Search and Destroy Page 12

  Lincoln nodded. “Let’s move in.”

  The SUV rolled forward at a steady twenty miles per hour. Five hundred yards from the house, Kennedy jumped from the vehicle. He hit the ground running full speed, cradling his M4, traversing the steep incline in a matter of seconds. Lincoln could see him in his mind’s eye, lying prone at the highest vantage point with the main entrance in his sights through the wide-lens Schmidt & Bender scope. Kennedy was the perfect sniper.

  The SUV pulled up and Lincoln, Washington and Roosevelt approached the door. They moved forward in a loose triangle formation with a few yards of open ground between each man. There were no other vehicles parked out front but that didn’t mean the house was empty. There were outbuildings to the rear of the main ranch house. Any one of these could conceal a car.

  Lincoln rapped on the front door after checking it was indeed locked. The phone in his pocket vibrated twice indicating that Bush was ready at the side of the house. Lincoln pressed his palm hard against the door, first at the top, next in the middle and finally at the base, gauging the give, checking for reinforcing or a triple locking bar. It felt like a standard model.

  Taking one step back, he slammed his foot into the wood just under the lock. The door flew open and he moved in. The bulbous Calico pistol he carried swept an empty living room in one motion, Washington and Roosevelt following behind.

  “Clear the rooms.” His men nodded and moved deeper into the house. Bush appeared from a side room, sliding a large combat knife into its sheath.

  “Got in through a window. Lock was child’s play.”

  “Anything?”

  Bush shook his head. “Nothing.”

  The house was quiet.

  The team reconvened in the living room. Bush gazed at the collection of Old West Americana in the room. “Did we just break into Clint Eastwood’s house?”

  Lincoln ignored him. “We’ll sweep the outbuildings in twos. Washington, you’re with me. Stay sharp. Meet out back if all’s clear.”

  Roosevelt and Bush headed for the rear. Lincoln jerked his head at Washington, who followed. They walked towards the building furthest from the house, guns at the ready. It was empty apart from the usual assorted tools, shovels, a pickaxe and a post-hole digger. Nowhere for a concealed man to hide.

  The team emerged into the rear yard. A low constant rumble caught their attention. At the same time, Lincoln’s phone vibrated against his hip. “Vehicle approaching. One visible tango inside. You want me to drop him?”

  “No, I need to quiz him first. Stay where you are and keep your eyes open. Don’t want any other surprises.”

  “Roger that.”

  Washington angled his head, clearly recognising the sound. “Incoming traffic. Sounds big, Hummer or the like.”

  Lincoln nodded, flicked his hand at Bush then at the side of the house. Bush jogged back to the large window he’d opened earlier.

  “Let’s give this guy a warm welcome home.” Lincoln led the way back into the house. They took up positions in the living room, in triangular formation. The sound of the Hummer came closer, then faded as the vehicle pulled up. Lincoln allowed himself a quick inspection of their visitor through the front window. A short, dark-skinned man clambered down from the Hummer. He stood, considering the team’s SUV, then scanned the elevation where Kennedy was positioned. This guy’s no civilian. The man rolled his neck, then calmly finished the Snickers bar he’d been eating. As he approached the front door, Lincoln moved to intercept him.

  Definitely not a civilian. Lincoln was impressed with the impassive expression on the man’s face, considering that he was looking up the barrel of the Calico.

  “You Jehovah’s Witnesses are getting really pushy.”

  Lincoln scowled. “Sit down. I’ve got some questions to ask you.”

  “Do I win a prize if I get them right?” asked the man, showing his small white teeth in a smile.

  “You get one of these if you don’t.” Lincoln pressed the Calico into the man’s forehead.

  25

  “The Doc still breathing?” asked Danny as he and Clay walked back to the pickup.

  “Yeah, he’ll need to self-medicate for a few days, though.” Clay knocked his knuckles against his forehead.

  “Maybe he can write himself a prescription.”

