Sacrifice (49 page)

Half a second later the grenade detonated with a concussive boom loud enough to leave his ears ringing, followed by an agonised scream. Drake might have avoided the grenade’s lethal hail of shrapnel, but its owner hadn’t.

He could do no more here. He was out of ammunition.

‘John, I’m out! Fall back!’ Drake cried, heading towards McKnight, who was still snapping off rounds at the west wall.

Up on the parapet, Keegan was singing quietly under his breath even as the desperate firefight raged all around him.

‘Get sixteen gamblers to carry my coffin, six pretty maidens to sing me a song.’

Spotting movement off to his right, he swung the P90
around and put down three rounds, scoring two hits, one of which was almost certainly fatal. If the bastards wanted him, they would pay a heavy price.

‘Take me to the valley and lay soil o’er me.’

Shots tore through the parapet to his left, blasting apart the ancient mud bricks and showering him with dust. Homing in on the weapon’s distinctive muzzle flare, Keegan took careful aim and squeezed the trigger.

He managed two shots before the firing pin hit an empty breech.

‘Cos I’m a young cowboy and I know I done wrong.’

He saw the flash out of the corner of his eye, and the distinctive trail of exhaust smoke as the RPG sailed in gracefully towards him.

He had done what he could. Leaping down from the parapet, he landed and flattened himself on the ground just as the RPG round impacted. With a thunderous roar, the parapet on which he’d been standing disintegrated in a cloud of dust and smoke and flame.

‘John! Are you all right?’ Drake cried, half deaf from explosions and gunfire.

‘Ask me in the morning.’ Bruised and bleeding but still whole, Keegan scrambled to his feet and started towards Drake.

No sooner had he taken a step than something thumped hard into his back, knocking the wind from his lungs. He staggered forward a few more paces, still in shock, not realising he’d been hit. His legs gave way beneath him and he fell, only to be caught by Drake.

‘Come on, mate! Move!’ Drake yelled in his ear, dragging him over to Crawford who was still lying propped against the outer wall.

There was no recognition in the man’s eyes as Drake approached. They were glassy and staring, seeing
nothing. His arms hung limp by his sides, one hand still clutching his automatic.

He was gone.

Cursing himself for abandoning the critically wounded man, Drake glanced up as McKnight rushed over, throwing aside her empty P90.

‘What happened?’ she asked, looking down at Keegan.

‘He took a round through the chest.’ The grave tone of Drake’s voice was more chilling than Keegan’s groans of pain and ragged breathing. ‘Crawford’s dead.’

McKnight glanced at the agent slumped against the wall, tears in her eyes.

Drake’s attention, however, was focused on those who were still living. Gently he laid his friend down and tore his shirt open to examine the injury. The AK round had passed straight through him. Frothy blood was leaking from the exit wound on his chest.

They had no medical gear with them, particularly the chest-draining kit that he so desperately needed. Each breath was filling Keegan’s chest cavity with air, crushing his lungs under the pressure.

He was finished, and they both knew it.

‘How am I doing?’ Keegan asked, struggling to draw breath. ‘No … no bullshit.’

Drake gripped his hand, obeying the older man’s wish. He wouldn’t lie to him now. ‘You’re lung-shot, mate. I’m sorry. There’s nothing I can do.’

He saw a pained, grim smile. ‘Figured as much.’

Reaching into his torn, bloodstained shirt, Keegan’s trembling hand found the lucky charm necklace he always wore. It had kept him safe all this time, but it seemed even his luck had finally run out.

‘It’s okay, man,’ he whispered. ‘I’m … ready.’

His eyes were growing dim and unfocused. With one
last convulsive breath, his body shuddered and lay still, his unseeing eyes still staring at Drake.

Drake bowed his head in grief, unable to look at him. Another good man dead.

His grief was short-lived. A faint whoosh beyond the compound’s shattered walls announced the launch of another RPG.

In a final desperate act, Drake reached for McKnight, trying to shield her with his body as the wall beside him erupted in a storm of smoke and masonry.

For several seconds, neither of them spoke a word or moved a muscle. They both stood there on opposite sides of the room, staring at each other. It was the first time Carpenter had laid eyes on Anya in almost a decade.

