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  The RPG sailed high and exploded in the eaves of the house. The truck started to move again.

  Loud retorts of unsilenced assault rifles now sounded, aimed at what or who Tate didn’t know. Tate looked at the oncoming pick-up. As long as it was moving it was an unstable platform. Once the cartel men got out it would be a different story. Tate decided to take a larger gamble. He could open fire now but at that range the rounds from his HK would have less power. Controlling his breathing, he lined up the front on the distant truck and waited. It bounced towards him, rising and falling like a yacht riding the waves, up and down, peaks and troughs. Tate counted the seconds off, the black pick-up growing ever larger, drawing ever nearer.

  He waited until he could finally make out a face behind the windscreen and estimated that the vehicle was now within the HK’s effective firing range of three hundred and thirty yards. He took a breath, exhaled and squeezed the trigger.

  Tate’s controlled bursts emptied his magazine within seconds. The twenty 5.56mm rounds exploded towards the truck. The windshield crazed but the pick-up kept on coming. Tate dropped out the magazine and slammed a new one in. He waited, each second the vehicle drawing nearer, and he fired again. Steam started to pour from the bonnet. The truck turned to the left and now Tate emptied the rest of his second magazine into the side of the cab. Rounds snapped back at him now from the passenger in the front and the guy on the back who was holding on with one hand and waving a Kalashnikov with the other. None of their rounds were hitting Tate or even the house behind him. Not wanting to tempt fate, he dropped from his haunches onto his stomach, making himself an even smaller target as the truck came to a shuddering and juddering halt.

  The passenger door opened and a guy almost fell out, clutching a rifle that had been too long for him to effectively bring to bear in the confined space. Tate saw the driver’s head appear above the bonnet on the other side and then heavier calibre rounds of a Kalashnikov thundered towards him. Tate was a static target, but he was also low to the ground, and he hoped he was the better shot. He fired a three-round burst at the passenger, dropping him as he was still trying to swing his rifle up. Rounds hit the wall next to Tate, chipping the bricks.

  Tate switched targets and fired a burst at the driver, who instantly ducked below the outline of the heavy bonnet. A head, then a shoulder and then a torso appeared from the truck bed. RPG man was on his feet with another RPG. Tate rolled to his right, pushed up and sprinted towards the corner of the house. There was a whoosh and a spurt of flame as the RPG rocketed towards his position. Seconds later an explosion sent Tate flying through the air. He hit the dirt and slid across the floor to the wall.

  Tate got to his feet and leant against the side of the house. He sucked in a few deep breaths and waited for the ringing in his ears to die away. Then he dropped to his knee and spun back around the corner. RPG man was still standing on the truck bed, looking dazed but staring at the impact his rocket had made. Tate took aim, but before he pulled the trigger the man crumpled and fell backwards. Akulov on the roof had taken him out. Tate fired again at where the driver had been but saw that the last man had had a change of heart and was running away from the stationary truck. He got perhaps ten strides further away before a solitary round hit him in the back of the head and propelled him towards the ground.

  Tate didn’t know if the two men in the truck he’d shot were dead, but he knew they weren’t returning rounds and that was all that mattered for the moment. He could hear shots from the front of the house and cautiously advanced around the side until he’d reached the second line of contact. He took the chance to change his magazine; it was his last. He’d not been economical, but when facing a larger force, dominating them with superior firepower was the only course of action.

  There were two vehicles at the front; he had no idea where the last one had appeared from. It was a white Cadillac Escalade, fifty yards away on the drive, shielded by the other pick-up. Tate pushed himself flat against the side of the house to assess the threat. A figure was leaning over the bonnet of the SUV with a long rifle. As Tate watched, he fired on the house. The heavy retort told Tate it was a 0.50-cal round, big enough to cut a man in two and penetrate a brick wall. In front of the Cadillac, and between the vehicles, two figures lay dead on the gravel in a pool of blood.

  Tate took a long breath, calmed his breathing, acquired the shooter with the 0.50-cal and opened fire. Instantly the figure ducked and jerked as Tate’s rounds missed and hit the hood.

