Then, in one smooth motion born from years of practice and experience, she swept the knife up into the Russian’s exposed throat.
There was no stopping the wickedly sharp blade as it cleaved its way through the soft tissue, destroying his windpipe before carrying on upwards into his skull. The man could do nothing but let out a horrible gurgling groan, his hands scrabbling at the deadly blade as it sank deeper.
His legs gave way beneath him and he collapsed, a mountain of flesh no longer obeying the commands sent by his brain. She went down with him, savagely yanking the blade free, severing vital arteries and coating her face and arms in a fine spray of blood. Raising the weapon up again, she plunged it deep into his chest, then twisted it free with enraged strength before swinging again, her eyes wild with vengeance and murder.
‘Shit!’ Drake growled, amazed and appalled by the speed and ferocity of her sudden attack. She had taken the weapon before he even knew what had happened.
You fucking idiot! he thought, berating himself for letting his guard down. She could have killed you! Didn’t Cain warn you about her?
‘Crazy bitch!’ Dietrich said, drawing a taser from his belt kit and flicking off the safety. Imprisonment here must have broken her, driven her over the edge into insanity.
Well, they would just have to stun her and carry her out. Not the ideal solution, but probably for the best. At least they could keep her under control. He didn’t give a shit what condition they brought her back in, as long as she wasn’t dead.
Maras cared nothing for what either man did.
She was in her own world now; a world of pure,
hateful
, bloodthirsty rage. Every rational instinct in her body had been driven out. Again she plunged the blade in, feeling it slip between two ribs to strike deep into internal organs. She had done it many times before. She knew just the right angle to strike from to ensure the blade didn’t foul.
Over and over, images of the torments and humiliations she had endured at this man’s hands flashed through her mind like lightning bursts, whirling together into a maelstrom of unstoppable, uncontrollable fury.
Bastard’s feeble struggles had subsided, his eyes blank and staring as she pulled the knife out and raised it up for another strike, blood dripping from the blade.
She couldn’t stop herself. She couldn’t control herself.
She didn’t want to.
Weakness will not be in my heart. Fear will not be in my creed. I will show no mercy
.
But suddenly her arm jerked to a halt, her wrist was caught in an iron grip, preventing her from dealing another blow. Jerked out of her rage, she swung around to find herself staring down the barrel of a weapon.
Her mind did an instant threat assessment. An MP5, 9 mm sub-machine gun, excellent weapon for close-quarters action. Thirty-round magazine capacity, firing either full metal jacket or hollow-point projectiles. She guessed FMJs for greater penetrating power. Effective range, anything up to 200 metres. The safety was off, his finger on the trigger.
The other man nearby also had a weapon trained on her. She couldn’t take out both of them. No chance.
‘Let go of the knife,’ Drake said in English, speaking slow and calm. ‘Let go now.’
Hesitating for a moment, she released the blade and
allowed
it to clatter to the ground. Her work was done. He was dead.
Adrenalin surged through her veins, investing her muscles with a strength she hadn’t felt in years. She felt alive.
For the first time in a long time, she felt alive.
Releasing her wrist, Drake took a step back, still covering her with the MP5. She was breathing hard, her face and clothes stained crimson with the dead man’s blood, her lips drawn back in what almost seemed like a feral smile. Her eyes were pools of ice in that sea of blood, staring at him, watching him like a predator, boring right through him.
She was horrific, nightmarish. A demon, an evil spirit made real.
Maras
. A goddess of war.
A radio unit crackled with static, and a muffled voice said something in Russian. It took Drake a moment to realise it was coming from the dead man’s jacket.
Kneeling down and unzipping the blood-soaked garment, Dietrich retrieved the walkie-talkie he hadn’t even realised was there. Once more it crackled into life, and a voice spoke in Russian, sounding more urgent this time.
‘Shit!’ he hissed.
Drake frowned. ‘What is it?’
‘It must be another guard on patrol. He’s asking where this guy is.’ He glared at Maras. ‘You stupid bitch. You’ve compromised us!’
Drake swore under his breath. Of all the bad timing.
Dietrich had searched the man. Why hadn’t he found the radio? Why hadn’t he realised it was there?
