned to face the sound of the explosion.
They had taken their attention away from Beatrix.
That was unfortunate for them.
She opened fire as she ran, holding the rifle with both hands and pumping bullets from the hip. She carved a path through them, the rounds either taking down their targets or forcing them into a second panicked retreat.
She heard the roar of a powerful engine from the other side of the wall and then the squeal of rubber biting on asphalt as a car skidded to a stop.
She hoped it was Faulkner.
Pope discarded the empty launcher and hurried back across the roof. There was a fire escape on the other side of the building, and he took the stairs two at a time, pausing on the landing to withdraw his pistol. He didn’t need it. The guards in the yard had either been shot or were too stunned to think about what had just happened, and none of them reacted. There was an alley at the back of the building with just enough space for the Toyota Camry that he had rented from the Hertz counter at the airport in Kuwait City. He gripped onto the last rung and dropped the final ten feet to the ground, tossing the pistol onto the passenger seat as he slid into the car. He turned the ignition and drove quickly away from the prison.
Faulkner left rubber as he gunned the engine. The police turned in the direction of the SUV at the sound of the engine. One of them raised a rifle. There was no chance for him to fire it. He heard the crackle of automatic gunfire and saw the muzzle flash as Beatrix emerged from the building. The prisoner quailed behind her. She had a spare magazine in her left hand, pressed up against the forestock, and, as the first ran dry, she ejected it and slapped in the replacement almost without pause.
Three of the police went down, and the others scattered. Faulkner hit the brakes and slid the back around, thudding into one of the survivors full-on and sending him ten feet through the air.
He reached over and opened the doors.
Beatrix and the man ran full pelt to the car.
She almost threw Faik into the rear seat, yelling “Go!” as she stood on the sill.
He stamped on the gas and the SUV sped away.
Gunfire clattered in their direction, but none of the rounds found their mark. Beatrix returned fire, and then, as they moved out of immediate range, she slid inside and slammed the door closed.
“Who was that?”
“Who was what?”
“Don’t play dumb, Faulkner. Who fired the RPG?”
“Pope.”
The dial topped fifty and then sixty as Faulkner
aimed away from the prison. He hammered the brakes as they approached a sharp turn, the sudden deceleration throwing them all towards the front of the car and then to the side as he yanked the wheel to the right.
“He’s here?”
“He thought it might be a good idea to have a little extra backup.”
“You didn’t think to tell me?”
“He told me not to.”
“Why not?”
They reached a junction with the main highway. Faulkner bullied his way out into the flow and then slotted out into the outside lane, flooring the pedal again.
“Why not?” she repeated.
“I don’t know,” Faulkner said. “You’ll have to ask him. He’s driving West and your boy back there to Kuwait.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Faulkner drove them out to the shantytown on the edge of the oilfields. Faik was quiet throughout, occasionally dabbing a tentative fingertip to the bruises on his face or squinting out into the sunlight as the sun dipped down over the horizon.
“Is my sister okay?” he asked, finally.
“She is.”
“How do you know her?”
“She helped me out. I’m returning the favour.”
“Did she tell you what happened?”
“To your mother? Yes, she did. I’m sorry.”
“The men who did it. Nothing will happen to them. They will do it again, too. They are not police. They are not military. It does not matter. The law does not apply to them.”
“Some laws do,” she said.
Beatrix ejected the magazine from the FN F2000 and examined it. She had fifteen rounds left.
“They will come for me now,” he said. “They know where I live. My sister will not be safe.”
She propped the gun in the footwell and turned all the way around. “You have family in Kuwait, don’t you?”
“Yes. An uncle. But it is irrelevant. How can we leave the country? We have no papers, no money, no anything. We would . . .”
“I’m going to arrange it all for you.”
“Why . . . ?”
She looked squarely at him. “You need to get your sister, pack whatever you need and then go. You’re right. They will come after you. They’re probably working out who has gone missing now. They might even be on their way. We need to go as soon as we get Mysha.”
“You will help us?”
“I’m going to get you both into Kuwait. You’ll be safe there.”
Faulkner parked the car next to the shack. Beatrix opened the door to get out. Faik did the same, still moving slowly and with an expression of wariness on his bruised face. She could guess why. He was wondering if this was another trick. Was he being teased with the prospect of his freedom, only to have it taken away at the last moment? Worse than that, was his little sister in danger now, too?
Mysha emerged and ran to her brother. She flung her arms around him, her face pressed into his chest. He returned the embrace, picking her up and squeezing her tight. When he looked over at Beatrix, there were tears streaming down his face.
She waited for a moment as they spoke.
Faulkner stood alongside her. “You cut that pretty fine,” he said.
“Good shooting. It wouldn’t have worked without you.”
“And Pope.”
“That didn’t hurt,” she admitted.
“What next?”
“We’ll get them out of the way, and then we go and get West. Start the car. I don’t want to be here any longer than we have to.”
Faulkner made his way back to the Freelander. Beatrix turned back to Mysha and Faik just as the girl threw her arms around her.
She untangled herself and held the girl back a little so that she could look at her.
“Thank you,” Mysha said.
“You’re welcome.”
“You do not work in television.”
“Not exactly.”
