Ryker and Brock hadn’t spoken since they’d departed Karaman’s yacht. They’d made a hasty exit, Ryker more concerned than Brock about the gunshots which they had to expect had been heard on shore. No time to even consider what to do with the six dead bodies, their only focus on readying the bowrider attached to the yacht. A decent runabout boat with a powerful engine that propelled them at speed away from Dubai, to the south and east toward their destination.
No flashing lights had chased them out across the Gulf, and now they were in international waters the threat of an immediate response from the authorities in Dubai was highly unlikely. They weren’t safe yet, but they’d gotten their man and they’d gotten away, even if the extraction had gone far from how Ryker had intended. Because of Brock Van Der Bloody Vehn.
Ryker captained the small vessel, still stewing over what had just taken place while Brock tended to the wound on his shoulder, stitching the large gash one-handed. A not-so-simple task, and a painful one, but Brock performed the procedure unflinchingly. Clearly not his first time. Not that Ryker was impressed with the guy’s toughness.
Karaman meanwhile remained awake but fatigued and he hadn’t said a word. He still clutched at the wound on his side. He wasn’t losing too much blood, but they needed to do something about it before long.
‘When you’re finished you need to take a look at him,’ Ryker shouted at Brock who he knew was now having trouble hearing since Ryker’s gunshot next to his ear. A burst ear drum? Possibly. ‘The bullet’s still in there.’
‘Oh, don’t you worry,’ Brock shouted back. ‘I’m looking forward to helping him.’
Brock snipped the end of the thread from the stitches, stood up, his wet suit hanging around his waist showing off his heavily muscled body, lined with scars, some pretty horrific-looking. Ryker had plenty just like them. Not just battle scars. At some point in time, Brock had suffered badly, inhumanely.
‘I know you don’t like me,’ Brock said. ‘But I’m not in this to make friends.’
Brock slipped the wet suit off fully and went to his bag for his change of clothes. Ryker had done the same earlier.
‘And I know what you’re thinking,’ Brock continued. ‘I saw the mess on your body earlier. You and me… We’re more alike than you want to believe. We’ve seen shit, been through it. We’ve come out the other side but no doubt what we’ve been through… It’s changed us. There’s nothing normal about either of us. We’re outcasts. Soulless outcasts. The only difference? You still see yourself as a good guy. But I figured a long, long time ago that there’s no such thing as good and bad. Just winners and losers. I don’t lose.’
‘You’re wrong,’ Ryker said.
‘About which part?’ Brock said with his now grating laugh.
‘There is good and bad. I’m sure you know that, really. The only difference is you’ve convinced yourself otherwise to justify the things you’ve done, the things you still do.’
Brock seemed to consider that, looking off into the distance for a few moments.
‘You’re telling me you never did anything bad?’ he said. ‘Anything morally questionable?’
‘The problem is, everyone has a different line as to what’s morally questionable,’ Ryker replied.
‘My point exactly. You think I’m bad. But I’m betting a hell of a lot of people would think the same about you, right?’
Ryker had to accept that. ‘Right.’
‘So how do you justify what you’ve done? The people you’ve hurt and killed?’
‘Whatever I’ve done has always been… necessary.’
Ryker cringed at his own lack of eloquence and Brock gave an even more hearty laugh than before. ‘Yeah, you really are full of shit, aren’t you? Like I said, I reckon we’re more alike than you want to admit.’
Ryker had nothing more to say about the subject, but Brock had gotten under his skin.
‘Now it’s time for you,’ Brock said with a sneer as he stared down at Karaman who suddenly looked more alert, more fearful, now that Brock’s attention was on him. Brock crouched down by him. ‘Show me.’
Karaman didn’t move.
‘You want me to let you bleed out?’
Karaman said nothing but slowly pulled his bloodied hands away from his side. Brock lifted the soaked dress shirt and jostled Karaman back and forth, inspecting him forcibly before he whistled. ‘Yep, the bullet’s still in there, alright. So why don’t we get it out?’
