Total Fallout Read online

  He blinked, fighting the drowsiness that was threatening to engulf him. Continuing to use her phone he searched for more information on Daniel Arellano. Tellingly he found no social media accounts under that name so he switched to a wider internet search. It brought up a newspaper article from a Mexican publication, about an outreach project started by Arellano senior to improve local child literacy. Maybe Uncle Miguel was a cartel man. Akulov felt a sense of satisfaction, because his assassination of Caesar Mendez would provoke a reaction from his brother, Angel Mendez. And if Akulov could be certain of anything it was that his old team leader Vetrov would protect his own interests. And that meant safeguarding his new boss, and travelling with Angel Mendez when he came to Texas to find his brother’s killer and avenge his death.

  Akulov battled to keep his eyelids open, but had one last thing he wanted do to before he gave in to sleep. He opened the email account he used to communicate with his broker and typed a message in the draft folder: ‘One Mendez down.’ And then Akulov closed his eyes.

  Chapter 8

  InterContinental West Bay, Doha, Qatar

  Even though Qatar was two hours ahead of France, Tate was awake before the sun came up, a can of Coke from the minibar in hand, and gazing out of his high-floor window at the skyline of Doha’s West Bay area in the distance. A myriad of architectural styles had been placed side by side and back to back on a piece of land that just twenty years before was sand rolling and billowing into the sea. The man-made vista reminded him of Hong Kong with each tower and skyscraper illuminated with pulsating lights. His flight to Heathrow was late in the evening, which gave Tate time to unwind. And after the planning, and the mental and physical stress of the mission, he needed it. There were city tours and sights to see, and shopping he imagined too, but all he really wanted to do was eat, drink, swim and bask in the Gulf sunshine.

  He moved away from the window and caught his reflection in a large mirror. The moustache had started to grow on him, literally, but now he could see that his Paddy Fox special haircut needed work. It was uneven, blocky and made him look like Oddbod – from Carry On Screaming. A smile creased his face as he remembered watching it as a kid with his brother Simon and their dad. He hadn’t spoken to Simon for a couple of weeks. He checked his Rolex: 4.45 a.m. in Doha made it 21.45 in Washington the day before, a bit late for a social call.

  Tate was travelling clean and with the exception of his own mechanical Rolex had nothing with him. This included a complete lack of any electronic device of any kind. He wondered how Al Nayef would feel without his status, trappings of wealth and of course Twitter, Instagram and Facebook accounts. Tate had never used any type of social media platform; they hadn’t existed when he’d joined the British Army and by the time they had he was already in the SAS and prohibited from creating one.

  Tate lay back down on his bed and closed his eyes. And then the room phone rang. He sat up and reached for it. ‘Yes?’

  ‘The name’s Adrian Potkins, and I’ve got a message for you. I’ll be up there in five.’

  The call ended and Tate hurriedly threw his travelling clothes back on. His clean set lay still unpacked in his hand luggage. He went to the door and opened it, letting it stay ajar. The room was darker than the hallway, so he’d be hidden in the shadows. And then he waited.

  He heard the lift arrive at the end of the hall, the doors open and the footfall of a single person on the thick hotel carpet. There was a knock, before the door swung open. A slight man stood there, illuminated by the hallway lights. He was in his mid-forties with shaggy brown hair, and wearing scruffy khaki cargo shorts and a creased, cream linen shirt. Tate noted that he kept his hands on display by his sides.

  ‘Can I come in?’ It was the same voice from the phone, and Tate now detected the trace of an accent that hinted at Australia or New Zealand.

  ‘Make yourself at home.’

  ‘Thanks, dude.’ The man sat.

  Tate pressed a wall-mounted switch and the full room lights flicked on. ‘I imagine we have some mutual friends?’

  ‘You imagine right,’ said the man.

  Tate shut the door.

  ‘As I said on the phone, I’m Adrian Potkins.’

  ‘Good for you.’

  ‘I just need to retrieve my phone?’ Potkins kept eye contact with Tate, retrieved a phone, dialled a number then held it up to his ear. ‘I’m with him now. OK, will do.’ Potkins held out his handset. ‘She wants to speak to you.’

