Shadow Kill: A Strikeback Novel Page 2

  Soames waited a few beats. A thick stench of piss and shit slowly filled the air from where the Russian had voided his bowels in the last few seconds of his life. Fighting his gag reflex, Soames dropped to one knee and felt for a pulse. Nothing. Soames felt no remorse. As far as he was concerned, the Russian had it coming. The guy had signed his death warrant the moment he’d tried to blackmail Soames.

  Well, fuck him.

  Now what? Soames asked himself.

  Get rid of him.

  Then get to Kono. Before the Russians get there and rob me.

  The first part of the plan was easy enough. He knew how to make Agron disappear. Strip the guy of his wallet, watch and clothes. Drag the body outside, shove him in the back of the Land Rover. There was a two-metre-high wall enclosing the property, high enough that none of his neighbours would be able to see him taking the body out into the front yard. Then Soames would drive out of the city and dump Agron on the side of the road somewhere outside Makeni. It would take days before the authorities discovered the body. Even then, they would simply assume that the guy had been killed in a roadside ambush. A classic case of wrong place, wrong time. The roads outside Freetown were heaving with armed rebels hopped up on ganja and poyo, the local brew. Westerners were forever getting attacked.

  By the time Agron’s body was found Soames would have reached Kono, cleaned the place out and covered his tracks. Twenty-four hours from now he could be out of the country, relaxing with a cool beer in Cape Town. He reached over to remove the guy’s Breitling and froze.

  A thin wire was sticking out of the side of the watch, no thicker than a strand of human hair and alternately coloured red and white. The striped wire ran from just above the Breitling crowns and snaked under the Russian’s jacket sleeve. Which is why Soames hadn’t seen it before now. Agron had kept it hidden from view. But as soon as Soames set eyes on the wire, he knew exactly what he was looking at. A locator beacon. He’d seen them before. The antenna transmitted a signal location on a specific frequency, picked up by whoever was monitoring activity on the other end.

  My people are everywhere, Agron had said. We have this place surrounded.

  The door flung open. Soames looked up. Vandi stood in the doorway, his skinny features stitched with anxiety. For a moment the houseboy didn’t say a word. He glanced over at the dead body and stiffened. Then he lifted his terrified gaze back to Soames and pointed frantically towards the window.

  ‘Men coming, Mister Ronald,’ Vandi exclaimed. ‘Look!’

  Soames moved past the kid and rushed over to the window overlooking the front of the property. A pair of white Toyota Corollas were racing through the main gate twenty-five metres away, steering past the derelict garden. They skidded to a halt directly outside the house, ten metres away from the old Land Rover 110 Soames used to tool around the city. In the next instant the passenger doors on both Corollas flung open and four guys debussed, two from each vehicle. All four were decked out in safari gear and designer shades. And they were all brandishing stubby-looking pistols. PSM semi-automatics, Soames realised. Soviet-designed pieces, popular with the KGB back in the day, chambered for the 5.45x18mm round. One of those dependable Russian firearms that never went out of fashion in the Third World. The four gunmen barrelled towards the main door fifteen metres away. Soames looked on for a cold beat.

  Shit.

  The Russian’s friends, he realised.

  They’re coming for me.

  There was no time to lose. He spun away from the window, his mind racing ahead. He had eight or nine seconds before the gunmen came bursting into the office. The lizard part of his brain kicked into gear. Told him to forget about hiding the dead body. There was no time to cover his tracks. He had to get out of the house, right this fucking instant. But how? The front door was out of the question, clearly. He could try bolting up the stairs and hiding in the roof. But the gunmen already knew where to look for him. It would only be a matter of time before they discovered his hiding place.

  No, Soames told himself. There’s only one thing for it.

  He sprang into action. Sprinted past the desk and the dead Russian. Vandi thrust out his arms, pleading with his master to let him tag along. Soames shoved the kid aside, yelling at him to get out of his way. He ran towards the balcony at the far end of the office, his heart beating fast inside his chest. Behind him a chorus of angry shouts echoed in the stairwell, interspersed with the pounding of heavy boots on the treads. The voices were getting louder. The gunmen were closing in. Six seconds until they barged into the office, Soames figured.

