Driver would have pointed out the planning and training time needed for a mission of this kind. But time was something no one had. Not the team, not the leaders, not the world.
They had less than a week to prepare and attempt to get fit. And it was a long time since she’d felt remotely healthy. The rest of the team thought Driver was an alcoholic, Gilmore included. She could tell by the way they all looked at her. But Driver knew herself. She was the opposite of an addictive personality – the take it or leave it type. So Driver knew all she needed was to be a sheet in the wind. To dry out. And not die during fitness training.
The first few days were hell. Assault courses. Hill runs. Some in the team were in better shape than others. Driver would have eaten up the ground in the old days. But on the second day, she found herself struggling at the back with a malnourished Pope. Baptiste claimed to be a keen runner before his capture, and he competed with Wells for first up the hill. Lim and Rios were the links in the chain – Rios motoring on ahead of Driver, Lim gliding behind the leaders at her own serene pace.
Day three followed fast. Wells and Pope led the pack over the soft moss floors of a springtime forest. Driver could feel herself getting fitter. The result of plant-based foods and lots of hydration. She’d flushed out the booze and the physical exertion had seen her get the best night’s sleep in years. There was only the odd nightmare to contend with as she awoke at night in a cold sweat. And besides, compared to the horrors of the Boneyard, a ten-mile run through a pine forest was like heaven. In fact, fighting for vodka had kept her in better shape than she’d known.
On day four, the UN drill instructors drove the team to a target range on the back of an army truck. It was the first time Driver had held a weapon since Tom. Gilmore, absent during fitness training, was in attendance. The instructors handed out the weapons and magazines.
‘All right, let’s see how much rust we’re dealing with,’ Gilmore said.
The sight of a red band on the base of the live magazine threatened to overwhelm Driver. It reminded her of the blue band on Tom’s backup pistol. She broke out of line and threw up on the grass.
‘Whoa, you been on the grog again?’ Pope said, his chestnut hair now short, his beard trimmed back to heavy stubble.
Driver spat out the last of the vomit. She wiped her mouth on her sleeve and returned to her position to the right of the big Australian. ‘Sorry, Pope, it’s your face. I’m still having nightmares.’
Rios broke into laughter to her left. ‘Bitch, you got burned.’
As a chastened Pope returned to his weapon, Driver took aim at the target, breathed deep and calmed herself down. The drill instructors gave the command to fire. The sudden crack of gunfire made her jump. She squeezed her trigger finger, but found it locked halfway, as if in rigor mortis.
‘Come on, Sam, get it together,’ she murmured, reacquainting herself with the thunder of high-calibre rounds.
Driver realised the others had finished their opening rounds and were now watching her with intense interest.
Baptiste stepped away from the firing line. ‘Are you sure she’s up to this?’
Gilmore shrugged in return, adding to the weight of attention on her. The unease extended into her arms, creating pain in her shoulders. Her hands shook out of control. The combination of nerves and a plate full of cold turkey. ‘I’ll be fine,’ she replied.
‘Give her time,’ Wells said, further along the line.
‘Time is something we don’t have,’ Baptiste grumbled.
The Russian found an unlikely ally in Pope. ‘She’s fucked in the head, mate. A bloody washout.’
It was the remark that broke the spell. Driver’s trigger finger released. Her hands steadied. She returned to her rifle sight, aimed left and unleashed three bursts in quick succession.
The instructors brought forward the targets. Pope’s had its three holes blasted between the legs, courtesy of Driver’s rifle.
He cleared his throat, adjusted his crotch and tapped a finger against his temple. ‘Reverse psychology,’ he said patting Driver on the shoulder. ‘I knew you could do it.’
‘Looks like Driver’s not the only one having trouble,’ Baptiste said, examining Rios’ target.
Driver caught sight of the results. There were only two holes in the target and neither to the head or heart. She felt it would be hypocritical to comment. Yet clearly Rios had been brought on board for her sniper skills. If the woman couldn’t shoot straight, it could get them all killed.
The young Mexican flexed her fingers as much as her thick bandage allowed. ‘A couple more days, it’ll be fine.’
The training regime ground on with more runs through the forest. The team ran tight as a unit, at pace over the soft ground. Driver pushed for the lead, her competitive edge coming back with every stride. ‘The Tiger’, the other girls had called her at Midwest high school. She had to outrun, outscore, out-jump every other girl on the team.
Driver blamed her father. He’d wanted a boy, so tried his damnedest to turn her into one, hurling footballs and baseballs at her head from the age of three. Maybe that explained the career choice. Taking flak and dodging bullets reminded her of home.
She eased her way to the front of the pack as they dropped deeper into the forest. A rich, green canopy offered them welcome shade, the scent of wild garlic teasing her senses. Driver made eye contact with Wells as they ran shoulder to shoulder. The athletic Brit breathed heavy, a dark bib of sweat bleeding into his T-shirt. ‘Don’t be thinking about beating me, Driver.’
‘What’s wrong, Wells? Scared of a little competition?’
‘Let’s see,’ Wells said. ‘Race you to the finish?’
Driver breathed fast, matching his pace. ‘What’s the stake?’
‘Protein bar?’
‘Sure,’ Driver said.
Wells lengthened his stride, arms and legs pumping harder, faster. Driver matched him for all of three seconds. Enough to set him off on a full sprint. She dropped back and let him tear off into the distance.
Realising he was alone, Wells slowed and turned. ‘What the… Come on, then!’
‘Nah,’ Driver smiled as the pack caught up. ‘The view’s better from back here.’
Pope appeared to Driver’s left. ‘Strewth, get a bloody room.’
‘Jealous?’ Lim said from the back of the pack.
‘What, of a soft-arse Pom?’ Pope snorted.