  ‘Put it on speaker,’ Tate ordered.

  The unmistakable voice of Pamela Newman, Tate’s SIS handler, filled his ears. ‘Jack, Mr Potkins is with us.’

  Tate took the phone and noticed that it was an encrypted handset. He turned off the speakerphone function. ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘Jack, this is a fastball. I need you to go to Texas. Immediately.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘We’ve found Akulov.’

  All thoughts of his last mission and Al Nayef vanished from his mind. The walls seemed to shift and his chest felt suddenly tight. Tate tried to control his expression but felt his jaw clench. Through this he managed to say, ‘Explain?’

  ‘He was pinged taking a flight to Miami yesterday morning from Wichita and then a second flight a matter of hours ago from Miami to Houston.’

  ‘Why expose himself now?’

  ‘I think it was intentional. He looked directly at the cameras before he took both flights.’

  Tate was puzzled. ‘So he wanted to be seen? Again, why now?’

  ‘Perhaps because he knows we are looking for him and the Americans are not?’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I don’t know, and that worries me.’

  ‘I’ll have to ask him that personally.’

  ‘Do so. You’ll get a full briefing pack when you’re stateside.’

  ‘Understood.’

  ‘Jack, I want him alive.’

  Tate paused but again said, ‘Understood.’

  ‘I sincerely hope you do.’

  The line went dead and Tate handed the phone back to Potkins. ‘Tell me how I can get to Texas.’

  ‘You’re booked on the QR flight to Texas leaving at 07.50. We have to leave now, so I need you to pack.’

  ‘OK.’ Tate slipped on his shoes and zipped up his Samsonite cabin bag. ‘Done.’

  Outside, they got into a 4×4, passed through the ornate arched entrance of the hotel complex and followed the signs for Doha. Tate felt giddy and his stomach churned as his mind drifted back to the last time he had seen Ruslan Akulov, the man who killed his foster parents. Back then, in Washington, Tate had not known Akulov was the bomber. Akulov had not been identified as the suspect on the Camden footage. That had only happened afterwards, when the lost smartphone had been found and Tate’s world had been turned upside down.

  For a year Tate had shouldered the burden of Akulov’s escape from justice. Now he had a chance to avenge the death of the couple who had raised him as their own. But it wasn’t just the Hunters who had perished in the Camden bombing. The relatives of the other victims needed justice too, and that was not going to happen if Akulov was allowed to live. He was an animal and Tate was going to put him down. He closed his eyes and forcefully took several long, deep breaths. Did his brother know the news? Had Newman consulted with him?

  Wharton, Texas, USA

  Akulov’s eyes snapped open. He saw the pre-dawn light seeping in under the door and around the curtains, and then he turned his head and registered the two beds. He remembered. He was in a hotel room with two women and his head ached.

  Akulov checked his watch. It was after five a.m. he’d slept longer than he intended, but the first light of day was still an hour away. He’d butted the second armchair up against the first to make a makeshift bed. He lifted his legs from the chair and swung to his feet. Wincing as his back and chest complained at the sudden movement, he reached under his shirt and pulled off his impromptu dressing. He stepped into his Timberlands, retrieved the Gloc
k from under his chair and slowly made for the window. Raising the curtain delicately, he peered around it. There was no one waiting for him, no team of sicarios preparing to take his life.

  He deliberately moved to the door. It had been cut slightly too short for the gap it filled and he could feel an almost imperceptible breeze waft in. He opened the door silently and stepped outside. It was Saturday morning. Wharton was still, the air fresh and scented with earth from the fields that bordered the hotel. In the near-dawn he was satisfied with his choice of hotel. The flat fields gave little cover to any approaching threats. He walked a full circuit of the exterior walkway, taking care not to make a sound as he passed each room.

  He was thirsty and hungry, but the restaurant wouldn’t be open for several hours. He needed to search the Cadillac. Scanning the fields once more, he took the steps down to the car park. The Cadillac’s paintwork glowed. It was some fancy finish, a custom colour and that meant it was unique and memorable. He had to ditch it. He blipped the fob, cursed as the lights flashed once and there was a dull, melodic ping – the sound seemingly magnified a million times in the stillness. He opened the passenger door and took the large silver revolver and phone from under the seat. There were a series of missed calls on the phone but when he tried to unlock it the operating system demanded a code. He put the phone and the revolver back under the seat.

