Black Ops Read online

  Black Ops

  Chris Ryan

  www.hodder.co.uk

  Also by Chris Ryan Non-fiction The One That Got Away Chris Ryan’s SAS Fitness Book Chris Ryan’s Ultimate Survival Guide Fight to Win

  Safe

  Fiction Stand By, Stand By Zero Option

  The Kremlin Device Tenth Man Down

  Hit List

  The Watchman

  Land of Fire

  Greed

  The Increment

  Blackout

  Ultimate Weapon

  Strike Back

  Firefight

  Who Dares Wins

  The Kill Zone

  Killing for the Company Osama

  In the Danny Black Series Masters of  War

  Hunter Killer

  Hellfire

  Bad Soldier

  Warlord

  Head Hunters

  In the Strikeback Series Deathlist

  Shadow Kill

  Global Strike

  Red Strike

  Chris Ryan Extreme Hard Target

  Night Strike

  Most Wanted

  Silent Kill

  First published in Great Britain in 2019 by Coronet An Imprint of Hodder & Stoughton An Hachette UK company Copyright © Chris Ryan 2019

  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

  eBook ISBN 9781473668089

  Hodder & Stoughton Ltd Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London EC4Y 0DZ

  www.hodder.co.uk

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  1

  The first killing took place in Dubai.

  Mako Simeon was a Filipino labourer, seventeen years old. He’d arrived in the United Arab Emirates six months ago. Work was plentiful here, people told him. They were always building luxury hotels along the seafront and they needed manpower. They forgot to add that the pay was poor and the labourers accommodated in shacks where Mako would have thought twice about housing an animal. The facilities were never clean, nor were the labourers. The Dubai authorities made a special effort to keep them hidden from the tourists. Mako understood why. No doubt they made a dispiriting sight as they shuffled off the coaches that bussed them into the centre before dawn, and out again once the sun set. Nobody came to Dubai to see that sort of thing.

  Mako alighted from the bus that morning with no expectation that today would be different from any other. He had his routine. The foremen allowed them ten minutes before starting work, and these minutes were precious to him. He took his packed breakfast to the far side of the building site. Here he could sit in peace, eat his sandwich and drink his water. These few minutes before sunrise were hot enough to draw a sweat, but they were still the coolest part of the day. He preferred to spend them alone. It meant nobody would hassle him to swap his breakfast for cigarettes.

  He sat on a pile of bricks beneath a complex network of scaffolding, his back to the building site. In front of him was the Persian Gulf. A few ships twinkled out at sea as dawn was staining the horizon. He thought about home and when he might be able to return there. He chewed his sandwich thoughtfully, then looked down at the remnants of it in his hands. The sandwich smelled bad. Really bad. It turned his stomach. He sniffed it, then thought maybe it wasn’t the sandwich after all. There were all manner of smells on this building site, many unfamiliar, some foul. Mako didn’t want to be put off his breakfast. He carefully rewrapped his food, stowed it in a pocket, and pushed himself down from the pile of bricks. He’d find somewhere else to eat.

  Mako suddenly glimpsed something in the shadows. At first he thought it was another labourer with the same idea as him: to get away from the crowd and eat breakfast alone. He could see the outline of his head and shoulders. But almost as soon as that thought crossed his mind, another caught up with it. The stench was noticeably worse here, and the person wasn’t moving.

  Mako squinted in the darkness. The person was sitting down, his back against one of the upright scaffolding poles. A cold dread flooded over the young Filipino labourer. He considered running back to the others, but something stopped him. He pulled his T-shirt up over his nose to mask the smell. Then he approached the figure. ‘Who’s that?’ he said in Filipino Tagalog, his voice cracking. ‘Are you okay?’

  There was no reply. Mako stepped nearer. He wished he hadn’t.

  That the person was dead was not the most distressing thing. Mako had seen corpses before. It was the manner of the death that sickened him. The figure’s neck was bound to the upright pole by a sturdy plastic cable tie. The neck bulged against the cable tie, its skin swollen and waxy. Mako could not see the corpse’s wrists, but they seemed to be tied behind his back. The dead man wore a white T-shirt. In life he had been muscular, and his firm pectorals still bulged beneath the cotton. Now he saw that the material was stained dark with blood. It had dripped on to his chest from the side of his face, and the source of the blood was the corpse’s ears, or that part of the head where they had once been. Horrific semi-glistening scabs had formed over either side of the head, like gruesome earphones. The two severed ears were lying on the man’s lap.

  Mako vomited. He couldn’t stop himself. Then he staggered back, almost tripping, before sprinting back to the others, shouting wildly about the horror he’d just witnessed.

  The second killing took place in Ghana.

  Arron Borthwick was a successful businessman with a penchant for palm wine and black women. On his frequent trips to Accra he was able to indulge both vices. His oil interests in the country were thriving. He’d earned more in the past year than most people could spend in several lifetimes. He could easily retire, kick back and spend some quality time with his money. Certainly he could delegate these business excursions to somebody else. But where would the fun be in that, when he could tickle his fancy here in Africa?

