Deception Game (53 page)

Drake was just heading towards the stairs with Faulkner in front, Cunningham and McKnight bringing up the rear, when he saw them. Several armed men, two in front and two further behind, having just ascended to their floor, no doubt to safeguard their commander. The two groups had literally walked right into each other.

Their reactions were creditably fast. Straightaway the two operatives in the lead went for their weapons, the one on the left dropping to one knee to present a smaller target while the second moved forward to close the range.

They were good, but they were a second too late.

The operative on the left was his priority. The other man was concerned firstly with protecting Faulkner, but his comrade was about one thing only – killing.

The world seemed to go into slow motion around him as Drake brought his sidearm up into the firing position, watching with a kind of curious detachment as the man’s head slowly drifted into his sights.

There was no time to line up his shot. The man already had a compact little MP5K submachine gun in his grasp, and was turning the deadly weapon towards him.

Without hesitation, Drake pulled the trigger. The Smith & Wesson automatic snapped back against his wrist, the recoil travelling all the way up the bones of his arm as the round discharged with a thunderous crack.

His aim was true, and his target’s head was knocked backwards as if he’d taken a haymaker punch straight to the chin. But there would be no getting up from this blow, Drake knew. As a cloud of red mist ejected from the back of his head, he stumbled sideways and collapsed.

One down.

Straightaway Drake shifted his aim to the second bodyguard, who had by now reacted to the danger and was bringing his weapon to bear. With no time to line up his shot properly, Drake opened fire, aiming to injure and incapacitate rather than kill. Either outcome was fine by him, as long as that submachine gun didn’t start spitting fire.

His first shot missed, sailing past the man’s right shoulder, but the second round found its mark, tearing into his chest and spinning him around with the force of the impact. Caught off balance, he toppled and fell backwards, but not before squeezing off a long burst from the MP5K that sliced through the air towards Drake in a deadly arc, shattering nearby windows and chewing up the wooden floor all around.

To stand in the face of such murderous automatic gunfire would mean certain death. Drake was forced to abandon his position and throw himself aside to avoid it. He landed hard on the unyielding floorboards, the impact bruising his already injured body while fragments of broken glass sliced into his skin.

Even as the gunfire continued, he caught a glimpse of Faulkner turning away from the scene and sprinting towards one of the broken windows nearby, moving with surprising speed for a man his age. Gathering himself up, he leapt through the gap without hesitation, disappearing into the open void beyond.

He was getting away.

Ignoring the stinging pain of his lacerated arms, Drake twisted around and loosed another couple of rounds at the injured bodyguard, though it was impossible to get a clear line of sight from his position and his shots failed to find their mark. The man was hurt but not fatally so, and he still had an automatic weapon that he was more than happy to use.

More rounds perforated the walls and floor around him, tearing through the soft wood and ricocheting off corrugated steel. Drake rolled sideways, trying to avoid the rain of fire, but he knew it was only a matter of time until he took a hit.

Then, suddenly, he heard the distinctive crack of another weapon. A semi-automatic, snapping off three shots in rapid succession. There was a cry, the dull thump of a body hitting the ground, and the submachine gun fell silent.

Chancing a look, Drake spotted the man lying unmoving on a bed of broken glass and pooling blood. Three gunshot wounds marked his chest.

‘Get after him!’ Cunningham called out, smoke still drifting from the barrel of his weapon. ‘Get Faulkner!’

‘Go, Ryan!’ McKnight added, having taken cover to avoid the worst of the fire.

Drake knew there was no time to debate the issue. The other two operatives had retreated behind cover, but it wouldn’t be long before they renewed the assault. Anyway, this was all for nothing if Faulkner escaped.

One way or another, this had to end now.

Casting one last glance at his former friend, Drake gave him a final instruction. ‘Keep her safe.’

With no time left, he turned and sprinted off in pursuit of his enemy, launching himself through the window and praying there was something to break his fall on the other side.

Beyond lay a gap of perhaps ten feet, beneath which was another sloping rooftop, obviously an extension of the lower storey of the factory. Bracing himself, Drake hit hard, the aged steel bowing and creaking with the force of the impact, while his bruised and battered body screamed at him in pain.

Unable to find purchase on the slippery roof, he slid downwards towards the edge, and the ground lying an unknown distance below. He could only assume that Faulkner had descended by similar means.

His last thought as the roof disappeared beneath him and he pitched forward off the edge was that if the fall proved fatal, at least he’d have the satisfaction of knowing that Faulkner had died first.

