College Park Airport, Washington, DC
In the summer night, the line of light spilling from under the hangar door acted like a beacon. It was visible to Chang and Tate from across the other side of the airfield, unlike their Tahoe, which was hidden behind them in a dip.
‘NVGs,’ Tate said as he lay on his stomach in the grass. ‘I’m praying they don’t have NVGs.’
Next to him Chang agreed. ‘If they do, we are screwed.’
They had stuck to a road named The Paint Branch Trail, which wound through the woods immediately opposite the airport and was separated from the runway by a thin forest and a wire fence.
‘You ready?’ Tate asked, the sound of nothing but the wind carrying across the open ground ahead.
‘Yep.’
‘You can still change your mind.’
‘Why would I do that? I told you, Jack, I have a duty as a police officer. Besides, I also have an armour-plated Tahoe between me and the bad guys.’
‘True.’ Tate took a deep breath and let it out slowly. ‘Give me three minutes and then make your move.’
‘Got it.’
Tate got up to his haunches and within seconds was lost to the night.
*
Oleniuk stroked the nose of his jet. It was a moving monument to US commercial success. He chuckled nervously; it was probably the last remaining working jet on US soil. He had grown impatient and a nagging sense of doom crept into his consciousness like an uninvited guest to a family party. The helicopter had not returned. This could, of course, mean many things, but to Oleniuk it meant one thing and one thing alone: Jack Tate was alive. What was it about this man that made him indestructible? Oleniuk refused to let one unimportant, inconsequential individual prevent him from completing his mission, from achieving his destiny. He knew now that Akulov had survived and as soon as he and Grisha returned he would tell the Gulfstream pilot to prepare for take-off.
He returned to his office to make a cursory check of its contents. He collected the case containing the Chinese sat phone, held this in his left and clasped the Russian one in his right. As he re-entered the hangar containing the jet, he shouted an order for the main hangar doors to be opened, on both hangars. He refused to hide anymore. Within twenty-four hours, he would have swapped this dump for his dacha; he would enjoy a well-deserved rest before meeting with the president and handing him the list of his foes he had eliminated on his behalf.
The EMP attack and subsequent assassination by Blackline was a private operation. He had no mind to link the two for the president; he would simply state that he had contracted an assassin to undertake the kills for the good of Russia. The former KGB strongman would appreciate Oleniuk’s gesture; after all it was something the president would have done. And the man would then be indebted to him. While this would not make him step down, it would force him to back Oleniuk in the first future presidential election he could not contest. Then of course the fool would jump on the bandwagon when North Korea was denounced as the aggressor.
A shrill note echoed in the hangar, catching Oleniuk unawares. It took a moment for him to realise that his sat phone was receiving a call. He inspected the display, and his nose wrinkled. The missing taxi driver! ‘Where have you been?’
‘I was detained by the Washington PD; I am now on my way to you.’
‘You were at the British Embassy; you helped the hostages escape!’ Oleniuk yelled.
‘That is not what happened. This is urgent. I have urgent intel. I am here now – let me explain.’
‘You are where?’ Oleniuk asked, but the caller had cut the connection. Oleniuk stared at the screen as though it may come back to life and explain to him what was happening. The man driving the taxi he now knew had not been Li Tam, but rather a police detective. So what was it that the fraudulent taxi driver had to say, and how was he going to get to the airport? Before Oleniuk had time to ponder this further he heard a car horn.
*
Tate lay on the dew-covered grass and counted again the number of men around the target. The overspill of light from the interior of the hangar silhouetted them as they worked. One was standing by the open doors of each hangar, while four others kept guard, sweeping the area with assault rifles. It wasn’t until he saw one of the sentries in profile that he realised the man was wearing NVGs, the optics flipped up to save his night vision in the high-contrast environment. Tate was pretty sure that he was invisible, resting as he did in the slightest of depressions in the grass a metre in front of the perimeter fence, but he wouldn’t bet his life on it.
Tate swore silently. One gun against six was not good odds, but he would dare and he would win or be cut to ribbons. Tate fixed his eyes on the empty space past the hangars, where Chang would appear in the Tahoe. It may have been his imagination, or the sound may have carried on the warm, night air but Tate thought he heard a telephone ring. Moments later, things went noisy. A yell from inside the hangar and then the sound of a car horn heralded the SUV as it burst into the pool of light, its own headlights now on full beam. This was his chance, and he was going to take it. Tate sprang up and sprinted in a straight line toward the hangar.
*
Striding outside, Oleniuk found his men, weapons ready, tactically facing an oncoming Tahoe. He knew what he was seeing but found it hard to understand. He asked his men, ‘What is it?’
