Endgame (Agent 21)
Read Endgame (Agent 21) Online
Authors: Chris Ryan
CONTENTS
24. Between Yesterday and Tomorrow
26. The Right Side of the Track
‘Don’t come after us . . . remember the first thing I ever taught you – that your first duty is to stay alive.’
Zak Darke has been operating solo, in total secrecy, for a shadowy government organization.
When his handlers are abducted by somebody with a serious personal vendetta against him, Zak has no choice but to go after them. And heading across the world to find them – into danger like he’s never known before – is something that he cannot do alone . . .
AGENT 21
Real name:
Zak Darke
Known pseudonyms:
Harry Gold, Jason Cole
Age:
15
Date of birth:
March 27
Parents:
Al and Janet Darke [DECEASED]
Operational skills:
Weapons handling, navigation, excellent facility with languages, excellent computer and technical skills.
Real name:
Ricky Mahoney
Age:
14
Date of birth:
August 8
Parents:
Fred and Elaine Mahoney [DECEASED]
Operational skills:
Pickpocketing, covert entry, weapons handling, self-defence.
Real name:
classified
Known pseudonyms:
‘Gabriella’, ‘Gabs’
Age:
27
Operational skills:
Advanced combat and self-defence, surveillance, tracking.
Currently charged with ongoing training of Agent 21 on remote Scottish island of St Peter’s Crag.
Real name:
classified
Known pseudonyms:
‘Raphael’, ‘Raf’
Age:
30
Operational skills:
Advanced combat and self-defence, sub-aqua, land-vehicle control.
Currently charged with ongoing training of Agent 21 on remote Scottish island of St Peter’s Crag.
Real name:
classified
Known pseudonyms:
‘Mr Bartholomew’
Age:
classified
Recruited Agent 21 after death of his parents. Currently his handler. Has links with MI5, but represents a classified government agency.
Real name:
classified
Age:
classified
Recruited Agent 22 after identifying his potential during a chance encounter. Currently his handler. Represents the same classified government agency as ‘Michael’.
Age:
17
Significant information:
Succeeded Cesar Martinez as head of largest Mexican drug cartel. Ruthless, possibly psychopathic. Thought to blame Agent 21 for death of father. Highly intelligent.
Age:
14
Significant information:
Borderline autistic computer hacker. Known to have cracked the security of a number of intelligence agencies. Has provided help to Agent 21 in the past.
STUPID OLD MAN
It’s always dark at night. But some places are darker than others. St Peter’s Crag was one of those places.
It was 2 a.m. on 3 January. Christmas was long forgotten, as were any New Year celebrations. Not that many celebrations ever occurred here. A strong wind howled as it circled this bleak rocky outcrop in the North Sea. Waves crashed against the sharp rocks that surrounded the island. Even in fine weather, it was very difficult to approach by sea. Tonight it would be impossible.
A solitary figure in a black oilskin coat struggled across the barren terrain towards the building that sat alone in the middle of St Peter’s Crag. His name was Stan. Stan had learned long ago that, on nights like this, it was better to stay in the warm protection of his small stone house on the north of the island. But on this particular night, he had work to do, so he was braving the storm.
Stan thought of himself as a caretaker. As a young man he had been a soldier, and this job suited someone who was used to taking orders and not asking questions. He looked after the strange inhabitants of this island. There were three of them, most of the time. A man and a woman in their late-twenties, who called themselves Raf and Gabs, though Stan strongly suspected these were not their real names. And a teenager called Zak. Occasionally a fourth man, who called himself Michael, would arrive. The others looked up to him – he was obviously their boss. From time to time, a helicopter would arrive to ferry everyone except Stan from the island. Sometimes they were gone for weeks. Whenever they returned they were tired and grimy, and in need of the food and other supplies with which Stan kept the house well stocked.
Stan wasn’t stupid. He knew that Raf, Gabs and Zak had jobs that could only be described as ‘secret’ – although what a kid like Zak could offer this secret world, Stan had no idea. He also understood that he would never know the whole story.
At first he hadn’t minded being kept in the dark. His job was simply to look after the place. But as time passed he had grown resentful. He didn’t like the way conversations suddenly stopped when he entered the room. He didn’t like the way he was expected to stay, by himself, in his lonely quarters while the others had the thing that was in shortest supply on this desolate island: company. He didn’t like how, whenever his fellow islanders saw him, they said to each other: ‘It’s only Stan.’
