The Kill Zone (46 page)

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Authors: Chris Ryan

BOOK: The Kill Zone
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‘
He did
,’ O’Callaghan hissed. ‘
He was going to do me too, so I took him out.
’
Jack gave him a sad kind of look. ‘Seems you’re still not scared enough,’ he said. ‘You’re lying to me.’
‘
I’m not lying . . . I’m not . . .
’
‘If he was going to take you out, he’d have done you first. I mean, I know he’s a Mick and everything, but he can’t be
that
stupid.’
Cormac just looked at him in terror.
Jack turned his back and scanned the barn, doing what he could to stop his gaze falling on Siobhan’s body. There were three or four old tyres over in the corner. He ran to them, lifted one up and carried it to where O’Callaghan was tied. He threw it at his feet, then lifted the man’s legs and inserted them into the hole of the tyre.
There was something else that had caught his eye, too. A big, industrial-grade strimmer, petrol-driven. He dragged that over to the post.
‘Jesus, man,’ O’Callaghan breathed, looking at the machinery with wild eyes. Jack ignored him. When he was close enough, he opened up the strimmer’s petrol tank. It was half full. Jack upturned it, sloshing two-stroke and oil all over the tyre, the ground inside it and the bottom of O’Callaghan’s trousers.
‘Now then,’ he said, as though to himself. ‘What do I need next?’ And then, as if it had suddenly come to him: ‘Of course!’ He went over to the male body and removed the half-smoked cigarette from his fingers, which he waved in O’Callaghan’s direction. ‘Where there’s smoke,’ he announced, before rummaging through the corpse’s pockets and pulling out a half-full box of Swan Vestas, ‘there’s fire.’
He returned to O’Callaghan, lit a match and waved it around.
‘Here’s what’s going to happen,’ he said. ‘You’re going to tell me everything you know about Habib Khan.’
Through his fear and wincing pain, O’Callaghan just managed to nod.
‘The bitch knew more about him than I did.’
Jack’s eyes narrowed. ‘You call her that again,’ he said, ‘and it’ll be the last thing you say.’
O’Callaghan looked like he believed him.
‘Khan’s been using me,’ he breathed. ‘He knows I’ve got importation lines set up. For the drugs. I’ve greased the right palms, you know. I can get anything anywhere without the authorities knowing about it. He supplies me with cheap heroin.’ His face screwed up as a new wave of pain spread from the blade. ‘To start with, I thought that was it, but a few days ago he sent something else into the country. Boxes. I don’t know what they are. Nothing to do with me. I just see that they get shipped where he wants them.’
‘And where
does
he want them?’
O’Callaghan hesitated, so Jack lit another match.
‘The mainland,’ he said quickly. ‘A boat to Stranraer. The boxes get picked up there. I don’t know who by . . .’
‘You’ll have to do better than that, you piece of shit.’
‘
I don’t know who by! I swear to God, man – I don’t know who by!
’
‘When was the last package.
When was it?
’
O’Callaghan’s eyes were rolling. ‘Today,’ he whispered. ‘It’s too late. It’s already gone to the mainland.’ And then, a faint grin. ‘It’s too goddamn late,’ he said.
Jack didn’t know what it was that tipped him over the edge. Siobhan’s death? Maybe. Frustration? Perhaps it was just the look on O’Callaghan’s face which, despite everything, was arrogant.
He did it without thinking – lit a third match and threw it down at the fuel-soaked tyre.
The fuel ignited slowly – a low, blue flame that oozed around the area. O’Callaghan’s eyes stopped rolling when he realised what Jack had done. He opened his mouth just as the bottom of his trousers started to curl and smoke. But no words came out.
Jack watched the rubber start to singe and blister. Tendrils of thick, black smoke started to billow from it, filling the air with a disgustingly acrid smell that caught in the back of the throat. O’Callaghan started to squeal as the flesh on his leg burned, but the squeals turned to a strangled, coughing noise as the smoke entered his respiratory system. ‘Please,’ he barked. ‘I’ve got money . . . I’ll give you anything . . .’