‘One of our Tahoes, sir,’ the Russian nearest to him stated. ‘It could be Grisha.’
The Tahoe drew nearer but instead of slowing it accelerated and Oleniuk realised it was not his personal SUV. ‘Shoot the damn thing!’ Oleniuk roared.
A hailstorm of bullets hit the fast-approaching sedan, but the standard jacketed rounds were deflected by its ballistic plating. Oleniuk sensed movement, and then there was a flash. The barrel of a firearm flared in the darkness, and a commando twisted to the tarmac. Before he could issue an order, a second fell. The remaining four men realised what was happening. One went to ground behind the door, the second ducked back inside while the third and fourth rushed toward him.
‘We are being attacked!’ the first commando to reach him yelled. ‘Get inside!’
No words came from Oleniuk’s mouth as the larger, younger, and much fitter men hustled him back into the safety of the first hangar.
‘Shut the doors!’ Oleniuk ordered. ‘They must not hit the plane!’
‘Sir.’ The commando reached up for the door closure button, but a round pinging off the metal inches away from his hand forced him back.
‘Do it, you fool!’ Oleniuk bellowed.
The commando reached out again; this time he was hit in the throat. He fell to the floor, directly on the door runners.
Oleniuk took a deep breath. He would not be beaten like this! He had not been in combat for five long years, not since he had been shot by a man working for Simon Hunter’s E Squadron. Oleniuk felt his anger rise again, but this time he would let it explode out of him with devastating results. His two remaining ex-Spetsnaz commandos ran into the hangar and joined their colleague to make an arrow formation around their principal. Oleniuk nodded; the odds were still in his favour. Three highly trained men, plus him against whoever was shooting and whoever was in the vehicle. It was a fight all right but one that he would not lose. What puzzled him most though was who was attacking him and why? They couldn’t have come for Simon Hunter, surely? And of course no one knew about his operation … except Jack Tate …
The lights in the hangar went out. Oleniuk pushed his NVGs down over his eyes and the darkness around him became shades of green once more. Walking like a man on a rolling ship, he scampered towards the weapons locker, all the while being protected by his last three men. Oleniuk opened the locker and reached for a Beretta at the same time as one of his men opened fire. He turned just in time to see a projectile sail into the hangar. Behind his NVGs Oleniuk’s eyes widened and he shouted, ‘Grenade!’
A monstrous-sounding explosion rocked the interior of the hangar. The thunderclap reverberated off the metal walls, ceiling, and concrete floor and was immediately followed by a flash of blinding white light. Painfully dropping to his knees, nauseous, Oleniuk had the presence of mind to keep moving forward, with his rifle, away from the percussion grenade.
*
Jack Tate flicked the lights back on and scanned the space. There had been four targets before he had thrown the flashbang he’d found in the glove compartment of the Tahoe. He acquired one of the commandos lying on his back; he had been hit in the knee. With his NVGs on his face and arms and legs thrashing he resembled some sort of large beetle. Tate unleased a short burst from his HK416 directly into the man’s face and the beetle stopped moving.
He now saw another body, lying motionless in a pool of blood. Tate moved quickly to the body and dropped to his haunches, his eyes searching the rest of the space for threats. It wasn’t one of the commandos; it looked like a civilian. Who was it? Tate scanned the hangar – it was empty. That meant the three remaining targets, Oleniuk and his last two men must be outside.
Tate pushed back up to his leaden feet and made for the door when a pair of shots rang out. The first one hit his thigh, making him twist, and the second was like a hammer blow to his back, propelling him forward. Tate dropped and, arms not moving quick enough, was winded as he hit the unforgiving concrete floor with his chest and then temple … He groaned more with annoyance than pain; he’d come so close, it couldn’t end like this.
‘Welcome,’ Oleniuk’s voice boomed, ‘you are very good. You almost had us beaten with your little assault, but we are Blackline and you are, well, who are you exactly?’
Tate used the palms of his hands to push himself forward, to drag himself away from the voice that mocked him, but boots appeared by his face, and then two sets of muscular arms hauled him up to his feet. Tate was manhandled to face the Russian spymaster. Tate muttered, ‘Hello.’
‘Hello? Is that all I get from you, an informal greeting?’ Oleniuk tutted as he ripped off his NVGs and tossed them to the ground. He blinked, still feeling the effects of the flashbang. ‘You have killed too many of my men. Who are you?’
Tate looked the Russian in the eye. ‘I’m Jack Tate. I’ve come for my brother.’
‘Brother?’ Oleniuk’s eyes bulged and then he seemed to understand, but asked Tate the question regardless: ‘Who is your brother?’
‘Simon Hunter.’