What followed were a couple of seconds of uncontrolled, tumbling weightlessness, and then suddenly the dusty tarmac below rushed up to meet him.

The thing Drake had learned about landings during his days with the Regiment was the importance of absorbing the impact, reducing the sudden deceleration that was powerful enough to snap bones.

That was the theory at least. It was easy enough when one was at the end of a controlled descent by parachute, but not so much when falling off a factory roof. The reality was that the ground smashed into him like a hammer despite his attempts to cushion his fall, bruising flesh and tearing skin, knocking the breath right out of his lungs.

But he was alive. He knew that with absolute certainty when the first wave of pain hit, nearly causing him to black out. He’d put his body through a lot over the past few days, and though he was fit and hardened by past experience, even he had his limits.

He was lying at the edge of a wide service road that ran between this factory and another unit of similar dimensions. Disused pieces of heavy machinery and stacks of metal pipes had been left abandoned in the open space, slowly rusting and perishing in the desert climate.

Coughing bloody phlegm onto the ground, Drake looked up through bleary eyes, seeing a figure sprinting away from him, heading for the far end of the factory complex. A man, his expensive clothes torn and bloodied, but still moving with surprising speed. A man who was about to get away.

Taking a breath, Drake drew his weapon, rose unsteadily to his feet and sighted the distant target, aiming low to avoid hitting a vital organ. He needed Faulkner alive.

One shot. Make it count.

The crack of the single gunshot in the echoing space between the two buildings was enough to leave Drake’s ears ringing, but still he heard the satisfying cry of pain as the round found its mark. Faulkner stumbled, falling to his knees for a moment amidst the windblown trash and discarded industrial machinery. But somehow the man was able to drag himself to his feet once more and carry on, limping heavily on an injured leg.

In a moment, he had disappeared around a corner.

‘Fuck,’ Drake hissed, taking off in pursuit.

No way was he letting the bastard escape now.

Clutching his Sig Sauer automatic tight, Peter Boone advanced down the ruined, decaying corridor, heading for the stairwell that would take him to the upper level. The factory’s ground floor was a maze of disused workshops and abandoned offices, any one of which could hold an enemy.

He was no stranger to combat like this, and knew all too well how easy it was to fall victim to an unseen ambush. Even now he could hear gunfire echoing down the empty hallways.

That stupid bastard Faulkner had led them to this. Instead of executing Drake when he’d had the chance, he had insisted on bringing him back here. For what? To gloat? To prove how superior he was?

Stupidity of the highest order. When you had a shot, you took it.

Reaching up, he touched his radio earpiece. ‘All units, report in. Anyone transmitting?’

‘Macguire,’ came a female voice. ‘Hostiles in the building. Unknown number.’

Tell me something I don’t know, he thought. ‘Got a location on Faulkner?’

‘No idea.’

Her tone suggested she was harbouring similar thoughts to himself.

‘Fuck him,’ Boone decided, unwilling to lay down his life for such a man. ‘We pull out, kill as many of those bastards as we can on the way.’

She didn’t respond to that. She didn’t have to.

Gritting his teeth, Boone pushed onwards.

Situated a few blocks away from the factory amidst the ancient ruins that stood atop the hill near the centre of town, Laila Sowan could hear the distinctive boom and crackle of gunfire as clear as day. Clearly a ferocious fight was taking place, and she was powerless to do anything about it.

Her captor, the young Tuareg named Amaha, was of like mind, judging by his anxious pacing and the tight grip he kept on his weapon.

‘Your brother may need your help,’ she said. ‘He could be in danger.’

‘We were told to stay here,’ he mumbled, not looking at her. His mind was elsewhere. ‘We must wait for them.’

She’d known he would say that, but it didn’t matter. She didn’t need him. Reaching down, she closed her hands around a large rock, perhaps once a piece of the great ruined temple in which they now stood.

Gripping it tight, she pulled it from its resting place in the ground, hoisted it above her head and took a step towards him. Preoccupied with the distant battle and his own dark thoughts, he didn’t hear her approach until it was too late.

The impact sent him staggering forwards, crumpling beneath the blow like a rag doll. He shuddered once as if trying to rise, then lay still on the hot sand.

Wasting no time, Laila crouched down and snatched his weapon where it had fallen. It was an automatic handgun of a make she didn’t recognize, but that didn’t matter. She knew enough to use it.

And use it she would.

