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  ‘Cut the engine, get out and open the door.’

  Akulov followed the Giant out, all the time checking for any hint that it was a trap. He saw a CCTV camera covering their approach and switched his mind back to the house and the video feed of the same view. He imagined it was the same camera; he hoped for the best and planned for the worst.

  The Giant opened up the main door. ‘Shall I drive it inside?’

  ‘No. Walk.’

  The Giant sauntered into the vast interior of the building. Akulov darted inside and immediately moved to his left, taking him out of the doorway and any direct line of fire. He scanned the gloom for threats and saw none.

  ‘You want lights?’

  ‘Switch them on.’

  Industrial-strength lights blinked on, flooding the interior. Akulov saw no immediate threats. The double-warehouse-sized unit was empty save for a sectioned-off area at one end, which he presumed was an office, and several vehicle-sized shapes under sheets. He stood motionless, listened. Heard nothing.

  ‘Bring the van inside.’

  ‘OK.’

  Akulov followed the Giant, got back into the van and they drove inside.

  ‘Shut the warehouse doors.’

  The Giant said nothing and obeyed.

  ‘Now open the van and take Pedro out.’

  ‘Sí.’ Bravo opened the sliding side doors, and bent down. There was a muted murmuring. ‘Vinyl is awake.’

  ‘What about Pedro?’

  ‘I think he is dead.’

  Akulov moved nearer, still with the Beretta ready. He saw Vinyl, eyes screwed up against the overhead lights, struggling with his bonds. Next to him Pedro was still. ‘Pick up Pedro.’

  Without any effort Bravo raised the much smaller man from the floor of the van. He held him aloft, draped over his two arms like a butler holding a long coat. ‘He is dead.’

  ‘Drop him on the floor.’

  ‘Drop him?’

  ‘If he’s dead it won’t hurt him.’

  Bravo took several steps away from the van and held Pedro out in front of him.

  ‘Do it.’

  Akulov looked on as the body fell from a height of over a metre and a half. Pedro made no move to protect his head, as he dropped. He was a literal dead weight. There was a sickening crack as the back of his head hit the unforgiving, concrete floor, but no cry of pain, or moan or anything at all that would suggest Pedro was anything other than dead. The only sound came from Vinyl who was protesting.

  Bravo kicked the corpse. ‘He was a sack of shit, and now that is all he is.’

  Akulov tapped Pedro’s face with his booted foot. The blood leaking out of his skull and glassy fishlike eyes told him all he needed to know. ‘Put him back in the van. The cartel can have him back.’

  ‘I like your style,’ Bravo said. He picked up the corpse, as if it weighed nothing, deposited it inside the vehicle, next to Vinyl and wiped his hands on Pedro’s jeans. ‘And Vinyl?’

  ‘Help him out.’

  Bravo pulled Vinyl out and to his feet. He hopped and stumbled like a penguin. His wrists were still cable-tied together at the front of his body, as were his ankles, and his mouth was painfully sealed with duct tape. Akulov had to admire Pedro’s efficiency.

  Bravo yawned. ‘There are soft chairs in the office. I have not slept much, and look at this face – I need my beauty sleep. Please, can we go over there? I will tell you all I know – we can also secure Vinyl.’

  ‘Lead the way.’

  Bravo grabbed Vinyl by the scruff of his jacket and dragged him across the space and through the door. Akulov prepared for attack, but there was no one inside, just a meeting table on the left, facing leather settees and La-Z-Boys. Akulov pushed Vinyl into one of the chairs, and with a nod from Akulov, sat in a second and reclined it. He yawned again and visibly relaxed.

  Akulov remained standing. His fatigue was gone as adrenalin flooded his system. Vinyl had become silent but his eyes were fiery with anger. Akulov nodded at Bravo. ‘Now tell me all you know.’

  Del Monte Drive, Houston

  Vetrov was tired but it was nothing like the fatigue he had experienced on military operations. Dawn was breaking but he had not yet been to bed. His “boss”, who’d been attempting to drive away his grief with alcohol, drugs and the services of several women, had gone quiet a quarter of an hour ago and Vetrov knew he’d not surface now for several hours. Vetrov’s warning to not send men to snatch Akulov had been ignored and according to the Giant the snatch squad had been noisily liquidated. Wolf 6 had taken them out, yet much to Vetrov’s incredulity had then been captured by Vinyl.

