Deception Game (27 page)

Fumbling for the ignition key, he turned it over once and felt rather than heard the engine rumble back into life. He had no idea what kind of shape the Toyota was in after the punishing drive from Tripoli, but the engine still had some fight in it at least.

Having deposited his charges in the back seat, Mason circled around to the front and hauled open the passenger door, practically throwing himself inside. This car would become a bullet-magnet within seconds, and as they’d just learned, it offered little protection against small-arms fire.

‘Where’s Keira?’ Drake called out.

‘She’s pinned down, man.’ Mason pointed out to the open space near where the grenade had detonated.

Drake turned towards it. Sure enough, Frost was crouched behind the empty refuelling tank for cover, having become cut off from the rest of the group. She was still snapping off the occasional round from her Browning, but her slow rate of fire warned him she was almost out of ammunition. Her enemies meanwhile had her covered with automatic weapons, and it would only be a matter of seconds before they finished her off.

Mason’s reaction was immediate, concern for his teammate overriding any thoughts for his own safety. ‘Cover me. I’m going after her.’

‘Forget it. Get in,’ Drake ordered him.

Mason stared at him in disbelief. ‘We can’t just—’

‘Shut up and get in!’ Drake shouted, throwing the SUV into gear.

Nearby, Frost took aim and sent a single round whizzing off towards her target, hearing the distinctive
ping
as it ricocheted off the steel shed he was hiding behind. Her fire had kept them at bay thus far, but that would only last as long as her ammunition.

The Hollywood myths of people standing in open ground firing from the hip, or charging toward their enemies en masse heedless of the danger, were pure nonsense. As she’d long since learned, most firefights quickly devolved into a cat-and-mouse game, with both sides staying under cover and trying to either outgun or outflank the other. Nobody was going to risk getting killed in a suicidal charge, or by exposing themselves needlessly. Numbers and firepower were usually the deciding factors, and Faulkner’s men had more of both.

As if to echo this, the response to her single shot was a long sustained burst of fire that howled off the metal framework around her. She was thankful this airfield was more or less disused, and that the fuel tank above her was empty, otherwise this exchange would have been brief indeed.

Smoke from the burning aircraft would help to keep her hidden and perhaps buy her a few more seconds, but the advantage worked both ways. She’d be less able to see her enemies as they closed in to finish her, like wolves circling their wounded prey.

Her one consolation was the sudden roar of a vehicle engine off to her left, still dimly heard since her ears were ringing from the grenade blast. Her distraction, however dearly paid for, had at least bought Drake and the others time to make good their escape.

She tried to hold onto that thought as she leaned out and sent another round whizzing out through the gathering darkness towards her enemies. The slide on her weapon flew back and locked in place to expose an empty breech. She was out. The only thing left to do was get her head down and run, hoping she could slip away into the darkness.

However, no sooner had she picked herself up to flee than the roaring engine grew suddenly louder and, with a squeal of brakes and a spray of dust, the big SUV came to a shuddering halt mere feet away. The vehicle now stood between her and Faulkner’s men, blocking their line of sight.

The passenger door flew open, propelled by a kick from inside, to reveal Cole Mason, his clothes covered in dust and his eyes streaming from the recent grenade detonation. ‘Get the fuck in!’ he yelled.

She didn’t have to be told twice, scrambling to her feet and leaping up into the vehicle. With nowhere else to go, she ended up sprawled uncomfortably on top of him.

‘She’s in. Go! Punch it!’ Mason cried, fumbling to close the door behind her.

Wasting no time, Drake floored the accelerator. The big engine rumbled with power, wheels skidding on the dark packed dirt before finding purchase and lurching forward.

Gunfire traced through the air around them, pattering off the bodywork and shattering windows that showered the occupants with broken glass. There was a muffled cry from the back seat, though it was barely audible amidst the chatter of weapons fire and the roar of the labouring engine.

‘Stay down!’ Drake warned, keeping his foot pressed firmly on the gas and hoping there was nothing ahead of them that the Toyota couldn’t overcome. There was no thought of manoeuvring for the best escape route at that moment; their only defence was distance.

Rocketing across the runway, they soon found themselves in the rougher ground on the far side. Rocks and sharp stones hammered the vehicle’s underside while sudden dips and bumps strained the already battered suspension, but somehow it kept going. Somehow the engine continued to drag them onwards, wheels chewing up the uneven ground, until the incoming fire started to slacken off and the only sounds they could hear were the rumble of the engine and the whistle of wind through bullet holes in the windshield.

