In Cold Blood (16 page)

Beatrix saw him a half second before he saw her.

That was enough.

She let her MP-5 hang from its sling, her right hand darting to the bandolier of throwing knives that double-crossed her chest, taking one out and flinging it before the fighter had even started to bring his rifle around. The knife was double-edged and weighed around ninety grams. It flashed across the yard in a streak of silver, its trajectory terminating in the man’s throat. His carotid artery was severed, the blood that sprayed out into the yard almost black in the dark light. He pawed at the foreign object that had miraculously lodged in his throat, stumbling out from the shelter of the building.

Beatrix intercepted him quickly, her left arm looping around his chest and her right unsheathing her kukri and stabbing him in the heart. She dropped the body in the shadows.

She gripped the fore stock of the MP-5 with her left hand, her right resting so that her finger was curled lightly around the trigger, and pushed the door open with her foot.

She saw a young man in a state of undress, pulling a robe over his head, his rifle propped against the wall beside him. She fired a three shot burst and took him out while he was still struggling with the robe. There was a terrific clamour of automatic gunfire from the rooms to her right and she hoped that her contribution to it might go unnoticed.

She was in a corridor that looked as if it ran the length of the building. She assessed it: three doors right, two doors left, an open door before a flight of stairs going down. She had no idea on which floor the hostages were being held but, if it were her, she would choose the one that was easier to secure and defend.

A cellar, perhaps.

She heard the sound of exploding grenades. She couldn’t tell if they were thrown by the
mujahideen
or the SEALs.

She had to be quick.

If the SEALs fell back, she would be outnumbered by the
mujahideen
.

If the SEALs stormed the house, she would lose her moment with Joyce.

Quick.

She hurried to the stairs. She descended.

She reached a second door.

Wooden. Solid. Locked.

There was a key hung from a hook on the wall and, when she tried it, the lock turned.

The basement had been turned into a large cell. It was windowless and damp, with no light, save the glow that leeched in from the open door and a little from ventilation bricks below the ceiling.

There was a scene of chaotic, fluid confusion inside.

The prisoners were struggling with three Somalis. Four of the westerners were on the floor. They looked as if they had been shot, blood and brains on the floor and the wall. Two of them looked like soldiers. One of the Somalis had an ichorous wound in his shoulder.

Her eyes flashed over the room and assessed it.

She aimed and fired: once, twice, three times.

The Somalis went down, gut-shot, gaping wounds in their chests.

The hostages turned to face her.

Their faces showed confusion and then exultation.

Beatrix scanned them, ignored them.

She recognised one immediately.

She only had eyes for him.

His image had been burned into her memory.

“Hello, Number Ten.”

He gaped in confusion. “How do you know…”

“You don’t remember me?”

It dawned on him. “Jesus,” he said. “Number One?”

Now he couldn’t hide the fear in his eyes.

“Didn’t think you’d see me again?”

“Not like this.”

She glanced around. There was one other obvious soldier: stocky, short cropped hair. He was next to Joyce.

“Thank God,” one of the bloodied men said, his voice cracked. “Are you getting us out?”

“Stay where you are,” she snapped without looking at him.

She turned back to Joyce and walked closer.

“We don’t have long. Where’s Control?”

“I don’t know.”

She raised the MP-5 and aimed it. “
Where is he?
”

“I swear. I don’t know.”

“What
do
you know?”

“I heard he was on the run.”

“Who told you that?”

“Duffy.”

“You speak to him?”

“Now and again.”

“And where is he?”

“I don’t know for sure. We skyped…”

The other man got up and took a step towards her. “Miss? We…”

Beatrix snapped at him. “Stay where you are.”

She took another step towards Joyce.

The bloodied man said, “He killed my Second Mate.”

“That right, Number Ten? Did you?”

Joyce stared hatred right through her.

“Where’s Duffy?”

“Go to Hell.”

“Where’s Duffy?”

“Fuck you.”

