Deathlist (38 page)

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.

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.