The Agents

[FullAuto]

Disclaimer: X-Com is copyrighted material of Infogames/Firaxis/Atari. This story is fan fiction and can be reproduced as long as the author's rights are respected (i.e. please ask). Please do not make any unauthorised changes to the text or take the author's name out of it.

 

 

Hereford. Home of the SAS.

 

Four men sat in the drab office. One read a paper, his frizzy ginger hair just visible over the top, feet up on the coffee table. Another drank tea slowly from a chipped mug. The other two looked at the thin folder on the table.

The second man finished his tea and stood up.

"Makin a brew, Pete?" His paper-reading colleague asked innocently.

"Sod off, Jock." He went over to the desk in the corner and put the kettle on. "What do we reckon then? Chris?"

One of the men staring at the folder looked up. He had blonde hair and blue eyes, tanned skin and a nasty scar at the base of his throat, mostly covered by the neck of his T-shirt.

"Load of toss." He went back to looking at the folder.

"Kev?"

The other man reached forward and opened the folder. He had dark hair and pale blue eyes. He read aloud from the single sheet inside. "Personnel necessary for overseas operations. UN rapid reaction force to be formed. Preferential rates of pay." His mouth curled in a sneer. "Sounds dodgy to me. A UN rapid reaction force? You'd never get frigging deployed. They can barely decide what bloody day it is."

"Sounds good." Jock said, from behind his paper. "We sit around here doin sweet FA anyway. Might as well get paid more for it."

Pete turned back to the kettle and thought as he watched it boil. The only sound for a minute was the bubbling water.

Kev flipped the folder shut and got up. "What do you think?"

It took a minute for Pete to realise he was being asked something. "Sorry, what?"

"Switch on." Jock muttered.

"What do you think?"

[FullAuto]

"So this is our new job then." Kev sighed, putting the flask down between his legs.

"Looks that way." Chris agreed.

"Stuck in a bloody one-horse town. Look at it. It's like friggin Northern Ireland." Jock shifted, pulled his pistol from its cross-draw holster and checked chamber, drawing back the slide until he saw brass. "Worse, even."

"Put it away." Pete told him. "You've checked it ten bloody times and we've been here half an hour."

Jock shoved the pistol back into its holster. "We could at least go and get a drink."

"No." Pete passed him a rolled-up paper. "Read this and shut up, you tart."

"I've read it." Jock said, but he still opened it up and scanned the pages.

The four men were in a Land Rover, parked on a slight rise a mile away from the nearest town.

"Where are we, anyway?" Jock grumbled from behind his paper.

"Dunno." Kev picked up the A to Z and threw it onto the back seat. "Have a look."

Jock ignored the map and stuck with the paper. Chris picked his nose. Pete sucked on a mint and looked up the road, towards the nearby farmhouse. A bit run down, red brick and dark wood, the odd slate missing off the roof. A barn five metres away, ready to fall down. He picked the thick envelope off the dashboard and pulled out the contents.

A photo. Young, late twenties, blonde hair, green eyes. Tall, and muscular for a woman. Jeans, boots and a chequered shirt.

A profile sheet. Anna Louise Webber, born 1977, blonde hair, green eyes...

Pete scanned the rest of the sheet. Single, no criminal record, no suspicious activities, no living relatives.

"There's something funny going on." He said, passing the sheet and photo to Kev. "Have a look."

Kev looked at the photo, then read the sheet. "What are we out here to do again?"

"We've got protection duty for the next two weeks." Pete nodded at the farmhouse. "Just us, no back up, nothing."

"She doesn't look like anyone important." Kev looked over the profile sheet again. "She's not married or related to anyone alive, she's never done anything suss as far as MI5 are concerned-"

"And you know how touchy those arseholes are." Jock added.

"-never committed a crime, never even associated with anyone suspected of committing a crime." Kev passed the sheet and photo to Chris. "She's alright looking but I don't think anyone's going to kill her out of jealousy."

"It's total bollocks." Jock warned from behind his paper. "I told you, and you didn't listen."

They ignored him. Pete looked at the other documents from the envelope. A printout of an ultrasound scan. It showed, in blurry grey, a foetus.

Pete turned the paper this way and that. He could never tell which bit was which. He passed the sheet to Kev. Kev held it up. "She's pregnant?"

"Maybe the kid's important. Or the kid's father." Chris was leaning over Kev's shoulder to peer at the picture.

"Someone in government?" Kev suggested, passing the picture back.

Chris tossed the photo and profile sheet aside. Jock ignored them.

"Maybe. But why order a bunch of Regiment-"

"And Jock." Kev added.

"Fuck off, Wanker."

"-to protect her? Why not just hush it up and give her some money to have an abortion and keep quiet?"

Pete unfolded the last document.

It was in techno-babble and pseudo-English. He read a few sentences, didn't understand a word and dropped it into the footwell. Time to focus on the job.

"Right, switch on, lads."

Chris tucked the picture away. Kev picked the flask up and poured himself a cup of lukewarm tea.

Jock even lowered his paper.

"Never mind why we're here. We're going to bodyguard her for two weeks. Hopefully she'll let something slip and we'll find out why we're here. If we don't, tough. We've all been on jobs that made no sense, so let's just assume head shed knows what it's doing and get on with it." He turned and looked over the seat at Jock and Chris. "Jock, I want the Land Rover parked close. We don't have a clue what's going on, so we might need to leave in a hurry. Chris, you're BG, you're the least likely to get on her nerves. Stick with her. Take the k, if you want. Me and Kev will take the fives and we'll be on stag. We'll see to the house when we get inside. Chris, stay here and wait for her to turn up. We'll look the place over."

They climbed out of the Land Rover.

Pete rearranged his cross-draw holster a little, then swept his jacket back over it. "Right, Chris. When she turns up, what's going to happen?"

"I'm going to show her my ID." He pulled a wallet from his jacket pocket, flipped it open.

It identified him as an MI5 agent, and was completely genuine.

"Then Ill tell her we're here on a matter of national security, need-to-know and all that, sure she understands, nothing to worry about, put the kettle on missus, we're parched."

Pete grinned. "Nice one. Remember, pour it on thick. Bullshit baffles brains."

"Right." Chris gave him a thumbs up and got into the driver's seat.

The three men stood in the chill air for a moment. "Want to take the fives?" Kev asked, tucking his hands into his pockets.

"Nah, anyone sees us wandering about with submachine guns they're going to call the police. Take the k." Pete tilted his head at the boot. "Jock, take the shotgun. This is farming country, they won't be bothered."

Jock and Kev went to the back of the Land Rover and opened the boot. Kev flipped back the tarp. Jock pulled out the Mossberg pump-action. Kev looked up and down the road, then slipped his jacket off. He drew an MP5k from the boot, a small submachine gun with a long curved magazine. He checked chamber and safety, then slung the strap over his shoulder and pulled his jacket back on. Jock passed him two spare magazines while scooping up shotgun cartridges.

"Ready?" Pete asked, one hand on the butt of his SIG.

"Aye." Jock worked the pump, chambering a cartridge.

"Yeah." Kev made sure the MP5k was hidden by his jacket, then slammed the boot.

"Okay. Kev, take a look at the barn. Jock, circle the house. I'm going to take a walk round the whole property. Don't get lost."

 

Kev and Jock set off in the same direction. "Don't bloody trip and blow me in half with that cannon." Kev said, wary of the way Jock was carrying the shotgun.

"Shut up, you bollocks." Jock let the pump-action dangle from one hand, the barrel nearly touching the ground. "If I wanted to slot you, I would."

"I know where you can slot that shotgun." Kev replied as they passed the low wall that divided the property from the road.

"Hope you're not scared of the dark." Jock said as Kev peeled off towards the barn. "Wanker."

 

Pete walked slowly between the rows of plants. The little herb garden was right next to the farmhouse, some of the plants were even climbing the wall. He gave the house a closer look. The dark red brick looked sturdy enough to stand up to small arms. Have to take a look inside to be sure. The windows were situated fairly high, the sills at mid-chest level. The frames were of some dark wood, probably oak. The only cover near the house was the barn and the low, crumbling wall that ran alongside the road. Neither would stop a well-thrown rock, never mind a bullet.

Pete carried on walking, circling round to the back. Four windows, three long and narrow, one a square of frosted glass. The door looked a little flimsy.

Any of the three long windows were good positions for a shooter. The windows were high, which meant you could simply duck, reload and pop back up again. They were long, which offered good fields of fire.

The house was a good defensive position. Pete wondered who'd be attacking.

 

Kev stopped at the barn door. It was slightly ajar, and quite clearly rotting. He nudged it.

It creaked, swung back and fell off. "Top condition." Kev muttered, stepping inside. "One careful owner. Slight hinge damage, purely cosmetic."

Hand on the k, he stepped over the door and into the dark interior.

Rotting straw. Something scuttled in the shadows. He grimaced, stepped further in. A dead rat. A rusted spade.

Snorting the smell from his nose, Kev backed out of the barn.

 

Jock did a complete circuit of the house, nodded to Pete as he passed him and met up with Kev at the front. "Where's the boss?" Kev asked him.

"Round back, thinking." Jock grinned. "You know what he's like."

Kev nodded, glanced at the house and then back at Jock. "What do you reckon then?"

"House is a piece of piss. But we don't know who's attacking." Jock sighed.

"What's up with you?"

"Never been on a job quite like this. Oh we have to keep quiet, aye, no problem there, but we've had nothin about who we're fightin, at all. Odd, that. Head shed knows not to piss about, knows fine well we can't operate properly without intelligence."

"So?"

"So I feel like bloody cannon fodder." Jock frowned. "They've dropped the four of us in here, we can't call the Regiment, we can't call MI5, we can't even call the bloody police. It's either a shit job we've been handed cause of you, Wanker-"

"Piss off, Jock."

"-or we're bloody guinea pigs."

 

Chris was pouring himself a cup of tea from the flask, when he spotted the Land Rover coming up the road.

He stared into the rear view mirror. "Shit." He looked down, and realised he was pouring tea over his thigh. "Shit."

He spun the top back onto the flask, dumped the cup between his feet and jumped out, one hand checking his SIG, the other retrieving his ID. Chris began rehearsing the speech in his head, one hand still on his pistol.

The Land Rover slowed a little. Chris turned away, drew his SIG and checked the chamber. A round was there, ready. He tucked the pistol away, flipped the wallet open and stepped into the road, glancing down at his jeans. The wet patch made it look like he had pissed himself.

"Shit." He murmured again.

Looking official was difficult with a damp groin.

The Land Rover slowed, swung onto the roadside and cruised to a halt. The woman from the photo climbed out, lanky in muddy jeans, her paint-spattered T-shirt several sizes too big.

Chris panicked for a second. What was her name? What was her name? Ann? Annie?

Chris gave her what he thought of as an official smile and held up his ID. "Miss Webber? Can I have a word?"

"Has there been an accident?" She asked, eyes lingering on the wet patch between his legs.

Chris winced.

 

"So you're telling me you can't tell me why you're here." Anna Webber said.

They were in the dining room of the farmhouse. Jock was stood at the window, shotgun on the windowsill. Kev was stood by the door to the kitchen; cup of tea in one hand, the other resting on the MP5k nestled down by his hip. Pete and Chris were sat at the dining table with Anna, drinking tea.

Chris glanced at Pete. "We can't tell you anything yet, Miss Webber." Pete said, putting his cup down. "We're only here for two weeks."

"This is rubbish." Anna snorted. "I've got things to do. I've got a farm to run. I have to go into town nearly every other day"

"That's fine, Miss Webber. We'll come with you."

How do I explain four men following me about everywhere? Four armed men"

"We won't be waving our guns around. As for explaining about us, don't. If someone asks, tell them we're farmhands or something." Pete picked up his tea again. "We're here for two weeks, that's all."

"Why?" Anna yelled, getting up and storming into the kitchen. "Why?"

Pete looked at Jock. He grinned. "Told you this was a load of bollocks."

Pete ignored him. "Kev, you're with Jock. Go get the kit out of the Rover. Chris, stick with her. I'll go and check upstairs."

Kev passed the MP5k to Chris and followed Jock out. Chris checked chamber and safety, finished his tea and joined Anna in the kitchen. Pete left the dining room and went upstairs.

 

"Does he want all the kit?" Kev asked, checking left and right as he left the house.

Jock was doing the same, eyes quartering and searching the terrain. Any half-decent operator wouldn't be visible, but even the best make mistakes.

"Probably."

They reached the Land Rover and swung open the boot. Four suitcases. One contained two MP5 submachine guns, three magazines for each weapon and boxes of 9mm ammunition. Another was half-empty, having once contained the MP5k and its spare magazines. Now it only held a dozen flashbang grenades.

The other two suitcases held a variety of equipment. They grabbed two suitcases each and hurried back to the house.

 

Pete wandered through the house, mapping it in his head. Downstairs was simple; a large rectangular living room took up more than half the downstairs space, windows at both ends, doors leading to the dining room, kitchen and outside, stairs at the back of the room. The kitchen was tiny, a square room overflowing with cutlery, pots and pans, one door connecting it to the living room, one to the dining room, one door leading onto rear of the property. The dining room was a little larger, big enough for the round table that could seat eight.

Upstairs. A bathroom, three small bedrooms. The windows up here were smaller, Pete noted, old enough for some of the glass to have warped in its frames.

 

"If you're going to hang around, get a cloth in your hand." Anna snapped, tossing a dishtowel to Chris.

He snatched it out of the air and began drying plates as she washed them. There was a haphazard stack a foot high, and she attacked them viciously, scrubbing them clean, splashing hot water and washing up liquid everywhere.

"You come into my house, you invade my home and you won't even tell me why." She glanced at him, lips pursed. "I swear to God, I'll be calling my solicitor tomorrow."

She checked her watch.

"I might even call him today. He might still be in his office."

Chris carried on drying plates, making sure they were clear of moisture and piling them neatly next to the sink.

"You don't talk very much." Anna snapped.

Chris shrugged. "I'm here for the next two weeks. I'd rather annoy you as little as possible."

Anna brought the plate she was cleaning down hard. Chris winced.

"I'm already annoyed." She said. "In case you hadn't guessed. You can feed yourselves. Just because you have to be here doesn't mean I have to make you comfortable."

She wiped the suds from her hands and left the kitchen. Grimacing, Chris finished drying the plates.

 

"Kev, get the fives ready. Jock, sort out the radios. Chris, help me sort out the house." Pete opened up the suitcases as he spoke. "We weren't told to stay covert, so we're going to prepare for the worst. I want all doors and windows made secure."

Kev sat down at the table, picked up a magazine in one hand and opened a box of ammunition with the other.

Jock began testing batteries and frequencies.

Pete moved to the window, checked over the entire frame and made sure it was locked. Chris moved up beside him, a roll of netting in one hand, hammer and U-nails in the other. He let Pete take the netting and unroll enough to cover the window completely. Pete held the corners while Chris nailed them in place, making sure the net was kept taut over the window.

Anna burst into the room. "What are you doing!" She screamed. "This is my house!"

"Miss Webber-" Pete began

She was already gone.

"Go on." Pete sighed.

Chris put down the hammer and hurried out.

"Kev, leave the fives for a minute. Give me a hand."

"Alright. Get a brew on, Jock."

"Sod off, Wanker."

 

"Miss Webber, please-"

She slammed the door in his face. The lock clicked a second later.

"Shit." Chris stepped back, scratched at his scar. "Miss Webber?"

"Piss off!"

 

Jock checked the last radio again, made sure the frequency was right, checked the battery meter. A solid black bar on the digital display. Good. Sixty hours worth. He checked the spare batteries, looked over their packaging. Intact. He checked the battery charger. Working.

Picking up a radio set, he clipped the radio to his belt, inserted the wireless earphone into his ear and clipped the pressel button inside the cuff of his left shirtsleeve. The mic was clipped onto his shirt, by his throat. He pressed the button.

click

He pressed it twice.

clickclick

Good. The earphone worked.

Jock picked up a magazine and began thumbing 9mm rounds into it.

 

Kev and Pete finished the last window.

"Taut?" Pete asked, dropping the hammer and remaining U-nails into the briefcase.

Kev plucked the plastic mesh with a forefinger. It vibrated gently.

"Good." Pete stuffed the remainder of the netting into the briefcase. "We didn't bring enough for upstairs. Grab your five and your radio, then get upstairs, close all the curtains, nail them as tight as you can get across the windows. Take a radio up for Chris as well."

"Okay, boss." Kev closed the briefcase and left.

Pete looked over the window again. A decent job. He hoped they wouldn't be needed.

 

"Put the kettle on yet?" Kev asked, picking up an MP5 from the table.

Jock passed him a magazine. "Piss off, Wanker."

"That's what I like to hear. Keep us buoyed up, Jock, you cheery soul." Kev pushed the magazine into the mag well, heard it click home, and chambered a round.

"Watch you don't hurt yourself." Jock said, passing him a radio.

"Thanks, mate." Kev grinned at him. "Give us another set, I'll take Chris' up to him."

"Don't break it."

"I'll break you, you Scots twat." Kev pocketed both radios and swept up a pair of spare magazines.

Pete entered from the living room, frowning. "Jock, did you say you knew that Pickering bloke?"

"You mean the suit who talked us into signin up for this load of bollocks?"

Pete smiled, picked up a loose 9mm round from the table and rolled it in his palm. "Yeah, him."

"I've worked with him a few times. He's a good operator. Likes to stay sharp. He's Six, but a good bloke." Jock finished loading the last magazine and set it aside. "He's part of the reason I joined you lot on this job. I had a word with him, at the range."

"So this isn't a shit job then?"

"Not if he's involved."

"Hmm." Pete tossed the bullet to Jock. "Put the kettle on. Kev, shift your arse."

Jock picked up the Mossberg from the table and walked through to the kitchen, tossing the bullet up and down in his free hand.

"Put your feet up, lads" Pete shouted, sitting down at the table and loading the last MP5. "Get comfy. We've got a two-week wait."

[FullAuto]

"All set?" Pete asked.

Jock nodded, opened the door a bit. The wire, strung between door handle and the grenade pin, tautened.

"Anyone comin through this door is goin to get a bloody shock." Jock said, pushing the door shut.

"Good." Pete nodded his approval.

"There's a few buckets of water in the kitchen in case it sets fire to the carpet." Jock stood up, scratched the stubble on his chin. "Back door the same?"

"Yeah. Put a brew on while you're back there." Pete looked over the booby trap once more, then followed Jock though to the kitchen. "You say you've worked with Pickering before?"

"Aye." Jock knelt down by the back door and set up another grenade. "First time was in the States, followin IRA in Boston. Before your time."

Pete ignored that. Most of the things Jock had done were before everyone's time.

"They were collectin funds, donations from all these Yanks who, to be fair, probably had no idea their money was goin to be buyin guns and explosives. Pickering was intel, but helped us out on the ground. Not scared to get his hands dirty, that lad." Jock looked up from his work. "Put the kettle on, you're stood right next to it."

Pete switched it on and lined up some cups.

"Anyway, we picked up a nice arms smugglin route. Guns bought all over the States got brought into New York. Then they got put on a boat, hid in the middle of whatever cargo the boat was carryin, and smuggled across the Atlantic. The boat would stop a few miles off the west coast of Ireland, and IRA lads would nip out there, slip the captain a bit of money and take the guns."

Jock tested the booby trap gently and nodded.

"Done." He got to his feet, leaned against the nearest cupboard. "There was a few of us from the Regiment and a few lads from Six, I think. We ended up stuck in the Republic, totally deniable, with orders to stop the IRA. We waited till they got back to the beach with the guns, laughin and jokin, aren't-we-havin-a-laugh-me-fine-boyos, and we wiped the bloody beach with them."

"So if Pickering's Six, who are we guarding her against?" Pete made the tea slowly. "We're in the UK, it's more likely that we should be dealing with Five."

"Maybe we are. Last I heard Pickering was Six. But the last time I saw him was the Gulf. He could've moved." Jock shrugged. "Doesn't matter. It's still bollocks."

"Leave it." Pete warned, trying to think.

Jock knew when to shut up.

"Boss" Chris called down from upstairs.

Pete sighed, thumbed the pressel switch of his radio. "We've got radios, Chris. Might as well use them, eh?"

He let go of the pressel, nudged a cup towards Jock.

"Sorry. She's locked herself in the bog. She won't come out."

Jock rolled his eyes. Pete ignored him. He sipped his tea, thumbed the pressel.

"Just talk to her. Be nice. Tell her we're putting the dinner on."

"Righto."

"That boy is a dead loss." Jock muttered, picking up his tea. "If he'd joined when I did they would have shot him for bein so slack."

"You don't go back that far. See what there is to eat." Pete hit the pressel again. "Kev?"

"Nothing."

"Chinese parliament in five."

"Okay."

"Get some scran cooking, Jock."

 

"What do we think then?" Pete asked.

"Before Jock says it, I think it's a load of bollocks." Kev said, pushing his plate away.

"You're bloody right." Jock agreed.

"I was talking about the food."

"Piss off, Wanker."

Chris was still eating. "Ooor eee urkin orrr?"

"What?" Pete frowned. "Chew your bloody food."

Chris swallowed. "Who are we working for? Who's this woman to anyone? If this is so important and secret, why recruit Regiment lads? Some bugger's bound to write a book about it in a few years."

"Good questions." Pete took a deep breath. "We're working for Her Majesty, at the moment. Technically, anyway. I got a briefing, if you can call it that, from Pickering. He gave me an envelope and shoved me out the door. As far as we know, he's still Six."

"As far as we know." Jock muttered. "This job is a load of bollocks. I'm the only one that'll say it, but it is."

"I don't think it's her that's important." Kev offered.

"What then? The kid?" Pete leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table.

Kev shrugged. "Seems that way to me. But the sheet on her didn't mention it. And why bring us in to protect her? Five have got babysitters and safe houses galore."

"And if it's the kid, why was she so surprised when we turned up?" Pete added. "She's in a right-"

"She is hungry." Anna said from the doorway. "Is there any food left?"

"In the pot on the cooker." Jock told her.

All four men watched her go into the kitchen, then looked at each other. "She hasn't got a clue why we're here." Pete murmured. "Let's keep it that way."

 

A week later.

 

"I'm goin mad, stuck in here." Jock sighed. "I haven't had a smoke for two days."

"Withdrawal symptoms soon." Kev said from the couch. "The reception out here is crap."

He was referring to the television. The picture was blurry, the sound a rise and fall of static. Jock was laid out on the couch in the living room, staring up at the ceiling. Kev was sat across the room, gazing intently at the television despite the bad picture.

"I think there's some crap porn on channel five." Kev leaned forward, squinting and tilting his head to one side. "I think its porn, anyway."

"I'll leave you two alone." Jock said, getting to his feet and stretching. "Who's on stag next?"

 

Chris made himself a cup of tea and stared at the clock. Ten minutes till his turn on stag. He checked his weapons as the tea brewed. MP5k, round chambered, made safe. Two spare magazines. P226, round chambered, made safe. Four spare magazines. Two flash-bangs.

He slung his MP5k and picked up his tea.

"Chris."

 

Pete let go of the pressel, stared out at the night. There wasn't a light for miles. It was all fields and woods. MP5 at his feet, he sat up straight and stretched his arms. The chair was all bare wood, and very uncomfortable. He'd been on stag for four hours. Not a car had passed. No one had even walked by. It seemed the farm lane didn't lead anywhere but the farm property. The highlight of tonight had been a black cat slinking across the farmyard. He yawned. After ten years in the Regiment, he was almost used to it. All that waiting and training balanced against the few times he'd actually had to do anything.

He yawned again, heard his jaw pop.

"Tired, boss?" Chris entered, tea in hand, MP5k hanging by his hip.

"Bored." Pete got up, picking up his MP5. "How's our girl?"

"Sleeping." Chris put his tea down on the windowsill and dropped into the chair.

"At least she's getting used to us." Pete said on his way out.

Chris chose not to comment. The fact that Anna had taken a week to stop screaming at them didn't mean she was getting used to them.

 

Anna listened to their voices, then rolled over in bed, pulling the duvet up to her ears. Only another week to go, she told herself. One more week. Just seven more days.

 

Jock propped the Mossberg against a leg of the dining table and put his feet up on another chair. He could hardly hear the telly, even though Kev had cranked it up in order to try and determine what he was watching. The rest of the house was quiet. No movement upstairs. Jock checked his watch. Pete would be in bed, Chris was on stag. Kev was next up, but Jock could never sleep before taking his turn. He shifted slightly, leaned back. Never hurt to try though.

 

Kev was so busy fiddling with the reception, he almost didn't notice.

"Frigging..." His voice trailed off as he saw movement.

The handle of the front door was turning.

His finger hit the pressel.

 

"Contact, front door."

 

Jock lunged out of his chair, snatching up the Mossberg, moving quickly and quietly into the living room. Pete was coming down the stairs slowly, MP5 seated firmly against his shoulder. Jock took up position behind the couch. Pete joined him.

Kev was knelt in the middle of the room, MP5 levelled at the door.

The door rattled in its frame.

 

Chris shook Anna awake, looming over her, MP5k in one hand. "Get dressed, now." He hissed.

She stared at him.

 

"Let him in first." Pete whispered.

Kev nodded, moving in a crouch, backing away from the door. He kept the MP5 aimed, tight against his shoulder, sights on the door.

The handle jerked up and down violently. The door rattled again, furiously, as if to shake its hinges free.

Kev reached the chair and slipped behind it, aiming over it.

Pete checked the fire selector on his MP5. Three-round burst. Good. He forgot the sweat all over his body, forgot the need to piss, forgot his dry throat. Focus.

Jock waited next to him, rock steady despite the adrenaline surging in his blood. He'd been here, waiting for the enemy with weapon raised a hundred times.

 

The door exploded inwards.

The three men hit the floor.

The grenade fuse lasted three seconds.

It exploded, the charge throwing out a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree blast wave of one hundred and seventy decibels and a flash bright enough to be a miniature sun.

The living room windows shattered.

Jock was the first to rise, body shaken by the blast. He knew whoever had set the stun grenade off was feeling a million times worse, flat on the floor, deaf and blind.

Pete rose, slightly unsteady but intent. "Security forces!" He screamed. "Get down! Get down!"

He could barely hear his own voice.

Kev was up and moving, 5 ready. Jock moved to the window, looking along his shotgun at the darkness outside.

Pete joined Kev at the door and they stood either side of it, wary of providing an easy target.

"No-one." Jock shouted over the ringing in his ears.

Pete peeked round the splintered door frame. No one, on the floor or otherwise.

"Contact front!"

 

Chris had been far enough away to be relatively unaffected by the blast. He spotted movement by the barn.

He stood and raised his submachine gun.

With no stock, the k could be a highly inaccurate weapon when used improperly.

Chris pushed it out until the sling went taut and fired. Holding tightly with both hands, he strafed the barn with a full mag.

 

"Cease fire" Pete yelled, thumb on the pressel. "Cease fire"

It could be anyone out there, a nearby farmer, someone whose car had broken down-

Something clattered onto the windowsill, spraying shards over Jock. It hit the mesh and stopped.

"Grenade" Jock screamed as he dived away.

Pete turned. Kev pushed him into the kitchen, slamming the door behind him.

Jock scrambled behind the couch, drawing his legs up, making himself as small as possible.

The explosion was louder than the flashbang going off. It was like the end of the world. The couch collapsed backwards onto him, shrapnel stung his back as the ground shook and the blast deafened him.

 

Chris wasn't prepared for the second blast. The whole house shuddered. He dropped the spare mag, grabbing the windowsill for support. More movement by the barn, shapes flitting in the doorway. Chris dropped the k, drew his P226 and grabbed a flashbang from his pocket.

He aimed one-handed. The pistol sight rested in the middle of the barn door.

He raised the flashbang, bit down and pulled on the pin.

Movement.

He pumped the trigger, counting rounds.

-fourteenthirteentwelve-

He flipped the handle off the grenade and flung it out into the yard.

-nineeightsevensixfive-

He ducked and yelled.

"Fire in the hole"

 

Pete crawled out from the remains of the kitchen door, raising his 5, aiming it back into the shattered living room. Most of the front wall was gone. The mesh had done its job, but what the hell had been used? A normal frag or HE grenade wouldn't do that.

Deafened, neither of them heard the flashbang go off. Pete saw light flash outside, turned away instinctively.

Kev was too busy watching the back door shudder.

 

Chris reloaded both his guns, holstered the P226 and stood up, k braced in his hands.

The yard was empty. He put a few rounds into the barn, squeezing the trigger.

Nothing moved.

He ducked down and moved away to find Anna.

 

The back door popped open. Kev staggered away, slipping on chunks of wood and bits of brick. Pete was already moving into the dining room, 5 held tightly, begging God for a target.

The flashbang tied to the back door went off. Kev stumbled, not hearing but feeling the blast. He fell. Pete fired over him, putting rounds down, lips peeled back in a snarl, feeling the 5 shudder in his grip.

-steel on target steel on target-

He laced the wall on both sides of the door with 9mm, then kicked the dining table over and knelt behind it.

 

Jock got up, Mossberg in his hands, and strode through the ruin of the room.

What type of grenade had that been? Homemade?

-doesn't matter concentrate-

He moved outside, staying low, eyes and shotgun searching for targets.

Something shifted near the barn. He swivelled, dropping into a crouch and firing.

A chunk of wood shattered out of the barn wall.

Working the pump, he moved forward, firing again and again.

 

Chris pushed a terrified Anna down into the bath. "Stay here. Don't move."

She nodded, hugging herself, staring up at him.

He turned and moved out onto the landing, k in one hand, pressel in the other.

"Boss, contacts front. Where are you?"

 

Though the earphone had shielded his ear a little, Pete barely heard him. He lowered his 5 and slapped his spare hand over his ear, hitting the pressel with his gun hand. "Say again?"

"Where are you?"

"Dining room. Kev's with me, Jock's out front. Contact rear."

"Right."

Kev levered himself up off the floor and crawled till he was under the window. He popped up, sweeping the back yard with the muzzle of his 5.

A flash of green and he hit the ground, reflex squeezing off rounds that ripped into the wall.

Glass spilled over him. He yelled as a shard dropped onto the back of his neck.

It was hot.

"What is it?" Pete reloaded his 5. "Kev?"

"A...I think they shot a flare at me." He shrugged, spilling pieces of glass to the floor in a miniature wave of shards. "A frigging flare! A green flare! I swear, boss"

Pete stared at him for a second, then shook his head. "Come on."

They moved towards the kitchen, guns up like the noses of wolves, hunting for prey.

 

Jock fired the last cartridge and dropped the shotgun, drawing his pistol before the Mossberg hit the ground.

Gun sandwiched between his hands he stormed into the barn.

It was pitch black.

Behind him, something hissed.

 

Chris looked out and froze, k half-raised.

He couldn't believe what was scurrying across the yard. He broke out in a cold sweat, raised his k, aimed and hesitated.

-what the fuck-

It raised something in one hand, pointed it at the barn.

Chris knew a weapon when he saw one.

He aimed and fired.

 

Jock spun, throwing himself aside and turning, blazing away behind him wildly, blindly.

Something flash-fried his leg, hip and ribs.

He hit the ground and blacked out.

 

Chris squeezed off half a mag, aiming at its spindly legs as its gun spat green light into the barn.

Recoil pushed the k up and back. It fell, legs shattered, directly into the stream of lead.

Its body spasmed, twitched, jumped. Its melon head popped.

Chris watched it slump, weapon falling from it's spidery hand. He watched it for another few seconds, trying to get his breathing under control, then gave it the other half of the mag.

'P' for plenty. No telling what they could do.

He reloaded and ran for the stairs.

 

Pete sprinted out into the back yard, sweeping left.

Kev, a step behind, went right.

Green fire smashed into the walls of the house, chasing him.

He tripped and fell, snapping off a few shots in reply. He rolled, fired blindly into the darkness, then crawled for cover. All he found was a withered tomato plant. He rolled again, crushing greenery.

-come on come on please-

The Land Rover. Jock had parked it by the herb garden. Which he was in the middle of.

He scrambled under its reassuring bulk as Pete opened fire, two short bursts and then silence.

"Boss, Jock's down. We've got an enemy casualty out front. You need to see it."

"Contact rear" Kev snarled, somehow reaching the pressel as he squirmed under the Rover, emerging on the other side. "Contact rear! Boss?"

"Back in the dining room. Did you see those shots?"

"Yeah. They were like-" Kev struggled, couldn't think of anything. "Sod it. Cover me."

"No!"

 

Pete stood and started laying down fire in a smooth arc, spraying the general area from where that green stuff had come from.

-steel on target steel on target-

He reloaded, emptied that mag on full auto and dumped the 5.

P226 in hand, he followed Kev, swearing under his breath.

 

Chris hurried through the house into the dining room. He tore open the suitcases.

-where is it where is it-

Of course. The last one he looked in.

He grabbed the trauma pack and ran back to Jock. He dumped the k, ripped open the trauma pack.

What was the procedure for burns? Training usually covered bullet wounds but burns had been a part of the medic course. What was the procedure?

"Think, you twat" He thumped the ground with both fists, shaking.

-respiration and pulse-

Jock was breathing, fast and shallow. Chris jammed two fingers against Jock's throat. Fast and faint.

-shock he's going into shock he's-

Chris ripped Jock's shirt to pieces, only realising the skin was red and blistered when he'd tore the sleeve off. The flesh was swollen. No chance of getting into a vein. Other arm.

He worked feverishly. Bottle of saline. Catheter. Stabbing fingers found a vein in Jock's forearm. He jammed the needle in quickly.

Jock groaned.

Chris didn't stop to apologise. He picked up the saline, and realised he was knelt in a pool of Jock's blood. He was bleeding and burned.

Oh shit.

 

"Boss, I need you here! Jock's burned and he's bleeding all over the place, Christ, I don't know what to do, boss-"

Pete yelled one last time at Kev, then turned and sprinted back to the farmhouse.

 

Chris held the saline up and squeezed gently, forcing it down the tube and into Jock, feeling the wounded man's pulse with his other hand.

His heart rate had speeded up. His heart was working overtime to make up for the loss of fluid.

Chris leaned over him, looked closely. Lips going blue. Right side from the hip to the shoulder was red and swollen, hair burned off.

Running steps.

Chris dropped the saline and drew his P226.

Pete stormed round the corner of the house, pistol up and ready.

"He's burned, third degree on his leg, second on his arm and chest. He's bleeding too, from his leg, I think. I'm scared to check-"

Pete holstered his pistol, knelt down next to Chris. He pulled a scalpel out of the trauma pack, stripped off the sterile wrapping with his teeth and sliced Jock's jeans from ankle to hip.

Chris leaned away and vomited.

-burnt pork oh God-

"Don't get any on him." Pete said calmly, pushing Chris away. "Secure the house, check our girl, call for an ambulance."

"Going, boss." Chris replied, hoarse, k already in hand.

"This is going to hurt, mate." Pete ripped a bandage out of its packaging.

He lifted Jock's leg.

Jock roared in agony.

The skin was blackened, crispy. It had cracked open, just above the knee, on the back of the leg. Blood was pouring out of it. Pete watched the flow for a second, then started winding the bandage round it. Good, it wasn't spurting, no arteries had been ruptured.

Two more bandages and Jock had passed out and the bleeding had slowed to a dribble.

Pete checked the bottle. Nearly empty.

"Bleeding like a stuck frigging pig." He snarled, tearing a fresh bottle out of the pack.

Spinning the screw clamp free, he pulled the connector out, jammed the fresh one in and spun the clamp back down. Pete sliced Jock's clothes to pieces, checking for other wounds. The arm and chest burns could wait, no burns to the groin or other leg, no holes...

Pete checked his pulse and breathing. Slowing a little. Good.

-make sure the airway stays clear-

Taking a safety pin, Pete pried open Jock's mouth, pinched his tongue between finger and thumb, and jammed the pin through it, then through the lower lip.

Jock was past caring.

Pete checked the saline. Half empty.

"You always did like a lot to drink." Pete said to himself.

There were only two more bottles.

Chris returned from the farmhouse at a dead run. He spoke between pants for breath.

"She's fine. Kev's watching her. What do you want me to do?"

"Hold the saline. Squeeze it gently. Replace it when it's empty." Pete leaned back a little, wiped a hand over his face. "The ambulance?"

"Air ambulance to a burns unit. It'll be ten minutes. Then another fifteen till they get to the hospital."

Pete looked down at Jock. Jock was probably the hardest man Pete had ever met. The odds were against him, but if anyone could do it...

He caught sight of the corpse and his thoughts crashed to a halt.

 

Two days later.

 

"Any change?" Pete asked, passing Chris a cup of tea.

"No." Chris sipped the liquid, made a face. "Jesus."

"It's from a vending machine, what d'you expect? Darjeeling?" Kev asked.

The little waiting area on the burns ward was deserted except for the three men. A nurse strode efficiently by. The place reeked of antiseptic.

To cover the smell of burnt flesh.

"Suit." Chris warned, sipping his tea.

Pete looked up.

One man, black suit, flesh-coloured earphone, shades. Coming straight down the corridor.

Pete got to his feet, pushing his jacket back a little, brushing his hand over his P226. Chris drew his pistol, held it down between his legs. Kev drew his and slipped his hand into his jacket pocket.

"What do you want?" Pete asked.

The suit halted a few feet away. "You are no longer working for Her Majesty's Government." A Yank. "You are now in the employ of a multinational organisation, the title of which you'll be told later. After your debriefing. There's supposed to be four of you."

"Jock's got a private room, he's in a critical condition." Pete moved a step closer to the suit.

"You'll be joining him, unless you tell us where Anna is." Kev stepped closer, drawing his gun out of his pocket.

"Not on the burns unit, mind." Chris added, getting up.

The suit looked at them all again, one at a time. "Don't be stupid. Miss Webber has had the foetus removed and has been moved to a safe location."

"We'd like to see her." Pete eased closer, smiling a little.

The suit took a step back. "That's impossible, I'm afraid. Miss Webber isn't seeing anyone. The removal of the foetus was...complicated."

"I see." Pete edged closer.

Kev and Chris spread out slightly.

"You have to listen to me." All of a sudden, the suit wasn't so calm. "There were difficulties, we haven't perfected the process of removing them yet, they're different to humans. You know, you saw the ultrasound scan printout, they're barely even the same shape."

Pete remembered the poor-quality printout. Not being able to see which bit was which...

"I want to know more."

"I can't-"

"Get him." He said softly.

The suit made it three steps before Chris and Kev tackled him.

[FullAuto]

London

 

"What are we waiting for again?" Kev asked, glancing in the rear-view mirror.

Chris looked up from his sandwich. "Or Eete oo et ack."

"What was that, pig?" Kev scowled at him.

They were sat in the Land Rover, parked just off Oxford Street. It was a cold wet day, stereotypical British weather, and the streets were as empty as they ever got in the capital.

Chris swallowed his food. "For Pete to get back."

"Hmm." Kev drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. "Any word on Jock?"

"Nah." Chris took another bite, screwed his face up. "Ugh. Oody ayonnaise."

"What?" Kev rounded on him. "If you don't like it, don't bloody eat it"

Kev was spoiling for an argument. Chris frowned at him, chewed his mouthful with exaggerated care.

"Don't look at me like that, Davies" Kev warned.

"You're very temperamental when Jock's not here." Chris observed.

"Piss off."

"He needs a break anyway. Isn't it about time he got out of this life?"

"What do you mean?" Kev rooted under his seat for the Thermos he knew was there.

"How old is he?"

"Forty nine. They only let him stay operational cause he goes through Selection every year. He fought in Viet-bloody-nam." Kev found the thermos, poured himself some lukewarm tea. "You can joke about it all you want, he'd beat the bollocks off you at anything you'd care to name."

"Chess."

"Shut up, you silly tart."

"How long's Pete going to be?" Chris checked his watch. "Christ. Nearly two hours."

"And you still haven't scoffed that sarnie." Kev snatched it from Chris' lap, took a huge bite. "Mmm. Mayonnaise."

"Twat." Chris leaned a little, staring into the wing mirror. "Here's Pete now."

Kev twisted in his seat. "So it is."

Chris took the opportunity to steal his sandwich back.

Pete climbed into the Land Rover, dropping an attache case onto the back seat.

"We're going to Brize Norton."

"The RAF base? Why?" Kev wasn't any less annoyed.

"The very same. We're to meet the new member of our team there, and then," he patted the attache case, "we nip off to our next assignment."

"Which is where?"

"Menwith Hill." Pete popped open the attache, rummaged inside and flicked an eight by ten glossy into the front. "Escort duty."

Chris plucked the photo off his lap. He looked at it for a moment, then showed it to Kev. He winced.

 

"Who'd you meet in the Yank Embassy then?" Kev asked, twisting to look over his shoulder.

"If you look where you're driving, I'll tell you." Pete said, still digging through the attache case. "A load of suits, CIA, probably. That bloke who turned up at the hospital was there, he wasn't too pleased with us, but he's a small cog, I think. The others shut him up."

"Is he still angry?" Chris asked, grinning.

"Oh yes. Can't take a joke, those intelligence types." Pete smiled, scanning through text. "Our new lad's a German, that's all I was told and that's all it says here."

"At least he's not French." Kev muttered.

Pete ignored him. "We've got these as well." He passed a form to Chris. "Sign it. We've got one each, and IDs to go with it."

The form was a dozen sheets of stapled A4, emblazoned with the UN logo and titled 'AUTHORISATION' in blue capitals. Chris scanned through the text on the first page, then flicked through the rest. "You have got to be taking the piss."

"No. One hundred and ninety one member states, one hundred and ninety one signatures, plus that nice Mr Annan's on the front page." Pete waved his own copy of the form.

"What is it?" Kev glanced at the form, then back to the road.

"It, er, it..." Chris trailed off.

"This bit of paper," Pete tapped Kev on the back of the head with it to emphasise his point, "entitles us to operate within any UN member state. We can't be arrested or detained, for any reason. It instructs all offices and authorities to render all assistance possible, and allow us to requisition anything we might need."

"Christ." Kev said.

"Carte frigging blanche, lads." Pete said. "So don't lose it, for frig's sake. There's an ID too."

Chris scribbled his signature, then folded and tucked the form away into his pocket.

Pete handed him a laminated ID card. Chris checked the front. An old photo of himself, and a holographic UN logo next to it. "UN task force, eh? Swish."

He signed the back, then slotted the card into his wallet. "Anything else, boss?"

"That's all for now." Pete was signing his own ID. "How long 'til Brize Norton, Kev?"

"Just got out of London, so about an hour." Kev checked his watch. "We'll have time for a gin and tonic and croquet before nipping up to the Hill."

Chris frowned at him. "Twat."

[FullAuto]

Kev tried his new ID at the gate. The guard gave the card a long look, then glanced back at Kev. "I'll have to contact my superior."

"No problem." Kev smiled.

Card in hand, the soldier went back into the guardhouse. One soldier remained, rifle slung, watchful but relaxed.

"What do we do if the card doesn't work?" Kev asked.

"God knows." Pete replied, still buried in documents. "I'm sure you'll think of something."

"Cheers, boss."

The guard came out, handed the ID card back to Kev and snapped off a salute. "Sorry about the delay, sir. Go right on through."

The barrier lifted.

"Hey presto." Pete said, grinning.

Kev glanced at Chris. "Don't you say a bloody word."

They didn't get a hundred metres before an officer flagged them down, waving both arms furiously by the side of the road.

"I think he wants us to land." Chris said.

Kev burst out laughing as he pulled over. "Can I help you, leftenant?" He asked, leaning out.

"Are you the UN task force lads?" The officer asked, looking them over.

Kev dug his ID card from his pocket. The officer examined it curiously. "Never seen one of these before. Got word from command about you lot a few days ago, a right rush job."

Kev remained silent but politely attentive. Chris investigated the contents of his nostril. Pete didn't look up from the documents.

"Yes, well, your package came in ten minutes ago, straight from Ramstein." The officer handed the ID card back. "Bloody strange escort with it, too."

Pete looked up. "How's that?"

The lieutenant smiled, glad to have gained someone's attention. "Half a dozen Yanks in suits. You know, hush-hush types."

"We know the sort." Pete nodded thoughfully. "Thanks. Where's the package?"

"It's waiting for you in hangar seven."

 

"Nice of him to give us the wrong directions." Kev muttered, pushing open the door and getting out.

"He said second left." Chris reminded him, shutting the car door behind him.

"Did he bollocks." Kev hitched his jeans up, rearranged his holster. "Rubs me bloody raw when I'm sat down."

"Wear a shoulder holster." Pete advised, stretching his legs.

"Arses to that, have you seen how long it takes to get your gun out of those things?" Kev looked around the hangar. "Might as well put it on my ankle. There he is, at the back."

Pete had already noticed.

A tall, slim man, dark hair cut short, dressed in a black suit. He was leaning against the back wall, hands tucked into his pockets. He was watching them.

"Let's go and introduce ourselves." Pete said, looking at Chris and Kev. "Remember, we'll be working with him. No 'two world wars and one world cup' shite, eh?"

Chris nodded. "Ok.ay."

