Betrayal (8 page)

Drake’s role as a Shepherd team leader afforded him certain powers that most other government officials could only dream of. He could pass through US airports without being searched, enter most government buildings without difficulty, and even commandeer police and military resources in the pursuit of his objective. It wasn’t something he was expected to make use of on a regular basis, and such authority was always strictly monitored, but it did allow him to cut through a lot of red tape in a hurry.

Police and FBI units were converging from all over town to establish a perimeter around the site and support them, but so far they had the lead. If they moved fast, there was a chance they could end this thing quickly, capture the instigators of a major terrorist attack and perhaps even recover Demochev alive. How Anya would fit into this equation remained to be seen.

Their target was, according to Frost’s online forays, Xcell Self-Storage, a commercial storage facility in the Capitol Heights district of the city. Secure, and used only by the occasional delivery truck, it was the kind of place where one could hold a man hostage for a long time without fear of discovery.

Drake gripped one of the wall-mounted handles as the van rounded a corner at high speed. It was raining hard outside. He could hear the heavy drumming of it on the vehicle’s thin metal roof, and the rhythmic whine of the wipers up front as they fought to keep the windshield clear.

‘According to the facility manager, the only lock-up to have been accessed in the past hour is Unit D7,’ the lead operative said, studying the blueprints of the facility that had been transmitted to his PDA direct from Langley. The name tag on his body armour read
O’Rourke
. ‘It’s about the size of a double garage, but according to the plans it’s one big open space so we shouldn’t have trouble locating our target.’

Assuming he’s still there, Drake didn’t add. Despite their rapid response there was a chance their opponents had switched vehicles again after reaching the facility. It certainly wasn’t the kind of place one would dig in and defend.

Still, they wouldn’t know for sure until they got there.

‘We’ve got a friendly in there so watch your fire,’ O’Rourke added. ‘But be advised, tangos are armed and should be considered extremely dangerous. Try to take them alive if possible, but don’t take any chances. Clear?’

He was met by a chorus of affirmative remarks. Each of the tactical operatives was geared up for the assault, both mentally and physically. Drake had seen that look enough times on soldiers about to go into battle to recognise it.

Curious how far they still had to go, he craned his neck to see up front, trying to make out the world beyond the rain-streaked windshield.

Capitol Heights was a run-down area, with dirty litter-strewn streets and dreary low-rise apartment buildings crowded close to the main drag. Many of the street lights were out, either because they’d been vandalised or because the bulbs had blown and never been replaced. The few shops that he’d seen all had heavy security shutters down, while most apartments had their curtains closed as if the occupants were trying to shut the world out. Drake couldn’t blame them.

The cars were mostly old Buicks and Chevys; all battered and poorly maintained like everything else around here. There weren’t many people out on the streets given the weather conditions, but a few brave souls trudged doggedly onwards, heads down and shoulders hunched against the rain. They looked as miserable as the buildings around them.

Christmas hadn’t yet come to Capitol Heights, it seemed.

Turning his attention back to the tactical team leader, he leaned forward and tapped O’Rourke on the shoulder. ‘So what’s the plan?’

‘Simple breach, sir. We go in hard through the front door, use flashbangs to cover our entry, and secure Demochev as fast as possible. With luck we can take them by surprise.’

‘What if they make a run for it?’

O’Rourke shrugged. ‘There’s nowhere for them to go. The entire facility’s surrounded by chain-link fence and security cameras. Only way in or out is through the main gate, and we’ll have that covered.’

He paused, bracing his large frame, bulked out by body armour, against the wall as the van swerved. As their course stabilised, he reached into a bag by his feet and handed Drake one of the little portable radio units the assault team wore.

‘Take this. It’s already tied into our radio net.’

The unit was familiar enough to Drake, similar to the ones he’d used as a Shepherd operative during similar assaults. The microphone was attached to a Velcro strap that wrapped around the throat, so that it picked up the actual vibrations in the user’s voice box and allowed them to be heard clearly even when surrounded by loud ambient noise.

After strapping the unit in place and checking it was switched on, he hit the transmit button. ‘Radio check.’