Brock reached forward and dug his fingers into the open wound and Karaman bucked and panted and grimaced but didn’t scream.
Ryker didn’t respond at all, even as Brock stared over at him as his fingers rummaged inside Karaman, clearly hoping for a reaction.
‘Too far in,’ Brock shouted at Ryker, pulling his blood-dripping fingers out. ‘So let’s try this instead.’
He grabbed his knife and Ryker looked away as Karaman’s anguish intensified… and then subsided to little more than murmurs as he drifted from the pain.
Ryker flinched when something hit the back of his head and he turned to see the pellet rattle along the deck.
‘Got it,’ Brock said, wide grin on his face. Karaman was slumped now, eyes glazed. ‘Time to close that wound up.’
Brock grabbed a flare and set it alight, and Karaman immediately became more alert. He pleaded and begged and then he screamed – he really screamed – as Brock thrust the red-hot end onto his skin. Blood fizzled, skin bubbled, and Ryker gripped the wheel of the bowrider a little more tightly to try to channel his feelings and not outwardly react. Brock took the flare away then leaned over the side and held the flame under the water until it was extinguished.
‘And now it’s sealed.’
Karaman murmured under his breath, his words incoherent.
‘You don’t like me hurting him?’ Brock asked Ryker. ‘Except I know what you have planned for this guy. Oman? Tell me, what’s in Oman?’
Ryker didn’t answer.
‘I’m not as dumb as you think I am. This guy… I know what he did. And I know he’s wanted in nearly every Western country. But you’ve no intention of sending him back to stand trial in a courtroom, have you? Not in England, not anywhere else.’
Ryker still kept his mouth shut.
‘So what’s in Oman? My guess, a safe house at the least. Most likely, though, you’ve pulled some favors with your intelligence grunts and we’re heading to a black site. Some dungeon off the grid where you can interrogate this guy without anyone seeing, hearing. Tell me I’m wrong.’
Ryker held his tongue.
‘Tell me I’m fucking wrong you hypocritical piece of shit!’ Brock yelled, so loud Ryker felt the force of the bark on his cheek.
‘You’re not wrong,’ Ryker said. ‘This man has information that I need. Information that could help save lives, help bring down some of the most corrupt people in the world.’
Brock whistled again. ‘No shit?’
‘And I’m prepared to go to lengths to get what I need from him.’
‘See what I mean?’
‘The difference is, I won’t get any enjoyment out of making him talk. I’m not about to torture him for my own pleasure. I never have done that, I never will.’
‘You’re a liar. I’m betting at least once in your life you made someone suffer just because you could. And it brought you satisfaction.’
‘You know what—’
‘Wait a fucking minute,’ Brock said, grinning widely as he dug his hand into the storage compartment next to Karaman. Ryker was glad for the distraction even if he didn’t like the pleased look on Brock’s face. ‘What have we here?’
He pulled out a small bound book. Ryker noted the twinkle of the gold embossing on the front. He knew what the book was even before Brock had confirmed it.
‘Shit, does this freak have one of these everywhere he goes?’
Karaman, previously looking on the edge of unconsciousness, found a renewed focus, hatred in his eyes as he glared at Brock.
‘This is what it comes down to,’ Brock said. ‘All the people that die because of scumbags like this? Religion. Quran. Bible. Whatever. All religions are fucking nuts. They turn normal people into crazed psychopaths. You know the only good use for this thing?’ He held the Quran aloft. No one answered his question. ‘This.’ He swiped the book down, catching Karaman on the side of his face with an almighty thunk.
‘Leave him,’ Ryker said.
‘Or what?’
‘Or he’s too injured to talk to me. Then you don’t get paid.’
‘I get paid for the extraction.’
‘Extracting him in good condition. Not dead or dying.’
Brock scoffed, grabbing Karaman by the chin, checking his cheek. ‘I only hit him once.’
‘And that’s the only time you will.’
Brock’s face twisted with distaste. ‘Whatever, but this thing is poison. Religion of peace? My stinking ass. What about the heads you chopped off, Ismail?’