The tyre was burning hard now, the flames licking up O’Callaghan’s body.
‘She asked about the girl . . .’ the Irishman shouted. ‘
I know where she is
 . . .’
That got Jack’s attention. ‘Then you’d better start talking,’ he said over the crackling of the flames.
‘
Let me out first . . .
’
Jack shook his head and the terror in O’Callaghan’s eyes doubled. The bastard was lying. It was obvious. If he truly knew where Lily was, he’d be screaming it to the fucking rafters.
Strangled noises from O’Callaghan’s throat echoed round the barn but Jack was deaf to them. He just stared, unable to stop thinking of Red, all the way back in Helmand, and the manner of
his
death. O’Callaghan didn’t know Jack’s friend. He’d never heard of him. But he was part of Khan’s conspiracy, and he was just as responsible for that death as anyone else.
But that, of course, wasn’t the only reason why Jack wanted him dead.
He turned and, very slowly, walked over to Siobhan’s body.
He knelt beside her and put one hand on the side of her face that hadn’t been shot away. It was as cold as his heart.
All of a sudden, nothing seemed real.
Jack knew it was stupid, but he felt he wanted to say something to her. But no words came. More desperate squeals from behind him, and the crackle of flames. Jack barely heard them. All his attention was on Siobhan.
‘
I’m going to stop this happening,
’ he heard himself whisper, his voice choked. ‘
I promise you I’m going to stop this happening. And Lily . . .
’
He tried to think of a promise he could make about their daughter, but he couldn’t.
The flames roared behind him, and so did O’Callaghan. Like an animal in pain. Which he was. Jack didn’t move his hand from Siobhan’s bloodied cheek.
He stayed like that for a full minute. Then he moved over to where her clothes were piled in a heap. In her khaki jacket was a dark purple wallet. He looked inside. Some money. A few credit cards. And a photograph. He recognised it. It was exactly the same picture he carried around in his own wallet, taken all those years ago on the beach in Ballycastle. Siobhan’s hair was blowing in the wind. So was Lily’s. They looked happy. Jack had no idea that Siobhan had carried this photograph too. No idea that day was imprinted on her memory as firmly as it was on his.
He stared at the photograph, then down at Siobhan’s brutalised corpse. Then he cast a final glance over at O’Callaghan. The man was enshrouded in flames now, his charred body barely visible as the fire spread up the length of the wooden post, licking towards the rafters. He could see the skin on his face blistering and starting to peel. He wanted to feel good that he’d avenged Siobhan, but he didn’t.
The fire was going to spread – it was out of control and the birds in the rafters were starting to squawk in panic. It wouldn’t take long for someone to see the smoke and alert the emergency services, and this wasn’t the sort of scene he’d be able to explain to a few Northern Ireland Old Bill. And so, with one final, anguished look at the mother of his child, he ran from the barn, slipping out of the main entrance and heading back to his stolen vehicle. Three deaths and an arson. They’d be erecting a perimeter around the place as soon as they could, and Jack needed to be beyond it. If he could get the car back to the airport, he hoped people would put its theft down to a couple of joyriding kids and not investigate too much further.
He turned the car round and drove. At no point did he look back in the mirror, so he never saw the roof of the barn catch alight and then fall in, creating an enormous funeral pyre.
7 JULY
25
04.30 hrs.
The sun had yet to rise, but Special Agent Brad Joseph was already up. He stood at the window of his room in the Four Seasons Hotel, looking down on to the night lights of London. From here he could see the bridges over the river and the dome of St Paul’s Cathedral in the distance. Even he had to admit it was an impressive sight. Busy, yet somehow peaceful.