O’Rourke nodded. ‘Good, copy.’

‘This is it,’ the driver called as they began to slow down. ‘Ten seconds!’

Sure enough, the drab grey housing of Capitol Hill had given way to drab grey commercial storage units; essentially long brick sheds of varying size, with corrugated-iron roofs and rolling steel-shuttered doors. Access to each locker was controlled by a key-card entry system similar to that used in modern hotels, which cut down the chance of theft and also allowed the storage company to monitor usage, since each card swipe was electronically logged.

Alerted in advance of their arrival, the lone security guard manning the main gate had made sure the barrier was open, allowing them to drive right through and into the network of storage lock-ups unhindered. Their van was disguised as a regular commercial goods vehicle, hopefully allowing them to park near the lock-up without raising suspicion.

They would find out soon enough, Drake thought as the van skidded to a halt, the tyres slipping on the slick tarmac.

O’Rourke turned to the rest of the team. ‘Ready up.’

Most of the team were armed with the venerable Heckler & Koch MP5; a compact and reliable sub-machine gun that had been in use with SWAT and Special Forces units for more than forty years. It lacked the punch and range of heavier assault rifles, but it was ideal for use in tight spaces.

Drake also spotted a couple of big Mossberg 590 breaching shotguns, designed to blast open locks and reinforced doors. He’d seen them in action himself on a few occasions and knew the devastating damage they could deal at close range.

Taking up position at the rear of the compartment, O’Rourke gave a single nod to show that he was ready, unlatched the cargo door and shoved it outwards. Two operatives armed with MP5s went first, taking up position on either side of the van to cover their flanks while the rest of the team deployed.

O’Rourke was next, with Drake right behind him. Leaping down on to the wet tarmac, he immediately found himself in the midst of the heavy downpour. Doing his best to ignore the freezing rain that was quickly soaking into his clothes, he turned his attention to the storage lockers around them.

A long row of breeze-block structures stretched out before him, with letters and numbers printed on their doors. As far as he could tell, the storage yard was laid out in a basic grid pattern, with a letter assigned to each section. The number indicated the location within that section.

With that in mind, lock-up D7 should be just around the corner.

Turning to O’Rourke, he nodded off to the right. ‘Send two of your men around the other way. I want to box them in.’

The operative nodded understanding. ‘Telford, Cartwright. Circle around this section. Radio when you’re in position.’

‘Copy that.’

As the two men hurried off to encircle the lock-up, Drake advanced to the next intersection with the Sig gripped tight in numb fingers. The splash of boots in the puddles behind told him the rest of the team were close.

Backing up against a rough breeze-block wall, he took a breath and waited for a signal from their flanking force.

‘I see it,’ a voice reported over the radio a few moments later. ‘Doors are shut. No vehicles, no sign of activity.’

‘Copy that,’ Drake replied. ‘Watch the rooftops. We’re moving in now.’

Drake had been in this situation countless times before, preparing to make entry to a building with no idea what was on the other side of the door, wondering if they were going to be fired upon at any moment, anxiously watching every corner, every shadowy recess.

Taking another breath and wiping the rainwater out of his eyes, Drake rounded the corner and advanced towards lock-up D7. At the same moment he spotted the two operatives moving in from the opposite intersection, weapons up and ready.

As they had said, there was no sign of any activity in the lock-up. The rolling steel doors were down and locked. Drake couldn’t tell if there were any lights on inside.

‘Telford, get that breaching gun ready,’ O’Rourke ordered, motioning forward one of the operatives armed with a heavy-gauge shotgun. ‘Flashbangs on standby. Everyone ready?’

Before anyone could reply, they froze as an engine suddenly rumbled into life inside the lock-up. Someone had just started up a vehicle in there.

‘They’re getting ready to move!’ Drake hissed, realising the priceless opportunity that now presented itself. In order to leave, they would have to open the lock-up doors. ‘Flashbangs on my order. Everyone else get ready to move in. Understand?’

He was met by a round of affirmatives. Backing up beside the lock-up, Drake checked his weapon and waited, his heart pounding. Adrenalin was keeping his body temperature up, allowing him to ignore the freezing rain that had by now soaked him to the skin.