Beatrix should have concentrated on the other men in the room, but she was tired and in pain and needed everything focussed on Joyce and his friend. She didn’t notice that the bloodied man had moved next to her.

“You’ve got to get us out of here,” he said.

She didn’t notice until he put his hand on her shoulder and tugged her around to face him.

A momentary distraction.

It was enough.

Joyce and the soldier took their chances.

They both rushed her.

They were close, too close for her to aim and shoot twice, and she wanted Joyce breathing for a moment yet.

Priorities.

She fired the MP-5 at the other man, taking off the top of his head, his legs skidding out from under him as he fell heavily against his back.

Joyce slammed into her, driving her back all the way across the cell.

He was twice Beatrix’s weight and as strong as a bear.

They thudded against the wall, the breath knocked out of her. The MP-5 was pressed against her chest and made useless. He buried a punch into her gut, reached for her Glock and yanked it out of her holster.

He pulled the trigger just as she drove the heel of her hand into his face. The round missed her head by an inch, striking the wall and ricocheting away, stone chips drawing blood as they pinged into the nape of her neck.

Joyce fumbled the Glock and put his free hand to his face. His nose had been smashed, and blood was running down into his mouth.

He staggered back, away from her. The sudden flare of pain blinded him.

Beatrix followed in and swept his legs, forcing him down onto his back. She dropped down and straddled his body, nailing him with a straight, downwards right. He was pumped with adrenaline and her fist just bounced off his skull. His right hand scrabbled for the Glock on the floor behind him, found it, and he was bringing it forwards as she unsheathed her bloodied
kukri
and whipped it from left to right, a short and powerful swipe, the blade slicing through his wrist and severing it. Joyce’s hand still held her Glock as it flopped down to the floor. The stump spouted blood and Joyce screamed.

She pressed the blade against the side of his throat.

“Last chance,” Beatrix said with a dead-eyed intensity that could not possibly be mistaken. “Where is Duffy?”

Blood pumped out of the fleshy nub, but he had time yet. “He works for us,” he said through a grimace of agony.

“Doing?”

“Bodyguard.”

“What kind?”

“Executives. High rollers. Usual shit.”

“Where?”

“Iraq.”

“Thank you,” she said.

She whipped the blade up and away, the edge cutting into his throat, opening it up. He pressed his remaining hand there, blood running through his fingers, and looked up at her as she knelt over him.

“Goodbye.”

She raised the blade, clasped it in both hands, and drove it down.

JOE THOMAS watched with wide, uncomprehending eyes. He was sure she was part of the rescue attempt that was being mounted outside. Special Forces. He had thought she had come to get them out and then he had watched as she had cold bloodedly murdered Joyce and the other man. Now he didn’t know what to think. There was a coldness in her eyes, a flat quality as if the humanity had been smelted out of her. She was terrifying.

“Who are you?”

“I didn’t come here for you. I came for him. And now I’m going. You should do the same.”

“You need to help us.
Please
. We’re not armed.”

She gestured to the weaponry scattered on the floor. “Help yourself.”

“Please,” Joe pleaded with her. “
Please.
I have a family. A wife and children. Kids. We all have families. I’m not a soldier. None of us are. We wouldn’t know the first thing.”

The woman gritted her teeth. “Who are you?”

“I’m the captain.”

“Damn it.”

He pointed with a shaking hand at Joyce’s body. “I don’t know who you are or what it was between the two of you, I don’t care what it was, but he was no friend of mine. I told you, he killed my Second Mate. He got what was coming to him. But you’ve got to help us. We’re dead if you don’t.”

She paused, then exhaled.

“What’s your name?”

“Joe Thomas.”

“Alright, Joe. I’ll help. Any of you got anything to say about what I just did?”

No-one spoke.

“If you do anything stupid, you won’t have to worry about them,” she said, indicating the upper floors, “because I’ll shoot you. We clear?”

“Yes,” Joe answered for them.

“Take the AKs. Follow up behind me, close.”

“What’s going on up there?” Joe asked.

“A team of SEALs are going after the Somalis. They’re not finding it as easy as they hoped.”

