Nucflash (8 page)

Her ankle burned like fire; she must have twisted it in her fall. Her side was burning where a bullet had scratched her, and she was bleeding from a dozen minor cuts she must have picked up coming through the window. Rising again, still screaming as loud as she could to attract attention,
any
attention, she began hobbling toward the street, leaning heavily against the wall. There was a gate in the iron fence ahead, a gate with a latch just opposite the building's front door, but to reach it, she would have to leave the relative shelter of the wall and run for the street.

At twenty-eight, Patricia Summers was a survivor. Her dad had walked out on a family of six kids when she was just five, her mother thrown out of work during the big recession in the seventies; Mum had struggled along on the dole for a while but eventually lost herself in a bottle. With no education beyond the fifth grade, Patricia had supported herself and the other kids doing what work she could find. The promise of a career as a model—as if you had a chance at modeling without going to school!—had turned out to be the come-on for a London “escort service.” It wasn't long after that before she'd been exchanging sex for money.

She didn't like it, but life was a bitch whether you liked it or not . . . and no matter what happened, she was
not
going to follow Mum into that bottle. Patricia knew how to do what had to be done, and she knew how to make quick decisions without second thoughts. The name of the game was
survival.

Steeling herself, she took a deep breath, then lunged for the gate. The latch was stiff and her hand slippery with her own blood. She fumbled it twice . . . damn! Damn! Come
on!
. . .

With a grinding crack the gate swung open and Patricia dashed through. She could hear the lock on the front door of the house being turned. If only her ankle . . .

Shit!
She was down again, on her hands and knees, but she kept crawling. Could they see her from the balcony? Were they shooting at her? She didn't stop to look, but kept crawling.

“'Ere now, miss!” an authoritarian voice said from the darkness just ahead. “What's the idea?”

It was the bobby, jogging toward her across the pavement.

Damn it, did all bobbies carry guns nowadays? She couldn't remember. Once, back in gentler, more innocent days, the British police has never been armed, but in recent years that had changed, especially in the rougher parts of England's cities.

But was
this
one armed? She desperately prayed that he was.

“Watch out!” she screamed. “They've got guns! They're trying—”

She was interrupted by a long, staccato burst of fire off the balcony from which she'd just fallen. Ricochets whined off the street a few feet away, and a fleck of broken stone stung her cheek. With a smooth, powerful movement, the police officer swept her up in his arms, spun about, and dashed down the pavement. Automatic gunfire followed them, stabbing at them through the dark . . . then abruptly ceased.

Moments later, in a sheltered doorway down the street, the bobby hung his overcoat over her shoulders and proceeded to question her. She told him everything, not even lying when he asked her what she and Sharon had been doing in the pub when O'Malley had picked them up, and minutes after that she could hear the wailing of approaching sirens.

Poor Sharon . . .

“Well, miss,” the bobby said. She was shivering violently now, despite the heavy coat, and he guided her to the stoop within the doorway and made her sit down. “I guess that's one trick you'll always remember, eh?”

“Not if I can help it,” she said, and then she started crying. God, how she wanted to forget the sight of Sharon's ruined face.

 

Someone was shaking Roselli by the shoulder. When he opened his eyes, a flashlight was glaring in his eyes. “What the fuck?”

“Sorry, mate,” a Britisher's voice said from the blackness behind the light. “Rise and shine. We got a hot flash in a few minutes ago. Briefing in thirty, and you Yanks are invited.”

Roselli groped in the darkness for his watch on the tiny nightstand next to his rack and peeled back the Velcro cover. When he squinted at them hard, the luminous digits told him what he already knew . . . that it was zero-dark-thirty in military parlance and entirely too early for civilized people to be up and about.

SEALs, however, never thought of themselves as civilized, and neither, evidently, did their SAS hosts. As he swung his legs over the side of the rack and set them on the cold linoleum deck, his tormenter straightened to shake Magic Brown, occupying the upper rack above Roselli's head.