‘Hunter has a brother? How was it that I did not know about you?’
‘Perhaps Blackline is not as great as you think it is?’
‘I am truly happy that you are here. It is highly fortuitous.’
Tate waited.
‘You have impressed me, unlike your snivelling brother, Simon.’
‘If you harm him, I’ll kill you,’ Tate hissed through the pain.
‘You both like to make threats!’ Oleniuk raised his Beretta.
‘I’m not going to tell you again. Let my brother go, Oleniuk, and I’ll let you live.’
‘Ha, ha! What fun, as we used to say at school!’ He switched to Russian. ‘Let him go.’
The commandos loosened their grip, and Tate stumbled to his knees. Blood ran freely from his thigh onto the floor. Tate switched to Russian; it seemed only polite to do so. ‘Why do you want my brother?’
‘Bravo, you speak excellent Russian, of course you do; I should have expected no less,’ Oleniuk’s eyebrows arched. ‘From a member of E Squadron who operated in Ukraine! Am I correct? Or are you just a skilled amateur? Come on, a man with your skills and determination? Do not now play dumb with me, Jack. I should liquidate both you and Simon for pitching E Squadron against my Ukrainian operation, for directing The Shadows, for meddling in the sovereign affairs of Russia! But I want intel, a bargaining chip, leverage.’
Tate’s mind struggled to comprehend the words. Oleniuk knew about the special operations group, whose existence was above classified – but more worryingly, he knew that Simon and he had been a part of it. The realisation made Tate shudder; there was a Russian mole somewhere within SIS or her close allies. Tate said, with more conviction than he felt, ‘You are delusional, Oleniuk!’
‘It has to be.’ Oleniuk’s eyes narrowed as his left hand stroked the scars on his neck. ‘I saw you – I remember you now. I know it was you. You gave me this.’
‘For a dead man you look well.’ Tate wanted the Russian to know what he had been responsible for.
‘I am just glad you are an awful shot.’
‘You moved.’
Oleniuk’s nostrils flared. ‘It is easier to hit a stationary target, as you will soon see.’ His left hand started to crawl toward his neck, but he caught himself and formed a fist. ‘I asked your brother questions; he wasn’t very helpful, but he will be.’
‘I’ll never talk.’
A sneer formed on the Russian’s lips and he slowly shook his head. ‘This is why your journey finishes here, today, and your brother will travel with me to Moscow.’
Tate battled to control his anger. His life was one thing, and he knew it would end in violence; Simon deserved more. ‘This isn’t Ukraine, Oleniuk. You can’t cross the border, kidnap foreign nationals, and place them on trial in one of your kangaroo courts.’
‘You are correct, that would have proved too problematic even for me, which is why six targets were executed.’ Oleniuk paused. ‘I want to make certain that you understand the full magnitude of your failure before you die. Six men are now dead and the world will never know who was responsible.’ Oleniuk looked, in Tate’s opinion, manic.
‘I will hunt you down.’
‘Really? From beyond the grave?’ A frown passed over Oleniuk’s face. He looked at one of the commandos behind Tate. ‘Go outside, check where that damn Tahoe is!’
‘Yes, sir.’ The commando exited the hangar.
‘You will not be around to tell anyone about my operation, Tate. No witness, no crime.’ Oleniuk’s right arm moved; his Beretta acquired Tate as its target. ‘But what is the point of killing you now, when I can do it in a few minutes’ time in front of your brother?’
*
The shooting had stopped. Did this mean Tate was in the clear? Chang had passed the two hangars, turned the wheel sharply, causing the heavy Tahoe to pitch and stutter before the traction control switched on. It came to a halt at the end of the access road but facing the giant tin boxes. He waited a minute, saw no movement, and waited a minute more before driving onto the grass and happily breaking through the perimeter fence. Now the Tahoe was hidden again in its original position. Chang hoped the diversion had worked.
Chang lay in the grass, not far from where Tate had before, and did his best to blend into the darkness. There was still no movement outside the hangars. Where was Jack? Chang decided that even though Tate had told him to stay put and stay safe, he was doing no good hiding in the long grass. What kind of law enforcement officer was he? Chang had to find Tate; he had to help him. He rose to his feet. In his left jacket pocket, he had Akulov’s silenced Beretta and his hands held out his personal Glock 19. He started to move forward towards the hole in the fence when he saw a figure, one of the commandos, dart out of the nearest hangar.
Chang threw himself down onto the damp grass. He lay flat, just raising his head enough to look ahead. He saw the commando tactically moving and sweeping the terrain with an assault rifle. He abruptly halted and aimed his rifle in Chang’s direction, at the hole in the fence. The commando started to walk across the grass, then bent down and inspected it before turning back towards the two hangars. Chang followed him with his eyes as he walked in the opposite direction of the open hangar door and disappeared into the dark shadows.