  Had Vinyl just got lucky or had it been Akulov’s self-righteous code that had caused him to get captured? Vetrov would bet everything he owned that Akulov’s capture had not been down to Wolf 6 becoming sloppy.

  Vetrov observed through the thick, ballistic glass as the sky lightened. It was a new day for the residents of Houston and he sincerely hoped the last day Akulov would see. But something was niggling at him. Could Vinyl and that lackey, whose name he didn’t know, have really taken in Wolf 6? To him it seemed impossible, incredible, and yet the Giant had claimed it was so.

  If Akulov was not at the facility, then what had happened? Why was the Giant insisting that they had Akulov? It came to him, like a revelation. Had the Giant placed a new contract on the Mendez brothers? Was that the reason why he was the sole survivor of the gunfight with Wolf 6 in the alley that had killed Caesar Mendez? If this was the case, Akulov was working with the Giant. He needed to check this, and one phone call would reveal the truth.

  Vetrov retrieved his phone and called Vinyl. He hadn’t called the vice detective ever before; he hadn’t needed to. The call connected, but the phone at the other end rang out to voicemail. Vetrov removed the handset from his ear and stared at its screen, as though willing it to ring. It didn’t. He now knew that the only way to disprove his suspicions would be to go to Fairbanks Heights and see for himself if Akulov was there. If for any reason he attempted to leave now, Angel would either prevent him or insist on coming too. Unless he went now, whilst his boss and the rest of the house was asleep.

  Vetrov let his mind wander to the ongoing Blackline operation. He pictured the effect the cyberattack would have once his hacker’s new footage was released. It would create chaos in the Middle East leading to, his Saudi client predicted, regime change. And with change came opportunity and with opportunity came wealth.

  The lights of a car illuminated the street below. In the pre-dawn light, Vetrov could see it was a dark, domestic sedan, not the type driven by the residents of this upmarket part of town. Not a car that would blend in. It came to a stop on the opposite side of the street, directly outside Caesar’s house. The headlights went off. Vetrov noted that the driver and passenger did not exit the vehicle. Federal agents. The vanguard, the first to arrive and take watch on both houses owned by the Mendez brothers. Vetrov now knew he would not be leaving the house until the men left the street. Or unless he was innocently driving to the airport.

  There was nothing to be done. The house was secure, there were a pair of federal agents outside and if Akulov was on the loose he wouldn’t attack them now. Vetrov’s mind went back to the well-trusted military mantra – sleep when you can and eat when you can. He moved away from the window, lay on the bed and closed his eyes. He’d get several hours’ sleep before Angel woke up and made more demands of him.

  Chapter 13

  Five years ago

  Syria

  ‘Any movement?’ Wolf 1 said.

  ‘Nichego’ – nothing, Wolf 6 replied.

  ‘Counting down.’

  The world in front of Akulov was rendered a familiar, unearthly green by his night vision scope. Away from the capital and its wealth, the dust-blown deserts and barren mountains hadn’t changed for a millennium. From their OP in the foothills there was no way to tell if the collection of single- and two-storey buildings that constituted the village below were eig
ht or eighty-eight years old. The only feature perhaps linking them to the latter part of the twentieth century was the uniformity of their lines.

  The “Kanadets” – the Canadian – Kevin Belanger had gone missing after entering Syria two years before. Presumed dead, he had reappeared four months previously as a prisoner held by the Jabhat al-Nusra, a Salafist jihadist group aligned to ISIL. The shaggy hair and bushy beard, as shown on al-Nusra propaganda videos, did little to hide his emaciated frame. This was a very different Belanger to the clean-shaven thirty-two-year-old former chemistry teacher who’d left Halifax, Nova Scotia, to spread his faith.

