DELIVERANCE: a gripping action thriller full of suspense (8 page)

That’s a long old way, little brother
, Charlie’s voice crackles in Marshall’s ear.
Any reason we’re heading there
?

‘I have one other contact in this country,’ Marshall responds.

And they’re in Adelaide
? Charlie asks.

‘Yes.’

Will he or she help
? Charlie asks.

‘He’ll help,’ Marshall says. ‘He owes me.’

Marshall remembers how Aaron Jefferson officially died during a covert SAS mission in Sudan.

Only he didn’t really die at all.

He simply wanted out of the services, and with no official way out possible, he faked his own death. In view of the fact that the mission was covert, there could be no enquiry. As far as Marshall is aware, he is the only person who knows that Aaron Jefferson is now Michael Jefferson, living in Adelaide, Australia.

The instruments read two fuel stops required for the destination
, Sarah’s voice suddenly announces clearly in Marshall’s ear.
Any ideas
?

Yes,
Marshall responds deep in thought.
Let me know when we are 500km in.

His mind is full of many thoughts, all of them swimming around in his head, but the most prominent of all at this particular moment is:
Where the fuck did Sarah learn to fly a helicopter?

He promises himself that he will talk to her at the earliest opportunity when they aren’t in imminent danger. Suddenly, as if to rip him from his current train of thought and defy the idea of being out of danger, the missile alarm sounds.

Quinn simply cannot believe her luck.

She followed the four-by-four’s tracks for one and a half kilometres and now here it is, right in front of her. The engine is still running even. She is immediately suspicious of a trap, but how elaborate would it have to be? They could not even know she is alive, let alone that she would follow their route, surely? So she proceeds with extreme caution, and as she steps closer to the jeep she notices the swirling patterns in the dust.

Helicopter landing.

This has been a pick-up point of some kind. Potentially an ambush if the engine of the vehicle was left running.

A fast take-down.

She smiles, hoping the kill was made; but she cannot depend on it. She jumps into the four-by-four’s still warm driver’s seat and eases the vehicle forward.

As the sun continues to rise, Quinn heads towards Fort Baldwin.

Chapter Thirteen

Marshall’s first thought is that they are completely fucked. Flying a helicopter and outmanoeuvring a supersonic missile are two completely different things.

Sarah will not be able to do it.

I’m sorry
, Sarah announces through his headset as the wailing klaxon relentlessly blares on. But Marshall barely hears her. He is running through every possible action, and each possible outcome, and none of them are very good. He feels his hand reach out for some body armour to sit on, but of course there is none there.

Then the missile alarm suddenly cuts off.

Marshall wonders what has changed. A miss? Unlikely.

A faulty missile? Even more unlikely in the current technological world. He cannot see a possible reason why they aren’t dead.

I got big red button syndrome
, Sarah says in his ear.

Marshall feels he is missing something big.

‘What do you mean Sarah?’ he asks, as calmly as he can in the situation. ‘What just happened?’

I have been looking at an instrument switch since we took off
, Sarah explains.
It’s an irregular switch that I’ve never seen before
,
so in the end I had to see what it did
.

‘And what did it do?’ Marshall enquires sharply.

You heard what it did
, Sarah exclaims.
It set off a fucking alarm!

Marshall is suddenly gripped by panic. She has disabled the missile alarm somehow. Except that that doesn’t sound quite right from what she has just told him.

‘Hit it again!’ he orders.

What?
Sarah asks, shocked.

‘Hit the switch again,
now!’

She does so, and the missile alarm sounds again, thrusting Marshall back in his mind to the first time he ever heard it.

Where are the lights
?

The realisation dawns on him once he sets the two memories side by side. The first time he ever heard the missile alarm on a helicopter was in western Africa during his SAS days. He remembers that back then, there was a flashing light to alert anyone on-board who may not hear the klaxon, but there is no light accompanying the klaxon now. Neither was there one previously before he exited the Puma to save the pilots lives.

Perhaps the alarm is fake?

It was faked before.

Marshall moves to the side door, opens it, and looks downwards. Below him, on the undercarriage of the Puma, he can see a scorch mark: it’s the mark he left with the flare as he exited the helicopter previously.

It is the same helicopter.

‘Fuck,’ he says under his breath.

