Deception Game (54 page)

Limping heavily on his injured leg, David Faulkner tore through back alleys and side streets, heedless of anyone who dared cross his path. His haphazard course was carrying him generally uphill, towards a rounded area of high ground that overlooked much of the town.

He couldn’t see what was up there yet, but anything was better than what he’d left behind. Drake was out there somewhere, following him, hunting him. Fury and rage vied with something else he hadn’t felt in a long time – fear.

Reaching into his torn and dirty jacket, he fished out his cell phone and quickly dialled a number from memory, unable to keep his hands from shaking. Blood loss was making him weak, slowing his progress.

The number rang out for several agonizing seconds before they at last picked up. ‘Well, is it done?’ his contact asked without preamble.

Faulkner let out a pained sigh. ‘We’ve been ambushed. The location is compromised. I need transport out of the country.’

NSA Director Richard Stark paused for a moment or two. ‘And Drake?’

‘He’s after me, for Christ’s sake,’ Faulkner said, pain and anger getting the better of him. ‘I need extraction, now.’

He was almost there now. The crowded buildings were giving way to open ground scattered with the tumbled walls and leaning pillars of some kind of archaeological site. A wind gusted across the hilltop, carrying dry windblown grit into his eyes and forcing him to throw a hand up to shield himself.

‘You’ve disappointed me, David,’ Starke said, his tone sad and resigned. ‘Remember what I said about the group and failure? Think on that.’

With that chilling proclamation, the line went dead.

‘You bastard!’ Faulkner hissed, trying to redial.

But at that moment he stopped in his tracks, his face frozen in shock and disbelief at what he saw. The phone fell from his hand and he took a step backward, staring down the barrel of the weapon now trained on him.

Together the small group emerged through the gaping hole torn in the side of the building, Frost leading the way and Mason supporting the injured man beside him.

‘That’s our ride out of here,’ Mason decided, heading for the black Ford SUV that had brought Drake here less than an hour earlier. Mason doubted its original owners would mind if they borrowed it.

‘Can you hotwire it?’ Frost asked.

He flashed her a grin. ‘Better than you can.’

Frost was just opening her mouth to retort when suddenly something flew through the air past her, thumping against the side of the wrecked truck before coming to rest on the ground nearby with a heavy metallic
thunk
.

She didn’t need to look at it to realize what it was, just as she didn’t have to think about what to do next. Reacting with the instinct born from long experience, she dropped her weapon and threw herself at Mason as if she were trying to tackle him to the ground, pulling him down with her just as the grenade detonated.

White light engulfed her vision just as a thunderous boom resounded in her ears, sounding like a thunderclap right next to her. Shaking her head, she blinked furiously in an effort to clear the splashes of light that danced across her eyes.

Her quick reflexes had saved most her sight from the flashbang, but Mason had taken the full brunt of it. ‘Cole. Cole! Can you hear me?’

‘Fuck! Keira? You there?’

It was obvious he couldn’t see or hear a thing, and it would be several minutes before his senses returned to normal.

Several minutes they didn’t have.

Raising her head far enough to get a bead on where the grenade came from, she was immediately forced to duck down by a burst of gunfire that slammed into the ground and the SUV that she was partially shielded by.

She twisted around, searching frantically for a weapon. Her shotgun had fallen beneath the car when she’d thrown Mason to the ground, and there was no time to reach for it now.

Mason’s sidearm however was lying several yards away, knocked from his hand when the flashbang went off. Leaving her injured comrade, she crawled forward to retrieve the fallen weapon.

That was when she saw him. A lone man advancing from the ruined factory, short and wiry of build, with pale skin and buzz-cut red hair. A man armed with an automatic weapon, and a burning desire to use it on anything that stood in his way.

She saw him, and he saw her.

She wasn’t going to make it, she knew then. He had the drop on her. All she could do was watch as he swung the weapon towards her.

She’d always said she’d wanted to meet death with her eyes open, without fear. She couldn’t vouch for the second part, but she refused to close her eyes as he pulled the trigger.

