‘Ramp coming down!’ Drake warned. His heart was hammering away in his chest, and he could feel the adrenalin starting to kick in.
Even within his pressurised suit, he felt the sudden rush of air as the door slid down. The howling shriek of the wind filled his ears, the slipstream roaring by outside at 300 miles per hour. Within seconds, the ambient temperature inside the aircraft dropped to minus 40 degrees Celsius.
The world beyond the ramp was darkness, sheer and absolute. It felt as if they were about to leap into a void of nothingness.
‘Get ready!’ he called out, still watching the lights. The yellow light was burning steadily now to signify that the ramp was down.
They were only seconds away.
He closed his eyes for a second, sending a silent prayer to whatever deity might be inclined to listen at that moment. He thought of all the things that could go wrong, all the mistakes and problems that could spell doom for them all.
He thought about them, and then he banished them from his mind.
The green light came on.
‘Go! Go! Go!’
He watched Mason take a couple of heavy, faltering steps toward the edge, cross his arms in front of him and then pitch forward. And just like that, he and Frost were gone.
Dietrich went next, hesitating for half a second before launching himself out into the darkness.
He saw Keegan stop just for a moment, cross himself, then take a run down the ramp and throw himself out like a long jumper.
Drake was alone. For one brief second, he was alone, staring out into infinite darkness. Somewhere far below lay an impregnable Russian prison, and within it, the woman who was their sole objective tonight.
A woman Cain was prepared to do anything to bring home. A woman for whom Drake was risking five lives in the most dangerous mission of his career. A woman who might well hold the key to his own redemption.
So much depended on one person. He just hoped she was worth it.
More than that, he hoped he was worthy of redemption.
Taking a breath, he strode forward, crossed his arms across his chest and stepped out.
Chapter 16
SHE LAY AWAKE
on the hard lumpy mattress, watching her breath slowly misting in the cold air as she exhaled. She couldn’t sleep.
She rested her hands behind her head and closed her eyes, trying to imagine the sun, trees, grass, warmth and light, the feel of wind on her skin, being able to run until her legs could no longer carry her.
It was an exercise she practised every once in a while, a means of escape, even if only within her own mind.
But not tonight.
She frowned, struggling to recall the familiar images; what it felt like to be outside, to stand beneath the sky with no walls around her, no ceiling above her, no hard and cold concrete floor beneath.
Nothing came to her. Every time she tried to picture it, she saw the same grey cell. Her world. The only world she knew now.
Have I forgotten?
For the first time in a long time, fear, sudden and uncontrolled, flooded her body. Her mind had been her last bastion, the one aspect of her life that she could still control.
But not now. Now she was a prisoner within as well as without. A cold, hard knot of dread and despair swelled up inside her, twisting and writhing in her guts like a snake.
You let it in, she thought with bitter recrimination. You let it get to you, and you lost the only thing that still mattered. You failed. This place has beaten you.
She squeezed her eyes shut, clutching the thin blanket in a white-knuckle grip as her muscles locked up. She screamed a silent, agonised, furious scream.
Suddenly the cell block reverberated with the harsh clang of a door being thrown open. Too heavy for a cell door. It was one of the bigger security doors that separated the solitary confinement cells from the rest of the building.
The one at the west end of her block had a rusted hinge that grated horribly when it was hauled open. It always made her cringe, knowing there were guards out there. Were they coming for her, or another one of the poor wretches in the adjacent cells?
She strained to listen to the sound of the footsteps, and frowned in confusion. There were three of them. She recognised the heavy tread of Bastard, but the other two weren’t familiar. They were moving fast, coming her way.
Was this some new punishment that he had devised? Had he brought new friends along to help him? Did he ever stop?
Not again. Not again so soon. Please
.
Her heart started beating faster as she pulled herself out of bed, already tensing her muscles, readying herself for what was coming.
She could hear voices, hushed and muffled. She couldn’t make out the words. That only increased her unease. The daily grind of casual violence and abuse no longer bothered her, because it was predictable, and there was a certain security in that.