No response from Karaman.
‘I don’t think those guys found that too peaceful, do you?’
He slapped Karaman with the book again.
‘Scum like him don’t even want peace. Not really. They never have and they never will. Their goal is to wipe out everyone else, and violent means are the only way they can do it.’
‘OK, you’ve made your point,’ Ryker said.
‘You know what? I don’t think I have. The hatred they have for anyone not conforming is other level. Tell me, would you feel safe walking around any Muslim country wearing a kippah? Or with a cross around your neck, holding a Bible? They’d burn you in the street.’
‘And would you feel safe walking around a South African city wearing a thawb? It works both ways.’
‘No. It’s not the same. It’s—’
‘You can shut up now,’ Ryker said with enough conviction to cause Brock to pause. ‘We’re nearly there.’
He nodded to the shore, to the small docking area a few hundred yards away where a single orange lamp lazily lit the area. No real indication of what lay beyond that, just one small rowing boat moored up.
‘That’s it?’ Brock said, sounding surprised.
‘Bit different to Dubai.’
‘Where’m I supposed to go from here?’
Far, far away would be Ryker’s preference.
‘Wherever the hell you like. The boat’s yours. Muscat’s fifty miles or so.’
Ryker slowed the boat, keeping his eyes busy across the shoreline. The area behind the dock was pitch black although Ryker knew there was nothing there, no buildings within a quarter of a mile. What he would find – at least, he hoped Winter had provided – was a car. A car for him and Karaman.
‘Help me tie us up,’ Ryker said, tossing the rope to Brock.
The big guy stepped off the boat onto the wooden dock. He was crouched down, rope in hand when four big spotlights blared.
Ryker froze, Brock froze. Shouting erupted everywhere and for several seconds Ryker could see nothing but the glare of the lights. As his eyes adjusted the figures came into view. Ten, fifteen, twenty uniformed police, guns held out, crowded by their cars along the edge of the dock.
‘I’m guessing this isn’t your plan,’ Brock said, sounding pretty damn calm as he straightened up, the police to his right, Ryker to his left as if wanting everyone in his sight.
‘No, it’s not,’ Ryker said.
The shouted instructions continued. Drop your weapons. Hands up. Off the boat. Two police officers edged forward onto the dock, crouched down with rifles pulled up to their faces.
‘You loaded?’ Brock said under his breath.
Ryker still had the handgun Brock had thrown to him earlier in his waistband. Plus a rifle lay on the deck a few feet from him. And Brock was armed too. From his position, Ryker could see the butt of the handgun sticking out of the back of the guy’s jeans.
‘Yeah,’ Ryker said.
Brock turned his head to Ryker, as though looking for further confirmation of what to do next.
Ryker really didn’t want to fight here. If these people wanted to shoot, they already would have, so he’d rather see how this played out. Ryker’s biggest problem was that he knew Brock only knew one way: Fight. To the death, if necessary.
Ryker wasn’t dying because of this guy.
‘Are we doing this?’ Brock whispered.
Ryker’s hand barely twitched. Brock took that as confirmation.
‘I never lose,’ Brock said, grin rising.
The next moment he whipped the gun from his jeans as he spun and stooped down.
Ryker ducked too and made a move for his weapon. But only to toss it overboard. Brock managed to fire off two rounds before the police returned fire. And they didn’t hold back. A volley of bullets burst free, flashes of fire lighting up the area as Brock’s body jolted, hit after hit. He stumbled back, the gun still in his grip but not enough life left in him to fire it…
Brock collapsed backward into the water, dead.
Ryker stood up, hands aloft as police rushed forward.
‘It’s OK!’ Ryker shouted. ‘It’s OK. Please, don’t shoot.’
And they didn’t. Ryker briefly glanced at Brock’s body, partially submerged now, no real feeling for the dead man.
A much bigger problem – for him – was still to come, because the police turning up was not part of the plan.
Moments later the police had Ryker in cuffs and they dragged him along the dock to their waiting vehicles.