So when, during one of his infrequent trips to the mainland, someone had approached Stan and offered him a life-changing amount of money to perform them a certain service, they’d got lucky. Stan wanted to retire, and his paltry pension wouldn’t cover much. Even worse, in his solitude he’d developed a habit for online poker. An expensive habit. He now owed more than he could ever repay.
I heard you had some money troubles, Stan
, the man had said.
You think your employers will help you with that? You think they care about your problems? But we can, Stan. We can make those troubles go away just like that . . .
The man had clicked his fingers.
You just need to do us a little favour . . .
‘This blimmin’ wind,’ Stan muttered to himself as he struggled against the elements. It felt like the gale was pushing him back from the house. He slipped and fell, jarring his knee badly and making him drop the briefcase he was holding. He cursed, then pushed himself to his feet again and continued towards the house.
The big main door was firmly locked. To its side there was an electronic keypad. Stan faced it and typed in a number. A beam of red light shot from the keypad and scanned his retina. Stan’s eyeball allowed him to gain access to this secret place.
It has to be you, you see, Stan? You’re the only person who can get around that island without raising suspicion.
The main door clicked open. Stan stepped inside.
Water dripped from his oilskin onto the chequerboard floor of the dark hallway as he closed the door behind him. The howling of the wind immediately stopped. This was a solid old house. He removed his wet coat, let it fall to the floor, then put the briefcase down and opened it up. It contained two hypodermic syringes in plastic casings, and a torch. Stan took the syringes and headed through the pitch black towards the big old staircase leading up from the hallway.
Thirty seconds later he was walking along a first-floor corridor. At the very end of the corridor was the room young Zak used. But Zak wasn’t here tonight. He was off doing something ‘secret’, whisked off just after noon that very day by helicopter.
It will be when the kid isn’t there
, the man had said.
That’s very important, Stan. Do you understand? Soon as we see him leave, it needs to happen.
Of the three of them, he liked Zak best. Stan was glad he wasn’t on the island tonight.
He continued along the corridor and stopped outside the third door on the left. He touched his thumb to the white doorknob. It recognized his fingerprint and clicked quietly open.
Stan knew better than to step inside immediately. This was Raf’s bedroom, and Raf would be aware of an intruder immediately. Sure enough, as the door swung open, he made out the silhouette of a broad-shouldered figure approaching him.
‘’S only me,’ said Stan.
The figure stopped two metres from the doorway. Stan could see that he was wearing pyjama bottoms, but was bare-chested.
‘Blimey, mate,’ said Raf. ‘What are you doing here in the middle of the night?’
‘Intruders on the island, sir. Thought you ought to know.’
Stan could just make out Raf’s blond hair and chiselled face. Raf frowned. ‘I didn’t hear any aircraft,’ he said as he strode through the doorway. Stan stepped aside to let him past. Then, as soon as Raf had his back to him, he lifted one of the syringes and stabbed it firmly into the muscular flesh of Raf’s shoulder blades just as he’d been instructed.
Time slowed down. Stan’s stomach sank as he saw Raf spin round, his face suddenly creased with anger.
The injection hadn’t worked.
But a fraction of a second later, the broad-shouldered man’s eyes rolled into the top of his head and he collapsed.
Stan was breathing deeply, and sweating. He knew he didn’t have time to regain his breath. He walked to the next door on the right. Once again, he pressed his thumbprint onto the white doorknob. Once again, it clicked open.
‘’S only Stan,’ he said.
There was even less time now. Clearly alerted by the noise in the corridor, Gabs was already in the doorway. She wore a tight vest top and pyjama bottoms, and her blonde, shoulder-length hair was messy. But she moved like lightning, straight past Stan, whom she barely acknowledged.
Stan raised his second syringe and stabbed it into her shoulder. The muscles here were not as big as Raf’s, but they were at least as tough. For a horrific moment, Stan thought the needle hadn’t entered her body. She spun round and raised one hand, palm out, fingers together. She struck him hard in the neck. Stan’s knees went immediately. Gasping for breath, and losing his grip on the syringe, he sank to the floor.