But deviations from the norm frightened her. She felt
out
of control, about to be plunged into a new situation that she didn’t understand.
What was going on?
They were coming for her. There was no doubt about it now. They were almost at the door. The footsteps were moving fast and urgent.
With her heart pounding, she rose to her feet, clenching her fists. Come on, then. Come on. Get it over with, you bastard. Have your fun and get it over with.
You won’t take me so easily this time.
There was a rasp as the deadbolt was thrown back, then suddenly something slammed into the door with such force that it flew inward, old hinges creaking under the abuse.
She jumped, startled by the violent movement. And when her eyes took in the three figures standing there before her, she let out an involuntary gasp of shock.
Chapter 17
Twenty minutes earlier
DRAKE WAS FLOATING
in a void, a world without shape or dimension. There were no landmarks, no points of reference, nothing.
The parachute harness bit into his shoulders and crotch. Freezing wind whipped past his faceplate, the cold slowly seeping into his limbs despite the layers of thermal insulation between his body and the outside world.
He checked his altimeter: 6,500 feet.
The temperature was 22 degrees below freezing. It had been creeping up as they descended through the cloud layer, but it was still bitterly cold. Wind chill only compounded the problem.
His gaze swept to the GPS unit on his left wrist, though he was forced to wipe away a thin layer of ice to make out the image. They were just over 5 miles from their target, and slightly below their intended glide path. This was going to be close.
After they had exited the aircraft, there had been a few seconds of sickening, tumbling weightlessness before his parachute deployed, ripping him back with such violence that he felt as if he was about to be torn in half. There had been a few more moments of frantic effort as
he
fought to gain control and stabilise himself, then at last he was able to communicate with the rest of his team over the radio.
Forming up into a loose line known as a ‘chalk’, they had then begun their descent towards Khatyrgan, using satellite navigation and a fixed series of waypoints to measure their progress.
Covering ground was vital. They could do nothing to stop their descent; but they had to reach the prison before they ran out of altitude.
The first few minutes had seen them lose precious height as they struggled to orient themselves and fight with high-altitude crosswinds. By the time they were lined up and heading in the right direction, they were well below their intended flight line.
Only a sudden and unexpected northerly wind had aided their progress, increasing their speed and allowing them to claw back some precious ground. Now they were beginning their final approach, and there was still a chance they wouldn’t even make the roof.
He checked his altimeter and GSP readings again: 5,400 feet, 4 miles to target.
His radio earpiece crackled into life. ‘I think I see it.’
It was Keegan.
Squinting into the darkness ahead and below, Drake watched as the ragged strips of cloud gave way, revealing a dizzying panorama stretching out before him.
The terrain around Khatyrgan was formed in a series of undulating ridges and valleys running from north to south, as if some massive hand had been drawn across the landscape. Most of these ridges were no more than 100 feet high, their tops scoured down to the bare rock by devastating winter winds. Only in the most sheltered valleys did anything grow; gnarled pine and spruce,
strong
and resilient enough to eke out an existence in such a harsh environment.
It was an empty, wind-blown, desolate landscape, and one utterly devoid of people. Not a single light was visible from horizon to horizon, except for the uncompromising square of the prison complex lit up like a beacon in the darkness. It was impossible to miss.
‘I see it too,’ Drake confirmed, then checked his GPS: 3 miles. ‘We’re close. Stay tight.’
The imposing walls of the prison drifted closer, and so did the ground. They were travelling at close to 20 knots, but their speed was gradually slowing as they reached lower altitude. He could only pray that it was enough to get them over the wall.
He checked his readings again: 2 miles, 2,100 feet and descending fast.
Khatyrgan had looked an imposing, brutal structure even in the satellite photos, but seeing it with his own eyes, he was daunted. Grim concrete walls rose up from the frozen ground, devoid of windows or features of any kind. Squat watchtowers stood guard at each corner of the building, looking more like fortresses than guard posts, their tops enclosed by observation windows.