Whatever faction is following them and trying to kill them has infiltrated Fort Baldwin. They knew his position from the second he left London. Shit, they
were
his position when he left London. He has been so blind, and it cost Mason his life. Whatever is going on, it runs a lot deeper than he first assumed. He begins to wonder if visiting Jefferson is such a good idea after all, but what choice does he have?

None.

They are out of options. At least distancing themselves from the enemy will give them some breathing space, and hopefully some time to ask Sarah a few questions.

Quinn is thinking through her plans whilst driving, when her phone rings in her pocket. A single beep, no vibration.

‘Tst,’ she says into the mouthpiece.

New intelligence
.
So you had better be on the fucking move
, the gruff voice declares.

‘I am, sir. Vehicle acquired, heading for Fort Baldwin.’

They have already left Fort Baldwin and they are now in a helicopter
,
on a flight course for Adelaide as predicted. They will need two fuel stops.

‘Understood,’ Quinn says, just before the line is disconnected.

Adelaide is over 1,500km from her, which is not great, but she nevertheless has contingency plans in place. She hits speed dial seven on the phone and it’s answered on the second ring.

Tst
, the voice says.

‘Groth. It’s Quinn,’ she says in a clear tone. ‘What is your status?’

I have collected the girls from the airport
.
They are drugged and ready for training
. Groth responds.

Quinn smiles. The training that Groth mentioned will be horrific.

‘I need you to outsource the training. I have a new order for you, and it takes precedence.’

What is going on?

‘It’s the Whittaker issue.’

I thought that was supposed to be dealt with already
?
Groth states.

‘Watch your tongue, Groth,’ Quinn orders.

Sorry, sir. What do you need
?

‘They are heading your direction, in a chopper. They will need fuel stops, but they should be with you inside four hours. They will be heading for Jefferson, as discussed, but they will be cautious, I’m sure. I’m certain they will land near to the airport and then walk into town.’

They
? Groth asks.

‘Marshall and his brother are with her.’

Understood
, Groth answers and disconnects.

Marshall is using the flight time to try and get his rusty brain into gear. He has pulled up his cuff GPS map and already chosen a landing point in Adelaide, near to the airport. Now he needs to think about fuel. As they fly over a few small towns Marshall spots an all-night garage blazing away.

‘Sarah, land us on the roof of that garage.’

Are you insane
? She responds.

‘No.’

I don’t know if it will even take the weight
, she exclaims.

‘It will,’ Marshall states. ‘Fact.’

Without another word, Sarah descends towards the filling station and lands expertly on the roof. Again, Marshall remembers he must ask her where she learned to fly.

Marshall shimmies down the support poles for the roofing structure. Then he enters the serving booth.

‘Sir!’ Marshall calls out to the teller as he lets the push door fall closed behind him. ‘We have a code red one-four-six emergency and have negotiated an emergency landing upon the roof of your structure. Please immediately release fuelling on one of the high octane fuel pumps so that we can continue our mission.’

The clerk looks at Marshall, and then at the helicopter on the roof. Finally his wide eyes return to Marshall again.

‘Sir, we really have no time to lose,’ Marshall continues. ‘You are authorised to commence refuelling under section one-two-seven-A of the military practice code. My name is Major Paul McCartney, and I am currently asking you to commence refuelling of our attack helicopter. Please do not force me to make it an order.’

The clerk barely has enough time to think, he simply presses a button to authorise one of the fuelling pumps. Marshall knows Charlie will have heard it and will be attaching a fuelling line to the Puma.

‘For your own safety, please remain at your station until we have departed, sir,’ Marshall says, completing the facade with a salute.

The clerk nods his head and does not dare move.

As Marshall turns for the door, his eyes catch the array of food and drink available.

‘We’ll be needing some supplies too,’ he tells the clerk. ‘I’ll give you a list.’

Marshall gets back outside a few minutes later, and grabs the fuelling line that Charlie throws down.

‘John Lennon?’ Charlie shouts down to him.

‘Paul McCartney,’ Marshall responds.

‘I thought you were McCartney last time?’

‘Ringo Star.’

‘I stand corrected,’ Charlie responds.

Thirty minutes later Marshall collects three bags of food and water from the clerk, and they continue on their way.

