Deception Game (41 page)

She could see the driver more clearly now that she was out of the glare of the headlights. As she’d expected given his choice of ride, he was a young man in his early twenties, not very tall but broad and bulky like he’d been hitting the gym hard. She could see the bulge of overdeveloped pectorals and biceps beneath his tight-fitting t-shirt. The sort of man who could prove to be a handful if she didn’t deal with him quickly.

‘American?’ he grunted, sounding more aggressive than surprised. It was hard to tell if he understood anything she’d said, but it didn’t really matter now. She had him where she needed him.

The moment had come. Reaching behind her, she gripped the butt of the automatic and yanked it from her jeans, swinging it around and jamming the barrel of the silencer under his chin.

‘Get away from the car. Move!’ she hissed, all trace of fear and panic having vanished from her now. She was staring right into his eyes, daring him to make a move.

No way was he going to try it – she knew that within a second or two. Shock at finding himself the victim of a carjacking quickly gave way to the instinct for self-preservation, and he raised his hands to show he was unarmed. He might not have understood the words, but he got the gist of what she wanted.

Taking a step backward, he moved away from the driver’s door, allowing her to slip into his place. McKnight in turn allowed him to back away, though she kept him covered with the silenced weapon.

‘Get the fuck out of here,’ she said, gesturing with the gun. ‘Go now!’

He didn’t need to be told twice, turning and fleeing down the sidewalk while yelling abuse at her the whole way. She imagined he would hail the first police officer he could find, but that didn’t matter right now. She intended to be long gone by then.

Ducking inside, she slipped into the driver’s seat and slammed the door shut.

‘Come on, you lazy bastard. Almost there,’ Drake said, having to exert more effort to keep Sowan plodding forward. A combination of exertion, pain and blood-loss was slowing him down, and there was nothing Drake could do for him until they were safely out of here. For now at least there was no choice but to tough it out.

‘I can’t believe Jibril would do this to me,’ Sowan said, lost in his own world now. ‘Betray a man he’s known for ten years, hand me over to the Americans without a second thought.’

‘He fucked you over. Believe me, it happens more than you think,’ Drake assured him, his weapon sweeping the shadows ahead. ‘Let’s concentrate on getting out of here so you can return the favour.’

‘Why did you come back for me?’ Sowan asked suddenly.

Drake couldn’t blame him for being curious. If he’d been in the man’s position, he would have felt much the same way. Unfortunately for Sowan, he wasn’t. He’d risked his life and the lives of his friends to get this far – he needed to know it hadn’t been for nothing.

‘Don’t get all misty-eyed. I needed the laptop,’ he said, quick to silence any notion that his actions were motivated by honour or loyalty.’ That’s all.’

‘You could have taken the bag and left me behind.’

Drake shrugged, saying nothing.

Taking his silence for what it was, Sowan glanced at him. ‘If I didn’t know better, I would say—’

His sentence was interrupted suddenly by a heavy crunch as something slammed into his chest with such force that he was knocked backwards, out of Drake’s grasp, landing in a sprawl nearby. A cloud of red was already painting the dusty ground beneath him.

Drake reacted immediately, his mind switching gears into survival mode in the blink of an eye. Throwing himself aside before the shooter could turn their attention to him, he landed behind an overflowing steel dumpster, pushed up against the rear wall of one of the commercial units which backed onto the alleyway. He hadn’t heard the shot, which meant they must have fired from some distance away, probably from an elevated position that provided a good field of fire over the alleyway.

Backing up against the dumpster, he let out a silent curse of anger and frustration and anguish all mingled together. Had the Libyan intelligence service caught up with them? Was it the military? The police? He had no idea. All he knew was that a sniper with some kind of high-powered rifle was covering the area, and until they were removed from play, he was pinned down.

Gripping his automatic tight, he glanced over at the man he had risked so much to rescue. Sowan was lying on his back near the far side of the alleyway, still moving feebly as if to rise, though one look at him was enough to confirm to Drake that these were his last moments. The gunshot wound in the centre of his chest was oozing a steady stream of frothy blood from his punctured lungs, and there was likely to be an even larger exit wound at the back.

‘Don’t move, Tarek,’ Drake hissed. ‘I’m coming to get you.’

Slowly his head turned until he made eye contact with Drake. The damage done by that sniper round had robbed him of the ability to speak, but it didn’t matter now. The look in his eyes said everything – he was dying, and he knew it. To attempt a rescue now would be futile.

‘I’m sorry,’ Drake whispered, knowing how pathetic a sentiment it was. But it was all he could offer the dying man.