  Five.

  On four seconds he hit the balcony door. Soames ripped it open and stepped out onto the balcony. The heat closed in on him. He leaned over the ledge and looked down. The balcony overlooked a garden at the rear of the property, littered with weeds and rusted bits of garden furniture, and surrounded by a crumbling brick wall topped with razor wire to keep the local criminals out. Beyond the wall Soames could just about see a maze of dilapidated huts in the nearby slum, their corrugated tin roofs gleaming like loose change under the dull glow of the sun. There, if anywhere, he might hope to lose his pursuers.

  Three seconds to go. Soames gripped the ledge with both hands and swung his left leg over the railing. There was a drop of seven metres from the balcony to the ground below. High enough to hurt like fuck, but low enough to risk jumping down. He started to bring his right leg over the railing, holding onto the ledge with both hands. To his left he glimpsed Vandi diving inside the rickety wardrobe in a futile attempt to hide from the gunmen. Soames could hear voices on the other side of the door now. The Russians were almost at the office door. Soames took a breath. Then he swung his right leg over, releasing his grip just as the gunmen kicked in the door and came storming into the room.

  He fell hard, landing on his side on the parched dry ground. It was like being thrown into the path of an onrushing truck. A jarring pain exploded in his shoulder and shot up into his skull. Soames felt something crack in his upper chest, like a branch snapping in half. His jaw ached. His legs felt as if someone had dropped a stack of breeze blocks on them. He lay on the ground for a moment, badly winded. Then the voice inside his head screamed at him.

  Get up.

  Keep fucking moving.

  Soames forced himself to his feet, wincing with pain. It hurt to breathe, it hurt to move. A sharp pain sparked up inside his chest and he wondered if he’d broken a rib. He forced himself to push through it. Shoved it aside and moved on, stumbling through the weeds as he headed for the eastern side of the house ten metres away. His only hope of escape was to tack down the side path leading to the front of the house, get to the Landy and speed out of the main gate before the gunmen could figure out what the fuck was going on. It wasn’t much of a plan, he knew. But it was either that or surrender. And if the gunmen arrested him, he was as good as dead.

  Then Soames heard a shout at his six o’clock. He glanced past his shoulder and spotted one of the gunmen rushing onto the balcony. The guy pointed at Soames, then hollered at his muckers behind him in the office. Then he brought his PSM to bear. Soames stood frozen to the spot for a split-second. The PSM muzzle flashed. Dirt fizzed up in the air half a metre behind Soames as the bullet struck the ground. The gunmen readjusted his aim. The other voices grew louder as the rest of the gunmen rushed towards the balcony. Soames quickly unfroze. He turned and ran on as the Russian fired again. He heard another pistol crack behind him, the thud of the bullet thumping into the hot, dry earth. Soames ran faster.

  In the next instant he hit the corner, then hurried down the rubbish-strewn path leading towards the front of the house. He could see the Land Rover parked up ahead in the middle of the drive, twenty metres away. Not far to go now, he told himself. His heart was beating so fast he could feel it thumping inside his throat. The pain in his chest dialled down to a faint ache. Fear and adrenaline flooded into his bloodstream, temporarily numbing the pain. Ten metres to the driveway. Fifteen metres to th
e Land Rover.

  Almost there.

  Don’t give up now.

  The Land Rover was parked side-on in front of the house, with the driver’s side door located on the far side of the wagon from the entrance. Soames rushed past the front of the house and reached the Land Rover in half a dozen ragged strides. He swept around to the side door, gasping for breath as he frantically dug his keys out of his cargo trouser pocket. Then he yanked open the door and dived behind the steering wheel as footsteps sounded from the front entrance to the house. Soames shoved the key into the ignition and cranked the engine. The Landy sputtered into life. He glanced across at the side window to his right and saw two of the gunmen surging out of the front door, their semi-automatic pistols raised. The other two gunmen were three metres further back and hurrying forward to join their mates. The two nearest gunmen were less than twelve metres from the Landy. Which put them well within the PSM’s maximum effective range.

  Fucking move, Soames told himself.