  “I’m not sure he’ll be writing anything for a while. The fool tried to grab my gun. His fingers bend both ways now. That, and I hog-tied him with a garden hose.”

  “Well my wee chit-chat proved very informative. Turns out Clinton just loves to talk.”

  “Would the fact that you were pressing his broken ribs into his lungs have any bearing on the matter?” asked Clay.

  “Maybe, but I prefer to think it was my shiny disposition and winning personality.”

  “He’s going to be mad when he’s able to breathe again.”

  “I figured. That’s why I tied him to the table.” Danny tapped on the side window of the pickup. Andrea’s face appeared from beneath the blanket. She flicked the locks to open. As both brothers clambered into the vehicle, she sat upright and pushed the blanket back behind the seat. “What happened?”

  “We know more than we did half an hour ago.”

  “We know that the doctor’s head wasn’t as hard as a door,” offered Clay with a smile.

  “And?”

  “Let’s get down the road a way and I’ll tell you.”

  Clay slipped the pickup into drive and steered them south.

  * * *

  An hour later they were sat in a roadside diner that promised “the best meatloaf sandwich in America”. Clay put that to the test by eating a double portion. Andrea opted for tuna salad on rye with a side order of fries. She noticed that Danny ate his with one eye on their surroundings, a sweep every ten seconds.

  “So what did the guy in the house say?” asked Andrea, her voice just above a whisper.

  Danny took a long slug of coffee. “They’re working for a PMC group called TSI… Trident Solutions International. The company operates out of London.”

  “PMC?” asked Andrea.

  “Private military contractors. The squad that’s on our tail is a six-man unit. The men who killed your brother were a separate four-man team. Clinton’s team—his real name is Martin Fletcher, by the way—said that they were assigned last-minute when the first team dropped off the grid.”

  Andrea gave a tight-lipped scowl, thinking of the fight at the Winnebago. Dropping off the grid was one way of putting it. The smell of smoke and death seemed fresh in her nose for a long second. “So these PMCs? What are they, some kind of secret agents?”

  “No, nothing so glamorous. Most are just ex-forces looking to make a better living. But these guys are a little different. PMCs are usually used as additional resources by the regular armed forces in a conflict area. Some are hired out as private protection, bodyguards, to visiting VIPs and the like. It’s unusual to have a PMC unit with a termination order. That kind of mission is usually handled by government units.”

  “Who would have sent a team like that after me?” she asked.

  “Fletcher didn’t have that information. He received the assignment through his team leader, who just got the search and destroy details.”

  “So what were his orders, exactly?” Andrea’s voice caught in her throat, and Clay rested a large brown hand on hers for a moment.

  Danny looked at her with a new intensity. “The brief is to recover the package that you are supposed to be carrying at all costs and you are to be terminated with extreme prejudice. Anyone you’ve had contact with is also subject to termination.”

  “Fuck.”

  “He didn’t know who’s bankrolling the mission. Operators at his level just go and do. Take it on trust that what they’re doing is necessary.”

  “How do you know he was telling you the truth?” asked Andrea.

  “Because he wanted to live. I had the guy in an arm-lock with my knee in his broken ribs. He was singing like the le
ad in a gospel brunch. These are blue-collar killers; they look after themselves first and foremost. There’s no vow of silence, no cyanide pills, no omèrta.”

  “Okay, so he’s telling the truth. What now?”

  “We need to go to an Internet café. I want to do some research on these guys. Then we’ll find a motel outside of town.”

  Andrea rubbed her face with both hands. “How common are these PMCs?”

  Clay grunted. “You’ve probably seen them on television a hundred times and never knew it. There are more private contractors than regular soldiers in the Gulf. A hundred-billion-dollar industry. Danny here should know.”

  Danny nodded. “I work for a private company myself from time to time. A lot of ex-forces people do. I contract with Odin Corp, based in Paris. And no, before you ask I’ve never been sent to kill a woman carrying a mystery package.”

  “Is that how you got all those scars?” She looked at him with new eyes, her impression of him again in flux.

