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The Vigilante, the next instalment in the James Ryker Series, is available to buy now by clicking the image below. Or read on for an exclusive extract…
Chapter One
An oven. At least, as close to being inside a heated oven, and still being alive, as James Ryker could imagine. Over thirty degrees Celsius outside with a blistering sun in the sky and not a wisp of cloud. Who knew how many more degrees inside the thick-walled metal van whose occupants sizzled. Ryker’s blood was surely on the brink of bubbling and boiling. In the dry heat, he wasn’t even sweating anymore. Every minuscule droplet of water pushed through his skin simply evaporated into the baking air almost instantaneously.
The van went over a bump in the road. No, the van had gone over hundreds already – wherever they were going, the road was a pile of crap. Ryker hadn’t seen the bump coming. How could he? There were no windows here in the back, the only light coming from the plastic panels in the roof. Even if he couldn’t see the bump, Ryker certainly felt it, as he had with every other. Every rattle of the van’s suspension sent a cascade of vibrations through his bones. That last bump though… Ryker stumbled to his left. Pulled down on his hands to help keep himself from falling.
Not that falling was really possible. Not with his wrists secured together as they were, two chains reaching up above him, diagonally, one to the left, one to the right, the other ends of the chains fixed to the roof. The other five ‘passengers’, in their individual box cells, were similarly secured, and Ryker and each of them had no choice but to remain standing for the uncomfortable journey. At least, unless he felt like hanging from his arms like a monkey. He didn’t. But if the heat didn’t let up, if there was no relief, then how long before he simply couldn’t stand any longer?
‘Hey!’
A shout from across the way. More of a slur. Almost delirium. Or was that only how Ryker’s sloshy brain had processed the sound?
‘Hui s’gory!’
Russian. All of the guards hailed from Russia, and all of the prisoners were either Russian or at least spoke the language. The shouted insult finally got the attention of one of the guards. Ryker shuffled closer to the small square of bars in the door in front of him, which gave a pretty poor glimpse of the rest of the inside of the prisoner transfer van. Across the way two beady-looking, bloodshot eyes stared at him from behind the bars of the opposite cell. Ryker knew the man. Knew of him, at least. Igor. Perhaps not his real name, perhaps a reference to his hunched appearance. Igor was big, tall, bald-headed. Standing straight, his eyes would have been above the bars, yet his face was pressed up against the hot metal slats. To have reached forward to the bars – face first – with his hands still secured, he was surely off his feet, somehow hovering on the chains connected to his wrists, like a gymnast on the ring exercise. A lot of effort to get the attention of one of the guards. Particularly given the debilitating heat.
‘Hui s’gory!’ came the shouted insult again. Even louder this time. It literally translated as ‘penis from the mountains’. Ryker smiled.
A black-clad guard came into view. Big black boots, bulky black clothing. Black helmet, black leather gloves. Weighty utility belt that was crammed full of equipment. He was surprised the guards – four of them in the back – hadn’t passed out from heat exhaustion already.
A modified AKS-74U assault rifle, the shortened barrel pointing to the floor, dangled from the guard’s shoulder, but his gloved hands were empty as he moved closer, his hands held out at the ready to steady himself from the bumps in the road.
Another one. The biggest yet. Ryker jolted. The eyes of the prisoner opposite went wide as his face squashed and contorted against the bars of his door. The guard stumbled and reached out to place his hand against Igor’s cell door to stop himself from falling. Still, his near-trip didn’t go unnoticed. The beady-eyed Igor guffawed, then roared in amusement, soon followed by shouts and calls and heckles from the other cells.
The guard whipped his gun up, pushed the barrel against Igor’s forehead.
‘Step back,’ he said in Russian, calmly delivered.
A moment of silence before Igor’s face glided back from the bars, neat lines of red down his cheeks from where he’d pushed himself up against the metal.
‘We’re dying in here!’ another prisoner shouted. ‘My insides are cooked. Roasted meat. I’ll eat myself soon enough if I don’t get some water!’
A raucous rally of insults and demands and bravado followed from the other prisoners in response, though Ryker didn’t say a word. Even if he felt many of the points were justified. He had no clue how much of the journey was left. How many of the men inside the superheated tin can would still be alive when they eventually made it.
The noise died down. The guard had said nothing more. Remained facing away from Ryker, the gun now back down at his side.
‘There is no water,’ the guard said. He turned left and right, as though addressing a large audience in a theatre. ‘Even if there was, you wouldn’t have it – we would. Another word from any of you…’
He spun around. Locked eyes with Ryker. Whatever threat he’d been about to deliver never came. Instead, he simply stared. Glared, more like. The guard had a young face, but it was lined with anger and swagger. He definitely enjoyed his position of authority. Perhaps too much. But he wasn’t the bad guy here, not really.
Eventually, the guard turned and walked back to where he’d come from, toward the front of the van, out of Ryker’s sight.
Ryker was left staring across at the cell opposite. Igor hadn’t returned his face to the bars, but Ryker still had a good enough view of him. He glared at Ryker, much like the guard had moments before. His bloodshot eyes were squinted, menacing – full of distrust and distaste, though Ryker had no idea why. They’d never set eyes on each other until today, though had shared sightless conversations with each other through the wall of their prison cells plenty of times.
Ryker’s momentum shifted as the van pulled to a stop. He listened. The diesel engine chugged away, the van jostled from the vibration.
‘Hui s’gory!’ came the renewed shout from across the way. ‘How about that water now!’
No noticeable response.
Igor shouted again. Again. Soon others were shouting too.
The van remained at a stop. With no windows in Ryker’s view, he had no clue where they were, or what was around them, but beyond the bulky walls of the van, he heard the deep rumble of machinery nearby. A truck of some sort, pulling close to them.
Was this it?
He’d be ready, even if he remained shackled.
The noise inside ratcheted up a level or two. How many of them knew? The prisoners shouted, banged, stamped. Then Igor did the inexplicable. He rushed forward – or his head did, at least – and his face slammed into the metal bars of his cell door. Ryker winced and reeled back. Igor smashed his face into the bars a second time. Was the guy out of his chains?
Ryker winced again with the third blow. Blood streamed down Igor’s face and dripped down off the bars. Igor paused as he glared at Ryker. Then a manic laugh. A crazed cackle, together with an open mouth full of broken and bloodied teeth.
Smash.
He did it again and finally two guards rushed forward.
‘What are you doing!’ one of them shouted.
Igor’s mania didn’t stop. He spat blood at the guards, then laughing, coughing, spluttering blood, he shouted out insults and hit his head against the bars, over and over. One of the guards fumbled with keys. The other brought his weapon up, pointed it at the prisoner. The door opened…
BOOM.
The thunderous explosion lifted the van from the ground.
We hope you enjoyed this exclusive extract.The Vigilante is available to buy now by clicking on the image below: