Sacrifice (35 page)

In another life, before his career in the military, he had been a boxer, and a good one at that. Most assumed it was because he was simply good at hitting people, but he knew otherwise. The fundamental skill of any fighter wasn’t their ability to hit, it was their ability to avoid being hit. Dodging, weaving, ducking and blocking were vital skills he had spent years mastering, and though he had long since abandoned the sport, the hard-won ability remained imprinted on his brain.

While his opponent drew back his arm to deal the crippling blow, Drake waited. He waited until the left
arm began to move forward, propelled by the combined efforts of the thick corded shoulder muscles. He waited until it had built up enough momentum to put it beyond the ability of its owner to stop, until it was past the point of no return.

And at the last moment he released his hold of the taser and ducked aside.

There was a hard metallic thump as a human hand impacted a solid wall at high speed, followed by a dull wet crunch as bones and joints snapped under the pressure.

The cameraman didn’t cry out. It would take another second or so for the pain to reach his brain. All he managed was a confused grunt as his fist hit the elevator wall instead of his opponent’s jaw.

Seizing his chance, Drake lowered his shoulder and launched himself off the wall, driving forwards with all the strength he could summon. He had never been much of a rugby player, but he at least understood the principles of tackling – get low and hit fast and hard.

He accomplished all three things at that moment. He felt the fleshy thump as his shoulder made contact with the cameraman’s chest, and heard the grunt of pain as the air was driven from his lungs. Caught off balance, his adversary fell backward until his back crashed into the far wall with enough force to shatter the cheap wood veneer, sending shards of it tumbling to the floor.

‘Fuck you!’ Drake heard him scream, his voice tight with pain. Only now had he realised he’d just broken several bones in his left hand. ‘Fuck you!’

An elbow struck him across the back, but it was a desperate and uncoordinated hit that lacked power, and his shoulder absorbed most of the impact.

Still, Drake wasn’t about to let him have another go
with the taser. Rearing his head up like a bull, he caught the cameraman on the point of the chin, then leaned back as far as he could manage and butted him in the face. He was seeing stars again, but nonetheless felt the satisfying crunch as the bone and cartilage in the cameraman’s nose gave way under the blow.

Drake had never had his nose broken, but he had seen the effects in others, both as a boxer and as an operative. He knew what a crippling injury it could be. At that moment, blood would be filling the cameraman’s sinus cavity, choking him. His eyes would be blinded by involuntary tears.

At last Drake was in control of the fight. A kick to the back of the cameraman’s leg dropped him to his knees, followed by a crushing right hook that finally put him down. The cameraman collapsed in a tangled heap, his blood pooling on the cheap grey carpet.

No sooner had he gone down than Drake heard a muted thump, and suddenly something hard and powerful slammed into his right side, spinning him around with the force of the impact.

With his back now against the wall and the first wave of pain radiating out from the gunshot wound, Drake found himself face to face with his attacker.

It was the satchel man. Incapacitated by the taser burst, he must have come round while Drake was occupied with his comrade, and had evidently recovered enough to yank something from his carry case.

An automatic pistol. Drake couldn’t tell the model from this angle, but he recognised the metallic bulk of a suppressor screwed onto the barrel. Struggling to keep the bulky weapon level with hands that wouldn’t quite cooperate with the instructions his brain was sending out, he was lining up the weapon for another shot.

He was a threat again. A threat that had to be dealt with.

Ignoring the pain, Drake rushed forward and slammed his boot down on the man’s wrist, pinning his arm to the floor. There was another muted thud as a second round was discharged, this time burying itself in the wall.

There are times for restraint and compassion. This was not one of those times.

Keeping his opponent’s arm pinned under his boot, Drake snatched the bulky television camera up from the floor. It had been dropped when the brief confrontation began and forgotten by all concerned during the frantic battle for survival.

Drake was surprised by the weight as he raised it over his head. It must have been 30 pounds or more of metal, glass, plastic and delicate internal electronics.