Chang got to his feet, and jogged across the grass. On hitting the tarmac he quickly scuttled into the shadow at the side of the hangar. He stealthily edged nearer to the open door, and when he had taken a large breath to calm his nerves, peeped in. Inside but still far away, due to the hangar’s voluminous construction, he saw Tate. One commando stood behind him, and another was talking to an older man. That had to be Oleniuk. As he watched, one of the commandos walked away to the other side of the hangar and momentarily disappeared behind a two-metre-high wall. He could hear the faint murmur of words being exchanged between Tate and the older man but nothing more. The commando returned pushing a blonde woman and a dark-haired man, Simon Hunter.
Chang considered his actions. He had shot and killed three men thus far today, so he wasn’t afraid of using his sidearm; however, that had been at close range, in daylight and the men had not been armed with assault rifles as the two commandos were. Chang didn’t know much about weapons, it had never really been his bag, but what he did know was that the rate of fire from an assault rifle was much higher than his Glock or Beretta. If he was going to attempt a rescue he would have to get nearer and surprise them.
He took a deep calming breath and started to move nearer. Then he heard an engine. He cocked his head. It was a rumbling, roaring V8. High-powered lights exploded from around the other side of the hangar as a large, dark shape appeared. It was another black Chevrolet Tahoe and Chang had no idea who was inside it. He ducked back into the shadows.
*
Oleniuk exchanged looks with his two remaining Spetsnaz commandos. He gestured to the one on Tate’s right. ‘Check that out, it could be Tate’s accomplice returned or perhaps it’s Grisha and Akulov.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The commando jogged out of the hangar, weapon up for the second time.
Oleniuk once more raised his Beretta. ‘Do not get any ideas, gentlemen. I may not be a crack shot but at this range I cannot fail to at least hit one of you, perhaps even the lady.’
‘You harm her and I’ll kill you!’ Hunter said, with venom in his voice.
‘Ha. That is right, you would not want to be responsible for the death of another woman!’ Oleniuk switched his focus to Tate on seeing his expression darken. ‘Correct, Jack. I know all about Sofia Antonova.’
‘You have no right to say her name!’ Hunter said, his voice now wavering.
‘I have the most right in the world to say her name!’ Oleniuk, pointed the handgun at Hunter and hoped that Tate was thinking about making a move.
‘Sir.’ A voice called as three men entered the hangar.
‘Ah, you have returned.’ Oleniuk felt relief and a surge of energy from within at the sight of the commando returning with Grisha and Akulov. He took in the assassin’s appearance. The Werewolf’s face was pale but he was standing unsupported, yet what Oleniuk noticed most of all was that his gaze was focused on the woman. ‘Hunter, Tate. This is the end – you can see that you have lost.’ Tate frowned and this made Oleniuk smile. ‘What, chaps, no jolly quips? Tatiana, what about you?’
‘I’ve got nothing to say.’ The woman Oleniuk knew as Tatiana, and Hunter knew as Terri replied.
‘Nothing to say?’ Oleniuk demanded, then switched to Russian to emphasise her true identity. ‘Nichevo?’ Nothing.
‘Nichevo,’ Tatiana replied, with a Muscovite accent.
Hunter’s mouth fell open. His shoulders slumped. ‘Terri?’
‘Grisha, go to the jet and tell the pilots to prepare for take-off.’
‘Understood.’
Grisha exited through the connecting door to the second hangar. Oleniuk smiled ruefully at Hunter. ‘I do not blame you at all for falling for her, Simon. She is exceedingly beautiful and from past reports, a real tiger in the bedroom!’ Hunter’s face was pale. ‘It is funny, don’t you think, that once she opened her legs for you, and now you will open your mouth for us? She is a swallow and you’ll become a parrot! You will be highly helpful to Blackline.’
Hunter was shaking. ‘Terri … I don’t understand … why …’
‘Did you love her, Simon? More than you loved Sofia Antonova?’
Tate took a half-step forward. Intuitively Oleniuk opened fire. Two rounds kicking up the concrete millimetres in front of his feet. ‘Do not move.’
Grisha rushed in, weapon raised.
‘Stand down. All is OK.’
‘Understood.’ Grisha stood again next to Akulov.
Oleniuk looked at his assembled audience. He was writing and directing this Greek tragedy, and it was time to end the last act. His eyes flicked between them, Grisha his bodyguard, Akulov his Werewolf, the seemingly indestructible Jack Tate, Simon Hunter the snivelling excuse of an intelligence officer, Tatiana his “swallow” and finally, slightly away from the others, his two remaining Spetsnaz commandos.