But at the same moment, his right shoulder exploded with the impact of a shot, followed quickly by another. His weapon kicked back as his finger tightened on the trigger, no longer properly aimed, the round sailing harmlessly through the air.

Frost stared in disbelief as her would-be killer stumbled backwards and fell, never to rise again.

‘What the—?’

‘Keira!’ a voice called out, slightly muffled by the ringing in her ears.

She turned towards the source of the sound, letting out an involuntary gasp of shock at the sight of Iskaw emerging from a building on the far side of the street, a sniper rifle up at his shoulder. His eyes met hers and, perhaps relishing the look of shock on her face, he smiled. That slightly lopsided, rakish smile caused by the scar on his cheek.

It was a moment. A moment she had never expected and would likely never forget.

A moment that was shattered in a heartbeat by the crack of another shot from up above. Staring in horror, Frost watched as the young Tuareg hunter jerked with the impact of the shot, blood painting his pale robes, before falling to his knees, the weapon clattering from his grasp.

‘No!’ she cried out as he slumped forward.

Glancing up, she spotted the distinctive, eager snout of a rifle protruding from one of the factory’s shattered windows, along with the hand that wielded it.

Reaching out, she snatched up Mason’s fallen sidearm, turned it skyward and opened fire, capping off four or five shots in short order, tears streaming from her eyes. She saw a burst of red, heard an agonized scream, and suddenly the rifle fell from the window, breaking against the tarmac below.

Dropping the now-empty weapon, Frost slithered beneath the SUV, reaching out until she felt her fingers close around the grip of the shotgun.

For the first time in a long time, Faulkner was stunned into silence.

Drake was standing before him, having emerged from behind one of the ancient pillars up ahead. Somehow he must have anticipated his course, circled around and intercepted him.

He was bruised and bleeding, his body pushed to breaking point by everything he’d been through over the past several days, but he was alive. And he was armed.

For several seconds, neither man said or did a thing. They remained frozen like that, poised in a moment of perfect balance, eyes locked in a final battle of wills.

But only one of them would walk away from this. Both men knew it, and both knew which one it would be.

‘Wait,’ Faulkner implored him, holding up a hand as if that could change how this was about to play out. ‘You don’t want to do this, Ryan.’

Drake said nothing. He just kept the weapon trained on his target, his vivid green eyes glimmering in the harsh sunlight.

‘The things I’ve done...I haven’t always been proud of,’ he admitted, his voice betraying an edge of what might have been honesty. ‘But if you really understood what was at stake, you’d know I did them for the right reasons. I’m trying to
save
lives, Ryan.’

Drake took a step towards him, prompting Faulkner to back up a pace in response, his hands held up to show he was unarmed – as if that mattered now. For the first time, he actually looked afraid. That mattered a lot.

‘I underestimated you. That was my mistake.’ He licked his dry lips, his eyes flitting left and right, always seeking an escape, an alternative, a way out of this. ‘But I can help you, Ryan. I know things – things nobody else wants you to know. And I can tell you everything, but not if I’m dead. If you kill me, you’ll never know what Freya was really involved in, who she was working for, why she really died. It’s all gone if you pull that trigger.’

Drake could feel his muscles tensing up, his posture changing almost imperceptibly as he prepared to pull the trigger. With the careful deliberation that came from his years of training and practice, he took aim at Faulkner’s centre mass, adjusting just a little to compensate for the recoil.

‘I know about Operation Hydra, Ryan,’ Faulkner suddenly blurted out, sensing what was about to happen.

Drake froze then, his heartbeat pounding in his ears, his breath coming in shallow gasps as the words sank in. Operation Hydra. The day his life had changed forever. The day that started him on the path to the dark, murky world in which he now lived, and where he might well die.

Hydra. The word he had come to fear and hate in equal measure. And the man standing before him knew the truth about it.

‘I know what they did to you, and I know why,’ Faulkner said, Drake’s silence encouraging him to continue. ‘It wasn’t what you think it was. They lied to you, Ryan, to cover up what was really happening. They let you take the blame for it, but I know the truth. I can help you bring down Cain, bring down the Circle, put an end to the whole fucking lot of them.’