She hadn’t changed much in that time. Standing tall and unbowed, she seemed to possess the same subtle grace and poise that had so caught his attention the first time he had met her.

Her hair was shorter than he remembered, her skin a little more tanned from long exposure to the sun. But her eyes remained the same. Those vivid, intense, remorseless eyes were now locked with his.

Years of pent-up rage and hatred and pain burned behind them.

‘I like what you have done with the place, Richard,’ Anya remarked, glancing at their opulent surroundings. ‘It is … more comfortable than the last time I was here.’

Carpenter winced inwardly. He knew exactly what she was referring to, knew there were some things she could never put behind her. And he was the cause of it.

‘How did you get in?’ he asked. He couldn’t help it. He had to know.

She flashed a faint, knowing smile. ‘With your training, Richard. You taught me everything I know, remember?’

Yes, he did remember. How could he ever forget? He
had taught her to use everything at her disposal to complete her mission, how to shut out pain and weakness and fear, how to kill without hesitation. He had helped mould her into the perfect soldier. And now here she was with a gun trained on him.

‘What do you want?’

‘What do I want?’ she repeated, taking another step towards him. ‘Twenty years of my life I sacrificed for you. I want to take back what you took from me.’

Resisting the urge to swallow, Carpenter glanced down at the briefcase lying on his desk. ‘If this is about money …’

‘It was always about money with you, Richard,’ she said, glaring at him with cold fury. ‘That was your problem – you were willing to give up everything and everyone for it. And believe me, you will be punished for that. But first I want you to get on your radio.’

Struggling to see through eyes clogged with blood and dust, Drake rolled over and heaved himself slowly up from the ground. Every bone and muscle in his body blazed with agony.

He coughed, trying to draw breath. Warm air laden with dust and smoke filled his lungs, choking him.

Wiping his eyes, he looked over at McKnight. She was lying half buried by rubble from the collapsed wall, her eyes closed. He couldn’t tell if she was breathing or not.

With the world lurching sickeningly in and out of focus, he tried to reach out to her, tried to feel for a pulse.

‘She can’t hear you now, man,’ a low, menacing South African voice said.

Crawford’s pistol was still lying in the dead man’s lap. Summoning up his waning strength, Drake
snatched it up, bringing the weapon to bear on Vermaak.

It was a feeble effort, and easily blocked with a well-placed kick that sent the weapon flying out of his grasp. A second kick to the face knocked Drake sprawling, stars dancing across his vision while blood pounded in his ears.

His head lolled to the side, and through blurry eyes he saw something protruding from the ground beside him. A twisted length of metal rod, perhaps once part of the wall that had so recently been demolished.

Piet Vermaak stared down at the injured man, eyes glittering with malice and hatred. Behind him, two other Horizon operatives stood with their weapons at the ready, silhouetted by the flickering orange glow of the burning chopper.

Suddenly his eyes fastened onto the burned and crumpled folder shoved down the front of Drake’s shirt. It didn’t take him long to put the pieces together.

‘What do we have here?’ Throwing his AK-47 aside, he knelt down and snatched the folder from its hiding place, easily defeating Drake’s attempts to hold on to it.

As he leafed through the pages, a smile spread over Vermaak’s face. ‘This is what you risked everything for, man. A few burned pieces of paper.’

But no sooner had he spoken than his radio crackled into life, Carpenter’s grainy voice filtering over the airwaves. ‘Strike team, what’s your sit rep?’

Still smiling, Vermaak hit his transmitter. ‘We have it all. Drake, and the evidence. I’m about to get rid of both.’

‘Negative. Stand down,’ Carpenter ordered. ‘Fall back to the vehicles and get out of there.’

The smile vanished then. ‘Say again? We have Drake. It’s over.’

‘I said stand down,’ Carpenter repeated. Was his voice trembling? ‘Do not touch Drake. Acknowledge my last.’

Drake wasn’t listening. All his attention was focused on that shard of metal protruding from the ground. With desperate, feeble strength, he started to crawl towards it, inch by painful inch, his hands clawing at soil and rubble.

Almost there. He could almost reach it.

After a moment of indecision, Vermaak shook his head. He hadn’t come this far, hadn’t lost all these operatives, to turn tail and run now. Reaching up, he switched off his radio and glanced at his two companions.