  On impulse he opened the glove compartment. An interior light illuminated a metal hip flask, and what he had been hoping for: a small bottle of water. He took the water, confirmed that the seal was intact before taking a sip to wet his mouth and then popping three more pills. Once these were swallowed, he greedily emptied the rest of the water down his throat. He locked the car. It blipped and flashed again … and then he heard the sound of a vehicle approaching. His view was obstructed by the hotel buildings, but the sound grew louder, a rumbling, burbling lazy V8, the type tuned for torque not top speed and that meant it was a heavy vehicle, a pick-up or an SUV. Something told him to take cover because another of his kind, a predator was approaching. He heard doors open and close and then he saw the nose of a vehicle creep around the edge of the hotel building. Akulov dropped to the ground and shuffled beneath the Cadillac, lost – he hoped – into a world of shadows.

  He now saw that the approaching SUV was a black Cadillac Escalade, the negative of the vehicle above him. It continued to creep nearer, its headlights off, its running lights off, as though it were a gigantic black panther stealthily stalking its prey. To his right he heard the but silent slapping of rubber-soled boots on concrete. Two dark figures, holding assault rifles, edged around the corner of the building – one crouched and low and the other higher. They were professional, trained, and ready to take different arcs of fire. Akulov stayed immobile, pinned in the gloom. The black Cadillac stopped several car lengths away from his own. A door opened and he saw brown cowboy boots, with shiny steel accents, scrunch onto the dirt. There was a scraping of small stones as the boots approached his SUV and halted within inches of his nose.

  ‘Go up the stairs,’ the owner of the boots ordered the two gunmen, in Spanish.

  Akulov watched them start to move, tactically and with awareness. The cowboy boots moved away too. Akulov pulled the sub-compact Glock from his back pocket and leopard-crawled out from under the Cadillac. Soundlessly he stood behind the owner of the cowboy boots, at arm’s length, the Glock pointed at his head.

  ‘Hands up,’ Akulov said, the phrase in Spanish reminding him of an old John Wayne movie. ‘Turn around slowly.’

  ‘Are you Mr Russel?’ the cowboy boots’ owner asked in English.

  ‘Turn around slowly and you’ll find out.’

  ‘OK.’ The man turned. Akulov recognised the serious expression on his face, the barrel chest and the largest moustache he had even seen. ‘I am Miguel Becerra. Please lower your little gun.’

  ‘Tell your men to lower theirs.’

  Miguel whistled. Akulov saw the movement from above and then heard footfall on the metal stairs as the men advanced. ‘Stand down.’

  Akulov raised his right hand to his side and then slowly returned the Glock to his back pocket.

  ‘I trust my niece is still safe?’

  ‘Safe and sleeping.’

  ‘Mr Russel, you are an interesting man. I recognise a fellow professional when I see one. My first question to you is who do you work for?’

  ‘No one.’

  ‘I see, and before that?’

  ‘A select clientele.’

  ‘Why were you in Houston?’

  ‘I was looking for someone.’

  ‘And did you find them?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  Miguel gestured to the white Cadillac. ‘Do you know who that belongs to?’

  ‘Caesar Mendez.’

  ‘Correct. And do you know who Caesar Mendez is?’

  ‘He’s dead.’

  Miguel’s eyebrows arched skywards. ‘Because of you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That is good news for me but deadly news for you, Mr Russel. Caesar Mendez was a Don of the Mendez Cartel. His twin brother Angel Mendez is the other. They are ruthless, violent, remorseless animals, and they never forget. I am afraid that you have signed your own death warrant.’

  ‘They’ll have to take a ticket and wait in line.’

  Miguel let out an onerous laugh. ‘You are either insane or very confident of your own abilities.’

  Akulov didn’t need to reply.

  ‘So, shall we get my niece?’

  ‘I’ll give you the key.’ Akulov slowly reached with his left hand into his pocket and handed Miguel the room key.