  The shooting had stopped. Tate didn’t know how many men Miguel had at the house. He realised that his performance had been affected by his preoccupation with his brother, and he’d stopped being aware of his environment. Now was not the time to make mistakes.

  Ahead the sniper behind the Cadillac had changed his target. He took another shot, but this time the heavy round roared towards Tate. He instinctively threw himself flat, knowing that to be even just clipped was life-ending. A chunk of brick was torn away from the wall of the house half a metre above his head. Return fire now came from the upper floors of the house, targeting the sniper.

  On instinct, and without fully being aware he had done so, Tate sprinted out of cover diagonally towards the Cadillac, relying on their suppressive fire from the house to keep the heads down of any other shooters he’d not seen. He kept his HK up, ready to take on targets as and when they presented themselves. He heard rounds being fired but couldn’t afford to think about them. Thirty yards, twenty, ten to go, and Tate realised that his course of action was perhaps not the best, as a line of dirt exploded in front of his feet. He increased his pace and, with tunnel vision, focused on the hood of the Cadillac. There was movement from behind the wheel arch, a figure hiding. Tate fired a burst as he ran. It was wild and hit the tyre and the dirt around but he’d just been trying to get the gunman to keep his head down.

  He reached the hood and half ran, half skidded around the far side. A man wearing a red-checked shirt and blue jeans lay on his back, clutching a Barrett. He looked up at Tate, anger in his dark eyes and said in Spanish through bloodstained lips, ‘Ya valí madre …’

  Images of Vetrov and what he’d done to his brother filled his mind. Tate delivered a burst to the guy’s chest. Mind still burning with rage, Tate checked inside the SUV – it was empty – and then crabbed around to its rear. The sun blinded Tate for a moment, making him slow to spot two more shooters exchanging fire with the house, using the other vehicle for cover. He’d made a mistake; his mind had been elsewhere. Before Tate could react, one spun round and opened fire at him.

  The round hit Tate square in the chest and pushed him backwards with what felt like the weight of a sledgehammer. Tate’s HK flew from his hands as he hit the gravel. He lay on his back for several seconds stunned, winded, and unable to move. But then he heard two single shots and all the guns fell silent.

  Seemingly miles away a voice shouted, ‘Clear!’

  Tate opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out. His eyes focused on the clouds floating above, and he managed to suck in a lungful of air. A shadow fell over him; it was panting heavily.

  ‘Tate! Are you hit?’

  It took a second for Tate to realise it was Akulov. ‘Help me up!’

  The Werewolf bent forward and grabbed Tate’s arms and heaved. As Tate started to leave the ground, he gasped in pain.

  ‘Kill or cure …’ Tate muttered.

  ‘What?’ Akulov looked puzzled.

  ‘Just pull.’

  Tate got to his feet and leant against the Russian. ‘You’ve been hit.’

  Tate closed his eyes, then using his right hand felt the vest and found the deformed round. He purposefully inhaled as deeply as he could, to test his chest. It was bruised but there were no broken bones. ‘Don’t mess with the SAS!’

  Tate took in the scene. Three more bodies lay in front of the pick-up; they’d come mob-handed.

  ‘They tried to rush me,’ Akulov said.

  ‘Silly sods,’ Tate r
eplied.

  Akulov started to laugh. ‘I need to learn British slang.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Tate said. ‘It’s the bollocks.’

  ‘Bollocks?’ Akulov frowned.

  ‘Never mind.’

  Miguel emerged from the house. ‘We need to check the bodies.’

  ‘Understood,’ Akulov shouted back.

  Tate moved away from Akulov and walked to the Cadillac. He didn’t need to check the Barrett guy for a pulse – he had no chest – and the two Akulov had taken out looked more like early Jackson Pollocks. On impulse, Tate had a quick look inside the Cadillac for phones or anything that linked the men back to whomever sent them. It was highly unlikely that they weren’t cartel men, but he’d been wrong before. He saw a phone-sized boxy object and picked it up. For a moment he thought that it was a remote detonator but then he realised what it was. A tracker, but it wasn’t receiving a signal. Tate popped it into his pocket, and decided he’d have a better look when he was inside the villa. He straightened himself up and now looked at the bodies lying on the drive. There was no need to feel any of the men near them for a pulse. ‘We need to check the back.’