Heart pounding, breath still coming in shallow gasps, Drake chanced to raise his head above the level of the dashboard. He stole a glance in his rear-view mirror, mercifully seeing no sign of pursuit.

‘Everyone all right?’ he asked, hardly believing they’d made it out alive. How long they would stay that way in a foreign country with no support and no immediate means of escape was another matter, but for now their priority was simply to get out of the area.

‘Hundred per cent,’ Frost replied, oblivious to the blood dripping down her cheek where a shard of glass had cut her.

‘Slightly crushed,’ was Mason’s response. With no other space to occupy in the passenger seat, Frost had resorted to dumping herself unceremoniously on his lap. However, his attempt at humour earned him a slap across the face that seemed to lie somewhere between affection and irritation.

McKnight however, seated behind them, was in no mood for jokes.

‘Ryan, we’ve got a problem here,’ she said, her voice quiet and urgent. ‘Sowan’s been hit.’

As the SUV receded into the distance, David Faulkner turned his face skyward, closed his eyes and slowly exhaled through his nose, forcing calm into his body once more. To be sure, anger had its place in the great tapestry of human emotion. Anger endowed one with the strength and the will to do things that others might balk at, to commit acts of violence that would shock people who considered themselves normal. It was a vital weapon in the armoury of any operative like himself.

But anger alone was destructive and short-sighted, and this wasn’t the time for it. Now was the time for cold hard decision making, starting with his own team.

Two of his men were crouched down beside one of their comrades, who had been severely injured during the brief fire fight. Colin Maxwell, the man Faulkner had entrusted with keeping their hostage under control, was lying on his back in the dirt, blood from several gunshot wounds pooling beneath him. Close-range shots that must have retained enough power to penetrate his body armour.

He was breathing hard and fast, teeth gritted against the pain, unable to keep from moaning as the lifeblood flowed out of him.

‘Well?’ Faulkner asked impatiently.

Samuel Tarver, the team medic, glanced up from his vain attempts to stop the bleeding. ‘Three gunshots to the torso. He’s alive, but he won’t be for long unless we get him to a hospital.’

Faulkner let out a disappointed sigh. Maxwell was a good man; an army veteran who had served everywhere from the Falklands to Iraq in his long career. He’d worked for Faulkner for a number of years and never let him down in any appreciable way, until today.

It would be a shame to lose him.

Taking a step forward, he looked Maxwell hard in the eye. The old veteran stared right back at him, perhaps sensing what was coming. But like a good soldier, he didn’t flinch, didn’t plead or beg. Perhaps because he wasn’t able to speak, but Faulkner preferred to attribute it to quiet courage.

‘Sorry, Colin,’ Faulkner said quietly, drawing his pistol. One shot to the head was enough to put Maxwell out of his misery.

Ignoring the horrified stares of the two men who only seconds earlier had been fighting to save his life, Faulkner holstered his weapon.

‘Right, that’s that taken care of,’ he said, relieved that the matter was resolved. Death wasn’t such a bad thing really, but drawn-out deaths were just tiresome. ‘Sam, bring the car around, would you? We’d better be on our way before the police get here.’

Hesitating a moment, Tarver thought better of whatever objection he’d been about to voice, and hurried off to retrieve their own vehicle.

The fourth member of Faulkner’s men had jogged over to investigate the gunshot, having secured the perimeter in the wake of the fight. Peter Boone, a tough and wily little Glaswegian whose spare frame and craggy face betrayed a hard-as-nails character and a bluntly grim outlook on life. He surveyed Maxwell’s dead body without comment or emotion. Indeed, it was hard to know what, if any, kind of soul lurked behind his solemn grey eyes.

‘What about Drake and the others? If they get away with Sowan, we’re fucked.’

Faulkner fixed him with a baleful glare. Most other men would have wilted under such a gaze, but Boone was one of the few who seemed to have no sense of fear. Faulkner still couldn’t decide if he respected or resented that.

‘Then we’d best make sure they don’t,’ he said calmly. ‘Hadn’t we, Peter?’

Boone straightened up a little. ‘What do you want us to do?’

The key, as always, was to apply a little logic to the problem, to take what he already knew, carefully consider its implications and use it to arrive at a rational conclusion.

A row of canvas backpacks were lying on the ground nearby. Presumably Drake had intended to take them on the aircraft that had been due to pick them up, but instead they’d been abandoned during the chaotic fire fight. Intrigued, Faulkner walked over and knelt down to inspect their contents.