‘Simon, I’m in love with you.’ It was Tatiana who spoke. ‘I really love you, you must believe me! I never knew any of this would happen, what he would do, what he had planned. I was just meant to give him information.’ Tears started to form in her eyes and she struggled to speak. ‘But then I fell in love with you!’
‘How touching.’ Without warning, Oleniuk jerked the Beretta, pulled the trigger twice and sent two rounds into Tatiana. Both shots hit her in the chest, shredding her heart and catapulting her backwards. She was dead before she hit the floor.
Tate started to move but so did the Beretta. He stopped. Hunter collapsed to his knees. Akulov’s eyes narrowed, and his jaw clenched.
‘Simon, did you love her? Did you really love her more than you loved,’ Oleniuk screamed the last two words, ‘MY DAUGHTER!’
Hunter looked up and blinked.
‘Sofia Antonova was your daughter?’ Tate asked, his voice low.
Oleniuk, eyes wide, moist, nodded. ‘Yes.’
There was a yell from outside followed by a single shot. It hit Grisha in the centre of his forehead, instantly flooring him. Akulov dropped into cover. Tate dived on top of his brother, to shield him. Oleniuk darted to his left, and further away from the open doors; the two Spetsnaz men followed, one facing him and the second facing back the way they had come.
*
Tate was light-headed, struggling to concentrate. He saw the man Oleniuk had called Akulov was already by a locker in the corner. Akulov was retrieving a weapon, an HK416. He met Tate’s eyes. ‘Stay down, and I will not shoot you.’
‘Why?’ Tate was confused, by both the man’s words and his accent. He sounded American.
‘You saw what Oleniuk did? He killed one of his own, one of us. He murdered Tatiana like she was nothing! And if she is nothing then I am nothing,’ Akulov spat, his disgust evident. ‘He has broken the code. Our code.’
Tate’s head was spinning and he could think of nothing more eloquent to say than: ‘Yeah.’
Akulov disappeared through the door to the next hangar.
‘Jack, you’re losing blood!’ Hunter struggled away from his brother.
‘I’m OK.’
‘No you are not. Give me your belt.’
Tate understood what Hunter wanted to do but did not have the energy to reply verbally. He undid his belt and Hunter helped him pull it off, and then tightened it around his thigh, above his bloody leg wound.
‘Simon, Jack!’ Chang slowly advanced into the hangar, his arms extended and weapon up in a textbook two-handed Weaver stance.
‘That was you who fired?’ Hunter asked.
‘I saw Oleniuk shoot her, he was too fast … I tried to hit him but I missed and got the other one.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, I should have been faster.’
The booming whine of jet engines started from the neighbouring hangar, followed by an exchange of gunfire.
‘Help me up,’ Tate said.
Chang eased him to his feet.
Tate slapped his own face and roared, ‘C’mon!’
Hunter knelt by Terri’s body. He touched her face. His shoulders shook as he closed his dead girlfriend’s eyes. ‘The man is evil, evil! A deranged … We have to stop him!’
‘We will.’ Tate looked around for his HK, couldn’t see it. He hobbled over to the same locker Akulov had been in. There was an array of 9mm handguns, and one more HK416. He picked up a Beretta, stepped back to Hunter and held out the weapon. ‘Simon, take this.’
‘I’m not a shooter.’
‘That’s why you’re not coming with me. Jon, where’s the Tahoe?’
‘By the trees with the taxi.’
‘Take my brother, lock yourselves inside then drive it back here.’
‘No. I’m coming with you!’ Hunter said.
‘No. You’re the brains, remember? Go!’
There was more gunfire and Tate made for the door. He advanced, stiff-legged, into the second hangar and immediately tracked to his left and ducked down behind a stack of wooden crates as a round pinged off the doorframe behind him. Adrenalin once more flooded his system, pushing the pain and fatigue away. To his right and behind another stack was Akulov. The man met Tate’s gaze, and nodded slowly. Each man now seeing the other for the cold-blooded killer they had become. Could Tate trust the Russian? All he knew was that they now both sought the same enemy and he was in front of them trying to escape.
Tate cautiously peered around the top crate. One of the commandos was on the floor, behind his rifle, inside the open door of the Gulfstream. The second commando had crawled behind the airstairs, but had left a bloody trail across the concrete. Tate saw a shadow move past one of the jet’s large oval portholes, halfway along the length of the jet. Akulov sent a burst of rounds at the shadow; several hit the porthole and pinged off. He fired again and hit the next porthole, but neither shattered. Akulov whistled to Tate. Tate looked over. Akulov made hand signals and pointed at the open door. Tate nodded, slowly – it hurt and his head was still heavy – but he understood. Oleniuk must not get away.