  It was Arron’s habit to install himself in the Presidential Suite of the Intercontinental hotel in the centre of Accra. Here he could carry out his business meetings by day. By night he chose less refined surroundings. There were places on the outskirts where a man with his appetites could go. Here, for the price of one of the cheaper cocktails on the bar menu at the Intercontinental, he could engage the services of three Ghanaian women and enough palm wine to keep them going till morning.

  Arron wasn’t stupid. He always used a condom, and that wasn’t the only protection he insisted on. He knew he was a target for kidnappers or opportunistic thieves. Whenever he stepped outside the Intercontinental, he took a guy. And because he
could afford it, Arron Borthwick employed only the best. Liam Armitage had been in his service for nearly a year now. Arron’s previous bodyguard had recommended him. ‘Former 22, A Squadron, fucking animal in a scrap. Just make sure you pay him on time.’

  Arron had only once seen Liam in action. They were leaving one of his preferred brothels when the pimp who’d supplied Arron’s girls pulled a knife on him and demanded his wallet. Arron knew Liam routinely carried two firearms: a snubnose revolver holstered above his ankle, and a harder-hitting 9mm pistol across his chest. Liam hadn’t bothered to use either. He simply stepped up to the pimp, knocked the knife away with one hand, and pummelled him in the face with the other. By the time he’d finished, the pimp was unconscious and bloodied on the floor, and Arron was congratulating himself on choosing a former SAS soldier to look after him. He paid Liam a substantial bonus that week.

  Today, though, he was concerned. He’d made a real pig of himself with the girls the previous night and hadn’t left the brothel till sunrise, very drunk. He was lairy with one of the pimps, forcing Liam to manhandle him out of the brothel and into his black SUV. Back at the hotel, Liam deposited Arron in his suite to recover, then headed off to his own rather smaller room. Now it was 8 p.m. Arron hadn’t seen his bodyguard since that morning. Normally Liam checked in on his principal every hour. Arron was worried that he’d pissed him off, and the last thing he needed was to spend precious time looking for a new BG.

  He dialled Liam’s number. It went straight to voicemail. Jesus, Arron thought. He must be fuming. Liam always answered when his principal called. He decided to head to the bodyguard’s room and offer him another bonus. Five hundred should do the trick. He could hand it over in cash, no questions asked, no hard feelings.

  Arron had a key card for Liam’s room. Liam always insisted on it. That way, if Arron noticed anything unusual when he was alone, he had a place to hide. He knocked on the door first. No answer. He knocked a second time. Nothing. He swiped the key card, opened up, and stepped inside.

  He immediately knew something was wrong. The blackout curtains were closed and the lights were off. There was a smell. Not the usual musty odour of a room occupied by a single man, but something more pungent. Arron held his breath as he slid the key card into the slit by the light switch. The lights in the room lit up. From the doorway, Arron could just see the end of the bed and Liam’s booted feet.

  ‘Liam?’ he said. ‘You awake? I’ve got a little extra something for you. Overtime.’

  No reply.

  ‘Mate?’ Arron stepped into the room. As he walked forward, a fly buzzed towards him and landed on his face. He swatted it away with a wave of his arms. Then he saw his bodyguard lying on the bed. He felt his knees weaken.

  Liam had been shot. Arron was no expert in these matters, but that much was obvious. A substantial portion of his head was blown away, exposing shards of skull, brain matter, viscous fluid and matted hair. A second fly crawled around the wound. The pillows had absorbed horrific quantities of blood. Liam’s arms were stretched out in a crucifix position. His hands were fingerless stumps. They had leached more blood into the duvet. Clouds of red bloomed around them like boxing gloves. The fingers themselves were neatly laid on Liam’s bare chest.

  Arron staggered back. His breath was short, as if he’d just jumped into icy water. The room spun as he tried to get out of there. Uncertain on his feet, he collapsed against the bathroom door, then jumped away from it as if electrocuted. What if someone was in there? He hurled himself out into the corridor and galloped towards the lift, where he pressed the button incessantly until the doors opened.

  On the ground floor there was a line of guests at reception. Arron barged past them and pushed his way to the outraged concierge. He was sweating heavily, and so distraught he could barely get the words out. ‘Call the police,’ he said. ‘Quickly. And get me the British High Commission. Don’t just stand there staring at me, you idiot. Do it! Now!’

  The third killing took place in Florida.

  Candace Sweeting was one of the best-known real estate agents in the area. She had a body that made the husbands look twice, and a friendly, confidential, easygoing nature that made the wives think she was their best friend. She used these attributes ruthlessly to gain clients and close deals. There was barely a property in this part of Palm Beach that hadn’t, at one time or another, been sold by Candace.

