Firefight Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title

  By the Same Author

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Acknowledgements

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Chapter ONE

  Chapter TWO

  Chapter THREE

  Chapter FOUR

  Chapter FIVE

  Chapter SIX

  Chapter SEVEN

  Chapter EIGHT

  Chapter NINE

  Chapter TEN

  Chapter ELEVEN

  Chapter TWELVE

  Chapter THIRTEEN

  Chapter FOURTEEN

  Chapter FIFTEEN

  Chapter SIXTEEN

  Chapter SEVENTEEN

  Chapter EIGHTEEN

  Chapter NINETEEN

  Chapter TWENTY

  Epilogue

  Firefight

  Also by Chris Ryan

  Non-fiction

  The One That Got Away

  Chris Ryan's SAS Fitness Book

  Chris Ryan's Ultimate Survival Guide

  Fiction

  Stand By, Stand By

  Zero Option

  The Kremlin Device

  Tenth Man Down

  The Hit List

  The Watchman

  Land of Fire

  Greed

  The Increment

  Blackout

  Ultimate Weapon

  Strike Back

  In the Alpha Force Series

  Survival

  Rat-Catcher

  Desert Pursuit

  Hostage

  Red Centre

  Hunted

  Black Gold

  Blood Money

  Fault Line

  Untouchable

  In the Code Red Series

  Flash Flood

  Wildfire

  Outbreak

  CHRIS

  RYAN

  Firefight

  This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  ISBN 9781407005379

  Version 1.0

  www.randomhouse.co.uk

  Published by Century 2008

  2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1

  Copyright © Chris Ryan 2008

  Chris Ryan has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author's imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental

  This electronic book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

  First published in Great Britain in 2008 by

  Century

  Random House, 20 Vauxhall Bridge Road,

  London SW1V 2SA

  www.randomhouse.co.uk

  Addresses for companies within The Random House Group Limited can be found at: www.randomhouse.co.uk

  The Random House Group Limited Reg. No. 954009

  A CIP catalogue record for this book

  is available from the British Library

  ISBN: 9781407005379

  Version 1.0

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  To my agent Barbara Levy, editor Mark Booth, Charlotte Haycock, Charlotte Bush and the rest of the team at Century

  'I do not wish to kill or be killed, but I can foresee circumstances in which both these things would be by me unavoidable.'

  - A Plea for Captain John Brown, Henry David Thoreau

  PROLOGUE

  Rome, Italy. Mid-December. 17.00 hours.

  Rain fell in the darkness outside the Moschea di Roma, Rome's only mosque; but despite the cold drizzle outside, inside Abdul-Qahhar felt warm. There were many men here for evening prayer, filling the magnificent interior of the mosque with the heat of their bodies and the comforting sounds of their chants as they knelt towards Mecca. And as prayers came to an end, they stood up and shook hands with one another, smiles on their faces as they chatted with exquisite politeness under the huge, ornate, white dome of the mosque.

  'I invite you to join us for tea,' said the man with whom Abdul-Qahhar had enjoyed a number of conversations in the past couple of weeks.

  'Thank you,' Abdul-Qahhar replied. 'But tonight I think I will just go home. Allahu Akbar.'

  The man shrugged his shoulders, but in a friendly manner.

  'Allahu Akbar,' he replied in the traditional way, before smiling and turning to another group of friends who had congregated nearby.

  Abdul-Qahhar had not been in Rome long. When he arrived he was just another foreign student at the university and barely knew anybody; but the first thing he did was hunt out the mosque, and soon he had been embraced by the arms of that community. Like-minded people in a strange land.

  Prayer was important to Abdul-Qahhar. It refreshed him. So much so that he found he did not mind the rain as he stepped out of the mosque and down the steps. It was not far to his little bedsit, which he had chosen because it was so close to the mosque, and he arrived there quickly - wet, but not disconsolate. He put his key to the door of the apartment block, but as he did so it opened anyway, as the elderly lady who lived two floors below him exited.

  'Buona sera,' he said with a smile, doing his best to pronounce the unfamiliar words in an understandable way.

  The old lady stared aggressively at him, then brushed past, mumbling to herself. She had never been friendly, at least not to him. It was common enough for people to be like that. Abdul-Qahhar might be wearing fashionable Italian jeans, but no amount of denim could hide the colour of his skin, and there were many people, especially in these difficult times, who saw no more than that. It made some of his fellow countrymen angry, but Abdul-Qahhar wasn't an angry kind of person. Be polite to everyone, that was his motto. Be polite to everyone, and they will soon learn that they have nothing to fear from you.