‘There were no survivors tonight. Understand?’

Neither man said a word. Both knew better than to argue with him.

Satisfied, he turned his attention back to Drake. But the brief hesitation had bought him a few precious seconds.

As Vermaak took a step towards him, Drake closed his fingers around the metal rod, yanked it from the ground and with a primal snarl of hatred, twisted around and plunged it into the man’s thigh with all the force he could command. He felt the taut resistance of skin and flesh, felt the ragged end tear and cleave its way through thick muscle.

Growling in pain, Vermaak responded with a kick to Drake’s injured ribs. Agony exploded through him and he fell backwards, pain and darkness threatening to overwhelm him.

He was finished. He coughed, blood streaking the ground beneath him. All he could see were McKnight’s eyes, wide and staring.

Nearby, Vermaak yanked the rod from his leg and threw it aside. Blood flowed down his combat trousers,
gleaming in the firelight, but he barely seemed to notice. He was no stranger to pain. This wasn’t enough to stop him.

‘Persistent little fuck, aren’t you?’

Drawing his side arm, Vermaak took a step towards his helpless adversary, kicked him over and knelt down atop him, forcing a knee into his throat. He wanted the man to see his death coming.

‘You should have gone home when you had the chance, Drake.’

He smiled with malicious hatred as he raised the automatic.

Suddenly, a volley of shots rang out behind him, accompanied by the dull thumps of bodies hitting the ground.

Teeth clenched in anger, Vermaak whirled to face this unexpected threat, bringing the weapon around at the same moment.

Shrouded in pain and darkness, Drake had no idea what was happening. All he could hear was gunfire. And dimly he was aware of Vermaak turning towards it.

‘Ryan …’ a weak voice called out.

Turning his head with great effort, he saw McKnight staring at him. She was alive, and with a trembling hand she had managed to push Crawford’s side arm across the ground to him.

Groping out, as much from instinct as rational thought, Drake felt his fingers close around the butt of the gun. His heart was pounding, adrenalin surging through his veins. Images of Keegan, of Frost and Mitchell and Anya and Crawford, whirled through his mind as he raised the weapon up, jammed it against Vermaak’s thick muscular neck and fired.

The report of the shot was muffled by human flesh.
Drake heard only a dull pop, and saw a faint cloud of red mist ejected from the other side of the man’s neck.

Vermaak’s body went rigid as if hit by lightning. Then, slowly, he turned to look at Drake, his eyes holding no malice or hatred now; only utter shock.

He opened his mouth as if to speak, blood dripping from one corner, but only succeeded in making a strangled, gurgling moan. Then the shock faded from his eyes, the rigid body went limp and he pitched sideways with an exhausted groan, landing in a heap.

One hand was still outstretched, trying to grasp the burned and torn folder that held the ruin of one man and the salvation of another.

Managing to prop himself up on one arm, Drake surveyed the scene. The two operatives who had accompanied Vermaak were lying in crumpled heaps with their blood staining the ground.

‘I couldn’t do it, Ryan,’ a familiar voice said.

Drake’s head snapped around.

Cunningham was standing at one of the holes blasted in the outer wall, an AK-47 in his arms. Smoke still trailed from the barrel.

‘I couldn’t let them kill you.’ The look in his eyes was one of absolute grief and guilt as he surveyed the carnage within the compound. ‘You were right. That was a sacrifice I wasn’t prepared to make.’

Drake glanced down at the weapon in his hands. The slide had flown back to reveal an empty breech. He had used the last round on Vermaak.

‘This doesn’t change a thing,’ he warned his former friend. ‘It doesn’t undo what you did, Matt.’

Cunningham swallowed, but nodded. ‘I know. But maybe it’s a start.’

He made to turn away, but hesitated, looking back over his shoulder.

‘I’ll see you around.’

With that, he turned and vanished like a ghost into the darkness.

CIA Training Facility ‘Camp Peary’, Virginia,

27 November 1985

She could feel Carpenter increasing the pressure, could feel his hands pressing down on her with murderous strength, forcing her head beneath the surface once more. This time she knew he wouldn’t release her until it was over.

And just like that, something snapped inside her. Months of pain and resentment and humiliation finally broke free of the tenuous control she had maintained all this time.