Sacrifice (37 page)

Reaching into his pocket, he held up her phone for emphasis, glaring at her with barely suppressed anger. ‘So don’t give me any more crap. People are dying because of this. I want to know what the fuck’s going on, right now.’

‘What about Keira?’ Keegan asked, rising to his feet. The look in his eyes made it plain what he was feeling. ‘What happened to her?’

‘She’s gone,’ Crawford said coldly, watching his reaction. ‘We found signs of a struggle in their room, but no Frost. And the security cameras didn’t show her leaving. We’re doing a floor-by-floor search of the hotel but I doubt we’ll find her there. It seems that the same guys who tried to take out Drake got to her first.’

Keegan’s tanned, weather-beaten face paled at this revelation. ‘Oh, Christ …’

Crawford ignored him, concentrating his attention on McKnight. ‘No more games. You want a way out of this, tell me what they were doing at that hotel. Let me help you.’

McKnight stared back at him, surprised by the conviction in his eyes. ‘Why should I believe you?’

To her surprise, the hard, intense gaze softened a little. ‘I’ve been with the Agency going on twenty years. I’ve seen plenty of good people get screwed over. I even made it happen once or twice myself, and I can feel it happening again.’ He shook his head. ‘No more. I’m too old and too ugly for another hatchet job.’

Samantha was torn. She wanted to believe him but was reluctant to say anything that could compromise Drake and Frost. And yet, the thought of sitting here doing nothing while their comrades risked their lives was more than she could stand.

‘They were trying to hack into Horizon’s computer network,’ she said at last.

Crawford’s eyes opened wider. ‘Why?’

‘Because we think Horizon stole the Stinger that shot down Mitchell’s chopper. When we started to uncover the truth, they panicked and tried to destroy the evidence.’

‘This is insane.’ He gestured to the television, where footage of Horizon’s press conference was playing. ‘These are the guys who saved Drake’s ass yesterday, and
mine
. They just took out Mitchell’s killers, for Christ’s sake.’

‘Come on, Crawford. Can’t you see what’s happening here?’ Keegan cut in. ‘Mitchell’s execution tape gets released just when we’re starting to make a link between Horizon and the Stinger attack. Then the man behind the killing conveniently shows up dead and Horizon claims credit for the whole thing. Drake tries to find the truth, and suddenly we’re under arrest and he’s wanted for murder.’

‘For good reason,’ Crawford hit back. ‘I saw the security footage. Drake got in that elevator with those two men. He killed them.’

‘Bullshit,’ Keegan said, refusing to yield. ‘Ryan ain’t no murderer. If he did kill those guys, he must have had good reason.’

‘Then I’d love to hear it. ISAF have issued a warrant for his arrest. Local police, ANA, even the military have been ordered to take him down on sight.’

‘Jesus Christ, you might as well have painted a target
on his head,’ the sniper exclaimed. ‘The ANA would just as soon kill him as arrest him.’

Afghan security forces had a reputation, deserved or not, for shooting first and asking questions later. If they had been ordered to take down an armed and dangerous man wanted for a double homicide, they were unlikely to take chances.

Crawford was silent, chewing his lip as he stared at the news footage.

McKnight took a step towards him. ‘Tell me you don’t believe us.’

The veteran agent had no answer for her.

‘Then help us put a stop to this. Before it’s too late.’

‘Say I do believe you,’ he said at last. ‘What would you have me do?’

She only had one card to play, and now was the time. ‘Let us bring Drake in. Someone was willing to kill to silence him – surely that’s got to mean something.’

The section leader’s expression was glacial as he weighed up everything he’d heard. Samantha said nothing further; she had stated her case as best she could already. To repeat herself would risk alienating him. All she could do was wait.

‘All right, fuck it,’ Crawford said at last. ‘But if this happens, it happens my way. You work under my command, you report direct to me and no one else. If you fail, I’m not responsible for it. If you find something, then I alone decide what to do with it. Are we absolutely clear on that?’

Relief flooded through her. ‘Crystal.’

If they found something on Carpenter, she would make sure it got to people who could do something with it, even if she had to turn to the news media.