Kev sighed. "Righto."

 

Lukas Krieger watched the three men approach and smiled. He could guess what the little talk had been about when they got out of the car.

Don't Mention The War.

A little nervous, he took his hands out of his pockets and drew himself up to his full height. The butt of his Glock nudged his stomach. He wondered what he was doing here. Volunteering for this, some sort of black op run by Americans. He decided he needed his head looked at and stepped forward to meet the approaching trio.

[FullAuto]

"Can we see some ID?" Pete asked, taking his wallet out.

"Of course." Lukas took a card from the inside pocket of his jacket.

It was identical to theirs. An out-of-date photo, a holographic UN logo.

"Nice to meet you, Mr Krieger." Pete passed his card over. "Same as us. Still shiny and new."

"This is the first time I have used it." Lukas glanced at the card, turned it over, then handed it back. "Thank you, Mr Walker."

"These are my colleagues, Chris Davies-"

Chris nodded.

"-and Kev Hawkins."

Kev grinned.

"We're SAS. We'll be working together. Can you fill me in on who you are and we'll go and get some food?"

"Yes, of course. First, we need to get those," Lukas pointed to a small pile of black cases, "into your car."

"What are they?" Kev asked, wandering over to them, searching for markings.

"Guns."

 

"I am KSK. We are new, formed two years ago, to meet the need for a unit like the SAS. We have GSG-9, of course-"

"Good blokes." Pete chipped in.

"-yes, they are, but they are limited to domestic operations only. The law has been bent now and again, but it is an obstacle. So, the KSK was formed. Our training is based on yours, as is our tactics and doctrine."

"Where were you before the KSK?" Chris asked, looking down at his tray. "RAF grub is toss."

"I was a-" Lukas frowned, annoyed at himself as he always was when he couldn't remember the right word in English, "the Americans call it 'Airborne', er-"

"A paratrooper." Pete supplied.

"Ja, yes, a paratrooper. Sorry."

"Your English is better than my German, mate." Kev said, staring down at his tray. "Boss, can I go and use my new ID to requisition some decent scoff?"

"Quiet. Go on, Lukas." Pete pushed his tray aside.

At least the tea was hot.

"Before that, I was just Bundeswehr, German army. I served in Bosnia, peacekeeping." He forked down some food, chewed quickly and carried on. "That is the only place I have served, outside of Germany."

"Carried out any operations in Germany?" Pete asked.

Lukas shook his head. "No, there has been no opportunity. GSG-9...they have a good record, and do not want things complicated. There is some rivalry."

Pete nodded. "Fair enough. What have you been trained in?"

"I know small arms, of course. We use Heckler & Koch for everything. I know all their weapons well."

"Is that what you're carrying?" Kev asked.

"No." Lukas leaned back, drew his gun out of his holster a little. "Glock. My colleagues will not let me say it back home, but it is a better pistol."

"I've always wanted a Glock." Kev said.

Lukas slid the gun back, and resumed talking. "I was part of the hostage rescue team. I have been trained in close-quarters combat, high-speed driving and I was halfway through my close protection course when I volunteered for this."

"Any training abroad?" Pete asked.

"I have taken part in exercises in Norway. My jungle and desert training has not happened yet." Lukas shrugged, apologetic. "So, do I get the job?"

Pete laughed. "We'll see if you can put up with Kev first."

 

"What do you reckon?" Kev asked.

Chris and Lukas had left a few minutes earlier to fetch the Rover.

Pete shrugged. "We'll have to see, won't we? He seems sound, his English is good, but the KSK hasn't carried out any ops yet. He's served in Bosnia, which was a frigging horrible place, but it was only peacekeeping duties, not all out war."

"Seemed like it when I was there." Kev said, nudging his tray aside. "Peacekeeping. What a bloody joke."

"What were you up to there?" Pete thought back to Bosnia, remembered the shelled buildings, mud and snow.

"Designating targets for the Yanks. Hairy stuff. Some of them aren't too particular where they let go of their bombs." Kev sipped his tea. "You?"

"Counter-sniping in Sarajevo." Pete suddenly met Kev's gaze. "What do you think?"

Kev grinned. "What? Me? Think?"

"Sorry I asked." Pete managed a smile, turned away.

"I like his suit." Kev said.

"And Mr Krieger himself?"

"We'll have to wait 'til the op starts, won't we?"

"Come on, we'll wait outside." Pete pushed back his chair and got up.

 

Lukas changed into a shirt and jeans while Chris looked over the contents of the first case.

Four Heckler & Koch Mark 23 pistols. A neat row of spare magazines.

He counted them. Thirty-six.

Chris hesitated, then picked up one of the pistols. It was bigger and heavier than the pistol he usually carried. He checked chamber, ejected the magazine. Fully loaded. He pushed it back in, set the pistol down. His brow creased a little as he thought.

Lukas, pulling on his boots, came round to the back of the Rover. "Problem?"

"No, mate." Chris handed him a Mark 23. "Check that out."

Chris watched him carefully. Lukas sat down, checked chamber and safety, keeping the pistol pointed at the floor at all times. He ejected the magazine, set it down, checked the magazine well, then drew back the slide and gave the chamber a long, careful look. Setting the pistol down, he picked the magazine up and emptied it quickly, gave each bullet a cursory glance then pushed them back in. He slapped the magazine against his palm a few times, then slid it back into the pistol.

"Never been used." Lukas offered Chris the pistol.

"Keep it, we've got one each." Chris opened the next case.

Holsters, magazine carriers, suppressors, boxes of .45 calibre pistol ammunition.

The next case.

Two Heckler & Koch G36 assault rifles, stocks folded. Spare magazines, again all loaded, in a neat row. Chris picked up one of the rifles, unfolded the stock and set the rifle against his shoulder. It was very light, even with a fully loaded magazine, and the balance was good, slightly front-heavy, good to aim with.

"An excellent rifle." Lukas commented, holding out his hands.

Chris passed him the gun. "I like the magazines. It's nice to be able to see how many rounds you've got left. Folding stock is a bit loose, but they always are."

"The magazines also clip together." Lukas turned the rifle, braced the stock against his hip and pointed to a pair of studs on the side of the magazine. "Very easy to use."

Chris took the rifle back, folded the stock and packed it away. He moved on to the next case as Lukas sorted himself out with a Mark 23. The next case held another two rifles and more magazines.

The last case held no revelations. Boxes of 5.56mm ammunition for the rifles. Telescopic sights. Maintenance kits.

Chris closed the case softly, and tapped his fingers against it as he thought. "Lukas, were you told anything about this kit?"

"No. I was shown what was in the cases at Ramstein, that's all. They said-"

"Who is 'they'?" Chris interrupted.

"Americans. Spies." Lukas shrugged. "They said we were being provided with the right tools for the job."

"A job that needs ten spare mags, eh?" Chris said, picking up a Mark 23.

"Can I ask you what we're doing? Who we are fighting?" Lukas leaned forward eagerly.

"You can ask, but I don't honestly know." Chris nodded at the approaching forms of Kev and Pete. "Try asking the boss."

"What's the kit like?" Kev asked, pushing past Lukas. "Aw, nice one"

He all but dived into the cases.

Pete peered into the back of the Rover. "Chris?"

"New pistols and rifles, boss. Brand new." Chris passed him a Mark 23. "All Heckler & Koch."

Pete hefted the pistol. "Alright. Well, check them over, make sure they're ok-"

Kev all but fell out of the Rover, G36 in hand. "This stuff's great"

"-carry whatever you want, but make sure you're operational. If you want to carry the new kit and your old stuff, make sure it bloody works. No cock-ups, ok?"

Lukas nodded. "Yes, of course."

Kev grinned. "No problems."

Chris nodded.

"Right. Let's sort our kit out before we go to the Hill, I've got no idea when we're meant to be operating."

 

"Remind me again why I picked a new holster?" Kev complained. "It's rubbing me red raw."

Pete leaned over nudged him. "I don't care if you're bleeding, Hawkins, as long as you're operational. You picked the new kit, you live with it. Stop whingeing."

"Yes, boss." Kev sighed.

"Where are we?" Chris asked.

"The A429, Davies, as you bloody well know, seeing as we passed a sign five minutes ago." Kev snarled. "Now stop winding me up."

"But it's so easy." Chris said, smiling. "You're like a little clockwork toy."

"Piss off."

Chris went back to unloading pistol magazines. "What've you done with your SIG?"

"Back of my jeans." Kev slid forward a few inches in the driver's seat. "Now me stomach and me arse are sore."

"The less we hear about your sore arse, the better we'll all feel." Chris replied.

Even Lukas laughed at that. G36 across his lap, he was removing the carrying handle, reducing the size of the weapon. Next to him, Pete was unloading rifle magazines, flicking the bullets into the case on his lap. "Used these before?" He asked.

Lukas looked up from the rifle. "Yes, we have them. Light, accurate, easy to use with either hand. Very rarely do they jam."

"Good. Once you're done with that one, take the handles off the others, will you? Should have thought of that."

"Have you ever used them before?" Lukas resumed fiddling.

"No. Stuck with the MP5 and the G3 usually. Used the M16 in the Gulf and South America." Pete slapped the magazine against his palm, clipped it to another empty and dropped it into the case.

"Then how could you think of doing this?" Lukas held up the carrying handle.

"Fair point, mate."

"Are you an officer?"

That took Pete by surprise. "What? Me? No chance."

"Why?" Lukas was obviously interested.

"Well." Pete picked up another full magazine and turned it in his hands. "In the Regiment, when you become a Rupert, an officer, you get put behind a desk, mostly. Not my sort of thing. So I stuck with being an NCO and stayed operational."

"I see. And Kev and Chris?"

"Kev is a sergeant, believe it or not."

"Cheers, boss."

"And Chris is a corporal."

Chris turned and sketched a salute.

"What about you, Lukas?" Pete resumed emptying magazines.

"I am, or was, a lieutenant." Lukas said, and cleared his throat.

Kev met Pete's eyes in the rear-view. Pete raised an eyebrow. Kev went back to watching the road.

"This will not be a problem." Lukas said softly, looking down at the rifle on his lap. "There is a chain of command. I will fit into it."

Pete understood. "Ok. Thanks, mate."

Lukas shrugged, uncomfortable. "I could not take command. I do not know who we are fighting, or why."

Pete looked at him. He didn't know whether to tell Lukas or let him find out for himself. Then Pete remembered how he'd felt, seeing the strange corpse as he knelt next to Jock.

Pete sighed, and told him.

 

They stopped to get something to eat, leaving Lukas in the car.

"He didn't take it very well, did he?" Kev said as they trooped across the car park.

Chris glanced back. Lukas was staring rigidly ahead, bolt upright. "He didn't laugh though. Or think we were winding him up."

"Wouldn't have blamed him." Pete said, pushing the door open and entering the greasy spoon. "He might join us, if he recovers."

"What time are we due?" Kev asked, following him in.

"Not until tonight." Pete breathed deep.

Warm air, frying food, hot sweet tea. He followed the smells to the counter. Kev and Chris grabbed a corner table, elbowing past lorry drivers and bustling families. Both of them automatically sat with their backs to a wall, then smiled sheepishly at each other. "Creatures of habit eh?" Kev said, picking up a menu.

"Mmm. It's a wonder you're not having a wank then."

"Sod off."

Kev dropped the menu, craned his neck to look out of the window. "Poor bugger's sat there like he's had a poker jammed up his arse."

"Give him a chance." Chris replied. "If we hadn't been operating when I found out I'd have shat."

"You did, didn't you?"

"Last time I shat myself was when I saw your girlfriend."

Kev reached out and nearly shoved Chris off his chair. "Cheeky twat. What about that MP leftenant you had on the go? Eh?"

Chris grinned. "What about her?"

"Well, you know what they say, there's nothing like a-"

"Keep it clean, there's children present." Pete said, setting down a pot of tea and some cups. "Who are we discussing?"

"Chris' bird. That MP who nicked him. What was the charge?"

Chris shrugged. "Don't remember, I was too drunk."

Pete laughed. "Conduct unbecoming of a human being, wasn't it?"

Chris poured himself some tea. "Can't we forget it?"

Pete and Kev smiled. "Obviously not." Kev said.

"I thought we were meant to be professionals?"

Kev shrugged. "We're meant to be, yes, but any unit that lets you in, well..."

"Sod off, Hawkins. Boss, do you want me to unload all those magazines?"

Pete nodded, taking the pot and pouring. "No telling how long they've been loaded. I don't want any stoppages. We'll load half of them back up, that's plenty."

"Same with the rifle magazines?" Kev asked.

"Yeah, I've done nearly half of them. I'll drive and you can do the rest if you want."

"Nice one." Kev took his turn with the pot. "What're we getting?"

"The biggest meals they've got. I don't know what's happening, where we're going, who or what with, how long for." Pete shrugged. "We've all got our radios sorted, right?"

Kev leaned closer, lowered his tone. "We've got full assault rig in the boot, body armour, flash-bangs, the whole lot. Plus the kit we picked up."

"Ok, good. Kev, you stick with Lukas on ops as much as possible. Watch his back and watch him, until we know how good he is."

"Speak of the devil." Chris nodded towards the doorway.

Lukas entered, looked around for them and then strode over. Pete pushed back a chair, an unspoken invitation. Lukas dropped into it. "I apologise." He said.

"Don't worry about it." Pete offered him a menu. "I hope you're hungry."

 

Pete's mobile rang as they waddled back to the Rover. He dug it out of his pocket, and climbed into the car. "Hello?"

"Sergeant Walker?"

Pickering.

"Yes?" Pete thought for a second. "Sir."

"Where are you?"

"About halfway to Menwith Hill, stopped to get something to eat."

"Well, I'm afraid I need you lads to turn around and go back to Brize Norton."

"What?" Pete all but snarled.

"We've got a job for you, in Russia. If you hurry, and you need to, you can get on a transport headed to Ramstein, in Germany."

"Ramstein?"

Everyone turned round at that.

"Yes, Sergeant, Ramstein, an American base in Germany. Your package flew from there this morning."

"I know that. What about the job at Menwith Hill?" Pete fought to disguise his irritation and failed.

"That can wait, indefinitely if needs be. It's for your peace of mind more than anything else, to be honest. Now listen, the plan is sketchy at best."

"This whole operation's bloody sketchy. Sir."

"Agreed, Sergeant, but it's all we've got." Pickering sounded like he was running out of patience. "Now listen. There's a transport waiting for you at Brize Norton. It leaves in an hour. Be on it."

"Right, hang on a second." Pete lowered the phone a little. "Kev, get us to Brize Norton. You've got an hour."

"Traffic's getting worse, I don't-"

Pete shut him up with a look, then raised the phone again. "Go on."

"You'll spend the night at Ramstein, there's intelligence for you there on your target. Look it over. You'll be inserting into Russia early tomorrow, probably by plane, but-"

Pickering's voice was drowned in the roar of the Rover's engine.

"What?"

The roar lowered to a steady growl as Kev took his foot off the brake and they surged out onto the road.

"I said the exact method is up to you, I don't care if you use huskies and sled, as long as you are on target early tomorrow. You'll be able to requisition anything you need at Ramstein. Ok?"

"No, not bloody ok" Pete lost his temper. "Pickering, who's running this bloody circus?"

"I don't think anyone is." Pickering sighed. "Look, I'm dealing with the same thing here, alright? Do you think it's easy digging up all the information you'll need in twenty-four hours and getting it to you? Well it bloody isn't, Sergeant, and I'm just as pissed off as you are. Deal with it."

"Yes, sir." Pete gritted his teeth.

"We are getting it together, Sergeant. The reason you've just been told about this is because we've just found out about it. It took us five minutes. That's a pretty good response time, for an organisation that's not even put together completely, and don't bloody ask what organisation because I can't tell you." Pickering took a deep breath. "Recap."

"Brize Norton in an hour, transport to Ramstein. Evaluate the intel we get, deploy into Russia tomorrow morning. I'm not a bloody retard, sir."

"I know, Sergeant."

The phone clicked.

Pete shoved it back into his pocket.

"Russia?" Chris asked, eyerows raised.

Pete shook his head. "I haven't a frigging clue what's going on with these blokes."

Lukas chipped in. "I flew in from Ramstein this morning, if we are going to Russia why not tell you to fly there?"

Pete shrugged. "Apparently, they just found out about it. The job at the Hill is off. We're off to Ramstein, we've got tonight to look over intel, then we're off to Russia early tomorrow."

"Can you spell 'rush job'?" Kev muttered, hunched over the steering wheel. "Put your seat belts on. And get some decent music on the radio. If I'm going for a world record I want a bloody good soundtrack."

[FullAuto]

The interior of the VC10 transport was unusually quiet. Wedged between a Humvee and a stack of metal boxes, the four soldiers got as comfortable as possible.

Kev was sprawled out on the bonnet of the Humvee, G36 next to him, a fully packed bergen serving as a pillow. He was asleep, wrapped in a sleeping bag.

Pete was sat on his bergen, leaning back against the boxes, unloading rifle magazines. The loose rounds clinked rhythmically as they hit the bottom of the case.

Lukas sat on the floor, checking his G36.

Chris was knelt close by, sorting through several cases, G36 leant againt the Humvee next to him.

"Remington?" He asked, holding up the pump-action shotgun.

Pete mused for a second. "Leave it."

"MOE kit?"

"Bring that."

"MOE?" Lukas asked, looking up from his rifle.

"Method Of Entry, mate. Everything from lockpicks to plastic explosive." Chris hauled the bag to one side, pushed it across the floor to Pete. "The 5's and the k?"

"Leave them."

Chris drew his SIG out of a bag, and after a moment's thought, a holster as well. He added it and two spare magazines to his bergen. Getting to his feet, he leaned his bergen against the boxes, picked up his rifle and sat down next to Pete.

"What's the plan then, boss?"

"Turn up at Ramstein. You and Lukas find a firing range, zero the rifles, make sure the pistols are okay too. Put plenty of rounds down, I want to be sure they work. Get some practice in. Me and Kev will pick up the intel and join you. We'll look over whatever they've got us over some scran." Pete dropped the empty magazine into the case at his feet and began unloading another. "We're deploying into Russia tomorrow, so we need to get familiar with the new kit, get something to eat, sort our bergens out and get some sleep."

"Okay. Shouldn't be too hard to get some kip now." Chris said, settling back against the boxes.

"These VC10's are good to travel in. Engines are at the back, so we're riding ahead of the sound, it's easy to get to sleep. Went out to the Gulf in one of these."

Chris was already asleep.

 

They disembarked in a hurry. Bergens on, rifles slung, cases in hand, they ran down the ramp, past half a dozen very surprised RAF loadies and onto the runway.

"Whoa, whoa, guys" A big Yank private. "Can I help you?"

Pete dumped the cases, showed his ID. "UN task force. We need access to a firing range and some hot food. There's also meant to be some intel waiting for us."

"Hey, I don't know anything about that." The Yank was still looking at the ID. "This is news to me, you'll have to wait while I-"

"-check with your superior, go right ahead." Pete shrugged off his bergen. "Make it quick."

"Uh, yessir." He ran off.

"Christ, more waiting." Kev set down the cases he was carrying.

"No chance. Chris, Lukas, disappear." Pete handed Chris his G36. "You know what to do, just get going."

Kev handed his rifle to Lukas.

They slung the extra rifles over their shoulders and ran off.

"Well, boss, the Yanks aren't going to be too happy about this."

"They'll live." Pete replied, nodding towards a pair of approaching figures. "Here we are."

It was the big private and what looked to be his uglier older brother.

"Got word 'bout an hour ago you guys would be turning up." The other man saluted and after a second the private followed suit. "Sergeant Brennan. Meant to take you to see Lieutenant Farrell. Sorry about Private Young here, he's just doing his job."

Pete shrugged. "No bother. Can we go and see Lieutenant Farrell now?"

"Sure, hey, I thought there was four of you?"

"We've got a lot to do, Sergeant. Two of us are already stuck out on a runway, wasting time."

Sergeant Brennan didn't like that, but Pete was past caring.

"Okay, we got a Humvee over here waiting. Come on. Double time, Private, move your ass"

 

"Thanks" Chris called to the departing truck, then turned to Lukas. "Nice of them to give us a lift."

Lukas picked up the bags. "Indoor range is here, both pistols and rifles."

They trooped down the path to the long, low building and passed inside. The duty sergeant looked up from his desk. "Can I help you?"

Chris took out his ID. "We're here to use the firing range. Save time and call your superior now."

 

"You're the UN task force?" Lieutenant Farrell asked.

His tone clearly showed exactly what Lieutenant Farrell thought of them.

"We're scarier in uniform, leftenant." Pete set the cases down, flexed his aching hands. "You've got intel for us."

The lieutenant's lip curled. "Yes I do. Can I see some ID please? I need to be sure."

Pete slapped the card down on the lieutenant's desk and leaned in close. "Call your superior. Before I do."

 

"Right, twenty metres." Chris levelled the G36.

Close range. He aimed, and squeezed off a short burst.

A ragged hole appeared in the target's head.

He lowered his aim, sighted on the centre of the torso and squeezed off half a magazine.

Casings clinked as he observed the hits. A tight cluster over the heart.

Good.

Lukas, in the next lane, was aiming at a target a hundred metres distant. He sighted using the scope and squeezed off a single shot.

The bullet tore a ragged hole in the chest, high and to the right. Lukas altered the sights, aimed and fired again. Dead centre, but still an inch or two high. He fiddled a little more, aimed. Looking down the scope, he raised the G36 slowly and smoothly until the marking post in the centre of the sight rested in the middle of the head.

He squeezed gently.

The bullet punched through, dead centre.

Lukas lowered the rifle and nodded approvingly. Excellent.

Chris set down the G36, made sure the safety was applied and drew his pistol. The Mark 23 hung heavy in his hand. He raised it, couched his left hand around his right. Stabilised, he emptied the magazine at a target five metres away.

The pistol was big and heavy, and the recoil was surprisingly light. He put all twelve rounds in the centre mass easily, all but three in the heart. He reloaded, and fired off another magazine, this time into the head.

Again, all twelve on target. One close to the outside, perhaps just a graze.

He reloaded, holstered the Mark 23 and set up a fresh target. Five metre range again.

-rifle stoppage out in the open, target has got me in his sights-

Chris drew and double-tapped.

Two holes, right next to each other over the heart.

Good.

-same again, with body armour-

Draw and double-tap.

One round went too high, one too low. The first just nicked the top of the head. The second hit the throat. Perhaps either would have done the job, but perhaps wasn't good enough.

Chris holstered and practiced in slow motion. His right hand moved from his hip, across his body. His hand closed around the grip, three fingers and thumb circling it. He drew, bringing his right hand up into aim, his left coming up to support. His left hand closed around his right, holding the pistol firmly, arms extended, elbows slightly bent. He acquired the target, bringing the pistol to bear on the head.

"Bang." He said softly.

Again, faster this time.

Draw and shoot. Faster.

Draw and shoot. Faster.

Draw and shoot. Faster.

 

"Where?" Kev came over and peered down at the map.

Pete tapped the highlighted spot. "Here. In Siberia."

"Siberia? As in snow and ice, Siberia?"

"That's the one." Pete took a sip of coffee and made a face.

He hated the stuff, but there was no tea going. Lieutenant Farrell was a coffee man. He was also a furious-evicted-from-his-office man.

"Christ, I hate operating in the cold. Froze my arse off on exercises in Norway, that was enough." Kev picked up some eight by tens and started flicking through them. "Good satellite pictures though."

The photographs showed a cluster of buildings, most of them long and low, two tall, almost office block structures. The office blocks had been circled in thick black marker. The complex was a rough square in shape, the streets laid out in a simple grid. At each corner of the square stood a watchtower-type structure, a few storeys high.

Kev drank his coffee and flicked through the pictures. None of them were any more detailed, they were just from slightly different angles. "What is this place, boss?"

"A gulag, apparently." Pete looked up from the folder on the desk.

Kev dropped the photos on the desk. "Tell me we're just doing a recce for someone else."

"I don't know what we're doing yet, I haven't got that far." Pete pushed the cup away. "Get this stuff away from me, I keep drinking it."

"Sorry." Kev shifted the cup behind him. "So what do you think we'll be doing?"

"Kev, can you just go and-" Pete looked up from the folder, exasperated, "just go to the firing range, see how Chris and Lukas are getting on. Then find someone and get hold of some cold weather kit."

Kev set his cup down. "Okay."

He left. Pete swore at himself, then gritted his teeth and went back to the folder.

 

"How long's the boss going to be?" Chris asked.

They were sat in the firing range. Lukas was clipping rifle magazines together. Kev was leaning against a wall, hands tucked into his pockets. Chris was sat on a folding chair.

"I've got no idea. Up to his eyes in docs, last time I saw him." Kev checked his watch. "It's been two hours already. I've got the cold weather gear and our accommodation sorted. Grub is meant to be on the way."

"Christ. I hope they hurry up." Chris stretched and yawned. "Do we know what we're doing?"

"Ask the boss when he turns up." Kev said, shrugging. "All the kit okay?"

"Not a single stoppage." Chris said, waving airily to the neat row of rifles on a nearby table. "All zeroed, all dead on at a hundred metres. We're going to leave the mags unloaded overnight, give the springs a rest, load them up on the way to the op. The Yanks are swimming in five-five-six and forty-five calibre, so ammo is not a problem. The pistols are sweet as a nut too."

Kev tapped the Mark 23 at his waist. "I like it. Tried the suppressors yet?"

"They're great." Chris said. "We need more rounds."

"I'll go and see about those now." Kev stood up and checked his watch again. "If the scoff comes while I'm gone, don't eat it all."

"I promise nothing." Chris replied.

Kev left, nodding a farewell to Lukas.

Chris twiddled his thumbs for five minutes before he heard the rattle of crockery. Lukas watched, smiling, as Chris jumped out of his seat and hurried to the door.

A young woman in kitchen whites saluted Chris as he opened the door. She had a trolley loaded with plates of food and what looked suspiciously like a teapot. "Private Rhinehart, sir."

Chris returned the salue. "Private. They send you from the mess?"

"Yessir, got word you wanted food, sir. And tea. Is that right, sir?"

"It is. Bring it in, Private, by all means." Chris stood aside and waved her in.

"You need anything else, sir?" Private Rhinehart looked around at the empty firing range and the weapons laid out on the table.

"Private, if this is tea, you've saved my life." Chris took the lid off the pot and sniffed. "Ahh."

"It's all good, sir?" She asked, blushing a little.

"It is, Private, thank you. Carry on."

She saluted again and left.

"Why didn't they let women into the Army earlier." Chris sighed as the door swung shut.

"To keep them away from you." Lukas said, dropping into a chair.

"You're getting the hang of this, aren't you?" Chris replied, grinning.

 

Another hour passed. Chris and Lukas drank and ate their fill, then went back to waiting. Kev turned up, lugging a box packed full of .45 calibre ammunition.

"Might as well give these a go." Chris muttered, levering himself up out of his chair. "God, I'm full."

"Glad to see we're making ourselves comfortable." Pete said from the doorway, folder under his arm.

"Alright, boss?" Kev asked, sandwich halfway to his mouth.

Chris loaded a pistol magazine, screwed a suppressor onto his Mark 23 and fired. He emptied the gun into the target, reloaded and fired again. The suppressor didn't degrade in effectiveness.

"I'm glad to see we've been managing in my absence." Pete sank into a chair, dropping the folder to the floor. "That's not tea, is it?"

Lukas poured him a cup.

"Cheers." Pete stared off into space for a moment. "Well."

"Do we know what we're doing this time, boss?" Chris asked, making the pistol safe.

Pete remained silent. Chris glanced at Kev, who shook his head. Lukas waited in silence.

"The place we're going to is a nuclear missile launch site, built during the Cold War. The CIA thought it was just a gulag, and Ivan kept a number of political prisoners there to make sure it stayed that way, but when Gorbachev kicked off glasnost and perestroika and made moves towards nuclear disarmament, that went to shit." Pete picked the folder up off the floor, opened it and handed out the satellie images. "The two tall buildings are just cover for missile silos. They hold four nuclear missiles each."

"Disarmed?" Chris asked, setting his Mark 23 down and taking a look at the eight by ten Pete passed him.

"No." Pete rubbed his face, then leaned back in his chair and sipped his tea. "Christ. The old regime sort of forgot to tell the new lads about this place, and a few others like it, so they're going to be the last in a long line of missiles to be disarmed. Now, in ninety-two, a hardcore cold warrior, General Vladimir Anatolyevich Gordeyev, who was developing his own little fiefdom-"

"Fiefdom?" Lukas asked.

"Umm, like he was going to declare independence, a little republic, right in the middle of Russia."

"Ah."

"Well, they told him to pack his bags. The new Russian government were trying desperately to stop every Russian Mafia don and Army general from parceling up what was left of their country. So they gave Gordeyev an ultimatum."

"Piss off or get slotted." Kev said.

"Exactly. They handed him control of three former gulags, out in Siberia, supposedly to prevent them from falling into the hands of Chechen rebels. A bullshit job out in the middle of nowhere for a general who can't be trusted. Unfortunately, those gulags-"

"Shit." Chris said.

"Yeah." Pete drank some more tea, cleared his throat. "Gordeyev has three installations just like this one. Each one with eight nuclear missiles."

"Scheisse." Lukas said.

"Bloody right, mate." Kev added.

"Boss, what's this got to do with us?" Chris asked. "Okay, if we were back in the Regiment I can see the Russians asking for help, I mean, twenty-four missiles is no frigging joke. But we're-"

"I'm getting to that. Now, Gordeyev found out about the missiles a year ago, and he's been making noises ever since. Not too loud, and just towards Russia. You know, the 'let's return to the golden age of Communism, comrades!' sort of thing. Russia sent out a disarming squad, complete with UN observers, six months ago, and ordered Gordeyev to let them disarm the missiles. Gordeyev maintains they're still doing that job, and it's taking them so long because of complications."

"But they're most probably in shallow graves somewhere." Kev chipped in.

"Or filling the bunks in this frigging gulag." Chris said.

"Obviously." Pete drew another sheaf of photographs from the folder. "This is satellite imagery from yesterday. Note the patch of ground just to the west of the site."

Kev flicked through the pictures. It was difficult to judge scale, but about a hundred metres from the buildings, a roughly circular patch of ground was black, completely free of snow. Kev judged it to be about thirty metres in diameter.

He passed the images to Lukas, who flicked through them.

"We didn't catch whatever landed there on satellite, or radar, but we did pick up radio transmissions." Pete leaned forward. "There's been a non-stop broadcast from the site since yesterday morning. Gordeyev claims he's captured aliens. He says they're hostile, and by default, in league with the West, sent to stop him from re-establishing Communism."

Chris closed his eyes. "Christ."

"They'll think he's mental." Kev said, standing up. "Jesus, they'll try and slot him."

"And they'll succeed. Or they'll discover the aliens. Or they'll let him get off a missile or two and the Yanks will have no choice but to retaliate."

"Nuclear war." Lukas murmured.

"Not the full thing, no, just a limited exchange, but"

[FullAuto]

"I'll talk to Pickering about slotting Gordeyev." Pete said quietly, pushing himself up out of his chair. "Arctic kit sorted?"

"Yeah." Kev perched on the edge of the table. "Body armour, smocks, thermals, the lot."

"Okay. Er." Pete squeezed his aching eyes shut, rubbed his forehead. "Camo on the rifles?"

"I'll take care of that." Lukas offered.

"Right." Pete opened his eyes, winced.

"Go and get some kip, boss." Kev offered. "We'll sort the rest."

"Can't. I've got to talk to Pickering, then get some practice in with the new kit." Pete gestured to the rifles on the table. "I'll see you in the morning, lads. Get some kip. Breakfast at five. Invading Russia in time for dinner."

They watched him go.

 

"Yes?"

"Pickering, what about Gordeyev?"

"Hello to you too, Sergeant Walker."

Pete frowned, massaging his forehead with one hand. "Pickering, I've got far too much to do."

"Fair point, Sergeant." Pickering cleared his throat. "Gordeyev isn't our problem."

"If he launches those missiles he will be. Whoever we're working for, I don't think anyone's going to be happy with them if someone finds out they had us in place to stop some nuclear missiles being launched, and didn't bother."

"This job is going to be difficult enough without concerning yourself about nuclear missiles and rogue Russian generals."

"I know, Pickering." Pete had to strain to stop himself from snarling. "I've been briefed, I know what we're here to do."

"And you don't think it's a big enough job?"

"Who dares wins."

Pickering remained silent for a minute. "I can probably get you Gordeyev as a target of opportunity. I can talk them into that."

Pete didn't know whether to thank him or swear. "And the missiles?"

"Whether you destroy them or not is redundant, he has two other launch sites."

"The missiles."

Pickering hesitated. "Sergeant, do you want to come back from this alive?"

"Yes. That's why I want those missiles. If we can put them out of action, there'll be no reason to wipe that site off the map."

"What about the other two sites?"

"Sod them. I won't be there, will I? Can you get word to Ivan as soon as we've slotted Gordeyev and knackered the missiles?"

"We can get word to them very quickly." Pickering assured him.

"Good. I don't want a bomb dropping on me after I've just done their job." Pete yawned. "Excuse me. Do we know what Ivan plans to do about Gordeyev yet?"

"There is a tentative plan being put forward to Moscow. A co-ordinated Spetznaz assault on all three sites. If any of the assaults show signs of failing, the buildings above the silos are going to be bombed. That'll block the silo doors from opening."

"When are they going to deploy?"

"Its not confirmed that they will, yet. But if they do, it'll be soon. Tomorrow. The day after at the latest."

"Don't you have any good news?" Pete asked, suppressing another yawn.

"Thermite charges are on the way to you as we speak. They're to be used on the targets."

"Okay." Pete understood.

"Well, Sergeant, you've got your wish. Both the missiles and Gordeyev are targets of opportunity. If you get the chance, by all means take them out of action. But don't go out of your way. None of it means anything unless the targets are destroyed."

Pickering wouldn't say the word 'alien' even over an encrypted channel as secure as this one.

"Okay." Pete picked up a cup and drank the cold coffee.

He shuddered at the taste. He was going to need the caffeine.

"Just one more question."

"Alright."

"Who are we working for?"

Pickering sighed. "I can't tell you. Operational security."

Those words made Pete want to spit.

"If you come back from this, we can discuss the matter further, in person."

"Right."

"I'll call you tomorrow, confirming the operation."

"Right."

"Goodbye, Sergeant. And good luck." The line went dead.

Pete stared at the phone, then went back to the firing range.

 

"Boss."

Pete stirred slowly.

"Boss."

Chris leaned in close and waved a cup of tea.

Pete's eyes opened a little. "Mmm?"

"It's five o'clock."

Pete sat up so quickly he nearly knocked the cup flying. Chris steadied it with his free hand.

"Christ, there's all sorts still to do. I set my frigging alarm-"

Chris forced the tea into his hand. "We turned your alarm off. You needed the rest."

Pete scowled at him. "What the bloody Hell are 'we' playing at, Davies? And who is 'we' anyway?"

"Kev, basically. He's sorted everything. Drink your tea, the plane's warming up now."

"Plane?"

"Kev requisitioned it from the Yanks. They're spitting teeth."

"I bet." Pete got up, stretched and yawned. "What's the plan?"

"Plane's taking off in about five minutes. All our kit's on there, we're going to get ready, check everything again, then drop in on Ivan."

Pete gulped down the tea. "Lets get going then."

 

Kev greeted them at the ramp of a C-130 Hercules. "Alright, boss?" He asked.

Pete thought he looked slightly anxious. "Fine. Everything sorted?"

Kev handed him a scribbled list. "This is everything we've got on board. Check it."

Pete read through it, then read through it again, slowly. He handed the list to Chris, knowing he still wasn't one hundred percent awake. "Check it."

The engines on the plane started up, props building to a roaring whirl. Chris scanned the list, looked up and nodded. "Looks fine"

"Alright, let's get on board" Pete gestured to the ramp.

They jogged up it, and into the plane. The interior was nowhere near as quiet as the VC10 they'd flown to Ramstein in, but there was a lot more room. Lukas had already changed into Arctic kit, and was busy checking his rifle. He nodded a greeting to Pete.

They sat down and belted up for what turned out to be a rough take-off.

"Are we being shot at already?" Kev shouted, laughing.

A few minutes later they were high and level. Kev went forward to double check everything with the pilot while Chris and Pete readied their gear. They quickly changed clothes. Thermals, body armour and Arctic camouflage kit. White, from head to foot. Pete pulled on a pair of thin silk gloves to ready his kit. The inside of the C-130 was getting chilly. When operational he'd wear two pairs, inner 'touch' gloves of silk and thicker outer gloves, which could be easily pulled off if they got in the way. Wandering round Siberia wearing just one pair of gloves meant cold hands, but they wouldn't drop off. Pete checked his G36. It was loaded and safetied. There were strips of white tape at irregular intervals all over the weapon, breaking up its outline. Most of the exterior surfaces had also been heavily sprayed with WD40 to protect it from the extreme cold. He checked his Mark 23. Loaded, safetied, suppressor threaded onto the muzzle. It went into a holster on his right thigh. He hefted his bergen. A light load.

"Got the thermite charges." Chris assured him, lacing up his boots tightly. "A dozen of them, so we're carrying three each, plus these." His hand dipped into his bergen and came out holding a large aerosol can. "Some sort of corrosive inflammable gel. We're meant to spray the targets down with this, then stick a thermite charge up their arse and leg it."

"Nice." Pete checked his kit, then his bergen. "Grenades?"

Chris pointed to a Lacon box, a large aluminium container used for air freight. Pete opened it up.

"It's pick and mix, boss. We've got frag, HE, white phos, concussion, smoke, flash-bang, incendiary, take your choice."

Pete picked up HE, smoke and white phosphorous grenades, checked the pins and handles, and pocketed them. He checked the contents of his bergen. Three thermite charges, which looked like oversized grenades without a pin or handle. An aerosol can identical to the one Chris had shown him. Rations, all energy food. A lot of empty pistol and rifle magazines.

Pete sat down, opened up some ammunition boxes and began to load.

 

"So you know what you're doing?"

The pilot just looked at him.

"Look, mate, I'm not insulting you or anything, I just want to be sure, okay? Worst thing that can happen to you is the Russian police arrest you and take you to a US embassy. Worst thing for us is we freeze to death waiting for you."

The pilot glanced at his co-pilot, who shrugged. "He's got a point, Doug."

The pilot sighed. "Okay, buddy. We fly over Siberia. You guys jump out the back, at whichever point looks best to you. We magically evade radar all the way there, correct?"

"We need to be up at about thirty-six thousand feet for the jump. Don't worry about radar, Ivan's going to make a mistake and label you as a Russian army transport."

"Just like that?" The pilot raised an eyebrow.

"Just like that." Kev looked back at him steadily.

"Christ, okay" The pilot threw up his hands. "We turn around, contact the nearest airfield, which is-"

The co-pilot raised a map and pointed.

"-I'm not even going to try to pronounce that. We land there, say we've had terrible difficulties, get refuelled, come back to Siberia, pick you guys up and fly back to Ramstein." The pilot closed his eyes and shook his head. "Joe, I didn't volunteer for this, did I?"

"Shit, no. We got ordered to do this." The co-pilot turned around to look at Kev. "And what're you going to be doing in Siberia while we play nice with Ivan at his airfield?"

Kev didn't reply.

"Man, this is bullshit. The Cold War is over." The pilot watched Kev for any reaction. "Glasnost? You know? Fall of the USSR? Big step to world peace?"

Kev just nodded.

The pilot turned back to the controls. "I swear to God, if you start World War Three, I will crash this plane on your ass."

"You tell him, Doug."

"Shut up, Joe. Let's illegally enter some airspace."

"I love it when you talk dirty."

 

"Pilot knows what he's doing." Kev affirmed, dropping into a seat. "We're jumping at about thirty-six thou, HAHO jump."

Chris unfolded a map and they crowded round.

"The complex is here." He pointed to a small pencilled-in dot. "We're going to jump here."

His finger circled an area south-west of the dot.

"About forty, forty-five kilometres away. We'll glide in, not too close. Weather's nice and clear so we'll have to come down a few kilometres away to avoid being spotted and tab in from there."

"Tab?" Lukas asked. "What is that? Walk?"

"Yep." Pete looked over the map, then up at the others. "What about getting into the site?"

Chris glanced at Kev, who shrugged and said, "We haven't got that far yet."

Pete grinned. "Here's me thinking you had this all under control, Kev."

"Arses to that, boss. You're back in command. I get to sit back and take the piss now."

Pete laughed, dug around amongst the kit and found the intel folder. He flicked through the contents, drew out a set of diagrams. "Have you all seen the layout of the silos?"

"We've had a good look at them." Chris said, nodding. "Those the actual silos?"

"Nah, just diagrams of standard silos." Pete looked about. "Is there any tea going?"

"Oh, stewardess?" Kev called.

Chris produced a thermos from the mounds of kit. Pete smiled. "Now that's forward planning."

He poured himself a cup of tea and studied the diagrams, paying careful attention to the notations along the borders.

"There's warm food, too." Kev produced a package wrapped in baking foil.

Pete tore it open. BLT's, still hot. He wolfed half a dozen down between slurps of tea.

Chris loaded magazines. Kev checked his kit again. Lukas joined Pete in looking over the diagrams.

Four levels, all below ground. They consisted of maintenance platforms around the missile, short, narrow passageways and rooms not much bigger than cupboards.

Pete pushed the diagrams aside and looked back through the documents. He scanned a couple of pages, then whistled. "Apparently, the silos are connected to a tunnel system under the site."

Kev stopped in the middle of pouring himself a cup of tea. "What?"

"That's what the intel says." Pete held up the relevant page. "Tunnels, under the site, connecting every building."

"Possible infil?" Chris stole a BLT and jammed it into his mouth.

"No, you can only access it from the buildings or the silos, unless you fancy a bit of digging. Is there any new satellite images?" Pete stole Kev's cup of tea and washed the last BLT down with it.

"Wanker." Kev poured himself another cup.

Chris tossed another folder Pete's way. "Taken last night and this morning. The night ones are thermal."

Pete flipped through the thick sheaf of pictures. First one, a picture of the whole complex, not enough magnification to show small heat sources. The buildings stood out from the surrounding ground, being slightly warmer, and so coloured a lighter shade of blue.

Second picture, more magnification, enough so the site filled the picture. Small blobs of red and orange decorated the perimeter and the guard towers at the corners of the complex.

Soldiers.

There were two larger blobs near the centre of the complex, next to one of the largest buildings.

Vehicles.

There was also a faint yellow bloom around one of the silos. Pete looked closer. No, it was the snow on the ground around the silo. It was almost yellow. Which meant the ground underneath was warm.

"What's this yellow bit?" Pete showed the picture round. "Any ideas?"

"Yellow snow eh?" Kev grinned. "Well, maybe they didn't dig a latrine."

"Warm ground around a silo?" Chris took a close look. "Testing the missile engines?"

"Can they do that?" Pete asked, flicking through the documents.

No-one had any idea. Pete stared at the image.

An aborted launch? An accident with some missile fuel?

He shrugged, moved onto the next picture. A daylight image, high magnification so a quarter of the site filled the picture. Pete noted the men on the tower, and at the perimeter of the site. There were none on the rooftops. Next picture, another quarter of the site, two men on this tower, men on the perimeter. And at least a dozen guards around the silo building.

"Shit."

Pete moved to the next picture. The other silo was the same, ringed by men who stood in pairs. Pete looked closer. He couldn't be sure, the magnification wasn't that good, but it looked like the guards-

"They're facing the silos." Pete said softly, his words lost in the rumble of engines.

"What?" Lukas asked, leaning in closer.

"Take a look at that." He passed the picture to Lukas. "Does it look like they're facing the silos?"

Lukas peered closely at the picture. "Yes. You can see here, one of them is sat down." His finger pointed out a particular figure. "His legs are stretched out in front of him, towards the silo."

Pete nodded. "Why are they facing the silo?"

Lukas shrugged. "Maybe the aliens are in there."

"Why would they keep the aliens in a silo with nuclear missiles?"

"Sounds like a bad combination to me." Chris chipped in, adding a loaded magazine to the stack in front of him.

"Maybe they're in the building on top of the silo?" Kev suggested. "I mean, if Ivan built it just as cover, it's going to be hollow inside, isn't it? Just an empty concrete shell."

"Hmm." Pete passed the images around. "Have a look, see what you think, see if you can find an infil route before we actually arrive, it'll save time."

"Anyone on-site apart from Ivan?" Kev asked, slipping magazines into his pockets.

"The engineers sent to disarm the missiles, and the UN observers. If they're still alive." Pete picked up a magazine, smacked it against his palm. "Nearest town is two hundred kilometres away. There'll be no civilians there, Gordeyev doesn't like visitors."

"Big 'if' after six months." Chris said. "How many mags you want, boss?"

"Ten for the rifle, ten for the pistol." Pete strapped on his mag carriers.

The one on his chest held six rifle magazines. The one on his left hip held four pistol magazines. He filled both and put the rest in his belt pockets.

