Betrayal (51 page)

In disbelief, Drake glanced around to see Miranova advancing across the open space towards him, the revolver in her hand as she snapped off a couple more shots at Atayev and the several men still with him.

‘Cover!’ she yelled, sprinting the last few yards and gripping his arm, practically hauling him towards a brick wall that had once formed part of a smaller room within the larger space of the warehouse.

It wasn’t a moment too soon. Two of Atayev’s men dropped to their knees and opened up on full automatic, spraying a hail of 7.62mm slugs at them.

‘Get down!’ Miranova shouted, throwing herself on the ground. The wall was constructed from breeze blocks and mortar, easily 3 inches thick, but the AK rounds coming their way were more than capable of punching straight through at such range.

Drake could feel chunks of broken masonry pelting him as a burst of fire traced its way along the wall mere feet away, blasting apart the concrete blocks that stood in its path.

Raising his head up, Drake jammed the barrel of the PPK into one of the ragged holes in the brickwork and squeezed off several rounds in the general direction of their enemies, more to keep their heads down than a serious attempt to kill them.

‘Get out of here!’ he shouted. ‘Fall back. I’ll cover you.’

‘Shut up!’ she yelled back, clenching her fist and punching his arm as hard as she could. ‘I’m trying to stop you getting killed, you stupid bastard!’

The woman’s harsh but true words were like a mental slap in the face, and Drake hesitated, seeing his ill-judged actions for what they were.

Having vented her anger for the time being, she rolled over on to her back and snapped open the revolver’s cylinder to empty the spent cartridges, still smoking from recent use, then reached into her pocket to reload as more shots tore through the wall around them.

Then, abruptly, the firing ceased, replaced instead by frantic shouting, the roar of vehicle engines and the squeal of tyres on concrete.

For Drake, the reason was obvious – they were pulling out.

Rising up from behind the shattered remnants of the brick wall, he surveyed the scene in the warehouse. The first van was roaring towards the open doorway, its tyres screeching on the concrete floor as the driver gunned the engine hard. The second was also on the move, veering left to get in behind the first. Drake could do nothing but watch as Atayev and the remainder of his group escaped.

The first van shot out through the doors and into the open space beyond, turning hard left to head towards what Drake assumed was an access road away from the docks.

Then something happened that none of them had expected. Just as the van was coming out of its turn, a black BMW roared into view, skidding to a stop right in its path. A moment later, the driver and passenger threw open their doors and leapt out. A man and a woman, both armed with sub-machine guns.

Straight away Drake recognised McKnight and Mason, with Frost’s diminutive frame appearing just behind them. In a storm of automatic fire, all three of them opened up on the first van, spraying the cab and windshield with enough shots to kill the driver a dozen times over.

Knowing it would be suicidal to venture outside with such firepower opposing them, the driver of the second van jammed on his brakes, bringing his vehicle screeching to a halt before reaching the doors.

Even as this was happening, the van’s rear door flew open and three men jumped down, trying to make a break for it by running in different directions.

One was the young man with the spiky hair, still clutching his laptop computer. His eyes were wild with fear as he sprinted left with no apparent plan beyond getting as far from the shooting as possible.

The other two were Atayev himself and one of his group – a middle-aged man with long greasy hair tied back in a ponytail. He was clutching a Skorpion 61 – a nasty little Czechoslovakian sub-machine gun designed for concealed carrying.

He and his accomplice were making for a doorway off to the right of the main warehouse, keeping low to avoid fire from outside. Drake had no idea where it led, and he wasn’t keen on finding out.

Raising the PPK, he took careful aim at ponytail man and fired.

Hitting a moving target with an unfamiliar weapon is no easy feat, but Drake had always been a good shot and his aim didn’t let him down today. Ponytail man staggered sideways as the round slammed into him and fell in a crumpled heap, his greasy hair now matted with blood and brain tissue.

Reacting to the threat, Atayev spun around, levelled his weapon at Drake and opened fire. But he was no soldier, and it showed. He might have been able to hit Anya at pointblank range, but at 20 yards his lack of either training or accuracy was telling.