The rucksack was lying beside him, dropped where he fell. With a trembling hand Sowan reached out, gripped it by one of the straps and hurled it across the alleyway in a final desperate exercise of strength, managing to get it within feet of Drake’s position. Then with a final shuddering gasp, he lay still.

He was gone.

Drake allowed himself to feel only a fleeting moment of regret for the man’s death, knowing grief was an emotion he could ill afford at that moment. Survival was the priority now, and even that hung in the balance.

His gaze rested on the rucksack that Sowan had tried to throw to him in his final moments, lying so tantalizingly close yet so maddeningly far. If he lost it now, then everything they had risked their lives for had been for nothing.

Lying several feet away in open ground, it was impossible to reach without exposing himself to the sniper’s fire.

‘Shit,’ he hissed. Reaching up, he gripped the metal arm fixed into the side of the dumpster designed to help load it into garbage trucks, and, summoning up all the strength he possessed, began to drag the heavy unit towards the rucksack. The bulky container was fully laden and difficult to handle, but the rollers fixed to the bottom provided just enough mobility to allow him to shift it. Slowly, inch by inch, it began to move.

Drake felt the impact of another shot reverberate through the frame, and suddenly the movement ceased as the dumpster tilted slightly, one corner now resting against the ground. It took him a moment to realize the sniper had just shot away one of the wheels.

That was when he acted. Taking a breath, he launched himself forward, managing to close his fingers around one of the bag’s shoulder straps before yanking it towards him as he scrambled back behind cover.

He was just backing up against cover when a second round tore through the thin metal sheeting of the dumpster, exploding out the other side dangerously close and forcing Drake to duck down low as pieces of discarded trash fell around him.

It was then that he felt an odd chill run through him, as if an icy hand had been laid on his skin, and realized with a vague sense of disconnection that something warm and wet was flowing down his arm. The round hadn’t missed him, he knew then.

‘You know, I rather expected I’d find you in a place like this, Ryan,’ a voice called out from the mouth of the alleyway. A smooth, polished voice carrying an unmistakably English accent. ‘Amongst the trash of the world.’

Drake closed his eyes for a moment as the realization sank in. It wasn’t the Libyan police, the military or their feared intelligence service that were shooting at him. It was Faulkner who had tracked him down. Somehow he’d anticipated this move, had predicted that Drake would try to use Sowan to gather evidence against him.

And Drake had walked right into his trap.

Bishr Kubar was pacing the room like a caged lion, bristling with anger that had yet to find an outlet. The building’s security centre was a big room populated by more than a dozen staff members on permanent duty. With computer terminals everywhere and most of one whole wall given over to flat-screen monitors displaying security-camera footage from all around the compound, it was a busy place at the best of times.

Tonight, with a security breach at the main gate and an operation underway to track down the escaped fugitive, the place was in virtual chaos. Security operatives were directing rapid streams of instructions into phones and radio sets, signals technicians hurried back and forth between stations, and overseers attempted to coordinate the whole operation.

Several computer screens were displaying footage of Jibril’s stolen vehicle, now turned on its roof and engulfed in flames.

‘Someone talk to me,’ he growled, furious that Sowan had managed to escape the compound and was now apparently roaming free in the city beyond. ‘What’s happening out there?’

One of the overseers was the first to step up. ‘We’re still getting reports in, but it looks like the suspect’s car was involved in a crash at an intersection. Two of our field operatives tried to pull him from the wreckage, but they were taken out by a second man who carried him away. It looks like he torched the vehicle to cover their escape.’

So the man who had been pulling Sowan’s strings had decided to reveal himself. ‘Where are they now?’

‘We’re vectoring in all available ground units.’

That wasn’t his question. ‘Lock down the entire area, now. Nobody gets in or out.’

‘We’re trying, but it takes time. There are hundreds of civilians in—’

‘Do I look like I care?’ Kubar shouted. ‘Just get it done!’

‘Shame about Tarek there. The man had potential,’ Faulkner went on. ‘His problem was that he was too damned honest. This isn’t a game for men like him. But
you
, on the other hand... you could make a career out of lying to people, Ryan. Tell me, what line did you spin to get him to cooperate? I’ll get you and your wife to a safe place? We can take down the evil David Faulkner together?’

Drake cursed under his breath as he pressed a hand against the torn flesh of his left arm. The bone didn’t seem to be broken, and he could still feel and move the fingers, which was a good sign. If the round had severed nerves or shattered the bone, that entire limb would have been out of action.

‘I’m wondering why you’re wasting time talking to me when you should be running and hiding,’ he replied, reaching down to unscrew the silencer from the barrel of his weapon. ‘I know what you’ve been doing here. I know you’re playing the Americans against the Libyans, selling secrets to every man and his dog, trying to be everyone’s friend at once. I wonder how both sides will feel when they find out the truth?’