  Akulov knew nothing more about the man, but he was glad to be part of the four-man team tasked with extracting him from the Jabhat al-Nusra. The Russian government were keen to succeed where others had failed. Drone intelligence had given the location of the compound in the valley below, well within the territory Russia had decided was its alone to monitor. HUMINT – human intelligence – provided by the Werewolves had now pinpointed Belanger’s location: an unremarkable single-storey building on the eastern edge of the village. For two days now they had watched Belanger being led out of his makeshift prison twice each day, carrying a bucket, which he emptied. Whoever his jailer was, they were at least attempting to be humane. They had seen only three other fighters, which made that a team of four looking after one man. Equal odds, four against four, but not equal at all, never equal to four Werewolves.

  ‘It’s time,’ Vetrov said.

  ‘Have that,’ Akulov replied, his voice low, his focus on the compound, on providing overwatch as Vetrov slowly slithered backwards and out of their hide.

  Wolf 6 watched Wolf 1 as he and the other two descended the scree-covered hillside with practised guile. This was the moment of maximum exposure; they were in the open with just Akulov’s keen eyes to intercept any threats. Complete radio silence, completely deniable, and as always their unit did not officially exist.

  There was a distant glow in the sky, not the sun. An explosion. Then another. Too far off for the sound to instantly register, close enough for the flash to momentarily flare in his scope. Akulov screwed his eyes shut for a matter of a second before opening them once more, to movement …

  Two bearded figures, three hundred and fifty metres away, tracking parallel to the compound, using the exterior wall as cover. They were armed, which was de rigueur in this part of the world, but their rifles were not slung across their backs; they were being carried at port arms, ready to move and acquire targets. Akulov’s team were operating under strict radio silence; even an intercepted hiss of encrypted transmission would alert the opposition that they were in the area.

  Akulov’s VSS Vintorez sniper rifle, like the 9mm AS Vals carried by his brothers, was suppressed, but a suppressed round still made a sound and any noise in the bowl-shaped valley below would carry. The heavy subsonic 9×39mm rounds when fired from the internally suppressed VSS were quieter than most but not as accurate for long-range shots. This didn’t overly worry Akulov. He was the best there was. He followed the two gunmen with his scope. There was no mistaking their direction or their targets. They knew the Russians were there. And that meant they had spotters of their own, and that meant they too had overwatch. There was nothing to be done: either he was being targeted or he was not. Akulov had to deal in facts. He acquired the second of the two, the one who was following his partner, the one who was less tactically aware. His head filled Akulov’s vision. He smoothly, slowly exhaled whilst he squeezed the trigger; there was a metallic, raspy whisper. A moment later the gunman jerked backwards as the heavy round tore through his skull. Before he had stopped falling, Akulov’s next round was on its way to his colleague.

  There was the gentlest of mechanical coughs from his east. Another sniper rifle firing, a different sound from his own. Instantly Akulov flattened himself into the dirt, trusting whoever was shooting at him had missed … They had. Barely. There was a ping as a round ricocheted from the rocks to his right.

  The need for stealth had been ripped away. He had to escape the line of fire. With his right hand, Akulov reached back, into his pack, for a white phosphorus grenade. In what seemed like an agonisingly slow action he brought the grenade to his other hand, pulled the pin and lobbed it to his left, shut his eyes and went prone. The metallic canister arced through the fresh night air, and unseen by Akulov exploded in a thunderous, roaring, blinding white cloud. The area filled with thick white smoke, creating a wall between him and the direction of the shooter. The grenade would both obscure his retreat and ignite anything it touched.

  Akulov scrabbled to his feet and moved as fast as his he could in the gloom. He had little chance of finding the shooter, but he could still lay down fire on any targets below. He angled up, further away from the valley and hopefully higher than the sniper. Hands and feet working in unison, he climbed until he pulled himself around a large rock.

  There were gunshots from below, echoing around the valley floor. He peered past the rock. Where it had landed, his grenade had set fire to what little vegetation there was. It hindered the use of his night vision scope but would also do the same to any other combatant. In the lee of the rock he swept the village. He reacquired his team, pinned against the wall of the outermost building, taking fire. Two buildings over, he found a gunman on a roof. Firing wildly down at the Russians with a Kalashnikov.