  The two nearest gunmen fired. Their muzzles flashed, and a pair of cracks rumbled across the driveway. Soames ducked his head below the dash as the rounds hammered against the side of the Landy, pinballing through the chassis and shredding metal. He stayed low as four more bullets whipped across the driveway and hammered against the side of the wagon. A fifth round smashed like a fist through the passenger side window, shattering the glass and spilling hundreds of fragments across the seat opposite Soames.

  There was a momentary lull in the shooting. The gunmen must be zeroing in their aim, Soames figured. Adrenaline took over. He shunted the Landy into first gear and put his foot to the gas pedal. The Landy growled, then accelerated towards the main gate fifteen metres away at the far end of the driveway. Putting distance between himself and the four gunmen. Soames glanced up at the rearview. The four gunmen were at his six o’clock now. Twelve metres behind him.

  Now fourteen metres behind. Now sixteen.

  Eleven metres to the main gate, thought Soames.

  Ten metres.

  Nine.

  The Landy rocketed towards the gate. Eight metres to go now. Behind Soames, the four gunmen started pissing bullets at the Landy. Most of the rounds were wildly off target. A trio of bullets slapped into the brick wall either side of the gate, tearing out chunks of mortar and spitting hot dust into the air. One of the rounds thumped into the front passenger seat. Another zipped through the hole in the rear windscreen and narrowly whistled past Soames’s head, spidercracking the front windscreen. For a terrifying moment Soames thought he was going to die. He kept going. The gunmen were running across the driveway, chasing after the Landy. But they were losing ground. The gap between the shooters and Soames was twenty metres. Six metres to the gate. He started to believe he was going to make it.

  I’m going to give these Russian bastards the slip.

  He was five metres from the entrance when he glimpsed a blur of movement in his peripheral vision. A third Toyota Corolla came hurtling down the Spur Road towards the front of the open gate. Same model and colour as the two vehicles parked in front of the house, Soames realised. Two white guys sat in the front seats, decked out in the same clothes as the four Russian gunmen. He instantly grasped who they were. Backup. The Russians must have kept a third team stationed outside the house, in case Soames tried to make a run for it. Now the guys in the third Corolla were moving forward to block him off in front of the gate, cutting off his only escape route and trapping him inside the grounds of the house.

  The Corolla screeched to a halt in front of the gates. Directly in front of the Land Rover. Soames floored the gas, aiming straight for the Corolla. The Landy engine roared throatily. The needle on the speedometer climbed fast. There was a violent crunch and shudder as the Landy smashed into the front end of the smaller car. The Corolla’s front wheels briefly lifted as the Land Rover rammed past the vehicle, the force of the impact crumpling the bonnet and punching out the headlamps. The Landy swept past the Corolla then bolted out through the gate, lurching onto the main road. Soames hit the brakes and wrenched the steering wheel hard to the right, narrowly avoiding a row of battered old motors parked on the opposite side of the road. He felt the full weight of the wagon pulling to the right, the tyres shrieking, the frame juddering. The Land Rover swerved away from the line of parked cars and straightened out, pointing north on the Spur Road.

  Soames glanced across at his three o’clock and saw the damaged Corolla resting next to the main gate. The front end of the motor looked like a beer can somebody had crushed. Smoke fluted up from the engine. Glass was strewn across the ground in front of the motor. Behind the Corolla Soames caught sight of the four Russian gunmen as they raced towards the gate. Two of the Russians headed for one of the Corollas parked in the driveway. The other two sprinted forward and swept around the smashed-up Corolla, their PSMs raised at the Land Rover as they prepared to blast up the wagon.

  Soames didn’t fuck about. He mashed the pedal. The Landy fishtailed as it pulled away from the house, quickly picking up speed. Soames heard the crackle of gunfire to his rear as the two gunmen ran into the street and loosed off half a dozen rounds at the departing wagon. The bullets hammered against the back of the Landy, ricocheting off the bodywork. Soames kept flooring it, burning rubber as he put more distance between himself and the Russians. The speedometer needle climbed above fifty miles per. One of the gunmen unloaded another three-round burst. Soames didn’t see where the bullets landed. Didn’t care. He kept the Landy pointed north, leaving the shooters in his wake. The gunmen were a hundred and fifty metres behind him now. The needle soared past the sixty mark. Two hundred metres. He saw one of the Corollas pulling out into the main road, tyres screeching as it swerved past the damaged car. The two gunmen in the road lowered their weapons and dived into the back seats of the Corolla. A second later the vehicle rocketed forward, giving chase.