As they fly onwards, Marshall turns and watches Sarah awhile. He’s impressed. She looks more at home at the controls of the helicopter than ever.

Quinn hits speed dial eight on her phone and listens as she drives onwards in her new direction towards Adelaide. She says nothing, but smiles as she listens. Once she has disconnected the call, she continues to drive with one hand as she sends a text message with the other. Once sent, she places the phone back on the dashboard. She glances at it regularly, as if awaiting a reply. Then, ahead in the distance she spots a garage with a single car on the forecourt. It’s a Porsche Carrera, obviously imported.

She pulls in behind the Porsche and exits the four-by-four. Then she sits on the bonnet of the Carrera and waits. After two minutes a guy emerges from the door of the garage. An overweight business type.

Gold dust for Quinn.

‘Off my ride, bitch!’ is the first thing he says as he walks angrily towards her.

Mistake.

‘Oh,’ Quinn mimics innocence. ‘Is this your car?’

‘Yes,’ the guy says condescendingly. ‘It’s all mine.’

‘Wrong,’ Quinn states as she kicks him as hard as she can in the groin. ‘It’s my ride.’

As he crumples to the floor clutching madly between his legs and wheezing, Quinn steps behind him, places her arm around his throat, and with one swift jerking movement, breaks his neck. She then runs into the payment booth where a young girl is stood staring wide-eyed with fear through the window. Quinn vaults the desk and smashes the girls head into the till which bursts open spewing money onto the floor. She spends the next ten minutes killing the teller by strangulation, and enjoys every second of it. Then she walks back outside breathing fast from the adrenalin, reclaims the Porsche’s keys from the ground, and jumps in. She guns the engine and speeds off towards Adelaide, moving a good fifty miles per hour faster than before.

Sat in the rear area of the helicopter, Marshall pulls the mobile phone from his pocket and stares at it for a full minute. Then he nods to himself, and dials a number.

He promised Jefferson that he would only contact him if absolutely necessary, but he also promised he would not call him on any device that could be compromised. This however, is certainly an emergency. So he makes the call.

He listens intently for a moment and smiles.

Jefferson, it would seem, is more paranoid than Marshall realised. He is communicating through his voicemail only. Elaborate, but then when you’re dead, Marshall guesses you would have to be.

The message that Marshall hears is recorded by a woman.

Howdy partner, I knew you could not possibly keep up your end of the deal
.
So when you need me, and you will need me I’m sure, text the following number for instructions.

Marshall memorises the number and disconnects the call. He doesn’t send a text, but he does feel better about contacting Jefferson.

He puts the phone away and checks in with Charlie through the headset. They are approaching their second fuel stop. Worryingly though, Marshall’s GPS shows no more towns of significance for four hundred kilometres or more, which will be a hundred kilometres after they have run out of fuel.

Not great.

Marshall begins to think about kerosene, refuelling, and time. Then another thought occurs to him.

‘Charlie,’ he calls through the headset, ‘join me up back for a moment will you?’

Charlie quickly removes his headset and joins Marshall in the rear of the Puma. Marshall also removes his headset.

‘What’s on your mind?’ Charlie asks.

‘How many bases have you served on?’ Marshall asks.

‘More than I can remember.’

‘On every single one of them, what was normal deployment time for a helicopter?’

‘One hour for fuelling and systems checks,’ Charlie answers automatically. Then the realization begins to dawn on him.

‘Exactly,’ Marshall says. ‘How many times have you seen a helicopter sitting around on an army base fuelled and ready to go and without a pilot in it? Never; that’s how many times, because it never fucking happens. We headed down the nearest exit like rats in a maze. Right into a waiting helicopter.’

‘But they couldn’t have known that we could fly it!’

‘Perhaps they knew that Sarah could?’

Nobody speaks for a moment.

‘Plan?’ Charlie asks.

‘We should assume that we’re being tracked, so let’s slow down a little. We can’t stay in this chopper if we can help it. But then we can’t afford to lose time by grounding ourselves either.’

‘So we slow down?’

‘Yes.’

Marshall puts his headset back on.

‘Sarah, Listen carefully. Climb an extra five hundred feet, then as soon as we are down to our last twenty gallons of fuel, slow to half speed.’

Magic word
? Sarah retorts immediately across the line.