“You are very kind. I don’t know why you would help us like this. And I found this, too.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out the roll of notes. “You must take it back. I cannot accept.”
“No,” Beatrix said, a little more sternly than she meant. “I have plenty of money. I want you to have it.”
“I cannot . . .”
She knelt before the girl and placed both hands on her shoulders. “Mysha, please. What has happened to you and your family is not right. It makes me happy that I can help, even if it’s only just a little bit. Please. You don’t need to be proud. There’s nothing wrong with accepting a little help now and again. And you’ll need all the money you can find.”
She looked across to Faik. He was watching them both, and as she caught his eye, he nodded at her.
Beatrix laid a gentle hand on the girl’s cheek. “Has Faik told you what we’re going to do?”
“He says we must leave.”
“That’s right. As soon as we can. Go and help him clean up. He’s had a rough time of it. And then get the things you can’t do without.”
She stood and wiped a hand across her eyes.
Beatrix was thinking of Isabella as she watched the girl run back to her brother, taking his hand in hers and leading him into the house. She could not remember the last time that she had cried. She had worried that the emotion had been smelted out of her by the cruelty of what had happened and then the long, lonely years of her exile.
But it hadn’t.
She felt an ache in her heart, and she brushed away a tear. She got into the car and waited for them.
Chapter Thirty
Damon Faulkner opened the back of the Freelander. Bryan Duffy was in the compartment, hog-tied with packing tape and with a hessian sack over his head. He struggled as soon as the lid was pulled up, but it was pointless. They had secured him very carefully, and there was no way he would be able to free himself.
He tried to say something, but the rag they had taped into his mouth muffled the words.
“No point in making a fuss,” Faulkner said to him. “You’re not going anywhere.”
There were four Mylar party balloons in the back with him. They said Happy Birthday in Arabic and were filled with helium. Faulkner snagged them quickly before they could rise out of reach.
“Back in a minute,” he said, slamming the door.
He had parked fifty yards away from the Manage Risk building. There was a large stretch of scrub that filled in the void between the office block and a dried-out watercourse. A wooden pole suspended the power lines that ran to the building right across the middle of it. He forced his way through low bushes and clambered up a steep incline until he was on the scrubland, and then walked so that he was directly beneath the power line. He looked up to gauge his position, moving a little to accommodate the light, hot zephyr that was blowing in off the desert.
He spoke into the walkie-talkie. “Twelve, One,” he said. “Comms check.”
Beatrix Rose’s voice came back: “One, Twelve. Signal’s an eight.”
“Also eight.”
“Copy that. Status?”
“Ready when you are.”
“Hold on,” she said. “I’m just going in.”
They had taken Duffy’s keycard. Faulkner needed to wait until she had used it to get inside.
“Do it.”
He released the first balloon. The wind caught it, jerking it away.
He released the second with the same result.
“One, Twelve. Status?”
“Hold on.”
He waited for the breeze to fade down and released the third balloon.
It jerked left, then right, and then its ascent was halted as it bounced into the electricity wires, wedging between them.
There was a fizz and a shower of sparks as the power surged and the transformers shorted out.
“Twelve, One,” he said as he walked back to the car. “Done.”
“Copy that. Good work. Power’s out.”
“I’m going back to the car.”
“Have you sorted the phone line?”
He had already fixed a wireless tap to the junction box. Any call or data that left the office would be mirrored on the laptop that was sitting in the passenger seat of the SUV. “Already done,” he said.
“Good. Keep sharp. These are serious players. Eyes out, Twelve.”
“Copy that. Good luck. Out.”
He reached the car and opened the back again. Once more, Duffy struggled. Faulkner reached down behind his body and retrieved the FN F2000. He rested the bullpup on the chassis and took out the extra ammunition.
“I don’t know exactly what you did to piss her off, but I’ll tell you one thing for nothing.” Duffy struggled again, harder this time. “I’m glad it’s you in there and not me.”
Faulkner slammed the door shut.
Beatrix was outside the entrance to the Manage Risk offices. She took the keycard she had taken from Duffy and inserted it into the reader. The lock buzzed and she pushed the door open.
“Do it.”
Faulkner cut the power to the block. The lights flickered, came back on, then died. The keycard reader lost power, and when the door shut, the lock clicked as a failsafe.
Duffy had given her a walkthrough of the office layout. There were administrative offices on the first and second floors, where the business of Manage Risk in Iraq was transacted. The ground floor was a large entertainment space, with a generous reception area and three separate conference rooms. The basement, accessed from the back of the building, was where the detention suite had been built.
He’d said there would be two guards.
She anticipated more.
Beatrix clicked on her flashlight, and holding it against her extended Sig, she made her way quickly through the downstairs area. There was evidence of wealth in the beam of the torch: leather sofas, a marble reception desk, the Manage Risk logo glimmering as the light passed over it. She moved in a low crouch, and as she was opening the interconnecting door that led to the conference suite beyond, she was beset by a blast of pain that was dizzying in its intensity. She stopped, propping herself up against the desk, and waited for her head to clear. It didn’t, at least not at once. A sudden surge of bile burnt up from her stomach, scorching the back of her throat as she retched onto the floor. She felt woozy, beads of sweat pricking out on her brow.
