Betrayal (50 page)

Hurrying over, he knelt down beside it, drew a small knife from his pocket and used it to slice the lump of material open.

And there, hidden within, was a little metal cylinder no larger than a grain of rice.

A few moments later, Kamarov leapt down from the truck and immediately headed towards the Merc a short distance away.

‘Pack it up. We’re leaving!’ he announced, visibly brimming with anger.

Pushkin looked at him. ‘What about Drake?’

The older man rounded on him. ‘Drake’s gone. They knew about the tracker and removed it. Now move!’

They were getting close, Drake knew as they ascended the cracked, worn set of stairs leading up from the building’s basement. He could hear the distinctive rumble of the generator getting louder with each step. Miranova was following a few yards behind.

His head pounded, and he could feel blood leaking steadily from the wound at his shoulder, but he did his best to push through the pain to carry on. None of it mattered now. He had to keep going.

At last Drake reached the top of the stairs, eyes and weapon sweeping the shadowy recesses of the room beyond.

The place was a shambles. Broken office furniture had been smashed against one wall, while electrical cables had been torn down from the ceiling to hang like vines across the gloomy hallway. A big industrial heating unit, now rusted and decayed, was lying in the middle of the floor as if someone had simply dropped it in the middle of carrying it away.

However, the sound of the generator was noticeably louder now, and he could see the glow of lights coming from beyond the doorway on the other side of the room. Making his way through the debris with Miranova close behind, he crossed the derelict office, backed up beside the doorway and leaned out far enough to survey the space beyond.

Straight away he knew they had found what they were looking for.

The office faced out on to a wide-open area easily 50 feet high and twice as wide. It looked as though it had once served as the building’s main storage and delivery area. Steel girders supported the vaulted ceiling high above, beams of dusty light shining down from rooftop windows to illuminate the scene below.

A big set of steel double doors on one side provided vehicle access, while a second set off to the right apparently allowed boats to load and offload their cargo inside the warehouse itself. A long canal had been excavated down one side of the room leading from those doors, its dark oily water shimmering in the glow of work lights. Clearly this building was right on the shores of the river, designed to admit barges for loading and unloading cargo.

However, whatever goods or materials had once been stored here had long since vanished, replaced by a couple of panel vans parked near the main doors. Both were painted brown and dressed up in UPS livery. Around the vans were six or seven men, many of them armed. Drake saw AK-47 assault rifles, grenades and body armour laid out on a table near the vans – tools of the trade for the assault team who had kidnapped himself and Miranova.

And in the centre of it all was Atayev, standing over a younger man who seemed to be engrossed in the laptop he was working over. A laptop which was connected up to a satellite transmitter – Drake could see the distinctive umbrella-shaped dish pointing skywards.

‘That’s Atayev,’ he whispered, nodding to the leader of the operation.

Miranova slithered along the wall next to him and leaned out, her keen mind quickly assessing the situation. It didn’t take her long to recognise the problems they faced.

‘We will not win in a firefight,’ she remarked dubiously.

Drake had to admit she was right. With only two side arms to call upon, they were hardly in a position to storm in, guns blazing. They needed backup, and fast.

He was just reaching for the cellphone in his pocket when another figure strode into view, heading straight for Atayev.

It was Anya.

The warehouse was a hive of activity as Anya made her way across the wide-open space, with armed men moving back and forth, packing away gear and loading it into the pair of trucks they would use to escape Moscow. They had both been painted brown and adorned with the UPS delivery-service logo, providing an ideal cover for Atayev’s men.

Only one computer was still up and running: the master terminal on which a skinny, scruffy-looking young man with spiked hair and a face full of metal piercings was working. It was he who had designed the program she’d uploaded into the FSB’s computer network less than an hour ago, providing a back door through their formidable security system that he could exploit.

She had no idea where Atayev had recruited him from, but one look at him was enough to confirm that he didn’t belong in her world. He was a cyber terrorist for hire, more used to wielding a keyboard than a gun. There were many like him these days, particularly in Russia where competition amongst rival companies was fierce and ruthless. Knowing a competitor’s secrets could mean the difference between monopoly and bankruptcy.