Still, even an amateur could score a lucky hit, and Drake was forced to duck behind one of the steel support pillars until the brief volley had ended. No way was he risking being brought down by a stray shot when he was so close to his enemy.

As soon as the firing had ceased, Drake glanced out in time to see Atayev disappear through the doorway. With his heart hammering in his chest, Drake took off in pursuit, determined to end this now.

Outside, the three Shepherd operatives were pushing forwards into the warehouse, spread out in a loose offensive line. There were only three of them, but what they lacked in numbers they made up for in skill and experience.

‘Two o’clock!’ Frost yelled, turning her weapon towards the cab of the second van. The driver had thrown open his door and was using it as a shield while he opened fire on them.

McKnight was in no mood for negotiating with the man, and promptly levelled her MP5 sub-machine gun at his unprotected legs. A single burst took out both knees, dropping him.

‘Get him!’ she cried, continuing her advance as Frost hurried over to disarm the injured man.

Nearby, Mason spotted a young man sprinting off towards the rear of the warehouse, moving with long, loping bounds that reminded him of an ungainly gazelle. Bizarrely, he seemed to be clutching a computer rather than a gun.

‘Stop!’ he yelled, taking off in pursuit.

However, no sooner had the young man reached the shadowy archways that ran along both sides of the room than a second figure emerged from the darkness, grabbing his skinny frame and spinning him around in front to form a human shield as he drew down on Mason.

Mason could feel the world going into slow motion as he raised his weapon and took aim. In a flash he replayed that sickening moment in the rifle range at Langley, when he’d missed his target and realised his hopes of returning to field ops had been dashed. It seemed like a lifetime ago now.

Adjusting his aim, he exhaled slowly, allowing the tension to leave his body, then squeezed off a single shot.

The would-be hostage-taker jerked once as the round slammed into his skull, then went down as only a victim of a catastrophic gunshot wound could, jerking and thrashing as the remnants of his brain misfired. His weight had pulled the skinny young man down with him.

Still covering him, Mason hurried over and kicked the dying man aside to reveal the computer hacker beneath. He was curled into a ball, weeping and moaning in pain. There was a steaming puddle beneath him that hadn’t been there a few seconds earlier.

‘Mason!’ a familiar voice cried out.

Still keeping his weapon at the ready, Mason glanced left as Frost came running over to join him.

‘You okay?’ she asked, breathless after the brief firefight outside.

He nodded, surprised by the rush of adrenalin now surging through him. ‘I’m good.’

He thought he saw a fleeting smile on the young woman’s face, though it soon vanished as she looked around.

‘Where’s Ryan?’

Atayev might have had a head start, but he was a decade older than Drake and considerably out of shape. He could hear the rasp of the man’s laboured breathing and the heavy thump of his footfalls even as he vaulted up the stairs in pursuit.

As he had soon discovered, the doorway that Atayev had fled through opened out into a stairwell that apparently led all the way up to the roof. But wherever the man was trying to flee to, Drake would ensure he didn’t make it.

His own lungs were heaving, the muscles in his legs burning as he leapt up the stairs, taking them two at a time, but he ignored it. Pain was irrelevant to him now. Adrenalin and sheer unfettered lust for revenge drove him on with more strength than any drug.

Again and again he saw Anya stumble and fall forwards as the round slammed into her back. He saw her trying feebly to rise, defiant to the end. He saw Atayev raise his weapon and fire a second time.

He heard the squeal of a door being thrown open just above, the laboured breathing of his opponent suddenly vanishing as he fled outside. With a final burst of strength and speed, Drake ascended the last flight of steps, raised his foot and kicked the rusted steel door open.

As he’d thought, the doorway provided access to the warehouse’s gently sloping roof, probably for maintaining the rows of skylights that ran down both sides of the apex. Above them, the grey clouds that had lingered over the city in the early morning had parted, revealing snatches of blue sky and thin winter sun that struggled through.

And there, not 15 yards away, was Atayev. Unable to manage more than a breathless stagger after the hard climb, he had halted altogether at the sound of the door being thrown open, perhaps realising the futility of his situation.