  Akulov squeezed his trigger and the gunman jerked sideways. The village fell silent. The Werewolves continued to prowl forwards. Akulov now found a spotter on another roof. He had a pair of field glasses raised to his eyes. A single shot sent him toppling backwards over the edge to the ground below. As his comrades moved to their target Akulov continued to scan the village.

  He saw no one.

  But he knew he wasn’t alone.

  Below, the Werewolves made entry to the target building. Meanwhile, the phosphorus from his grenade had burned itself out. The hill was dark once again. He swung his scope to his left and searched for the shooter who had targeted him. There was an imperceptible scratching of scree as loose stones were displaced under the weight of something moving. A human would make more noise, yet a human who had been bred for generations to hunt in the local mountains and foothills would not. Akulov relaxed his breathing. If the noise was caused by a human, they were moving and therefore their aim wouldn’t be as good as his, especially in the dark. Akulov waited.

  A pair of figures emerged from the green gloom, following what looked like a goat trail, which angled up in his direction. It was the sniper and spotter who had targeted him. The first was wearing a pair of night vision goggles and quartering the area in front of himself with an AK-47. The second was walking behind, his NVGs pushed up atop his head, and he was carrying a long rifle. His eyes were wide and his head inclined sideways in an attempt to use the more sensitive rods at the corners of his field of vision. The first jerked to a halt, as though he had just suddenly seen Akulov; the second reacted quickly and stopped too.

  Akulov had five rounds remaining in his nine-round magazine. He shot the first man twice in the chest and then sent two more rounds past him towards the second. Both men fell. Pulling his sidearm, and leaving his own rifle behind, Akulov rose. Without checking for signs of life he put another round into each man’s centre mass. There was no point in taking a chance he didn’t need to.

  Only now did he look closer at the pair. Both men’s NVGs were bulky and outdated, probably first- or second-generation units, but the fact they had them at all showed a level of sophistication that Akulov had not encountered before from the insurgent fighters. The sniper’s rifle was a battered Dragunov; Akulov acknowledged that to have been shot with this would have been ironic. The other fighter had a workmanlike, wooden stock AK-47 or a Chinese copy – he couldn’t tell in the available light. He picked up both weapons and took them back to the rock. And now he listened again to the still air. Silence. It didn’t make sense. He understood the smoke had hidden his retreat but why had they
not attempted to target his three-man team below?

  Akulov slowly moved back to his hide, to his ammo and his equipment. The world around him was still, silent. He clicked in a fresh magazine. He scanned the village. Anything that moved was an enemy. But nothing did. He’d killed six men, but had any of these been the original four guarding the Canadian? The best-case scenario was that the Belanger was now unguarded, and worst case was that there was an unknown number of insurgents waiting to attack them. He continued to scan the silent village and the rest of the valley. Nothing stirred. He focused on the target building and saw Wolf 1 now standing outside waving him down. Vetrov’s eyes narrowed; that wasn’t part of the plan. Akulov continued to watch, and Vetrov continued to wave. He scanned once more then exchanged his VSS Vintorez for a Val and slipped on a pair of NVGs.

  He made his way slowly down the hill and into the village. The original inhabitants had no doubt been moved on one way or another. The sky had started to lighten but still the world around him was too dark to manoeuvre through without the sophisticated optics strapped to his head. Once on the flat of the valley he moved faster, still alert for danger. He reached the target building.

  ‘They had men on the hill?’ Wolf 1 was in the doorway.

  ‘Two we missed.’

  ‘Dealt with?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That is an issue. There is a bigger one inside.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘See for yourself.’ Vetrov stepped aside.

  The room was furnished with nothing more than a metal-framed bed in one corner. Next to this what looked like a pile of rags lay on the floor. Akulov crossed the room and went through a door that led to the second room, where the Canadian had been held. The two other Werewolves were kneeling either side of a figure who was sitting up, ramrod straight on the floor with his hands raised above his head. The man had something attached to his torso. On his chest was a light, its colour bleached white by the NVGs. It slowly pulsated.