“What's up, Razor?” Jaybird asked from across the aisle that divided the barracks into two long lines of double-decker bunks. He was already half dressed, pulling his fatigues from the seabag hanging at the head of his rack.

“Haven't the foggiest,” Roselli replied, mimicking the Brits. “I suppose that's why God invented briefings.”

“If this is another exercise,” “Professor” Higgins said from his bunk, “I'm going to vote that we declare war on England without delay.”

The briefing room was tucked away in one corner of the Dorset HQ complex, not far from the barracks, a wood-floored room half filled with folding metal chairs. Roselli, Higgins, Brown, and Sterling had arrived to find several SAS officers and noncoms already present, including Major Roger Dowling-Smythe and Sergeant Major Dunn, both of whom had supervised the CQB exercise, now impeccable in neatly pressed and creased fatigues. SAS Colonel Howard Wentworth was there as well, as was a rather plain man in civilian clothes, who had the look that Roselli had come to associate with intelligence people worldwide.

On a tripod at Wentworth's back was a corkboard to which several photographs had been attached. Roselli recognized them as photos he'd seen a few days ago . . . security shots from Heathrow Airport of a couple of possible North Korean agents. The L-T had flown over to Wiesbaden to talk to the Germans about those two.

“Gentlemen,” Wentworth said, standing, a few moments after the Americans had found places for themselves and sat down. “This morning, about three hours ago, the Middlebrough police picked up a girl fleeing from a row house on the west end of the city. Shots were fired from the building.

“Normally, this would be a matter for the local police to handle, but it happens that the young woman in question was able to identify both O'Malley, late of the Provisional Irish Republican Army, and these two Koreans, Major Pak and Captain Chun . . . though according to their passports, they seem to be calling themselves Mr. and Mrs. Kim these days.

“This is something of a major break for our side. You see, it seems that Pak, his girlfriend, and O'Malley, who was his primary contact in this country, all gave our security people the slip two days ago.” He glanced at the intelligence man, who looked away, clearly discomfited. “We still don't know what happened, but I gather that some highly placed ministers were quietly contemplating hara-kiri with the knowledge that two potentially dangerous enemy agents were wandering loose around the countryside, presumably in the company of some equally dangerous people from across the Irish Sea.”

A murmur of low-voiced conversation rose in the room as the SAS troopers passed comments back and forth. Roselli heard one young man mutter darkly about a “bloody cock-up.”

“In any case, we have them now. We suspect that this flat in Middlebrough is a safe house run by the Provos. From the woman's description, there were at least five people living there, probably more. It's a big house, four stories, and it could hold quite a mob. Most of the people she saw there were armed, and of course the bobby was able to confirm the presence of automatic weapons, though he wasn't able to tell what kind.

“Also, according to the woman, O'Malley is now dead. Apparently, well, it was O'Malley who brought the young lady in question and a girlfriend of hers home, and it seems that was a breach of the house rules. O'Malley was shot by Pak. Pak's girlfriend shot our informant's friend, but the informant was able to make a break for it and escape out onto the street, where she, ah, attracted the notice of the police.

“Naturally, the police were called in. The officer who picked up the girl reported being taken under fire, and there were reports of gunfire called in from other houses in the neighborhood. The police have cordoned off the area and are trying to open up communications with the people inside. They still don't have a good idea about how many people we have inside, or how well armed they might be.

“As of zero four hundred hours this morning, the Minister of Defense has put this unit on full alert, and I am calling a Class One stand-to. We have the helos loading now at the field. We will deploy A Troop, full takedown kit and harness, to a staging area two miles from the scene. Any questions?”

Roselli raised his hand. “Sir. Any chance us SEALs could tag along?”

Wentworth grinned at him. “Absolutely. I can't promise you a combat slot, but at least this will give you Yanks a chance to see how the SAS does things in the real world. Any other questions? Okay, let's move out!”