Pete looked up and noticed them watching him. "Look, I'm not going to frigging die because I ran out of rounds, okay? We've got ten mags for each weapon, I'm taking ten mags."

"Good point, boss." Chris followed suit.

"Well, we're only going to be on ops for today, right/" Kev sighed and loaded up.

"Anyone speak Russian?" Pete asked.

"I speak a little." Lukas offered. "Enough to be understood."

"Kev can barely speak English, boss." Chris said.

"Piss off, Davies." Kev sipped his tea and winced.

Cold.

"So. The plan is we jump out, infil the site, destroy the targets, slot Gordeyev, disable the missiles, exfil the site, tab across Siberia and get a lift back to Ramstein." Kev sighed. "Sod it. Chris, you go and do it, we'll stay on the plane."

"How are we disabling the missiles?" Pete asked, lifting the thermos to pour himself some tea. "Shite, empty."

"Got another one." Chris lifted a thermos out of his bergen. "We've got C4 for the missiles."

"Those Yanks are such good hosts." Pete sighed, pouring himself another cup. "Remote detonators?"

"Boss, if you think I'd use det cord, you're mental. I'm not going to be anywhere near them when they blow up." Chris produced a block of C4 from his bergen. "I had a word with a specialist back at Ramstein. I can disable the missiles without damaging the warhead, no bother. I've got two pounds of C4 for every missile."

"Ok. Any ideas for getting in?" Pete leaned back against his bergen and sipped his tea.

Adrenaline was beginning to seep into his blood, and he relaxed as much as possible. Last chance for rest before the op. He couldn't stop his heart speeding up a little.

"Clear weather, so we can't drop in the middle of a storm. Ground around the site is pretty open, they've got guards in those towers all day." Kev shrugged. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but it looks like it'll be easier once we're inside."

"The wanker's right, boss." Chris agreed, dodging a thrown boot. "Once we're in, we can use the tunnels. It's just getting in that looks hard."

Kev passed a picture back to Pete, pointing out a long building on the southern edge of the site. "No-one's been in or out of this building, not in any of the pictures. There's only one guard at each end. If there's windows, we can get in that way, then carry on, above ground or below."

"Okay. I can't see anything else." Pete nodded. "We drop in, tab to the site, infil through this building."

"Sounds about as good as it's going to get." Kev said. "Then what?"

"Targets first. We grab a soldier, find out where they are, destroy them. Then the missiles. Then Gordeyev. If it goes to shit before we get to the missiles or Gordeyev, we leg it."

"Boss-" Chris began.

"Don't start, Davies." Pete said. "Targets of opportunity only. The only thing we have to do is get rid of those targets. The missiles and Gordeyev can wait. They're not our business."

They didn't have to like it, they just had to listen.

"If we get the chance, we'll do it, ok? But this isn't meant to be a suicide mission, and four dead foreign soldiers is all Gordeyev needs to confirm his beliefs." Pete cleared his throat and drank some more tea. "Now, Chinese Parliament."

Lukas looked puzzled. Chris answered before he could ask. "Pick holes in the plan, mate. Point out problems."

"Alright. What if there are more targets than thermite charges?" Kev said.

"We make do with grenades or the C4." Pete was gathering up documents and stuffing them back into the folder.

"What do we do if we are spotted?" Lukas asked.

"If we're outside, just slot whoever it is as quickly as you can and get into the site. If we're spotted inside the site, use your twenty-threes. On that note, check your suppressors." Pete finished his tea. "There's meant to be about a hundred or so soldiers on site. Now, some are just conscripts, doing their mandatory two years, some are going to be professionals who've fought in Afghanistan and Chechnya, so don't piss about. Gordeyev has his own men, a group of ex-KGB and Spetznaz, about a dozen of them. They're his leftenants and bodyguards, so we might end up going through them. Don't take any prisoners, just slot them."

Lukas, Kev and Chris nodded.

"Make sure you've got the pick up sites memorised." Pete reminded them. "The plane isn't going to stop. It'll come down, taxi slowly, then take off again. It's not going to stop moving, so don't be waiting about for a red carpet, especially if Ivan's after us."

Pete closed his eyes. His throat was sore from talking loudly over the constant rumble of the engines.

"Okay. Check your kit again. Get some rest if you can."

 

"Chutes'll open at twenty-four thousand." Kev made sure his rifle was slung tightly. "But you know the drill, keep your hand on the release just in case."

"Check your oxygen" The co-pilot called out.

Chris made sure his goggles were tight over his eyes. He hated jumping out of perfectly good aeroplanes. It scared the piss out of him. He fastened his oxygen mask and took a deep breath.

Slightly rubbery smelling, but okay.

Pete made sure his bergen was tied tightly to his rig. His oxygen worked. He took a deep breath and grinned at Chris. "Right. I'll go first, then Lukas, then Kev. Chris, you go last."

They nodded. The co-pilot put on his oxygen mask, and pressed a button.

Mechanisms whined. Air rushed out, a sudden gale that plucked at their clothes. The ramp yawned open onto a blue void. The rumble of turbo-props rose to a deafening roar.

Chris' mouth went cry. "Christ." He said softly.

He hated having to throw himself out. It was too much like suicide for his liking.

Pete staggered to the end of the ramp, bergen thumping against the back of his legs. He stood at the edge, looked down, and let himself fall forward, grinning, feeling his heart thunder and blood rush through his body. He loved parachuting.

Lukas gave him five seconds and followed. He wasn't worried about the jump, he was worried about the mission.

Kev gave Chris a thumbs up, walked to the edge and threw himself out.

Just like that. Christ. He closed his eyes, then waddled to the edge. He didn't look down. Gritting his teeth, he leaned forward until he overbalanced.

The co-pilot watched the four men recede to specks and disappear as they fell into the clouds. He slapped the 'close' button and shook his head.

He wouldn't jump out of a plane at anything less than gunpoint.

[FullAuto]

Pete landed on ice. His bergen, dangling on a line behind him, skidded along and hit him in the back of the legs. He went down, arms flailing.

[FullAuto]

The man was huddled against the back wall of his cell, as far away from the bars as possible. He didn't even look up. He was barefoot, dressed in loose trousers and T-shirt, bruises on his arms.

Pete knocked on the bars, gently. "Here, you"

The man twitched, but didn't look.

"Crack the door, Chris." Pete went on stag while Chris got to work.

He looked out of the window at the tall building, towering over the rest of the site. It was five storeys high, made of concrete. There were no windows, just a small metal door at the base. He drew out the crumpled satellite image of the site and the GPS, checking co-ordinates.

Chris broke out the MOE kit again, taking out a nylon roll of lockpicks. He peered into the lock for a second, then took out a bottle of graphite oil and squirted a liberal amount into the keyhole. "Are we on target, boss?"

"Looks like it." Pete checked again, then tucked the GPS away.

He walked over to the bars of the cell, and rapped on them with his knuckles.

The prisoner looked up slightly, peering over his folded arms. Pete forced a smile and tried to remember some Russian. "Er, kak dela?"

The prisoner stared at him for a long moment, before lowering his gaze again.

Pete frowned. Maybe he hadn't pronounced it right.

"I'm not Russian." The prisoner sighed, getting to his feet.

He moved slowly, awkwardly. Pete saw his feet were bruised. Several toes were either broken or badly healed. "Who are you? What are you doing here?"

The man smiled, shuffling forward. "I could ask you the same questions. Do you have any food?"

Pete tossed him a chocolate bar. The man tried to catch it and failed. He stooped like an old man to pick it up, bending over at the waist. "I haven't eaten in days."

He sat down in the middle of his cell to eat.

"You're a UN observer?" Chris said, working at the lock.

"Yes." The man smiled. "Or I was. You are?"

"UN task force." Pete tossed another chocolate bar into the cell. "We'll have you out of there soon."

"If you're a UN task force, why don't you know who I am?" The man finished the first chocolate bar and started on the second. "You should have been told who we are. You should have been here months ago."

His eyes drifted shut.

"You should have been here months ago." Tears ran down his cheeks, leaving shining trails. "You should have been here months ago."

He curled up on his side, chewing the last of the chocolate, whispering the words like a mantra.

Pete tapped Chris on the shoulder. "Get that lock done. Leave the door closed."

"Nearly there, boss."

 

"I can smell something."

Kev sniffed. "Like what?"

"Fuel. It smells like jet fuel." Lukas swept the tunnel with his torch. "Chemicals, too."

He knelt, shining his torch onto the water around his feet. An iridescent sheen lay on the surface, coils and eddies of it snaking around his ankles.

"Oh shit." Kev scowled down at the water.

 

"Got it." Chris murmured, putting away his lockpicks. "What are we going to do?"

"Come back for him." Pete nodded to the hole. "Let's go."

They dropped back into the tunnels and made their way back to the junction.

"What's that smell?" Chris asked.

Kev aimed his torch at the floor. "I have no idea what it is, but it looks like petrol."

"We found one of the UN observers, in shit state. We'll go back for him later." Pete glanced down at the oily water. "Kev, Lukas, go east, see where the tunnel goes. Me and Chris will head north, I think that should get us to a silo."

They split up.

 

Ten metres and they reached a steel door. It looked like it had been transplanted directly from a submarine.

Chris looked at Pete, who nodded. Chris stepped up, placed one hand on the wheel and turned it slowly.

It squeaked gently.

Chris winced, kept easing the wheel round.

 

Lukas and Kev went nearly a hundred metres before reaching a left turn. The tunnel headed north then, deeper into the complex.

Kev stepped up to the corner. Slowly, he moved his head sideways.

The clatter of the AK-47 was magnified by the close walls of the tunnel.

Chips of concrete needled his cheeks as he jumped back, deafened, aiming on instinct at nothing.

Lukas stepped up, grenade in hand. He ripped the pin clear, flicked the handle away and flung it round the corner.

Kev hit the floor, water splashing his face. He covered his ears and opened his mouth, face pressed hard against the floor.

This was going to hurt.

 

Chris and Pete turned, 23s up. The gunshots rolled down the tunnels thunderously.

Pete set off at a run, Chris right behind him.

Things had just went loud.

 

The concussion blotted out the gunfire. It blasted Lukas off his feet, smashing him to the floor like a hot fist to the chest. He lolled on his back for a moment, dizzy, blood leaking from an ear.

Kev lurched to his feet, recovered his 23 and attacked. He came round the corner low, sidestepping quickly to the opposite wall before dropping into a crouch. His head was still reverberating from the explosion. He realised he'd lost his torch.

Couldn't see a thing in front of him.

He squeezed off a magazine on principle, then reloaded and got on the radio.

 

"On me, on me"

Pete hauled Lukas to his feet, waving Chris on.

The German was unsteady, eyes wide, blood dripping onto his shoulder. Pete propped him up against the wall, turned his head to the side. Blood was dripping out of his ear.

"Are you alright?" Pete asked, making an enquiring face and giving a thumbs-up.

Lukas stared at him. "Was?" He shouted. "Ja, ja, gud."

Pete nodded. "Okay! Behind me, cover the rear"

Lukas nodded, wincing.

 

"Get some light on the bloody subject" Kev yelled at Chris.

Chris turned the corner, torch and pistol searching the tunnel for targets.

A torso lay in the middle of the tunnel, limbs and head removed by the blast. Another was sat against the wall, with only one leg and one arm, skull pulped.

They ran past the remains, feet slipping on fleshy mush, fingers on triggers.

A glimmer of light from the ceiling several metres ahead made Chris break into a sprint.

-Hatch-

He slithered to a halt under the narrowing shaft of light, aimed his 23 and fired through the gap.

Someone swore in Russian and the barrel of an AK-47 appeared.

Chris dived away as they let loose on full auto, bullets spattering the tunnel

Droplets of water hit Kev's face as he stormed forward, dropping his 23. Eyes slitted against the muzzle flash, head throbbing from the echoes that pounded his ears, he pulled a grenade from a belt pouch and jumped.

His free hand caught the top rung of the ladder. He popped the pin and lever free, swung his arm up and flung the grenade through the gap.

Yells from the room above.

Kev dropped, squatting at the base of the ladder, unslinging his G36. No time to go back for the 23. The explosion in the room above didn't even make him flinch, not after the ear-splitting blast in the tunnel. He jumped a few rungs and climbed one-handed.

Shoving the barrel of his rifle through the gap, he shouldered the hatch off the hole and flung himself clear, rolling across the floor til he hit a wall, bringing his rifle up.

Three Russian soldiers, AK-47s on the floor, hands clapped over their heads, trying to cover their eyes and ears at the same time.

Kev swore, jumping to his feet. He'd used a stun grenade by accident. They were blind, deaf and had probably pissed themselves.

He waded in.

 

Chris was out of the hole and right behind him. He kicked a soldier in the back of the leg, then smashed his fist into the back of his head.

He went down, hard.

Kev had levelled one with the butt of his G36 and dropped the other with a hefty kick to the bollocks.

The unlucky soldier curled up and vomited.

They both spun, guns up, sweeping the rest of the room.

It was small and square, a door in the north wall, a table and two chairs set against the east wall.

On the other side of the door, someone was shouting.

 

Pete climbed the ladder, 23 ready. He frowned at the incapacitated soldiers, nodded to Kev and Chris and helped Lukas up into the room. "Stay here." He pointed to a chair. "Sit down, rest, cover our back, okay?"

Lukas nodded, dropping into the seat.

Pete put away his 23 and readied his G36. "Go."

Kev took a step back, then jumped forward and smashed his boot into the door.

It flew open and rebounded. Chris shouldered it aside, moving into the corridor beyond at a run, rifle up.

Bullets chewed at the wall by his head, peppering his face with splinters.

Five metres, soldier with an AK-47.

Chris let loose a short burst at the blurred shape, eyes smarting, dropping into a crouch and firing again.

The first burst took the soldier high in the chest, punching through his ribs and lung and out of his back. The second burst ruptured his stomach, doubling him over.

Kev and Pete added their fire, smashing the soldier back against the wall.

The corridor was long and narrow, plenty of doors on either side, and it had at least one other corridor intersecting it, just past the dead soldier.

Kev cleared the room behind Chris, kicking the door open. Empty, an unmade bed and a bedside table.

Pete cleared the room opposite, sweeping it with the muzzle of his rifle before stepping back out into the corridor.

There was shouting from everywhere, the floor above, in front of them and to the sides.

The door next to Chris exploded open. He swivelled and fired, catching a soldier in the guts.

The bullets ruptured intestines and then smashed into the delicate column of vertebrae.

The soldier dropped onto Chris, pinning the rifle under him.

Chris saw the pistol in the Russian's hand.

 

Pete was turning to aim at the soldier laying on Chris when half a dozen soldiers appeared at the intersection ahead. Screaming in Russian, they aimed their rifles.

Pete squeezed off a burst and dived back into the room. He rolled over onto his back and scrabbled for a stun grenade.

Kev was focussed on the soldier attacking Chris. He moved in close, pressing the barrel of his G36 to the soldier's head.

 

Chris saw movement in the corner of his eye, didn't have time to check it. He heaved at the rifle again, trying to throw the man off.

He was too heavy.

The pistol came up. Chris locked both hands round the soldier's wrist and heaved.

The gun moved an inch. Chris stared into the black eye for a whole second before moving.

The soldier and Kev fired.

Brains splattered Chris. For a seond, he thought they were his own.

Kev looked up, checking for targets. Six bullets hit him in the chest. He staggered back, tripped on his own feet and fell, squeezing off a single shot that smacked into the ceiling.

A grenade flew past, pitched like a cricket ball. Pete leaned out and emptied his magazine down the corridor.

Two Russians died, hit in the chest and head. Another fell as a bullet shattered his kneecap.

Chris rolled behind the corpse and fired over it with his 23, rifle still trapped under the body.

Another Russian died, eight .45 calibre rounds in his torso.

Pete ducked out into the corridor, caught Kev under one arm and dragged him into the room, firing his G36 one-handed.

He hit nothing, but the remaining soldiers hit the deck.

Chris ducked behind the corpse, closing his eyes.

The stun grenade exploded.

The sheer volume always took Chris by surprise. Head ringing like a bell, he rolled the body over and snatched up his G36. Dizzy and nauseated, he let loose a few rounds and then opened a door and fell into the room beyond.

Bullets ripped the corpse, then chewed the doorframe, following him.

"Persistent bastard." He snarled, not even hearing his own words.

He leaned out and returned fire.

One Russian was leaning round the corner of the intersection, showing only his arm, shoulder and head. Chris hosed the corner down with a long burst, aiming low and letting the recoil lift the muzzle.

Chunks and splinters exploded from the wall. The soldier dropped his rifle, fell to the floor. Chris saw an arm go limp and nodded, satisfied.

A bullet smacked into his stomach.

He lost his balance and sprawled backwards, losing his grip on the G36, drawing his 23.

A bullet punched into his ribs.

 

Pete brought his rifle up, unable to stop staring at the Russian. He hadn't seen Kev shoot him, but he could see the exit wound, a jagged hole in the side of the soldier's head. Added to that were numerous bullet wounds in his back and thighs from his comrade's bullets, plus a nasty fist-sized exit wound low on the centre of his back.

And still the Russian dragged himself across the corridor, pistol in one shaking hand.

The angle was wrong, Pete couldn't see if the second bullet had hit Chris, but he'd seen the first one impact.

He aimed and fired. The round punched into the nape of the soldier's neck, severing the spinal cord. His hand went limp and the pistol clattered to the floor.

Pete stepped in close and fired again, a single tap to the back of the skull.

He wouldn't want to be left paralysed and brain damaged. He didn't know any other soldiers who did, either.

Kev picked himself up slowly, wincing as his ribs protested. There were going to be some beautiful bruises already showing, and in a few hours he'd be stiff as a board. He looked around for his rifle, realised it was still in the corridor and reached for his 23.

-It's in the tunnel-

"Shit." He moved to the doorway, looked out.

Nothing except bodies in the corridor. Pete was checking on Chris. There was still plenty of shouting from upstairs though. He moved, staying low, picking up his rifle and checking it. The clear plastic of the magazine showed he had more than twenty rounds left. He reloaded anyway. "Lukas"

No response.

Kev shook his head, tried the radio.

 

"Lukas."

He heard it, faintly, replied over the radio. "Yes?"

"I dropped my 23 in the tunnel, near the ladder. Can you get it for me?"

"I am watching our prisoners." Lukas looked around the room. "I have no way of securing them."

"Their guns?"

"I kicked them down into the tunnel."

"Then leave them. They're in no shape to fight. I'll keep an eye on them."

"Very well." Lukas got up and stood over the huddled soldiers. "Don't move."

They stared up at him.

-probably think they're going to be shot-

Lukas switched to Russian. "Do not move, or I will shoot."

They all nodded eagerly and said "Da."

Lukas moved to the hole, sat down with his legs hanging over the edge and dropped into the darkness. 23 and torch at the ready, he scanned the floor of the tunnel, advancing and sweeping the light back and forth in slow arcs.

He said it was near the ladder...

Lukas bent down and retrieved the pistol, switching the safety on and tucking it into his belt. He shone his torch down the tunnel.

A figure splashed round the corner, out of the light.

 

"Contact."

Pete heard Lukas clearly, his voice calm. He leaned out into the corridor. "Kev, go back there, help him out."

"You sure?"

"That was a frigging order, Hawkins" Pete snarled, going back to Chris.

Whatever calibre the pistol was, it had done damage. The first shot had hit body armour and just bruised the muscle underneath, but the second had penetrated, and broken at least one rib.

Chris could feel it shifting as he breathed, grating against its neighbours. Breathing as lightly as possible, Pete helped him get the clothes and Kevlar off, while keeping an eye on the corridor.

"Strap it up, boss." Chris said, picking up his rifle.

Pete looked over the wound. It was small, and very little blood was coming out. He could see the bulge of the bullet, just under the skin. It had only gone in a centimetre or so before hitting rib and stopping. He took out a bandage. "Breathe in, mate."

[FullAuto]

Kev dropped into the tunnel, G36 at the ready. Lukas was crouched a few metres away, 23 and torch aimed unwaveringly at the corner.

Kev moved up, sliding along the opposite wall, G36 aimed. "Grenade?"

"Not again." Lukas advanced slowly, keeping torch and pistol aimed.

Kev moved with him.

The figure stepped out into the torchlight.

Neither man was prepared for it.

It filled the tunnel. It's oily grey carapace shone in the torchlight. Vaguely humanoid, tall enough so that it had to crouch a little to move along the tunnel, with raw-looking pink flesh at the joints of its upper body. The legs were spindly, projecting forwards and outwards from the hips to what resembled a knee joint, before angling back in and down to another joint, continuing with another stretch of leg terminating in a large double-clawed foot. The upper arms were twice as thick as the legs, the forearms twice as thick as those, ending in a massive purple claw which opened and closed to a slow rhythm. It had no neck, merely a bulge between its shoulders. Each shoulder sported a tapering horn, which pointed off to the sides. Two small beady eyes glimmered, recessed slightly into the bulge. Below those, set in the centre of its chest, a set of huge flat teeth.

"Oh shit." Kev felt cold sweat ice his spine, slick down the back of his neck, run down his face.

He squeezed the trigger.

Lukas winced, the barrage of gunshots assaulting his already-abused ears. He fired, emptying a magazine, the silenced shots lost in the roar of noise.

The alien staggered back and collapsed, legs folding with strange precision, dropping it into the water. Green ichor bubbled up from it's chest and ran down it's flanks, making the water around it murky.

Kev was shaking and he couldn't stop. The other aliens, back at the farm, he'd seen those and they had been strange but-

It sat up so quickly ichor splashed them.

"Jesus CHRIST" Kev pulled the trigger.

Dead man's click.

He'd emptied the mag.

Lukas fumbled his reload, unable to take his eyes off the thing rising from the floor. He didn't bother looking for the dropped mag, just plucked another off his belt. He smacked it in too hard and aimed between the eyes, instinct telling him that's where the brain would be.

He pulled the trigger. The first click didn't deter him. He pulled the trigger again and again and again-

Clickclickclickclickclick

Kev reloaded slowly, step by step. It was the only way his fingers would work.

It loomed over Lukas, bringing a claw up to his face with an inhuman smoothness.

Kev screamed and let rip at a distance of one metre with a full magazine of thirty 5.56mm rounds.

He knew he was dead, but he had to try.

The bullets hit. Some ricocheted, deflected by the curve of the chitinous exoskeleton. Some hit undamaged areas and simply failed to penetrate. Most hit areas already cracked by the initial rounds and plunged into the soft flesh underneath.

The alien pulled back it's claw, trembling with the repeated impacts, and collapsed.

Kev didn't wait. He reloaded, leaned over it and emptied another magazine point-blank.

 

Pete glanced down the corridor. From the sustained fire, something serious was kicking off. But Kev wasn't barmy enough to not bother calling for help if he needed it.

-Probably-

Chris was pulling his body armour back on, wincing as he made sure it was tight. He could feel the loose rib, not to mention the hard little nugget of lead nestling under his skin. He checked his rifle, reloaded and stepped out into the corridor, going down on one knee.

Pete followed, and they made slow progress down the corridor. One cleared a room on his side while the other covered the corridor ahead. They alternated, moving as quickly and carefully as possible.

 

Lukas was still shaking, 23 in his hand, still aiming at the alien corpse.

Kev glanced at him while he readied a thermite charge. The alien was dead, the last mag had seen to that. The fusilade of bullets had smashed in the alien's torso, and the green ichor which probably passed for it's blood had poured out in a torrent. Kev knew this, had seen the wounds, but still couldn't stop himself glancing at the body occasionally.

The nature of its first 'death' had been too shocking.

He set the charge, then took out the aerosol can and shook it vigorously. On the way to the corpse, he slapped Lukas across the face, hard enough to leave a handprint.

"Schwein" Lukas surged to his feet, dropping his 23 and his torch, slamming Kev up against the wall.

"Get a grip. Pick up your torch and gun before another one comes round the corner." Kev spoke slowly and carefully.

Lukas took a deep breath, let go and stepped back. "I am sorry."

"Sod that. Grab your gun and torch, watch for any more." Kev knelt next to the corpse and depressed the nozzle.

A fine mist poured out, adhering to the exoskeleton, mixing with the ichor. It smelled even worse than whatver had been spilled in the tunnel water. Kev held his breath and leaned back, holding the aerosol can closer to the body, running the spray from clawed foot to what passed for its head.

After a couple of seconds, the exoskeleton started to bubble gently, oozing along with the ichor. Incendiary and corrosive, Kev remembered from the instructions on the bottom of the can.

The dank smell of the tunnel water, the chemical/fuel stink, and the strangely sweet smell of alien blood conspired to make him retch several times.

Lukas backed off, checked his 23 and tucked it away. He drew Kev's 23 from his belt.

Kev primed the thermite charge and looked around the tunnel. It was a good place, enclosed to focus the heat but with vents where oxygen could get in and smoke could get out. Bending over the corpse, he shoved the charge into the chest cavity, pushing down as hard as he could until it crunched in deeply. More green ichor bubbled out, covering his hands.

Although it smelled sweet, he didn't fancy licking his fingers clean. Shoving the aerosol can back into his bergen, he made his way back to the ladder. "Let's go."

Lukas backed away slowly, never taking his eyes off the corpse.

 

Pete and Chris reached the intersection. Pete checked the left branch. Another corridor like this one, ending in a door which probably led outside, from the look of it. Chris checked to the right.

The corridor carried on for a few more metres, ending in a steep set of stairs.

Pete got on the radio. "How are you doing?"

"Be with you in a minute. One target dead, charge primed to go in 5."

"Hurry up." Pete turned to Chris. "We'll clear this level before moving upstairs, ok?"

"No problem, boss." Chris sank down, keeping his G36 trained on the top of the stairs. "Take your time."

"Only if you get a brew on." Pete looked back down the corridor. "Here they are now."

Kev hurried up the corridor, rifle at his shoulder. "Boss, the targets are frigging minging. Big insect-looking bastards."

"What's all that green stuff?"

"Alien blood." He hesitated. "Smells quite nice."

Pete decided not to find out if this was true. "And?"

"Hard to kill. I put most of a mag into one, along with Lukas and his 23. It fell over and got up again."

"Christ."

"I think Lukas shat himself. So I put another mag into it at arms-length, then another point-blank. Just to be sure." Kev grinned. "Calmed it down a bit."

"I bet. Where is Lukas?" Pete glanced past Kev, down the corridor.

"He's got our prisoners sitting on the hatch. He's putting the shits up them right now, making sure they don't move."

"Nice one. Chris will hold the stairs, we'll secure this floor."

"Righto, boss." Kev wiped his hands on the wall, took a firmer grip on his G36. "Want a sniff, Davies?"

"Piss off." Chris didn't even look round.

It took them two minutes to confirm the lower floor was deserted.

 

"Can you hear that?" Chris asked.

Lukas, on the other side of the intersection, cocked his head towards the stairs. "What?"

"Music." Chris frowned. "I could swear I heard...there"

Pete and Kev moved up from behind them. "Anything?" Kev asked, kneeling.

"Listen."

They held themselves still, then looked at each other.

"That's never..." Chris trailed off.

"Celine frigging Dion." Pete looked up the stairs.

Kev's eyes narrowed. "The evil bastards. Torture isn't allowed under the Geneva Convention. Lets slot the lot of them"

"I'll go first. I'm the only one who isn't hurt." Pete checked his G36 and then his 23. "Kev next, then Lukas. Chris, stay down here."

Pete advanced to the foot of the stairs slowly and silently, rifle up and ready. Kev was a metre behind, Lukas opposite him.

Pete observed as much as he could. The top of the stairs had a rail around them, probably indicating a fairly open landing, onto which plenty of doors opened.

Bad news.

Pete eased forward, almost sliding along the wall. He placed his foot slowly on the first step, keeping it close to the wall where it was less likely to creak. Tensed, hot and sweating in thermals and body armour, with the stink of cordite and blood in his nostrils, he took another step.

He felt the bullet zip past his head and heard it thud into the step by his foot. Pete turned and laced the rail with well spaced three-round-bursts. "Grenades"

Kev and Lukas flung stun grenades up the stairs. Pete waited a second before adding his own.

The pair of grenades went off simultaneously, a blast that blew out a window and made Lukas' eyes water.

Pete stormed up the stairs, Kev a step behind.

Bullets chewed the steps at Pete's heels. Kev spun and blasted the rail with a long burst, chopping planks to splinters.

Someone took a round and announced it with a scream.

Another returned fire with a shotgun, blowing a fist-sized hole in the rail.

Kev aimed and fired right back through the hole.

The third stun grenade went off, eclipsing the noise of another shotgun blast.

The shell smashed between Pete's shoulder blades as he reached the top of the stairs. He crashed against the wall, dropping to the floor.

The next shell went high, digging a crater in the wall above his head.

Lukas rushed up the steps and fired, a quick sweeping arc of fully automatic fire that should have chopped the shotgunner off at the knees.

It didn't. Another shotgun blast, another massive hole punched in the rail.

Pete rolled over and crawled away from the top of the stairs, squirming frantically for cover.

A floorboard next to his face exploded in a mass of splinters, making him flinch away. He rolled again, spotted a shooter.

Tall, blonde and muscular, with a shotgun held down by his waist.

-That explains the poor accuracy-

Pete let him have a three-round-burst. The man staggered back and returned fire. Another hole in the wall above Pete, chips of wood raining down, prickling the back of his neck. Pete fired again, ripping chunks out of the top of the rail, burying rounds in the shooter's chest.

-Body armour-

The target raised his shotgun to his shoulder.

Kev nailed a single round under the shooter's chin, spattering skull across the ceiling.

He dropped, strings cut.

Pete had time to take stock of his surroundings. The landing was open, no cover except for the rail. A corridor stretched off to the left and right, lined with doors.

Celine had gone quiet.

From where he lay, he could see a blood-soaked leg, the rest of the body hidden by the rail.

Kev and Lukas moved swiftly, taking up positions back to back at the top of the stairs, covering both branches of the corridor. "Are you ok, boss?" Kev asked.

Pete groaned as he got to his feet. "Feels like I took a sledgehammer in the back."

He moved tentatively closer to the rail, looking down at the two bodies.

One wasn't dead yet.

He was laid on his back, milk-white, AKS-74U next to him, ignored. Both of his hands were clamped on his inner thigh, close to his groin. Blood pulsed between his fingers, pooling all around his body. Teeth gritted, he stared up at Pete.

"Shit." Pete took a step back. "Lukas, come here."

"What is it?" Lukas looked down. "Ah."

"Ask him if he wants anything." Pete turned to cover the corridor. "Make it quick, that bullet's in his artery."

Lukas and the Russian conversed in Russian for almost half a minute.

"He says either shoot him, or give him some morphine." Lukas sighed softly. "He knows he is going to die."

Pete dumped his bergen, inspected the ragged hole made by the shotgun shell and sifted through the remains of the trauma kit. He held up the only intact syrette of morphine. The Russian watched with pain-glazed eyes.

He didn't look hopeful.

Pete rolled the man's shirt sleeve up and jabbed the needle into the crook of his elbow.

The Russian groaned almost immediately, his whole body relaxing. His hands slipped free of his thigh. Blood flowered, spraying delicately.

Pete turned his face away. He'd had enough.

 

Chris looked down the corridor. He could see the three Russians, sat back to back in the centre of the room, arses firmly seated on the hatch. The thermite charge would have went off by now. Chris checked his watch. Definitely. Whatever explosion it had made hadn't been violent enough to be felt twenty metres away.

The tunnel would probably still be an inferno, even more so if whatever had been spilled along with the water had caught fire. Possibly the whole tunnel system was filled with smoke and flames.

Chris crossed his fingers.

-Yes, please-

 

The Russian was dead. The pool of blood around him was still expanding, growing slowly, but he was dead.

"Clear this floor. I want Gordeyev dead. Then we can move onto doing the missiles." Pete reloaded his G36.

"Why didn't they rush us at the stairs?" Kev asked.

"Because there's few, if any, of them left." Pete arched his back gently. "The aliens killed most of them. Still, let's be careful, eh?"

Kev and Lukas went left. Pete went right.

They kicked in doors and cleared rooms quickly, efficiently and cautiously. All were in a state of disarray, and all of them were empty.

Except for the last one Pete checked.

A stern-looking man sat at a desk, sipping Stolichnaya. He was in his fifties, but still lean. His hair was iron grey. His dress uniform was impeccable. His officer's cap lay on the desk, next to the bottle. A CD player was spinning a disc, volume dialed down to a whisper.

"General Gordeyev."

The man nodded. "I am a prisoner of war now."

"No. You're bloody well not." Pete stepped into the room, drawing his 23. "You've made an absolute mockery of command. You've sat in here and drank vodka while your lads died outside this room."

"That is an officer's job, to send men to die."

Pete spat on the floor. "No, an officers job is to send men to fight. You bastard."

His hands clenched around his weapons. He didn't know why he hadn't already slotted Gordeyev. He wanted to blow him to Hell with a full mag from his G36, but the professional in him told him to make do with a double tap to the head.

Gordeyev shrugged, unperturbed. "You do not kill people out of hand. Especially officers. And most especially, generals."

"Ruperts make me sick." Pete snarled, and shot him.

The .45 calibre bullet punched in through Gordeyev's mouth and out the back of his skull, smearing a greasy flux of brains and blood over the wall behind him.

Pete lowered the 23 slightly, then took aim again.

"Found him then." Kev observed quietly from the doorway.

Pete squeezed the trigger slowly.

"Boss, what are you going to do, kill him again?"

Pete lowered the pistol. "Using reason, Kev? That's a bit low for you, isn't it?"

"Well, I have been shot, boss. Traumatised, aren't I?"

"You look it. Nick his vodka. Turn that CD off." Pete holstered his 23 and walked away.

 

They trooped down the stairs. Chris waited for them. "What's the plan, boss?"

"Secure our prisoners. Take care of the missiles and the targets. Piss off home." Pete leaned against the wall. "I hope the Russians managed to kill most of the aliens."

"I'll ask the prisoners." Lukas strode down the corridor, Kev close behind.

"Let's have a look outside." Pete carried on down the coridor past Chris, who fell in behind him.

They reached the door and stepped out into the cold. Chris shivered, kneeling down by the open door, sweeping the compound with the muzzle of his rifle.

Nothing.

Pete noted the two trucks to his left, parked up close to the building. Straight ahead, the silo building, and past that, the building containing prisoner. Pete knelt and drew out the satellite image of the compound.

"Boss" Chris aimed his rifle.

Pete looked up, shoving the satellite image away and looking for targets.

"Next to the silo, boss."

A tall grey alien with oddly angular limbs, huge claws opening and closing slowly. It paced back and forth, clawed feet slicing deeply into the snow.

"Christ." Pete aimed. "Slot it."

They opened fire. Chris' first burst was low, bullets ripping into the snow. Pete's three-round-burst cracked into the alien's leg and made it lurch.

It turned, claws snapping shut, and ran towards them.

Chris' second burst, longer and on target, smashed into the alien's shoulder, severing an arm in a gush of ichor.

The alien staggered but didn't slow, keeping a frantic pace, claw twitching spasmodically.

The initial distance had been a hundred metres. It was now little more than half that.

Pete aimed at the centre of the torso and squeezed off three-round-bursts until the magazine was empty.

The alien ploughed through the fusillade.

It left streaks of vivid green blood in the snow.

Chris emptied his magazine with one last burst.

The alien slipped in the snow, knocked off-balance.

Chris drew his 23 as Pete reloaded.

He brought the pistol up into aim, both hands wrapped round it and fired six quick double-taps, all twelve dead centre.

The alien fell flat on its face and momentum ensured it slid for a good two metres.

Pete put a three-round-burst into the top of what passed for its head, remembering what Kev had said.

It's claw snapped shut, sending snow spuming into the air.

Pete fired again.

Green fluid and a ropy pink substance slithered from the resulting hole. Chris winced.

Pete got on the radio. "Contact, get out here now"

"Another one, boss" Chris warned, reloading both his guns.

This one appeared slowly from behind the silo building. Lacking a neck, it swivelled at the waist, much more flexible than a man, able to turn its torso a hundred degrees or more either way. It spotted them and stopped moving.

Pete sighted down his scope, switched to single shot. "Chris, get one of those trucks going."

"On my way." He moved in a crouch, slipping behind Pete so he didn't block his field of fire.

The alien took a tentative step forward, turning this way and that, looking for other targets. Pete rested the crosshair between the two little dark orbs on the central bulge. Through the scope, he could see the exoskeleton on the head was made up of symmetrical pieces, with clear lines between them. There were two large 'cranial' ones, which left a seam right across the centre of its head. Between the eyes was a small oval, split into two by the first seam. Various other lines arced away across the sides of it's head.

-Seams are usually a weak point-

Pete sighted carefully. The four principles of marksmanship taught to every British soldier were instinct to him.

Position and hold firmly supporting the weapon. The weapon must align naturally with the target, without effort. Aiming must be level and correct. Firing and follow-through should be without any disturbance.

-There'll be follow-through for certain if I don't kill it-

Pete allowed himself a smile, then fired.

The alien staggered back, claws coming up to cover it's face, huge forearms covering the site of impact.

Pete took a deep breath, let it out slowly and then held still, not breathing.

He shot it in the teeth.

Ichor splashed out onto the snow. The alien spun round, and Pete's next shot smacked harmlessly into the thick chitin of its back.

The door next to him burst open and the three Russians spilled out onto the snow, gibbering in fear. Pete swung to cover them, then went back to the alien when Kev emerged.

It still hadn't moved. Pete switched back to three-round-burst and let the alien have one in the arse.

That stung it into action. It disappeared behind the silo building.

"Shit." Pete glanced at Kev. "Well?"

"Had a contact inside, boss." Kev shrugged. "We just got the lads to jump up and down on the hatch til it stopped trying to get in, then chucked a grenade down. That tunnel's a bloody oven, God knows how it can survive down there."

The roar of a diesel engine made them all turn. Chris waved from the driver's seat, backing the big six-wheel Zil away from the command building and in a slow curve towards them.

Lukas burst out of the building, slipping in the snow. "It is dead"

"You sure?" Pete stood, still scanning for the alien.

"Yes, I threw a thermite charge down after it. It was all I could do, I'm sorry."

"Never mind, just get in the truck, get the prisoners moving." Pete moved off to cover the left.

Kev took a couple of sidesteps and shouted "Contact"

He brought his rifle up and fired at the alien coming round the corner of the command building.

It raised it's claws and charged. Chris leaned out of the truck, firing his 23 one-handed as he reversed. Kev dropped to one knee and let it have a full mag, most of which went low and smashed off a leg.

Lukas herded the prisoners into the truck, swearing in Russian and kicking them up the arse.

"Contact" Pete yelled.

Another alien came around the corner of the command building.

The wounded alien thrashed through the snow with surprising speed. Kev didn't wait to find out what it wanted, just tossed a HE grenade and ran for the truck.

The alien didn't notice the grenade, or didn't care. It crawled over it and the grenade went off.

High explosive grenades have a relatively small destructive radius, but unlike fragmentation grenades, anything within that radius is pulped. The explosion is smaller, but much more powerful.

The alien's exoskeleton stood up excellently. It was blasted into the air, mostly intact, but dead. The explosion turned its insides to mush.

It landed with a soft thud several metres away, missing its limbs, ichor spurting into the snow.

Kev lunged into the back of the truck, joining Lukas and the Russians. He landed on something long and metallic. He picked himself up and looked down.

He grinned. "Oh yes."

 

Pete sprinted around the truck and jumped for the cab, wrenching the passenger door open and sliding in. Chris grinned at him. "Where to, boss?"

"Straight on, driver." Pete leaned out and fired at the alien closing in. "We've got one on each side and one ahead"

Chris jammed his foot down, working the truck with one hand and firing out of the window. Pete got on the radio. "Eyes open, they're going to be chasing us"

The truck surged away from the building, tyres spinning on snow for a moment before finding purchase.

 

Kev crouched down behind the gun. It looked to be in good working order. Unusual to find one in Russia though.

Lukas pushed up next to him. "Ammunition."

He set down an ammo box and drew out one end of a belt of rounds. Flipping up the top cover, he inserted the belt, then picked up his G36.

Kev cocked the Browning heavy machine gun and looked down the bulky length of the weapon, waiting for targets.

 

As they passed the silo bulding, Pete leaned out a little, looking for the alien.

It leapt, smashing into the side of the cab, claws scraping metal.

"Shit" Chris swerved instinctively, slewing the truck round to a near-halt.

"Don't stop" Pete yelled, emptying his rifle into the alien.

It clung onto the truck, claws crunching through metal, jerking from each bullet impact but refusing to fall.

Pete drew his 23 and jammed the muzzle against it's face. It bit off the suppressor.

"Christ" Pete emptied the pistol into the hideous visage and reloaded.

It hung on for another second before Chris swerved the truck again.

It's grip slid free with a scream of steel and it fell to the snow, rolling awkwardly, exoskeleton snapping with a cacophony of brittle cracks.

 

"Contact rear" Kev yelled and opened fire.

The clanking roar of the .50 filled the air, disintegrating links and empty casings spewing from the weapon. The bullets chewed up a patch of snow just in front of one of the aliens.

The tripod was welded to the floor of the truck, providing stability. When the truck was stationary, anyway.

Another burst went awry, tearing holes in the command building. Kev was grinning as he squeezed off another short burst, traversing right as the truck swerved again.

"They're chasing" Lukas fired off a mag and reloaded.

The aliens lunged after the truck, breaking into an awkward-looking sprint that ate up ground. They would catch up in seconds.

 

"Speed up"

"Roger" Chris swung the wheel and threw the truck into a skid.

He switched gears and stamped his foot down. Snow sprayed everywhere and the truck lurched forward.

They headed back towards the aliens, Chris quickly switched up through the gears, working the engine from a rumble to a bellow.

He leaned over the wheel, 23 on his lap. He'd need both hands.

Pete leaned out of the window, braced himself as best he could and fired.

Most of the rounds missed. One winged his target, making it stagger sideways.

Chris steered directly at the other alien and switched to top gear.

The engine roared and the truck surged forward.

 

"Another one" Kev spotted an alien emerging from the silo building.

He hit it with a short burst.

The .50 calibre rounds destroyed the alien, ripping chunks of exoskeleton off and cratering the flesh underneath, from waist to head.

"We've stepped in a frigging anthill" Kev tore the corpse to pieces with another burst.

Lukas retrieved another ammo box, shoving the prisoners out of the way.

Something crunched into the side of the truck.

 

"We've got one on us" Pete leaned out and looked back.

The alien was clinging onto the side of the truck, claws punched through the metal.

Chris was too busy aiming the truck at the alien ahead. He had the accelerator as far down as it would go, hard against the floor.

The alien slowed and began to veer away.

Chris jerked the wheel and stamped on the brakes.

The truck went into a long slide, wheels losing traction, the heavier back end pulling it round.

The truck broadsided the alien, smashing it in half, leaving it's legs behind and batting the alien five metres into the side of a building, where it crunched audibly against the wall.

 

Lukas emptied his G36, shooting between the huge claws that had pierced the metal so easily.

One of the claws disappeared, pulled out as the truck skidded to a gradual halt. Kev looked round. "What was that?"

"I do not...get down" Lukas yelled, dropping flat.

The claw punched through again, at head height this time, snapping furiously. The metal creaked and the claw jerked further in, along with a section of arm.

"It is reaching in" Lukas dragged Kev down.

Kev pulled his 23 and fired through the side of the truck, all twelve rounds in a tight group.

-.45 bullets won't have much sting left after penetrating the metal-

One of the Russians made a break for it.

The claw snapped shut just in front of him.

He jumped back, plastering himself against the opposite side of the truck, turning his face away.

The alien lunged. The whole truck rocked. The claw plunged into the Russian's stomach.

[FullAuto]

One on the truck. Another approaching fast.

Pete jumped clear and riddled the former with a full magazine, concentrating his fire on the soft pink flesh of the alien’s armpit.

It dropped off the truck, wounded arm limp, ichor running down its side in a slow stream.

Chris leaned out and fired twelve quick shots that dropped it to the snow.

Pete reloaded, looking for the other alien. It was twenty metres away and closing fast.

Chris dropped out of the truck, reloading his 23.

Pete opened fire, tight groups that hammered into the alien and sent emerald droplets splashing to stain the snow.

Ten metres.

Chris fired, tracking the alien, rounds cracking it’s exoskeleton.

Five metres.

They reloaded, ejecting empties and grabbing fresh mags.

The alien reached Pete.

Its claw smashed shut on the G36, splintering steel and polymer like glass. A shard of steel needled Pete’s face as he fell back, drawing his 23.

Chris emptied another magazine into the alien. It staggered, then struck out at Pete again.

The claw swiped the 23 away and caught on his torso. He hung for a moment, then jerked and dropped to the snow as the claw snapped shut.

Chris dropped his 23 and went for his G36.

Kev opened up with the Browning, traversing as far left as the gun would go and holding the trigger down.

The bullets ripped a chunk out of the alien, fragments of exoskeleton and strands of flesh spiralling into the air.