He nodded. ‘Good. My orders were to get you on the
next flight out of here, which leaves in …’ Crawford glanced at his watch. ‘Less than four hours. So I suggest we get to work.’

Carpenter was feeling exhilarated as his four-vehicle convoy threaded its way through Kabul’s streets on the way back from his press briefing. He took a sip of Scotch, leaning back in his seat as his driver manoeuvred them through an ANP checkpoint.

Already he had taken calls from half a dozen senior military and PMC leaders congratulating him on taking down Anwari, many hinting that his expertise would be much sought after in the near future. If Horizon had been a publicly traded company, he imagined their stock would be soaring at that moment.

However, there was one phone call he hadn’t received yet. And when it finally came, his good mood evaporated in an instant.

‘What’s the situation?’ Carpenter asked, eager to hear that Drake had been successfully neutralised.

‘Walker and Forrest are dead.’ Vermaak’s voice betrayed no emotion as he announced the deaths of two of his comrades. ‘Drake killed them and got away. Local police are all over it.’

It took great effort for Carpenter to resist his first instinct, which was to slam his fist down and berate his subordinate for letting Drake slip away.

‘Explain to me how this happened,’ he said instead, his voice icy calm.

‘It seems we underestimated Drake. The little shit’s tougher than he looks.’

‘And now he knows we’re onto him,’ Carpenter reminded him. ‘You just blew our best chance at taking him down.’

Vermaak said nothing, which was a wise move on his part, Carpenter reflected. Despite his failure, Vermaak knew how much his services were worth. More than that, he knew Carpenter couldn’t afford to lose his loyalty, or silence.

‘Take every man you can spare,’ Carpenter ordered. ‘Even the security teams from our compound. Set up roving patrols around the city, alert all of our intelligence assets to be on the lookout for him, and have strike teams set up and ready to move in the moment we have a confirmed sighting. I want him dead or in our hands by this time tomorrow, no matter what the cost. Understand?’

‘Perfectly.’

‘Good. Then get to work.’

‘And the girl?’ Vermaak asked. ‘What should we do with her?’

Carpenter drained the remainder of his glassful in one gulp. Drake’s companion was waiting for him back at Horizon headquarters.

‘I’ll deal with her,’ Carpenter assured him. ‘You just find Drake.’

Cutting off the main drag into the maze of side streets and back alleyways, Drake was careful to maintain awareness of his surroundings and the people who inhabited them. This was not a pro-Western, affluent neighbourhood, but a shitty slum area on the edge of town.

There was no logical pattern to the street layout. Each building looked as though it had been thrown up with no consideration of how it would fit into a larger whole, and certainly little regard for normal construction standards. Apartment blocks crowded in close on the narrow roads, virtually blocking out the sun, many still bearing the marks of past conflicts.

The sewage system here was either broken or non-existent judging by the smell, while garbage was disposed off in refuse piles down back alleys. The drone of buzzing flies almost matched that of the traffic grinding along on the main drags, spewing dust and exhaust fumes.

Drake could feel eyes on him everywhere. Kids playing together had stopped what they were doing to watch him, while a group of old women, as bent and gnarled as old trees, looked up from their washing as he hurried past, their dark eyes surveying him but giving nothing away.

A tall, thin young man with the scraggly beginnings
of a beard brushed past him, bumping the satchel which in turn felt like a baseball bat hammering against the tender bruising on his right side. Stifling a groan of pain, Drake pushed on without looking around.

He didn’t blame the poor bastards who lived here for being hostile. When the Western world had finally arrived in Afghanistan seven years earlier, it must have seemed like the coming of dawn after two decades of darkness. Now, all these years later, old women still washed clothes by hand in muddy water, people still struggled to survive in dilapidated apartment blocks while shit floated by in the street outside.

After picking his way through the chaos of Kabul’s western fringe, he at last emerged into an area of flat open ground at the foot of the barren windswept hills he’d seen from the hotel. Off to his right, a row of gas towers reared into the sky, part of some kind of storage facility, but ahead of him lay nothing but brush and rock.