He had little time to dwell on this issue. Other prisoners had been awoken by the commotion, and were
starting
to realise something was wrong. The grim order of their world had been disturbed, kindling the mad, wild hope of salvation. Shouts of confusion, fear and pleading desperation began to echo down the corridor, coming from a dozen places at once.
‘We have what we need,’ Drake decided, trying to ignore the growing cacophony around them. They hadn’t come here for these people. Whether they deserved to be here or not, this was where they were staying.
He looked at the woman. ‘You speak English, I assume?’
She nodded, saying nothing.
‘Good. We can get you out, but only if you do exactly as we tell you. Understand?’
Another nod.
He raised his weapon, keeping it trained on her. ‘All right. Move.’
As they hurried towards the stairwell that would take them back up to the roof, Drake hit his radio pressel. ‘Bravo to Alpha. We have the target. We’re extracting now. Meet us at the rendezvous, and tell the chopper to start his run.’
‘Copy that, Bravo,’ Frost replied. ‘Alpha is en route.’
Chapter 21
PUSHING HERSELF AWAY
from the security station, Frost grabbed her weapon and flicked off the safety. Her last act before leaving was to take aim at the trunk cable carrying video feeds from the security cameras scattered throughout the facility. A couple of silenced rounds destroyed the main junction box, rendering all six monitors useless.
‘Come on, Frost,’ Mason hissed. ‘Move!’
‘All done,’ she replied, turning to follow. Switching frequencies on her radio, she selected the channel that would connect her to Zulu, the transport chopper standing by a couple of miles distant. ‘Zulu, this is Bravo Team. Begin your run. I say again, begin your run.’
‘Copy that, Bravo,’ the pilot’s crackly voice replied a moment later. ‘Zulu is inbound. ETA, five minutes.’
‘Copy that. Five minutes.’
As Mason ducked out of the room, she was right behind him. She knew the route back up to the tower like the back of her hand. Turn right at the intersection, follow the main corridor along until …
They both froze as a figure emerged from the stairwell at the far end of the corridor. He was a young man, perhaps in his mid-twenties, with short dark hair and green eyes that stared at them in blank, uncomprehending shock.
Mason was first to react.
‘Contact!’ he warned, dropping to one knee and bringing his MP5 to bear.
At the same moment, the guard turned and ducked back into the stairwell, realising the futility of trying to take on two armed opponents in full body armour.
A short burst leapt from Mason’s weapon, the suppressor eliminating all sound save for the clean metallic click as the working parts drew a fresh round into the breech.
It was a hasty shot against a moving target, but at least one of the rounds found its mark, impacting his torso with a dull wet thud. A cloud of blood painted the lime green wall behind him, before he shoved his way through the door and disappeared into the stairwell.
‘Shit.’ Mason hit his radio again. ‘Alpha Two to all teams, we have contact. One tango still active.’
A moment later, an emergency klaxon started blaring throughout the building. The injured guard must have made it to an alarm point.
‘What’s going on, Alpha?’ Keegan demanded, his voice low and urgent. ‘I hear alarms down there.’
‘We’re compromised!’ Mason snapped, hurrying for the stairs up to the observation level.
Frost was right behind him.
Drake’s heart was beating overtime as the three of them hurried to the security door at the west end of the solitary confinement block. Blaring alarms mixed with the plaintive cries of the prisoners still locked in their cells. This situation was unravelling fast.
‘Alpha team, get to the rendezvous,’ he ordered. His radio microphone used the vibrations in his throat to transmit what he was saying, meaning he could speak
and
be heard clearly even in the chaos around him. ‘Delta, you’re weapons free. Get ready to cover us.’
‘Copy that. Weapons free.’
Drake pointed to the security door up ahead and glanced at Dietrich. ‘Get it open. Hurry.’
Dietrich had taken the key chain from the dead guard. Skidding to a halt in front of the imposing security door, he fumbled with the chain, vainly searching for the right one. He wasn’t familiar with this place, didn’t know the locks, and there were a lot of keys to choose from.
‘Work faster,’ Drake implored him, keeping one eye on the door at the far end of the block and one eye on Maras. The woman was standing a few paces away, saying nothing, her gaze flicking between both men and their weapons.
