Shadow Kill: A Strikeback Novel Read online

  Also by Chris Ryan

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  Chris Ryan’s SAS Fitness Book

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  In the Alpha Force Series

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  In the Code Red Series

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  In the Agent 21 Series

  Agent 21

  Reloaded

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  The Wire

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  Shadow Kill

  Chris Ryan

  www.hodder.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain in 2017 by Coronet

  An imprint of Hodder & Stoughton

  An Hachette UK company

  Copyright © Chris Ryan 2017

  The right of Chris Ryan to be identified as the Author of the

  Work has been asserted by him in accordance with

  the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,

  stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any

  means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be

  otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that

  in which it is published and without a similar condition being

  imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance

  to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

  ISBN 9781444783759

  Hodder & Stoughton Ltd

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London EC4Y 0DZ

  www.hodder.co.uk

  Contents

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  ONE

  Freetown, Sierra Leone.

  Thursday 4 May 2000. 1428 hours.

  Ronald Montague Soames, KBE, DSO, MC, was bricking it. It was an unfamiliar feeling for the former commanding officer of 22 SAS. You didn’t spend two years running the Regiment and three years as Director Special Forces without growing brass balls. And Soames liked to think he had a bigger pair on him than most. But the stakes were higher today. Much higher. As he sat at his polished walnut desk counting down the seconds, Soames noticed his left hand twitching with anxiety. He swallowed hard and checked his Blancpain Fifty Fathoms for maybe the hundredth time in the past few minutes. Two minutes until the meeting. Not long to go now.

  His office was located on the first floor of a two-storey colonial house on the Spur Road, pissing distance from the British High Commission. A worn leather chair faced the desk, and a tacky Victorian painting of a nude courtesan reclining on a chair hung from the wall. Cables snaked along the floor leading to a Psion laptop, a fax machine, a telephone and a printer. In one corner there was an old HF radio set. An overworked fan whirred noisily above, fighting a losing war against the thick forty-degree heat. The faded brass lettering on the office door was visible on the reverse side of the dirty glass. RONALD M. SOAMES, the lettering read. DIRECTOR, JANUS INTERNATIONAL. From his office window Soames could see a chaotic sprawl of shanty huts and decrepit colonial buildings stretching all the way to the ocean, capped by a blanket of leaden clouds the colour of filthy rags. The office wasn’t much to look at, and neither was the view. But then, no one came to Sierra Leone to admire the scenery. They came for the same reason that had first brought Soames here eighteen months earlier.

  Diamonds.

  The east of the country was overflowing with them. Especially around Kono. The diamonds there were close to the surface. Something to do with alluvial soil deposits. Which meant you didn’t need heavy, expensive machinery to drill down to the diamonds. You just needed a few guys with shovels, and sieves for panning. It was cheap work. Low overheads. Big profits. But it also meant everyone was competing for a slice of the action. And whoever controlled the mines, controlled Sierra Leone. It was like the Gold Rush, the oil boom and the Colombian drug trade all rolled into one. No government could run the country without controlling the diamond mines, and the place was awash with private military companies. Which is where Ronald Soames came in.

  His PMC had been awarded a contract to provide security for the biggest diamond mine in Kono. It should have been a straightforward gig. The rebel fighters in the Revolutionary United Front were poorly armed, shoddily trained and undisciplined. They stood no chance against the fifty or so ex-Blades, former South African Recces and local guards on Janus’s payroll. Plus the country’s president had the backing of the Yanks as well as the Brits. Which meant he stood a better chance than most of clinging on to power. But recently things had started going south, big time. The rebels began making inroads in the south of the country. The president had panicked and legged it across the border to Conakry, Guinea. His supporters had quickly melted away. The money had started to dry up. All of a sudden, protecting the diamond mines in Kono didn’t seem quite so straightforward or lucrative.

  All of which worried Soames. He wasn’t getting much sleep, and he was drinking more than normal. The stress of the situation, getting under his skin like a surgical knife. But in those darker moments Soames liked to remind himself that he also had his own operation. A nice little earner on the side. He liked to think of it as a sort of insurance policy. A way of protecting his interests in Sierra Leone. It was his secret. No one else associated with Janus International knew about his operation, and Soames preferred to keep it that way. He had a reputation to protect, after all. He was a respected fixer inside Whitehall, the go-to man for the Establishment and several key ministers. Play his cards right, and a year from now, at the age of fifty-three, he could be more powerful than ever. He’d have a direct line to the next Prime M
inister, and maybe even a seat in the House of Lords.