‘Ain’t nothing soft about that ass,’ Rios said from over Driver’s shoulder.
‘You should cop a feel of mine,’ Pope said.
Driver glanced down at his rear. ‘That bony thing?’
Pope shook his head. ‘None of you have been through what I’ve been through.’
Catching his breath, Wells folded back in with the pack. After a final push along the last half-kilometre, the team slowed to a stop outside the barracks. They were each handed an iced water bottle and a protein bar.
The group wandered in their own directions and caught their breath after the run. Driver found Wells perched on a boulder, paying the price for the sprint. She offered him her protein bar. ‘Here, a bet’s a bet.’
Wells looked up, a hand to his ribs. ‘Your chocolate for my strawberry and we’re even.’
Driver made the exchange. She flopped onto the boulder next to Wells, heart still racing, legs heavy and lungs raw.
Driver slugged a mouthful of water and breathed deep.
‘Man, I used to be in better shape,’ Wells said.
Driver tore the top of the wrapper off her protein bar. ‘Didn’t we all?’
Wells looked Driver up and down. ‘You look pretty good from where I’m sitting.’
Driver laughed as she chewed on a mouthful of sugary protein. ‘Are you hitting on me, Agent Wells?’
Wells held up a hand in apology. ‘Sorry, I’ve been in solitary too long.’
‘How was it over there?’ Driver asked.
Wells took another bite of his protein bar. ‘Fine, if you like steel cages. How about you?’
Driver couldn’t stop herself flashing back to the horrors of the past two years. The fights. The beatings. The endless hours of staring at the ceiling, wishing she was dead. Driver pushed down the groundswell of nightmares. She shrugged and feigned a British accent. ‘Oh, you know. A tad nippy.’
‘Hey, that’s not bad,’ Wells smiled. ‘You’re ex-navy, right?’
‘Uh-huh.’
Wells pointed to a military tattoo on his left arm. ‘Special Boat Service… I guess that makes us allies.’
‘I guess our countries do have a special relationship,’ Driver said.
Wells looked around the rest of the team, strung out on boulders of their own. ‘You trust any of these guys?’
Driver chewed on the question and her protein bar. ‘Let’s see, a Russian double agent, a freelance assassin, an ex-mercenary and a former hit-woman for the cartels? What could possibly go wrong?’
Two days later, Gilmore outlined the plan in the briefing room. ‘The first thing to know about Nurian Serik is that he loves a back rub.’ He brought up an image of a massage parlour on the projector screen. ‘Twelve noon, three times a week, regular as clockwork. Serik and his two bodyguards.’
‘How current is the intel?’ Driver asked.
‘This was yesterday,’ Gilmore said. ‘It’s the one time he’s vulnerable. You grab him, get him out of there and into a safe house on the outskirts of the city. See what you can get out of him while you await exfil.’
Anna Patel handed out dossiers in slim black folders.
‘You’ll find full details of the operation in your files,’ Gilmore continued. ‘Driver will lead the team. We go in two days.’
‘That’s nowhere near enough time,’ Wells said.
‘Had you all been in better shape, we would have had more prep time,’ Gilmore replied. ‘But hey, those are the breaks. Any questions?’
Baptiste leafed through his file. ‘I don’t like it. Too messy.’
‘Too public,’ added Pope.
‘Much as I hate to admit it, Pope has a point,’ said Driver. ‘Too many variables.’
‘The guy’s spent the last two years off the grid,’ Gilmore answered. ‘We’re lucky he’s started to venture out at all.’
‘Still…’ Driver said.
Gilmore looked her in the eye. ‘Would you rather raid another armed compound?’
It was a cheap shot, but she let it slide, not wanting to dredge up the whole affair.
Pope flexed his interlocked fingers. ‘Look, I’ll give the bloke a rubdown, but no wristies.’
Driver couldn’t stop herself smirking, her anger at Gilmore interrupted for the briefest of moments.
‘Any other volunteers for masseuse?’ Gilmore asked.
Lim raised her hand. ‘I’ve done it before.’
‘You’ve been a masseuse?’ Driver asked.
Lim shrugged. ‘I’ve pretended to be.’
‘Was it a happy ending?’ Pope smirked.
‘Not for the man on the table,’ Lim replied with a glint in her eye.
‘Good, that’s settled,’ Gilmore said. ‘Pope, you’ll be in the room with Lim. You can work out the rest between you.’ He tossed the clicker on the table and clapped his hands together. ‘That’s it, boys and girls. Wheels up in thirty-three hours. God help us all.’
The group broke up and filtered out of the room. Driver stayed behind and lingered near Gilmore. Unhooking his laptop from the projector screen, he glanced over his shoulder. She tapped her dossier file against a thigh.
‘What’s on your mind?’ Gilmore asked.
‘I’m not saying I don’t want to go after Serik,’ Driver replied. ‘But leading the team? Maybe Wells should… I mean, he’s got the right experience. He seems like a good guy.’
Gilmore put a hand on Driver’s arm. ‘We like to think we can see around corners, with our satellites and drones and fancy operations rooms. But we’re not gods, Sam. We make the calls. Sometimes they’re wrong. Kazakhstan was bad intel. It was on me, not you.’
Driver shook her head. ‘Yeah, but—’
‘Hey,’ Gilmore said, holding her eye. ‘There’s no one I’d rather have out there.’
Driver nodded in surrender.
Gilmore packed away his laptop. ‘Plus, I need someone I can trust to keep an eye on the others. Baptiste was a double agent, Rios a cartel shooter and Lim flatlined her polygraph.’
‘I’ll keep a close eye,’ Driver said, as they made their way through the door into the operations room.
‘And one more thing,’ Gilmore continued. ‘We need Serik alive.’
‘Of course,’ Driver replied, trying her damnedest to look convincing.