At this, he caught a low chuckle of amusement. ‘What makes you think they will? Come on, we both know you’re not getting out of this alley. You’ve done well to get here, but this is as far as you go. Just give me the laptop and we can call this one a draw.’

With the silencer free, Drake placed it in his pocket and raised the automatic. There was a reason Faulkner was talking at such length, and it wasn’t for the sake of dramatic tension. He was stalling, keeping Drake occupied while his men moved into position. He would want to finish this quickly, before the Libyans could form a cordon around the area.

Hearing the faint crunch of boots on the sandy ground, he leaned out just far enough to catch sight of one of Faulkner’s men advancing down the alley towards him, keeping close to the wall and using the dumpsters as cover. They were closing in to finish him off, using the sniper to keep him pinned down while they moved in for the kill.

Gripping the automatic, Drake pointed it down the alleyway and pulled the trigger. There was a thunderous crack as the round exited the barrel, followed quickly by two more. If any of the Libyan operatives in the area were in doubt about where he’d fled to, he had just announced his presence about as loudly as possible.

The answering volley of silenced submachine gun and sniper fire slammed into the dumpster, practically tearing the metal shell apart and forcing Drake to flatten himself against the ground as the barrage continued. Pinned down and low on ammunition, there was little he could do to stop what was coming.

‘We may have him!’ the overseer called out, a radio headset pressed against one ear. ‘Reports of gunfire coming from an alleyway in the vicinity of the car crash.’

Kubar was up and moving before the man had even finished speaking. Getting in close, he stared him hard in the eye. ‘Scramble every unit you have in the area right now. Do
not
let this man escape. Do you understand?’

The look of fear in the overseer’s eyes told Kubar that his orders, and the threat that came with them, were well understood.

At the entrance to the alleyway, Faulkner clenched his fists as the furious gun battle continued. This was taking too long, was too loud and obtrusive. The Libyans would have heard the unmistakable sound of gunfire and would be vectoring units to the scene at that very moment.

Reaching up, he touched his radio, managing to keep his voice a lot calmer than he felt when he spoke. ‘Caitlin, do you have a shot?’

Caitlin Macguire was one of the best snipers he’d ever encountered. A veteran of the Ulster Volunteer Force in Northern Ireland, she’d been responsible for assassinating half a dozen IRA members before she’d turned thirty, plus one of her own men suspected of turning traitor. The Troubles might have simmered down since then, but Faulkner had found use for her. Time and again she had proven herself a ruthless and efficient killer, and she was sitting on a rooftop with a silenced sniper rifle barely two hundred yards away.

‘If I had, do you not think I’d take it?’ It took a brave man indeed to interrupt her during her work. ‘Little bastard’s dug in tight, so he is.’

No matter, Faulkner thought. He had another surprise for Drake. And if he was right, they should be in position any time now.

It was part instinct and part intuition born from years of experience that prompted Drake to look up. In urban combat like this, where streets and alleys could easily be turned into kill-zones, holding the high ground was vital, and Faulkner possessed both the manpower and the initiative to take it.

Glancing up to the residential blocks overlooking the alleyway, he spotted a figure sprinting just above the edge of the rooftop, their movement silhouetted against the electric lighting behind. A second shooter moving to outflank him while he was occupied with the first target in the alleyway below.

Raising his automatic and taking careful aim, he exhaled slowly, allowing the tension to leave the muscles in his arms and shoulders for a few precious moments, trying to forget the pain of torn flesh. The key to accurate shooting was not to tense up, not to anticipate the shot and the recoil but just to go with them when they happened.

It was the same lesson that had been drilled into him countless times when he’d been a young infantry soldier on the shooting range. Don’t think about the shot. Just pull the trigger.

Relax. Aim. Fire.

The Browning kicked back against his wrist as he loosed the first shot, followed immediately by a second. Two shots, followed by a click as the hammer came down on an empty chamber. He heard a muffled cry up above, and suddenly the figure stumbled and disappeared from sight.

In response, the operative in the alleyway opened fire again, snapping off short bursts that slammed into the dumpster and ricocheted off the ground, keeping Drake pinned down while he advanced, manoeuvring for a shot.

Drake glanced down at the weapon in his hands. The slide had flown back to reveal an empty breech. Out of ammunition, there was nothing more he could do as his enemy closed in to finish him.

Nothing except save the one person who didn’t deserve to be here.

Reaching up, he hit his radio transmitter. ‘Sam, get out of here,’ he whispered. ‘We’re blown. Get clear now.’