  “I’ve just come back from a term in Iran. A lot of stuff happening over there at the moment.”

  “And?” She hoped he would elaborate.

  After a long pause he continued. “I was on patrol in a town called Dezful. Our convoy was ambushed and the Humvee I was in was taken out by an RPG. The rear of the vehicle took the worst of the hit. Two guys in the back were killed instantly. I was in the front passenger seat. Me and the driver, Mickey Wells, survived but with second- and third-degree burns. Wells got the third degrees. I escaped with seconds. Not something I’d ever like to try again.”

  “So have you heard anything about this company, Trident?” she asked.

  “No, but there are so many companies out there now. Honestly Andrea, I can’t stress how big the industry has grown. The biggest of them, Blackwater, has its own planes, ships, supposedly even its own submarines. These guys are being brought in to train our own regular troops.”

  “A couple of my old buddies from my Ranger days are Blackwater now. They’re good guys.” Clay didn’t meet Andrea’s gaze. “Most of them are decent men just doing the job as best they can.”

  “But private armies? That can only lead to big trouble down the road.” A cold chill crawled like a spider across her back.

  Danny gave a slight shrug. “They’re already everywhere, people just don’t realise it. After Hurricane Katrina there were hundreds of PMCs, especially Blackwater troops, in New Orleans. They were there to control the crowds and stop looting. The public thought they were National Guard but they weren’t.”

  Andrea pushed away her plate. The brothers did the same and they rose, Clay leaving a sizeable tip. They returned to the truck and had only been driving for five minutes when they found what they were looking for: a small Internet café sandwiched between an ice-cream parlour and a bookstore.

  Clay parked opposite. “You two go and do your research thing. I’ll watch the street from the bookstore.”

  As Andrea and Danny made for the café, Clay called over his shoulder, “Get me some take-out.”

  “But you’ve just eaten,” said Andrea.

  Danny shook his head. “That was just a starter.”

  Danny moved to the counter and paid for two coffees, two apple Danishes and an hour’s worth of browser time. Andrea took a seat at a computer.

  She launched Google and typed Trident Solutions International into the search bar. The top hit led to the corporate website that detailed the company’s worldwide security operations, both in the private and public sectors. The main graphic on the homepage refreshed every five seconds: men wearing full combat gear in desert terrain, then others in suits protecting a motorcade. Danny leaned over, peering at the screen. He snorted. Similarly unimpressed, Andrea clicked on the “contact us” link at the bottom of the page. An email address was listed. She ignored it. She could hardly send them a message saying, Who paid you to kill me?

  There was also a postal address for the headquarters, somewhere in the English city of Cambridge. She hit the print icon. Seconds later a colour sheet was ejected out of the shared printer near the main counter. Danny collected it from the tray.

  Danny pointed to the “about us” icon. “Click that.”

  The next page gave vague details about the company. Nothing of any practical value. No names and no faces. It was little more than a courtesy display to the outside world.

  Andrea sighed. “I guess we shouldn’t be surprised.”

  Danny shook his head. “They work in conflict zones and corporate security. Anonymity is a requirement.”

  “It was worth a shot,” said Andrea. “I’m sending an email to my parents. Just to let them know I’m still alive. I won’t say where I am.”

  The look on Danny’s face almost stopped her, but not quite. “They need to know I’m still breathing. That I’ll call them when it’s safe. Don’t worry, I won’t start Tweeting that I’m on the run from hired killers.” She typed so fast her fingers seemed to barely touch the keyboard.

  “I’m impressed. I usually favour the one-finger-on-each-hand jabbing technique. Come on, it’s time to get moving.” Danny moved to the door but Andrea held up her hand. “We forgot Clay’s take-out. I’ll get it.”

  She returned to the counter and ordered a sixteen-ounce coffee and a box of mixed pastries. As she dug into her pocket for money she found the small padded envelope given to her at the Lakeview reception desk. She paid for her order, then ripped the perforated strip from the top of the envelope. Inside were a folded sheet of paper and a USB flash drive.

