Betrayal (5 page)

Two shots, two kills. She had done her part. The rest was out of her hands.

Drake started at the muted boom of the first shot, wondering for a moment if he had heard the crack of thunder in the darkened skies overhead. However, the second shot a few seconds later, followed by a crash and the blare of car horns on the nearby freeway, quickly shattered that illusion. Someone was firing on the slow-moving traffic.

He knew the sound of a high-powered sniper rifle well enough, and his experiences of urban combat told him it had come from nearby. Straight away his mind switched gears, his training as a field operative taking over without conscious thought, quickly assessing what he knew so far and combining it with experience and intuition to decide on a course of action.

It was no coincidence that such an attack should have happened at the same time and location he’d agreed to meet with Anya. For all he knew, the sniper might have been sent specifically to take her out. In which case, she could be injured or even dead already. He had no idea how they had learned of the meeting, and now wasn’t the time to ponder such questions. What mattered was what he did in the next few seconds.

He himself was standing at an open crossroads, totally exposed and easy prey for a skilled sniper. He certainly couldn’t stay here, and fleeing would be an exercise in futility. Modern sniper rifles were accurate at up to 1,000 yards or more, and he had no desire to put that to the test. No, his best chance was to get to them and take them out.

The only question was where they had located themselves.

Urban environments with lots of high walls and sharp angles can do strange things to the acoustics of gunshots, deflecting the sound waves and making it difficult to pinpoint the origin of individual shots. In part, this is why snipers flourish in city fighting. The only way to find the shooter in this case was to consider his or her possible firing positions, pick one and hope it was right.

In the space of a second or two, Drake quickly took in his surroundings, noting nearby buildings that would make good vantage points.

The 395 was an elevated freeway, meaning most of the low-rise residential buildings and shops in the vicinity were beneath road level. To the north, an office building that he vaguely recognised as belonging to Michigan State University rose up into the night sky. Certainly it was tall enough to provide a good field of fire over the freeway, but buildings like that had cameras, armed security guards, alarms – all of which would have to be meticulously bypassed and neutralised. Not a good place for a sniper to set up.

There was the church across the way. Its bell tower was certainly tall enough to overlook the freeway, but there was no way anyone could get a sniper rifle past a full congregation and make entry to it, no matter how hard they were banging their tambourines.

Then at last he saw what he was looking for. The residential apartment block, easily five storeys high and overlooking the big interchange between the 395 and two other main drags heading north and south. Its flat roof offered a perfect field of fire for a skilled sniper, and security was likely to be light there.

He was moving before he even had a chance to finish that thought, reaching for his cellphone and quickly dialling 911 as he sprinted across the road, ignoring the angry horn blasts that followed him.

‘911 emergency,’ came the crisp voice of a female operator a few moments later.

‘Shots fired on the corner of 1st Street and Delaware, the apartment building at the crossroads,’ Drake said, making a beeline for the nearest door. ‘Sniper, probably targeting the freeway. Send everything you’ve got in the area right now.’

With that, he closed down the call. He had no time to give a detailed description of what he’d seen and heard. He had more important matters to attend to.

Drawing the Sig, he shoved his way through the main doors and into the bland, clinical-looking communal stairwell beyond. To his left stood an elevator, with an
Out of Order
sign affixed to it.

Good. One way in, one way out.

Gripping the weapon tight, he sprinted up the stairs, taking them two at a time as he made for the roof. His breath was soon coming in deep gasps, his heart pounding, but his pace showed no signs of slowing. Adrenaline was doing a good job of maintaining his energy.

On the top floor he spotted a teenage girl in a black hoodie emerging from one of the apartments, earphones on and head down as she flicked through songs on her iPod. Taking one look at Drake and the weapon he was clutching, she let out a startled cry. ‘Oh fuck!’

With that, she retreated into her home and slammed the door shut.

She wasn’t what he was looking for. Drake paid her no heed as he focused on the stairway leading to the roof. Glancing at the weapon to check the safety was disengaged, he advanced up the stairs, keeping his eye on the sliver of light around the edge of the door.

