Redemption (49 page)

It had to be Drake and Anya. He couldn’t tell who the third man was.

Bundling them into the truck, the remaining armed men mounted the second vehicle and, in a spray of dust and sand, they took off, heading north.

‘Son of a bitch.’

Turning away, he dug his phone out and dialled Dietrich’s number.

‘Yeah!’ the older man answered, yelling to be heard over a muted roar in the background.

‘Jonas, I can barely hear. Where the hell are you?’

‘I’m outside. It’s a sandstorm here. What do you want, Dan?’

Franklin closed his eyes for a moment, straightened his shoulders and raised his chin a little, steeling himself against the recriminations that would one day descend on him.

‘Change of plans. You have a green light to go after Drake. I say again, you have a green light.’

He couldn’t have sworn to it, but he thought he heard the man laugh. ‘I was hoping you’d say that. We’re airborne now and en route. It seems we “borrowed” a Saudi Army chopper.’

The son of a bitch had ignored his instructions and launched the operation on his own initiative. Franklin might have been angry were it not for his own blatant insubordination.

‘They’ve been taken prisoner by some kind of Black Ops team. I don’t know who they are, but we can assume they’re working for Cain. They’re currently heading north in a pair of 4x4s. We’re downloading the satellite feeds to you now.’

‘Got it. What are the rules of engagement on this one?’

‘Don’t fire unless fired upon. They might be working
for
Cain, but we don’t know their intentions yet. I won’t kill our own men without good reason.’

‘And if they do engage us?’

Franklin exhaled. ‘Do what you have to.’

‘Understood.’ Dietrich hesitated a moment. ‘Oh, and Dan?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Thanks.’

He couldn’t help but smile. He was staring at the end of his career, and he had never felt more certain that he was doing the right thing.

‘Good luck.’

Drake was jolted forward in his seat as the vehicle screeched to a halt amidst a cloud of swirling dust. Gloved hands grabbed him and hauled him outside, giving him his first proper look at his surroundings.

It was an airfield, or had been once. Blackened, bombed-out buildings, ruined vehicles and concrete runways pockmarked with deep craters were everywhere. The place hadn’t been in use for years, no doubt bombed into submission prior to the invasion.

An aircraft boneyard stretched away to his right; line after line of ancient MiG-23 and 25 fighters lying abandoned, most of them hacked apart and broken up so that looters could salvage the valuable components inside. All that remained were the empty air frames, rusty and weathered.

Jerking him forward, his armed captor led him towards the nearest building, probably once used as the base’s air control tower and operations centre. The steel doors at the main entrance had been blown open, lying twisted and broken on both sides of the corridor beyond.

It was dark inside as they carried on, the electric lights
having
long since stopped working. The only illumination came from a couple of glow sticks dropped at regular intervals, investing the passageway with an eerie green light.

Anya was somewhere behind him, shoved from time to time if she didn’t move fast enough. She said nothing, and neither did he. These men were here to bring them in, not to answer questions.

They were approaching a room at the far end of the corridor, perhaps once the operations room. He could hear voices within, along with the hum of machinery. The flickering glow of computer monitors played against the wall opposite.

Shoved inside, he stopped only for a moment before a sharp blow between his shoulder blades dropped him to his knees. A grunt of pain to his right told him that Anya had been made to kneel in similar fashion.

He twisted around to look at her. Her hair had escaped the tie at her neck and hung in disarray, she was covered in small cuts and grazes, and her face was tight with pain from the shrapnel wound in her side.

Beyond her, Zebari had also been thrown to his knees, though he was unable to balance on his crippled leg and pitched forward to land in a heap. He was trembling with unconcealed terror.

‘Well, well. Ryan Drake,’ a familiar voice taunted.

Glancing around, Drake watched as Munro walked into the room from another doorway to the left, smiling with pleasure while his glass eye glittered in the glow of computer screens. Like the others, he was dressed in black combat gear, his heavy boots crunching through the debris that littered the floor. He was a big man, both tall and physically strong judging by his broad chest and the tight corded muscle in his arms and shoulders.