Beyond the grim walls he could see the exercise yard; a muddy, snow-streaked patch of earth illuminated by floodlights from several angles. No hope for anyone unlucky enough to land there.
‘One mile to target,’ he said, checking his readings again. ‘Nine hundred feet.’
Christ, this was going to be close.
‘Tango spotted,’ Keegan reported, his voice flat calm. ‘One tango. North-east tower.’
Drake’s heart leapt. At least one of the watchtowers was manned. Peering towards it, he was able to make
out
the shape of a man within the enclosed observation post. He was still too far away to make out anything more detailed, but there was definitely someone up there.
‘I see him. Do you have a shot?’ he asked.
Keegan hesitated only a moment. ‘Roger. I have the shot.’
Drake twisted around, trying to get a look at the veteran sniper, but Keegan was behind and above him, and his own parachute blocked his view.
In any case, he didn’t need to see. He could almost imagine Keegan removing his rifle from its secure harness across his chest, checking the magazine and feed mechanism, bringing it up to bear, getting a good sight picture, correcting for wind and vertical momentum, and …
‘Fire, fire, fire.’
Drake neither saw the flash nor heard the dull thud of the silenced shot. His eyes were focused on the watchtower.
A second or so later, the glass window in front of the guard shattered, and the wall behind him was painted with a sudden spray of blood. Killed instantly by the 7.62 millimetre projectile, he slumped down out of sight, never knowing what had hit him.
And that was it. As easy as pressing a button.
‘Tango down,’ Keegan reported, his voice as emotionless as a machine. However laid-back and relaxed he acted in daily life, when it came to his job there was no room for joking around. ‘The other towers look clear.’
Drake had been so focused on the drama unfolding in the watchtower that he’d almost forgotten about their descent. The altimeter informed him they were at 200 feet, the dark walls of the prison looming up beneath him.
‘This is it,’ he said over the radio. ‘Brace, brace, brace.’
There was nothing more he could do. Everyone was on their own now.
He watched as the north wall of the prison sailed beneath, leaving him with an unobstructed view of the brightly lit exercise yard. Rows of grim, barred windows looked out onto the yard, but he paid no heed.
The south block was coming up fast, but he was so low. Normally he would have pulled back to flare the parachute and slow his velocity, but in this case there was no choice but to keep going. If he slowed down now, he would slam into the unyielding wall with bone-breaking force.
He winced as the wall rushed at him, his feet just clearing the edge of the roof. It was beneath him now, rushing by at close to 20 miles per hour, hard and cold and uncompromising, littered with air vents and snow and accumulated ice.
He yanked back on his control lines. The canopy flared and the rooftop rushed up to meet him.
He landed hard, rolling instinctively to lessen the impact, only to slam into the metal frame of a heating outlet. The structure shuddered, and he stifled a groan as pain blossomed across his back and left shoulder.
It didn’t matter. He could still move his limbs. Nothing was broken.
Robbed of its aerodynamic lift, his canopy collapsed in on itself, flopping down a few yards away. It was still a liability if an errant gust of wind caught it. The last thing he wanted was to survive the jump only to be pulled off the edge of the roof to his doom by his own chute.
Grabbing the limp lines and ignoring the pain of his bruised back and shoulder, he pulled the fallen parachute towards him, then unbuckled the harness and dropped
it
beside the vent. He couldn’t see the others, but he wasn’t really looking yet. His focus had to be on sorting himself out.
Freed from the parachute, he reached for the MP5 sub-machine gun strapped to his left leg and unzipped the harness holding it in place.
Compact, reliable and superbly designed, Drake had used them countless times over the years and never had cause for complaint.
He had it out within moments, and quickly pressed a magazine into the empty port, racking back the priming handle to chamber the first round.
He was still on internal oxygen. Disengaging the internal air supply, he pulled his clammy, restrictive face mask off and dropped it next to the other discarded gear. Straight away, freezing air and pellets of dry snow attacked his face, numbing his exposed skin.