He rose to his haunches, but before he could advance there was a flash to his right as Akulov sprinted towards the Gulfstream. The commando behind the airstairs swung into view. He and Akulov exchanged fire; the commando went down, twisting, his finger still on the trigger spraying rounds in an erratic arc as he did. Akulov reached the bottom of the airstairs and powered his way upwards. Tate trained his HK on the open door. Both he and the last commando fired at the same time. Both weapons found their targets. The commando’s head dropped, and his rifle fell out of the jet, but he had not been aiming at Tate, his target was Akulov.
Akulov carried on forward as his legs gave way. He had been travelling too fast to stop and pitched over the edge of the handrail. He fell, landing heavily on his back.
On his feet now, Tate shifted as fast as his fatigued and injured body would allow. He grabbed the handrail with his left hand and hauled himself up. Ahead he saw a darkening in the doorway as a figure tried to close it, but the dead man was in the way. One-handed, arm straining with the weight and torque of the HK, Tate send a wild shot into the empty space and the figure ducked away. And then the dead commando was shoved out of the jet and onto the airstairs. The body tumbled forward, a deadweight knocking Tate in the process. Tate’s HK was ripped out of his hand and crashed to the hangar floor. Tate was pushed against the same rail that Akulov had fallen over. Looking down, Tate’s eyes met the Russian assassin’s, who lay on his back – a trail of blood seeping from his mouth.
‘Davai! Davai!’ Go, go – Akulov mouthed above the roaring engines.
Tate, ignoring the wet, white pain in his leg, the pressure in his chest and the hammering of his head, half dragged, half climbed up the three last steps. The door had started to close, Tate sprung off the railing and barged it with his right shoulder. He fell inside the executive jet. The door slammed shut behind him and he saw one pilot secure it as the other scrabbled away from him into the cockpit.
‘Oleniuk!’ Tate roared, and hauled himself to his feet by a leather chair back. The cabin had been configured to carry fourteen passengers with wide spaces between the seats and a pair of tables midway down the cabin. It was a sea of cream leather and walnut wood.
At the far end of the cabin Oleniuk stood, in front of a bar, pointing his Beretta. ‘Here.’
Tate knew it was stupid, he knew it was senseless but he had no other choice. He started to run towards the remorseless Russian. Stars flashed before his eyes and his vision dimmed. Oleniuk kept the Beretta aimed in his right hand and beckoned Tate forward with his left. The Gulfstream was not the smallest of planes, still nowhere near commercial size, but what should have been a five-second sprint turned to ten as Tate found it harder to make his legs move.
His vision started to turn grey at the edges and then he blacked out. His head hit a padded, executive seat sending a hot white spear of pain down his spine. His eyes snapped open and he found himself lying sideways in the aisle, with the tables directly ahead of him. He blinked trying to make sense of what was happening as the noises around him had changed. One was the roar of the Gulfstream’s jets as it started to taxi and the other was Oleniuk as he laughed a huge guttural laugh.
He spoke in Russian now. ‘Look at you, Jack Tate, you are dying. Lying there on that bespoke carpet bleeding out. You haven’t got long to live. So I am going to drink this very fine bottle of Russian vodka and smoke this exquisite Cuban cigar and watch you drift away into the kingdom of Hades.’
Tate could hear the runway rushing beneath him, and then a slight lightness as the Gulfstream attempted to become airborne. Tate grabbed at the chair, clawed at the table in an attempt to get back to his feet, but his arms seemed to belong to someone else.
‘And now I will take my seat. Don’t die before we level out – that would be extremely impolite.’ Oleniuk sat, in a deeply padded seat, facing Tate from the far end of the cabin.
*
Akulov knew he needed medical attention but he could wait. He had to get away. He stumbled back into the first hangar as icy daggers seemingly stabbed him in the chest and neck, a sure sign of internal injuries. The space was empty. Dizzy but determined, Akulov padded towards a pair of lockers. The first one hung open. It was the one containing the weapons. This time he opened the second and retrieved his bag, the bag that insured his financial future. He winced as he lifted it, the weight was reassuring, but it was also almost too much for him to carry in his weakened state. Akulov swapped his HK for a fresh Beretta from the other locker.
He looked over at the broken body of Tatiana as an emptiness filled his injured chest. There was nothing more he could do here.
*
Outside the Gulfstream was still moving away from them down the runway.
‘We have to stop it!’ Hunter said.
‘It has to turn,’ replied Chang. ‘We’ll stop it then.’
‘How?’
‘You ever play chicken?’