Hardly an efficient weapon, but with no alternative it would serve.

He saw no fear in his opponent’s eyes as he brought the crude club down against him, no panic or shock or dismay. All he saw was simmering anger and disappointment. The look of a player who knows he has lost.

The impact of the camera against the satchel man’s skull jarred Drake’s arm and buckled the casing of the expensive device, sending fragments of shattered glass and plastic tinkling across the floor.

Dropping the heavy camera, Drake snatched up the satchel man’s weapon. It was a Heckler & Koch USP Compact; a small but powerful handgun chambered with .45-calibre rounds. They were designed for Special Forces operations where both stopping power and concealment were priorities.

Its owner was no longer a threat. He was lying slumped
against the wall, his eyes staring blankly ahead, blood dripping from the deep gash on top of his head. The impact had crushed his skull, killing him more or less instantly.

Now his companion had to be dealt with. Already he was starting to come round, and Drake was in no condition to go toe to toe with him again. Staggering forward, he knelt in front of the cameraman and jammed the barrel of the pistol against his forehead.

Roused from his stupor, he stared at Drake for several seconds as if failing to comprehend what was happening.

‘Who sent you?’ Drake demanded, pushing the barrel harder. His finger was already tight on the trigger. ‘I said, who sent you? Talk or die!’

‘Fuck you,’ his opponent hissed, snatching something up from the floor by his side.

A moment later, Drake felt the sting as two metal prongs were jammed into his neck. The taser, dropped during the fight. It must have come to rest within his enemy’s reach.

Drake’s reaction was immediate. With the gun still pressed against the cameraman’s forehead, he pulled the trigger before the taser could discharge.

The round entered at high velocity, leaving a hole no larger than the projectile itself. However, the negative pressure wave created by its passage pulled most of the contents of his skull with it as it exited through the back, now slowed considerably by several inches of bone and brain matter.

As the dead man slumped sideways, leaving a wide crimson stain on the cheap wood veneer behind him, Drake collapsed against the wall of the elevator, gasping for breath, his heart hammering in his chest.

He was no stranger to killing, and felt no regret about
what he’d done. It was kill or be killed in that moment, and he had done what he had to do to stay alive.

What shocked him more was the knowledge that these men were both Horizon operatives. He had recognised the Airborne tattoo on the cameraman’s forearm from the day at the crash site.

They worked for Horizon, and they had been sent here to take him down. The text message from Frost was a trap intended to lure him in. And if they had been ready to kill him, what had they done with her?

A growing pain on his right side, accompanied by a spreading, sticky warmth, reminded him that he had more immediate concerns. Pulling up his shirt and the T-shirt beneath, he exposed the light Kevlar vest he’d been wearing.

Even in Kabul he wasn’t prepared to walk around unprotected, and had insisted the rest of his team do likewise while outside Bagram. The Kevlar vest wasn’t strong enough to stop high-powered assault rifle rounds, but it had been enough to save his life today.

More or less. The vest might have stopped the bullet, but the force of the close-range impact had likely cracked a couple of ribs. He felt as though someone had hit his chest with a sledgehammer.

Undoing the Velcro straps holding it closed, he found himself with an area of discoloured, haemorrhaged skin about the size of his fist. By the looks of it, the round had just made it through the vest to punch a hole in his side, though it hadn’t penetrated deep enough to cause any serious damage.

The bleeding was less than he’d feared. The pain was another matter.

Still, he was alive. That was the important thing right now. With no time or tools with which to treat the wound,
he had no option but to strap the vest up tight and allow his shirt to fall back into place.

His priority was to find Frost and get out of here.

How he would accomplish that was more of a challenge. He was in an elevator with two blood-covered bodies, and himself bore the marks of his deadly confrontation. He couldn’t expect to stroll out through the lobby uncontested.

Neither could he shoot his way out. The InterContinental was a well-protected hotel – there were security guards and Afghan police everywhere. He wouldn’t make it 200 yards.