  For eighteen months, Soames had managed to keep his activities hidden from the authorities. No one had suspected a damn thing. There were rumours, of course. But in a festering shithole like Sierra Leone there were always rumours. No one paid them any notice. No one had anything on Soames that could damage him. He was practically untouchable.

  Until a week ago, when the Russian had reached out to him.

  Told him he knew what Soames was up to in Sierra Leone.

  Claimed he had evidence. Witnesses. Proof.

  Threatened to ruin Soames unless he handed over the spoils.

  Gave him seven days to decide.

  Soames had spent the past week weighing up his options. He’d thought about calling in a few favours back home. He had plenty of friends in high places. He was one of the most decorated officers in the British Army, a recipient of the Military Cross for his actions in Belfast, and on first-name terms with the Queen. People owed him, especially since Soames had cleaned up many of their own problems in the past. But he realised he couldn’t ask for their help this time. On the sixth evening, Soames made up his mind. He wasn’t going to be pushed around by this Russian bastard. He would do what he did best.

  Fix the problem himself.

  The Russian arrived sixty seconds later. Soames heard the screech of the guy’s Mercedes pulling up just inside the gate, followed by the suck and thud of a car door opening and shutting. Maybe thirty seconds passed. Then the houseboy appeared at the office door and rapped twice. Soames closed his eyes. Took in a deep breath, and exhaled. Then he popped open his eyes and called for the Russian to enter.

  Viktor Agron strode powerfully into the office, like he owned the fucking place. The guy looked like a football hooligan who’d landed a job at Bear Stearns. He was big and muscular and shaven-headed, with a tattoo on his thick neck showing a wolf’s head baring its teeth. The kind of tattoo you got when you joined a Russian biker gang. The guy must have weighed north of a hundred and fifty kilos, Soames figured. His massive frame was crammed into a plain two-piece suit and white shirt with the collar button popped, and an arrogant smirk ran across his lips, like the quick stroke of a knife. He had a Breitling watch clamped around his left wrist like an oversized silver handcuff.

  Soames nodded at the houseboy. ‘Leave us, Vandi.’

  Vandi bowed and turned to leave. Agron waited until the houseboy had closed the door behind him. Then he swaggered over to the chair opposite Soames and sat down, manspreading his legs. A tense silence lingered in the air. Like meat from a butcher’s hook.

  ‘I’m surprised you’re still here, Ronald,’ Agron said.

  He spoke in a thick, slow tone of voice that sounded like wading through mud. Soames made a sound deep in his throat and shrugged.

  ‘You thought I’d run?’

  ‘It crossed my mind,’ the Russian replied. ‘Haven’t you heard the reports on the radio? The rebels are fifty kilometres from Freetown now. If they take the city, we both know what will happen to you.’

  ‘The rebels won’t make it this far. They never do.’

  ‘You’d better hope you’re right.’ Agron flashed a shit-eating grin. ‘You’re one of President Fofana’s closest advisers, after all. I doubt they’d show someone in your position any mercy.’

  Soames glared at the Russian. ‘You came alone, I trust?’

  ‘As agreed. But I wouldn’t get any clever ideas. My people are everywhere. We have this place surrounded.’

  Soames cleared his throat and said, ‘I’ve been thinking about your offer.’

  Agron smiled. ‘Hand over your little business operation in Kono, and in return we’ll keep it a secret between us. No one else ever has to know. Those were the terms, I believe. More than reasonable. Well? Have you made a decision?’

  Soames hesitated. His mouth was suddenly very dry. ‘My answer is no. We don’t have a deal.’

  Agron furrowed his brow. He looked pissed off. He remained silent for what felt like a long time, but was probably no more than two or three seconds.

  ‘That’s disappointing,’ the Russian said at last. ‘Extremely disappointing. But I had a feeling you’d say that.’ He sighed. ‘In that case, you leave me no choice. We’ll have to do things the hard way.’

  Soames let out a snort. ‘Is that supposed to be a threat?’

  Agron shrugged and held out his palms, like he had a bag of coins in each hand and was trying to decide which one was the heaviest. ‘Not a threat, Ronald. I’m just laying out the bare facts. We made you a fair offer. Actually more than fair. You foolishly refused it. Since you have no intention of giving me what we want, I’m going to have to take it from you by force.’

  ‘I’d like to see you try.’

  A smile crept out of the corner of Agron’s mouth. ‘Actually, we already are.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Soames demanded.

  ‘At this very moment, friends of mine are on their way to the border. The kind of friends you don’t mess with. They have orders to take everything from you. The entire business.’ The Russian sat back and folded his arms across his chest, pleased with himself. ‘We’re going to clean you out.’