Lukas fired into the raw wound, chewing away at the exposed innards, splashing ichor across the snow.

Chris knelt and fired, destroying it’s legs.

The alien toppled to the snow and thrashed, claws clacking shut, limbs twitching.

Kev aimed as far down as the tripod mount allowed and let rip, chopping the alien in half, sending snow and ichor flying.

The trio poured fire into the body, tearing it apart.

The last twitches were from bullet impacts.

Chris reloaded, then moved over to Pete. “Boss?”

He was sprawled on his side, curled up slightly, not moving.

-Shit-

Chris rolled him onto his back.

Pete groaned. “Christ.” He sat up, propping himself up on his elbows. “That stung a bit.”

He looked down at his chest. The claw had neatly snipped apart his Arctic camouflage smock and body armour, sparing only his thermals. He sat up, wincing as his nerves flared with pain. The clothes and Kevlar flopped apart, falling open like a pair of unzipped jackets.

He plucked at the body armour, ran his fingers along the cut edges. Smooth.

Chris helped him up. “I thought it cut you in half.”

“No such luck.” Pete straightened, feeling both back and chest complain.

He was going to be crippled come tomorrow. The alien had missed, luckily. Otherwise that claw would have punched right through him.

He picked up his 23, checked it. He unscrewed the piece of suppressor that remained after the alien’s bite and tossed it away. The G36 was a dead loss.

“One of the prisoners is dead.” Lukas and Kev dragged a body out of the truck and lowered him to the snow.

“Poor bugger.” Chris got back into the truck. “Let’s go and pick the UN bloke up then.”

The two remaining prisoners were leaning out of the truck, pointing to the body and talking in rapid-fire Russian. Pete leaned against the truck, trying to get his breath. “Lukas, what are they saying?”

“That he is not dead. They-”

“You check his pulse?”

“Course I did.” Kev frowned at him.

“Check again.”

“What?”

Pete straightened up. He was about a minute away from throttling Kev. “Check again.”

Sighing, Kev knelt by the body and applied two fingers to the neck. “No pulse.”

The hands twitched shut, then scratched at the snow. Pete watched them for a moment, then dumped his bergen and pulled out what was left of the trauma kit.

Kev was staring at the body as it began to twitch and shudder.

Lukas was staring at the Russians, frowning as he tried to make sense of their frenzied speech.

Chris climbed down out of the truck, hurrying back. “He’s alive?”

“And kicking.” Kev rolled the spasming man over, leaning away from the jerking legs.

A hand clamped round his ankle.

“Christ, he’s got a grip like-”

The hand yanked, jerking Kev’s leg from under him.

“Whup!” He landed flat on his back.

“Convulsions!” Pete dropped down next to the shaking figure and knelt across his legs. “Hold him! Lukas, help me get a dressing on-”

Kev kicked his leg free and grabbed the flailing arm, pinning it to the snow. Chris dropped onto the other arm.

The man bucked furiously, arching his back.

“Lukas!” Pete ripped a dressing free of its wrapping and tried to hold the man still.

Lukas was frowning now, asking questions quickly, interrupting the Russians.

“Lukas, for-”

Lukas spun, taking several steps back, unslinging his rifle. “Get away from him!”

“Are you mad?” Pete stared at him, then turned to the prisoners. “Help me. Hold him down.”

He gestured for them to get out of the truck. They shook their heads. “Nyet!”

“Get away from him!” Lukas yelled again.

Chris looked over his shoulder. “Stop pissing about and help!”

“Get away!”

The convulsions stopped and the soldier went rigid.

Pete flinched as blood gushed from the stomach wound, splashing him. He leaned forward, slapping the dressing over the wound and applying firm pressure with both hands. “Get some fluids into him!”

Kev readied a bag of saline, stripping the cover off the needle with his teeth.

Lukas shot the soldier in the head.

The body heaved under them, throwing all three off, then lay still.

Pete looked up from the corpse. “You'd better have a bloody good-”

The body twitched. More blood sprayed from the wound, painting Pete from head to foot. The unmistakable crack of bones snapping made Kev wince. Gristle rustled and cartilage crunched. One arm snatched at the air, then fell limp.

Blood spurted. They all watched in horrified silence as the torso bulged like an inflating balloon.

There was a grotesque ripping noise, and claws punched through.

Slick and shiny with blood, they carved apart clothes and flesh alike, hungry scissoring blades that opened the body up and laid back the flaps of skin and cloth.

The Russians were noisily sick over the tailgate of the truck.

Kev wanted to join them, but went for his G36 instead. Chris drew his 23. Pete followed suit. Lukas licked his lips and waited for a clear shot.

It rose out of the body like an alien Lazarus from a gory grave, dripping blood and scraps of muscle. Strings of mucus stretched from its unfolding limbs as it stepped free of the hollow chest cavity.

They stood, and watched it grow.

It paid no attention to them, stretching out one leg and then the other, whatever passed for its muscles slurping obscenely as its limbs lengthened. Thick wads of ropy pink tissue bulged at the joints, before extending, raising the alien up to its full two metre height. The arms soon enlarged, curving out as the torso thickened.

“Kill it.” Pete whispered.

It turned to face them, still wet and red with blood.

They fired.

 

“You could hear it’s shell growing.” Pete muttered, shaking his head.

Though loath to touch it, Lukas had been the one to plant the thermite charge in the new-born alien. He hadn’t stopped wiping his hands yet.

They drove slowly, stopping by every alien corpse, planting a thermite charge and hosing them down with the aerosol cans before moving onto the next. They collected up limbs and bits of exoskeleton, kicked lumps of flesh into piles and burned it all.

The centre of the compound was now a field of fire, the snow already burned away. Around it, ice and snow melted, retreating before the furnace heat. The command building started to burn.

“They say the aliens are in the tunnels and missile silos.” Lukas crouched down next to Pete. “Apparently, there was a fuel leak.”

“Hmm?” Pete looked away from the flames.

“The fuel. It is stored in tanks, at the top of the silo, so when the missiles are to be fuelled-”

“So? So what?” Pete ached all over.

“The fuel tanks leaked, into the silos and tunnels. Missile fuel is highly poisonous, but it didn’t seem to bother the aliens.” Lukas cleared his throat. “We could simply drop a charge into each silo. Any aliens down there would be burned to ashes.”

“Do it.” Pete stood slowly, feeling damaged muscles protest. “I’ll go and find a radio. Make sure Ivan isn’t going to bomb this place off the map.”

 

Chris and Kev retrieved the UN observer from his cell and carried him outside. Hastily dressed in a dead soldier’s uniform, he slumped down next to the two Russians, looking even more miserable.

Lukas had, after a few generous shots of Stolichnaya, got them to tell the whole story.

Neither had seen the UFO land, they had been asleep at the time. But they had been awake for the two days of fierce non-stop fighting that followed. Half the men had been killed in the initial twenty-four hours. There had been another type of alien there, something snakelike and sluggish. They had hung back, shooting ‘green fire’ as the insect-aliens stormed forward and impregnated everyone within reach.

The initial attack had been repulsed, but then aliens began hatching from the bodies of the dead…and…and that was that.

Gordeyev lost most of his Spetznaz bodyguard and the last dozen soldiers trying to retake one of the silos on the second day. Then he had shut himself in his room.

“Listening to Celine frigging Dion.” Kev muttered darkly. “Bloody Ruperts.”

 

They watched the whole compound go up in flames, both silo buildings collapsing as explosions bloomed around their bases, crumbling down into the inferno. They drove back to the pick up and waited for the C-130.

When it arrived, their faces shut the co-pilot up before he made one remark.

Collapsing down amid their bergens, they drank the last of the vodka.

Pete leaned back and clutched his wedding ring, on a chain around his neck.

The two Russians fell asleep.

Chris sat, one hand pressing lightly on his wounded side, eyes closed.

Kev sipped the last of the vodka from the bottle and considered the floor.

Lukas doped the UN observer up to the eyeballs, then fell asleep himself.

No-one spoke all the way back to Ramstein.

[FullAuto]

England

 

Pete stopped the car, turned the engine off and sank back in the seat, closing his eyes. The cottage was surrounded by a small grove of oak, a hundred metres away from steep stone cliffs that fell jaggedly all the way to the sea below.

Home.

Natalie would be waiting inside, wondering where he’d been, why their bank balance was so healthy, why he looked so tired, when would he be leaving next.

And she wouldn’t ask him any of those things, Pete knew. He smiled to himself. The mission had been a success. No-one dead. Targets slotted and erased.

“Back home in time for tea.” He murmured to himself, climbing out of the car.

He winced as he unfolded. The bruises were still there, a mottled patching of yellow-green on his chest and a thick dark circle on his back. The cut on his face had been thin, and after the sliver of metal had been extracted, it was unnoticeable.

He slammed the car door shut, and looked out over the cliffs to the slate-grey North Sea.

The cottage door swung open. “Welcome back-”

 

“-Sergeant Walker!” Pickering stepped up onto the ramp of the C-130, bellowing over the roar of the engines. “Time for your debriefing!”

He noticed the three men huddled on the floor of the plane.

Pete walked right past him.

“Sergeant!”

“Are you the medics?” Pete asked a group of likely looking personnel as they approached the plane.

“That’s us.” A man replied. “What have you got?”

“One gunshot wound to the chest, went through his body armour and broke a rib. Bullet’s just under the skin, but I think the rib pierced his lung. Happened about half an hour ago. He can still breathe ok. Blood pressure and pulse are as good as they can be, not much blood from the wound or out of his mouth. Other bloke’s got a damaged eardrum, I think. It could be a concussion, but I don’t think so.” Pete remembered the UN observer. “Last man’s got malnutrition, some cuts and sores that are probably infected.”

The team rushed by him and filled the plane. Pete stepped back, let them work and studiously ignored Pickering. Kev joined him, escorting the two Russian soldiers down the ramp.

Pickering moved to stand beside them. “I took the liberty of arranging a debriefing room! You probably already know it?”

Pete just looked at him.

“Leftenant Farrell is not a happy man!”

 

“So.” Pickering sat on the edge of the desk. “I take it all went well?”

He was wearing standard DPM fatigues and boots, and they fit him well. He looked like a soldier, and a competent one. For some reason he couldn’t specify, this got up Pete’s nose.

“Targets dead and burned. Gordeyev slotted. Missiles destroyed.” Kev took a seat and unfastened his thermal suit, stripping it down to his waist. “Not too shabby.”

Pickering smiled. “I watched the place blow up. We had a satellite pass over about ten minutes after your exfil. I’m impressed.”

“Any of the missiles go off?” Pete took the chair next to Kev.

“None of the warheads exploded.” Pickering looked around. “Ah, coffee. Anyone?”

“No thanks.” Pete grimaced.

“Black, four sugars.” Kev kicked off his boots.

Pickering made coffee. “Three months working for us. Two jobs. Are you tired of it yet?”

Pete let that slide by. “So, who are we working for?”

Pickering grimaced. “I suppose it’s time you knew, isn’t it?” He passed a mug to Kev, sipped from his own. “Gentlemen, you know those documents and ID’s you were given?”

Kev’s face fell. “They’re false, aren’t they.”

“Not at all.” Pickering set his mug down on the desk. “Those documents are the result of a sub-clause of a sub-clause of a UN resolution that was slipped through when no-one was looking. Due to a mysterious printing error, anyone looking for this particular sub-clause will be referred to another resolution, which will then make reference to another resolution and so on and so forth. You are the first people to ever use those documents. They render you immune from arrest, from prosecution, from the law.”

“That can’t be legal.” Pete settled into his chair, watching Pickering carefully.

“It is if the countries agreed to it. And they did.” Pickering smiled grimly. “You can go into any UN member country and do whatever you want. Of course, if the resolution were ever discovered, it would most probably destroy the UN. Countries signing over their sovereignty to an outside organisation? I don’t think the citizens of any country would countenance that. So the more noise you make, the more American officers you piss off by taking over their office-”

“We get the point.” Pete said quietly.

“Good. Sooner or later, some nosy journalist is going to come looking for the truth, and we can only hide so much. You do have carte blanche, but the more you use it the more likely it’ll disappear and you’ll find yourself hauled up before the highest court of the land on whatever charges they want.”

“So all one-hundred-and-ninety-one countries signed up? Voluntarily?” Kev sipped his coffee.

“Persuasion was sometimes required.” Pickering shrugged. “Some people believe in the UN. It’s easy to be critical and take the piss. It’s hard to knuckle down and support an organisation that’s hampered by miles of red tape.”

“Not to mention the stupidest veto rule ever.” Kev added.

Pickering nodded. “That too. The long and the short of it is, the countries did sign up. Eventually. The US isn’t even signed up for the international court thanks to their constitution, so they threw a right wobbler over this.”

Pete frowned, sitting up a little. “I thought-”

“Sergeant, the US is our main benefactor. The organisation we all work for was created by the CIA and it operates on a shoestring black budget. But the US is also our main opponent. That country is nearly always divided on what to do, whenever any crisis arises. In this case, substantial sections of their government have decided to oppose us.”

“With ‘us’ being…” Pete waited for Pickering to finish.

“The Extraterrestrial Investigation Unit. X-INV for short. We know the aliens are hostile. X-INV is just crossing the t’s and dotting the i’s until we change our strategy and go to war. Which we will, make no mistake. Those against us, those who refuse to support and actively oppose us, want to surrender to the aliens. They want to negotiate terms without even trying.”

“They can shove that.” Kev slurped. “Good coffee, cheers.”

“Don’t thank me, thank Leftenant Farrell.” Pickering smiled. “So, to sum up. Our biggest ally is our worst enemy. And we’ve got unlimited power which we can’t exercise. Or rather, you can’t exercise. You are the sharp end of X-INV and you’re the only members of our organisation that we can really afford to give those powers too. You are the only ones who need it badly enough. Which brings us neatly to your next operation.”

“Our next op? Already?” Pete ignored the sudden growling of his stomach.

“Not for a week yet, at least. You’ll be operating in the US. And this isn’t your standard hit and run, either. You’ll be going in and arresting everyone you can.”

“Do we have powers of arrest?” Kev finished his drink.

“You do now.” Pickering took a sip of coffee. “Do you know what science cities are?”

Kev’s face went blank. Pete looked thoughtful.

“During the Cold War, the USSR valued scientific discovery so much, it built small towns throughout the entire country, staffed them with their best scientists and gave them every piece of technology they could ever need. Breeding grounds for ideas and invention, basically. Little utopias ringed by tanks and soldiers. These were science cities.” Pickering took another drink of coffee and thought for a moment. “A little known fact is that the US, knowingly or unknowingly, copied them and did exactly the same thing. It built a handful for show, to demonstrate that anything the dirty Reds could do, Uncle Sam could do better, and built God only knows how many throughout the entire US. There are several in Alaska, one in Hawaii, two in New Mexico, two in Arizona, one in Texas…the list goes on. Wherever there’s several hundred square miles of wilderness, you’ll find one. Or rather, you won't. Most became defunct with the end of the Cold War, but there’s a few still running. They are not on any maps, and their budget is black. They operate right on the cutting edge of any field you’d care to name and their methods aren’t particularly nice. During the McCarthy era, thousands of people went missing, the majority of them supposed Communists. We believe they were liquidated in a science city that devoted it’s entire time and resources to biological weapons. That’s the one we’re going to hit.”

“What’s that got to do with us?” Kev got up and made himself another cup of coffee.

“Well, for starters, it researches the offensive use of biological weapons. Which, these days, is considered beyond the pale. The US will never admit it, and of course, their government doesn’t even know about it and never will. The place reports to the US Army and no-one else.”

“And you want us to go in there and just arrest everyone?” Pete shook his head. “That’s not going to work.”

“Oh yes it will. We have friends in the US government, and as soon as we hit that place there’ll be a contingent of FBI waiting to round everyone up.”

Pete held up a hand. “Wait a second. Now, you’re basically saying they’re doing experiments on people. Which is frigging horrible and should be stopped, but it’s not our concern. Also, this place is going to have serious security, we’re not going to be able to just wander in, slap the cuffs on and say 'You're nicked, chums'. Plus, Chris is out of it for a while. He won’t be healed in a week.”

“It is our concern when the biological study in question concerns an extraterrestrial virus.” Pickering looked right back at Pete. “They do have serious security. A force of thirty to fifty men, well armed, all ex-military. Chris won’t be ready in time? Fine. I’ll take his place.”

“You?” Pete scowled. “Don’t be daft.”

But he remembered Jock’s words. Pickering was a good operator. Allowing for Jock’s usual understatement, that meant Pickering was shit-hot.

“I could outshoot you.” Pickering nodded to the 23 in Pete’s thigh holster.

Pete stared back at him. “Where I come from, that’s fighting talk.”

“If you two lovebirds have finished?” Kev interrupted. “The job?”

“The science city in question got access to some extraterrestrial biological samples. Bodily fluids of some kind. We don’t know how, just that they did. They did a little bit of genetic tinkering, and created a virus that is not only totally inimical to human life but is also slightly radioactive.”

“Is it just me, or does that sound really really horrible?” Kev dropped back into his seat. “A radioactive virus?”

“They infected an alien cell with a virus, Ebola probably. We don’t know and it doesn’t matter as long as it’s infectious. It happened a few years ago, and they’ve been testing and refining it ever since.”

“How can that work?” Pete stretched out his legs and crossed them at the ankles, trying to relax despite his aching body.

“I don’t pretend to know. I’ve had it explained to me and,” Pickering swiped a hand above his head. “Something to do with viruses not being alive.”

“Viruses aren’t alive?” Kev looked up from his coffee.

“Not in the usual sense of the word. All living organisms contain both DNA and RNA. Viruses only have one or the other. They can only reproduce with the help of cells from a living organism, which it then destroys and moves on. It’s probably some form of Ebola, which is deadly enough in itself, with a fatality rate of about eighty per cent. This new form has a fatality rate of a hundred per cent.” Pickering made a sour face. “The radioactivity is hardly noticeable. Everything that exists gives off radiation, on some frequency or another.”

“But most of it isn’t harmful.” Pete gave up and got himself some coffee. “What’s the measure for it again? Becquerel?”

“Bravo, Sergeant Walker. Go to the head of the class.”

“Swot.” Kev muttered under his breath.

Pete ignored that.

“As an example, an average human being gives off about seven thousand Bq, whereas a single kilogram of uranium gives off about twenty-five million Bq. A person infected with the virus gives off about a hundred thousand Bq, so you’d have to stand in the middle of a crowd of them for a while for it to bother you.” Pickering shrugged. “We don’t care about the radioactivity part, really. It looks like it’s just a side effect. The virus itself is one hundred per cent fatal, and it has been tested on hundreds of people. Traditionally, UV light, heat, chemical changes in the microclimate and various other factors would kill Ebola. The addition has made it impervious to all these. There is no vaccine. It is completely unstoppable.”

“And we’re going to do what with it?” Pete asked.

“We’re going to fire it into the sun, Sergeant Walker.”

“Of course we are.”

[FullAuto]

Kev pushed the door open. The house was exactly as he’d left it, half decorated, half furnished, completely messy. He dumped his bag by the door and turned round. “You’ll have to excuse the mess, mate.” He swept an arm to indicate the interior. “Left in a bit of a hurry.”

Lukas stepped in, surveying the mess. “It is fine. Are you sure about this?”

“Well, we can’t get you quarters at the Lines without some bother, and Pickering told us to keep our heads down.” Kev spotted a small white envelope propped up on the mantelpiece. “There’s hotels and b and b’s but you might as well stay here. I’ve got a spare room. My lass won’t mind.”

He frowned and moved over to the mantelpiece, picking the envelope up. He recognised his girlfriend’s handwriting. Jude had scrawled his name on the front.

Tearing it open, he waved Lukas inside. “Drop your bag and sit down, mate. You’re making the place look untidy.”

“That would not be difficult.” Lukas sat down on the couch.

“Har de har har.” Kev unfolded the letter, walking through to the kitchen. “Want a lager?”

“Please.” Lukas sank back into the couch.

Kev pulled two cans out of the fridge and went back to the living room, reading the letter as he went. He tossed a can to Lukas. “Frigging women.”

“What is it?” Lukas opened it, scowling as foam poured out over his hands.

Kev stopped reading halfway through and dropped the letter into the bin. “They’re all the same, mate. You’re off in Siberia fighting aliens and stopping nuclear holocaust and they’re going at it like the clappers with the milkman.”

Lukas tried not to show his shock. “The milkman?”

“Well, not in this case. Probably another soldier, maybe even some other Regiment bloke. But that’s not the point.” Kev dropped into a chair. “She hasn’t even emptied the bins. Cow.”

Lukas took a drink and considered the floor.

“Have you got a girl, back in Germany?” Kev picked the letter up, determined to read the rest.

“I am engaged to be married. “Lukas shifted uncomfortably.

“I’m sorry, mate. I didn’t mean what I said. Just a bit pissed off.” Kev shrugged. “Some of them are actually ok.”

“I am glad to hear it. Can I use your phone?” Lukas set his lager down.

“Course. It’s in the kitchen. Do you-”

 

“-want anything to eat?” Pickering asked them.

Chris and Lukas stared at him.

“I know that op must have been rough.” Pickering shut the door and leaned back against it. “And this job isn’t going to get any easier.”

Chris struggled to sit up, wincing as the stitches stretched. “What happens if we quit?”

“You’ve been wounded, so we could swing you two months pay. Get you back into the Regiment, perhaps with a promotion, or a security consultant job somewhere swanky.” Pickering shrugged. “We don’t want to leave any hard feelings.”

“Or you might have to slot us. Which would be a lot cheaper.”

Pickering pursed his lips, then nodded. “It’s not something I’d carry out, or even recommend, but there are others who would consider it. We’re not exactly a tight ship at the moment. Few of us are supervised.”

“Thought so.” Chris slumped back down, giving up to the sedatives. “I’m still in.”

“Good. Lukas?” Pickering turned his gaze on the silent man.

“I am not going to quit.” Lukas touched the dressing that covered his ear. “There is no permanent damage.”

“Excellent.” Pickering straightened. “I’d like to thank both of you. You did an excellent job. The next op is in a week.”

“I won’t be ready in time.” Chris closed his eyes. “Is there any way it can be delayed until-”

“I’m sorry. It has to go ahead. Unless something comes up.” Pickering turned to open the door. “Don’t worry, you’ll still get paid.”

“Thanks. “ Chris managed a bitter smile.

[FullAuto]

“Where are we?” Pete climbed out of the helicopter as the rotors spun slowly to a halt.

“We’re in Texas, Sergeant Walker.” Pickering stretched his legs. “The Lone Star state.”

“Texas, eh?” Kev kicked a bag aside and swung his legs out. “Where’s the Alamo? I need a piss.”

Lukas eased past him, putting on a pair of shades.

The sun, hot and high in the blue, cloudless sky, made them necessary. Desert stretched away all around them, gentle curves of reddish-brown.

“Nice weather.” Pete picked his bag out of the helicopter. “Sod all humidity.”

“A bloke can really sweat free here.” Kev added, tossing a bag to Pickering. “We staying there?”

‘There’ was a two-storey ranch house, wide and sprawling under the sun. Painted white, with a brown shingle roof, it looked big enough to be a hotel. Incongruously bordered by a neat patch of lush green grass, it stood amidst miles of desert, the only building in sight.

“Aye.” Pickering ducked his head into the helicopter to talk to the pilot.

Lukas passed a bag to Pete, then slung his own over his shoulder. “We’ve been noticed.”

Pete turned. A man was stood in the doorway, shirt, jeans and stetson. Under the shadow of the porch, Pete couldn’t see any details. He took a few slow sidesteps, making sure his 23 was still seated properly in its holster by pretending to scratch his stomach.

Kev did the same, spreading their group out, dropping his bag and wiping his brow theatrically, leaving his hands free.

“Pickering!” Pete called as the helicopter started up again.

“What? I paid the pilot a little extra to sod off right away. He wanted a rest, but-” Pickering noticed the man in the doorway and grinned. “Is that you, John Wayne?”

“I don’t know, is this me?” The figure replied with only the faintest hint of a drawl.

Laughing, he came forward, out into the sun.

He was tall and thin, and as he came closer they saw he had a permanent squint. Which wasn’t surprising under this sun, hat or not. Thick dark blonde hair fell almost to his shoulders, framing a tanned hawklike face, all sharp planes and angles. The sun had aged his skin prematurely, but his eyes were bright.

“That’s the biggest frigging hat I’ve ever seen.” Kev muttered.

“John Pickering. Long time no see.” He stuck out a hand as he neared.

Pickering shook it firmly, still smiling. “It’s about time I dropped in again, Matt.”

“You brought some friends to visit?” Matt looked at each of them in turn.

“Just like I said.” Pickering made introductions.

Matt caught a glimpse of Lukas’ 23 as his shirt shifted a little. “What’ve you got there?”

On a nod from Pete, Lukas pulled his shirt up.

Matt grinned. “My dad used to say Europeans don’t know anything about handguns. If he wasn’t wrong before, he is now. Not that he’d admit it. You guys come inside, we’ll get you a drink.”

 

“You’ve operated here before?” Pete asked.

They were both sat out on the porch, cold beers in hand.

“In America, or Texas?” Pickering watched the air waver in the heat.

“Either. Both.” Pete took a drink and wished he’d brought some shades.

Under the porch was fine, but past that was a wash of light and heat that made him squint and gave him a headache.

“America, yes. Texas, no.”

“Does Matt know what we’re up to?”

“Yes, he does. He’s holding our kit for us. He used to be an intelligence officer with the CIA.”

Pete made a sour face. “And he’s happy with us committing a terrorist act in his country.”

“From the way I understand the law, it’s not a terrorist act.” Matt said from the doorway.

Pete blinked.

“My country signed treaties to the effect that we wouldn’t fool around with biological weapons.” Matt moved to a chair and sat down, hat in hand. “We’ve got some pretty good intelligence that says we are, and we’re testing those weapons on our own citizens. Do you know the Pledge of Allegiance?”

Pete sipped his beer, trying to rinse the dust out of his mouth. “Not off by heart.”

“I Pledge Allegiance to the flag of the United States of America and to the Republic for which it stands, one Nation under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.” Matt recited. “Now that, to me, means if you’re a citizen of this country, you’re entitled not to be locked up in some shitty little cell and pumped full of a deadly disease. Among other things.”

“I think I see your point.” Pete nodded.

“Good. Because the people they’re taking at the moment are just vagrants and bums, but they’re still people.” Matt fished a beer out of the cooler next to his chair and popped it open. “They’re picking up people who won’t be missed, and only out of big cities. Then they get trucked into that place like cattle. Word is they also pick up Mexicans trying to get across the border.”

“They go in but they don’t come out.” Pete said.

“Right.” Matt took a swallow of beer. “I love my country, but it pisses me off. We’ve never lived up to what we could be. We’ve never lived up to the Constitution. I want to help bring down some of the bastards that are ruining my country. Does that seem bad to you?”

Pete looked him in the eye. “No. I suppose not.”

“What do you know about the Alamo?” Matt asked, sighing.

Pete shrugged. He was an avid student of military thought and history.

“Happened right at the beginning of Texas being a proper state. William Travis commanded the soldiers there. James Bowie was the head of the volunteers.”

Lukas and Kev came out onto the porch.

Pete stopped, collected his thoughts. “They had about a hundred and eighty men, versus Santa Anna’s fifteen hundred, I think. It was less at the beginning, but reinforcements arrived. They held out for thirteen days, then got massacred.”

“History says Jim Bowie was a psychotic drunk. It says Travis was despised by the men, and Davey Crockett died crawling in the dirt in front of Santa Anna for mercy he knew he wasn’t going to get.” Matt took a drink and sighed. “It was the beginning of Texas, especially the legend of Texas, but it was the end for Travis, Bowie, Crockett and the rest.”

Silence followed for a few minutes.

“It doesn’t matter if it’s not true.” Matt stood and finished his beer. “It doesn’t matter if it’s a lie. It’s a legend to live up to. My country has lots of them, and right now we’re not living up to them. Every time we kick the shit out of some Third World country, or get found out doing some horrible little scam like that Iran Contra thing it makes me want to puke. America is supposed to be different. John Kennedy once said ‘Let every nation know, whether it wishes us well or ill, that we shall pay any price, bear any burden, meet any hardship, support any friend, oppose any foe to assure the survival and the success of liberty.’ And we killed the poor bastard.”

He stalked back into the house, hat in one hand, bottle in the other.

“Did that satisfy you, Sergeant?” Pickering asked softly.

“What’s his history?” Pete asked, setting his beer down.

“He served in the US Army and the CIA. He’s well educated and made a bit of money on Wall Street after retiring. He owns this ranch and several thousand acres around it.” Pickering swallowed the last of his beer. “I’ve worked with him several times before, when he was with the CIA and when he was retired. He’s absolutely loyal to his country. He’s still an idealist.”

“Has he ever been suspected of anything?” Pete glanced out at the desert and winced.

“Probably. But not by the US government. He’s an exemplary citizen. Served his time and more in the forces, did more work in the field with the CIA, retired and made some money. Husband, father of two young kids.” Pickering smiled without any real warmth. “Don’t worry, the FBI isn’t going to pull up and nick us all.”

“I hope not.” Pete took out another beer. “So, who did kill JFK?”

 

“Ten metres.”

Pete loaded his 23, checked left and right to make sure no-one was going to wander in front of him, and fired.

The pistol bucked back against his hand as he cracked off shots as fast as he could squeeze the trigger.

He lowered his gun, and reloaded. Applying the safety, he holstered the 23 and trudged over to the target. Twelve holes in the cardboard, eight in the heart, one high, three low.

“Trigger’s stiff.” He called.

“Any excuse!” Kev replied, stepping off the porch. “I’ll show you how it’s done!”

Pete strolled back to the grass border, which was the firing line.

Kev stopped, wiggled his fingers for effect. His hand was a blur as it dived for his gun, swept it up into aim and locked steady.

He fired a tight double-tap into the target’s head.

Pete snatched the shell casings out of the air. He handed them to Kev with a smile.

“Thanks, boss.” Kev rolled his eyes.

“Why don’t we make this interesting?” Pickering asked, stepping out of the house.

“Tenner a round?” Pete asked.

“We’re all rich men.” Kev grinned. “Why not fifty?”

“Aye, alright.” Pickering nodded

“Go on then.” Pete shrugged

“Yes, why not.” Lukas was smiling faintly.

“Christ, lads, I didn’t mean it.” Kev’s smile disappeared.

“Hard cheese, Hawkins.” Pete patted his 23. “Set up the targets. And no funny business.”

“Me, boss?” Kev tried to look innocent.

“Yes, you boss.” Pete turned to Pickering. “Ready to pay up?”

Pickering grinned. “I’ll make a poor man of you yet.”

He shouted for Matt to judge.

“Five metres.” Kev called. “All twelve in the heart, right?”

Pickering drew his Glock and thumbed bullets off the magazine until twelve were left. Five metres was practically point-blank. Quietly confident, he holstered the Glock and relaxed his neck, then his shoulders, then his arms, working all the way down to the tips of his fingers.

They lined up. Lukas stretched, popping his knuckles and fisting his hands.

Kev took his shirt off and tied it low around his waist.

Pete made sure his holster was angled just right, and eyed the target.

Matt came to stand a few metres away, tucking his thumbs into his belt loops. “What’s the game?”

“Twelve shots, all in the heart. If you miss, you’re out. If there’s a draw, whoever finishes last is out.” Pete smiled. “Every round, the target goes back five metres.”

“Sounds good.” Matt grinned. “Show them how it’s done, John.”

“I’ll give it a go.” Pickering replied. “You call it.”

“Ok.” Matt stood for a long moment.

They stood, side by side, hands hovering over pistols like gunfighters of old. Adrenaline flooded their veins. It wasn’t the money, that had little or nothing to do with it. What it really came down to was who was best. They wanted to see who it was. They wanted to be who it was.

Sweat slid down backs, chests, arms, necks.

“Draw!”

All four went from stock still to motion blurs.

Forty eight bullets hit four targets in three seconds in a ripple of crackling blasts.

They stood, magazines empty, cordite smell wafting back at them, and watched as Matt walked over and inspected the targets. After a tense few seconds, he turned and shrugged. “All in the heart. And it was too close to call for who finished last.”

They all smiled, knowing five metres was child’s play but glad they hadn’t missed.

Matt moved the posts back five metres and placed fresh targets on them. Kev wiped his sweating palms on his jeans. Lukas fetched a bottle of water from the porch and passed it round. Pete worked the slide on his 23 a few times, then put in a fresh magazine. Pickering thumbed bullets off another magazine before pushing it into his Glock.

Half a minute passed. No-one spoke. Matt made sure the targets were firmly rooted, then moved away.

He gave them a few seconds. “Draw!”

Again, hushed hot stillness to fluid fury in a tenth of a second.

They couldn’t fire as fast and expect to get all twelve in the ring, but it was a close thing. A little over four seconds and once again all forty eight were on target.

“Too close to call. Again.” Shaking his head, Matt repositioned the targets.

They all took a drink. Kev spat a thin stream of water. Lukas sloshed some onto the back of his neck, washing away the itchy sweat. Pete sipped, just to moisten his mouth. Pickering took a gulp and set it aside.

They reloaded. Fifteen metres was a challenge, especially if you had to fire faster than the next man.

Matt gave them little rest. As soon as he was clear of the targets, he called it.

Kev’s hands, moist and slick from the condensation on the water bottle, slipped.

-Shit-

He fired twelve along with the rest, then turned away and walked to the porch, head down. He didn’t wait for Matt to call it, knew he’d missed two, maybe three.

Matt looked over the target. Nine right through the ring, one on the line, two just below it. He looked at the others. He was hard pressed to see any difference in Pickering’s or Pete’s. Lukas’ grouping was a little wider, but all twelve were still in the heart. Matt wondered who these men were as he put up fresh targets and moved them back.

The three remaining men ignored each other, reloaded and readied themselves. Twenty metres meant careful aiming and firing. But they still had to fire faster than the next man. And now their muscles tremored with adrenaline.

Lukas wasn’t even in it. He drew just as quickly, but a little too high. He adjusted his aim as Pete and Pickering fired their first, and the rest was catch-up.

Matt checked the targets. “Well, Pete finished first. You two were joint last, and Lukas, you missed one.” Matt pointed to a hole a centimetre below the ring.

Lukas holstered and moved to the porch, sitting down beside Kev, who handed him a water bottle. “Tough shit, mate.”

Lukas just shrugged. “I beat you.”

“Piss off.”

Pete took a deep breath, reining his thundering heartbeat in, harnessing the adrenaline. His draw would be viciously fast, but he had to make sure it was on target.

“The quick and the dead.” Pickering said softly, reloading his Glock.

“You like Westerns?” Pete asked, reloading.

The stiff trigger had worked off, and the action was nice and smooth now. He’d need it to be.

“Depends. You?” Pickering holstered his Glock, shrugged his shoulders.

“We’re in the right place for them.”

“Draw!”

It came down to simple physics. Pickering had the lighter gun. He had the Glock aimed perhaps a hundredth of a second ahead of Pete getting his 23 into aim.

They fired, gunshots blurring together.

Matt bit his lip. Christ.

They fired their last shots dead-on simultaneously. And stood, locked into their aim, for long moments.

“You believe in showdowns?” Pickering asked.

“What do you think this is?” Pete murmured, lowering his pistol and reloading.

“Remind me never to get into an argument with those two.” Kev nudged Lukas.

Matt checked the targets. And checked them again. He turned, wiping his brow. “Well, you fired your last bullets at the same time. And you both got all twelve in the ring.”

Pickering exhaled. Pete managed to relax, that tight spiral in his gut uncoiling.

“No pressure, boss!” Kev shouted.

Pete stuck two’s up at him and reloaded. He was soaked in sweat, it stuck his T-shirt to him and itched. He holstered his 23 and stripped his T-shirt off, tucking it into the back of his belt.

“Are the jeans coming off as well?” Kev asked.

Pickering looked cool, but Pete saw his fingers trembling, just a faint wavering before he fisted his hands.

“What’s the-” Pete stopped, coughed to clear his throat. “What’s the money up to now?”

“Eight hundred and fifty quid.” Pickering smiled.

“You guys want a tie breaker or keep going?” Matt asked.

They looked at each other. Neither showed any emotion.

“Tie breaker.” Pete said.

Pickering just nodded.

“Double-tap to the head at fifteen metres.”

“Make it twenty!” Kev suggested.

“Twenty-five.” Pickering said mildly.

Matt set up the targets.

Pete locked his thoughts down, clamped his adrenaline in and then let it flow, repeatedly fisting and relaxing his hands.

Pickering relaxed his shoulders. His arms. His wrists. His thumbs. The first knuckle of each finger. The second knuckle. The-

“Draw!”

Pete flung his gun up and fired a double-tap so tight it sounded like one shot.

Pickering drew and fired one-handed in a single smooth motion.

Four casings hit the ground, tinkling lightly.

“Christ.” Kev whispered reverently.

Lukas took off his shades and stood.

Matt checked the targets. He turned slowly, glanced over his shoulder to check again, then looked at Pete. “Sorry, buddy. Just missed.”

Pete holstered his 23 and moved forward. He could see the miss when he was halfway there, but he kept moving anyway.

The hole was just above the head outline. There was perhaps a millimetre of space between them.

He glanced at Pickering’s target.

Two holes, one an inch above the other, stacked right in the centre of the head.

He turned and walked back to the house.

“Good shooting.”

[FullAuto]

Night was cooler. Kev was out on the porch, beer in hand, slouched in one chair, booted feet propped up on another.

"Can I have a word?" Pickering emerged from the house.

Kev looked at him for a long moment. "Do I have a choice?"

Pickering fit in well, he had to admit. Though older than any of the SAS men, he was well-built and obviously fit, he could shoot and he even seemed to know what he was doing ops-wise.

Pickering took a seat. Kev had a profile view, and even in the semi-darkness he could see an impressive scar just under Pickering's jawline.

"Where'd you get that beauty?"

"What?" Pickering turned, and one hand rose to touch the scar. "Ah. That I picked up in Antarctica."

"Antarctica? Christ." Kev sipped his beer. "What was it? Bullet?"

"Knife. Bloody fool tried to cut my throat." Pickering stroked the scar with one finger. "A nice memento of my visit."

"Looks it." Kev looked out into the darkness. "There's beers in the cooler."

"Cheers." Pickering bent down to retrieve one. "What's Pete's story?"

"Come again? As the Virgin Mary said to God." Kev grinned.

"I've read his file, but that doesn't tell me much about him."

"You know he's part of the Regiment. Which means he's one of the best soldiers on the planet." Kev shrugged. "I don't see what there is to tell you. Why don't you go and ask him?"

"People rarely have an accurate view of themselves, Kev."

"Look, John-"

"I just want to know what you think of him." Pickering held up one hand placatingly.

Kev glared at him for a moment. "He's the best man I've ever worked with, apart from Jock, maybe. He gets the job done." Kev shook his head. "I still can't believe you beat him, to be honest."

Pickering opened his beer and drank.

"He's different to any other bloke I've known in the Regiment. He's a full-time brain, that lad. He's got a degree, you know?"

Pickering nodded. "He's studying for his second."

"Don't doubt it. He thinks a lot, too much, to be honest. You should ask him about international relations, he gets well wound up. He's still bitter and twisted over Northern Ireland." Kev grinned. "He went on a rant about slotting Gerry Adams once. He was so worked up we thought he was going to do it."

"Parent's are Irish."

"I know. Dropped him off once when we were working over the water." Kev finished off his beer. "See, the thing about Pete is...he's not your everyday soldier, or even your average Regiment bloke. He believes in the Regiment, and he believes in himself, absolutely. That's why he's so critical of himself. He knows how good he is, and he's always looking at stuff he's just done and thinking 'Did I do as well as I could have?'. He's completely confident without being arrogant. He's having a hard time and he's not shy about sharing it because he's had nothing to believe in so far. But you've told him what we're up to and why, and it's something he can believe in. It's like in training. They give you a load of shit to do and send you off, and all you can do is try not to think about how knackered you are and get on with it. Pete will think about it, while he's doing it, and he'll still do it, and he'll get it done better than anyone else. Pass me another beer."

Pickering's eyebrows were raised.

"What? Ta." Kev accepted the bottle. "I'm always mouthy after a bit to drink."

Pickering smiled, and for the first time Kev saw some real warmth to the expression. "Join the club."

"Getting some drink into you and putting the world to rights is what life's all about. And if anyone disagrees, I'll see them outside."

Pickering laughed at that.

"Seriously, Pete is different." Kev took a long drink and resumed. "F'instance, in this thing we're doing, I'll just get on with it as best I can, try not to bugger up and come out smelling of roses with a big fat bank balance and a promotion. Pete, on the other hand, will think about whether it's right or not, argue the toss with himself and still get on with the job. And do it better than me, too. Git."

"He's better than you?" Pickering knew that was unusual.

SAS men were highly motivated and drove themselves to be the best, to constantly improve their skills. Few would admit that another member of the Regiment was 'better' than them out loud.

"He's a better shot, he makes me look like a bag of shit when it comes to running, and he's miles ahead in the brain department." Kev shrugged. "When we'd do a complicated op I'd be up all hours, trying to fit it all into my head. The boss just made sure he had it all right then got some kip. He's the most switched-on bloke I've met. I reckon Jock was slightly better, but it's a close thing. And Jock has got twenty more years in the Regiment."

"Hmm." Pickering leaned back in his chair.

"I bet you half your winnings Pete does nowt else tomorrow than pistol practice. I bet you." Kev got up and stretched, yawning. "He just obsesses about stuff until he's got it done. I'm off to bed."

"Ok. See you tomorrow." Pickering drank his beer and stared out into the darkness.

He wondered if they were good enough for the job. He wondered if he was good enough.

 

Chris limped to the Rover. It was only a few hundred metres from here to the plane, but he was still almost fainting from the exertion. Soaked in sweat, he unlocked the car and climbed in. His wounded lung seemed uncomfortably tight every time he breathed. He rooted about on the floor for a moment before finding his mobile, straightening up with a wince.

It didn't hurt much, just limited his movement.

He scrolled through his phonebook, found 'UncleJ' and pressed 'call'. It rang twice.

"Hello?" Efficient, female.

"Is Pickering there, please?"

"I'm afraid John's not in at the moment. Can I help?" Her voice was expressive, Chris could hear her smile.

"Can you tell me where John is?" Chris struggled out of his jacket.

"I'm afraid I don't actually know. Is this Chris, by any chance?"

"Er-" He felt a momentary stab of panic.

"John told me you might call. You did a wonderful job out in Siberia, well done"

"Uh-"

"John also said you might want to take the escort job?" She paused for a moment. "If you're up to it?"

Chris thought for a moment. "Am I still picking her up from Menwith Hill?"

"That's right. Are you sure you're in shape to do it?"

"I'm almost better, thank you."

"Well, if you need anything, please give me a call."

"I will."

"My names Jenny Graham, by the way."

"You already know who I am, Miss Graham."

"Jenny, please." She sounded like she was on the verge of laughing. "Could you give me a call when you arrive safely?"

"Yep, certainly."

"Thank you, Chris."

 

Dawn was just a pale line on the horizon. They were sat round the kitchen table, breakfast plates pushed aside.

"So, personnel on the ground?" Pete kicked the meeting off.

"Anywhere between thirty to fifty. All ex-US Army, well equipped." Pickering unfolded a map. "There's two dozen buildings, ranging from small single houses to this tower block, here."

His finger stabbed a large rectangle.

"It's the tallest building, consisting of six floors. Now, the building itself has been abandoned since the end of the Cold War, when there was a severe cutback in their budget, but they keep eight men on the roof with sniper rifles and machine guns, giving them a field of fire that covers the whole place, almost. Obviously, there's plenty of cover close in, but they've got the range to reach out and hit anyone within about two thousand metres, so they don't have to wait for you to get close. It's right across the road from the two buildings that we need to get to."

Pickering drew his finger down the centre of the map.

"This is Main Street. Cuts the whole town in half. On one side, you have the tower block. Directly opposite, you have the main guard post and this unassuming little building, which provides the only access to the underground complex."

Kev rested his head on the table. "What is it with governments and underground bases?"

Lukas nudged him.

"At any time, there's at least twelve men in the guard post, with two roving patrols of four men circling the town perimeter."

"Do they go the same way?" Pete sipped his tea.

"No. The two teams come out of the guard post and head north until they reach the edge of town. They stop there, visually check that the guard post on the road is ok, then one goes east and one goes west, so you've got one team circling clockwise, the other anti-clockwise."

"There's a guard post outside of the town?" Pete refilled his cup from a pot.

"About two klicks north," Pickering tapped the top edge of the map, "there's a little hut, manned by four guards. They're dressed as park rangers, but they're armed to the teeth. Inside the hut is at least one heavy machine gun and some missile launchers."

"Missile launchers?" Kev frowned. "More than one?"

"Tentatively identified as Stingers and M72's." Matt contributed.

"Proper Boy Scouts, eh?" Kev sipped his tea.

"Tentatively identified by who?" Pete asked softly.