He was gasping for breath and sweating profusely when he finally sat down in a shallow depression filled with wind-blown garbage, gratefully discarding the satchel.

Unbuttoning his shirt and gripping the Kevlar vest, he pulled it aside to examine his injury, wincing as the movement tore away the tentative scab that had begun to form. Fresh blood welled up and began to seep down his side.

He had to do something about it. Hot countries like this were a nightmare for infections, with even minor wounds often turning into pus-filled mounds within hours if left untreated.

Hospitals were out of the question. Hospitals asked questions, filed reports, made phone calls. If Horizon
were able to ambush him at the hotel, it wouldn’t be difficult to track him down there.

Instead he flipped open the satchel, searching for anything useful.

There wasn’t much; this was no medical kit. In fact, it wasn’t much of an equipment bag either. The main compartment had been stuffed with a couple of bottles of water to pad it out a little, with only the outer pouches holding technical gear to create the facade of a toolkit.

Removing his shirt, T-shirt and finally the Kevlar vest, he laid them aside, unscrewed one of the water bottles and took a swig, then poured some on the wound.

His bruised and torn flesh protested, but he did his best to ignore it as he rifled through the remaining pouches. Battery packs, cables and spare microphone units might have been essential tools of the trade for any film crew, but for him they were dead weight that he was happy to toss aside.

However, he paused in his search when he uncovered a plastic squeeze bottle of lens-cleaning fluid, still half full. A quick check of the ingredients confirmed his suspicion that it was essentially pure alcohol.

Bracing himself, he flipped it open and sprayed a liberal dose onto the wound.

Whatever stinging or irritation he’d expected from such an action simply hadn’t prepared him for the explosion of pain that assailed him the moment the alcohol solution came in contact with the open wound.

His body went rigid, muscles locked, jaw clenched as a silent cry of pain strained to break free. For a good ten seconds he could say and do nothing as he lay crouched in that shallow depression waiting for the pain to subside.

When it finally did, he unclenched his hands and let out a breath he hadn’t even realised he’d been holding.
Whatever bacteria might have found their way into the wound, he was quite certain they were well and truly dead after that.

What he needed now was something to bind it. He would have loved a suture kit and a sterile medical dressing, but in this case he was going to have to make do with a roll of grey duct tape.

After giving the wound one final wipe-down with his shirt, he tossed the bloodstained garment aside, tore off a long strip of tape and quickly pressed it against the injury before the bleeding could start again. Another couple of pieces laid on top of the first strip at right angles left him with a solid, flexible dressing that should be enough to prevent both blood loss and infection.

Removing it would not be a pleasant task, but that was a problem to be attended to later. For now, he could move and walk, and he would have to do both soon enough.

Emptying the remainder of his bottle of water on his bloodstained T-shirt, he did his best to rinse away the blood, even smearing dirt on it to disguise the telltale stain. The result was a garment that looked as if it hadn’t been washed for several weeks, but that was good enough for him. If nothing else, he would blend into this neighbourhood a little better.

It was time for an honest assessment of the situation.

Whether he wanted it or not, he was on the run with few resources and nowhere to turn. Horizon were clearly out to take him down, and if he didn’t find a way to put an end to this, they might well succeed. His own team had been compromised or captured, so he could expect no help from that quarter.

He tried not to think about Frost and what they might
have done with her. He had to believe they wouldn’t have killed her outright, otherwise why abduct her from the room? She was alive, perhaps taken in for interrogation. They would want to know what she had found, who she had shared it with.

He had time still. Time to find her, time to save her life.

He had to believe that.

Spurred into action, he planted his feet firmly on the dusty ground and forced himself up. He was tired and hurting, but he couldn’t afford to give in to either of those things now.

When Carpenter learned of the failed takedown, he would come after Drake with everything he had. His only chance was to beat him to the punch.

Somehow he had to find the evidence that Mitchell had amassed.

Inter-Continental Hotel, Kabul

‘Someone talk to me. What do we have so far?’ Crawford said, striding across the hotel roof with Keegan and McKnight flanking him, and a couple of security agents close behind. With the elevators out of service, they had ascended via the fire escape, and all three were out of breath after the hard climb.