But it was more than that. There was a presence about him, a charisma, a dominating air of command and that went far beyond physical size. Munro had been a leader of men, born to take them into battle, and despite everything, he remembered that.

‘It’s good to finally meet face to face.’

Drake glared back at him. ‘I wish I could say the same. Where’s my sister?’

Munro smiled. ‘Family loyalty. It’s so fucking touching.’ Turning towards the doorway he’d just come through, he raised his voice. ‘Barnes, bring her in.’

Drake’s breath caught in his throat as a woman in dirty, sweat-stained office clothes was pushed roughly into the room. Her captor, a middle-aged man with a shaved head and a long grey goatee, was just a pace or two behind, keeping her covered with a Glock pistol.

Her hands were bound behind her back, just like Drake’s. Her shoulder-length brown hair was in disarray, stray locks falling in front of her face, grimy with sweat and dirt. She had clearly been kept in poor living conditions for the past couple of days, yet he could see no obvious signs of abuse. No bruising, cuts or grazes. Her eyes, vivid green like his own, were locked on him.

‘Ryan!’ she cried, trying to run to him. A hard blow to the back of the neck dropped her to her knees, dazed and moaning in pain.

‘You fuck,’ Drake spat, glaring at Barnes with absolute hatred. His wrists strained against the cuffs with bruising force.

‘I’m a man of my word, Drake,’ Munro said, unconcerned with the casual violence. ‘I said you’d be reunited with your sister. If you have anything to say, I’d do it now.’

‘Jess. Jess, look at me,’ Drake implored her, his voice
softer
now, gentle and coaxing. It was the same voice he used to use when they were children, and she was angry with him.

Blinking to refocus her vision, the woman looked up at him. Her eyes were wet with tears. ‘Ryan … I’m sorry,’ she managed to say, struggling to hold it together now that they were so close.

It was more than he could bear to see her like this. His voice was thick, his throat tight when he spoke. ‘It’s going to be all right. I promise. We’re here now. They’ll let you go.’

Tiring of the game, Munro nodded to Barnes. ‘Get her out of here.’

Moving forward, Barnes gripped her beneath her arms and lifted her right off her feet, dragging her back towards the doorway. Jessica bucked and kicked, lashing out with her feet and catching him several times across the shins, but the blows lacked power or purpose.

‘Ryan! Ryan!’ she screamed, her frightened voice echoing off the bare concrete walls.

‘It’s going to be all right, Jess!’ he shouted after her. It was a futile gesture, but it was all he had. ‘I promise! I’ll find you.’

Munro stood with his arms folded, watching the drama play out as if it were a soap opera. ‘Very touching, Drake.’

‘You got what you wanted,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘Let her go.’

The older man shook his head. ‘You know I can’t do that. You knew it from the moment I took her hostage.’

That instant, Drake’s last kernel of forlorn hope flickered out. Munro was right; as much as he hated to admit it, he knew the man wouldn’t release her. He’d always known. He just hadn’t wanted to admit it to himself.

His sister was going to die here today, and so was he.

Munro grinned as the hope died in Drake’s eyes, then turned his attention to Anya. She was on her knees, hands cuffed behind her back, keeping her eyes locked straight ahead. She had said and done nothing this whole time.

‘And look what we have here.’ He moved to stand in front of her, looking down on his former commander with absolute contempt. ‘What’s the matter, Anya? Don’t you have anything to say?’

At last she lifted her eyes to meet his. ‘Kill me now, while you still can.’

In response, Munro drew back his arm and struck her hard across the jaw, snapping her head around with the force of the impact.

‘You piece of shit!’ Drake tried in vain to rise to his feet, but a well-placed strike from a rifle butt at the base of his neck put him firmly down again, leaving stars dancing across his eyes.

Munro nodded to the man who had struck him; the same man who had captured him outside the cave. ‘Good work, Cartwright.’

‘A pleasure, sir.’

His attention returned to Anya. A trickle of blood was flowing from the corner of her mouth, and another from her cheek where the blow had grazed the skin.

‘Do you know how long I’ve waited to do that? How many mornings I looked in the mirror and saw this –’ he pointed to his glass eye – ‘and thought about the woman who gave it to me?’