Wary of booby traps, he took his time opening the first one. Tools, electronic equipment, water, food, even a Magellan satnav unit were all stowed away inside. Faulkner smiled faintly at the realization that his adversaries had, in their haste to escape, likely abandoned most of their vital gear.

Drake was now stranded in a hostile country with no immediate means of escape and few resources to call upon. He was driving a car which, in addition to being registered as stolen, was now sporting more bullet holes than a road sign in Alabama. By the time the sun came up – which according to his watch was in less than two hours – Drake would have no choice but to ditch the incriminating vehicle or risk immediate police pursuit.

A group of foreigners with two hostages in tow wouldn’t get far on foot, especially not with temperatures likely to hit the high thirties by midday. With this in mind, Drake’s first priority would be to find somewhere he could switch vehicles, regroup and plan his next move.

Drake might have been well trained at escape and evasion, but so was Faulkner, and he’d been playing this game a lot longer than his adversary. It wouldn’t take Drake long to realize there was only one feasible course of action left to him now. One dangerous gamble that might offer a way out.

And Faulkner would be ready for him.

‘Talk to me, Sam,’ Drake called out, trying to make out what was happening in the back seat while keeping his eyes on the rough terrain ahead.

Behind him, McKnight was bent over Sowan, working quickly to assess the damage.

‘He’s taken a round in the leg. Must have punched right through the door.’

Drake winced inwardly. As he’d feared, their ride had offered little protection against the hail of gunfire that had been directed their way in the final few moments of the battle. It was a miracle none of them had been killed outright.

Gripping the material of Sowan’s trouser leg, McKnight yanked hard, tearing it apart to expose a gory entrance wound in his left thigh. Blood was pumping out of the torn flesh in time to his rapid pulse.

‘Shit, he’s shot up pretty bad. Looks like arterial bleeding,’ she said, applying pressure to try to staunch the flow of blood. Sowan, his hands still bound, cried out in pain and arched his back as if trying to fight her off.

‘How bad is it?’ Frost asked, twisting around to look.

McKnight fixed her with a blazing look. ‘His blood’s pumping onto the floor instead of around his body, so I guess it’s pretty bad, Keira.’

Normally the temperamental young specialist wouldn’t have tolerated such an outburst, but even Frost knew when to back off.

‘Can you stop it?’ Drake asked.

‘Not unless I can clamp the artery, and I’m not even sure I can do that. I need a med kit, now.’

In the front seat, Drake looked to Mason for assistance. The specialist shook his head gravely. ‘Had to ditch our packs at the airfield. There was no time to retrieve them.’

‘Fuck,’ Drake said under his breath. No packs meant no equipment, no medical supplies, no spare ammunition or even navigational aids. They literally had nothing but the clothes on their backs.

‘Check the glove box,’ he said, hoping for a lucky break. ‘See if there’s a first-aid kit.’

Popping open the little compartment in front of her, Frost rummaged through the contents. After tossing aside a road map, some ownership documents and a couple of user manuals that looked like they’d never been opened, she shook her head.

‘I got nothing.’

‘He needs a trauma surgeon, not a band aid and a sticky plaster, Ryan,’ McKnight warned as the car bumped through a deep depression, prompting an agonized groan from the injured man.

‘Just do what you can.’

‘You mean sit here and watch him bleed to death?’ she asked, fumbling to undo her belt. ‘Because that’s what’s going to happen if we don’t get him to a hospital in the next fifteen minutes.’

Sowan’s wife was screaming into her gag, probably going into shock at the sight of her husband’s blood everywhere. Drake ignored her. There were bigger problems to deal with.

‘People ask questions in hospitals, Sam.’

‘And I don’t think there are too many doctors on call in this neck of the woods,’ Mason added, gesturing to the inky blackness outside.

Wrapping her belt around Sowan’s thigh a few inches above the injury, she cinched it up as tight as she could manage, prompting another groan of pain. Sowan was squirming and kicking, trying to get away from her, perhaps thinking she was doing more harm than good.

‘Don’t struggle,’ McKnight warned him. ‘I’m trying to save your life.’

Painful it might have been, but her makeshift tourniquet had nonetheless slowed the bleeding. She had bought him time, but not much.

Glancing out her shattered window, Frost spotted something off to the left. ‘I see lights, on our ten o’clock.’

Following her line of sight, Drake saw them too. A small cluster of electric lights in the sea of darkness that surrounded them; possibly a village or other small settlement. Whatever it was, it had to be reasonably well supplied to have electricity, which might also mean a medical clinic or doctor’s surgery. At the very least they had to have basic medical supplies.