Murdock awoke suddenly, momentarily wondering where he was. Then he sensed the sleek, warm, naked form of Inge Schmidt sprawled in the tangle of sheets at his side, and remembered. Carefully, so that he wouldn't wake her, he pulled away and stretched. His watch read 0710 hours . . . late for a SEAL who rarely slept past 0530.

But then, they'd been awake for a long time last night. He wasn't at all sure exactly when he and Inge had finally gotten to sleep.

Despite his careful movements, her eyes opened. “Good morning, my wonderful lover.”

“Morning, beautiful. Sleep well?”

“Mmm. Delightfully.” She reached over, running her fingers softly down the plank-hard slabs of muscle on his stomach. “You know, that steak was marvelous, but since last night, I've acquired a prodigious appetite for seafood. Especially SEAL. Delicious.”

Gently caressing her left breast, he grinned at her from across the pillow. “Plenty more where that came from. Want another helping?”

“You know, I don't mind if I do. I understand the British eat fish for breakfast. What are they called?”

“Kippers?”

“Yes, kippers. Me, I much prefer raw SEAL for my breakfast.” Raising herself up on one elbow, she leaned over, lightly kissing his chest, then slowly running her tongue down his torso, pausing here and there to lick or kiss, her golden, shoulder-length hair brushing lightly enough across his skin to tickle.

This shouldn't be happening, Murdock thought. It
couldn't
be happening. Not so suddenly . . . so unexpectedly . . .

Except for a low moan escaping from Murdock as he closed his eyes and slumped back against his pillow, nothing more was said for several minutes.

The telephone rang on Inge's bedside table, a harsh, intrusive explosion of sound.

“Oh . . .
damn,”
Murdock said, with considerable feeling. Inge reached across his body to pick up the receiver.
“Ja?”
She listened for a moment to a voice that Murdock could just barely hear as a murmuring buzz. Her eyes met his.
“Ja
. . . yes, Chief. He is here.” She handed the phone to Murdock. “Your Master Chief MacKenzie.”

“Good morning, Chief.”

“Sorry for the interruption, L-T,” MacKenzie's voice said. “Hope I'm not calling too early.”

Damn the man. For a bleary moment, Murdock wondered how MacKenzie had known he was here. Then he remembered signaling the man out the window. Hell, Mac and Hopke had probably posted a security watch outside last night. So much for privacy.

“What is it?”

“Something's happening. You'd better get squared away and get on in here.”

“Where is ‘here'?”

“BKA headquarters, of course. I just had a call from Dorset. Seems there's been an incident over in England, and it might affect our boys.”

Inge had returned her full attention to Murdock's erection, and her ministrations were making it difficult for him to concentrate on MacKenzie's words. Reaching down, he gently stroked her cheek, then guided her away from his lap. Nodding her comprehension, she shifted her position to simply cuddle close against his side, her hand on his chest.

“What's up?”

“You know those tangos we were supposed to check on with Komissar?”

Tangos—military slang for “terrorists.”

“Yeah.”

“Seems the Koreans gave British intel the slip, then turned up in a row house in Middlebrough. There's been an incident, one civilian hurt or killed, another escaped. Police have been fired at. The SAS is being assembled for a possible assault.”

“Okay.” He sat up, swinging his legs out of bed. “I'll be in quick as I can get there. You start the ball rolling on getting us a first-available military flight out of here.”

“Already taken care of, Skipper. A C-130 with 3rd Support, leaving Wiesbaden Air Base at zero-nine-twenty. You'd better hustle.”

“You're talking to an echo.” He hung up. Inge was sitting up behind him, her arms around his neck.

“Leaving so soon?”

“Sorry. Some of my boys might be about to get themselves into a firefight. I have to be there.”

“I understand.” She felt warm and very soft against his back. “I'll drive you to the BKA. Just let me get washed up and dressed.”