He was still clutching an automatic in his hand – the same gun with which he’d callously murdered Anya – but the slide had flown back to reveal an empty breech. The weapon was out of ammunition.

‘Drop it.’

Hesitating a moment, Atayev looked down at the weapon and threw it aside. It skidded and slid down the roof before coming to rest in the guttering some way below.

‘Turn around.’ Drake wanted him to see it coming, wanted to look him in the eye when he pulled the trigger.

Slowly Atayev turned to face him, raising his hands as he did so. His face was red and sweaty after the hard climb up here, but otherwise he betrayed no emotion at seeing the weapon pointed at him.

For a long moment, neither man said a word. They simply remained like that, staring at each other across the open roof.

‘Answer me one thing, Ryan Drake,’ Atayev said at last. ‘Did you mean what you said earlier, about wanting to help me take down Surovsky?’

Drake could feel his throat tightening. A lot of things had changed since then. ‘I did.’

The older man nodded, seemingly satisfied with that. He reached up to straighten his glasses, preparing himself for what was coming.

‘If you are going to do it, you should do it now. Before your friends arrive.’

Drake stared at him down the weapon’s sights. At this range he could scarcely miss. One shot was all it would take. One pull of the trigger and Anya’s death would be avenged.

Atayev deserved it, he told himself. He deserved to die for what he’d done.

‘Ryan,’ a soft, quiet voice said. ‘Ryan, lower the gun. Please.’

It was Miranova. She had followed him to the roof and now stood by his side, covering Atayev with her own weapon. Her attention, however, was focused on Drake.

‘This man deserves to be punished for his crimes, but it must be done the right way,’ she implored him. ‘Don’t become like him.’

Drake could feel tears stinging his eyes again as his finger tightened on the trigger. Images of Anya’s cold-blooded murder flashed before his eyes, for ever imprinted on his mind.

Then suddenly, he remembered his actions in the warehouse below, his reckless disregard for his own life as he rushed for his enemy. He remembered the feeling of shame and disappointment, knowing that his own death would do nothing to avenge hers.

And just like that, he lowered the gun.

Atayev smiled as if in amusement as Miranova moved forwards, grabbing his arms and yanking them behind his back to restrain him.

‘Remember today,’ Drake advised him. ‘It’s the last time you’ll ever see daylight.’

Atayev said nothing. But he still wore that same knowing, almost gloating smile even as he was led away.

An hour later, Drake winced as a medic finished applying the field dressing to the wound at his neck. He was perched on the back of an ambulance parked outside the warehouse, with police cars and FSB vehicles all around. The entire area had been cordoned off while forensics teams pored over it.

His broken finger had been splinted, and the incision on his arm where the tracking device had been crudely removed was now stitched and dressed. He’d even been given some pills for the pain. All things considered he was in far better shape than he’d been a few hours before, physically at least.

The constant pressure, lack of sleep, and the various emotional highs and lows of the past couple of days had taken their toll on him. Over and over his mind replayed his final sight of Anya as her body was hurled callously into the canal like so much discarded rubbish. He knew it was a scene he’d be revisiting many times in the days and weeks ahead.

Even now he could scarcely believe it had happened, that her life had ended in such a pointless, empty death at the hands of a man who could barely handle a weapon. A man who had used and discarded her as so many others had done.

‘You keep the wound clean. Change dressing every day,’ the medic advised, finishing up her work. She slapped his hand away as he reached up to touch the wound. ‘And don’t scratch the stitches.’

Drake was poised to retort, then thought better of it. The medic was in her fifties, stoutly built and not about to take any shit from the likes of him. Instead he merely nodded in gratitude as she packed up her case.

No sooner had she left than a familiar voice spoke up.

‘Well, aren’t you a sorry-looking piece of shit?’

Drake looked up as Mason walked over to join him, with Frost and McKnight right behind. They too had had questions to answer from the FSB, starting with what exactly a CIA team were doing mounting an armed raid in Russian territory, barely 2 miles from the Kremlin. However, Miranova had been quick to deflect the attention away from them, pointing out that they had been instrumental in the capture of Russia’s most wanted man.