  ‘Thank you.’ Miguel took a step towards the hotel then abruptly paused, turned and pointed at the white Cadillac. ‘Tell me, who was with Caesar?’

  ‘Two heavies with guns – they were reasonably competent. They’re also dead. And a giant. I took his gun and left him in the gutter.’

  Miguel’s moustache quivered. ‘You took the Giant’s gun?’

  ‘A silver Colt Python. It’s what I shot the others with. It’s not a great weapon.’

  ‘Then, Mr Russel, you are most definitely insane.’ Miguel carried on walking towards the hotel and after Akulov confirmed the room was indeed on the second floor, took the steps up. He rapped heavily on the door with his thick knuckles. ‘Room service.’

  Inside there was audible mumbling but no one came to the door.

  Akulov understood what was going through Miguel’s mind. The Mexican would not enter unless he knew it was not a trap. ‘I’ll open the door and go in first.’

  ‘Agreed,’ Miguel said, handing the key back.

  Akulov entered the room. Both beds were empty, but the covers had gone. He could hear low voices in the bathroom. ‘Stop hiding, ladies, your uncle is here.’

  Tentatively, a head peered out from behind the bathroom door.

  ‘I did not drive all the way from Matamoros because I wanted to play hide-and-seek,’ Miguel said, his voice aggravated but the tone playful.

  ‘Uncle Miguel?’ Sofia’s head peeked out further.

  ‘Yes, it is me. Now get dressed. I need to take you home. I’ll be waiting outside.’ He led Akulov back onto the walkway and shut the door. ‘She had an argument with her mother – did she tell you? I love her like a daughter but she is extremely spirited. She fights with my sister like cat and dog. She was always in too much of a hurry to grow up, and now she has.’

  ‘I understand,’ Akulov replied. ‘But tell me, why did Mendez try to abduct her?’

  The Mexican nodded. ‘It is a long story. He had a business disagreement with Francisco Arellano, who is a close family friend. His son Daniel was Sofia’s boyfriend. And that is all I can say.’

  They fell silent. Miguel was a talker and Akulov wanted to give him the chance to do so. They watched the start of the sunrise. In a couple of hours the morning freshness would be replaced by the dry dust of the day.

  Miguel continued, ‘I owe you a
debt, Mr Russel. Sofia’s parents owe you a debt.’ He reached into his jacket and retrieved an envelope. ‘In here you will find $5000. It is yours. Please accept it as a token of our gratitude. My card is also in here. I am personally indebted to you. You can call me anytime.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Akulov didn’t need the cash, but money was money, and turning it down would have constituted an insult.

  ‘One word of warning, Mr Russel. Walk away from this place. Now. Leave Texas. Do not come back. Never on any account visit Matamoros or the surrounding area. If Angel Mendez or any of his men see you they will kill you. I suggest you book a flight to a Caribbean island, drink rum and kiss women.’

  Akulov nodded. Miguel had said his piece and now it was his turn. ‘I can’t walk away. I still have to find someone.’

  Miguel’s eyes tightened and a micro-expression of doubt flashed across his face. ‘Who?’

  ‘A Russian.’

  Miguel visibly relaxed. ‘I do not know many Russians in Houston.’

  ‘I believe he is in Matamoros, but I think he will be in Houston soon, with his boss.’

  ‘I am guessing his boss is Angel Mendez?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You are playing a most lethal game, Mr Russel.’

  There was no other way to get the information so Akulov was blunt. ‘Are you with the Arellano Cartel?’

  ‘You think any Mexican businessmen who has armed bodyguards must be a member of a cartel?’

  ‘You arrived here with highly trained armed guards, and I do not believe they travelled across the border with their assault rifles. That means you have ready access to both men and arms in the US.’ Akulov paused for a moment, then decided he had nothing to lose. ‘The man I am looking for is called Vetrov. He was paid to assassinate the Mendez brothers yet now he is working for them.’

  ‘I see. And what, Mr Russel, are you here to do? Complete his contract and then terminate him also?’

  ‘No. He has information I need, intelligence I need.’

  ‘So let me ask you, did you kill Caesar to draw this Russian across the border or to save my niece?’