‘The program is working perfectly,’ Atayev announced, having been standing over the hacker’s shoulder. ‘Tell her, Dmitry.’

The young man glanced up from the laptop, his eyes glassy as if he’d been focusing on the screen too long.

‘I’m through the firewall and into their core system,’ he said, speaking in a fast, jittery manner. By the looks of him, he’d overindulged in caffeine today, or most likely something far stronger. ‘Five, six minutes from now I’ll release a virus that’ll trigger a network lockdown. Instead of protecting them, it’ll seize control of their system and shut them out, turn their own security protocols against them.’

‘As soon as their security is down, we’ll broadcast the access protocol to every hacker and media website on the Internet,’ Atayev said. ‘Soon the whole world will know the FSB’s secrets.’

Atayev’s final blow against Surovsky and the FSB wouldn’t be accomplished by force of arms, but by a far more insidious method. Rather than try to destroy them physically, he needed only to reveal the one thing they feared most of all – the truth.

But this prospect didn’t please Anya as much as it did him. She could only imagine how many informants and operatives would die as a result of such a catastrophic breach in security. The repercussions of this cyber attack would make the raid in Grozny look like a minor skirmish by comparison. The entire organisation would be crippled for years to come.

‘Then I’m finished here,’ she decided. ‘I came only to say goodbye.’

‘Of course.’ He offered a faint smile. ‘I don’t suppose you can tell me where you’re going?’

‘Better that you don’t know,’ she said honestly.

The older man nodded and held out his hand. ‘Goodbye, Anya. And … good luck.’

Staring into his eyes, she caught herself wondering what was really going on behind them. Buran Atayev, the only one of them whose mind encompassed the entire plan, with all its interdependent elements, all its subtleties and misdirections. The only man whose intentions she could never quite read.

Releasing her grip, she turned her back on him and walked away, knowing this would be the last time they spoke. She had what she needed now, and so did he. Whether it was worth all the sacrifices, all the risks and dangers and betrayals, only time would tell.

As she walked away, Anya found her thoughts straying from Atayev and his lust for vengeance. Instead she thought of Drake, the man who had been her saviour, her protector, her redemption.

Betraying his trust had been the hardest sacrifice of all.

Anya was walking away from Atayev, her posture and body language suggesting that whatever business she had with the man, it had apparently concluded.

A moment of hope rose within him. Perhaps she was putting all this behind her. Perhaps there was still a way out of this for them both.

And then it all changed.

Staring in shocked disbelief, Drake watched as Atayev drew a pistol from his belt, calmly levelled it at Anya’s back and fired a single shot.

The report of the gunshot echoed around the vast space like a thunderclap, so loud that even he started and recoiled from the doorway in horror. But still he could see the terrible scene playing out.

Anya jerked once as the round impacted, then stumbled and fell forwards, landing face down in a pool of oily water. She struggled feebly, trying to rise, trying to force her body to work even as her life blood flowed out, turning the pool crimson.

Always the soldier, she was trying to fight even now.

Approaching with slow, measured deliberation, Atayev kicked her over on to her back, raised the weapon and fired a second shot into her, finally ending her struggle.

Just like that, it was over. Anya was gone.

Drake fell to his knees as if the round had blasted its way through his own chest, tearing apart everything in its path. His breath was coming in short gasps, his eyes wide and staring, his hands trembling as shock took hold.

It wasn’t possible. It was terrible, horrific; a nightmare made real.

The world around him ceased to matter in that moment, everything else fading into darkness. All he could see was Anya’s lifeless body sprawled in that pool of dirty water, and the man who had killed her.

He watched as Atayev took a step back, making way for two of his men who moved forwards and picked Anya up, one taking her feet and the other her hands. Together they carried the unwieldy burden over to the canal, swung her once to build momentum and then pitched her in.

