Gray Redemption (Tom Gray #3) (21 page)

“Where the hell did you get
that?”  Harvey asked
,
looking at the R4 assault
rifle Owen was brandishing.

“Same place I got your
pea-shooter,” Owen smiled.  “As we don’t know the enemy strength, I
thought it best to bring it along, just in case.”

“Couple that with your muscle
car, and you must have the smallest dick in the world.”

Despite the banter, Harvey was
grateful for the extra firepower.

It was another two minutes before
headlights heralded the arrival of the truck.   The driver swung the
vehicle through the open gates and manoeuvred the flatbed to the back of the
compound, where he reversed into a marked bay and climbed out of the cab. 
Harvey watched him head into the office, and a couple of minutes later he
emerged and climbed into a car which sped away into the night.

There had been no sign of the
van, and Harvey was beginning to wonder if they’d followed the wrong container
when the Mercedes slowly cruised past his hiding place, the driver
concentrating on the road ahead while the passenger’s attention was focused on
the haulage company’s yard.

Just as he was wondering where
the second person had appeared from, his phone vibrated.  Farsi had sent
him the file on Sean Littlefield and he quickly scanned through it, sharing the
information with Owen.  There was nothing to link him to Farrar or any
black ops teams, and none of his known associates matched the name the van was
rented under.

Harvey was still no closer to
discovering who his enemy was, and now he and Owen were facing at least two
adversaries.  There could even be more hidden away in the van, but he
couldn’t do anything about that at this late stage.  He hadn’t even had
time to get a snap of the newcomer to send to Farsi, so all he could do now was
exercise caution and hope to bring one of them in alive.

*
* *

Ben Palmer had spent most of the
journey in the back of the van, looking out of the small rear window to see if
they were being followed.  The BMW had caught his attention soon after
they’d joined the highway, but once it had sped past and disappeared into the
night, he began to relax. 

Satisfied that they had no tail,
he climbed over the central console and into the passenger seat.

“We’re clean,” he said, and
Littlefield looked in his wing mirror, seeing nothing but darkness.

They watched the truck pull off
the highway and Palmer ordered Littlefield to stop two hundred yards short of
the compound.  A few minutes later, a car drove out of the gates and
roared past them, heading towards the city.

“Do a drive by,” Palmer
said.  “I want to see if anyone’s still there.”

Littlefield rolled the van
forwards, and as they crept past the gates, Palmer spotted a single car parked
outside the office building.  Lights shone through the windows, and he
knew he’d have to wait a little longer to complete the mission.

“Sean, park up further down the
road and I’ll walk back.  Once the last person’s gone I’ll call you.”

His friend drove along until
they rounded a corner, where he performed a U-turn and went off-road, parking
the van behind a row of trees.  Palmer hopped out and jogged parallel to
the road until he was within a hundred yards of the perimeter fence, where he
took a knee next to a bush, his eyes on the prize.  He took a ski mask
from his jacket pocket and pulled it over his head, a low-tech solution to the
three CCTV cameras covering the target.

The nocturnal orchestra was in
full swing, and insects buzzed around him as he waited impatiently for signs of
movement.  Eventually he was rewarded as the lights went out and the
office door opened.  A male appeared carrying a bowl, followed by the dog
Palmer had encountered a few days earlier.  It bounded to the fence to
relieve itself, and then ran back to its owner, barking for its food.

As the dog ate, the man climbed
into his car and drove out of the gates, stopping at the road side to lock them
before heading into town, another shift over.

Palmer waited another few
minutes,
then
called Littlefield on his mobile.

“Bring the van up to the
gates.  I’ll meet you there.”

Sean joined him at the entrance
thirty seconds later and Palmer rattled the fence next to the gate.  The
dog came pounding towards him, teeth bared as it growled an ominous
warning.  When it was within ten feet, Palmer put a silenced bullet
between the animal’s eyes and it dropped before it could even register the
impact.

The final level of security to
overcome was the chain securing the gates.  Palmer slid open the side
panel of the van and pulled out the bolt cutters, which made short work of the
lock.  He pushed the gates open and Littlefield drove the van into the
yard, spinning it around so that the nose was pointing towards the entrance,
ready for a quick exit.

*
* *

Harvey watched the masked man
swing the gates open and the van drive in, and as soon as the driver jumped out
of the cab and ran to the back, he was ready to move.

“I’m going in,” he said. 
“Cover me.”

He squeezed through the
warehouse gate and across the road, his rubber-soled sneakers minimising the
sound.  When he reached the van he saw that the back doors were wide open
and he eased his way to the rear, his pistol extended in a two-handed
grip. 

Taking two steps to the side, he
rounded the door and caught the two men unaware.

“Hands up, nice and slow, and
move away from the van.”

Palmer
froze,
one hand on the
3-Methylfentanyl
aerosol, one of the improvised grenades in the other.  Littlefield had the
other two, and he looked over at his friend for guidance.  When Palmer
gave the slightest of nods, he put the munitions down and raised his hands.

Palmer depressed the nozzle on the canister and showed his hands.  He
turned to face Harvey, who gestured with the pistol for him to move away from
the vehicle.  He complied, Littlefield in tow.

“Masks off,” Harvey ordered. 
“Slowly.”

Both med did as instructed, and then Harvey asked for their weapons.

“It’s in the back of the van,” Palmer said, and Harvey backed up to the
opening.  He glanced in and saw the pistol,
then
reached in to grab it, his eyes back on his prisoners. Once it was tucked into
his waistband he ordered Littlefield to surrender his own gun.

Harvey told them both to unzip their jackets and lift their shirts, and
satisfied that they were no longer armed he ordered them to their knees.

Neither man moved.

“Down on the
grou
...”