  Both men started to walk towards the side of the house. Tate’s chest hurt but the pain just told him he was still alive. They reached the back and continued on to the pick-up. The passenger of the pick-up was dead but RPG man was still breathing.

  Whilst Akulov kept lookout in case any more men or vehicles approached, Tate painfully clambered up onto the truck bed and crouched down next to the injured man.

  ‘Who sent you?’

  The man’s eyes fluttered and he turned his head. ‘I … I don’t … want to die …’

  ‘But you wanted me to. Answer my questions and I’ll get you some help. Who sent you?’

  ‘M … Mendez … Mendez Cartel …’

  ‘Why?’ It was an obvious question, but he had to ask it.

  The man’s mouth opened but no words formed.

  Tate stood and moved away. RPG man was beyond help, and besides five minutes earlier the guy had been trying to blow him up. Tate dropped down from the truck and winced. ‘I think we’re done here.’

  They trooped back to the house, weapons up, aware that more cartel men could arrive at any time.

  Tate retrieved the small black box from his pocket. ‘I found this in the Cadillac.’

  Akulov examined it.

  ‘There’s no signal.’

  Akulov stopped walking. ‘Bravo and Angel are underground in a concrete-walled bunker. That is why there’s no signal now. The cartel must have tracked them here before they were taken to the cells. Perhaps they couldn’t get their men here to attack before now?’

  ‘Silly sods.’ Tate let out a large sigh. If this was all a play then the address Bravo had given him for Eastman was probably made up too. And that meant Vetrov was in the wind. He no longer felt any guilt for what Miguel may or may not have done to extract the information.

  They edged into and through the patio and kitchen. The body of the dead guard still lay on the tiles. Akulov bent down and closed his eyes. There were two gunshots. Loud, echoing 9mm rounds from a pistol. They boomed below the floor. Tate and Akulov exchanged glances and advanced down the steps, towards the cells and the direction of the shots. Akulov held up his fist at the top. They both listened – nothing. Akulov pointed to Tate and held up one finger then himself and held up two. Tate nodded, and took the lead.

  At the bottom Tate pressed himself as flat as he could against the wall and then swung around and into the room, weapon up. Two of the cell doors were open. He advanced towards the second door, the first cell, trying to keep his footfall quiet but knowing that it was slapping against the concrete. Inside he saw the Giant Bravo still chained to the table but his head resting on it. Tate drew nearer and realised that the top of his head was bloody. Blood dripped onto the steel table and ran to the edges before seeping onto the floor.

  The Giant raised his head slowly. His eyes were red and his face crimson, but Tate could see the white of his teeth as he opened his mouth. ‘You lied to me!’

  ‘Where did you hide the tracker, Bravo?’

  ‘Tracker … you think I am chipped like some sort of dog?’

  There was a bleep from Tate’s pocket. Using his left hand he pulled out the digital tracker. It showed the distance to its target as twenty foot; Bravo was less than a metre away. ‘It’s not you.’

  The Giant pushed himself upright, the chains securing him to the desk tightened. ‘Get me out of here.’

  Tate turned away. Akulov was still in the doorway. His expression gave nothing away. He moved past Akulov and advanced to the far cell. They found Miguel standing over the broken, naked body of Angel Mendez. Mendez’s eyes were open. He was still alive but there was a bloody wound in his left thigh.

  Miguel looked up, as though he had merely been distracted from reading a newspaper. Once more his shirt was bloodstained. ‘There was a tracking chip inside him, in his leg. Can you believe it? I have removed it. Bravo told me on the provision that I did not kill him.’

  ‘What will happen to him now?’

  ‘Angel will of course die. Do not worry, Ruslan – you shall still be paid – and as for Bravo? That is still to be discussed. He now has no reason to run away, if we can come to acceptable terms.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Ah, but I almost forgot. I’ve received a text message. Your helicopter will be here in twenty minutes.’

  Chapter 18

  31,000 feet above Colorado

  The Gulfstream G280 could be configured to handle up to ten passengers but on this flight there were just two: Tate and Akulov. Helicopters had arrived at the safe house. One had taken Miguel away to an undisclosed location whilst the other had ferried Tate and Akulov directly to the David Wayne Hooks Memorial Airport.