Her expression remained impassive when she spoke again. ‘You brought it on yourself, Dominic. You got what you deserved.’

His face darkened in anger. It was quickly masked, but she had seen it all the same. She had provoked him.

Saying nothing, Munro circled around behind her, taking his time, savouring the moment. His gaze rested on the blood staining her shirt, the ragged hole torn in the fabric.

Kneeling down behind her, he closed his eyes and leaned in close, smelling the scent of her hair, her skin, as if she were a lover that he would hold in a tender embrace. He could feel the warmth of her body, could almost imagine he heard the beating of her heart.

A beautiful woman even now.

He had once idolised the beautiful, ruthless and enigmatic leader of his unit, entranced by her strength, captivated by her charisma, willing to follow her to any end. In time that infatuation had turned to love, but it had been a turbulent, temperamental love wracked by conflicting emotions.

He had wanted her above all else, but knew he could never have her unless he earned her respect. Driven by his obsession, he had thrown himself into his training with a determination that none could equal. He took on the most difficult operations, the most dangerous aspect of any plan, always seeking new ways to prove himself.

Seeing his potential, she took him under her wing and became a mentor. But as high as he climbed, always she remained beyond his reach. Even as he rose through the ranks, so she began to move away from them.

His love and adoration gradually turned to resentment and bitterness. He began to see her actions in a new light, perceiving her not as the wise and fearless leader he’d once known, but as a strutting coward who took credit for other people’s work. His work.

The tipping point came when Marcus Cain approached him personally and, in a secret conversation amongst the endless graves of Arlington Cemetery, warned him that
his
former mentor was plotting to leave the Agency and turn mercenary. Worse, she had grown jealous of Munro’s influence within the group and intended to remove him.

It had been more than he could take. At that moment, he knew she had to be stopped before she dragged the entire unit into disaster. She would never willingly surrender control, and as long as there was breath in her lungs, she would remain a threat.

There was only one option, as inconceivable as it might have seemed only a few short years earlier. She had to be killed.

‘You know something, Anya? I used to look up to you,’ he whispered softly in her ear. ‘You took me in, taught me everything I know. But there’s one lesson I learned by myself.’

Reaching up, he gently brushed aside a long strand of blonde hair, then moved his hand down her neck, across her shoulder, tracing a lazy path down the graceful curve of her spine.

Her face was an emotionless mask, but Drake could see the muscles in her throat tightening as his hand moved lower.

‘Sooner or later, we all get what we deserve.’

With a malicious smile, he pressed his thumb into the open wound left by the piece of shrapnel, twisting and turning it without mercy. The woman’s body went rigid, muscles trembling, teeth gritted against the agony that tore through her. A low groan escaped her lips, and she squeezed her eyes shut as Munro pressed in deeper.

‘It’s all right,’ he said gently, enjoying every moment. ‘You can scream … if you want. Scream for me, Anya.’

She was trembling with the effort of staying in control. Tears were in her eyes, but still she didn’t cry out. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

When he finally withdrew, she collapsed forward in a limp pile, drawing in deep shuddering breaths as fresh blood pooled on the floor.

Munro circled back around in front of her, a massive imposing figure. Anya was small and frail by comparison, hurt and bleeding.

‘Tough old bitch,’ he remarked, both irritated and impressed by her refusal to yield. His Nomex combat glove dripped with her blood. ‘Stubborn to the end. I’d expect no less.’

She pulled herself up, flicking her head back to get a clump of tangled, bloodied hair from her eyes so she could look right at him. The sheer, absolute hatred in her eyes even made Munro pause.

‘You’re a piece of shit, Munro,’ Drake spat, shaking with rage at what he’d just witnessed. ‘You’re a fucking coward.’

Munro turned to face the man. ‘I wouldn’t point fingers, Drake. You’re the one who brought her here.’

‘Because you demanded it.’

At this, Munro shook his head. ‘Not me. I was just the messenger.’

‘What the fuck are you talking about?’

‘You still don’t understand, do you?’ His triumphant smile returned; an expert hunter about to spring his trap. ‘It was Cain. He was the one who made this whole thing happen.’