‘No?’ Hunter shrugged. ‘Is that wise?’
‘This is an armour-plated full-size SUV,’ Chang replied. ‘South of a tank I think it’s the best bet.’
Hunter screwed up his eyes, then opened them. ‘Do it, ram the bastard!’
*
Oleniuk settled himself in the plump leather seat, and swigged vodka directly from the bottle. He had no time for delicate crystal – he was a warrior not a woman. The Gulfstream abruptly jerked to a stop, making him slip forward in his seat. He cursed in Russian, ‘Suka! What is going on?’
Seconds later, the door to the cockpit opened; the co-pilot appeared. ‘There is an SUV on the runway, coming toward us.’
Oleniuk sighed and waved his Beretta. ‘Take off, you idiot!’
‘But, sir—’
‘TAKE OFF NOW!’ Oleniuk roared.
*
‘It’s moving again,’ Chang noted. ‘This is going to be fun.’
‘What if it explodes?’ Hunter asked.
‘You’ve seen too many bad movies. How many times do planes or cars explode in real life?’ Chang said.
‘I see your point,’ Hunter conceded.
The Tahoe’s V8 growled and it leapt toward the Gulfstream. This was the second time today Chang had played chicken; this, however, was the biggest game of his life. The jet grew larger, both vehicles accelerating, their closing speeds dangerously increasing.
‘This is going to hurt!’ Chang stated.
‘We only need to clip the end of the wing. They’ll move – they’ll have to.’ Hunter did not sound convinced.
The Gulfstream’s tyres started to rise, as it left the ground then crashed down again. It was still coming straight for them and then the Tahoe started to shake.
‘Shit,’ Chang said.
‘What?’ Hunter asked, but had a feeling he knew.
‘We’re out of gas!’ Chang uselessly jabbed his right foot at the pedal as the Tahoe slowed.
‘No.’ Hunter slammed the dashboard with his fist. The fuel light was on.
‘Simon, it’s still coming!’
Hunter’s eyes went wide and he suddenly realised what was happening. ‘Get out! GET OUT NOW!’
‘What?’
‘JUMP!’
The two men dived as best they could from the still-moving, but rapidly slowing SUV. Chang landed heavily and was barely able to drag himself onto the grass. Hunter, more athletic but injured, collapsed beside him. The pair looked on, powerless, as the Tahoe finally came to a halt in the middle of the runway. The Gulfstream was seconds away from colliding with it when its undercarriage left contact with the ground and it soared into the air.
Chang pulled the Beretta from his pocket and emptied the magazine at the retreating target. But the Gulfstream continued to climb, immune it seemed until it was out of small-arms range. Chang’s chest was tight. He fell onto his back. He’d failed. ‘I’m sorry,’ Chang said.
‘You didn’t let him go. You didn’t give up.’
Chang didn’t know what to say.
*
The jet went into a steep climb. Tate was pushed back against a chair and managed to clamber into it. Over the roar of the blood in his ears and the jet turbines he could hear another sound, a hiss. He saw the Perspex on the porthole nearest to him vibrate. He smiled at Oleniuk, whose expression had turned to anger.
Oleniuk bounded from his seat even before the jet had attempted to level out. He still had a cigar in one hand and a bottle of vodka in the other. Tate saw that the Beretta was hastily pushed into the waistband of his suit trousers. It poked into his stomach in the gap his ballistic vest left exposed. He closed the distance to Tate. ‘And now, Jack Tate, I shall enjoy my booze and smokes whilst watching you die!’
Tate opened his mouth to reply; however, then a sudden, searing rush of air slammed into his face and whistled in his ears. The oval, panoramic porthole just in front of his head had given way. Oleniuk’s head snapped to his right and his jaw opened, the cigar falling to the floor. Tate now saw what he was looking at. Several small holes had appeared in the next porthole, which was in the door of the over wing emergency exit. Akulov’s rounds! The firefight in the hangar. The integrity of at least two of the aircraft’s sixteen, twenty-eight-inch-wide portholes had been compromised.
Tate sprang up at Oleniuk and barged him back into and over the table. The Russian rolled until he fell onto the floor trapped between the table and a seat. Tate followed him over the table, landed on top of him in the confined spaced and pummelled his face with heavy fists. He felt Oleniuk’s nose give way, and his jaw click, but the Russian was not finished yet. Oleniuk twisted to his left and pinned Tate against the huge, leather seat.
Oleniuk still had the vodka bottle in his hand. He raised it to strike Tate, the dregs of the alcohol splashing over both men. There was a cracking sound and then a second, larger rush of air. The bottle was torn from Oleniuk’s hand and sailed out of the failed porthole of the emergency exit. Tate could hear a warning claxon sound from the cockpit and the Gulfstream suddenly dropped and turned to starboard.