“Can’t we just make a run for it?”

“You need to get to the beach. You’d have to run right in front of the
mujahideen
. They’d cut you down. We’re going to have to shoot our way out and hope the SEALs don’t think we’re on the other side.”

“Alright,” Joe said. “Anything else?”

“We need to hurry. If they don’t think they can get to you, they’re going to call down an airstrike. And I’d rather not be here when that happens.”

THE BODY in the corridor had not been disturbed. It was face down, arms and legs flung wide, the robe bunched up around its shoulders and the halo of blood on the floor beginning to congeal.

The firing was continuing from the front rooms, the reports echoing into the corridor and muzzle flashes sparking like lightning strikes.

Beatrix took out two fresh magazines. She loaded the first and held the second in her left hand.

She held up a hand to indicate that the captain and his men should stay at the top of the stairs.

She pressed herself against the wall to the side of the open doorway.

She took an M67 fragmentation grenade from her rucksack and pulled the pin.

She released the spoon and started to count.

One thousand one.

She peeled into the doorway. Ten fighters. Some were at the windows, firing into the town beyond. Others were in cover, reloading or, in one case, trying to staunch the flow of blood from a gut shot. The injured man saw her, but it was too late by then.

One thousand three.

She rolled the grenade into the room and spun back into cover.

The six ounces of explosive detonated, a supercharged cloud of dust and debris billowing out of the doorway.

She spun back again and opened fire, fully automatic, swivelling at the hip as she sprayed lead into the room. The gun clattered, bouncing against her shoulder, a constant judder as she chewed through all thirty rounds in the magazine. When she was dry she pirouetted back behind the doorway, reloaded, and then spun down and around and fired again.

There were no targets left when she was finished.

It was a massacre. The room stank of gunpowder and sixty hot copper-coated cases rolled around her feet.

The captain was behind her. “Where are the Americans?”

There was no sign of them. “They’re falling back into the sea,” she said.

“What about us?”

“They don’t think they can get to you.”

“But they can’t just leave us!”

“We need to get to them. And we’ve got to hurry.”

They sprinted into the yard. Fresh bullet holes had scarified the wall and the gate was on the ground, blown off its hinges by breaching charges during the assault. They clambered over it. The street beyond was elevated and Beatrix got a better view of the harbour. She saw it in the moonlight: the Mark V Special Operations Craft that would have transported the SEALs from the warship had come in closer to assist in their exfiltration. It was five hundred feet offshore now and like a mini destroyer: two 7.62mm Gatling guns, two .50 calibre machine guns and two 40mm grenade launchers. It was running parallel to the shore so that the weapons to port could fire, then it swung around so they could cool while the weapons to starboard took over.

The crew ran for it.

Beatrix paused.

She turned to the right and the alleyway that ran along the side of the compound. She could follow it, find a car and drive the hell out of town. The longer she stayed, the better the chance that she would cop a bullet, a lucky shot, or collapse from the pain that she was barely able to ignore. She had been mainlining on adrenaline all night and the effect was starting to be ameliorated by fatigue. Her bones throbbed with a deep ache and her breathing was becoming ragged. The cancer was crippling her. She knew that she wouldn’t be able to keep up the same pace for much longer.

She paused.

The captain stopped and turned, scurrying backwards. “Come on!” he yelled back at her. “
Run!
”

She saw a flash of movement from the hut just ahead of the captain. A fighter raised the barrel of an AK and there would have been no prospect of him missing were it not for the throwing knife that tore across the space between them and ended up in the fleshy part of the man’s bicep. A second knife ended its flight in the man’s throat and he toppled back into the hut.

The captain turned, saw the dying man, and, realising how close he had been to death, stumbled and fell. Beatrix helped him up and then, impelling him towards the rest of the crew, she brought up the rear.

What else could she do?

There came the chatter of automatic rifles as al Shabaab fighters opened up on the beach. The Mark V’s big Gatling guns laid down a curtain of brutal covering fire in response.