Drake heard the loud splash as her body impacted the water.

Watching without emotion as Anya’s body slipped beneath the surface, Atayev replaced his pistol in the holster at the small of his back. It wasn’t a fitting departure for a woman of her worth, but Anya had served her purpose. He had no further need of her, and felt no regret at seeing her go.

With the unpleasant task complete, he turned to address the others.

‘We’re done here,’ he announced. ‘Pack everything up.’

The rest of his group moved with quick efficiency, tossing the body armour and remaining grenades into the canal. Just as with Anya, they had no further need of these instruments of war. They had all abandoned their assault gear now, instead donning civilian clothes to aid their escape.

Two of his men were dressed in brown jackets, shirts and trousers; playing the part of truck drivers. Details were important, and Atayev had always been a man who paid attention to detail.

Both men now hurried towards their respective vehicles, clambered up into the cabs and fired up the engines, while another two strode over to the main doors and unlocked them.

In a minute or two they would be out of here.

Drake had seen enough.

Shock and grief had given way to something else entirely now. Something far more dangerous and destructive. Cold, focused, absolute hatred.

Raising the PPK, he pulled back the slide far enough to check that a round was chambered, then rose to his feet. He was no longer thinking of tactics or survival, or the practicalities of their situation. All he wanted was Atayev. No matter what happened to him, no way was that fucker getting out of this building alive.

Abandoning his cover, he strode out through the door and towards the group now preparing to leave. He gave no thought to concealment or protection. He just wanted to cover as much ground as possible before the shooting started.

Beyond the trucks, the big wooden doors barring the warehouse entrance had been hauled open to reveal a stretch of open waste ground partitioned off by a chain-link fence. Drake could just make out the dark waters of the Moskva River in the distance.

‘Ryan, what are you doing?’ Miranova hissed. ‘Ryan, come back here!’

He wasn’t hearing her. He wasn’t aware of anything now but the pounding of his heart, the surging blood in his veins, the desperate lust for revenge that had taken over every muscle, every bone, every fibre of his being.

He had made it about halfway across the room before one of them spotted him. A big man with tattoos covering his exposed arms, he opened his mouth to cry out a warning to his companions.

He never got the chance. Raising the PPK, Drake took aim and put two rounds through his head, blasting apart his skull with the twin impacts. The echo of the gunshots caused the rest of the group to flinch and glance around, seeking the source of the unexpected new threat.

Drake took full advantage of their hesitation, and a second man fell as he capped off the remainder of his magazine at his centre mass. At least one of the rounds found its mark, tearing through his unprotected gut. With blood painting the front of his grey sweater, he crumpled and fell, crying out in agony.

Drake could feel something stinging his eyes, blurring his vision, and angrily blinked to try to clear it. In some part of his mind he was aware that it was tears, but he tried not to acknowledge it as he focused all his attention on the desperate battle unfolding around him.

Without breaking stride, he thumbed the magazine eject button on the side of his weapon, jerking the gun downwards to aid the movement. No sooner had the spent clip fallen free of the housing than he grabbed a spare one from his pocket and slammed it home.

But his delay had bought his opponents a precious second or two to react, and even as Drake released the breach lock and allowed the PPK’s slide to snap forwards, he spotted a figure moving through the shadows between two support pillars. The man emerged from his cover and into a beam of sunlight slanting down from above, and Drake saw the long, bulky frame of an AK-47 being raised.

Straight away Drake knew the man had the drop on him. He wouldn’t be able to bring his side arm to bear in time, and even if he could, it was certainly no match for the raw firepower of an AK on full automatic. His brief, foolhardy attempt at heroism was about to end the only way such things could – with his death.

He felt merely a fleeting sense of disappointment that his attempt to avenge Anya’s death, however misplaced, had ended so abruptly. Deep down he knew the woman would be disappointed in him.

But then, instead of the distinctive bark of AK fire, several sharp cracks resounded through the warehouse, and suddenly Drake’s would-be killer staggered backwards and fell.