  The news hit Soames like a fist. He clamped his jaw shut and stared at the Russian.

  ‘Bullshit. You don’t know where to look.’

  ‘Maybe not,’ Agron replied, shrugging. ‘But you’re going to tell us.’

  ‘And why the hell would I do that?’

  Agron’s smile widened. ‘Because otherwise I’m going to put a call in to the British High Commissioner and tell him everything we know. Give him all the evidence. Every last little bit. What we know is enough to sink your career, once word gets back to London. You’ll be finished.’

  Fear crawled up Soames’s spine, chilling the nape of his neck. He shook his head. ‘No.’

  ‘The ball is still in your court,’ said Agron. ‘Hand over your business and the high commissioner won’t find out what you’ve been doing. You can still save your own skin.’

  ‘Fuck you,’ Soames snapped.

  The Russian chuckled. ‘No, Ronald. It is you who is fucked. Supremely fucked, in fact. Like the whores in this town, no?’ He winked at Soames. ‘You know what you must do. Give us what we want. It’s your only way out.’

  The voice at the back of Soames’s head said: You can make this problem go away.

  You know what you have to do.

  Soames sighed and nodded briskly at the Russian. ‘If we’re going to negotiate, then at least let’s be civilised about it. How about something to drink? I have a bottle of Grey Goose somewhere.’

  Agron’s eyes lit up. ‘Now you’re speaking my language. Do you have any idea how hard it is to find good vodka in this fucking country?’

  Soames smiled as he slid out from behind his desk. He paced over to the drinks cabinet in the far corner of the office. He kept a ready supply of spirits in the office in case of an emergency. In Sierra Leone, bribery was a way of life. Police officers, soldiers, government lackeys: they all had to be bought off before anything could get done. Some people paid with American dollars or the local currency. Others used cigarettes. Soames preferred to buy people off with bottles of Chivas Regal and Laphroaig. He reached for the bottle of Grey Goose. Next to it was an industrial-strength plastic cable-tie formed into a wide loop roughly the circumference of a human neck. It was the kind of thing you use to bind together a bunch of electrical wires. Soames had purchased a pack of cable-ties a few weeks earlier, intending to clean up the spaghetti network of wires that crisscrossed the office floor. But he’d never got around to the job. Now the cable-tie was going to come in handy.

  He paused and glanced past his shoulder, making sure Agron still had his back turned to him. The guy was glancing down at his Breitling, as if he was in a big hurry to be somewhere else. Breathing hard, Soames reached out and grabbed the bottle of Grey Goose by the neck. He snatched up the length of cable-tie with hi
s free hand. Then he turned and paced slowly over to Agron until he was standing directly behind the guy, throwing shadows over his back.

  The Russian half-turned in his chair. Looked up at Soames. Saw the bottle. Saw the cable-tie. Screwed up his face.

  ‘What the fuck do you—’

  He didn’t get a chance to finish the sentence. In a blur of movement Soames swung his left arm back and brought the vodka bottle crashing against the side of Agron’s skull. The bottle made a satisfying metallic clink as it thunked against hard bone. Like an aluminium bat smashing a baseball out of the park. Agron made a dull sound in his throat and spilled out of the chair. His flailing arms scattered papers everywhere as he crashed to the ground, his head smacking against the tiled floor. Soames was on top of him in a flash. He worked fast, taking the looped end of the cable-tie and pulling it down over Agron’s head as the guy lay writhing on his front. Then he took the other end of the cable and pulled it as tight as it would go. The cable-tie made a rasping sound as it fastened around Agron’s neck, constricting his airway.

  Soames crouched over Agron as the guy struggled to breathe. The Russian managed to haul himself to his knees, groaning and gasping for air. His eyes bulged until they were the size of saucepans. He lifted his hands to his neck and tried digging his fingers under the cable-tie in a desperate effort to prise it free. But the tie was pulled tight. The plastic started cuting into the thick folds of his flesh. Like wire through a block of cheese. No way to loosen it. No way at all.

  Agron took a long time to die. His face shaded red. Then purple. Then blue. He collapsed to the floor, his fingers still clawing at the cable-tie. Snot bubbled under his flared nostrils. He made a desperate rasping sound deep in his throat as the fight began to seep out of him. His black leather shoes scraped against the floor in his death throes, leaving scuff marks on the polished tiles. A jagged row of black lines. Like a prisoner marking off days on a cell wall.

  Twenty seconds later, Agron stopped breathing.