Pickering and Matt looked at each other, then at Pete.

"Don't try and fob me off, or lie to me." Pete leaned forward, facing Pickering over the table.

"Matt has his own sources. And we have a man on the inside." Pickering pushed his cup aside. "One of the scientists, fairly high up. Even though it's not his department, he can get limited access to their security network."

"Let me guess. We're supposed to lift him, and leave everyone else?" Pete made a sour face.

"No. No-one leaves that base, except in a body bag or the custody of the FBI." Pickering's face was set, and his eyes bored into Pete. "Congress is going to deal with this in a closed session. Our man is going to confess everything in exchange for immunity."

"Just like that." Pete said.

"Just like that. Just like I covered up that mess on your first op, and got Jock his full army pension. Just like I arranged for your plane to get a free pass into and out of Russian airspace and a refuel."

"Russian airspace is one thing, but Congress-"

"Pete, we're not fixing a trial, ok? All we're doing is handing the suspects and evidence over to the proper authorities. Nothing more."

"Alright." Pete gave in. "So, any more surprises?"

"Two Bradley AFVs and an Avenger in the garage next to the main guard post. In case you don't know, the Bradley's have a twenty-five millimetre chain gun and a pair of TOW missiles. The Avenger carries eight Stinger missiles and a machine gun."

"Nothing much to worry about." Lukas murmured.

"So how do we deal with those?" Kev checked the teapot. "Need a refill."

"We've got M72s. They're more than capable." Pickering assured him.

"Ok, but an M72 is good for about two hundred metres. A Bushmaster chain gun has a range of about two klicks, not to mention the TOW missiles, or the coaxial machine gun." Kev shrugged. "I'm just wondering whether I'm going to run the difference with a target painted on me or not."

"Look, if this goes to plan, none of the vehicles will be any problem. If we can get into the town we'll have the advantage, their longer range won't matter."

"So." Pete leaned back in his chair. "What's the plan?"

 

Chris stopped at the gate to Menwith Hill. He checked his watch. He'd slept in the Rover, and it hadn't made his wound hurt any less. He'd slept late. Very late.

"Can I help you?" The guard asked, a young private who probably had to shave once a week, if that.

Chris passed him his ID.

The guard gave it only a cursory glance. "Thank you, sir. Take your first right and your second left, it's the first house on the left."

"Thanks." Chris pocketed his ID.

"Sir, welcome to the Hill." With a polite smile, the guard waved the gate open and stood back.

Chris nodded to him and drove through, keeping his speed down. He'd never been to the Hill before, although apart from the massive domes and radar dishes, it looked pretty much like any other military base.

Like most people, he knew the rumours, some true, some not. Over two million interceptions every hour, of any electronic communication you could name. An underground bunker with a nuclear power plant. A staging post for black projects to be launched into the USSR. Storage for alien bodies and craft since Area 51 became famous. Torture cells for any intruder nosy enough and stupid enough to get caught in the restricted areas.

He cruised by a group of army wives stood chatting on a corner, most of them with babies in their arms or in pushchairs. They gave him curious looks, and resumed talking.

A row of houses on his left as he turned the corner. Chris pulled over, turned the engine off and got out, glancing back at the women.

They were watching him unabashedly now, talking two to the dozen.

He grinned at them, and sauntered up the path to the front door. The house, like every other one in the row, was small and neat, with a trim lawn and shiny new paintwork. Chris knocked and took a step back, wincing as his wound cramped.

The door opened slowly and a tall, solidly-built MP looked down at him. "Help you?"

Chris brandished his ID. "I'm here to pick up Miss Webber."

The guard looked at it carefully, leaning forwards a little. "She's in the kitchen." He said, stepping aside and waving Chris through.

Chris walked in, limping a little. Moving pulled on the wound, especially after a night sleeping on the back seat of a car.

"You."

Chris smiled. "Hello."

Anna Webber was skinnier and paler than he remembered, her blonde hair done up in a tight bun instead of hanging loose. She looked older, too. Years older.

Chris felt his smile falter.

"I wish I could say it was nice to see you." Anna got up from the table, pushing her chair back. "My stuff's been packed for a week. I'll go and get it."

She didn't seem to be as tall as he remembered, either. She pushed past him, biting her lip, eyes on the floor. Chris half-turned to follow her, then leaned against the wall and watched instead.

Head down. Slumped shoulders. Hands tucked into the pockets of her jeans.

Chris frowned as she left the hallway. What the Hell had happened to her?

"She's been like this all week." The MP confided from the hallway.

"Don't worry, you won't be seeing her again." Chris tried to smile.

"Go easy on her, wherever she's going." The MP moved close and lowered his voice. "When she turned up, the guys who pulled the first week were on suicide watch."

The furrow in Chris' brow deepened. "How long's she been here?"

"A month, as far as I know." The MP shrugged. "Listen-"

"I'm ready to go." Anna announced, appearing back in the hallway, bag over her shoulder.

"Ok. " Chris nodded his thanks to the MP and eased past him.

They walked to the Rover, and as Anna tossed her bag into the footwell and climbed in, Chris waved at the gossiping wives and circled round to the driver's side. He pulled a quick U-turn and three minutes later they were off the base.

Anna settled into her seat, looking out of her window, arms folded across her chest.

"Do you want to head into Harrogate and get something to eat?" Chris asked, relaxing as the pain in his chest eased.

"Where's that?" Her tone was still cold.

"About five miles away. I was planning to go there anyway, to get on the A61 and head south-"

"Fine."

Chris let the silence be for a moment, wondering if he should even try.

"You know, when someone says 'fine' like that it means exactly the opposite." He ventured. "Do you not like Harrogate?"

"I wouldn't know." Anna sighed, resting her head against the window. "I've never been."

Chris glanced at her. "It's not exactly oozing charisma, I know."

"You've already said more than when we met last. You should slow down, pace yourself."

"It's your stimulating company."

"Sorry, what was that?" She looked at him. "It sounded like wit, only not funny."

Chris shook his head. "Ok. We'll skip Harrogate. Straight home."

"Whose home?" Anna snapped.

"Yours." Chris glanced at her.

"I hope it's been fixed."

Chris shrugged. "I don't know."

"What do you mean, you don't know?" Anna started to shout. "Last I saw, there was a great big frigging hole in the front wall"

"Calm down" Chris slowed the Rover a little.

"Calm down? My house has been stood with a hole big enough to park a bloody tank in for more than two months, and you tell me to calm down" Anna thrust a finger at him. "You can piss right off"

"That's more like it." Chris smiled at her.

"More like what, you bastard?"

"Like your old self." Chris nodded in approval. "Your house has been fixed, courtesy of Her Majesty. You've got a new barn, too."

"Are you winding me up?" Anna asked, eyes narrowing.

"No. Scout's honour. Dib dib dab or whatever it is." Chris grinned.

"I'd forgotten how much of an arsehole you are." Anna turned away from him, disgusted. "Christ, why couldn't you just leave me alone?"

[FullAuto]

"Well, at least it's simple." Pete sighed. "When do we go?"

"Tonight." Pickering nodded to Matt. "The kit is all ready."

"Won't the blokes on the roof have Stingers as well?" Kev asked. "I mean, if it's the highest building, it'd be a good place to launch from. Right?"

"Good point. We'll be within range of a Stinger, too." Pete had been rising from his chair, but he sat back down. "Stingers can be used against ground targets. All they need is a heat source."

"Do they have M72s, as well?" Kev asked.

"If they've got anti-armour weapons, it'll be something with a longer range, like a TOW launcher." Matt refilled his own cup and took a drink. "Jesus. This tea stuff just ain't my thing."

He got up and poured the tea down the sink, still making a face.

"I'm making some coffee."

"What about the guns on the roof?" Lukas asked.

"Good question." Pickering drew a piece of paper from under the map. "Machine guns and sniper rifles, all fifty-calibre. Two klick range."

"Nice. So as soon as we attack, we'll be taking fire." Pete folded his arms on the table and looked the map over carefully. "What's the terrain like around the town?"

"Bulldozed flat for a few miles in every direction. The only cover is the guard hut, and there's no way that's going to stop fifty cal." Matt sighed. "If we're going to do this, we're going to have to be real quick about it."

"Best way to do it." Pete got up. "Speed. Aggression. Surprise. Where's the kit?"

 

"What's bothering you?" Anna asked, turning in her seat.

Chris looked at her, then turned back to the road. "Can you look at that blue truck in front of us?"

Anna frowned. "O-kay. Why?"

"Just keep looking at it. No matter what I say, keep your eyes on the truck."

"Alright." She was irritated, but Chris' tone convinced her.

"We're being followed." Chris glanced in the rear-view.

Anna forced herself not to look, though it was an effort. "By who? Are you sure?"

"I don't know. And yes, I'm sure. They're good, too." Chris fished his mobile out of his pocket. "I didn't notice them 'til we hit the M1."

"Why would anyone be following us?"

Chris just looked at her.

Anna blushed a little. "I'm not, I mean, anymore. Am I?"

"Not as far as I know." Chris slowed down a little. "They could just be for our protection."

"Really?"

"No." Chris hit the 'redial' button. "Shut up a minute."

It only rang once this time. "Hello?"

"Miss Graham? It's Chris again."

"It's Jenny, and it's good to hear from you. Have you arrived safely?"

Chris didn't know about the rest of her, but he was falling in love with her voice.

"Not yet, we're still on our way. I'm afraid I need a favour."

"Ask away." She sounded pleased.

"I need a few things delivering to Miss Webber's house, in about two hours."

"Certainly. I'll bring it myself. There's some things I need to talk to Miss Webber about."

"Really?" Chris glanced at Anna.

"Really." Jenny confirmed, and Chris could hear her smile again. "It'll be good to meet you."

That stalled Chris' brain a little. "Er, likewise."

"So, Chris what do you need?"

Chris gave his imagination a mental slapping. "Have you got a pen and paper?"

 

"The latest body armour, brand new, ceramic inserts optional." Matt flipped open the lid of the plastic case. "With the plates, this'll stop pretty much anything, even fifty-cal."

He lifted out a bulky black vest and passed it to Pete.

"But a fifty-calibre round will probably still break your ribs." Pete hefted the vest. "Lighter than usual."

"It's not Kevlar." Matt took another vest out of the case. "Some new stuff called Vectran, meant to be twice as strong with two-thirds of the weight."

Without exception, they all took a vest and the ceramic inserts.

"I wouldn't presume to instruct you guys on what guns to choose." Matt waved at the boxes piled around the room. "You've got shotguns, submachine guns, rifles, whatever you want. Leave you to it."

He left the room, whistling softly as he went. Pete looked at Pickering.

"If you want to test one, do so." Pickering said, moving over to a stack of boxes.

Pete laid the vest down and looked at each man in turn. "Pick whatever you want. Just remember we're going to be shooting close up. I'll go and test this armour."

 

"Are they still there?" Anna asked, looking down at her plate.

"Mm-hmm." Chris finished his tea.

"What are you going to do?" She asked as Chris stood up.

He looked down at her quizzically. "Go to the bog. Why? Do you want to hold my hand?"

She flushed. "Piss off." Her gaze went back to her empty plate. "Just hurry up."

Chris moved off, negotiating past a pair of kids busy squabbling over a toy. Their parents watched from a nearby table, obviously too tired to even try and separate them.

The café was busy, being the only services for the next twenty-five miles. The two cars following them had pulled in, refuelled at the adjacent garage, affording Chris a good look at them from his café window seat.

A black Peugeot, three men inside, no visually distinguishing marks.

A light blue Ford, three men and a woman inside, again, no VDM's.

The Ford drove off straight after filling up, while the Peugeot set up in the café car park, and one of the occupants had come in to buy coffee and sandwiches. Chris hadn't even looked at him, pretending to be engrossed in conversation with Anna. The bloke had cast a casual look around as he stood at the counter, and that was it.

They were good, Chris admitted to himself as he entered the toilets. Their only mistake was setting up so close. They could have quite easily have parked outside the garage, or at one of the far ends of the car park, and still kept an eye on the Rover, which was all they had to do.

Chris took out his mobile and called UncleJ again.

"Hello?" It should have been a bit grating the third time, but her cheery voice still made him smile.

"Jenny? It's Chris. Do you have anyone watching us?"

That gave her pause. "No, no-one. Is there a problem?"

"We're being followed. If I give you the registration numbers can you check them out for me?"

"Of course. I'm en route to the Webber farm, but I'll call in some favours. Go ahead."

Chris gave her both numbers, then double-checked them. "Ok?"

"Yes. I've got everything you wanted. How long 'til you arrive at the farm?"

"We'll be there in an hour, hour and a half." Chris stepped aside for a grizzled lorry driver, who gave him a curious look. "Thanks, Jenny."

"My pleasure, Chris. Don't get hurt."

He ended the call and moved back out into the café. "Get some more tea, we'll wait a bit." He sat back down opposite Anna.

She pursed her lips. "How long are we going to be here?"

"I don't know."

"I'm getting so tired of you saying that. It brings on the frigging déjà vu every bloody time." Her voice started to get a little louder, attracting some looks.

Chris leaned over the table, forcing a smile. "That's not very ladylike. Now, behave."

He watched her knuckles go white as she fisted her hands. "I am not a child."

"You're acting like a child." He said softly.

For a moment, he thought he was going to get a faceful of scalding tea. Then she took a deep breath and leaned back. "Arsehole."

 

Crossing the desert in Matt's Suburban, they went over the plan again.

"Oh, so I'm the point man?" Kev threw his hands up. "Why not? Who wouldn't want to run two thousand metres while being shot at?"

"Us." Lukas volunteered. "Which is why you are doing it."

Kev scowled back at him. "I've got three words for you, mate. World War Two."

Lukas raised an eyebrow. "For you, Tommy, zee vor is over."

Kev tried to keep a straight face and failed. "Piss off"

Pickering leaned forward. "Matt, have you got what I asked for?"

"Sure." He leaned forwards and rooted under his seat with one hand, eyes on the road.

Kev checked his weapons again. Heckler & Koch UMP .45, loaded and safetied. The submachine gun was wedged between his feet, stock folded, two full mag carriers beside it. The 23 on his right thigh was loaded and safetied, four spare magazines on his left thigh, the mag carrier a little too tight, cutting into his flesh through his jeans.

Matt found what he was looking for and passed it back. Pickering quickly unwrapped the object.

Pete leaned over a little. "I thought you already carried a Glock?"

Pickering passed him the pistol. "This is a Longslide. Same as the one I've got now, except it's got two more inches on the barrel. More accurate, easier to aim."

Pete looked it over, handed it back. "I'm not competing with you again if you're going to use that."

Pickering knew a peace offering when he heard one. "I need every advantage I can get against you." He smiled, a genuine one this time, and Pete nodded to him in reply.

Lukas took a drink of water. Even with the air conditioning on full blast and sunset approaching, it was still hot. He wondered what it'd be like when he had his body armour on and shook his head. No point worrying about it.

The Remington 870 knocked against his leg as Matt took a corner. Fully loaded, with spare shells in a holder on the stock. The fully choked barrel tapped against his knee as they hit a bump. Lukas looked down between his feet. Two forearm shell holders. A full belt of shells, mostly buck and solid shot with the odd surprise here and there. The Glock 20 on his left thigh was a familiar weight, with full mag carriers on his right thigh and hip.

Pete nudged the PSG 1 aside, taking the proffered bottle from Lukas and drinking deeply. The sniper rifle was for emergencies only, there shouldn't be any shooting beyond fifty metres or so.

As long as the plan worked.

Pete and Pickering had both picked MP5s. Pickering checked the Glock Longslide again and holstered it. Pete left his 23 alone. He'd checked it, it was working fine. He'd become fond of it since the Siberian op.

The body armour was in the boot and Pete had to admit that it had passed with flying colours. He'd shot it with shotguns, pistols and rifles, from point-blank out to three hundred metres and not a single bullet had penetrated, whatever the calibre. This Vectran stuff was better than Kevlar, and lighter. The ceramic plates however, still weighed a bloody ton.

"We're going to drop Kev off about five miles north of the hut." Matt eased up on the accelerator as he spoke. "All you have to do is follow the dirt road, straight south. When you reach the shack, just take out your map and look puzzled."

"No problem." Kev nodded.

"Well be about half a mile west of you. When they cleared the land they just pushed all the dirt and rock into piles and left it. We'll be behind one of those. As soon as the shit hits the fan, I'll drop the hammer," he patted the Suburban's dashboard, "and we'll be in the town before they can do anything except shit their pants."

"Don't skimp on the speed." Kev warned. "I'm going to be taking fire, remember."

Matt nodded. "I know. You just hit those guards and then pull back, you'll be fine. This baby will cover the distance like greased lightning."

"Souped-up engine?" Pickering asked.

"Has to be, to cope with all the armour."

 

Chris pulled in, grinning. Anna's jaw had dropped when she'd caught her first glimpse, and hadn't recovered yet.

There was a new barn where the old one had once stood, bigger and clearly a lot better. The new wood was dark with varnish, almost black under the night sky.

No moon tonight.

Chris got out, one hand on his 23, the other making sure his jacket was clear for a draw.

The house had also been repaired. Every window, broken or not, had been replaced with double-glazing. The front wall, which an alien grenade had taken a bite out of, had been repaired with bricks matching the size of those in the undamaged sections. The colour discrepancy had been covered up by a careful whitewashing job. The front door was new, solid oak with an old-fashioned knocker.

A sporty little MG coupe was parked beside the farm house. Chris watched the driver's door open.

"Stay." He told Anna, and shut the door on her comeback.

He walked, drawing his 23 slowly. If they weren't friendly, they were going to get some bad news.

She swung her legs out and stood, scooping strawberry-blonde hair behind one ear as she turned. "Chris, I presume?" She asked, smiling.

Five metres away, in the dark, Chris could tell she was gorgeous and felt his mouth go dry.

-Get a grip, Davies-

"You'd be Jenny." He felt himself smiling. "Do you mind if I see some ID?"

"Of course not." She delved into a pocket of her charcoal grey suit. "Do you?"

Chris drew his wallet with his free hand and moved closer, still watching her. Too many blokes ended up dead, disarmed by a pretty smile.

But the ID was good, and her photo matched. She looked over his ID, then back to his face. "Great. Mine ok?"

Chris found he was still smiling and tried to stop. He probably looked like a retard.

"Fine, thanks." He holstered his 23 slowly, so she didn't notice. "Did you get everything I asked for?"

"Some of it was a stretch, but yes, I got everything." Another dazzling smile. "I hope it meets your expectations. It's on the passenger seat, if you want to have a look."

Chris opened the door, still a little wary. He had to hurry up and be careful at the same time.

Two large boxes, held in place by the seatbelt. A holdall in the passenger footwell.

He unzipped it. A small Mossberg shotgun. An MP5k. Ammunition. He cracked the seals on the boxes and looked inside.

"Everything to sir's satisfaction?" Jenny asked, circling the car.

Chris grinned at her. "Fantastic. Thank you. Did you check those registration numbers?"

"Oh, yes." Jenny took a seat on the bonnet of the coupe. "I'm afraid they're Hertz rentals, lent out to some Puerto Rican tourists."

Chris frowned. "I've seen most of them, they're not Puerto Ricans. Or if they are, they're very pale Puerto Ricans."

"So who are they?" Jenny asked.

Chris tried to think and look at her at the same time. It just wasn't working. The suit flattered a figure that didn't need flattery to look good.

"Yanks, maybe. We've just come from Menwith Hill." Chris picked up the bag and boxes.

"Puerto Rico is also an American commonwealth state." Jenny chipped in.

"That'd make it easier for them to-"

"Excuse me?"

Chris winced.

"Am I allowed to go into my own house now, or do I have to wait in the car?"

Chris turned slowly.

Anna was stood by the Rover, arms crossed, tapping her foot.

"She's upset and she doesn't mind letting other people know it." Chris murmured to Jenny. "Don't take it personally."

"I'll get the keys." Jenny ducked into the car.

Chris hurried over to Anna. "Here. Grab a box."

She took one from him reluctantly. "Well?"

"Jenny's getting the keys for you now." Chris explained, feeling himself blush under her gaze.

Anna didn't fail to notice. "Oh, Jenny's getting the keys, is she?"

"Be nice. Come on." He turned and headed for the front door.

Jenny hurried over and unlocked the door for them. "We replaced everything that was damaged. I hope you like it?"

Chris didn't have time to admire the décor. He dumped the bag, put the box down beside it and took the second box from Anna. "What I'd like you to do in a minute is go upstairs, and if anything happens, lock yourself in the bog." He grinned at Anna. "I'm sure you remember how to do that."

She scowled.

Chris opened up one of the boxes, took out a compact Glock and loaded a magazine for it. He checked the pistol, loaded it and snapped the slide back, then checked chamber.

Good. No problems.

"I'm not armed." Jenny offered, apologetic.

Chris stared at her. "Sorry?"

"I'm not armed. I'm strictly desk-bound. Sorry." Jenny cleared her throat, a little embarrassed. "I'm sorry if I gave the impression-"

"Ok, never mind." Chris frowned and thought hard. "Ok, take this and go upstairs with Anna."

"I don't know how to use it." Jenny was blushing now.

Chris glanced at Anna.

"I've never fired anything except a shotgun."

"Shit." Chris' brow was in danger of splitting.

"I'm sorry, I didn't think-" Jenny began to apologise again.

"Here." He held the Glock up. "See the trigger?"

"Yes."

"See the little trigger set into it?"

"Yes."

"That's the safety. Make sure your finger is on it when you shoot and off it any other time. When you shoot, make sure the front notch is between and level with the two rear ones, ok?"

Jenny took the pistol.

"Don't point it at anything you're not going to shoot." Chris set about loading the Mossberg and the k. "Go upstairs, now."

"What are you going to do?" Anna asked, even as she headed for the stairs.

"My job." Chris opened the other box.

"What are those?" Anna stopped moving. "My house just got fixed, you're not going to-"

"Just get upstairs." Chris snapped, glaring at her.

She backed away, spun on her heel and hurried upstairs. Jenny paused. "Good luck."

"Thanks." Chris didn't look up from what he was doing. "Any chance of a rescue?"

"I've got my mobile. I could call the police."

"Don't we want to keep this quiet?"

"Good point."

"Anyone at X-INV who can help us?"

"No. We've got someone minding the office, but she's not very experienced."

"Not to mention she's a few hundred miles away." Chris shrugged. "Doesn't matter. Go on upstairs."

"Thank you, Chris."

Her tone made him look up. "What for?"

"They're not coming to slap our wrists, are they?" Jenny summoned up a small smile. "Thank you for risking your life."

"I haven't done anything yet." Lie. "They might not even turn up."

They might not turn up. But they were going to. Soon.

"Thank you anyway." She followed Anna upstairs, the Glock held tightly in her hand.

Chris took the strap off the k and fastened it to the Mossberg. Grenades went in his jacket pockets. He got up, slinging the shotgun across his back. He looked down at the contents of the second box and grinned.

Front toward enemy, eh?

This was going to hurt.

[FullAuto]

Kev strolled down the road, whistling to himself. The backpack was light, filled with two rolled-up blankets to make it bulge. The UMP was slung across his back, hidden by the backpack.

Even lightly loaded, with the sun going down off to his right, its rays not even reaching over the horizon anymore, just a fading golden band above the dark desert, he was hot. The baggy shirt and long coat were too much, and the baseball cap soaked up the sweat on his forehead immediately, rubbing the skin raw.

But he had to look the part, and the clothes had to hide the pistol, the body armour and the magazines.

The hem of the coat snapped around his ankles as a wind picked up, rolling out of the desert, cold and alone, not even a tumbleweed for company.

The shack was close now, five hundred metres, and he knew they were watching him. He wanted to check his gun. He wanted a drink. He felt the first stirrings of adrenaline and with it, the sudden urgent need, as always, to piss.

What, Kev wondered, was the possible evolutionary use of that? You get scared therefore you piss. Not much use these days, if it had ever been.

He could see the buildings beyond the shack, some of them skeletal, some just squat silhouettes. The tower block rose over them all, like the inner keep of a once-great castle.

-With defenders still on the ramparts-

Kev looked for activity and saw none, though it was getting darker and spotting anyone from here was unlikely. More than likely, the entire security force knew they had a man approaching and were watching him through scopes, cameras, or just listening in over their radios.

He reached the hut and swept his baseball cap off, running one hand through his hair. It was sweat-soaked, matted to his head.

-Time to play the dickhead-

He frowned at the buildings, then turned and looked back the way he had came. Then he turned back to the buildings and pulled a map out of his coat pocket, flipping it open with one hand and scratching his head with the other. Assuming a vaguely upset expression, he stretched the map out in front of him, taut between his hands. He examined it in the fading light for a whole five minutes before the door to the hut opened.

“Can I help you, sir?” The man stepped out, swinging the door closed behind him.

He looked the part. High-leg brown boots, green jacket and trousers, and a flat-rimmed stetson. The massive chromed revolver that sat on his hip didn’t look regulation, though.

Nor did the discreet white earpiece.

Kev gave him a smile. “I seem to have got lost.” He said, in his best American accent.

The man smiled, striding forward. “Let’s have a look at that map.”

Kev handed it over, shrugging his backpack off.

The man looked at the map, then up at Kev, then back to the map. “Sir, this is a map of Kansas.”

“Yep.” Kev unslung the UMP.

“But you’re in-”

Kev settled the UMP and fired. The .45 rounds smashed the guard back against the wall of the hut, splattering blood across the wall in a frenzied spray.

He was dead before he hit the floor.

Two steps and Kev hit the door, one powerful kick just below the handle smashing it open. He swept the interior with one long burst and stepped aside, reloading.

One of them was screaming.

Kev ducked in, body firing on all cylinders, adrenaline pumping his muscles, widening his eyes, flaring his nostrils, drawing his lips back in a snarl.

The interior was dimly lit. One guard was dead, red holes stitched across his back. One was struggling, clawing at a chair and screaming, legs twisted brokenly.

The third shot him, a solid impact in the back of the leg that sent him sprawling. Kev rolled and turned, firing wildly, rounds chopping into the floor and ceiling, slamming into the walls, hitting everything but the third guard.

-Didn’t check your corners you stupid stupid wanker-

Rounds sliced over his head, muzzle flash not two metres from his face, and blind to everything Kev fired his UMP, emptying the rest of the magazine in one defiant roar, sending rounds right into the muzzle flash, stacking them in a thick line above and below it.

 

“There we go.” Matt hit the accelerator and swung the wheel.

The Suburban lunged out into the open, leaving the rubble behind, tyres digging up a spume of dust as the treads clawed the ground.

“Get down. The glass won’t stop-”

A round sparked off the bonnet and smashed into the windscreen, leaving a white crescent-shaped dent.

“At least it stops ricochets.” Pete said, dropping down into the footwell and ducking his head.

The body armour didn’t make it easy. It wasn’t very flexible, and the extra girth meant he was firmly wedged between the lip of the seat and the dashboard.

“If I get hit, remember to grab the wheel.” Matt said, hunching down as best he could.

“If I can move.” Pete grunted.

 

Kev got up and almost fell straight back down. Pain, not much, but it was getting worse. He twisted awkwardly, trying to spot the wound. No luck. Blood was running down his leg from somewhere though. Time to leave, anyway.

He explored his leg. No hole. He lifted his foot.

Pain spiked up his back.

“Christ.” He lowered his leg.

He explored up the back of his leg with a tentative hand, and hissed when he found the wound.

“Shot in the frigging arse.” He limped to the door, teeth gritted. “You bastard.”

He glanced at the guard.

Propped in the corner, head lolling against the wall, his guts hanging out. The rounds had ripped him open from throat to stomach in one long tear.

Kev spat and leaned against the doorframe. No incoming yet. The guards hadn’t had time to get off a warning, but surely-

He heard the crack of rifle fire and lurched out into the desert, face a grim sweaty mask.

Right on the periphery of their range, he’d still have to dance to get out alive. With a hole in his arse.

[FullAuto]

"Go" Matt yelled, twisting the wheel viciously.

The Suburban went into a long skid, raking up a thick tail of dust as it slid across the ground. Pete shoved open his door, squirmed out of the footwell and jumped out, MP5 in hand.

His foot caught on the seatbelt and he landed flat on the rocky ground.

Matt opened his door and leaned out, pistol in hand.

Lukas emerged, the muzzle of his shotgun leading the way.

Pickering got out, MP5 at the ready. He began moving towards the nearest building when the guards came around the corner.

 

"Bastards" Kev panted. "You're all bastards"

Another bullet slammed into the ground ahead, kicking up dust.

He jinked left, moving as quickly as he could hunched over, UMP cradled in his arms.

A burst of .50 calibre chopped into a rock, sending chips of stone slicing into his legs.

He staggered, angled off to the right and then back left and kept his head down.

 

Machine gun fire raked the Suburban.

Pete rolled, firing as he did so, lacing rounds into every target he could see.

-Body armour, put them down then finish them off-

Pickering fired a long burst into the nearest guard, putting twenty rounds into him in a blaze of fire.

Lukas nailed two, shotgun blasts flinging them about like rag dolls.

Matt got the last one, a clean head shot that splashed the building with blood.

"Go." Pete struggled to his feet. "Move, come on"

Lukas ran to the corner, looked round it. Pickering moved up behind him.

Pete kicked the loop of seatbelt off his foot and followed.

They moved round the corner as one, Lukas covering the front, Pickering the left, Pete taking the rear. With the building to their right, shoulders scraping the walls as they ran, they had all the fields of fire covered.

"Stay close to the buildings, remember the snipers." Pickering reminded them.

Pete hardly heard him.

They reached the corner and stopped, looking for targets. Lukas checked the corner, kneeling and popping his head around.

A single guard, three metres, rifle raised, looking over his shoulder at something behind him.

Lukas raised his shotgun. "Contact front"

The guard turned quickly enough to make eye contact as Lukas shot him. The blast knocked him down, dropped him flat on his arse in the dirt.

The guard simply sat for a second, rifle held loosely in his hands, legs stretched out in fornt of him.

When he raised his rifle Lukas shot him again.

Pickering was covering Lukas and didn't see more guards coming from behind another building.

"Contact left" Pete yelled.

A three-round burst from his MP5 chopped into a guard's leg, ripping thigh muscle.

Return fire cracked into the wall by his head, blinding his left eye in a whirl of dust.

Pickering swivelled and fired, stepping back from the corner, putting rounds into one guard and kneeling to reload.

Lukas turned and emptied his shotgun, working the pump so fast it sounded like an automatic.

The shells ripped chunks out of the walls as the guards fled back around the corner.

Pete dropped flat to reload, pushing a mag into his gun as he hunched to wipe his face on his upper arm.

"Reloading." Lukas snarled, thumbing shells into the shotgun.

Bullets nipped at the ground and scarred the wall next to him. He glanced round the corner.

More guards.

Pickering pulled a grenade and lobbed it at the corner. It hit the ground and rolled in a semicircle, coming to rest neatly against the wall.

The guards screamed and ran, sprinting away.

Two ducked around the corner, straight into a wall of 9mm from Pete's MP5.

The grenade went off, most of the explosion slamming harmlessly against the wall, kicking up a thick billow of dust.

Lukas aimed around the corner and fired.

The first shell bit a ragged piece from the wall. The second ripped a guard's arm in half at the elbow in a bloody crescent of destroyed flesh. The third smashed a rifle to pieces, fragments slicing the guard to a raw bloody mess. The fourth punched into a guard's face like a fist of lead, smashing his skull in, exiting through the back of his cranium and tearing the helmet from his head.

Lukas ducked back around the corner as return fire raked the wall.

"We're flanked" Pete snarled, getitng up and rubbing at his blinded eye furiously.

"I know" Pickering tried to see through the dust kicked up by the grenade. "Keep going"

Lukas ran, moving round the corner, shotgun up and ready. Bullets hummed by, parting the air with a sound like bees on amphetamines.

Two guards were still alive.

The first one was trying to fire his pistol, retreat and get up at the same time.

The second was just sat there, face and hands ripped to shreds.

Lukas gave them a shell each and moved past, the heat from the shotgun barrel washing over his hands. Pickering was on his heels, sweeping each body with the muzzle of his MP5, ready for anyone playing possum.

Pete dropped a smoke grenade and followed.

Lukas turned the corner and ran straight into another squad.

The first guard took two shells, one in the chest and one in the neck. His head popped off in a spurt of blood.

The second guard fired a single shot.

It hit Lukas in the chest but he was already swinging. The shotgun butt smashed into the guard's face and his cheekbone collapsed with a brittle crack. He dropped his rifle and clutched his dented face.

The other two guards opened fire. Their bullets hammered into the injured guard, shoving him at Lukas.

Lukas jabbed his shotgun into the guard's gut and folded him up neatly, one hand snatching his pistol.

Pickering turned the corner and got a bullet for his trouble, spinning him to the floor.

Lukas shoved the guard away and cleared his Glock, bringing it up into aim.

He sighted on the guard's face and had time to see the eyes widen in shock.

The first 10mm round drilled in between those baby-blues.

As the light went out of the guard's eyes Lukas tracked right, still squeezing the trigger repeatedly.

He put two bullets in the dead guard's shoulder, sent one between the falling corpse and the last guard, then got on target.

Shoulder. Chest.

He let the recoil lift his aim.

Neck.

The guard dropped his rifle and clamped both hands over the gush of blood.

Pete put a three-round burst into his head.

Blood still squirting out between his fingers, the man dropped to the floor.

Pickering got up, holding his side. "Christ."

"Keep moving." Pete turned and looked back round the corner.

Guards were coming out of the smoke, low and slow, rifles aimed.

Pete bounced a grenade off the opposite wall and moved back.

No-one saw it.

The frag grenade detonated in the middle of the squad and turned them into raw meat, hot metal slicing tendon and muscle, shattering bone and severing veins.

Lukas reloaded his Glock and his shotgun. Pickering pressed a hand to his side.

The vest had stopped the bullet easily, but it still hurt, like a good kidney punch.

"You alright?" Pete asked, vainly rubbing at his eye.

"Winded." Pickring turned to Lukas. "You?"

"I am fine." Lukas worked the pump, priming the shotgun. "Let's go."

They set off again, quickly and smoothly falling into place, overlapping their fields of fire where possible, watching every avenue of attack, scanning corners and rooftops as they ran, the world reduced to what they saw through their sights.

Pickering turned to Pete. "Two more streets, then we're on Main Street. Get an M72 ready."

Pete nodded, unslinging the olive green tube. About two feet long, resembling nothing more than a piece of plastic pipe, which in essence it was, the M72 looked fairly innocuous. Until Pete pulled the rear section, with telescoped out, and flicked the sights up.

Now it was a Light Antitank Weapon, ready to go.

MP5 in one hand, M72 in the other, he followed Lukas and Pickering.

 

Kev crouched behind a rock and considered his options.

A bullet slammed into the stone and ricocheted away. Kev winced and took a drink of water. His arse was really starting to hurt and his leg was cramping up.

This far away, all he could hear was the crackle of small arms fire, and not much else. Individual shots were difficult to pick out, and there was no way to determine if he was still being-

Bullets hammered the ground around him, kicking dust into his face. He scowled, spitting grit out of his mouth.

"Bastards."

 

They heard what none of them had wanted to hear. The clank-rattle of tracks and the dull bass rumble of a large engine.

Lukas sprinted up to the corner and looked around it. "Bradley"

Pete moved up and leaned around the corner.

The armoured vehicle surged out onto the street, the size of a tank, it's armoured bulk looming as the turret swung round, motors whining.

Every weapon it had, the 25mm chain gun, the TOW missiles and the coaxial machine gun were on that turret.

Pete dropped his MP5, set the M72 on his shoulder. "Clear"

Pickering moved away, well aware that the backblast could seriously burn him.

Pete lined up the fore and rear sights, pressed the arming handle and fired.

The recoil was negligble. The rocket shot out, spring-loaded fins opening like bizarre petals around a flower of flame.

It hit the Bradley where the turret joined the chassis and detonated, the high explosive warhead detonating in a bloom of smoke, shrapnel thrown outwards in a deadly rain as fire filled the interior and immolated the crew.

The blast deafened Pete and Lukas winced as his eardrum started to bleed.

It hadn't had chance to heal properly, only a week after the Russian op.

"They've called the squad down off the tower block roof."

"Ok, Matt. Go pick Kev up." Pickering moved back up. "Right-"

Eight guards burst out of the tower block on the other side of Main Street.

Pickering sidestepped away from the wall, firing on full auto, sweeping the muzzle back and forth across the group.

Pete dropped flat, throwing the empty launcher away and grabbing his MP5.

Lukas ran, emptying his shotgun as he made for the cover of the burning Bradley.

Two guards died and the others overcame their shock, returning fire with pistols and .50 calibre rifles.

Pete recognised the rifles as he brought his MP5 up into aim.

Barrett M95's, .50 calibre bolt actions. Unwieldy at this range.

A .50 calibre bullet smashed into the wall above him and a chunk of stone dropped onto his shoulder.

Pete replied with a three-round burst, shooting the guard in his gritted teeth.

More bullets struck close by. He was the main target, the one lying in the dirt, not moving.

He switched to full auto, held down the trigger and rolled.

The arc of fire swept through the squad, most of the bullets missing.

But some found their mark.

A guard fell, clutching his shattered knee. Another screamed and toppled forward, ankle almost destroyed.

Pickering reloaded and hosed them down with 9mm as Lukas dropped his shotgun and drew his Glock, firing well-aimed double-taps at those left standing.

A round sparked off the Bradley by Lukas' head.

He ducked to reload.

Pickering, out in the open, charged the last two guards.

One ran. One stood his ground, working the bolt on his rifle, snarling and swearing as he raised the gun.

Pickering's 9mm bullet hit him in the face and glanced off his cheek, leaving a furrow where blood ran over gleaming white bone.

Lukas double-tapped him in the head. Both were stopped by the guard's helmet.

Pete gave him a three-round burst.

The guard's leg folded, the shattered femur slicing up out of the muscle, a blade of bone that projected from mid-thigh as the leg bent unnaturally.

The guard fired. The bullet sliced open Pickering's forearm and burnt his neck, a hot stinging kiss as it lanced up into the air.

Pickering stood over the guard and fired, a single final note.

The last guard disappeared round a corner as Lukas chased him with bullets.

"Well?" Pete got up, holding his blinded eye open, allowing it to water and wash the dirt out.

Pickering pointed to a small building, ten metres down the street from the wrecked Bradley. "That's the only access point to the labs."

"Let's get on with it then." Pete reloaded his MP5. "Guards inside?"

"Yes." Pickering pulled out a fresh mag. "Anywhere between four to twelve."

Lukas worked the Remington pump. The smooth steely click-clack sounded like death.

 

Chris watched the first car come down the road, lights off, engine quiet.

They were good. They wanted to hit the farm quietly, but have the vehicles close by. So they turned the engines off after getting up a bit of speed and cruised in.

It was the Peugeot, swinging smoothly off the road, oily black in the darkness. It swung in a smooth circle and the doors opened as it slid to a gentle halt, next to the farmhouse.

Chris triggered the first Claymore.

Situated on the step of the front door, the Claymore antipersonnel mine was in the perfect position, covering the entire yard.

It exploded. Shaped to create a killing zone of ninety degrees with a range of fifty metres, the crescent-shaped wedge of C4 propelled seven hundred steel balls out in an arc two metres in height.

The Peugeot, three metres away, was destroyed.

Every pane of window was shattered. The tyres were shredded. The ball bearings punched through the car body like it was paper, wrecking the engine, holing the battery, rupturing the fuel tank, smashing the steering column and killing two of the occupants.

The passenger, shielded by the body of the driver, only took half a dozen of the steel balls, four in the legs, one in the neck and one through his right hand.

He shoved the door open and fell out, everything forgotten but the need to get away, his free hand clamped over the hole in his neck.

The Ford tried to turn away, but it was already halfway into the yard and only succeeded in hitting the wall, scraping paint off its flank in a shriek of friction.

Chris triggered the second Claymore.

Positioned against the yard wall, facing inwards towards the farmouse, the mine went off. Another wave of ball bearings moving at a terminal velocity swept the yard.

The passenger from the Peugeot was miraculously unharmed as he crawled for cover.

The Ford got off lightly. Both back tyres popped. The two men on the back seat died, heads splattered to mush. The driver fell out, one hand clamped over the hole where an eye used to be. The passenger got out and ran.

Chris put a shell into his back, knocking him flat.

The passenger from the Peugeot tried to draw a weapon, hand searching inside his jacket.

Chris dropped from the hayloft onto the Rover, then jumped down to the ground. He hurried out of the barn, the Mossberg in his hands. "Don't."

The wounded man looked up, pistol in hand.

"Drop it."

The man weighed his options.

Chris shot him and moved on.

The driver of the Ford was sat with his back to the car, both hands clamped over his face, blood dribbling between his fingers.

"Help." He said. "My eye."

Chris shot him.

The man hunched over, one hand now pressed to his chest as he curled up around the pain.

Chris quickly checked the occupants of both cars and saw they were clearly and unmistakeably dead. He strolled over to the last man.

"Here's one I shot earlier." He murmured, toeing the body.

The man groaned and tried to move. Chris shot him in the back.

He looked around, and for the first time noticed the damage. The farmhouse was pocked with holes, all the windows were shattered and the front door would now make a fairly good window.

He winced. Anna was going to kill him.

 

"Well?"

"Nothing." Lukas shook his head.

The second Bradley roared out into the street.

Pete fired on reflex and the rounds sparked harmlessly off its armoured flank.

"Shit shit" Pickering disappeared around a corner as the metal beast smashed aside its wrecked brother in a squeal of tortured steel.

Pete was firing and couldn't stop, a ricochet thudding into the ground by his feet as the vehicle roared forward, turret turning.

Lukas grabbed him and hauled him behind a corner as the Bushmaster chain gun spat out 25mm rounds.

A stone the size of a man's head was carved away from the corner.

"Jesus" They retreated further as the wall disintegrated, chewed away.

Pickering, on the other side of the building, readied an M72. At this range, he'd hae to duck back around the corner quickly or catch some shrapnel in the face.

He leaned out, fired and moved back.

Instead of an explosion, there was a clang that made his bones reverberate and the rocket took a piece out of the tower block.

He peered round the corner.

The Bradley was turning, with only a slight dent in the rear hatch.

-Shit-

He pulled his head back in and thought furiously. Why hadn't it worked? Range wasn't the problem, he was right in close.

No. It was the problem. He was too close. The rocket hadn't had time to arm.

-Shit-

Lukas slung his shotgun and hefted the M72.

A TOW missile obliterated the corner, rocks spewing outwards from the explosion, the blast knocking them both off their feet.

The Bradley came around the corner, turret already aimed in their direction, the muzzle of the Bushmaster an evil eye.

Lukas fired. The backblast scalded Pete's leg and he rolled away, snarling.

The rocket hit the Bradley and exploded, ripping it open, sending a length of track into the air like a striking snake.

The Bushmaster gouged a hole in the wall, bullets cratering the stone as the gunner squeezed the trigger in a death grip.

They crawled in under the bullets and Lukas burned his hand tossing a grenade into the burning hole made by the rocket, blisters breaking out as he moved back.

The HE grenade exploded. The rear hatch, already blown open by the M72, was ripped free. The turret hatch spun into the air like a flipped coin.

They ran before it landed on them.

 

"Christ." Kev crawled onto the back seat.

"What's wrong with you?" Matt looked back. "Shit."

He swung out of the Suburban and looked in. Kev unfastened the mag carrier from his leg and gasped with relief. What little blood flow there was now felt much better.

"You've been shot in the ass." Matt took a step back.

"I know, it's my arse." Kev got his jeans down, hissing in pain as the soaked material pulled away from the wound. "Shitting shit it."

"We'll sort that out before we go back in." Matt circled round to the boot and opened it, pulling out a medical kit. "Ok, time to pick up the soap, son."

 

"Wait for them?" Lukas looked up at Pete.

"Go in now, they can catch up." Pete nodded to the door.

Pickering took care of the lock, swiping a card through the reader and tapping a PIN number into the keypad.

The door swung open silently. Inside it was dark and cool. The interior was entirely bare, five metres by five, perhaps three metres in height.

"It's just one big lift." Pickering crossed over to the back wall and tapped on another keypad. "Code's been changed."

Pete joined him. The keypad was set into the centre of a small metal panel.

Pete nodded at the keypad. "Lukas."

He let it have some 12-bore bad news. The panel fell open, hanging by one hinge.

Pickering reached into the revealed recess and pressed something. The whole room trembled and with a harsh clanking, descended into the ground.

 

"What have you done?" Anna came out into the yard. "What have you done?"

Chris gave her a wide berth. "Jenny?"

She was already on the phone. "Yes, tonight. No, tonight. Never mind the questions, just get them here."

Chris glanced back. Anna was surveying the damage. But there was nothing burning, no screams, no light or sounds.

Hopefully, no one would turn up to investigate the loud bangs.

Jenny folded her mobile away. "Clean up crew is already on the way, should be here in two hours."