Drake’s hand was trembling, his grip on the trigger growing tighter. A fraction of an inch more, and it would be done.

Yet he didn’t pull the trigger. This man standing before him, bruised and bedraggled, who had tried to kill him and his companions several times over the past few days, who was responsible for sacrificing countless innocent lives to further his own goals...this man might just hold the key to his redemption.

This man had the power to help him.

‘Talk,’ Drake spat, hardly believing he’d just said it.

Faulkner let out a breath. ‘First you get me out of here. Then I’ll—’

His sentence was cut off suddenly by the sharp crack of a single gunshot. Faulkner stiffened suddenly, letting out a gasp of shock. His eyes were locked with Drake’s, blank and uncomprehending, then slowly his gaze travelled down to stare in confusion at the crimson stain spreading out from the centre of his chest.

‘No!’ Drake cried out, even as Faulkner’s legs gave way beneath him and he sank to the ground, collapsing in a bloody heap.

And behind him, revealed for the first time, stood Laila Sowan.

Clutching her maimed and bleeding hand, Macguire stumbled down the last flight of stairs and through the fire door at the bottom, kicking it open with savage anger to emerge into the service alley beyond.

The pain of shattered bone and torn flesh was intense now that the shock and adrenaline were wearing off, but it was nothing to the rage and indignation that now burned inside her. Thirty-two kill missions to her name, and not so much as a scratch until today. Fuck.

Given her injuries, it was fair to say that her career as a sniper was over. Whatever else she did with her life, it would have to be in a new profession, serving a new master. Faulkner had fucked up badly on this operation, leading the entire team into a trap from which none of them were likely to escape.

Even if the man himself somehow made it out, she wouldn’t be making contact with him again. He’d already proven himself quite unworthy of her efforts, and she certainly wasn’t going to risk her life for a man like that.

Her only regret was that she hadn’t been able to take proper revenge on their enemies. Some of them at least were still alive, and that rankled her. She wasn’t accustomed to leaving jobs unfinished.

So consumed was she with these thoughts of bloody revenge that she almost didn’t notice the diminutive figure waiting for her in the alleyway. She froze, staring in puzzlement at the young woman she had previously seen only through the scope of her rifle.

Keira Frost.

In an instant, surprise gave way to survival instinct, and she went for the sidearm holstered at her thigh. Her enemy was faster, raising what looked like a crude sawn-off shotgun.

There was a boom like the discharge of a cannon, and suddenly Macguire went down, her left leg simply giving way beneath her as if it were no longer under her control. Landing hard on the dusty ground, she looked down in disbelief at the mess of shredded fabric and bloody flesh that had once been her left knee.

The first waves of pain were beginning to wash over her now as she glanced up at her attacker. Frost was walking towards her, not a trace of emotion on her face, as if this were simply some grim task to be completed as efficiently as possible.

The shotgun still had one barrel left to unload. She was getting close, making sure the short-ranged weapon was as effective as possible when she loosed her shot.

‘Do it, then, you fucking bitch,’ Macguire snarled, her teeth clenched tight. ‘I’m not—’

Her final sentiment was interrupted when the young woman dropped the shotgun, drew an ancient hand-crafted knife from her belt and slashed downward with the blade, cutting Macguire’s throat.

Her work done, Frost took a step back to avoid the resultant spray of blood, and watched in cold silence as the life slowly drained from the woman’s eyes. She didn’t cry out, either because she couldn’t make the noise or because of sheer stubborn refusal to give in.

But at the end, in the final moments, Frost saw it in her eyes. The fear. The knowledge that this was the end, that death had come for her at last. Everyone, no matter how brave they might have been or how much they might have longed for death, felt the same way. When it finally came for them, they’d do anything to stay alive.

With a final gurgling groan, it was done. Frost let out the breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding, wiped the blade of Iskaw’s dagger on her trouser leg, and sheathed the weapon once more.

She couldn’t protect him, but at least she’d answered his death in kind. Somehow she’d expected that to make her feel better.