He was glad of this moment of quiet. Glad to have these few minutes to get his head in order. Presidential visits like today’s were finely tuned affairs. A whole raft of standard operating procedures were in place, designed to ensure the President’s safety. Every single member of his security team was as familiar with these SOPs as with their own names, but Brad knew that sometimes familiarity could be dangerous. It could lull you into a false sense of security. His job was to make sure that didn’t happen. He knew that there were plenty of Secret Service operatives who considered him a jobsworth, but it made no difference to him. Rather that, he thought to himself, than give free rein to some wannabe Lee Harvey Oswald.
He took himself through the details of the President’s movements, looking for any weak links he might have missed. There was none. Not now that they had the Beast. They could move him round London in absolute safety, no matter what happened. That, at least, was a relief.
He turned from the window, took his firearm from the bedside table and placed it in its holster. He looked at the clock. 04.58 hrs. Today would be a long day. It would be a relief when the President arrived safely at the Houses of Parliament a little after 18.00 hrs. It would be even more of a relief when today was safely consigned to history.
Brad collected his cellphone and key card, then left the room. It was time, he decided, to go to work.
06.00 hrs. Hereford.
Jack stood at the end of his street in the dim lamplight.
The previous twelve hours had passed in a blur. It had taken him half an hour to get back to the airport, where he kept his profile low and his mind alert. But there was a constant mental distraction.
Siobhan. Dead.
Every time he thought of it, it was like a knife in his guts.
He relived O’Callaghan’s death, but it didn’t help. Siobhan would be mad at him. He could hear her now.
He was our lead, Jack. Our only lead. And you—
He pushed the imaginary reprimand from his mind. He’d fucked up. He knew that. But there was no point beating himself up about it. Khan’s dirty bomb was in England. He knew he had to do something about it.
But what? The question had burned in his brain on the night flight back to Birmingham. Go to the authorities, tell them everything? No way. He knew how they worked. The police would take Siobhan’s killing as sectarian, and they’d be more interested in quizzing Jack about the dead bodies that were sticking to him than listening to his theories about terrorist attacks. And the date wasn’t lost on him either. One day until the anniversary of 7/7 – party time for every nutcase and bogus caller in the country. The security services would be overwhelmed by people seeing shadows. If anyone was going to take Jack seriously, he needed evidence. But all the evidence that crossed his path had an unfortunate habit of ending up dead.
By the time he landed, though, he’d come to a decision.
Khan knew who he was, and he knew Jack was on to him. That put Jack himself in a position of danger. But maybe it also gave him an advantage. If Habib Khan had a hit list, Jack was on the top of it. And although, being Regiment, it wasn’t easy to track him down, it wasn’t impossible. Not if you had resources. And so, Jack had one last throw of the dice. One last avenue to follow. If Khan had a contract on him, he needed to put himself in harm’s way. Wait for the bullet to come to him. Khan wouldn’t use some random shooter, someone untrustworthy – he was too clever for that. Whoever he sent would be part of his operation. And that would make them – as Siobhan would have it – a lead.
Which was why he found himself back home. In Hereford. Jack knew only too well that the easiest place to hit someone was at home when they were feeling secure and comfortable. And from what he’d learned about the man, Habib Khan would know that too.
There weren’t many people about at this time. An old guy walking his dog. The postman. Jack didn’t trust either of them, and he waited for both to conclude their business in his street before walking down the road. As he approached the house, he paid diligent attention to the curtains in the windows of the houses opposite. Jack was never around enough to know his neighbours or anything about them, but he saw their curtains were all closed apart from two. These windows opened out on to rooms that had their lights on. No sniper worth their salt would be hiding out where they were lit up, so Jack felt reasonably safe hurrying up to his front door and letting himself in.
It was cold in his flat, and gloomy. Jack didn’t turn the lights on, though. That would be like a beacon to anybody awaiting his arrival, and he didn’t want to shine a beacon until he was ready to do so. He moved from room to room, checking for anything suspicious. There was nothing. At least, nothing that he could see. The flat was empty.

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