Rising from cover, Cunningham raised his weapon and sighted the new target. One of Faulkner’s men – a short, heavy-set man with dark curling hair and pale skin – backed up against one of the cement pillars supporting the roof high above.

With Drake having escaped through the window, the two remaining operatives had turned all their attention towards Cunningham. His weapon was levelled, body already tensing up as he prepared to open fire, but Cunningham was half a second faster, emptying his remaining rounds at the man before he could pull the trigger, and forcing him to take cover behind the pillar.

Bullets ricocheted wildly off the stonework, shattering glass window panes behind him and throwing out clouds of dust and rock fragments, but failed to find their target.

The answering volley of crossfire from the second operative caught him exposed. He felt the thump of something striking him hard, like a fist driven right through his rib cage, followed a moment later by another strike to his left leg.

Letting out a groan of pain, he fell even as more rounds hammered off the wall around him. He was done, he knew in that moment. Out of ammunition, out of cover, out of time.

He glanced back at McKnight, crouched behind cover further down the corridor. Still clutching the laptop he’d given to her. The one thing on which all their fates hung.

‘Get out of here, lass!’ he called out to her, readying himself to stand up, to draw their fire for a few precious seconds. Perhaps it would buy her time to find another way out and escape with the laptop.

Perhaps it would even earn him some measure of redemption.

That was when he heard something he’d never expected. A boom; not the sharp crack of a handgun or rifle, but the heavy thud of a shotgun round, quickly followed by a second shot.

As he stared in disbelief, the first operative stumbled forward, a fine spray of crimson ejected from the shattered remains of his chest. His companion started to turn towards this new, unexpected threat, only to be cut down by a trio of silenced rounds – two to the torso followed by one to the head that finished the job.

As both men slumped to the ground, Cunningham almost laughed as Mason and Frost darted forwards; the young woman clutching a sawn-off shotgun whose twin barrels were still smoking.

‘Clear!’ Mason called out, scanning the hallway beyond while keeping his weapon up and ready.

Meanwhile, Frost rushed forward and knelt down beside him, quickly taking in his injuries. ‘You’re not dead yet,’ was her only conclusion.

‘Aye, I can tell you’re pleased,’ Cunningham said, managing a grim smile through clenched teeth.

‘I don’t believe it,’ McKnight called out, rising from her position at the end of the corridor. ‘What the hell are you two doing here?’

‘Sam!’ Frost cried, her face lighting up with utter relief. As McKnight rushed forward to greet her, Frost threw her arms around the woman and hugging her so hard that it prompted a groan of pain. ‘Thank Christ. Are you okay?’

‘I will be when we’re out of this goddamn place,’ McKnight assured her, grimacing a little as her injured ribs blazed with pain.

‘No argument here,’ Frost concluded as she snapped open the barrel of her weapon, the two smoking cartridges automatically ejecting. ‘Where’s Ryan?’

‘He went after Faulkner.’

At this, Frost’s smile faded.

‘Goddamn it,’ Mason said, shaking his head. ‘Local police are going to be on this in minutes, and we’ve still got hostiles in the building. This is not a place we want to hang around.’

‘You don’t need to.’ Reaching down, McKnight snatched up a weapon from one of the dead operatives, then thrust the laptop into Frost’s hands. ‘Everything we need is in there. Get it to safety, no matter what. Understand?’

‘Of course. What about you?’

‘I’ll find Ryan.’ Her gaze flicked to her two companions, giving them a faint nod of encouragement. She swallowed hard, taking a breath to psyche herself up for what was coming. ‘Good luck. Both of you.’

‘Sam, wait. You can’t—’

But she had turned away before Frost could finish, limping back along the corridor and clambering out through the same window Drake had disappeared from. Within moments, she was gone.

‘Goddamn it!’ Frost hissed, making to follow her. Only Mason’s strong grip was enough to pull her back.

‘Forget it,’ he warned her. ‘She made her choice. We’ve got other problems to deal with.’

Swearing under her breath again, Frost reluctantly conceded to his point. With a vexed sigh, she turned her attention to the injured man. ‘Can you walk?’

‘Would you leave me behind if I couldn’t?’

‘Shut up, old man.’ Inserting two fresh cartridges in the shotgun, she snapped the barrels closed. ‘Get him, Cole. I’ll cover you.’

Moving forward, Mason hooked an arm beneath him and hauled Cunningham to his feet; no easy task with such a large man. Groaning in pain, the injured man stumbled down the corridor, with Frost leading the way.