  'Buon Natale,' he called after her. 'Happy Christmas.' Of course, Christmas meant nothing to him, but he understood its importance, especially to the inhabitants of Rome, living as they were in the shadow of the Vatican. As Christmas was just around the corner, he saw no reason to refrain from offering festive greetings to the Italians he encountered in his day-to-day life. Normally they seemed pleasantly surprised.

  The old lady did not turn back, however, so Abdul-Qahhar closed the door behind him and climbed the stairs, not bothering to hit the button that illuminated the time-controlled overhead light, because he knew it didn't work. Instead he groped in the darkness, his hand sliding firmly up the wooden banister. On the second floor was the smell of cooking; on the fifth floor he heard the ever-present radio playing Christmas music. Abdul-Qahhar's apartment was on the top floor, and up here it was silent.

  The bedsit was sparsely furnished, but his needs were few. A bed, a desk, a bookshelf and a small hob for preparing food. He stripped out of his wet clothes and placed them on the enormous, elderly radiator that heated the entire apartment surprisingly effectively, then went to his meagre closet and pulled out some dry jeans and a T-shirt. He found it strange wearing these Western clothes instead of the more comfortable dishdash, but he could not wear the all-in-one Arabic
garment in the streets of Rome, or any other Western city for that matter, and he knew he had to get used to a different style of dress. He fixed himself something to eat, then sat cross-legged on his bed and immersed himself in his battered, treasured copy of the Koran. He should really be studying, but sometimes he hankered after the nannying effect the holy book had on him, and this was one of those times.

  As his eyes scanned from right to left and he absorbed the poetry of the text, Abdul-Qahhar lost track of time. When finally he looked at the small clock on his bedside table, he was amazed to see that it was nearly midnight. Regretfully, he closed the book, placed it on his little bookshelf, and went to the sink to fetch himself a glass of water.

  He stopped. There was a noise from somewhere. From outside. But he was on the top of the building, eight floors up. It must have been just a bird, or perhaps the rain. Walking to the window he pulled back the frayed curtains, but saw nothing other than the rooftop of the opposite apartment block and the clouds scudding in front of the silvery crescent moon. He drew the curtain again and put the noise from his mind. Sometimes the pipes could make strange sounds in these old buildings, sounds that could be creepy in the middle of the night. That was it. The pipes. He returned to the sink, turned on the tap, filled his glass and sipped it thoughtfully.

  Abdul-Qahhar was halfway back to his bed when there was another noise. He turned his head quickly towards the door. It seemed to have come from outside, in the corridor, and this time round there was no mistaking it: it was no bird; it wasn't the rain; it didn't sound like the pipes. It sounded to him like there was someone there, outside his apartment.

  The blood ran cold in his veins.

  'Chi è?' he called. And then, because he was unsure of his Italian, he lapsed into English, a language with which he was more confident and which was more widely understood than his native Arabic. 'Who's there?'

  There was a pause, a silence. And then, with the sudden force of a thunderclap, they came at him from two sides.

  The door burst open and Abdul-Qahhar just had time to see three men, dressed in black and wearing dark balaclavas, burst in before the window shattered and another two landed only feet away from him. All five men brandished ugly-looking weaponry and the guns were pointed his way.

  'Hit the floor!' one of them shouted in a muffled American accent. 'Hit the fucking floor. Now!'

  Abdul-Qahhar felt a harsh blow on the back of his knee and collapsed, jelly-legged, to the floor.

  'Hands behind your back,' the American voice instructed as the barrel of a gun was placed against his head. He did as he was told, and as his wrists were roughly handcuffed with what felt like strips of plastic, a warm, moist sensation spread through the cloth of his jeans.

  'He's pissed himself,' a terse voice said - an English voice this time, one of the men who had come through the window. There was no distaste in the way he said it, just a cold, clinical tone of observation. Certainly he didn't sound surprised.

  'Hood him,' the American instructed and instantly a piece of course material was forced over Abdul-Qahhar's head, then tied uncomfortably round his neck; he could breathe, but only just.

  Too scared to speak, he was manhandled to his feet and pushed forward, through the door of his flat and down the steps. None of the men said a word as he was rushed down the seemingly endless flight of stairs and out into the pouring rain. Above the patter of the raindrops on the ground, he heard another noise. It was the engine of a vehicle, and it was being revved. Abdul-Qahhar heard the sound of doors opening, and without ceremony he was bundled into the back and pushed over. He shouted out in Arabic as his head hit the metal floor.