  She liked being a realtor. The money was good, sure, but that wasn’t the main draw. Candace was interested in people. What better way to learn about other people’s lives, she’d tell her friends, than stepping across their thresholds and into their homes. She’d seen it all. Sugar daddies in palatial residences with beauty-queen wives waiting for them to die. Greedy children ushering their dementia-ridden parents into care. Crazies with gun rooms that would give a Navy Seal a hard-on.

  Candace was single and she liked it that way. It meant she could play the field just as much as she wanted, and she did so enthusiastically. Not with her clients – it would be foolish to get a reputation with the wives of Palm Beach. But she welcomed plenty of young men into her warm embrace, only to discard them as quickly as she’d picked them up. Some people had a word for women like Candace, but that didn’t bother her. It was the twenty-first century, for Chrissakes. Why should the guys get all the fun?

  Of course, she had to be careful. She’d learned her lesson five years previously when she picked up a guy at a sports bar on Superbowl night. They shared a few beers and she invited him back to her place. The sex was great and he was reluctant to leave in the morning. Nothing new there. Candace often had to kick them out after coffee and eggs. But when she returned from work that afternoon he was loitering on the sidewalk outside her house, hoping for a repeat performance. She asked him to leave. He got angry. She got a black eye. It was when the police were taking him away that she decided not to use her own home for her trysts again.

  For a while she tried hotels but they were so impersonal, not to mention expensive. It was only after a housekeeping maid walked into a room at the Holiday Inn to find her riding the cowgirl with a pathetically grateful Math student from Florida International University, that she realised her solution was obvious and simple. She was a real estate agent! She had the keys and burglar alarm codes to twenty or thirty properties at any one time. Often the owners were out of town, and they trusted Candace to show potential purchasers around whenever it suited her. Problem solved!

  There was a special thrill, she soon discovered, to making love in a stranger’s house. Perhaps it was a role-play thing. Perhaps the small chance that the owners might return lent a pleasurable frisson to the encounters. Candace liked it. For the past four years she’d brought guys back to these places on a monthly basis, sometimes more often. She even, on one occasion, sold a property on the back of it. That was a good day’s work.

  Tonight promised to be fun. The young man in the passenger seat played guitar in a band she’d been to see that night with some girlfriends. They started chatting and Candace popped the question. Guitar man said yes. They always did. Candace already had a property in mind. A spacious three-bedroom pool home, as the property details had it, with breakfast nook, formal dining area and sunset views. Also, as the property details didn’t mention, a vast double bed and the added benefits that it wasn’t overlooked by any nosey neighbours, and best of all the owner was out of town for several weeks.

  The owner. As Candace unlocked the door, her eager guitarist in tow, she smiled at the thought of him. A Brit, and not a bad-looking one either. Early forties, black hair on the turn to an attractive grey, twinkling blue eyes and a reserved manner. But strong, and sharp, and slightly mysterious. When Candace asked him where he was headed, he evaded the question. That was three days ago, and she hadn’t been back to the house since.

  She disabled the alarm, switched on a lamp in the entrance hall, and turned to her guy. They didn’t mess about. Neither of them doubted why they were here. Candace’s two-pie
ce trouser suit was in a crumpled heap on the floor in under a minute. Guitar man was topless, his tight jeans unbuckled. Wearing only her expensive underwear she took him by the hand and led him up the stairs towards the master bedroom. She stood in the doorway, as though blocking it, then kicked the door open with her heel while hooking her hand round her guy’s neck and pulling his lips to hers. As they kissed, she felt for the dimmer switch inside the bedroom and switched it on.

  Guitar man choked, mid-kiss. It was unpleasant for Candace and she pulled back. ‘Jeez,’ she said. ‘What the hell’s wrong with you?’ Guitar man didn’t seem to have heard her. He was staring over her shoulder and his tanned, pretty face had drained white. She turned, then grabbed hold of him as she saw the sight that awaited them.

  The owner of the house was lying on the bed. He was naked. His throat was cut and the wound had bled profusely over his chest. But this wasn’t his most grotesque injury. Candace found herself staring at the man’s groin. Someone had removed his genitals, leaving a gaping hole where they should be. The genitals themselves were on the carpet by the bed, a pale, bloodied mound of gristle.

  Candace felt herself hyperventilating. Guitar man had already wrestled her away from him and was running down the stairs. Candace staggered back, desperate to leave this place but somehow unable to take her eyes from the horror. She finally turned and hurried down the stairs, feeling cold, ridiculous, and more than a little sordid in her skimpy underwear. Guitar man had already left the building by the time she was pulling on her trouser suit. She fumbled for her cell phone, took a moment to regulate her breathing, then dialled 911.

  Ten minutes later there were four police cars parked outside, their lights silently flashing. Candace sat on a low wall in the front yard, her head in her hands, her face wet with tears, silently promising herself that she would never, ever, do something like this again.