There was no response. In that instant, Drake felt his blood run cold. Had she been captured? Had she fallen prey to the same sniper that had taken out Sowan? Had another innocent life been lost because of him?

These were the last thoughts to enter his head as Faulkner’s hit man rounded the dumpster, weapon raised and finger on the trigger. Pinned down by the sniper, there was nowhere for Drake to run, no place left to hide, nothing to fall back on. He saw a trace of a smile as the man swung the barrel of his submachine gun towards him.

This was it.

At that moment, the alleyway was suddenly filled with the throaty roar of a car engine at high revs, and Drake’s would-be killer was illuminated with dazzling intensity by a pair of headlights.

He started to turn towards the source of the light, instinctively bringing the weapon around to counter this possible new threat, but never got the chance to act. In a terrifying blur of movement and the sickening thump of flesh meeting with fast moving metal, he was thrown up into the air, rolling clear over the windshield of the car that had barrelled into him, landing in a heap near the far wall.

Drake stared in disbelief as the car came to a screeching halt a few meters beyond. An old-model Toyota Celica; the kind of thing he used to see cruising along his local high street as a kid, its once-red paintwork faded by years of exposure to sun and windblown sand. The front brakes were now fully engaged, but the rear wheels continued to spin and skid on the dusty ground, kicking up clouds of dust and sand that enveloped the alleyway in a matter of seconds.

A smoke screen.

‘Ryan! Get in, for Christ’s sake!’ he heard McKnight yell.

Drake didn’t hesitate, didn’t stop to question how she’d found him or the risk she was taking by being here. Sniper or no sniper, this was his only chance to get out.

Abandoning his position, he sprinted towards the vehicle with the rucksack clutched against his chest. With the passenger door already open for him, he threw himself inside just as the chassis resounded with the first impact of a high-powered sniper round. Though temporarily blinded by the dust kicked up by their arrival, the shooter was firing indiscriminately into the cloud, trying to kill the driver or disable the car.

‘Go! Go!’ Drake yelled, slamming the door closed. ‘Drive!’

McKnight wasted no time, releasing the brakes and stomping on the accelerator just as another round shattered the rear window before embedding itself in the floor.

Drake could do little more than cling on for dear life as the walls of the alleyway sped by in a blur, the engine roaring as she pushed it to redline. The car might have been old and neglected, but its engine still had some horsepower lurking beneath the hood, and she was determined to use every ounce of it now.

Reaching the end of the alleyway, she swung the wheel hard over, turning left onto a main road so sharply that the car pitched dangerously sideways, two wheels threatening to leave the ground. Wrestling the wayward vehicle back under control with difficulty, she straightened their course and gunned the accelerator once more.

In a matter of seconds, they were clear.

Faulkner watched in silence as the car disappeared down the alley in a cloud of dust and tyre smoke, his jaw clenched tight, his face impassive. Only the look of barely concealed fury in his eyes betrayed his true emotions.

He had taken a great risk to come to Tripoli, believing he could intercept Drake and take out Sowan before they could cause further damage. His gamble had only partially paid off. Drake was as lucky as he was tenacious; a dangerous combination that had twice saved his life.

So absorbed was he in these thoughts that he was only vaguely aware of the sound of footsteps approaching from behind, the thump of boots on pavement, the click of weapons being raised.

Suddenly a voice yelled an instruction in Arabic. ‘Hands up! Get your hands up now!’

Faulkner let out a faint sigh of exasperation. Another mess that needed to be cleaned up, he thought as he raised his hands and turned around to face his would-be captors.

A Libyan security detail – three operatives dressed in plain clothes, armed with a mixture of semi-automatics and submachine guns, all of which were trained on him.

‘Down on your knees!’ the leader of the group shouted. His companion was already reaching for his radio to report in on the situation. ‘Down!’

‘I’m sorry,’ Faulkner responded, his Arabic smooth and polished after years of practice. ‘If it means anything to you, I would have rather avoided this.’

The leader of the group frowned, then took a step towards him with his weapon raised. He never got a chance to take another. The high-powered sniper round that slammed into the back of his head dropped him like a stone, followed quickly by a second shot that took out his companion with the radio.

The third man was just turning towards the source of the shots when he too fell victim to Macguire’s lethal sniper fire, falling to the ground in a jerking, quivering heap.

Faulkner spared them scarcely a glance as he strode away from the scene, reaching for his concealed radio. ‘All units, pack it up. We’re leaving.’

This situation was escalating beyond his ability to contain it. Sowan was dead at least, but as long as Drake remained alive he was a threat. A threat that had to be dealt with quickly if his work here was to survive.

Too much depended on this for it to fail now.