  'Shut the fuck up!' a voice said, as the doors slammed shut and the vehicle jolted into movement.

  The urine-soaked patch of his jeans was cold and clammy now; but his head was hot as he took deep breaths in an attempt both to calm himself down and swallow big gulps of precious oxygen. In his mind he saw the guns of his abductors, and could still feel that patch on his head where the barrel of the rifle had been pressed. He closed his eyes in the darkness of his hood and started to mutter the prayers that he had recited in the mosque only a short time ago.

  'Allahu Akbar min kulli shay. Allahu Akbar min kulli shay.' But in the middle of his private chant, he spluttered as a heavily booted foot kicked him hard in the stomach.

  'Quiet!' a voice barked and Abdul-Qahhar did as he was told. Perhaps soon, he thought to himself, he would wake up; perhaps soon he would find himself on his bed, having nodded off over the Koran; perhaps soon the nightmare would end.

  In the darkness, time had no meaning. Abdul-Qahhar could not have said how long it was before the vehicle came to a halt and he was manhandled out of the rear doors. Outside the rain had stopped, but it seemed to be incredibly windy and there was a loud mechanical noise that he could not quite place.

  'Take his hood off!' a voice shouted. The material was untied and the hood pulled roughly from his head. Abdul- Qahhar scrunched his eyes up painfully as a bright light shone directly in his face. As he gradually opened his eyes, however, he saw what was making the noise and the wind: an enormous helicopter, preparing for take-off.

  One of the balaclava'd men approached him with his gun. 'We can do this one of two ways,' he screamed above the noise of the helicopter. 'You come quietly and get on the chopper without a struggle; or we do it the painful way.'

  Abdul-Qahhar felt his body start to shake. 'Please,' he begged,'I have a great fear of flying. Please, there is a terrible mistake. I don't know who you are, or what you think I've done, but there really has been the most terrible mis -.'

  He was cut short as the butt of a rifle struck him hard in the pit of his stomach. He bent double in pain, but as he did so he was dragged towards the helicopter. The rotating blades sounded louder, an enormous, ear-filling whine, and the force of the wind almost threatened to blow him over.

  As a renewed surge of panic overcame him, he started to struggle. 'Please!' he yelled. 'There has been a mistake!' And almost as though he had lost control of his own actions, he made to run away from the group of armed figures who were escorting him to the chopper.

  He didn't get far. One of his captors grabbed him hard by the throat; another forced the hood over his head again.

  'No!' Abdul-Qahhar shouted. 'Not that! Please, I will come with you!' But even as he spoke, the hood was tied around his neck once more and he felt himself being dragged closer to the helicopter.

  He was on a ramp now and the noise of the rotors seemed to fill all his senses. It was too much: his fear of flying seemed to pulse through every vein, and with a great and terrified roar he made one last, desperate attempt to break free from his captors.

  It was a vain move. Instantly he felt the sickening crunch of hard metal against his head. A moment of dizziness, of nausea, before he fell hard to the ground, mercifully unconscious, at least for a little while.

  When he awoke, the hood had been removed from his head. His skull was pounding and he felt sick. He had no way of knowing how long he had been out cold, but he could tell that they were airborne and he found himself unable to move through terror. He tried to speak, but the words would not come out of his mouth, which was sandpaper-dry. As he looked up, he saw the five men still there with him, only now they had taken off their balaclavas. Through the gloom and his fear, however, he found it impossible to tell one face from the other.

  After a while, the popping in his ears and a slight lurch in his stomach told him that they were losing altitude. 'What is happening?' he croaked.

  But nobody answered - they just kept their weapons trained on him.

  Minutes later they landed. 'Welcome to Poland,' a gruff voice said.

  'Poland?' he gasped. 'What do you mean? I promise you, this is a mistake.'

  Nobody answered. Instead, Abdul-Qahhar was manhandled to his feet and roughly escorted off the chopper. There was snow outside. The cold air hit his lungs like an electric shock, and the rotors of the cho
pper whipped up the powdery snow into a blizzard that chapped his face harshly and blinded him. His captors seemed to know where they were going, however. They pulled him away from the chopper and towards a large mound of earth, covered in thick snow, but with a concrete opening in the side. There was a door, which was open and out of which came a flood of yellow light. Abdul-Qahhar was pushed through that opening, down a flight of steps and along a long, dimly lit underground corridor.