  Soames kept his foot to the gas, driving as hard as he dared. The Corolla was a speck in the rearview, but the gap was steadily closing and Soames knew he had to get off the main road before the Russians caught up with him. After two hundred metres he passed the Mamba Point Guest House and hung a hard right, turning off the main street. The road suddenly degraded. A rancid stench filled the Land Rover – garbage rotting in the tropical heat. The wagon rocked as it bounced over deep potholes. Heaps of rotting vegetables and rubbish lined both sides of the road. Everything here was brown. The homes, the road. The people.

  He made a series of quick turns through the backstreets. His eyes locked on the rearview mirror, looking for any sign of the enemy. Nothing. Soames figured he had lost the Russians. But he didn’t want to take any chances. He took another sharp turn and then pulled over next to a line of corrugated tin shacks. He killed the engine. Booted open the door and jumped out of the bullet-riddled wagon.

  I’ve got to ditch the vehicle. The Land Rover was hot, Soames knew. And there weren’t many 110 Defenders inside the city. Driving it around would make him stand out like a sore thumb. No. He would have to continue his journey on foot. He hurried down the street, ignoring the hostile looks from the locals, constantly glancing over his shoulder to make sure the Russians hadn’t followed him. The heat was unbearable. Like being smothered with a hot towel. Sweat pasted his shirt to his back and dripped into his eyes. His mouth tasted dry. His body cried out for a brief rest, just to catch his breath. But he didn’t stop. He knew he had to keep going.

  I might have lost the Russians, Soames thought. But my troubles are only just beginning. For a start he’d had to leave a dead body in his office. Now the Russian security services were on his case. And they weren’t the kind of people who would let him get away with killing one of their own. They would hunt for Soames in force, and they wouldn’t stop until they found him. Which meant that right now, he was the most wanted man in Sierra Leone. He had no passport, no money, no gun. He’d had to abandon everything in the office when Viktor Agron’s friends showed up.

  Soames knew he woul
d have to get to Kono. Before the Russians found out where he’d hidden everything, and robbed him blind. Which would be difficult enough in ordinary circumstances. But now he was a wanted man, in the most dangerous city on earth. There were about a dozen checkpoints and two hundred miles of rebel-held territory between Freetown and the diamond mine at Kono. He couldn’t head there anytime soon. It was too dangerous. There were too many people looking for him. The whole city was on the cusp of a rebel coup. No, Soames told himself. Kono would have to wait.

  First of all, he had to find a friend.

  Sixteen hours later, John Porter’s pager buzzed.

  TWO

  London, England.

  Friday 5 May 2000. 0402 hours.

  Six thousand miles away, John Porter sat inside the back of the Ford Transit and tried not to think about the pounding inside his head.

  The Transit 350 rolled at a steady fifteen miles per down Stradbrooke Road, a stretch of neglected terrace houses just off the tatty Tottenham High Road. There were eight guys in the back of the van. Porter and his mucker John Bald, plus half a dozen officers from SO19, the Met’s specialist firearms unit. The SO19 guys looked like they were about to re-enact Princes Gate. They were decked out in flame-retardant assault suits, body armour and ballistic helmets, and they carried Heckler & Koch MP5 carbines chambered with hollow-point nine-milli Parabellum. They rode in silence in the back of the Transit, counting down the seconds until the start of the op. Bald and Porter were dressed in cheap civvies, their Kevlar vests disguised under their sweatshirts, their police-issue Glock 17 semi-automatics holstered around their waists. Bald also wore a Petzl tactical head torch that transmitted a small beam of red light.

  Less than a minute to go until the op began, and all Porter could think about was how long it had been since he’d had a drink.

  Six hours since my last drop and I’m bloody gasping.

  Porter felt like shit. His head was throbbing, his mouth tasted like someone had just emptied an ashtray into it, and he had a bad case of the shakes. Nausea rose in his throat as the Transit jounced over a pothole in the road and closed in on the target.