Tate bucked away from Oleniuk and pulled himself to his feet. But Oleniuk was also standing. Both men were of equal height but the Russian was the heavier, and not all of that was flab. They stood facing each other, their heads inches away from the interior ceiling. As the jet tilted and the air continued to rush in, Oleniuk came at Tate with his fists raised. His eyes were wild and his face a bloody mess, but he was grinning.
‘I boxed at school, Tate, I was undefeated.’ He threw a quick jab in Tate’s direction and then tried to land a left hook.
Tate defended, mirrored the boxing stance but not quickly enough as Oleniuk shot out another jab, hitting him on the jaw. Tate absorbed the extra pain and now brought his fists back up to his face. Oleniuk saw the schoolboy error and stepped in ready to deliver a blow to Tate’s unprotected body, but Tate had changed the game, and the sport. He threw a hard, straight, karate kick at Oleniuk with his right leg. Tate’s foot connected with his target’s groin. The Russian crumpled.
Tate held on to the nearest chair to steady himself, his left leg slick with fresh blood and threatening to give way, then he saw Oleniuk’s hand move shakily towards an object lying under the table. The Beretta. Tate fell on the hand with his knees, crushing it into the carpet and grabbed the gun first. He pulled the trigger, the raucous retort momentarily competing with the whistling air. The round buried itself in Oleniuk’s stomach, in the exposed gap below his ballistic vest.
Oleniuk then did something that took Tate completely by surprise. He started to talk. His voice was barely audible above the rush of the air. ‘Listen to me, there is something I need to say.’
Tate looked the Russian square in the eyes. Was this where the madman begged for his life? Tried to justify his actions? Momentarily it appeared as though Oleniuk had shrugged off his injuries as his eyes seemed to shine. ‘I am responsible for the Camden bombing that killed your parents …’
Tate felt as though he’d been hit in the chest with a sledgehammer. Using a surge of strength created by pure, primeval rage and hatred, he grabbed the Russian by the neck, hauled him to his feet, all but slamming his head into the ceiling. ‘What did you say?’
‘I killed your parents.’ A large smile split Oleniuk’s battered and bloodied face. ‘It was my plan, and it was my men. You had to pay for the death of my daughter …’ Oleniuk started to cough.
‘Who planted the bomb?’
Oleniuk’s eyes were wide. ‘You do not know?’
‘Tell me.’ Tate now grabbed a hold of the Russian’s hair with his left hand and thrust the Beretta tight into the underside of his jaw.
‘I want you to live the rest of your unimportant life knowing that my man did this, and you let him escape …’
‘Who!’ Tate demanded, breaking Oleniuk’s skin with the Beretta’s barrel.
‘He designed the bomb and he drove the van that day …’
‘Give me a name!’
‘Ruslan Akulov!’
Tate dropped Oleniuk and stumbled back against a seat. ‘Akulov.’
‘My assassin, my Werewolf …’ Oleniuk started to cough; blood foamed around his lips. ‘What is it like, to know you have been played for a fool? You have the blood of your parents and all of those innocents from the market on your hands all because your brother killed my daughter …’
‘Simon did not kill her!’ Tate was shaking. He knew his body was about to shut down, as was the plane, which was juddering erratically.
Oleniuk continued, ‘And then you did my bidding in Chechnya by liquidating such a troublesome terror group! That was pure ecstasy to me … I’ve beaten you, Jack, and I’ve beaten your pathetic brother, and now I shall soon see my daughter again.’
Tate raised the Beretta, his hand shaking.
‘Do it, kill me like a man.’
‘No.’ Tate pocketed the Beretta and grabbed Oleniuk. He hauled him to feet his feet once more and with his vision dimming manhandled him towards the broken porthole.
‘What are you doing? T … Tate, are you mad?’ Oleniuk bucked and struggled, but he was a spent force.
Tate elbowed the Russian in the gut to double him over, then slammed him against the emergency exit, jamming his head and shoulders into the gaping hole. Oleniuk’s body shook, his feet drummed on the carpet, his arms pushed weakly against the door and then his body went still. Like roadkill, like the result of a bird strike, he hung suspended from the porthole.
The roaring of the slipstream was halved. Tate again could hear the alarm from the cabin. Grabbing every single piece of furniture for purchase, Tate edged towards the cockpit door and slammed it with his fists. ‘Take us back! Get us down!’
The door didn’t open but he felt the Gulfstream bank. He lurched to the left and fell into the nearest seat. Tate pulled the seatbelt tight around himself, snapped the clip shut, and then his vision went black …