But one thing was certain; he had to do something quickly. The satchel man had pressed the emergency stop button, halting the elevator between floors. It wouldn’t take long for the hotel management to work out there was a problem.

He looked up at the elevator controls. There were only four floors to choose from. A locked metal panel covered what he assumed were other buttons reserved for hotel staff only.

That was all the incentive he needed. Bringing the USP to bear, he took aim at the panel and squeezed off a round.

There was a heavy thump as the suppressor did its work, and a harsh bang as the lock disintegrated under the impact of a .45-calibre slug. Quickly shoving the weapon down the back of his trousers, Drake flipped open the panel to reveal three additional buttons.

The lowest was marked B, which he assumed meant the basement. It was a possibility, but the basement was likely to be a service area, perhaps even a kitchen. Either way, there was a good chance he would encounter hotel staff, and he was unfamiliar with the layout.

The second button was labelled INS, which he suspected was designed to put the elevator in some kind of inspection mode, probably for maintenance.

The last button was marked R, which had to mean roof access. It was far from perfect, but it seemed like his best – if only – viable option at that moment.

He pressed it. A moment later, the elevator shuddered into life as the winch went to work. He was on his way up.

Ten seconds later, the elevator doors slid open to reveal a dingy, bare brick room about 15 feet square. Metal access panels with red warning signs and electricity symbols were fixed against the far wall, the dull glow of their indicator lights providing just enough illumination to make out the shapes of toolboxes, wooden pallets and other discarded crap stacked in one corner.

The air smelled of oil and machinery and dust, reminding him for a moment of his father’s old garage. He half-expected to see an E-Type Jaguar parked in the middle of the room, red paintwork gleaming in whatever light managed to filter in through cobwebbed windows.

No such vision presented itself, however, and his mind snapped back to reality an instant later. He was in the elevator winch house, which he guessed was visited only when there was a problem or when routine maintenance was required.

Off to the right, slivers of daylight strained through the tiny gaps around a steel door. Grimacing in pain, he picked up the broken camera once more and wedged it between the elevator doors to prevent them from closing.

With the elevator immobile, he turned his attention back to his attackers, quickly rifling through their pockets in search of anything useful. Unsurprisingly, neither man was carrying ID or cellphone. If they happened to get
caught or killed, their employer wouldn’t want anything that could be traced back to him.

However, he did find a couple of hundred dollars’ worth of US currency in the cameraman’s trouser pocket, which he wasn’t too proud to help himself to.

This done, he picked up the fallen satchel, draping the strap over his left shoulder so that it covered the spreading bloodstain on his shirt. He clenched his teeth as the weight settled against the heavy bruising around the gunshot wound, but nonetheless managed to rise to his feet.

Armed with his meagre disguise, he exited the elevator and hurried over to the steel door that separated him from the outside world. It was locked. With no time to search for the key, he drew the silenced USP, levelled it at the lock and, turning his head away to avoid flying debris, squeezed off a round.

The high-powered slug tore through the thin, brittle sheet steel with ease, obliterating the lock.

Securing the weapon once more, Drake hauled open the door. Harsh, blinding light from the setting sun flooded his vision, almost forcing him to retreat into the cool darkness of the winch room. Shielding his eyes with one hand, he and advanced outside.

Situated as the InterContinental was on a hillside overlooking Kabul, the view from the top floor was impressive, its panoramic vista broken only by the squat bulk of the elevator winch house behind him.

But Drake had no time for sightseeing. His eyes quickly surveyed his immediate surroundings in search of a way down. It had to be at least a 50-foot drop to the ground below, removing jumping as an option unless he had a serious grudge against his own skeleton.

The roof itself was a flat open space the length of a
football pitch, liberally broken up by the weathered steel of air-conditioning outlets. In the heat of the Afghan summer, they must have been working overtime to keep the rooms cool.

However, he spotted something up ahead that might serve. A small inconspicuous structure, just white-painted breeze blocks, a flat roof and a single door leading down.