The words felt heavy in his throat, and the gun wavered as he tried to
focus on the two men.  He shook his head to clear it, but all he succeeded
in doing was throw
himself
off balance.  He
slammed into one of the doors and collapsed to the ground.  Palmer was on
him in an instant, disarming him and giving him a kicking for good
measure.  He held his breath as he picked up the canister and threw it
towards the fence, making a mental note to collect it on the way out. 

“Drag him clear of the gas,” Palmer told Littlefield as he grabbed all
three grenades.  He scanned the area but saw no-one else, and the
questions came thick and fast.  Who was this guy, and who had sent
him?  Only two people could possibly know about this mission, and between
Carl Gordon and James Farrar, he knew who he trusted most.

It just didn’t make sense for Farrar to double-cross him, but having dealt
with the man on more than one occasion, he knew he could trust him about as far
as he could throw him.

He needed to find some answers, and fortunately that was a field he
excelled in.

“Why don’t we just kill him?”

“Because he’s not a local, Sean.
  This isn’t some guy protecting his
property, and I want to know what he’s doing here.”

Littlefield shrugged and grabbed Harvey’s ankles, dragging him towards the
office building while Palmer headed for the truck.  He got five yards
before the shot rang out and he heard the scream of pain.

He swiveled to see Littlefield lying next to the prisoner, clutching his
thigh as a crimson stain grew between his fingers, his hand outstretched in a
plea for help. 

Palmer ignored his cries and ducked behind a flatbed trailer as another
round came in, missing his head by a whisker as it ricocheted off the vehicle’s
frame.

What the hell was happening?

It wasn’t local police, he knew that much.  They’d have swarmed the
place by now.  Everything pointed towards it being just one person with a
rifle. 

He got down on his knee and peered between the trailer’s wheels, looking
for the shooter.

There!

A flash gave away the gunman’s position in the adjacent lot, and he knew
his own weapons would be useless at this range.  A glance around told him
there wasn’t enough cover for him to get closer, so he would have to draw the
man in.

“Sean!”  He shouted as loud as he could.  “Throw me the
detonator!”

Littlefield was confused.  What the hell was Palmer talking
about?  With his femoral artery shredded, he’d already lost a couple of
pints of blood.  Combined with the pain, he was unable to think clearly,
and he patted his pockets looking for whatever it was Palmer was asking for.

Dennis Owen had heard the shout, and when he saw the injured man searching
his pockets he knew he had to stop him handing over whatever he was carrying. 
He took careful aim, looking to incapacitate him rather than end his
life.  The first shot flew an inch high, the second catching the man in
the shoulder.

That was all the time Palmer needed.  With the gunman concentrating on
Littlefield, he dashed from cover and managed to get behind the cab of the
target vehicle just as a volley followed inches behind him.

Owen cursed, knowing he’d fallen for a feint.  Throwing the rifle
strap over his shoulder, he drew his Beretta and broke cover, sprinting towards
the gate.  He stopped when he reached the van, scanning the area for signs
of movement but seeing only the prostrate figure of Harvey lying next to
Littlefield.  He made his way over to them at a crouch, his pistol
searching in vain for the other target.

He’d seen Harvey disappear behind the van and emerge a minute later, being
dragged to his current position.  At first glance he saw no wounds, and
after removing the pistol from Littlefield’s belt he turned Harvey over. 
Unconscious but breathing, there was a trickle of blood on the back of his
head, although it didn’t appear life-threatening.

Owen slapped him a couple of times on the face but all he got in return was
a grunt.

“What have you done to him?”

“Gas,” the injured man grimaced.

Littlefield was in bad shape.  Owen pulled the man’s belt free and
applied a tourniquet to his thigh.  If the other man was willing to use
his friend as bait, he was unlikely to cheerfully hand over his weapons and
come quietly, so keeping Littlefield alive was their best chance of getting the
information Harvey wanted.  In his present state he was unlikely to be a
danger to Harvey, but just to be safe Owen yanked on Littlefield’s index
finger, dislocating it and rendering his good hand useless.

“You can still use it to apply pressure to the wound,” Owen said, “just
don’t try anything funny with my friend.  If I come back and he’s dead,
I’ll introduce you to some real pain.”

Not waiting around for an answer, he dashed towards the truck.  He’d
just reached the cab when he heard the
clang
of the lock being breached,
and a squeal as the rusty door hinges protested at being opened.

Owen rolled under the truck and saw a pair of legs standing at the back of
the vehicle.  He took aim as he heard the doors slam shut, and squeezed
off a shot that grazed the man’s trouser material as it flew a few millimeters
wide of the mark.  The legs suddenly disappeared behind an adjacent truck
and Owen was searching for his next shot when the whole world seemed to come
crashing down around him.

The first grenade exploded inside the closed container, shaking the entire
vehicle.  Dirt and rust from the flatbed’s ancient chassis assaulted his
eyes, and the deafening noise threatened to burst his eardrums.  One of
the welds burst at it weakest point buckling the side wall of the container,
and blood quickly began dripping onto the dusty ground. 

Screams of terror began emanating from the container when they were cut off
by the second explosion, which caught Owen as he struggled for a breath. 
He coughed as he ingested a cloud of dirt, choking as the fine particles caked
his throat.  His lungs refused to co-operate, demanding an inward breath
while all Owen wanted to do was clear the mess from his airways.  It
seemed an eternity before he was able to coax in just enough air to get the
natural process going again, then heaved as the contents of his passages fought
for a way out.

By the time he’d managed a few short breaths and regained a semblance of
control, the cries from the container had died down to just a couple of barely
perceptible moans.

Owen crawled out from under the truck and lay panting on the ground,
staring at the container looming above him.  Through the tear in the side
he could see the lifeless limbs of a woman, her skin pock-marked with bloody
entry wounds.