  As far as Tate was aware George Eastman was at the address Miguel had given him. It was a place just outside the small town of Eureka in Montana. Plato was already trying to get as much intel as he could on the area, including satellite images, but there was still no way to verify the location extracted from the Giant Bravo.

  ‘Eureka was chosen to have a weapons cache because it is only nine miles south of the US border with Canada. It is a convenient location for a team entering the US,’ Akulov said, matter of fact. ‘I believe Vetrov plans on escaping into Canada with Eastman.’

  ‘That’s obvious,’ Tate said, tersely.

  ‘I suggest we check the cache first. Vetrov may be heading there. He knows I am following him, and that is an obvious place for him to ambush me. He, however, does not know who you are and that we are collaborating.’

  Tate knew it was again time to lay down the law. ‘Vetrov may have framed you, but he killed my parents and shot my brother. When we find him, he’s mine.’

  Akulov nodded. ‘I have already told you. All I want from him is an answer.’

  ‘And what’s the question?’

  ‘Why did he choose to frame me?’

  ‘He was your team leader?’

  ‘He was once an outstanding soldier. He was an excellent operator, and he was my friend. War changes each of us in different ways, as you know. The fear, the horror and the suffering that we see, that we inflict on ourselves and on others, it distils who we are.’

  ‘You mean it either makes or breaks us?’

  ‘It broke Vetrov mentally, though perhaps break is not quite the correct word for him. It released something inside of him that was both deadly and inhumane. He lost all respect for any life that wasn’t his own, that wasn’t of his blood, wasn’t Russian.’

  ‘Are you talking about war crimes?’

  ‘The entire war was a crime. We Russians were in Syria to prop up a corrupt regime. Conveniently for the Kremlin we could make-believe we were the good guys because we shot Islamic terrorists. The terrorists started out as ISIS and al-Qaeda but when the terrorists fled, or were killed, we then moved on to the groups who opposed the government.’ Akul
ov looked out of the window, his fists now clenched. Tate thought he may be seeing ghosts. ‘That was when I understood what the war had created, what it had done to Vetrov and the men around him. That was when I decided to leave those who I had been proud to call brothers. Once our Syria campaign was over, I gave in my letter of intention to resign. At that very moment, in the eyes of Vetrov I ceased being of the same blood. I became nothing. I became the enemy. I became a traitor.’

  Tate understood the context. Special Forces operators were a specific breed of men, and when they became warped or snapped it never ended well. ‘So you embarked upon the career of a freelance assassin.’

  Akulov was silent again for a beat and Tate tried to read his face. ‘Not all my work was private sector. The Kremlin would not let me leave until I had undertaken certain “tasks” for them. Once I was permitted to be so, I was selective. Did I assassinate people? Yes. Were these people innocent? No. As I have told you before, I have a code.’

  Tate now stared out his own window. ‘Whatever you say, Ruslan, whatever you may think, we are very different.’

  ‘No, Jack, we are not. If you were born in Moscow you would have been on my team, and if I had been born in the green rolling hills of Surrey or Sussex or anywhere in the UK, then I would have been a member of your regiment.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Tate closed his eyes.

  Eureka was at the other end of the country, over two thousand miles away from Houston, an entire continent in European terms. It would take approximately thirty hours of non-stop driving to get there. That would mean even if Vetrov had driven directly after the firefight at the warehouse, not stopped for food, comfort or sleep, he would still be in the car for at least another five hours. But he hadn’t driven; he’d abandoned his vehicle in Texas after killing two police officers.

  The fastest way to get to Eureka was by air. Before he’d boarded the chopper, Tate had been on a conference call with Newman and Plato. Now that they had an address for Eastman, Newman had agreed to send in a team to assist Tate, which would include Plato to secure and assess the technology; however, they would not be arriving until late the next day. Local talent was also unavailable to them at such short notice and given the classified nature of the threat. Her orders to Tate were succinct and unequivocal. Get to Eureka, carry out surveillance on the target and wait for the E Squadron team to arrive.