  Danny appeared at her side. “What you got there?”

  “The receptionist at the hotel gave it to me. I’d forgotten about it with everything else going on.” As Andrea read the handwritten note, her stomach turned. She felt sick.

  “Who’s it from?”

  “An investigative reporter from the Herald. One of my best friends.”

  She read it again.

  Andrea,

  I didn’t know who else to send this to. No one at the office knows about this. I think I’ve made a big mistake. I was given this video file by a man who I think—although I can’t prove it—was trying to blackmail a government minister. I suppose he thought he could use me as protection. The man was found dead in Hyde Park yesterday. I thought he was just a chancer, one of those conspiracy loons that you hear about. But the video looks real. It’s horrible. There is a copy of it on the USB drive, along with another video. I think I know who the man is.

  If anything happens to me, make sure this gets out there. I haven’t gone public with it yet as I can’t verify its authenticity or identify the man in the video. But I will.

  I noticed a car following me this morning. I’m scared I’ve stumbled onto something big. I’m sorry to involve you but I need to know that there is a copy somewhere, out of the country. Just in case.

  If all of this turns out to be nothing, I’ll buy you the best meal of your life.

  Jeremy

  Andrea turned the portable flash drive over and over in her hand. Then a sudden thought sent her almost running back to the computer. She typed “Jeremy Seeber” into Google. She ignored the first five results for an artist who specialised in driftwood animal sculptures. The sixth result made bile rise in her throat.

  British journalist in double sex suicide shock! The link was to a British tabloid website, the story told in sensationalist style. Jeremy Seeber and his wife of eight years had been found dead at their Kensington home. Their cleaner had discovered the bodies in the main bedroom. The police had been summoned but had ruled out foul play. A preliminary pathologist’s report stated that both Seebers had died as the result of autoerotic asphyxiation.

  Andrea skimmed the rest of the article, but there was no other real information, just the predictable lurid description of what the practice involved: a ligature around the neck; restricted blood flow to the brain; feelings of euphoria.

  “They killed Jeremy and Tess.”

  Danny took her arm. “Come o
n. We need to watch that video.”

  26

  Tansen Tibrikot sat bound to a kitchen chair, his hands tied behind his back with electrical cord. He tilted his head in an attempt to divert a stream of blood that trickled into his eye. Two of his four captors were in his living room. One of them had turned on the television, was watching the rolling news station he and Danny had watched together a few short hours earlier. The leader, a man they addressed as “Lincoln”, stood in front of Tansen, arms crossed.

  “Linc,” said the man watching the television.

  Lincoln turned. “What is it, Washington?”

  “Check it out.”

  Tansen craned his head. It was familiar footage of the burned-out Winnebago, bodies under sheets. Then another shot of a different stretch of road. And two more bodies. So all four of the dead operatives had been found. How long before the Gunn brothers were linked to the carnage? He twisted against the cord that cut into his wrists.

  “Four bodies, plus a cop, all on the 375. That tallies with past data points for the last team’s satellite phone. They definitely never made it this far.”

  Lincoln cocked his head. “But the sat-phone did. That confirms that the target must have it. Probably doesn’t realise it’s active even when powered off. Good to know. But I don’t want to be playing catch-up, tracking them. We need to know their plans. Where they’re going.”

  Beside Lincoln, the man called “Bush” was rubbing his knuckles. He turned to Lincoln, who gave him a nod. He rolled his fingers before snapping another punch into Tansen’s face.

  “Tansen, I want the names of the men helping Andrea Chambers. I want to know where they are headed. I want to know whether they have passed on the intel to a third party.” Lincoln’s voice held no animosity. Bush pulled his arm back. Another punch. He drew a black-bladed knife from his belt. “Let me start peeling this Chink motherfucker and he’ll be talkin’ soon enough.”

  Lincoln held up a finger. “We’ll get to that. I’ll ask again, one last time, who are the men with Chambers?”