"Excellent, thank you." Chris ran a hand over his face. "Do we have somewhere to interrogate people?"

"X-INV has several facilities in London." Jenny nodded. "Why?"

"Some of them are alive." Chris fished in his pocket.

"I thought you-"

He produced a shotgun shell, it's navy blue colour almost black in the night. "Rubber bullets."

"Oh." Jenny took it from him and looked at it. "Well done."

"Thanks. One of them's a bit knacked, lost a lot of blood, but I've put him on some saline, should keep him going. One's missing an eye, looks like shrapnel, bit of glass maybe. They'll both need surgery." Chris set the shotgun down. "They haven't got any ID, there's no serial numbers on their guns. Completely sterile. Americans, though."

"The Opposition." Jenny closed her hand around the shotgun shell.

"What?" The phrase made him pay attention.

"The Opposition. It's what we call those who want to surrender."

Chris looked back at the wrecked cars and dead bodies. "Are you telling me...we've got a bit of a scrap going on-"

"With our own side, effectively, yes. Excuse me." Jenny got back on her mobile.

So much for a united front, Chris thought, sitting down.

-Five minutes, then do a quick clean up-

His lung was throbbing with pain. He laid down and put a hand on the wound. Killing our own while fighting aliens. Brilliant way to start a war.

 

The doors slid apart smoothly, noiselessly. After a second's pause, they moved out into the corridor that stretched out before them.

Lukas spotted a camera and smashed it with the butt of his shotgun. Pickering and Pete advanced, moving slowly, sliding along the walls.

The corridor was concrete and steel, harshly lit with bare flourescent tubes, partially stripped wires snaking from them to wind sinously across the ceiling. The door at the end, thirty metres away, was solid, shining steel, a large red 'A' emblazoned in the centre.

Pete thought back to Pickering's briefing of the underground structure.

Section A was the living quarters and cafeteria. Section B was offices. Section C was the labs, which were divided into five zones. And Section D, which was what they were here for.

"I hope you've got the code for this one." Pete said as they reached the door.

The charges they'd brought wouldn't even dent it.

Pickering tapped a number into the keypad. The door clunked and Pete pushed it open. Another corridor, but this one was carpeted and although the walls were concrete, they were painted a deep soothing green. The lighting was soft and warm.

Pete raised his eyebrows.

Pickering shrugged. "They're stuck down here for months at a time. They need to be comfortable."

Pete moved through the doorway, steps silenced by the thick carpet. Numbered doors lined both sides of the corridor. It was like stepping into a posh hotel.

Pickering eased in, followed by Lukas.

"Ok, let's get it done." Pete knocked on the first door.

"Yeah?"

Pete knocked again, slinging his MP5. Lukas moved up beside him.

The door opened. "I said-"

Lukas used the butt of his shotgun again. The man folded up, his glasses falling off his face. Pete pushed him inside. Lukas and Pickering followed.

Pete gave the man a minute to recover, helping him into a chair. "What's your name?"

"Who..."

Pete slapped him. "What's your name?"

"Gordon." The man straightened up slightly, hands holding his gut, looking at each of them. "Gordon Freeman."

"Ok. You're a scientist?"

"I have a doctorate in theoretical physics."

"Ok. How many guards?"

"I don't-"

Pete slapped him.

"I don't-"

Pete slapped him.

"Four"

"Don't." Pete said, leaning in close. "I'm warning you now. Don't."

"Two in the cafeteria. They're having dinner. Two in D, on duty." Freeman swallowed, both hands still on his stomach.

Pete loomed. "What do you know about section D?"

Freeman, who was already pale, fainted.

"Great." Pete closed his eyes and shook his head. "Lukas."

Lukas took out a set of plasticuffs and shoved Freeman off the chair. He hit the ground with a soft thud. Lukas rolled him onto his front and cuffed his hands behind his back. "Good interrogation."

"You would know." Pete responded, smiling weakly. "For you, Tommy, the war is over, and all that."

Lukas grinned.

Someone knocked on the door. They stood and levelled their weapons.

"Gordon, you dropped your glasses again." The door swung open slowly.

The man in the doorway was small and fat, peering down at a clipboard and proffering the glasses blindly.

Pickering grabbed his wrist and hauled him inside. Lukas kicked the door shut.

Pete grabbed a fistful of the man's lab coat. "What's your name?"

 

"You bring me back just to destroy the place again."

Chris sighed and closed his eyes, praying for patience.

"Do you enjoy blowing holes in other people's property? Or is it just mine?"

Chris got up and went through to the kitchen. The whole place had been refurbished. But the kettle was in the same place.

"Is that your job? To go around and just kill people and blow holes in things?"

Chris pretended to consider it. "Actually, yes. That's pretty much it."

"I don't want you here." She shouted through from the living room.

He made two cups of tea and carried them through. "If I go, it means you'll end up dead."

"We all die." She sounded more and more bitter with every word.

"Mmm." Chris sipped his tea. "But not tonight."

"What?" That made her turn away from the window.

"Whoever sent them knows where you are." He put his tea down. "They won't try again soon, but they will try again. That's why I'm here."

Anna hugged herself.

"You don't have to like me, or what I do. But you don't have to give me an earful of shit, either." Chris tried to calm down and found he couldn't. "In case you missed it, I killed people, just out there, not too long ago."

Anna stayed silent, and looked back out of the window.

"It is my job, and it's unpleasant, but I do it because most people can't bring themselves to, and they fanny about and whinge and moan, just like you're doing now. I don't expect to be given medals, but I do expect a bit of frigging peace afterwards." He realised he was panting for breath, and sank back in his seat, wincing as his lung tightened.

"I'm sorry." She said simply, and went upstairs.

"Shit." He swore under his breath, then went upstairs, pressing a hand to his side.

 

"Through this door." Pickering said.

"Slot them?" Pete asked.

"Alive, if possible. If they piss about, kill them. Lukas, you're crowd control." Pickering nodded. "Ready?"

They exploded into the cafeteria.

"Get your hands up" Lukas roared. "This is a raid"

He fired his shotgun into the ceiling.

The dozen scientists stopped mid-meal and stared, too surprised to even dive for the floor. The two guards moved.

One ran for a door at the back of the room, weaving between the tables. One drew his pistol and started shooting.

Pete returned fire, missing as he tripped on a chair, bullets splashing lasagne all over the guard's face.

Pickering hurdled a table and tackled the runner. They hit the floor hard.

Lukas blasted the guard off his feet. Pete ducked and fired under the table, mixing blood and sauce in a long smear of crimson.

Pickering pinned the guard, headbutted him and dropped an elbow into his face with all his weight behind it.

Teeth gouged his arm. The edge of a hand chopped at his neck.

Pickering leaned back and drew his Glock, jamming the muzzle under the guard's chin. "Don't."

The guard stopped fighting and let his arms fall by his sides.

Pickering heard the soft snick of a safety and fired.

"I said don't." Pickering got up, picking the pistol out of the guard's hand.

He switched the safety back on and stuck it in his belt.

"What was that 'this is a raid' stuff about?" Pete asked Lukas as they cuffed the scientists.

Lukas shrugged. "Always wanted to say it."

 

"I suppose it's because I have no one else to blame." Anna said, curled up on the bed.

Her legs were drawn up to her chest and trapped there by the circle of her arms.

"It's not like I can take it out on them." She nodded towards the yard.

Chris moved wordlessly to the bed and sat down.

"I haven't coped very well, with what happened," she struggled, "before. I'm not coping very well with what's happening now. I'm sorry."

Chris watched the walls she'd erected break down.

"I don't know what's going on, I don't have any family, there's just the farm and it's-" She buried her face against her legs and sobbed.

Chris moved closer and then stopped, suddenly unsure. Then he reached out, very slowly, and put his arms around her.

She returned the embrace with a ferocity that made him gasp in pain.

 

"Well, we can't pass through Section C directly." Pickering said, checking his MP5. "Zones one through four we'd be fine for, but zone five is impossible to get into unless you have the proper vaccinations. Or you want to die."

"So?" Pete reloaded his MP5 out of habit.

He'd only used six rounds in the cafeteria and Section B had been cleared with no problems.

"So, we have to take a bit of a detour."

"No problem." Lukas pointed back down the corridor. "Here's Kev."

Kev limped towards them, UMP in his hands. "Alright, wankers?"

"You alright?" Pete asked, noting the bloodstained jeans.

"Had worse on my paper round." Kev grinned. "Thought you'd have finished by now. What did you do, stop for a bit of tea?"

"Waiting for you to catch up, actually." Pete turned back to Pickering. "Let's go."

 

Chris woke up, slowly.

He was warm and comfortable. His chest didn't hurt much. There was a weight on his right arm.

He turned to look.

Anna was sleeping peacefully, her head resting on his shoulder. He could feel her warm naked length against him.

He blinked. She was still there.

-How did that happen-

He stared up at the ceiling.

-The mad shagger strikes again-

He grinned.

 

"Don't shoot" The guard pleaded.

Pickering had him cold. The guard's face filled the sight.

Pete had a clean shot at him too and eased up into view from behind the desk. "Put it down."

The guard dropped his shotgun. "Don't shoot, ok? Please, don't shoot."

"Pistol too." Pete said, keeping control over his trigger finger.

The problem in situations like this was not shooting fast enough, but stopping yourself from shooting. Balancing on that fine edge.

The guard's hand went to his holster.

"Thumb and forefinger only." Pete warned.

The guard closed his eyes, his mouth moving in prayer. He eased the pistol out and dropped it next to the shotgun.

"Now turn around."

The guard turned on the spot, hands by his sides.

Pickering took one quick step and smashed a fist into the base of the guard's skull. He went down, out cold. Pete plasticuffed him and kicked the guns outside the office.

"Kev?"

"No bother, boss. Lukas gave him a bit of shotgun to chew on."

"Okay. We'll be with you in a second." Pete checked the plasticuffs, then followed Pickering out of the security office and down to the last section of the underground installation.

"Caught him napping." Kev hiked a thumb at the guard plasticuffed into a chair, blood running down his face. "Woke up just as I was doing his hands."

"Don't open that door." The guard mumbled, spitting more blood.

Pete frowned.

"That's all he's been saying." Kev shrugged. "Proper broken record."

"Please, don't open that door. Please." The guard looked at each of them, then returned his gaze to Pete. "Don't."

"Why?"

The guard gritted his teeth. His eyes closed. "Don't."

"Well?" Pete raised an eyebrow.

"We have to. We need all the samples, and they're in there." Pickering shrugged. "If we don't, it was pointless coming here."

"Go and get your inside man." Pete told him.

"I really don't think-"

"Go and get him." Pete said. "Please."

Pickering sighed and left.

"Go with him, Lukas." Pete ordered, turning back to the guard. "Why don't you want us to open the door?"

"I can't tell you." The tension went out of the guard.

Pete scowled. "Why?"

"They won't let me."

"Who?"

"Can't tell you."

Kev shook his head. "Do you want me to slap him about a bit, boss? He's taking the piss."

A smile flickered on the guard's face.

"See?" Kev drew back a fist. "Right, you little shit-"

Pete caught his hand. "Hang on." He knelt beside the guard. "Who won't let you?"

"Can't tell you."

"Why won't they let you?"

The guard's eyes flicked open with a speed that made Pete flinch. "They don't want you to know."

Kev groaned. "Boss."

"What don't they want us to know?" Pete asked.

The guard stiffened, and his gaze moved to the door. "Can't tell you."

Kev was grinning. "Talk about a piss-take, boss. He's just winding you up."

"Can't tell you." The guard said again, grinning now, showing bloodstained teeth. "Can't tell you."

Kev clipped him round the ear. "Don't push it."

"Can't tell you." The guard looked at Pete, his eyes glazed.

Pete found himself standing, taking a step back and raising his MP5.

The guard looked at Kev. Kev took an involuntary step back.

"What the fu-"

"Can't tell you" The guard screamed, throwing his head back and bucking so hard the chair jerked across the corridor. "Can't tell you! Can't tell you! Can't tell you"

Kev had the UMP ready without realising it.

"Can't tell you! Can't tell you! Can't tell you! Can't tell you"

They backed away from the thrashing figure.

"Can'ttellyoucan'ttellyoucan'ttellyoucan'ttellyoucan

[FullAuto]

Pete got the blood out of his eyes and stared.

The guard’s head had exploded.

He looked around for a shooter, already knowing there wouldn’t be one.

His head had exploded. Like there was an explosive charge in his brain. The spray pattern was all wrong, this wasn’t a gunshot, there was blood and gobs of brain on the ceiling for God’s sake. There was a neck, which ended in a ragged stump, from which blood dripped.

Pete could see the throat, the carotid, the jugular, even the pale spinal cord and the gleaming white vertebrae. But no foreign matter, no shrapnel, nothing. He turned away, nauseous.

He’d seen worse.

-Just-

“What did you do?” Pickering shouted.

“Oh shit.” Kev turned away from the body, looking decidedly pale.

“What did you do? He was cuffed to the bloody chair, for Christ’s sake!” Pickering drew closer, Lukas and a scientist in tow. “What did you do?”

“Nothing.” Kev croaked, sinking down onto his haunches.

He saw, lying against the opposite wall, an eyeball. He shut his eyes and swallowed the bile that surged into his mouth.

-Get a grip, Hawkins-

“Nothing? His head just frigging exploded, did it?” Pickering snarled.

Pete could only nod.

Pickering grabbed hold of Kev’s body armour and hauled him up. “What did you do?”

Kev shoved him away. “Nothing! He started screaming and then his head burst like a frigging balloon. Alright?”

Pickering stared at him. “Either you’ve both gone mad-”

“Or we’re telling the truth.” Pete finished. “You. What’s on the other side of that door?”

“I can’t tell you.” The scientist replied miserably.

He was tall and thin, mid-forties, with thinning hair and deep bags under his eyes. His nametag said Andrew Dexter.

“Not another one!” Kev complained. “Christ, I’ll shoot him in the head now and save us some time!”

Pickering glared at him. “Shut up.”

“I can’t tell you.” Dexter repeated. “But if you come along to the security office, I can show you.”

They all stared at him.

“Why can’t you tell us?” Kev asked.

Dexter gulped. “If you keep asking me, I’ll end up like him.”

They all glanced at the headless guard.

“It’d be kinder to shoot me. So let me show you.”

They followed him to the security office.

 

Pete and Lukas went stag on the doorway as Dexter turned a computer monitor on.

Pickering grabbed his hand. “Hold on. Where’s the computer?”

Dexter wiped a hand across his sweating face. “There’s only one, a big mainframe. Everything’s stored on there. Everyone logs on using their personal code and they get access to their area and nothing else.”

Kev eased himself down onto a seat, thought the better of it and perched precariously on the dge of the desk, resting on his uninjured buttock. “What about when you need to put something into the memory?”

“You give the disc or whatever to a guard. They run it through a few security programs, then it goes into a kind of electronic quarantine before being fully accepted.” Dexter tapped the keyboard. “I’m going to show you something that happened three days ago, when this all started.”

“When what all-” Pickering reconsidered and shut up.

“Watch.” Dexter pointed to the screen. “This is the cafeteria.”

The point of view was high in a corner, covering almost the entire room. The cafeteria was empty except for three people, all seated at the same table. They were obviously discussing something important, with plenty of hand gestures and enthusiastic nodding.

“There’s no sound, I’m sorry.” Dexter spun his chair away from the monitor. “Just keep watching.”

One of the scientists got up and started walking away, shaking his head. The other two followed, shouting.

“The first man is Dr. Nathan Cassidy, the head of Project Saviour.”

The picture quality was rather good, so there was no mistaking what happened next.

Dr. Cassidy’s head exploded. Pickering flinched back from the screen. A small drop of blood hit the camera lens and slid down it slowly.

One of the scientists was on the floor, clutching his face. The other was just stood there, covered in blood and pieces of brain.

“Dr. Gemmel was hit in the eye by a piece of skull. He’s still in the infirmary, doped to the eyeballs.” Dexter closed his eyes. “If you’ll pardon the expression.”

“And the other bloke?” Kev leaned forward to get a closer look.

“Dr. Ward killed himself four hours later in the shower.” Dexter smiled. “He was Dr. Cassidy’s protégé and the real force behind Project Saviour. A real genius, totally inspired, but too young to be put in charge of something as important as this. So they appointed Dr. Cassidy, who had experience with this sort of thing.”

“What sort of thing?” Pete asked.

Dexter looked right back at him. “Human experimentation.”

“Go on.” Pickering watched the screen as guards flooded the cafeteria.

“I think Ward knew what was going on. So he got out the only way he could. He devised the treatments, Cassidy was just a caretaker, an old hand to keep a careful eye on everything. Ward was just back from a meeting when that happened.” Dexter’s eyes were bright and wild, his mouth almost forming a smile. “Ward set out the treatments, Cassidy and the others carried them out. I couldn’t get much sense out of Gemmel, but he said they had been asking Cassidy whether the latest batch of treatments had worked. Cassidy wouldn’t answer, but they kept asking. Then he got up and, and, that happened.”

Pickering turned Dexter around to face him. “What treatments.”

It wasn’t a question and Dexter didn’t mistake it for one.

“Saviour is still, despite the extra factor, a type of haemorragic fever. We were trying to see if anyone could survive it. We treated them with everything, and I do mean everything. Total blood replacement, anything, no matter how unlikely it was to work. We tried the most sophisticated techniques, and no one, out of any age group, survived. Ward suggested going back to basics. So we did.”

Pickering nudged him with the muzzle of his MP5. “Keep going.”

“We gave them massive blood transfusions. Upwards of thirty litres, usually. That’s what it took.” Dexter pointed to the screen. “Cassidy had carried out the first dozen that morning and they worked, better than Ward could have hoped. Ward went to Section D, still covered in pieces of Cassidy, and checked to see if the treatment had worked. He saw the results and three hours later he took a razor to his wrists in the shower after injecting himself with enough morphine to kill a horse.”

Dexter’s eyes started to leak tears.

“Why did Ward do that?” Pickering shook Dexter roughly. “Dexter!”

“He wanted to be sure.” Dexter sighed, lolling loosely in Pickering’s grip.

“No, why did he kill himself?” Pickering hauled Dexter to his feet.

“Because he knew what was coming.” Dexter struggled weakly. “Let go, please.”

“Did they survive, then?” Pickering hauled Dexter right off the floor. “Did those people survive?”

Dexter shook his head. “No, they didn’t survive. Because they’re not people any more.”

Pickering dropped the scientist and shoved him aside.

“Ever feel like you’ve just stepped in shit?” Kev asked cheerfully.

“What are we going to do?” Pete asked, ignoring him.

“We need those samples.” Pickering said instantly.

Lukas shrugged. “We need our heads.”

Pickering scowled. “Then what was the point of coming here? What, we just call it even and go?”

“Do you really want to open that door?” Pete asked. “Because whatever is in there pops heads like they’re going out of fashion.”

“We need to get those samples.” Pickering wouldn’t budge. “That’s the whole reason we came here.”

“Well, tell you what.” Kev shook his head. “My arse is hurting, so I’ll stay here and keep an eye on the good doctor while you three go and get those samples.”

The proposal was met with silence.

“No? Didn’t think so.” He sighed. “Let’s get on with it then.”

Dexter was watching them, smiling as tears leaked from the corners of his eyes. “If they don’t see you, they can’t hurt you.”

“What?” Pickering rounded on him. “What did you say?”

“If they don’t see you-”

Pickering grabbed hold of him and almost throttled the scientist. “You had better make more sense than this in front of Congress, or you’ll find your get out of jail free card comes in the post with a bloody bomb!”

“Pickering.” Pete laid a hand on his shoulder.

Pickering slammed Dexter down into a chair, shrugging Pete’s hand away. “Get me the cameras in section D.”

“The only working camera is the one covering the main lab.” Dexter’s fingers played across the keyboard. “There.”

It resembled a hospital ward, a long room with beds lining the walls. The beds were empty.

Pickering very gently pressed the barrel of his MP5 against Dexter’s cheek. “The other cameras are broken?”

“No.”

Pickering switched the safety off.

“A bullet’s quicker than whatever they do to me.” Dexter shrugged.

Pete watched Pickering think that over. “We need to get on with this. When do the FBI turn up?”

Pickering pulled a chronometer out from under his body armour. “Half an hour.”

“We need to get on with this.”

 

The door swung open smoothly and two stun grenades sailed through the opening.

Pete was the first, low and fast. Pickering was right behind him.

Kev and Lukas covered them.

A long corridor, four doors well spaced along the right-hand wall.

Pete and Pickering stopped at the first door, readied some grenades and shoved the door open.

Kev watched them collapse limply to the ground. Pete sprawled across the doorway, stun grenade still in his hand. Pickering fell next to him, MP5 clattering to the floor.

The door closed.

“What-” Lukas stared down the corridor.

Kev moved quickly, sticking close to the right-hand wall, leaning into it and sliding along, hoping to get to them before the door opened again and things got worse.

Kev got within arms reach of Pickering’s ankles. “Lukas!”

“Do it.” Lukas stood and leaned out into the corridor, shotgun pointed at the door.

Kev grabbed Pickering’s ankles and Pete sat up.

“Jesus!” Kev fell back, landing on his arse, drawing his 23.

Lukas shifted his aim on reflex, then moved it back to the door as Pete began to get up.

“Boss, are you-”

Pete dropped the stun grenade and raised his MP5.

“Boss?” Kev noticed the stun grenade. “Oh shi-”

It exploded and the world dissolved in a flash of white.

Lukas flinched away, then leaned back out.

Pete had his MP5 aimed at Kev, who was blinking furiously, trying in vain to get rid of the after-images etched on his retina.

Lukas screamed. “Kev, down!”

Kev didn’t hear, deafened by the stun grenade. Lukas pulled the trigger. The buckshot slammed into Pete and folded him up.

He still fired.

9mm blasted into the wall inches from Kev’s face, peppering him with chips of concrete. Pete emptied the magazine, tracking Kev clumsily.

Kev rolled across the corridor, bullets chewing up the floor behind him.

Lukas swiped sweat out of his eyes, worked the pump and fired again.

The blast staggered Pete, knocking him back into the wall. He aimed at Kev and pulled the trigger again.

The dry click was the best sound Lukas had ever heard. He ran forward, clamped a hand on Kev’s shoulder and dragged him to his feet. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Pete fumble a mag.

And Pickering began to stir.

Lukas shoved Kev away from the doorway as soon as they were through and began loading shells off his forearm holders.

Bullets sparked off the steel doorframe and caromed away. One hummed through the air inches from Lukas, making him twitch. Kev rubbed his eyes furiously, trying to get rid of the flash blindness.

Lukas leaned around the doorway.

Pete was reloading clumsily, the top of the mag skating back and forth across the underside of the MP5, like he didn’t know where the mag well was. Pickering was fumbling for his Glock.

Lukas glanced at Kev. He was getting up, scowling. “What’s going on?”

Lukas shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“What?”

“I don’t know!”

“I can’t hear you!”

“You’re deaf from the grenade blast!”

“I can’t hear you!”

Lukas leaned out and emptied his shotgun in a series of staggered blasts. Pete took one in the face and staggered back, dropping his MP5. Pickering raised his Glock only to have it blasted out of his hand, fingers breaking with brittle cracks.

Kev grabbed his shoulder and yanked him back. “What are you doing?”

“They’re shooting at us.” Lukas shrugged him off.

Kev pinned him, jamming his 23 against his skull. “Stop. Shooting.”

“Listen to me.” Lukas snapped. “They are-”

A round pinged off the doorway. Kev peered round it.

Pete was slumped against a wall, 23 in hand. He fired again.

The bullet went wide. Kev stepped into the doorway. “Boss, it’s-”

The bullet smacked into him. He crouched, breathless, gasping for air as Pete fired again, sending another round just over his head.

Lukas hauled him away. “See?”

Kev fought for breath as Lukas reloaded his shotgun. “What…is…going…on?”

“I don’t know.” Lukas nailed Pete with three shells, then swapped his aim to Pickering.

Pickering managed to scoop his Glock up with his other hand before Lukas hammered him flat.

The shotgun clacked empty and Lukas charged. Pickering rose to meet him and got a shotgun butt in the face. Pete stood and Lukas hit him, a right cross and a straight left that snapped Pete’s head back.

Pickering got up, blood running from his nose and mouth and swung a punch that clipped Lukas’ chin. Kev joined the brawl, kicking the Glock down the corridor and tackling Pete around the waist.

Lukas slammed a kick up into the fork of Pickering’s groin and got a punch in reply that almost knocked him out.

Pete clawed at Kev’s face as they grappled on the floor.

Lukas ducked another punch and chinned Pickering. He waded in, swinging hard shots to the gut and ribs, working a left-right left-right rhythm, the solid impacts jolting up his arms.

Pickering grabbed at him.

Lukas slapped the hands aside and went into overdrive, a flurry of six sharp hooking punches smacking Pickering’s head back and forth.

Pickering took it and pistoned a leg into Lukas’ stomach.

Lukas collapsed, out of breath, shoulders aching. He’d hit Pickering with enough to drop three men and he had shrugged it off like he’d been tickling him.

Kev slammed into Pickering, grabbed him by his body armour and rammed his forehead into Pickering’s face. Pickering clutched at Kev, dragging him closer.

Kev nutted him again.

Pickering’s legs buckled.

Lukas drove a fist into Pickering’s groin and was kicked in the face for his trouble.

Kev winched Pickering in close and cocked his head back.

Pickering punched him in the ribs.

Kev rocketed his head forward and nutted Pickering so hard his head bounced off the wall.

Pickering slumped, unconscious. Kev let him drop. Lukas got to his feet, wiping blood off his face. “What’s wrong…..with them?”

“Don’t know.” Kev sat down. “Christ. I noticed that whack to the balls. Good work.”

“Didn’t seem to do much.” Lukas leaned against the wall.

“No, but the thought was there.” Kev got to his feet, wincing. “Instant migraine.”

“How is Pete?”

“Unconscious. Those were some good punches. You box?”

“Three years.” Lukas retrieved his shotgun and reloaded it.

“It shows.” Kev picked up his UMP and checked it. “Cuff them. I’ll rig the door.”

 

“Ok?” Kev paused with his thumb on the detonator.

“Ready when you are.” Lukas nodded, a grenade in each hand.

Pete and Pickering were plasticuffed and out of the way. A breaching charge was on the door, ready to go.

Kev clicked his thumb down on the detonator a three times to make sure it went off.

The shaped charge exploded, reducing the door to splinters and sending them into the room on a shockwave of sound. Lukas chased it with two grenades, shotgun in his hands before they’d hit the floor.

Kev waited until the grenades went off, then ducked into the room, hunched behind his gun.

The sharp acrid reek of phosphorous stung his nose as he moved past burning beds. Lukas followed close by, shotgun ready.

A flaming figure rose from behind a bed. Fire licked across it, swaddling it’s limbs and body, flickering across it’s face.

Kev locked onto it, raising his UMP and his gaze fell upon those black eyes and the world went dark.

Lukas ran into him, stumbling on and then scrabbling back as the burning figure swiped a hand at him, never taking it’s eyes off Kev.

Kev drooled and dropped his UMP.

Lukas put a shell into the burnt black chest and another into it’s melting face when it refused to fall.

It toppled, chunks of it’s head falling away like bricks from a collapsing building.

Kev came back, taking a deep involuntary gasp and clawing at himself.

A door at the back of the ward swung open.

Lukas filled it with buckshot and pitched another grenade before it could swing shut.

Kev dropped flat and grabbed his UMP, stitching .45 back and forth across the doorway in staccato bursts.

Lukas ditched his shotgun and drew his Glock and another grenade, training the pistol on the doorway as he flipped the safety pin free with his thumb.

The door blew open when the grenade exploded, spitting out a burning body. Kev and Lukas riddled it with rounds before it hit the floor.

Lukas took no chances, lobbing another grenade through the open doorway and waiting for it to go off before entering.

The room was long and narrow, desks lined one wall, half of them on fire. Bodies were gathered around the doorway, curled up in foetal positions. Most of them were crisped by the phosphorous, but the odd limb had escaped the explosions.

The flesh was a mottled grey with a tracery of dark green-black lines under the skin. Lukas nudged one of the bodies with his boot.

It twitched.

He fired, putting two rounds into it’s head on reflex before turning to fire at the other bodies, firing into their huddled forms, sending bullets through limbs and bodies, breaking off whole chunks of calcified flesh and spilling yellowish blood over the floor. He was so absorbed in killing the things around him, he didn’t see the form uncurling from behind the desk.

Kev did.

As it straightened to its full height, Kev put a short burst into its chest. Yellow blood splashed the wall as it fell. Kev ran forward, knocking Lukas aside as he followed up, sending short spurts of .45 through the desk, hopefully hitting the thing on the other side.

It lay on the floor, grey and unnaturally thin, it’s swollen head covered in wisps of rotting hair, blood leaking from the scabrous lesions on its arms and legs. Its bulging black eyes met Kev’s and for one horrible moment, he thought he was going to drop into the dark again.

But instead he felt it prying at his mind, trying to gain a hold, find a way in.

Kev shot it again, .45 rounds ripping a hole in its guts. It contorted, hissing furiously, twisting this way and that as the lead chewed a hole right through it.

Lukas moved up beside him. He stared down at it, the rotting hole where the nose should be, the lipless mouth and purplish gums that had drawn back to reveal blackening teeth, the crusty sores on the side of the head, the last vestiges of its ears.

Lukas and Kev raised their guns.

Kev felt its efforts redouble.

He lined up its face with his sight and squeezed the trigger.

 

“Why do my eyes hurt?” Pete groaned, blinking in the harsh light.

Kev leaned over him. “You got shot in the frigging face, boss. You’re lucky you’re not blind.”

Pete sat up, slowly. “What happened?”

“You and Pickering went mad. Me and Lukas had to calm you down.” Kev pointed to his black eye, which was ripening to a very dark purple. “You give me this.”

“We what?” Pete touched his face gently, fingers probing split lips and a broken nose. “And what did you calm me down with?”

“I had to nut you a couple of times, knock you out.” Kev grinned. “The same with Pickering.”

Pete frowned, then winced in pain. “Wait. I got shot in the face?”

“Yep. Lukas gave you a nice twelve-gauge shell of some rubber buckshot stuff right in the head. Slowed you right down for about five seconds.” Kev helped Pete sit up. “Want a drink?”

“Please.” Pete stopped frowning, it hurt his face too much. “Did we get the samples?”

“Pickering’s sat on them outside, talking to Dexter. He’s got an ice pack on his bollocks.”

“What?” Pete blinked, looking around.

Matt’s kitchen.

Kev handed him a tall glass of water. “Never mind. We’ve got the samples, the FBI rolled in a few minutes after we got clear, rigged to the tits in kit. Looked like they were going to start a war.”

“Shame we fought it for them.” Pete rasped, and downed the water in a series of long sore swallows.

The water washed the dry metallic taste of the blood out of his mouth, and eased the rasp in his throat.

“How’s the arse?”

“Lukas? He’s fine.” Kev grinned. “It’s ok. Flesh wound, twinges now and again, that’s all.”

Pete tried to think back, and couldn’t get past opening the door to the ward. He’d opened the door and everything had went black.

“I can’t….remember what happened.” Pete pressed a hand to his head. “Shit.”

“Neither can Pickering. You’ll have to take our word for it.” Kev laughed, patting Pete’s shoulder. “You want a beer?”

“Could do.” Pete got off the table, stretching gently.

Kev pressed a cold bottle into his hand. “Flight out in a week, first class back to Blighty. Another job well done, eh boss?”

Pete managed a smile. “Another job done, anyway. I don’t know how well.”

[FullAuto]

The phone rang.

Pete snaked an arm out from under the covers and picked it up. "Hello."

Nat instinctively cuddled up, throwing an arm and a leg over him.

"Alright, boss." Kev's usual good humour was absent from his voice. "Have you checked your bank account yet?"

Pete opened his eyes. "No. Why?"

"Have a look at it, see if you've been paid. I'm going to give Pickering a call." He put the phone down.

Pete stared at the handset for a moment before letting it drop to the floor. "Hmm."

"A job?" Nat asked, kissing his chest.

"No." Pete sat up, yawning. "The house is paid for, isn't it?"

"You paid for it." She sat up with him, long dark hair spilling over her shoulders. "Didn't you?"

"Mmm." Pete got up, scratching his arse. "Start the computer up. I'll get a brew on."

 

"Yes?" Anna passed the phone to Chris. "For you."

"Eh?" He took the phone. "Who is it?"

"Alright, wanker?"

"Not too bad." He got up and stretched. "How are you?"

"Unpaid."

"What?" Chris stopped stretching.

"I'm looking at my bank balance now. I had three grand change from paying for my house, and I've still got three grand." Kev sounded a tad annoyed. "Check yours, will you?"

"Kev, it's eight in the morning-"

"Just check. If it's just me, then it's just a mistake. But if it's all of us, then there's something wrong. I'm going to give Lukas a ring and then call Pickering."

Chris sighed. "Ok."

 

"Ja?"

"Lukas, me old mucker"

"Kev?"

"None other, mate."

Lukas pushed his breakfast plate aside. "Do we have a job?"

"Nein"

"Nine? We had better get started then."

"Har de har har." Kev replied. "Look, have you been paid?"

"I don't know." Lukas checked his watch. "I'm just having breakfast. I was with Greta last night, I slept in."

Kev chuckled. "You dirty dog. She still there?"

"She works for a living."

"Oh?" Kev got around to being serious. "Do me a favour, check if you've been paid?"

"Why?"

"Because I haven't. Nothing to worry about, yet."

"Very well."

 

Kev put down the phone and sipped his tea. He glanced at the computer screen. Nothing had changed.

He refreshed the page.

The screen blinked. The numbers didn't change.

"Shit." He drummed his fingers on the table.

Nothing else for it, really.

He picked up the phone and called Pickering.

 

"Face like a smacked arse." Kev commented from the chair.

Chris shook his head. "Shut it."

"What's up?" Pete asked, leaning against a pillar with a cup of tea in his hand.

"Broke. Had to get Anna to give me a lift here." He dropped into a chair.

Kev winced. "Christ. Don't fancy that one."

"She's fuming." Chris looked around the lobby. "What's this place then?"

The interior was dark earth tones and pale cream, with a fluted marble pillar the colour of milk in the centre of the circular room. The chairs were deep and well cushioned, set in pairs and dotted around seemingly at random. The ceiling was a faded mosaic.

"Haven't got a clue." Pete sipped his tea. "Service is good though. Tea was steaming hot when we came through the door."

"How's the arse?" Chris nudged Kev.

"Lukas? He's on his way." Kev smiled, then shrugged. "Healed, still stings a bit."

"Gentlemen."

They turned to face the back of the room. Jenny Graham stood by the rear wall.

"Phwoar." Kev muttered under his breath.

"Chris, it's nice to see you again." She came forward, extending her hand.

Chris got up and shook it. "Alright?"

"Not too bad." She smiled and Chris felt his traitorous knees buckle. "This must be Kev and Pete."

Pete had to remind himself he was married. She offered her hand and he shook it gently. "Miss Graham."

"Jenny, please."

That smile again.

Pete gave a brief smile and turned away. She was too pretty, and that suit hugged her figure too closely.

Kev was loving it. He shook her hand, holding on a few seconds longer than usual. He gave her his best winning smile. "Hello."

Jenny simply turned up the wattage and outshone him. "How's the war wound?"

Kev deflated. "Fine, thank you."

"If you'll come through, John's waiting to see you." Jenny walked to the back of the room and knocked once on the wall.

A section swung inward, providing a narrow doorway to the room beyond.

"Very James Bond." Pete said, putting his cup down on a nearby coffee table.

Jenny smiled. "I'm sorry if you find it a little melodramatic. MI6 bought this building from the Freemasons just after World War Two. They do like their secrets."

They followed her. The room was small and rectangular, similar décor and a man sat behind a wide mahogany desk. He looked them all over carefully, hands below the level of the desk.

"This is Parker, our resident watchdog." Jenny turned her smile on the guard and he nodded in reply. "Parker, these men are part of the operation."

"Yes, ma'am." Parker's voice was flat and accentless.

He was small and slender, and his dark eyes watched them cross the floor to another door beside the desk.

Pete shot a quick glance over his shoulder and caught a glimpse of Parker's hands. They were holding a pistol and a grenade. Pete looked at Kev, but he was busy examining Jenny's rear.

The next room was furnished like a gentleman's club, with a small bar in the far corner and more overstuffed chairs scattered about, each one paired with a footstool and small table. A fireplace crackled softly, throwing out a stuffy warmth that made them sweat a little. It provided the only light, apart from a dim electric flambeaux behind the bar.

Pickering got up from a chair by the fire, his features lit from below, casting shadows over his eyes and mouth. "It's good to see you again."

"Wish I could say the same." Kev said, stripping off his jacket and easing down into a chair. "So, what suicide mission-"

"Kev." Pete said, softly.

"Sorry! Did I say 'suicide mission'? I meant to say 'job'. Must be one of those Freudian slips." Kev folded his hands in his lap. "Any chance of a drink?"

Jenny started towards the bar "I'll-"

Pete stepped past her, waving her back. "I'll do it. Who wants what?"

"Martini, shaken, not stirred." Kev called.

"Smooth." Chris muttered, rolling his eyes. "JD and lemonade, boss."

Jenny laughed, taking off her suit jacket. "Vodka and orange, please."

Pete slid behind the bar and started pouring. "Pickering?"

"There's a bottle of Laphroaig at the back of the bottom cabinet."

"Good choice." Pete poured himself a little and tossed it back.

It tasted like the past. He poured Pickering's measure and put it away.

Something buzzed. Jenny checked her pocket. "That'll be Lukas. I'll go and get him."

Kev's eyes followed her.

"Put your tongue away." Chris nudged his shoulder as he sat.

"I've said it once, and I'll say it again." Kev said. "Phwoar."

"Apart from Miss Graham's attributes," Pickering sat down and leaned forward, the light from the fire revealing his whole face now, "there's something else you need brought to your attention."

Pete reconsidered and poured another finger of Laphroaig into a glass. He downed it and put the bottle away, shutting the cabinet a little more firmly than necessary.

"Your past jobs have been exemplary. You'll be glad to know the samples made it safely onto an ESA rocket, which sadly suffered a malfunction and was detected on a trajectory headed directly for the sun." Pickering stretched his long legs out and crossed them at the ankle. "Dr. Dexter performed as promised, and dropped everyone else involved in the project in very deep shit. Certain members of the Opposition now have a lot of explaining to do."

Pete didn't like where this was going. This meeting was not a pat on the back. He carried the drinks over and set them down on a small table near the fire.

"However." Pickering picked up his whisky and sipped. "There's been an unforseen complication."

"Here we are." Jenny announced from the doorway.

Pete watched Kev's eyes glaze over again as she walked into the room, followed by Lukas. He'd have to sort that out.

Lukas smiled and dropped into a chair, shaking his head when Pete offered him a drink.

"Congress has decided it wants a closer look at black budget projects. Several are losing their black status. Some have been frozen altogether."

Kev groaned, slumping back in his chair.

"This is why we haven't been paid?" Lukas asked.

"Exactly. We're funded through a fairly big project, we siphon funds from it on a regular basis. But the project has lost its black status, its budget is now fully accountable. Which means we can't take any more. There's been some notable contributions, and we're a small set up at the moment. But we need to get bigger. A lot bigger. And we need to do it soon."

"Hold on." Kev shook his head. "You just said we-"

"You are cutting the mustard." Pickering broke in. "But that's just it. There's just you four."

Pete closed his eyes. "What a bunch of frigging cowboys."

"Pardon, Sergeant Walker?" Pickering's tone was polite, but his eyes were angry.

"How many people work for X-INV?" Pete sighed.

"Counting us, two dozen, thirty at the most." Pickering finished his whisky abruptly. "Not counting our informants and people who do odd jobs for us."

"Brilliant." Pete got up and paced slowly to the bar and back.

"We need to expand. We need more teams like yours, at least one for every continent. We don't need much of an infrastructure, we can tap into any existing one. We have many contacts all over the world-"

"Hence fixing our way in and out of Russia and the Congressional hearings." Pete stopped and shook his head. "So, we're powerful, but broke."

"Essentially." Jenny took a drink. "We've been looking around for alternative funding, but we've found very little. There's the possibility of getting a stipend from the EU, but that will only cover European operations."

"What about the UN? They signed up to the charter that allows us to operate. Can't we just request some money?" Kev asked.

"The UN..." Pickering trailed off, shaking his head. "We're looking into that. But the UN is not the best organisation at keeping things a secret. Even now, there's a possibility the Opposition has followed the money trail to us. If we try and get funds when Congress is looking over every secret project the US government has going, we might as well paint targets on ourselves. The Oppostion has members in Congress, in the Senate, in the CIA, FBI, NSA, NRO, the Secret Service and every branch of the US military and if we leave a trail then they will follow it."

"So?" Pete returned to the fire and sank into a chair.

Jenny took a turn. "So, to be frank, we were wondering if you had any ideas."

Chris blinked. "What?"

"We were hoping you'd know of some avenues we could explore."

Kev raised a hand. "Bank robbery?"

"Something a little less...audacious." Jenny replied. "We need quite a lot of money and to make it worth our while...let's just say the Bank of England doesn't take kindly to being robbed."

"How much?" Pete asked, looking at Pickering.

"Let's start at the millions and work our way up." He replied, setting his empty glass down.

"Stinger hunting." Chris suggested.

Jenny raised her eyebrows, smiling at him over the rim of her glass.

He felt the blush begin. "The CIA pays a million for every Stinger missile you steal from the Muj in Afghanistan. They handed them out like sweets when Ivan invaded, but after that they couldn't get them back."

"Bounty hunting." Kev volunteered, shrugging. "Lift a few cartel blokes from Colombia, drop them off outside a cop shop in the US. Mucho dinero."

"Hmm." Jenny leaned back in her chair.

"How much would you like, ideally?" Pete asked. "To make it worthwhile?"

"If you're talking about a full operation, then nothing less than ten million. Within the month." Jenny said, looking apologetic.

There was a collective wince.

"We need you on active duty. If you're going to be fundraising, then we need more money to cover the gap." Jenny looked at Pickering and he nodded. "Also, there's another thing you might be able to help us with."

"Which is?" Pete paused his pacing.

"We need to recruit more field people. We were hoping you might know some."

"No one who's too rusty." Pickering added.

Kev laughed. "I can think of a dozen ex-Regiment blokes off the top of my head."

"Would they be willing to work a whole month without getting paid?" Pickering asked.

Kev grinned. "Probably. The wages you're offering won't hurt."

Pete walked over to the bar and toyed with a bottle, tossing it up and down.

Pickering was staring at him through the darkness. "Something on your mind, Sergeant Walker?"

"El Rey." Pete said.

"I'm sorry?" Pickering leaned back in his seat, retreating back into darkness

"El Rey." Pete said a little louder, putting the bottle down.

"Who or what is-"

"It's a town in Colombia." Kev broke in. "Supposedly."

Pickering stayed quiet, hidden in the shadows.

"Colombia produces about eighty per cent of the world's cocaine, earning about ten billion dollars a year. Most of that ten billion goes through El Rey." Pete leaned back against the bar as he spoke, looking up at the dark ceiling overhead. "If the US wanted to win the war on drugs, it would adopt a winning strategy and hit El Rey. A lot of the cartels' leadership is there. It's their only truly neutral ground. And the place is swimming in money. There's only so much they can get rid of in the US."

"Boss." Kev stood. "No one knows if El Rey really exists."

"I know one man who does." Pete replied.

Kev groaned. "Stan the Man?"

Pete nodded. "Stan the Man."

 

"Where are we going again?" Kev asked.

"Bogota." Pete looked around to see if anyone else was awake.

No one was. The flight was late, leaving at close to midnight GMT. It had been delayed and most of the prospective passengers had disappeared to hotels.

"Why are we going to Bogota?"

"Because we need to go to Colombia." Pete sighed.

"Why Bogota?"

Pete rubbed at his temple. Perhaps it was just the late flight, but he was getting a major headache. "Do you know anywhere else in Colombia we can fly to?"

Kev frowned.

"Well, shut up then." Pete tried to relax, finding it impossible.

"Can't believe I had to pay." Kev grunted.

Pete ignored him, closing his eyes. Commercial flights always made him feel mildly ill, but with a bit of luck he could sleep through-

"Wasn't cheap, even though they were cancellations." Kev complained, shifting in his seat.

Pete glanced across the aisle. Lukas and Chris were sound asleep.

-typical-

"And for Pickering." Kev shook his head. "I mean, you'd expect him-"

"Kev."

"Boss?"

"Stop whingeing." Pete rubbed at the bridge of his nose. "And switch on."

"Right."

"We're off to Colombia. Pickering's going to catch up with us after getting hold of Stan."

"I know." Kev nodded.

"Ok, if you know, where is he?"

"Er. Mexico?"

Pete's headache intensified. Kev hadn't been listening at all. "Where in Mexico?"

"Um." Kev didn't even have the good manners to look embarrassed.

"He's being held in the Almoloya de Juarez maximum security prison."