Halting at the top, he took a deep breath to get his breathing under control. His wait lasted only a second or two. Never delay longer than you have to, he’d been taught long before. The anticipation only works against you.

Go now!

A single hard kick to the release bar was enough to send the door flying outwards, allowing cold air and hard pellets of frozen rain to rush in. Ignoring it, Drake advanced on to the roof, his eyes and weapon sweeping the area, eager for a target.

The sniper’s weapon lay on the gravel-covered roof next to a big box-like air vent. He didn’t recognise the model, but it definitely wasn’t British or American in origin. However, it was a beast of a gun, easily 6 feet long and probably weighing at least 25 pounds. The kind of heavy-duty sniper rifle designed to punch through light vehicle armour.

The weapon was less of a concern to him at that moment than its owner, who had abandoned the gun and was standing on the low parapet at the edge of the roof as if he or she intended to jump. The face was hidden, but the general build and height suggested that the sniper was a woman.

The moment he emerged on to the roof, she started to turn. He saw a sudden movement, the distinctive action of someone reaching for a concealed weapon, and instinctively brought the Sig to bear.

‘Freeze!’ Drake ordered. At this range he could hardly miss.

Drake watched as the lone figure on the edge of the roof turned to face him, revealing attractive, finely chiselled features, a straight nose, a firm jaw and strong, intense blue eyes that were locked with his.

In an instant, everything around him faded away into darkness. The weapon in his hands seemed to lower of its own volition as he stared in disbelief at the woman he knew all too well.

‘Anya,’ he gasped, the rush of his pursuit giving way to shocked disbelief.

She looked at him for a long moment, saying nothing. As always, it was impossible to know what was going on behind those icy blue eyes of hers. Then without warning she took a single step back over the edge of the parapet, and disappeared.

Drake let out a breath. The image that had appeared before him and then vanished so abruptly felt like a dream. It didn’t seem real.

Only when he saw the rope affixed to one of the rooftop heating outlets did reality snap back into place. He rushed over to the parapet in time to see the woman disengage herself from the abseiling gear 50 feet below.

Casting a brief glance up at him, she turned and sprinted off, vanishing into the shadows beneath some trees on the edge of a park area below.

Just as suddenly as she had reappeared in his life, Anya was gone.

For the next few seconds Drake just stood there, trying to make sense of what he’d seen and heard. As inconceivable as it sounded, it appeared Anya was responsible for a sniper attack on a crowded freeway in central DC. And judging by the chaos on the multi-lane highway below, she had caused casualties.

But who or what had been her target?

Peering through the gloom and rain, he did his best to survey the scene. At least six or seven cars, vans and trucks had been involved in the smash, probably as collateral damage rather than because they were specifically targeted. The two vehicles that seemed to have borne the brunt of the attack were a pair of luxury Mercedes-Benz S-Class sedans; both silver coloured and both likely to have been travelling in convoy.

Drake had seen enough foreign diplomats arriving for high-level conferences to recognise the kind of vehicles they liked to cruise around in. Powerful, manoeuvrable and sturdy enough to bear the weight of concealed armour plating and toughened glass, these two Mercs were prime candidates for such duty.

But whatever countermeasures they’d been fitted with, it hadn’t been enough to protect them from Anya’s attack. One had crashed into the central reservation, rolling several times before coming to a halt as a mangled, deformed mess, while a second had swerved to the right and broadsided a Ford people carrier, forcing it into the opposite wall.

Already he could see the distinctive flashing lights of an ambulance approaching the crash site, the backed-up traffic moving aside as best it could to make way for the emergency vehicle. It screeched to a halt beside the second of the two Mercs, the rear door flew open and a pair of paramedics leapt out.

The glow of headlights on the freeway made it hard for Drake to discern what was going on, but he frowned in surprise when the doors slammed shut and the ambulance accelerated away after just a few moments, leaving the other crashed vehicles unchecked. Either they had been advised that other medical units were inbound, or they had a patient on board with critical injuries.