‘Can’t be more than a couple of clicks away,’ Frost added.

Mason looked at the leader of their team. Drake was staring fixedly ahead, gripping the wheel tightly. It was obvious what was on his mind. ‘Faulkner will be coming after us.’

‘I know.’

‘We’ve got nothing to defend ourselves with.’

‘I know.’

‘If we stop now, we’d be painting a target on our heads.’

‘And if we don’t stop, Sowan’s as good as dead,’ Frost reminded him. ‘That what you want, Cole?’

At this, Mason shrugged. ‘Better him than us.’

‘Then all this was a waste of time. We came all this way, risked our lives, lost a man for nothing. That’s fucking bullshit.’

‘You know what else is bullshit? Dying in some desert shithole trying to save a man who’d just as soon kill us all and piss on our graves. I say we ditch him and get our asses over the border to Tunisia tonight.’

‘So we just keep driving and hope for the best?’ the young woman shot back. ‘For Christ’s sake, use your head! Even if we get away, we still lose. Faulkner will hunt us down no matter where go.’

‘So let him. I’d rather fight on my own terms.’

Drake had remained silent thus far, rapidly turning over the various risks and possibilities in his mind. Each argument had its merits, but there was no denying the pragmatic reality of Mason’s plan. They were driving a stolen car in a hostile country, with a high-ranking government official and his wife held hostage. Not only was Faulkner hunting them, but so was the Libyan government. Every minute they spent here increased the chances of being caught by one side or the other.

On the other hand, they were less than a hundred miles from the Tunisian border. They could cut Sowan loose right now, make a dash westward and with luck be out of Libya before first light. It would mean leaving with nothing to show for their efforts tonight, but they would at least have escaped with their lives.

But as Frost had so rightly pointed out, what then? Clearly Faulkner was a man with considerable resources at his disposal, and the will to use deadly force to get what he wanted. Drake knew he had no hope of fighting a war on two fronts. One way or another Faulkner had to be dealt with, and somehow Sowan was the key to that.

It was obvious the man wasn’t what Faulkner had claimed him to be, but he was important, perhaps even dangerous. Faulkner had orchestrated this whole thing, had manipulated Drake and his team into coming here, had even risked his own life to get his hands on Tarek Sowan.

Why?

One thing was for sure – they would never learn the truth if Sowan bled to death in the back seat of their car. If they wanted to learn the secrets that Faulkner was so determined to protect, their captive had to live.

‘We need Sowan alive if we want to get out of this. We’re going for it,’ Drake decided, swinging the wheel over and charting a path straight towards the distant settlement.

‘Goddamn it,’ Mason swore under his breath, though he was wise enough not to protest Drake’s decision. Arguing at this point would achieve little except to fragment the group further.

‘Check your weapons and ammo,’ Drake said. He didn’t know what kind of reception they could expect, but it was unlikely to be friendly.

‘That won’t take long,’ Frost observed. Between the escape from Tripoli and the fight at the airfield, the group had expended most of their limited ammunition.

They were certainly in no shape to fight another battle, but with luck they wouldn’t have to. When dealing with civilians, the mere display of a weapon was often enough to silence thoughts of resistance.

‘Just get it done,’ Drake said as they bumped and jolted their way towards the small settlement. ‘When we go in, it has to be fast and hard. Keira and I will secure the house. Cole, you cover Sam. As soon as the place is secure, bring Sowan inside. Everyone understand?’

He was met by a round of affirmatives.

‘How’s he doing?’ Drake asked over his shoulder.

‘Pulse is dropping,’ McKnight replied, her hands and forearms stained crimson. Sowan was still moaning in pain, but his movements were growing sluggish, his eyes heavy. ‘We need to stop this bleeding, now, Ryan.’

He said nothing to that, concentrating instead on getting them to their destination as quickly as possible.

It almost came as a shock when the rough stony ground beneath their wheels suddenly gave way to asphalt as they intersected a main road. Guessing that it ran close to the settlement nearby, Drake swung them left onto the narrow roadway and stomped on the accelerator. The surface beneath them was roughly finished and in poor repair, yet after jolting and rolling across miles of open country it felt as if they were driving on air.

As he’d hoped, after half a mile a junction split off to the right, apparently an access road for the settlement. Drake went right for it, leaving a cloud of dust and stones in his wake as the SUV rumbled along the last few hundred yards.