"Right."

"Pickering's going to get him out and meet us in Bogota. Stan is going to tell us where El Rey is. We'll do the job and let him go in exchange."

"Nice one."

"The very next time you stare at a woman and switch off, you're off the job. Clear?"

"Crystal."

"Get some kip."

 

Bogota was drowning. A torrential storm was tearing at the city, hammering rain down in thick hot sheets. The streets were empty, awash in dirty water. They got soaked in the five steps between the doors and the taxi.

"It's raining and I'm sweating." Kev grumbled, piling into the back of the taxi. "It's just wrong."

Pete ignored him. Chris flicked water on him. Lukas tossed the luggage into the boot and hurried round to the door. The driver was huddled in his seat, face screwed up in a miserable scowl, sweat dripping off his face.

"Well, we can wind the windows down and sweat and drown, or leave them up and just sweat." Kev wiped moisture off his face. "Where are we going, boss?"

Pete handed the driver a piece of paper with an address scrawled on it. The driver looked at it, then shook his head and started muttering in Spanish. He drove them quickly and expertly, hunched over the wheel, occasionally reaching up to brush his fingers against the crucifix dangling from the rear-view mirror.

They couldn't see out, the windows steamed up on the inside and streaked with blurring lines of rain on the outside. Pete tried not to fall asleep, lulled with the soft sounds of rain and the swish of tyres through water.

Chris excavated a nostril.

Lukas tried to work the stiffness out of his neck.

Kev winced at the sticky sweat dripping off him and shook his head.

-frigging Bogota-

 

They'd been driving for nearly half an hour, sweating all the way, when the driver pulled over. He waved out of the window at a nearby building and held out his hand for payment.

"Pay the man." Pete grunted, getting out of the taxi.

Lukas and Chris followed suit.

Kev dug in his pokets, muttering under his breath.

The building was squat and ugly, bare concrete pocked with holes and empty window-eyes that stared back, jagged glass eyelashes dripping rain tears.

All three floors were dark.

Kev passed the driver some money and climbed out. He hated South America. It wasn't the heat, it was the sticky humidity, being clammy with sweat twenty-four hours a day, waking up soaking wet and thinking he'd pissed himself every morning.

The driver was waving a hand out of his window, complaining in a stream of Spanish that Kev didn't catch. He bent down and mimed 'What?'.

The drier sighed and rubbed his thumb and first two fingers together. "Tip."

"Now you speak English." Ke growled, digging in his pocket. "Here."

He flipped the driver a coin.

"Use it to buy some air conditioning."

The driver gave him the finger as he stepped on the accelerator and lurched off.

"Charming."

Pete headed for the main doors and the others trailed behind him, Lukas and Chris with the luggage, Kev mumbling to himself.

Pete moved into the shelter of the building and jerked the door open, slipping inside. He turned to hold it open for the others and came face to face with the world's biggest shotgun.

"Que?" The man holding it asked.

He was bald and muscular, dressed only in shorts and wraparound shades, his coffee coloured skin running with sweat or rain.

Pete let the door fall shut. "We're looking for-"

"I don' speak English." Although the accent was strong, the words were well-formed.

"Er." Pete tried to take his mind off the yawning bore of the shotgun. "Are you-"

The man leaned in close, the shotgun never wavering. "I don' speak English, gringo. Get goin'."

The door opened. Chris stepped in, holding it open. "Boss, what...oh. Already?"

The bald man looked at Chris. Pete moved.

The back of his left hand hit near the end of the barrel, swiping the muzzle aside. He smashed his right hand down onto the bald man's fingers.

Pain reflex spasmed his hand open.

Pete lunged forward, driving his right shoulder in low and hard, driving Baldy back as his hands scooped the shotgun up.

Baldy clawed at his shoulders and Pete jabbed the shotgun muzzle into his stomach.

"Speak English now?"

Holding his injured fingers, the bald man took a step back. "Pickering sen' jou?"

Pete nodded, standing up, keeping the shotgun levelled.

"I should ha' known. He alway sen' gringos like jou."

 

"So." Pete sipped the coffee.

-stuck drinking it for as long as you're here-

"Pickering say kit jou out." The bald man shruged, fiddling with his shades. "Wha'ever jou need, Bruno gets."

"How's he paying you?" Lukas asked, stirring the coffee with his finger.

"I owe him, big favour." Bruno sighed, taking his shades off. "Jou see this?"

He pointed to his left eye.

"See what?" Kev leaned in close.

"This eye, cornea. Not mine." Bruno grinned. "Me an' Pickering out on a job an' I get something in my eye, li'l bit of metal, maybe-"

He winked so quickly Pete almost missed it.

"-an' Pickering get me new cornea, like I get these." He tossed the shades onto the table. "I owe him. This is payback."

Bruno leaned back in his seat, finishing his coffee and sighing.

"So. Wha' jou need?"

Pete sized him up. "Can you get us some guns?"

Bruno rolled his eyes. "Can jou use them? I get jou guns. Wha' guns jou wan'?"

"I don't know yet. A mixture. Rifles, shotguns, submachine guns."

"Jou need, uh," Bruno made a pistol with his finger and thumb. "Nines?"

"We've got our own." Pete shook his head. "We'll be needing ammunition, though. Lots of it."

"I get jou more than jou can use." Bruno got up. "Beds on top floor. My sister come an' cook an' clean for jou tomorrow. I come back, too. When will Pickering come?"

Pete shrugged. "Don't know."

Bruno picked his shades up and got to his feet. "Tha' sounds jus' like him."

He went down the stairs, whistling, shotgun over his shoulder.

"Well." Kev said, scooting his chair closer to the table. "Quite frankly, I think we've hit a new low."

Chris bounced a spoon off the back of Kev's head.

 

"Why are we standing guard, boss?" Kev asked, peering out of the window.

"It's something to do." Pete reminded him, sipping a cup of coffee.

With enough milk and sugar it tasted alright. Actually, it didn't, but he could kid himself.

Kev sighed. "Well, what with the finest Colombian up our noses-"

Chris' throw missed, the spoon bouncing off the wall by Kev's head.

"-the smell of finest Colombian coffee, that is," Kev glared at Chris, "I doubt we'll have any trouble staying awake."

"Tosser." Chris muttered, leaning back and putting his feet up on the table. "So, what's the plan, boss?"

"Wait for Pickering to turn up with Stan. Go to El Rey, look the place over and take as much money as we can carry. That's it." Pete yawned. "Kev, you're first on stag. Four hours, then Lukas, then me, then Chris."

"Better get the kettle on again then." Kev said, retrieving the spoon from the floor. "You, stop chucking spoons at me."

"Stop making shit jokes then." Chris advised.

 

"So who is this 'Stan the Man'?" Lukas asked Kev as they aired their beds in the morning sunlight.

"Well, the way I heard it, he started out in the DEA in the seventies, got his name associated with a few big raids, got noticed and got put in charge of Operation Eyebrow."

Lukas glared.

"I'm not making this up I swear." Kev's face was a picture of innocence.

"Alright..." Lukas allowed.

"It was named after this Medellin cartel bloke, he had a unibrow, you know? Just one thick line of hair above his eyes? The op was to get him, so they called it Operation Eyebrow." Kev paused and thought. "Anyway, the op went sour and Stan started lifting the odd bit of money, building a retirement fund. But it all went badly wrong, some snot-nosed little FBI agent caught him at it and the next thing you know Stan is in Colombia saying 'Si, senor' faster than you can slap the cuffs on. He goes to work for the cartels, telling them what the US is up to, who the informers are, all that good stuff."

"Okay..."

"By the mid-eighties, the war on drugs has gone totally to shit. Production is up, consumption is up, the US is investing millions and getting not much in return. That's what spurred them to ask the Regiment to join in, actually. They lost a lot of assets thanks to Stan, and they needed something to stick the cartels with. The SAS were it. We went in, found drug labs and blew them up, arrested scientists, trained blokes from the Colombian army how to do jungle patrols, you name it. Late eighties, Stan gets lifted. Cheeky sod flew a C-130 full of cocaine and currency into the US, but he got caught before he could take off again. A pair of coppers in some nowhere town caught him and about a ton of naughty salt, never mind the couple of million in small bills."

Lukas whistled softly.

"Yep. Government jumped on him with both feet, it was going to be the death penalty quick fast, but some clever boy realised they'd caught a man who had been working for every single major drug cartel for a decade."

"He goes back to work for the US." Lukas said.

"Oh yes. Revealing cartel operations, smuggling techniques, the lot. The cartels put a ten million bounty on him. Few try to collect, none succeed. Last I heard, he was directing ops for the CIA."

"No wonder he ended up in prison."

"You said it, mate." Kev remade his bed quickly. "Race you to the kettle."

 

"I can't take weeks of this." Kev groaned."I just can't."

Lukas murmured something in German, cleaning his Glock with practised movements of his fingers.

"What? What did you say?" Kev sat up.

"He said, 'shut up, you tart'." Chris grinned. "Put the kettle on again."

"Doesn't it ever stop raining?" Kev said, drumming his fingers on the table.

The rain was still pouring down, and although most of the windows on the second floor were intact, the ones that were not let in rain that quickly spread across the floor.

They were stripped to the waist and still sweating copiously. The only one not fidgeting was Pete, sat seiza by a window like an athletic buddha.

 

A month without interruption had been heaven. Last month's wage had paid the last of the mortgage. Nat had quit her job at his insistence, and with something like reluctance, taken up painting and guitar full time. Pete loved to see her paint or play, and although she would never make a career out of them, she was good. A quick sketch soon turned into a full canvas of him practising his kendo, with the sun rising over the sea behind him. A flurry of notes would soon be refined into a tune.

It wasn't just the end result that fascinated him, it was the process. He enjoyed watching her gnaw her lower lip gently as she altered notes and tuned strings, seeing her smile as she hit a sudden improvised flow of notes that sounded good. She would hum her latest tune as she washed her brushes, and he would find himself beaming at her.

A whole uninterrupted month. He'd considered calling Pickering in the third week, just to check everything was okay, but ridiculously thought he might jinx whatever time he had left and Pickering would say 'Yes, we have a job.' He'd put the phone down even as he called himself stupid for being superstitious.

"So is this how it's going to be from now on?" Nat had asked, laughing, in the first week of her retirement. "Me a lady of leisure and you working one week every month?"

"I hope so." He'd replied, looking out through the trees to the sea, trying to smile.

The next day he set up a better life insurance policy.

[FullAuto]

A week passed.

They exercised as best they could inside. Sit ups, press ups, jumping jacks, squat thrusts, dips and skipping using a length of wire salvaged from a light fitting.

The only real entertainment was watching Kev try to flirt with Bruno's sister, Isabella, a curvy sardonic brunette who spoke better English than he did.

Bruno provided a telly and a pack of cards, but the incomprehensible programmes and Chris' compulsive cheating made both useless. It was a boredom Kev and Pete were used to, stuck in uncomfortable surroundings, waiting for something to happen. Chris and Lukas were less familiar with it, but they coped. They exercised more, building muscle with sweat and effort, urging each other on.

 

Kev watched Pete from the doorway.

He was stood slightly back from the window, deep in shadow, out of the way of the wind and rain that gusted in, but still able to keep watch on the ground in front of the building.

Lightning crashed furiously among the clouds rumbling with thunder.

Pete's face became demonic for a second, a stern visage, half shadow, half flickering white.

"How long are you going to stand there?" Pete asked over the thunder.

Kev smiled. "Just checking up on you."

"Thanks." Pete half-turned. "Any of this bothering you yet, Kev?"

"Something is." He leaned against the doorway.

Pete moved away from the window, deeper into the room. "Want to talk about it?"

Kev lost him in the shadows, blinded by another flash of lightning.

"The fact that we're doing something that I think even the Yanks have steered away from. If this goes wrong, we'll be getting dipped in acid feet-first by a sweaty man named Carlos. The Yanks have always steered clear of El Rey."

"Because they don't want to win the war on drugs." Pete slipped back into view. "Why would they want to get rid of something that justifies budget increases? Law enforcement, the army, Christ, even their coast guard. All the war on drugs has achieved is a raise in quality and a reduction in price. So people get better drugs for less money."

"Boss-"

Pete waved for silence. "The cartels always have high-ranking members there. The Mexicans, who arrange to have it smuggled over the border, always have people there. Lately, it's a dumping ground for money they can't get rid of through the black market peso exchange and all the other money laundering schemes they have. From there, they fly it out to the Caymans, the Caribbean, Europe, even. So they have their accountants there, too, people who have been cooking the books for decades."

"Boss-"

"Think about it. A hit on Cocaine HQ. You take a big chunk out of their operations and their profits, simultaneously. A hit they just can't ignore, something that actually hurts them. US Customs estimate they pick up thirty to forty per cent of the drugs being smuggled, but you know it's only ten to twenty per cent, they have to make it look like they're doing their job."

"Boss." Kev shook his head. "It's not that. I just don't want to get into a feud with South American drug lords when we're...we're..."

"Fighting aliens from outer space?" Pete suggested.

Kev nodded, blushing.

"I know how it sounds. I keep saying it to myself over and over in my head, trying to hammer down the reality of it. But then I think back to that Russian getting opened up from the inside by that thing and I imagine the same thing happening to my wife, and I realise how real it all is. I wish it wasn't. Because we're in deeper shit, now." Pete walked over to him, casting a glance out of the window. "We've got all the usual internal strife, war, terrorism, plus aliens. I don't think any of us, not you, me, Pickering, understand the full ramifications of what's going on."

"I keep thinking, maybe they picked us because of the fact we're always at war." Kev's turn to look out of the window. "We're so busy fighting each other, we won't notice what's going on until they start mopping us up."

 

Pete looked down at the hand-drawn map.

"This is it?"

Pickering, stripping off his jacket, nodded. "Straight from Stan the Man."

Pete lifted the map up, flicked through the half a dozen sheets of scribbled notes underneath it. "Where's Stan?"

"Somewhere safe."

Pete dropped the map and sat down. "We need to talk to him."

"No. Operational security."

"We have to talk to him." Pete said.

"We need to know a lot more than this." Kev waved the map at Pickering. "We need to know how many there are, patrol routes, what they're carrying, all sorts."

"It's all there." Pickering said, showing a little too much equanimity for Pete's liking.

"It's not." Pete didn't even glance at the map again. "It's nowhere near detailed enough."

Their gazes locked.

"Kev."

"Boss?"

"Take this through to Chris and Lukas, look it over with them." He thrust the papers at Kev.

Sighing, Kev left, shaking his head.

Pete waited a few seconds, until he was sure Kev was out of earshot.

Pickering pre-empted him. "Still don't trust me, Sergeant?"

"Frigging right I don't. This whole thing was shaky to begin with and it's getting shakier with every job." Pete wanted to get up and pace, but he put his feet up on the table and leaned back instead. "First you can't tell us who we're working for, or why. Now you can tell us, but you can't pay us. Will you be able to tell us what the next job is, or will we have to guess?"

"You know all about operational security." Pickering replied blandly.

"Opsec is one thing. But bullshit is quite another." Pete narrowed his eyes. "There's loose ends all over and you're telling me about opsec. It's insulting."

"All loose ends have been tied up." Pickering reassured him.

"Intel literally years old?"

"I'm sure you've made do with wo-"

Pete surged to his feet. "Make do gets people killed. Prior preparation prevents a piss-poor performance, Pickering, and there's been sod all. We're lucky we got one job done, and it's just a matter of time before it all goes wrong, if you keep being so slack. You're dropping us hip-deep in shit every job."

"That's your problem." Pickering rose slowly. "Perhaps, Sergeant, you should consider that I have problems that you know nothing about."

Pete shook his head. "That big-picture bollocks doesn't work with me."

Pickering turned and walked over to the window.

Pete left, teeth gritted.

 

The rifle was a mess. The wood of the butt was a different colour to the barrel furniture, newer, still bright with polish. The safety lever had been snapped and welded back together. The metal was scarred above the receiver, where some genius had side-mounted a scope and another equally innovative genius had knocked it free with a hammer. There was an abortive attempt at a bipod mount that sat on the underside of the barrel like a metallic wart.

Pete traced the semicircular dents in the side of the Dragunov with his fingertips, wincing.

"Shoots good." Bruno assured him.

Pete reserved judgement. "We'll see when I get it zeroed. Kev?"

"Gimpy's good, boss." Kev sat with the big machine gun across his lap. "Looks brand new."

"Chris?"

"Top stuff." He held up one of the two Uzi submachine guns.

T-shaped, ugly and prosaically functional, it shone with oil.

"No rust, nice and new, plenty of magazines."

"Lukas?"

"Ok. We might need more, though." Lukas shoved aside a box of 9mm and sat down. "Definitely need more for the GPMG."

He kicked a small cardboard box with '7.62' scribbled on the lid.

Kev scowled. "What's that? Five hundred rounds? I'll be needing a lot more." He hoisted the GPMG upright, resting the butt on his thigh, barrel pointed at the ceiling. "This knocks out about eight hundred a minute, and I'm not running short."

"Not easy to get hold of." Bruno shrugged.

"What am I supposed to use if I run out? Harsh language?"

[FullAuto]

"So." Pete kicked off the Chinese parliament.

"Air defences are wicked. They've got two ZSUs." Kev looked up from his notes. "Those wicked quad-barrelled bastards. So, no exfil close to the town, and if we don't take them out, we'll get a right kicking. They're basically four 23mm cannons on a tank chassis. They can chew up a ground target just as quickly as a plane or heli."

"C4 charges?" Chris asked.

"Possibly. If two stage an attack on one side of the town," Pete tapped the western side of the map, "the other two slip in the other side, slap charges on anything worth blowing up, then nick a truck, fill it with money and drive out."

"Just like that" Lukas said glumly.

"I want to go in." Kev said.

They all looked at him.

"What? You got to go in last time, while I was Diversion Boy. And I got shot in the arse."

"How could we forget." Chris said, deadpan.

"Piss off. It's alright for you, Claymoring cars and capturing Yanks, left, right and centre. Some of us had to work." Kev tapped the map. "I want to go in this time."

Pete shook his had. "Need you on the Gimpy. Along with me, we'll be getting the attention of the whole town, and we'll be the only things they're shooting at. You'll get plenty of action. Lukas and Chris will go in close, take out the ZSUs, grab a truck and the money and get out."

"Piece of piss." Chris said, rolling his eyes.

Kev sulked.

"Kev, we have to keep upwards of two hundred well-armed blokes busy. They have to be totally occupied with us. You're the best machine gunner here, and you'll be taking most of the incoming because the weight of your fire and your muzzle flare are going to be a lot bigger than mine. I'll be set up on the same side, not too close, picking off anything too nasty with the Dragunov." Pete slapped Kev's shoulder. "Cheer up."

Kev licked his lips. "Claymores?"

"Front and flanks."

"Oh, go on then."

Chris grinned. "Tart."

"Says the man who jumped into bed with the first woman he met on ops." Kev retorted. "Shock confession from farm girl: 'SAS man ploughed my field'. News at ten."

Chris flipped a spoon at him. Kev dodged adroitly.

"So, if we get into deep shit close to El Rey, a heli pick up is out of the question. They've got Stingers as well, so anywhere within a few klicks is a no-go." Pete drummed his fingers on the table. "Exfil for the blokes in the truck is ok."

"Could be some problems with pursuit." Lukas said.

"Hmm. A M72 or three should stop that." Kev tapped the map. "Or if you stick a charge on any other vehicles you come across."

Chris nodded. "What's the road like?"

"Dirt track, for nearly two hundred klicks. Single lane." Pete clucked his tongue. "Stan wrote 'very tight' in capitals next to it, so I take that to mean you'll be losing your wing mirrors on tree trunks. No room for anyone to overtake you."

Lukas said what Chris was thinking. "No room to pass if we meet someone coming the other way."

"You'll be in a truck, a big one. They'll get out of your way." Pete said. "And if they don't, well, just ask nicely."

"Will do."

 

Deep under a thicket of wait-a-while, Pete stared down the scope of the Dragunov at El Rey.

It was nothing like any of the drug manufacturing plants he had blown up back in '92. El Rey was nothing less than a fully-fledged town. Through the 10x scope, he could see pretty much everything. Built on a gentle slope, El Rey boasted houses, bars, half a dozen restaurants, a dozen helipads and a very long landing strip.

There was an expanse of five hundred metres of more or less clear ground all around the sprawling town, dotted here and there with guard posts, seemingly ramshackle heaps of sandbags with corrugated iron sheeting for roofs. Unfortunately, maintenance was sorely lacking, and several sandbag walls had partly collapsed to reveal solid concrete.

Like the rest of El Rey, Pete thought, swivelling slowly, scanning the target again.

If you didn't look hard, you could miss the machine gun nests recessed away just behind balconies. The squat shape of every building on the periphery of the town, concrete blocks poking through rotting wood and rusted tin, doors shedding paint like an old skin, showing the shiny steel beneath. Flickers of movement behind half-closed shutters. Strips of ground covered with suspiciously thick amounts of foliage which the guards never walked across.

The guards were motley enough in appearance, dressed in dull jungle camo, their dark hair caught up in bright bandannas and headbands, jackets open or tied around their waists, startlingly white T-shirts crossed with the dark straps of a shoulder holster more often than not. Their weapons were a mongrel collection. AK-47s, M16s, almost the entire catalogue of Heckler & Koch, revolvers and automatics of every calibre, tucked into shoulder, leg and belt holsters, some hanging out of pockets, some hanging from lanyards tied in strange places.

Certain things, however, were uniform. They were young and fit. The weapons were all in good condition, clean and shiny. Each man had a mag carrier at his waist, which held four magazines for his rifle. Their boots were always clean. Each group was clearly led by an older man, usually a Colombian, but there were others as well, a white man with blonde hair and a black man with a shaved head, slightly taller and bulkier than the Colombians.

Pete eyed them carefully. Keeping a fighting force in good shape was impossible without good sergeants or their equivalent, and those two in particular looked hard enough to chew nails. The guards themselves weren't particularly alert, but the sergeants were.

He'd been here five days. On the third day, Pete saw a perimeter patrol flush some sort of groundhog from the jungle. It sprinted out into the open and while the rest of the squad simply laughed or fired into the air, the sergeant, a short Colombian with a thick drooping moustache, raised his rifle and fired a single shot.

The pig fell, rolled and got up again.

The sergeant put another bullet into it and it fell, dead.

Pete smelled the barbecue that night, and it reminded him that while the majority of them might be bags of shite, the sergeants weren't.

There was a shift change every two hours, so guards didn't get complacent or fall asleep. Squads never seemed to get the same post, and the amount of men in the outer guard posts was doubled as soon as it got dark.

They knew special forces loved to attack at night.

Here, on the edge of the jungle, rifle propped on the trunk of a fallen tree, Pete inventoried everything he could see, triple checking.

Two hangars close to the landing strip, each big enough to hold a 747 or similar, but most likely hiding three or four smaller aeroplanes. Six helicopters, four battered Hueys that looked as if they had flown all the way from Vietnam, a Bell Jet Ranger, cornflower blue paint job still glossy, and a Kiowa that looked partially dismantled.

A fleet of SUVs and Humvee-alikes, all chrome and monstrous balloon tyres. Flatbed trucks, big enough to transport troops and drugs. Two bulldozers, which were presumably used to clear the jungle whenever needed. Two ZSUs, one near the hangars, one right on the other side of El Rey. No tall buildings close to them, not much cover for any ground forces, never mind aircraft. Just thinking about incoming fire from two of those things made him wince.

He eased back from the scope, wiping sweat and mosquitoes off his face. Move too fast and the wait-a-while would shake, and next thing you knew Mr Curious Guard would come traipsing over, or even better, put some rounds into the bush, hoping to flush another pig.

Pete took a drink of water, face itching furiously. It had been a free for all buffet for every mosquito within a mile, by the feel. The repellent he'd smeared on just before dawn had been sweated off hours ago. His legs itched as well. Strands of wait-a-while had snagged his camo leggings and pulled them up slightly, allowing the mosquitoes another meal.

The heat wasn't too bad, with the rain just starting to slacken off, and the humidity was a lot less than it was deeper in the jungle, but comfort was a long way off. Despite the fact he'd been putting all his waste in a resealable bag, the insects were taking a definite interest, and there was a colony of ants somewhere close, because he was never rid of the little sods.

Still, only two more days to go, then exfil.

He leaned forward, putting his eye to the scope again, and watched.

 

"Sod this." Kev dropped into an exhausted heap, GPMG across his lap.

Chris tossed him a bottle of water. "Half the targets, that time. Nice one."

Kev shook his head."Bollocks." He took a deep draught of water, smearing sweat off his forehead with the sleeve of his camo jacket. "Frigging thing weighs a ton. Too slow."

Chris checked the stopwatch. "You're improving. A bit."

"Oh, thanks very much." Kev passed the GPMG to Lukas. "I frigging hate the jungle."

"We know." Chris dropped the stopwatch in his lap. "My turn."

He unslung his Uzi, checked it, and loaded a fresh magazine. Kev got to his feet and they began the walk back to the starting point, Lukas trailing with the GPMG over his shoulder.

The exercise was simple fire-and-move, a lane five metres wide and five hundred long, its borders marked with cheap blue nylon rope, which hung at knee height from low bushes and tree trunks. It was designed as a retreat, to simulate dropping back through jungle, with a 90 degree turn thrown in here and there for good measure.

So far, their performances had been less than sterling. Kev had set the par by circling around a rock the wrong way and tripping over the rope. Lukas had a stoppage and tried to drop back and clear it at the same time, running straight into a target. Chris had rolled under the rope and moved almost a hundred metres before realising there were no more targets, as well as no more Kev and Lukas, who should have been pacing him.

"I ever tell you about my time here?" Kev asked, trudging along and fiddling with the stopwatch.

"Every five minutes." Lukas replied.

"Shut it." Kev took another drink of water. "It was back in ninety-two-"

"When tuppence ha'penny got you fish and chips and young folk respected their elders." Chris cut in, gurning over his shoulder at Kev.

"Piss off." Kev managed to reset the stopwatch. "We got dropped in, meant to help out a load of Ghurkhas already in country. They were doing a good job, but there were nowhere near enough of them. Right deep in bandit country, chopping up the FARC, blowing up DMPs-"

"DMPs?" Lukas asked.

"Drug Manufacturing Plants." Kev grinned at the memory. "Roping down from helis right into deep shit, it was lovely. FARC lads running about, Ramboing with M60s and getting slotted quick fast. We were coming down once and the pilot changed his mind, some Colombian nutter with about three hours in this Blackhawk. We shit bricks, hanging off a rope from a heli doing about a hundred miles an hour, no warning, being shot at."

"Ah, those were the days." Chris sighed.

"Piss off." Kev shook his head. "He put us down about fifty miles away, swore blind he'd seen a RPG. We told him if there had been one, we'd have bloody seen it."

"Here we are." Chris checked his Uzi again, slung it and drew his 23.

"Why are we doing this alone?" Lukas asked, cradling the GPMG now, getting ready to run.

"Worst case, we get split up and have to e-and-e it alone. So that's what we're practising. Hope for the best, prepare for the worst, mate." Kev stretched his legs. "Ready?"

Chris nodded.

"Go."

 

Under the shade of the thick tangle of wait-a-while, Pete didn't have to worry about the sunlight reflecting off the scope lens, and the only thing that would give his position away was scent, or the bush moving.

His piss, what there was of it, went into an empty water bottle. Not the easiest thing to do while laid on his stomach, and it had gained him a lovely purple bruise just below his navel when he slipped and fell on the bottle during his first try. Shitting was a complication he didn't think about until he had to. He wasn't eating much anyway.

The ZSUs were a big problem. They could bring enough fire to bear to chew up platoons, never mind four men. Lukas and Chris would be ok as soon as they got into El Rey, between the buildings. But the infil into the town, and the exfil if they used a truck...

Pete shook his head and gauged the distance from the town to the edge of the forest, tracking the sinuous 'S' shape. A single lane lined with fallen trees to keep vehicles on the road. Anything less formidable than a tank would have to stick to the road, and thanks to the muddy surface and long curves, it would have to go slow.

Pete thought of a truck packed with money. Slower. Skidding couldn't be risked, in case you knacked the truck by crashing into the barriers.

Stranded, no cover for more than two hundred metres, the ZSUs would chop you, the truck, and the money, into pieces.

The ZSUs had to go.

 

Chris dropped behind a stunted tree, firing at a glimpsed target, bullets tearing shreds of moss from a nearby log.

-missed-

Not even halfway through, he turned to run again, spotting another target even as he passed it, twisting and firing, muzzle not six inches from the outline.

Paper shredded as 9mm rounds ripped through it, disfiguring the head.

Chris vaulted a tree stump, slipped and fell. He crawled, not losing a moment, rolling to his left and rising to a crouch, turning and bringing the Uzi up again.

Three targets, evenly spaced.

Three bursts, evenly spaced, hot stuttering blasts that shook the gun and smashed the targets.

Then up and away, turning from stillness to a fluid sprint, staying low, dodging branches and bushes, sweating now in the thick humidity and stifling heat of the jungle, though sweating did him no good.

Chris swerved around a tree and stopped to change magazines. He pocketed the empty and slapped in a fresh one, able to check around his cover for targets simultaneously because the mag well was in the grip, just like a pistol. He dragged back the bolt as he saw two targets, one directly behind the other.

He leaned out and fired a long burst, trying to get a feel for the weapon, so different from the MP5 he was used to.

The Uzi had a grip safety you had to squeeze fairly hard or your trigger pull got you nothing. The sights were different, the balance was different, the recoil was not as smooth, and it pushed back harder.

Both targets were hit, despite the last few rounds climbing far too high.

Chris hit the ground and crawled for it, digging his elbows and feet in, kicking and gouging his way through the soft carpet of rotting leaves and soil. He spotted a rope directly ahead, the bright blue strand stretching away to his right.

He rolled around the corner, rose into a crouch and hurried on, as quietly as he could, glancing over his shoulder for targets. Kev paced him, off to the right, eyes flicking constantly to the stopwatch. Lukas was off to the left, hefting the GPMG, watching the targets.

A left turn, past a whole row of targets with no cover. Chris passed them at top speed, spinning and firing the mag off in one burst, hoping to catch them all in the sweeping arc.

No luck.

The last two escaped unscathed.

He drew his 23, double-tapped both targets in the head and jammed the pistol back into its holster. Pulling another mag from the carrier and bringing the Uzi back up, he reloaded.

More running, slipping by tree trunks scored by bullet holes and ricochets from previous runs, ducking under a sagging branch splintered by a particularly bad shot, then a right turn onto the last stretch, twenty metres of clear ground except for a car-sized boulder. Chris slowed his rush.

There were usually a few targets here to shoot from behind the boulder before the last sprint to the finish. But not this time.

Clear ground.

Chris put his head down and sprinted, tucking the Uzi close in, pumping his arms and gritting his teeth, surging forward as he passed the boulder and-

-down down down-

He dived, almost not knowing why, something in the corner of his eye tugging his head round and his shoulders after that, twisting in mid-air to aim at what he saw, a group, no, a bloody family of targets, stacked up in the lee of the boulder.

-you bastard, Kev-

He hit the ground shooting.

 

A grenade down the turret hatch would do the trick. A big enough charge on the chassis. A M72 would do the job. Problem was, all three involved getting in close.

Neither was on a direct route to the trucks, which were roughly in the centre of El Rey. One ZSU was in the southeast corner near the hangars, where the landing strip began. The other was in the northwest corner, close to a guard post.

Pete blinked, eyes stinging. The heat was oppressive, sweat dripping off him, running into his eyes and mouth, bringing the last traces of mosquito repellent with it, hurting his eyes and souring his mouth.

He took a drink, scratched some of the larger irritations gently, then went back to the scope.

He had the guard shifts down pat, knew when, where, and how many. A big enough hit on the west side, Kev reeling off belt after belt of 7.62, support fire with the Dragunov, pick off machine gunners, sergeants, anyone especially dangerous. That would suck in a lot of their forces as they surged forward, hesitated, got behind cover and returned fire until the sergeants got them under control.

Chris and Lukas could walk it in from the east, even if they got spotted once in El Rey they could fight their way through, resistance would be negligible. If they hit big trouble, they were within range of the GPMG and the Dragunov, so a bit of help could be delivered if necessary.

Pete looked down at the sketch. He'd drawn his own to complement Stan's, sparser, but up-to-date, with approximate distances. From his current position, it was three hundred metres to the nearest guard post, sat directly between El Rey and him, first port of call for his bullets.

Five hundred metres to the edge of the town, where most of his rounds would be heading.

Seven hundred metres to the big cluster of vehicles, still well within range of the Dragunov and the GPMG, meaning they could knock out any possible pursuit before it got started.

The ZSU on the northwest corner was forty-five degrees to his left and five hundred and fifty metres distant. Pete bit his lip, trying to think of a solution to that 23mm problem.

 

"One on the northwest corner, one on the southeast, and with El Rey being set out in a rough square-" Pete quickly filled in details, eschewing paper and penning the map straight onto the laminated surface of the table.

"One can cover the north and west sides, and one can cover the south and east." Kev supplied.

Pete nodded. "Right. While still providing overlapping fields of anti-aircraft fire, depending upon what's needed most."

"Slot them on a crew change?" Chris asked.

"They change crews at different times. If I set up on the west side, where I did the CTR, the closest one is easy, five-fifty, six hundred metres. But the other one, on the southeast corner, near the hangars, is more than a klick. It's iffy, to say the least. Dropping three running men at that range. Only easy thing is the angle, I'll be back shooting them."

Lukas rubbed at the crease in his brow, trying to ease away the frown. "If you do get one crew, won't they just send out another?"

Pete nodded. "It's a possibility, and I'd have to keep an eye on it to make sure no one sneaked out to it. Another complication."

"We need to blow them up." Chris said.

They nodded in unison, staring down at the map intently, as if to burn away its complexities with the weight of their combined stares.

"At least one of them." Lukas tapped the southeast corner. "This one is covering the road. If we exfil in a truck loaded down with currency, we will not be able to go fast, especially on mud. Chris and I will destroy this one."

Chris sucked air through his teeth. "Can't do the other one, though. We go anywhere near the west side, we'll get sucked into the fight there."

"I get all the good jobs." Kev complained.

They looked at him.

"What? What? Getting shot at by two hundred men and a bloody AA gun is not a good day out." He wiped the map away with a wet cloth. "All this 'escape in the confusion' stuff isn't going to work. I got shot in the arse last time. Where am I going to get shot this time?"

"The mouth, hopefully." Chris grinned.

"Shut up, Davies. Go back to guarding farm girls from loneliness."

"Cut it out." Pete warned. "Let's call it a night."

They went to bed all chewing over the same problem.

 

Pickering reviewed the plan slowly. "Not exactly Erwin Rommel's best, is it?" He said at last.

Pete shrugged. "Subtlety would be pointless."

"A diversionary attack by you and Kev on the west side. Chris and Lukas infil from the east. They detour, take out a ZSU, then get to a truck, load it up with money and exfil through the road."

"Essentially."

Pickering shrugged. "How do you know where the money is?"

"Six warehouses, right by where the trucks are parked. Each warehouse has a number on the side. One, five, ten twenty, fifty and one hundred." Pete smiled.

"Dollar bills?"

Pete nodded.

"Alright. The exfil."

"Road goes east, single lane mud track really. Not a road at all. Just big enough for a truck. We haven't had any rain for a bit, so it shouldn't be too bad. Chris is good behind the wheel. Once off that S-bend, he can put his foot down all the way to the rendezvous for pick up." Pete swilled a mouthful of water around.

A week later and he was still tasting mosquito repellent. Disgusting.

"We only have one heli." Pickering said. "Who gets first pick up?"

There was no real doubt. "Chris and Lukas, they'll have the money." Pete glanced at Kev. "We'll sort another RV out for us."

[FullAuto]

"Ok. Anything else?" Pickering asked, standing.

"Extra magazines for the Dragunov. Another five thousand rounds for the Gimpy. Eight Claymore mines. Suppressors for the Uzis and our pistols." Pete cast a last glance around at everyone. "And a mortar."

Bruno tapped the pad in front of him slowly, then looked at Pickering. The big man shrugged.

Bruno sighed and wrote it all down. "Favour for a favour."

"Fifty-one millimetre, for preference, nothing too big." Pete smiled as Bruno scowled. "And someone to operate it."

Bruno held up a hand. "Me."

"Fair enough. Set you up on the north side, drop some rounds all over the town, then leg it for the RV." Pete fiddled with a pen as he spoke. "They won't have a clue where the mortar rounds are coming from if you set up away from the jungle edge."

Bruno nodded as he wrote. Pete watched the bald head bob, reflections glimmering on the sweaty skin.

"You operated in the jungle before?"

"He's good." Pickering contributed before Bruno had a chance to speak. "I've done jobs with him before, in the jungle and outside of it."

Pete tried to smile, but it turned into a grimace.

-have to take his word for it-

"Get your kit together then. Chris, check the detonators again. Kev, make sure you've got enough ammo for the Gimpy. Lukas, check the M72s."

"Hey" Bruno stood. "Those things are good, they cos' me-"

Pete pointed to the vacated chair. "Sit down."

Bruno stared at him, then flung up his hands and dropped down into the seat.

"It's not an insult. I'm just being a professional." Pete raised his eyebrows. "Ok?"

Bruno nodded. "Bein' professional. O-k."

"I'll be spotting for you, but I'll be busy shooting too, so I want you to learn this map." Pete passed him a copy of the map he had sketched on the CTR, complete with ranges. "I want you to hit the helipads first, take out any helicopters. Then the guard posts around the town. After Chris and Lukas exfil in the truck, I want you to use up whatever you've got left on the town itself, concentrating on the car park in the centre, ok?"

"Ok." Bruno glanced at the map before tucking it away in his notepad.

"Last of all." Pet closed his hand around Bruno's wrist. "Get some smoke rounds. A dozen. Drop them all around the town."

"Ok." Bruno didn't like being grabbed, that was obvious, but Pete didn't care.

This job was bad enough. No one was going to frig anything up.

"Learn the map. Learn the ranges."

Bruno pulled his hand free and backed away.

"Learn it."

 

"Hi, assholes. Welcome to Black Ops Airways. We'll be your captive pilots for today, and probably the rest of our natural lives." The pilot turned and looked back at them, flipping up his visor.

Kev stared. "You dropped us off in Russia"

The pilot grinned. "Nope. That was him." He hiked a thumb at the co-pilot. "He flies the fixed wings, I fly the whirly birds."

Th co-pilot waved, not bothering to turn round. "I'm Doug."

The pilot displayed his best shit-eating grin. "I'm Joe. We're hostages. We hate this shit."

Doug's muttered "Goddamn right." barely made it back to them as they climbed into the helicopter.

It was an old Huey, very similar to those Pete had seen at El Rey, painted a dull uneven green that looked leprous in the light of the sinking sun.

Pickering was the last to climb aboard, checking the mounted M60 as he did so. "You know your orders?"

"Oh yessir, sir." Joe cracked off a mocking salute. "We're gonna fly all the way out to this shithole deep in the jungle, not that we know where it is, because we hardly know where we are. Crystal clear, sir."

"Good man." Pickering banged a fist on the side of the helicopter. "Let's go."

 

Pete checked the Dragunov, making sure the sights hadn't been knocked out of alignment. Last time out with a long gun had been Bosnia, counter-sniping. First with the Accuracy International, and then with a Light Fifty. Both old friends, even then. He'd caused havoc with the Barret, but the real damage had been done with the AI. Precision hits against rabid snipers earning their money killing women and children, warlords overcome with megalomania and on one occasion, a captured war criminal who was going to air some very dirty laundry at his trial.

Kev checked the Claymores. They would most likely come into play if the shit truly hit the fan, and if it did, he wanted every advantage he could get. One on his right flank, one on his left, and two in front of him. He checked the detonators and the det cord, running his fingers all the way along each hundred-metre length, looking and feeling for damage.

Chris tried to calm his nerves. Never suffering from pre- or post-action vomiting as some did, he'd found the tension before each op growing worse and worse, refusing to be sublimated into energy and readiness. Cold sweat broke out on his forehead. His stomach rolled, and nausea set in. Taking deep breaths, he closed his eyes.

Kev, ever the most sensitive of souls, made loud retching noises. When this failed to spur Chris on to vomiting, he went back to the Claymores.

Lukas was worried about the odd rattling noise the suppressor on his Uzi was making. Trembled by the vibration of the helicopter, something had obviously come loose. He unscrewed it from the Uzi's barrel and shook it gently. The suppressor rattled, barely audible.

"Not good." He shook it again.

It sounded like all the baffles inside had come loose. This meant they would absorb very little sound.

Too late to do anything about it now. He inspected the suppressor on his Glock, but it seemed to be intact. There was no way to be sure without opening it up.

Too late now.

 

"All call signs, Papa, comms check."

Kev looked down the length of the GPMG at the closest guard post. A belt of ammunition was already in the feed. He pulled back the charging handle, settling the butt against his shoulder. He had almost five thousand rounds to use up, and he hadn't machine-gunned anyone since the Gulf War.

"Kilo."

 

Lukas and Chris snaked through foliage on their bellies, right at the edge of the forest.

Chris made sure the suppressor was screwed firmly onto his Uzi. Lukas advanced with Glock and knife.

"Charlie."

"Lima."

 

Bruno dropped a round down the barrel of the mortar, and went over his calculations again.

"Bravo."

His hand tightened around the firing lanyard.

 

Pete aimed at the biggest target, a man in the doorway of the nearest guard post, AK hanging by his side.

Range just shy of three hundred metres.

Pete could see the beginnings of stubble on the guard's chin. The worn stock of his AK, old enough to be classed as an antique. A big pistol in his shoulder rig, chromed and shining, the fake ivory grips almost as bright. Sweat trickling down his neck. The guard squinted as he swept his cap off, shading his eyes from the strong sunlight.

Pete killed him.

 

Kev sighted on the guard post.

Three men came out, stooping around the fallen guard, raising their rifles.

Kev downed all three with a short burst, digging in against the push of the big gun, aiming through the muzzle flare, then swept the gun over the building, teeth bared and gritted in a savage grimace. He put rounds through the windows, sweeping the gun back and forth, pockmarking the walls, digging puffs of dust from the ground, chewing pieces off the bodies, pouring bullets into the guard post in a stream that ran dry all too soon.

He felt around for another belt as he flipped up the cover hatch on the GPMG.

 

Pete watched the town burst into life, as if the sudden silence was a signal. Guards poured out into the streets, from every building, shouting and screaming but moving with a purpose, a human flood that quickly transformed into a wave, moving from chaos to order in one smooth sweep as they took up defensive positions.

The first mortar round fell short.

A building exploded, spitting smoke and flame and debris from its doors and windows.

The next round was closer, but not by much. It dug a crater in the street next to the gutted building, the explosion throwing a body up into the air.

Pete radioed Bruno even as he started firing.

"Bravo, Papa, fifty metres short."

Cowboy hat and long gun, big scope. Pete swung as the target ran, firing a little high.

"I repeat, five-zero metres short."

The guard caught the bullet full in the face.

A squad moved up and crouched by the perimeter wall, just heads and rifles showing.

-like shooting cans off a wall-

He got one, two, three, before they got the idea and ducked down. And it was just a sandbag wall, so he put the rest of the mag through at metre intervals, low down. Reloaded.

All without moving his head from the scope.

A sergeant, waving his men up, conspicuously disdaining cover.

One round in the chest.

A machine gunner, loaded down with ammunition.

One round in the chest.

A runner, binoculars bouncing on a strap.

One round in the chest.

The man fell, rolled and got up in time to get another bullet.

He sat down, nodding sadly.

Moving gently, only millimetres at a time, Pete kept himself steady, a firm base for the rifle, going from motion to absolute stillness to motion, breathing slowly and evenly despite his hammering heart, squeezing the trigger despite the excitement crackling down his nerves that urged him to jerk it.

He placed rounds for maximum effect, one shot, one kill, always centre mass if possible.

 

Kev hosed them down with another belt, glad he'd dug the bipod into the soil. He worked his aim along the edge of the town, sending short bursts at everything that moved, chopping bodies and cover to pieces, raining a firestorm back and forth and back and forth, keeping their heads down, denying them time and space. Catching one unlucky bloke out in the open and cutting his legs apart, leaving him there as bait.

One man tried and got two steps before Kev cut him in half at the waist.

Another started, then lost his guts and ran back, Kev's bullets chasing his feet.

A dozen men ran out from between some buildings, making for the perimeter wall.

Kev aimed a few metres ahead of them and held the trigger down.

They ran straight into death.

 

Chris and Lukas crawled as fast as they dared, flinching inwardly at every burst of gunfire, both knowing the next sound could be a gun pinning them down, here, out in the open.

Chris looked up.

Almost at the guard post. After that, a short run to the town.

Almost there.

 

Pete put two rounds into a group huddled in the lee of a building. Several metres back from the edge of town, they were safe from Kev, who was a hundred metres off to Pete's left, but just in view for him.

Three fell, one turned and began blazing away with his AK.