All his attention was now focused on the steel doors beside him.

He heard an electronic buzz from inside, and suddenly the doors began to roll upwards, their metal links folding around the mechanism at the top as the winch inside clanked and groaned under the strain. Harsh light spilled out from the gap now opened – headlights from the vehicle or internal lighting, he couldn’t tell.

Either way, he’d seen enough.

‘Breach!’ he called out. ‘Flash out!’

Stepping out from cover, two of O’Rourke’s operatives pulled the pins on their stun grenades and tossed the little metal cylinders in through the gap. There was a pause, perhaps a second or so, followed by twin explosions that echoed around the confined space of the storage lock-up like the crack of thunder.

The flashbang grenades, producing a blinding flash of light and a concussive boom designed to temporarily blind and deafen potential enemies, would hopefully buy the assault team a few precious seconds to move in.

They didn’t waste a heartbeat.

‘Go! Go!’ Drake yelled, ducking beneath the doors that were still rising, his weapon immediately sweeping the interior of the storage lock-up. The reek of burned chemicals from the grenades stung his eyes and nostrils, but he ignored it, concentrating instead on taking in his surroundings.

The big storage lock-up, bare brick walls and a corrugated-metal roof, was dominated by the blue Chevrolet Express van that sat to one side, its bodywork still dripping from the recent rain. The engine was idling, the headlights almost blinding in their intensity, yet even as he advanced he saw a figure stagger out from behind the vehicle.

Dressed in a set of plain blue overalls that reminded Drake of a courier or delivery company, he was holding one hand against his ear and blinking furiously. Clearly the blast from the flashbang had deafened him and probably overloaded the photoreceptors in his eyes. His unsteady gait suggested the grenade had also disturbed his equilibrium.

‘Don’t move!’ Drake yelled, levelling his weapon at the man’s centre mass. ‘Get down on the ground!’

But his target had no intention of surrendering. Drake saw him reach for something in his overalls, saw the glint of a weapon as he brought it up to fire.

There was no choice. Without hesitation Drake put two rounds in his chest, the Sig kicking back in his hands as the rounds discharged. He saw an explosion of red mist exit from the man’s back, heard an almost surprised grunt, and just like that he went down.

‘Tango down!’ Drake shouted, advancing towards him and kicking the weapon clear of his grasp. He didn’t have time to examine it in detail, but it looked like an automatic of some kind. ‘Secure the van!’

‘Roger that,’ O’Rourke replied. ‘No other Tangos in sight!’

Drake’s eyes swept the darkened room, looking for more targets. As O’Rourke had suggested on the way here, the storage lock-up was one big open space about 8 yards square. Big enough to hold a couple of delivery trucks parked side by side, but in this case more or less empty. Nowhere to hide.

The internal lights were switched off. The only illumination was provided by the dim red glow of the van’s rear lights.

‘Clear left!’ another operative called out.

He heard a click and a faint groan as the van’s cargo doors were hauled open. ‘Vehicle’s clear. Nothing inside!’

But that didn’t interest Drake now. His attention was focused on the lone figure strapped to a cheap plastic office chair in the far corner of the room. The prisoner wasn’t moving, and from what he could see in the crimson glow of the vehicle tail lights, he doubted he or she ever would.

‘I’ve got something over here,’ he called out. ‘Far corner. Bring some light.’

Flashlight beams pierced the gloom around him, illuminating the chair’s inhabitant, though Drake quickly caught himself wishing they hadn’t.

They had found Demochev all right, or what was left of him.

Stripped to the waist, his expensive suit thrown idly to one side, the FSB’s director of counter-terrorism bore the grim hallmarks of the torture he’d endured. His head lolled back, no longer supported by conscious effort, his eyes staring blankly at the roof as raindrops continued to patter off the thin sheet metal.

His face was battered, bruised and swollen, rendered almost unrecognisable by the terrible beating he had taken, while three fingers of his right hand were missing, sliced off by a pair of wire cutters that was now lying on the concrete floor, covered in blood. Looking down, Drake could see that the man’s left foot had been given similar treatment. All five digits had been crudely snipped off.