‘Shit!’ Dietrich growled, pulling a key out and trying another one. Panic-stricken haste was making his hands tremble, further hampering his efforts.
‘Don’t panic. Just focus and get it done,’ Drake said, forcing calm into his voice. Screaming and shouting would only make things worse.
Suddenly the door at the far end of the block swung open on rusty hinges, revealing three guards in various states of undress. But all three were armed with AK-47 assault rifles – a devastating infantry weapon that had been the mainstay of the Russian military for the past fifty years. There was no such thing as non-lethal force in this place.
‘Contact!’ Drake yelled, sighting the nearest target and snapping off a burst at his centre mass. At this range, there was no chance of more accurate aiming, especially with an MP5. They were great weapons for close-quarters battle, but at anything over 50 metres their lack of stopping power became apparent.
His aim was true, and the man crumpled with blood painting his chest and abdomen. The other two immediately threw themselves down and started capping off wild, uncontrolled bursts in Drake’s general direction. Their aim was all over the place, with 7.62 millimetre rounds howling off concrete walls and doors on both sides of the corridor.
One of them ricocheted off a fire extinguisher mounted about halfway along the block, hitting with sufficient force to burst the pressurised casing and send a cloud of carbon dioxide vapour spewing out.
‘Maras, get down!’ Drake ordered, fearful she might get caught in the crossfire.
He needn’t have worried. Unlatching the cell door nearest her, she hauled it open to form a makeshift shield and ducked in behind it. The emaciated wretch within had backed up against the wall, cowering in the corner, eyes blank and staring from cavernous sockets.
Her move proved to be fortuitous, as several heavy-calibre slugs whanged off the steel door in the next few seconds, leaving visible dents in the metalwork.
Taking advantage of the momentary diversion, Drake pulled one of the thermite incendiary grenades from his webbing, yanked the pin out and hurled it down the corridor with all the force he could command.
A second or so later the device detonated with a bright flash, followed by a vicious orange glow as the thermite compound within burned at 2,500 degrees Celsius.
Such grenades were more useful for destroying equipment than as actual weapons. Nonetheless, the flash produced on ignition was bright enough to temporarily blind anyone looking straight at it, and the extreme temperatures and noxious fumes produced by the thermal reaction would block the hallway for a good minute or so.
For good measure, he emptied the remainder of his magazine in a long, sustained burst. He couldn’t tell if he’d hit anything, but it might have been enough to keep their heads down.
Still, their reprieve wouldn’t last long.
‘I need that fucking door open now,’ he warned, turning towards the older man and ejecting the spent magazine. The time for calm, measured responses was long gone. Dietrich was panicking and fumbling with what should have been a simple task.
‘Shut up! Shut up!’ Dietrich hissed, jamming another key into the lock. This time it turned, and there was a faint click as the lock disengaged.
No sooner had the door swung open than Dietrich grunted in surprise as something hit him from behind, spinning him around as he fell through the doorway. It took him a moment to work out what had happened, but when he saw the blood on the floor and realised it was his own, the truth dawned on him.
‘I’m hit!’ Dietrich called out, his voice trembling with shock.
Drake ignored his plea. He couldn’t do anything for the man until they were under cover. Grabbing Maras by the arm, he shoved her through the doorway. This was all for nothing if she got killed by a stray round.
He went last, pulling the heavy door shut behind him with a resounding clang. No sooner had he done so than he heard a couple of dull metallic dings as AK rounds slammed into the reinforced frame.
Dietrich was on the ground, struggling to sit up. He had been hit twice by AK rounds, first in the centre of his back and then again in his left thigh. His armoured vest had stopped the first round, though the force of the impact would likely leave heavy bruising and possibly
have
cracked a couple of ribs. Still, it wasn’t a serious injury.
It was the leg wound that worried him. Drake knelt down beside him to quickly examine it. It was a clean exit, the round passing through the soft tissue of his thigh. It had done a good deal of damage on the way out, but he didn’t think it had shattered the bone or severed the femoral artery. If it had, he would have been dead within a matter of minutes.