But if so, how had they managed to get them out of the wreckage so quickly? And for that matter, how had they arrived on the scene mere seconds after the attack? Even if other drivers on the freeway had called in the crash immediately, it would take at least thirty seconds for their calls to be answered and processed, and emergency services vectored in.

Everything about this was setting off alarm bells in his head.

Holstering the Sig, he reached for his cellphone.

‘Sir, put your hands up where I can see them!’ a voice called out from behind. Deep, powerful, authoritative. The voice of a cop with his gun trained on a suspected terrorist.

Drake closed his eyes for a moment, realising that his warning to the Metro PD might have worked rather better than he’d expected. Never had he imagined they would arrive so quickly, and at such an inconvenient moment. Being caught in the sniper’s nest with the weapon itself mere yards away was going to take some explaining.

‘I’m not the man you’re looking for,’ Drake said, raising his hands slowly. Cops only used their weapons as a last resort, but he didn’t want to give the man any excuse to open fire. ‘I called this one in. I’m on your side.’

‘So we’ll take your word for that, huh?’ A different voice this time: high, young, female. Cops usually travelled in pairs.

‘We’ll get to that later, sir,’ the first cop decided. ‘Right now I want you to get down on your knees with your hands behind your head.’

Shit. Explaining himself from the back of a police cruiser could waste hours. Meanwhile Anya and the mysterious ambulance on the freeway below were getting further away by the second. Not to mention the inevitable questions that would arise over why he was here in the first place, and the text message on his cellphone. He’d deleted it of course, but even he knew that a skilled technician could recover it with ease.

Drake’s heart was beating faster as he considered his options. The sudden arrival of these two cops less than two minutes after his 911 call, much like the ambulance on the freeway, bore all the hallmarks of a set-up. Had someone called this in before he’d even arrived? If so, who?

‘Sir, I’m not gonna ask you again,’ the cop went on, sensing his hesitation. ‘Get down on your knees. Come on, pal. This isn’t worth it.’

Resisting arrest wasn’t going to do him any favours. There were two of them and only one of him, and he had his back to them. They had the drop on him.

Slowly he lowered himself to his knees, the rough gravel of the rooftop biting into his skin as he did so, and placed his hands behind his head. He’d put enough targets in this position to know they were about to handcuff him.

He heard the squelch of a radio. ‘This is Unit Seven. Possible suspect apprehended on the roof at previous address,’ he heard the female cop say. ‘Requesting backup to secure the scene.’

The crunch of boots on gravel as the first cop approached. He would have holstered his weapon and reached for the cuffs at his belt while his partner covered him. Securing the suspect was the most dangerous part of any arrest, because you had to come into contact with them in order to snap the cuffs on. In that short time before you had them subdued, you were vulnerable.

And just like that, Drake had settled on a course of action.

It happened fast. Just as Drake felt a strong grip clamp around his left wrist to snap the cuffs on, he clenched his right hand, twisted around and drove it into the cop’s groin with all the force he could summon. Normally he would have aimed for the abdomen to knock the wind out of him, but like any street cop he was almost certain to be wearing a ballistic vest. They were more effective at stopping bullets than fists, but the last thing he needed was to break his hand on an inconveniently placed piece of armour.

In any case, his aim was true and the cop let out a grunt of pain as Drake’s fist connected. Before he could double over, Drake had wrenched his other hand free of the man’s grip and jumped to his feet, instinctively reaching for the holster at the cop’s right hip. Really he had no idea if the weapon was on the left or right side, but since most people were right-handed he was prepared to take a chance.

Sure enough, he felt his fingers close around the butt of an automatic. Yanking it free from the holster, he brought it up and jammed it against the cop’s neck, forcing the man to turn so that he was positioned between Drake and his partner. The entire action had taken just over three seconds.

Fortunately for Drake, the man he was now using as a human shield was more than up to the task. Standing a couple of inches above 6 feet, his heavy frame suggested a passion for weightlifting, though poor diet or lack of cardio training had left him bulked up and barrel-chested rather than lean and trim. Still, he was a serious-looking man who could easily overpower Drake in terms of brute strength. Only the gun now pressed against his flesh was keeping him under control.