Pete fired, absorbing the recoil with his shoulder and making sure the rifle stayed on target during the follow through.

The shooter fell, blood spilling from his stomach.

Someone reached out from a doorway, grabbing one of the bodies.

Pete fired at the movement on instinct.

-missed, never hit a moving target that small-

The bullet blew the grasping hand apart, ripping a good chunk of palm and two fingers free. The arm disappeared back into the doorway.

He moved his aim back to the perimeter wall, panning slowly across buildings, watching the windows.

One shot, one kill.

 

Kev loaded another belt and reeled it all off in one burst, sending rounds in high to lob over walls and through windows, catching the unlucky and the stupid with hot metal. Pure fury pouring out of the barrel at more than eight hundred rounds a minute, more than a dozen bullets every second launched to smack into stone and flesh and dirt and bone, spraying dust and mud and blood, smashing forms into pieces, tearing off chunks, leaving ragged raw edges.

The moisture on the barrel had evaporated long ago, and now smoke was beginning to leak from the muzzle.

-almost time for a barrel change-

He loaded another belt, making sure the first bullet on the belt was against the cartridge stop, open portion of the disintegrating links facing down, and closed the cover hatch firmly. The gentle snap-click of it locking into place made him grin.

Three mortar rounds hit in quick succession, explosive footsteps drawing nearer to the helipads.

The entire western side of El Rey was lined with armed men, peering from windows and doorways, peeking around the sagging perimeter wall, some firing their weapons sporadically, but there was no incoming yet.

No machine guns, no sniper fire.

Nothing from the ZSU, which sat, squat and silent at the corner of the town, sleeping.

Kev aimed and let rip.

 

"Bravo, Papa, ten metres, I repeat, one-zero metres short."

Pete moved back from the scope, getting a wider view.

No one was running for the helis. No one was going for the ZSU. They were still hunkered down in cover, consolidating, trying to summon up the courage to get moving.

Pete watched them group and try to get into some kind of order, scanning the tree line whenever they could.

That was the beautiful thing about indirect fire weapons. They were looking for a rocket launcher, somewhere in front of them, when Bruno was off to their right, well behind the tree line.

Pete lowered his head to look down the scope, and found the sight filled by an unlucky guard fiddling with his AK, leaning over the weapon and out of cover.

One shot to the chest.

The guard slumped forward onto his face.

 

Chris crawled right up to the doorway of the guard post and peered inside.

A guard peered right back at him.

Chris brought his Uzi up, sighted on the face and fired.

The 9mm bullets punched through the guard's head and the ceiling.

He fell as another appeared, rising and aiming his AK.

Lukas moved up, firing his Glock at the guard as he closed in.

The suppressor worked well, reducing the usual flat cracks of pistol fire to little more than dull pops.

The guard slammed back against the wall, six 10mm rounds in his body. Lukas put a round into his head, then moved into the guard post.

Two guards, fumbling with their weapons.

Lukas shot one point-blank, two rounds in the face. The other charged, swinging his AK like a club. Lukas ducked and stepped back, tripping over a body.

The guard screamed with triumph, standing over him.

Lukas shot him in the gut.

Chris put half a mag into his chest, Uzi sputtering out ten rounds in less than a second, hammering the guard back.

He stayed on his feet until Lukas put a bullet in his throat.

Chris moved inside, checked the bodies, then got on the radio.

"Papa, Charlie, point one."

"Charlie, Papa, check. Hurry up."

Lukas shrugged at Chris' sour expression. He ejected the clip and fed a full one into his Glock.

"That's gratitude for you." Chris sighed, reloading the Uzi. "Ready?"

Lukas nodded, sheathing his knife, holding his pistol with both hands, preparing himself.

"Go." Chris stepped out, swinging the Uzi up.

Lukas ran, full sprint across fifty metres of ground.

Chris scanned the closest doors and windows, looking for movement, a weapon, anything.

Halfway.

Still nothing.

Lukas reached the closest building. He flattened himself against the wall, by the door.

No movement. No gunfire close by.

He waved Chris in, sliding along slowly, closer to the door.

It opened a crack.

"Miguel?"

Lukas lunged inside, shoving the door all the way open with his shoulder and jamming the Glock into the stomach of the man in front of him. He fired twice, rounds driving through skin, muscle and intestine before hitting vertebrae.

The guard dropped, spine severed. Lukas lined up the head with the front sight and fired once more, splashing blood across the dirt floor.

He looked up from the dead man.

One more guard, AK on the table in front of him.

Lukas shot him twice, poppop.

The man grunted, then slumped sideways and hit the floor.

Chris entered, Uzi at his shoulder, ready for trouble.

Lukas shot the second man in the back of the head, then reloaded. Dripping sweat, he wiped an arm across his face and moved back to the door. "You first. I'll watch the back."

Chris nodded. "Papa, Charlie, point two."

"Charlie, Papa, check. No rush."

Chris shook his head. "Sarky bastard."

They moved out into the street, and ran.

 

A mortar round dropped between two helicopters. The explosion blew the rotors off one and peppered the other with holes.

"Bravo, Papa, on target" Pete watched until another round came down, landing close by the first and totally destroying a Huey.

Now they were going for the helicopters.

Pete cut down six of the running ten before they went prone, cracking off quick shots ahead of the group.

Two were only wounded, leg hits. They got another round each, their crawling forms easy targets.

The remaining four refused to take the hint, heading straight for the helicopters.

Pete swung and fired, four times.

Ten bodies lay still, a sprawling trail of dead.

 

Smoke was pouring off the barrel now. Kev rattled off the rest of the belt, then loaded in another.

-one more, then change the barrel-

He wanted a fresh one for when things really kicked off. Making sure he kept the ammo belt nice and level with the feed, he swung the GPMG and scribbled rounds across the perimeter wall again. He stitched short bursts into the sandbags, ignoring the ache in his shoulder from the recoil, ignoring the smoke stinging his eyes, focussing on getting the gun on target, pulling the trigger and finding another target.

A squad moved out from cover on the left, with another squad laying down plenty of fire.

Rounds arced overhead to thud into the trees behind him, splintering branches and chopping ferns, the odd tracer flaring here and there like a low-flying shooting star.

They knew it was long range for their assault rifles and were aiming high to compensate for the drop.

Kev watched as the men dropped to the ground and opened fire. He readied himself to shoot as soon as the other squad moved from behind their cover.

-wait a bit more and it's two squads for the price of one-

They did, but half of them started shooting on the run as they changed direction.

-stupid flanking movement, heading north-

North. Straight towards the ZSU.

Kev laced them with most of a belt, yelling into his radio as he fired.

"Papa, Kilo, squad on the move"

 

Pete had missed the initial movement, busy suppressing any attempt to reach the helicopters, but he quickly changed targets.

Kev was bringing serious fire to bear on the runners, but none had fallen yet. And only a hundred metres separated them from the ZSU.

Pete stilled himself, settling his scope on the ZSU.

"Papa, Kilo, for frigsake! Squad moving to ZSU"

"Kilo, Papa, I have them." Pete watched the bobbing head of the lead runner enter the bottom of his sight.

-a few more seconds-

The lead man jumped up onto the chassis, directly into the centre of his sight.

Pete shot him in the ribs. He fell off the ZSU, clutching his side.

Two more men climbed up, headed for the turret hatch.

Pete shot one in the back, then shifted the marking post onto the other target and fired again.

Both fell, one lolling limply across the turret.

Yet another, crouching behind the turret, trying to push the body off without exposing himself.

Pete aimed at the jerking body and fired.

The flat trajectory of the 7.62 round carried it only a little higher than aimed. The bullet ploughed into the side of the corpse, deflecting from a rib and tumbling inside the rib cage before punching out the other side, a deformed lump of lead which struck the target in the mouth, shattering teeth before deflecting upwards off the jawbone into the brain.

The guard stood, clawing at his face.

Pete shot him in the heart.

Four more reached the ZSU, clambering up before being picked off.

One got as far as opening the hatch before Pete shot him in the neck.

 

Kev chopped up the last members of the squad giving covering fire, moving the roaring muzzle of the GPMG across their prone forms repeatedly.

There was no way they could be allowed to start a flanking movement yet.

He sent the last few rounds into a building showing signs of activity, then loaded another belt, noting the places where men were gathering, bunching and gaining confidence in their numbers.

-last belt before barrel change-

He settled behind the gun again and waited for a good target.

 

Chris peered round the corner of the building.

The big car park was deserted except for a pair of guards over by the warehouses on the opposite side. They were facing towards the gunfire, looking down the street to catch a glimpse of the action.

"Not their lucky day." Chris murmured. "Crawl."

Lukas got down on his stomach and squirmed under the nearest vehicle. He could see the guards from the ankle down.

"Take the one on the left." Chris murmured, joining him under the truck.

They hurried on, smelling petrol and oil, slipping through dank water in puddles and wheel ruts, checking right and left before moving into the open space between each row of vehicles, rolling quickly to get back under cover.

Lukas banged his head on an axle and almost shouted in pain. He saw bright strobing stars for a few seconds, even with his eyes closed and face pressed to the ground. He waited until the pain dulled, then reached back and touched the crown of his head.

The impact had felt hard enough to leave a dent, but there was only a little blood. He shook his head in disgust and carried on.

Chris reached the last row of vehicles and stopped, aiming up at the guard's head.

Lukas moved up beside him and took aim at the second man.

"Que pasa?" Chris called softly.

Both guards turned.

Lukas squeezed the trigger and the 10mm bullet powered through the guard's eye and out the back of his head in a gout of pink mush.

Chris fired a short burst that almost decapitated his target.

They hurried forward, grabbed the bodies and hauled them under the SUV. Lukas splashed water over the blood as Chris hurried to the nearest warehouse and looked inside.

For a moment, he forgot what he was meant to be doing.

The warehouse wasn't particularly big, but it was filled from wall to wall and to the rafters with plastic-wrapped cubes, two metres square.

Money. It was all money. Dollar bills stacked and packed and wrapped in plastic, then stacked on top of other cubes of solid currency.

Chris closed his mouth and stepped outside. The number '5' was painted next to the door, white and three metres high. He glanced back inside. Five-dollar bills, hundreds of thousands...no, millions of them.

Millions of dollars, just in fives.

He looked along the row to the last warehouse. The one with '100' painted on it.

"Lukas. Get a truck."

 

"Papa, Kilo, barrel change."

"Kilo, Papa, check."

Kev had mentally rehearsed the whole procedure as he'd fired off the last of the current belt.

Retract the bolt. Set the trigger to safe. Depress the button on the left side while simultaneously pulling the carrying handle up but not out. Pull barrel forward and lift off. Replace with new barrel.

He got as far as pulling the old barrel out before realising it was hot.

"Shit" He held up a scorched palm, furious at such a stupid mistake. "Shit shit shit"

-this isn't getting the barrel changed-

He wormed his arm up his sleeve, pulling the cuff down over his burnt palm, then quickly yanked the barrel out and then up, dropping it as soon as he could.

The new barrel went on no problem, the cool metal soothing his stinging hand.

"Kilo, Papa, the boys are missing you."

"Papa, Kilo, barrel change done. Reloading."

 

Pete emptied another magazine, sweeping his scope along the top of the perimeter wall and firing at anything he saw.

Heads, hands, shoulders, gun muzzles, anything and everything that showed. He had to keep their heads down, but with just a single semiautomatic rifle to work with, it was only a matter of time.

A squad started something but he drove them back with a volley of shots, drilling three rounds through the lead man, knocking him back over the wall.

He reloaded in the lull. "Kilo, Papa, it's not me, you understand, but the boys are getting restless."

"Papa, Kilo, make them behave."

Grimacing, Pete looked through the scope.

Another squad getting confident.

He shot their sergeant, the bullet raising a puff of sand as it skimmed the top of the perimeter wall before hitting him in the stomach. The target folded, screaming.

A squad returned fire, loosing a fully automatic fusillade in his general direction.

He racked up two wounds and two kills in the seconds it took them to empty their mags and duck.

Two groups this time, almost a hundred metres apart, blazing away at nothing, hoping to get lucky. A bullet skipped off the log in front of him.

Holding back the sea with a leaky bucket came to mind.

 

Kev fumbled the end of the belt again. He had no sensation in his burnt fingers and couldn't get the frigging belt into the right place. He used both hands this time, teeth gritted as his swelling hand manipulated the ammo belt.

-had to be my right, didn't it-

He got it in place this time, and slapped down the cover before it could slip free or he did something to knock it loose.

Back to work.

Just wrapping his hand around the grip hurt. Squeezing the trigger and feeling the recoil shudder the gun, feeling it jar the already damaged flesh, made him snarl.

He made them pay for every second of pain with a torrent of high velocity bullets.

 

Lukas stepped gently on the brake and the truck coasted to a halt next to the warehouse. He jumped out, leaving the engine running, and ran inside.

Chris was heaving black duffle bags out of a pile, sliding them across the concrete floor to rest by the door. "Five million a bag. Get loading."

Lukas grabbed one and swung its considerable weight onto his shoulder. Hefting another in his hands, he turned, took two steps outside and was at the rear of the truck. The tailgate was already down. He swung the bag up and in, then shoved it as far back as he could reach before adding the next one.

Chris ferried another two bags out. "Get in the back. Pack them in tight."

Lukas jumped up, kicking the pair of bags all the way to the partition which separated the cab from the cargo space before accepting the next two from Chris.

-that's twenty million already loaded-

Chris managed three bags this time, shoving them aboard with frenetic haste.

Lukas wondered how much the truck would hold.

-a lot more-

 

The helicopters were in ruin. Three had taken direct hits, and the other three weren't in much better shape. None would fly.

"Bravo, Papa, change targets. West side of town, smoke and HE. I repeat, smoke and hotel echo"

"Papa, Bravo, check."

Pete put a round through a machine gunner, barely notching an arm hit. The target ducked behind the wall. He fired at the loader and got a shoulder hit, spinning the man off his feet.

-one shot one kill, not one shot one wound-

A sergeant popped his head up and raised a pair of binoculars to his eyes.

Pete took his time, made doubly sure he had a clean shot, and then squeezed the trigger through the first and second pressure to the surprisingly gentle trigger break. The Dragunov drove back against his shoulder and Pete watched the bullet hit home, blasting through the binoculars in a spray of shattered glass and cracked plastic.

The sergeant went limp, falling back below the wall.

-that's more like it-

A cold, professional pride steadied his aim further as he moved the rifle on to another target.

 

Chris threw the last bag up onto the truck bed. "That's thirty."

"One hundred and fifty million." Lukas breathed, tossing the bag onto the pile.

"Papa, Charlie, point three."

"Charlie, Papa, make it quick. Natives are getting restless."

"We can make a-" Chris turned to point to the next warehouse and found half a dozen men staring at him.

One had a machine gun cradled in his arms. One was loaded down with ammunition. The other four had rifles.

The machine gunner was the quickest, quick enough to throw himself under Chris' first shot.

The bullet found the rifleman behind him, ripping open his face.

Chris sidestepped as he fired again, moving away from the truck, ripping open a rifleman from navel to throat.

Lukas jumped down from the truck, firing one-handed.

The machine gunner was screaming at his loader. Had he been as switched on as the gunner, a belt would have been loaded and Chris and Lukas would have been dead.

Lukas shot the loader in the head. Blood sprayed as the skull shattered.

Chris fired a burst at the gunner and missed, digging up a plume of dirt.

The gunner clawed a belt of ammunition free of the corpse.

Lukas charged, both hands clamped around his Glock. He squeezed six into the closest man, letting the recoil lift his aim in a jerky path to the head.

The guard collapsed.

The last rifleman got his M16 up and swung to aim at Lukas.

Chris got the gunner in his sights and squeezed the trigger.

Clack.

-Stoppage-

The gunner finished loading the belt and cocked the machine gun.

Lukas stepped inside the arc of the M16 and swept the muzzle aside with his free arm, raising his Glock and jamming it under the guard's chin.

The guard fired anyway. So did Lukas.

Chris abandoned the Uzi, no time to clear a jam with a machine gun staring him in the face. As the submachine gun fell from his hands he dropped, racing it down, hand striking and pulling the 23 from its holster.

He brought the gun up, one hand underneath it to give support, acquiring a clear sight picture as he brought the front sight level with the bridge of the gunner's nose.

Lukas shot the gunner in the temple.

Chris lowered his pistol. "Thanks." He took a deep shaky breath.

"No problem." Looking around, Lukas holstered his Glock and unslung his Uzi. "No point in staying quiet anymore."

"I had him, though." Chris assured him, retriving his Uzi.

"Of course."

 

Kev could hardly feel his hand now, and his aim was suffering.

-when I need it most-

They were getting ready to move. The mortar rounds were having little effect. As soon as he moved his fire away from a pinned group they popped back up again to return fire. No incoming yet, not much even close, but he was suddenly very glad he had Claymores on his flanks.

The worst case scenario was a human wave attack, all of them just getting up and running. He'd cut some down, and Pete would get a few. Their Claymores would account for a handful more, but the wave would roll right over them.

Not much better, and more likely, they would move out a squad at a time, with every stationary squad giving covering fire, spreading out, flanking and encircling.

At least that would give them the chance to retreat.

Three squads surged over the wall, sprinting ahead as everyone behind the wall gave covering fire.

Kev got one squad, blasting all but one off his feet and that straggler Pete picked off, the hard crack of the Dragunov sounding out over the roar of his GPMG.

The two remaining groups dived for the ground, spraying rounds into the air.

A bullet dug a furrow in the soil by his face, spattering his cheek with mud.

A mortar round hit directly between him and El Rey.

Smoke began to billow out, quickly forming a thick layer that blurred everything behind it.

"Sodding perfect." Kev riddled the growing cloud with half a belt, fifty bullets blasted off in blind hope. "Bravo, Kilo, move your aim one hundred metres east, I repeat, one-zero-zero metres east."

"Kilo, Bravo, check."

The next round dropped just behind the perimeter wall, blasting a ten-metre section of sandbags to powder.

"Bravo, Kilo, on target" Kev fired a short burst into the breach, hoping to get lucky.

 

Chris slid out of the passenger seat. Lukas slowed the truck, letting him off.

"See you in a minute." Chris said, leaving the door open.

Lukas nodded and cruised on.

Chris ran. He sprinted down the streets of El Rey, slipping on damp mud and splashing through puddles, jumping some crates as he rounded a corner. Uzi in one hand, M72 in the other, he ran down alleys clotted with sewage, through streets clogged with rubbish until he reached the last street, which ended in a low sandbag wall.

He ran to the corner of the last building and looked round it.

Men were crawling all over the ZSU. It's engine roared to life.

Chris dropped his Uzi, yanked the rear section of the M72 out and flicked the sights up. Range was about eighty metres. He noted the seventy-five metre line on the sight and kept his eyes on it as he swung the weapon onto his shoulder.

The engine died as suddenly as it started.

One of the men screamed in anger, kicking the side of the turret.

Guards who had been stood around the ZSU climbed on top of it, clustering around the turret.

There was a squad grouped round it too, leaning against the chassis and smoking, as if there was no battle going on.

-can't hit it-

Shooting through one or more bodies might mean the rocket wouldn't penetrate properly.

Chris picked up his Uzi and let them have a full magazine one-handed. With the suppressor removed, it was a lot louder.

The hard clatter of the submachine gun made them flinch.

A bullet caught one in the knee. He grabbed at the wound and fell off the ZSU. Another jumped right into the line of fire, dead before he hit the ground.

Recoil lifted the Uzi off target, but by then they were all behind the ZSU's armoured bulk. Chris dropped the Uzi, levelled the M72 and fired.

The rocket clanged into the steel flank below the turret. The main charge exploded, turning the main warhead liner into a jet of superhot gas that sliced through the armour with ease. The fragments and incendiary effect spalled inside, smashing and burning steel and flesh.

Chris discarded the smoking M72 tube and reloaded his Uzi.

Time to leave.

 

"Papa, Lima, point four."

Pete emptied another mag. It was pointless trying to keep them pinned now, but if they held back just a little longer...

"Lima, Papa, check, make it quick."

Pete glanced down at the hand detonator next to his rifle. It was already hooked up to a Claymore, set up a hundred metres in front of him. There were three more mines, the ends of their detonating wires all close by. One to his right, one to his left, and another in front of him, fifty metres behind the first mine.

That would be the last to go, shortly before he pulled back into the jungle.

He reloaded, pushing another mag up into the receiver and leaving the empty where it landed. Drawing the cocking handle back, he looked down the scope.

Almost half of their remaining force had moved out from behind the wall now, making rapid progress, probing forwards as well as out to the flanks.

Pete had seen Kev's machine gun fire wipe out one ambitious squad and he'd decimated another as soon as it had tried moving to flank him, but he was in range of their rifles now.

Rounds zipped overhead, a few went right by, digging up the ground behind him and two had hit the log he was resting the Dragunov on, the solid thunk of their impacts shaking his aim.

Pete returned fire, picking them off one by one, chipping away.

 

"Go! Go" Chris turned, emptied his magazine down the street, hoping it would keep his pursuers back.

They kept coming, moving from doorway to alleyway, staying low, never making easy targets.

He ran for the truck. A spray of automatic fire chased him, knocking splinters from a wall.

The truck pulled away, engine bellowing. Chris put on a last burst of speed, throwing his Uzi into the back of the truck and pumping his arms.

Bullets slashed the air around him. One sliced open a sleeve of his camo jacket. Another dented the tailgate.

He leapt, arms outstretched. His fingers hooked over the tailgate as Lukas shifted up a gear, gaining speed slowly on the uphill slope. The toes of his boots skated over the road as the truck dragged him along.

A round nicked his ribs. He tensed his shoulders and pulled, hauling himself up.

The truck hit a bump.

He rocked for a moment, perfectly balanced, then spilled headlong into the truck.

 

Lukas glanced in the wing mirror. "Charlie, Lima, passengers?"

"Lima, Charlie, just me. They'll follow soon."

Lukas put his foot down, building up some speed on the straight as he left the town. A look in the wing mirror revealed a handful of men running to catch up. Lukas moved his gaze back to the road and the upcoming 'S' bend. There was no way he could navigate it at anything above walking speed. The turns were just too sharp for a fast moving heavily laden truck driving on wet mud.

He applied gentle pressure to the brake and moved down a gear.

A round punched through the cab partition and exited through the windscreen.

"Scheisse."

 

Crouched behind the tailgate, Chris let them have another burst of 9mm. One went down, rolling over and over, legs shot from under him.

Most of them were falling behind, but two had discarded their rifles and were running all out. Chris lined up the lead runner with his sights and fired.

The truck swerved.

The leader caught a bullet in the arm but didn't stop.

-didn't even slow down-

Chris fired again only to be jolted by another turn.

The leader returned fire, emptying his pistol at the truck and reloading without missing a step.

One round left a dimple in the tailgate. The others were way off target. The runner was only a few metres behind now.

The second runner leapt the log that bordered the road and disappeared from Chris' view, bordered as it was by the canvas cover of the cargo bed.

Chris leaned out to see where he was going.

A bullet thumped into his shoulder. He sprawled backwards, losing his grip on the Uzi and the tailgate. "Bastard."

-take the hint and stay down-

"Lima, Charlie, runner going off road, cutting across the bend."

 

Lukas ducked his head and leaned to get a better view out of the windscreen. There was indeed a running figure cutting across the rough ground between the curves. And he was going to get to the last turn before the truck did.

Resisting the urge to speed up, Lukas took the second last turn slowly, a gentle curve that he thought of as the 'belly' of the S.

Another bullet blasted through the cab and out of the windscreen. "Charlie, Lima, let him shoot a few more holes and you'll be able to climb in here."

"Lima, Charlie, thought you could use some fresh air."

Lukas wedged his Glock between his thighs and unthreaded the suppressor, keeping the wheel steady with his other hand.

If the guard waiting for them thought they were just going to cruise by and not shoot back, he was in for a shock.

 

Chris rolled off the bags and crawled to the tailgate. His right arm was numb, along with his shoulder. He couldn't see if the bullet had penetrated his body armour, the point of impact was too close to his neck.

A bullet bit a semicircular chunk out of the top of the tailgate.

He drew his 23 left-handed with a little difficulty and returned fire, six tight double taps.

At least two hit, all in the torso.

The runner staggered for a moment, off balance, then resumed his pace and raised his pistol.

Chris dived, landing awkwardly on his numb arm.

More bullets dented the tailgate. A few went high, punching through canvas to let thin fingers of sunlight in.

Chris rolled onto his back, ejecting the empty mag, jamming the pistol between his dead arm and his side and pushing a full mag into the empty butt of the weapon. He snapped the slide back, wrapped his hand around the grip and sat up.

-just doesn't feel right-

He had practiced with his left for just such an eventuality, but that didn't make it any more comfortable. Still, it could have been worse, the-

A hand appeared, grabbing at the top of the tailgate. Another one joined it.

Chris hammered at the fingers with the butt of his 23. They broke noisily but the hand didn't let go.

A head appeared above the tailgate. Chris thrust the muzzle of his 23 against it.

The man lunged at him over the tailgate, twisting his head aside as Chris fired.

Chris saw the .45 slug obliterate an ear.

And then the gun was gone from his hand and he was flat on his back, the narrow face above him streaked with shadows and blood and sweat, eyes glittering from black sockets.

The slim muscular body leaned over him, shining with sweat and dark with blood. Chris saw the bullet holes, two just over the left hip, one above the collar bone, another just below it, and the last a ragged gouge across the right forearm.

A pair of hands locked around his throat.

Chris punched weakly with his left hand. His right was still dead.

He tried for the throat but the man's head was ducked, chin tucked in tight to his chest. Chris hit him again, the hardest punch he could muster.

The man blinked and blood ran from his nose. Nothing else.

The world was going black.

Chris clawed around him, for something, anything, anything to get Speedy Gonzales off him for a few seconds.

His hands found nothing except the tense body pinning him to the truck bed, muscles standing out like taut ropes. He reached for Gonzales' face but the bastard leaned back and pressed down twice as hard with his hands.

Chris' hands slapped uselessly against the straining body.

-adapt, improvise, think-

His vision shrank to a dim tunnel. He barely felt the drool from Gonzales' sneering mouth patter on his face.

-overcome-

His hand found a bullet hole, slick with running blood.

-overcome-

He forced two fingers into it and ripped.

 

Someone screamed. Something banged against the partition. Lukas glanced quickly over his shoulder, peering through the closest bullet hole into the back.

He made out two flailing forms before turning back to the road.

"Charlie, Lima, have you got a girl back there?"

Someone got slammed against the partition again.

No time to stop. Lukas aimed his Glock at the figure stood at the last corner.

The man aimed his pistol right back.

Lukas waited until the truck hit a flat stretch and started shooting.

 

Chris shoved Gonzales against the partition again, still dizzy and unsteady, but able to breathe. He dug his hand deeper into the wound, forcing his fingers past something pulsing and membranous until blood spurted against his palm. Skin ripped with a noise like soggy denim tearing.

His hand was up to the wrist in Gonzales' side now. He could feel the bony ridge of the lowest rib pressing against the top of his hand.

Gonzales grabbed his wrist with both hands and yanked. Chris' hand slid out like some sort of newborn mammalian spider, bloody, mutated and malformed.

Chris felt a tingling in his right hand. He tried punching with it. The result was fairly pathetic, but it hit Gonzales right in that gaping wound.

Gonzales screamed again, folding over at the waist. Chris kneed him in the face. Gonzales fell, keeping hold of Chris' wrist and almost pulling him down. Chris stamped on the wound.

Another scream. Gonzales lashed out with both feet, knocking Chris' supporting leg from under him.

Chris rolled away, his gore-streaked hand slipping through Gonzales' grip.

They regarded each other for a moment, poised to spring, blood spattered and snarling.

Both of them hardly heard the gunfire.

A bullet drove through the partition from the front, drilling through the space between them.

Another two joined it as they both flinched back, a neat triangle of new holes.

Chris glared at Gonzales, then flung himself flat.

The Colombian hesitated, then joined him, spread out on the cargo bed, as low as he could go.

They glared at each other as bullets hummed hungrily through the air only inches over their heads.

 

Lukas had cracked off ten rounds for no result and taken at least one hit.

-five left in the mag-

He had to make them count.

His ribs were aching, but the bullet had lost a lot of velocity penetrating the truck and had been stopped cold by his body armour.

A round exploded out of the dashboard in an explosion of plastic, shards pricking his face. He replied with a shot that looked dead-on but obviously wasn't because the target stayed unharmed.

-four-

The target knelt and reloaded.

Lukas gave him a double tap. The bullets kicked up a few dead leaves almost a metre in front of the target.

-two-

The target stood and began to run.

Towards the truck.

 

Chris searched blindly with his hands, feeling for his Uzi or his 23, keeping his eyes on Gonzales.

Gonzales stared right back, teeth bared.

Chris' right hand, still mostly numb but improving, nudged something metallic. He knocked it further away with a clumsy second touch, then captured it carefully. The shape refused to be identified for a second, until his fingertips stroked a pistol grip with a mag projecting from the bottom.

-Uzi-

He slid his fingers around it. Gonzales dived at him. Chris reared back, pushing off the floor to rise to his knees, aiming the submachine gun one-handed.

Gonzales stabbed him. The knife plunged in under his left arm, refusing to penetrate Kevlar, but the force of the blow knocked Chris sideways. His shots missed, drilling through the canvas wall instead of flesh.

Gonzales abandoned the knife and tore the Uzi from Chris' grip. He quickly got the gun the right way round.

Point-blank range. He couldn't miss

Clack.

As Gonzales stared down at the gun in disbelief, Chris fumbled for the knife with his right hand, tugged it free and buried it up to the hilt in the Colombian's gut.

 

Lukas accelerated a little, hoping to throw off the target's run.

No such luck. The man increased his pace as well.

Lukas squeezed off a shot as the target got close.

Missed.

-one-

The man reached the truck and jumped as it passed him. His hands grabbed the open passenger door and though it creaked alarmingly, it held.

He used the momentum generated as he swung round the door to carry him into the cab, landing neatly on the seat. The door slammed, carried home by his swing.

Lukas shot him in the ribs, spraying the seat with blood.

The Athlete jerked convulsively, hands going to the entry wound.

Lukas pulled the trigger again.

Click.

-Shit-

The Uzi was down by his feet, not an option. He spotted the butt of the Athlete's pistol, tucked into his belt.

-corner coming up-

Lukas turned. The corner hadn't just come up, it had almost gone.

He wrenched the wheel hard, the force of the sudden turn spilling Athlete across the seat. Lukas abandoned the Glock and punched him in the face.

Athlete drew his gun, a compact semiautomatic.

Lukas punched him again.

Athlete shot him in the stomach.

Lukas grabbed at the gun, missing but swiping it aside so the next shot only ripped his camo jacket and tore a hole in the door.

Athlete fired again, another hit.

Lukas' torso was quickly becoming little more than a network of pain. None of the rounds had penetrated yet but he didn't want to chance it again.

Stamping on the accelerator, Lukas hauled Athlete in close and rammed him head-first into the dashboard.

Plastic cracked.

Lukas hauled him back and then pushed forwards again, bringing his foot down on the brake this time.

The force of Lukas' push added to the forward impetus given by the sudden braking. Face met dashboard once more.

Dashboard won.

Lukas let the man slump across the seat, limp. The gun fell to the floor. Lukas heeled it under the seat and speeded up again, ignoring the body as it rocked against him.

 

Chris retrieved his Uzi and reloaded it.

Gonzales was sat against the tailgate, easing the knife from his guts inch by inch.

Chris cocked the Uzi, dragging the handle back and letting it slam forward again. Gonzales flinched, then resumed drawing the blade out of his innards. The last of it came out with a spurt of blood and the hiss of escaping gas.

The unmistakable smell of shit fouled the air.

-ruptured intestine-

"Salto. Rapido." Chris offered.

Gonzales reversed his grip on the knife, snarling something like a prayer as he tried to get up.

Chris shot him, a short squeeze of the trigger that toppled the Colombian out of the truck, ruined face locked in a rictus of hatred.

 

"Papa, Lima, point five."

Pete stopped for a moment, hand halfway to the detonator. He wasn't sure he'd heard correctly. "Lima, Papa, say again."

"Papa, Lima, point five."

Point five. Out of El Rey, across the open ground and into the forest.

"Lima, Papa, check." Pete finished his movement, scooping up the detonator and squeezing it three times to make sure the mine went off.

Once described to him as 'the world's biggest shotgun shell', the Claymore exploded and hundreds of steel balls scythed through a dozen men, turning them into mush.

Kev detonated his a few seconds later, killing two and wounding two more.

Pete swapped the wires on the detonator and waited.

It didn't take long for another squad to move up and replace the one he'd just turned into dog food.

He set off another Claymore, ducking his head as shrapnel from the backblast whirred by.

Only half of them this time, but good enough to keep their heads down.

He slid backwards out from under the clump of wait-a-while, tearing free where necessary, and ran for the forest.

As soon as he reached the treeline he ran parallel, just behind it, for five metres, then set up at the base of a tree, quickly finding targets.

"Kilo, Papa, move."

Machine gunner.

One round in the chest.

Loader.

One round in the chest.

Sergeant pulling the pin on a grenade.

Two rounds in the chest, just to be sure.

The target dropped halfway through throwing the grenade. It dropped at his feet.

A guard ran over, tried to help the sergeant up.

The grenade blast enveloped both of them.

"Bravo, Papa, smoke and HE on the western treeline. I repeat, smoke and hotel echo on the western treeline." Pete watched Kev displace quickly, leaving his GPMG behind. "Kilo, Papa, exfil."

"Papa, Kilo, check."

 

Kev detonated the second Claymore as he ran, the det wire spooling out behind him. He didn't turn to view the carnage, just kept his head down and sprinted into the forest, 23 in hand, smiling grimly at the surprise he'd left them.

Underneath his carefully toppled GPMG, a grenade with the pin pulled, the handle held down by the weight of the gun.

-I'd give anything to see their faces when they pick that Gimpy up-

A mortar round dropped behind him, crashing through the canopy. It impacted and smoke poured out, quickly building up, filling the spaces between the trees.

Kev ghosted deeper into the jungle, Pete on his heels.

"All call signs exfil, all call signs exfil."

[FullAuto]

"Lima, Charlie, we've got pursuit."

Lukas couldn't see anything behind him. One wing mirror had been shattered by a bullet and the other was gone. "Charlie, Lima, get rid of them."

Lukas moved up another gear, against his better judgment.

The road was little better than a cleared corridor between the trees, their black trunks barely glimpsed, branches clattering against the bonnet of the truck.

He was doing fifty miles an hour now, which wasn't much on tarmac, but on mud driving a heavy truck...

A turn came up, the road curving away round a bend.

He resisted the urge to stamp on the brake, pushing it down a fraction as he turned the wheel. The truck took the corner badly, wheels losing traction as it started to skid, mud spurting from behind every tyre.

The front-right mudguard went, torn off as the truck clipped a tree. The back end swung off the road.

Lukas took his foot off the brake.

The back wheels spun and then dug in, driving the truck back onto the road.

He could slow down and get caught, or speed up and probably crash on the next corner.

 

Chris squeezed off another mag at the SUV. The bullets starred the windscreen, sending cracks spiderwebbing through the glass.

The squat vehicle surged forward, grille sneering, windscreen opaque with reflected sunlight, fat tyres eating up the distance between the vehicles.

Chris could see at least another two identical vehicles keeping pace behind the first.

He reloaded his Uzi, down to his last two mags. Reaching the RV with three carloads of Colombians behind was not an ideal situation.

9mm and .45 wouldn't do the job against those tyres and he didn't have any grenades. He raised the Uzi to his shoulder and emptied it in a flurry of short bursts.

He heard the bullets ring off the grille from here, denting and ricocheting. No catastrophic plume of steam, no fire, no explosion.

-engine's probably armoured anyway-

He ejected the empty and put in his last mag.

The SUV roared forward and butted the back of the truck.

The impact jarred him off balance. He dropped the Uzi and grabbed the tailgate, almost falling out.

The Uzi did.

"Shit" He drew his 23, leaning back and holding the pistol firmly in both hands. "Lima, Charlie, we need to lose them."

He began pumping rounds through the windscreen.

 

Lukas gritted his teeth and pushed down with his foot.

The engine's roar changed in pitch, growing louder and higher, and he felt the wheel vibrate a little in his hands.

-not good-

He seriously doubted their chances if they took a corner at seventy.

"Charlie, Lima, this is Juliet."

Lukas glanced up at the thin band of sky he could see ahead of him, peering through the branches overhead.

"I'm on your nine, you have hostile vehicles in pursuit."

"Juliet, Lima, check." Lukas applied a litte more pressure to the accelerator. "Need some help down here."

"Negative, Lima, can't risk it."

 

"Get down there" Pickering screamed into his headset, sliding the door back and swinging the M60 out.

Hanging from a thick elastic bungee fixed to the troop compartment's ceiling, the machine gun bobbed and swung in the slipstream. Pickering made sure the ammo feed was locked in place, then yanked on his harness line. It stayed tied.

"We can't risk it. If we get hit-"

"That was an order" Pickering drew his Glock and pushed it against the back of Joe's neck.

"Fine. Lima, Juliet, be with you in thirty seconds."

Pickering tucked his pistol away, got the M60's butt against his shoulder and leaned out.

Eyes squinted, struggling to breathe against the oncoming wind, Pickering spotted the truck, barely visible through the thin canopy over the road.

His stomach lurched as the helicopter swooped into a hard turn. They dropped through the air, halving their altitude in seconds in a hard dive directly towards the road.

He spotted the brightly coloured SUVs a moment later, right behind the truck.

"Get right over the road! Now" He sighted down the bulky gun and even as the heli swooped again, he fired.

"I'm glad you don't have a helmet to sit on, asshole!" Joe snapped.

The helicopter spun, nose rearing as it pulled out of the dive, coming to hover directly over the road. Pickering let the truck pass under them, then held the trigger down.

 

Chris reloaded his 23 and sat up.

The SUV refused to drop back. The windscreen had more holes than glass. He'd put two mags through it, there shouldn't have been anyone alive in the back or front seats, but it stayed there, not a metre behind, implacable.

Over the engine, he heard a new sound. A helicopter. Chris grinned.

A machine gun coughed, then roared. The SUVs windscreen shattered.

Chris glimpsed the driver, hunched over the steering wheel.

Another clanking blast and the driver's face was red mush. The SUV drifted and crashed into a tree, bouncing off, a disintegrating shape that skidded back across the road and disappeared into the forest.

The second SUV wove for a moment, then spun off the road as machine gun fire dug up the road before it.

The third vehicle slid to a halt, men pouring out and running into the forest.

Chris fired a few shots at them to show willing, then lounged back on the duffle bags.

 

"What do you reckon, boss?"

Pete shrugged. "Haven't heard anything. I think we lost them a few miles ago."

They were holed up in a bush, back to back, peering out at the jungle around them. Pete had slung his Dragunov and drawn his 23. The rifle would be little use at close range.

"Brew?"

"No."

Kev farted.

"If you don't stop giving away our position, I'll have to kill you."

"Sorry, boss."

 

Pickering stopped firing. He'd laced the abandoned SUV with bullets until a tracer had set alight to the petrol tank, then hosed down the foliage either side of the road.

The other SUV had to be somewhere close, but the canopy was too thick to see through off the road. "Alright, let's go. Pace the truck."

"Oh yessir, massuh."

Pickering ignored him.

"Lima, Juliet, we have your six. RV only five klicks from current position."

Pickering reached in and shook the ammo can. Half full, at least. Plenty.

The Huey turned in place, then the nose dipped gently and they flew slightly behind the truck. Pickering stood on the skid and leaned out, his harness snapping taut.

Breathing was a lot easier with the wind out of his face. He trained the M60 on the road behind them and kept watch.

 

"One more like that, Kev, and they won't need dogs to track us."

"Something I ate, boss." Kev took a drink of water. "Might have been all that coffee."

"Just be quiet, Hawkins."

"Yes, boss."

"Both ends."

"Yes, boss."

 

"Lima, Juliet, RV one klick ahead."

"Juliet, Lima, check." Lukas jammed his foot down.

The road ahead was straight for a lot more than that, so he might as well make the most of it. He felt around for his Glock, found and holstered it. Uzi was down by his feet. Nothing else.

The road abruptly broadened as his radio crackled.

"Lima, Juliet, stop stop stop."

Lukas jammed on the brake and held on as the truck's tyres gouged thick chunks from the road, slewing slightly. The body rolled off the seat and thumped into the footwell, one arm slapping down across his feet.

Lukas ignored it, killing the engine and climbing out, grabbing his Uzi on the way.

Chris had already dropped the tailgate and was busy throwing duffle bags out onto the road. Lukas nodded to him as he passed, running back up the road and setting up by the base of a tree.

"Juliet, Lima, I'm covering the road."

"Lima, Juliet, coming in."

Chris leaned out of the truck. The jungle had been cleared back from the road on both sides to a depth of about ten metres. The muddy ground had been cleared of tree stumps and foliage and was covered with criss-crossing tyre marks.

Usually a busy place.

-not today, thank God-

The helicopter came in almost directly overhead before descending, sinking into the gap in the canopy, stirred up by the rotor wash into a sea of restless green.

Chris went back to unloading the bags. Weighing more than a hundred pounds each, they sagged and bulged, difficult burdens.

The Huey landed close, rotors whupping overhead in a dark blur.

Pickering jumped off the skid, unclipping himself after a moment's difficulty and running over, large frame bent slightly at the waist. He picked up two bags and ran back to the helicopter without a word.

"Bloody charming." Chris muttered, words lost under the noise.

 

He heard it quite clearly and failed to recognise it for a few seconds. Blurred with the noise of the helicopter's engines, Lukas only recognised it when it moved up in pitch.

"Contact"

The SUV slid into view, wheels kicking up dirt. Lukas forgot about short controlled bursts and let it have the entire mag. He reloaded and fired off another.

The SUV screamed past, splashing him.

He slotted another mag into the gun.

The SUV braked hard, turning slightly and skidding into the truck.

Chris fell out of the back, a bag in each hand.

He dropped the bags as he hit the SUV's roof, rolling, trying to draw his gun.

-draw, draw or you're dead-

One roll and then he was falling, gun slipping from his grasp. He landed hard.

Lukas hit the first man out of the SUV with half a mag, pushing him back into the vehicle with sheer weight of fire, struggling to hold the Uzi on target.

Two men jumped out of the other side, weapons up and aimed.

Pickering dropped the bags he was carrying and dived, Glock in hand and blasting before he hit the ground.

Lukas strafed the SUV with the rest of the mag and ducked behind the tree to reload.

Chris sat up, clawing about in the mud for his 23. No luck. He looked around.

He was at the rear of the SUV. There was a shotgun barrel above his head, someone stood behind the rear wheel well aiming back down the road.

At Lukas.

Chris got up and charged round the corner of the vehicle, staying low.

He hit hard, driving his shoulder into the man's ribs, feeling body armour under the baggy jacket.

Another man stood behind the front wheel well, firing an AK-47 over the bonnet at Pickering.

Chris hit the first man again, jamming him up against the SUV and grabbing the shotgun with both hands.

-gain control of the weapon-

He shoved the shotgun forwards, pinning its owner in place before twisting viciously.

Two more men came out of the SUV like shit off a hot shovel.

The shotgun came free in his hands.

Chris stepped back, swinging the gun up and left, getting the butt against his shoulder as he fired.

One man dropped, most of his neck torn away.

Chris worked the pump and fired again. The shotgun kicked back hard.

The second man spun away, right arm gone at the shoulder.

The shotgun's previous owner shoved him to the floor and pulled his jacket open, going for a weapon.

Chris turned the shotgun on him, pumping another shell into the chamber.

The mess splashed the SUV.

Lukas nailed the last man flat, bullets skipping off the bonnet to bury themselves in his face, so intent on killing Pickering.

Chris checked the inside of the SUV and saw only a leaking corpse.

"It's clear"

 

London

 

"So all back to secret HQ for tiffin, eh?" Kev said, shifting in his seat. "Another victory under our belts. Another dare won. Another-"

"Thank you, Kev." Pete cut him off. "So, how do we stand?"

Pickering smiled. "Tall. We got almost two hundred million dollars. Most of it in hundreds, so it'll take a while to wash, but we can deposit chunks of it here and there, grease the squeaky wheels-"

"Pay us." Kev suggested.

"-of course, plus a bonus of another month's pay. We've secured the existence of X-INV for at least another year, independent of any funds we get from hereon in." Pickering raised his glass. "Thank you, gentlemen."

"And Chris?" Lukas asked.

"He was in a very good hospital before we pulled Kev, Bruno and Pete out of the jungle. That was a bad wound he had, bullet ended up under his shoulder blade. Had him shipped over here before us, in fact." Pickering yawned. "Now, you'll have to excuse me. I'm exhausted."

They followed him out of the room, leaving the drinks behind. Parker watched them go from behind his desk, eyes cold and steady.

"Next op?" Pete asked just before they stepped out into the rain.

Pickering smiled. "On home ground."