Search and Destroy (13 page)

“Wait!” Andrea grabbed his arm. “Greg and Bruce had the adjoining room.”

On the floor, Clinton was struggling to sit up. Danny had no time to spare; he kicked the man full in the face. He went back down with a pained grunt. He wasn’t completely unconscious but wasn’t about to do a tap dance either. Danny put his heel hard into his face again, then turned to see Andrea opening the connecting door.

They stepped through into a mirror image of her room. Men’s clothes dangled loose over the back of one of the chairs. A faint smell of Hugo Boss aftershave hung in the air. A bottle of tequila stood on a bedside table with less than a quarter of its contents remaining. Andrea looked around wordlessly. Danny could imagine what she was thinking—relics from before the unthinkable happened.

Danny moved over to the room’s main door. He knew there was still a chance that he’d be in the unseen gunman’s sights if he stepped out into the corridor. But he was out of options. The windows were sealed and they were on the fourth floor anyhow. He eased the door open an inch. A man in Kevlar was lying against the wall opposite, his legs splayed out into a wide V. His gun was trained on the door of Andrea’s room. His eyes spoke of murderous intent.

Danny stepped out at an almost casual pace and had his pistol levelled at the gunman’s head as it turned towards him in recognition of the situation.

“Slippery bastard.”

Danny tilted his head, accepting the curse as a compliment.

“You’ve got balls, I’ll give you that,” said the recumbent shooter. Danny could see a dark crimson patch spreading across the top of his left hip. “Just step out all casual like so you don’t trigger my point-and-shoot.”

Danny motioned to the man’s semi-automatic. “Throw that over here. Easy.”

The man clearly considered going for it for a second or two, then tossed the pistol. It made a dull thud as it landed on the carpeted floor. Danny used his heel to carefully slide the weapon backwards through the open door.

“Your man—Clinton was it?—is finished. He didn’t give me the answers I was looking for. Your turn. What’s your name? Why are you after the woman?”

The man looked down at his bloody hip, grinned humourlessly. “I’m Bush. She’s carrying stolen intel. She’s a fucking traitor to the flag. Guess that makes you a traitor too. And a shit-poor shot. Just a graze.”

Andrea stepped out into the corridor, holding Bush’s gun. “Liar! I don’t know anything about stolen intel!”

“Bush” shook his head, a disgusted expression on his face. “Hey we’re not talking WikiLeaks here. You were reported as trafficking stolen data vital to the defence of the UK and US alliance. If the Taliban or IS got hold of it thousands of people would be at risk. But you know that already, that’s why you’re selling it to a known sympathiser. Piece-of-shit bitch.”

Andrea stared at the gunman, her mouth hanging open in shock. She pointed the Kel-Tec at him for a moment then lowered it again. “What the fuck?”

Danny shook his head. “You’ve got the wrong woman. She’s a civilian. She wouldn’t know the Taliban from turpentine. Look, I’m not going to kill you. But I need you to report back to your superiors. Back off. Re-examine your intel. You’ve got the wrong target.”

Bush screwed up his face. “Are you in the game? What are you, freelance for hire? Ex-army? Special Forces?”

Danny didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.

“I thought so. Then you know the drill: we don’t get to pick through the assignment files. The boss says go and do, so we go and do.”

Danny pushed the pistol towards his face again. “Tell them what I said.”

“Do you really think they’ll listen to a grunt like me? She’s been targeted from the top. Government-issue. She’s never walking away from this, even if she succeeds in handing over the data. We’ll hunt her to the ends of the earth. Can you spell Guantanamo?” He looked directly at Andrea. “You’re gonna fry for this.”

Without warning, Danny stepped forward and ploughed his boot under Bush’s chin. His open mouth snapped shut and he slid sideways down the wall.

“Talk time is over. Come on.” Danny pulled his cell phone from his pocket and hit the speed dial. “Clay, we need to leave right now.”

“I’m a couple of minutes out.”

“We’ll meet you around the back of the hotel.”

“Two minutes!”

“Down the stairs.” He held his pistol pressed against his thigh as he moved. Andrea stayed close behind him, their hurried steps echoing slightly in the confines of the stairwell. As they reached the ground floor, they skirted the lobby, avoiding eye contact with the staff and visitors. A quick jog took them past the swimming pool and out into the rear car park. Background music and laughter tinkled from the pool deck. A child screamed with glee and then a loud splash from the pool followed. As they stood, partially concealed between an SUV and a small camper van, Andrea gasped and panted.

“I didn’t realise I was so unfit!”

Danny’s mouth twitched into a smile. “Consider this aerobics with added motivation.”

She bent forward at the waist, her hands resting on her knees, as she tried to slow her breathing. “You know, I don’t mean to be critical but Clay told me earlier that you’re a martial-arts expert, kung fu and all that. Why didn’t you just chop that first guy in the room?”

Danny snorted. “Andrea, real fights are short and nasty, ugly things. If I’d tried anything fancy we’d both be dead up there.”

“I wasn’t being funny. I just thought—”

“It’s not like it is in the movies.” He glanced at the hotel. “People see Steven Seagal and Van Damme spin-kicking guys and throwing them around like it’s the easiest thing in the world. The only reason we’re still alive is that those guys didn’t really expect us to be up there. I don’t think they’ll make that mistake again.”

Andrea nodded. “Hey, don’t get me wrong, you were great. Even if it didn’t look much like kung fu.” She chopped the air a couple of times with a straightened hand.

“If it makes you happy I’ll try and jump-kick the next bad guy for you.” Danny crossed his eyes in mock annoyance. The warm tingle that lingered in his stomach was an old familiar friend.

The pickup truck clipped the kerb as it made a sharp turn into the lot. Danny stepped out from his vantage point.

The passenger door sprang open with a screech from the unoiled hinge. Clay leaned out. “Last call for passengers: Blondie and Dagwood.”

Danny pushed Andrea into the cab. He didn’t have time to apologise for his hands on her ass. As he joined her he heard Clay’s breath hiss between his teeth.

“Shit.”

Four car spaces ahead, his face contorted in pain, Clinton was lurching towards the pickup, his pistol extended. The boot imprint on his face was raw and beginning to darken.

Danny hung on as Clay stamped down on the gas pedal. A bullet tore the wing mirror from the driver’s side door, sending up a small shower of glass. Clay wrenched the steering wheel. The front grille of the pickup slammed into Clinton, catapulting him back into a parked car. His gun spun away across the parking lot as his head met the unforgiving metal of the vehicle.

“That guy’s like Wile E. Coyote. Just keeps getting up for more.” Danny raised his eyebrows in grudging admiration.

Clay cackled as he steered onto East Flamingo. “Guess he didn’t realise I’m a real live Road Runner. Beep-beep that, you broke-assed fucker.”

Lincoln answered his cell phone on the second ring. “Any sign of the target at the hotel?”

Bush’s voice was slurred as if he was talking through tightly clenched teeth. “She was here but the guy with her got the drop on us. They’re gone.”

“Clinton?”

“He’s still alive but down for the moment. The scumbags hit him with a car. One of them winged me, but it’s only a flesh wound. She’s with two men, unknown quantities. One definitely has combat experience.”

Lincoln gazed at the luminescent cityscape of Las Vegas that lay beyond the airport hangar where his team had set up shop. Gleaming high-rise hotels and millions of twinkling lights. He took a long breath before speaking again. “Noted. Is Clinton shot too?”

“No. I think his ribs are broken though. He’s saying he’s all right but he’s walking like he’s in
Dawn of the Dead
. And he’s got a nasty concussion.”

“Can you get over to Spring Valley? We’ve got a man there who’ll take care of him. You remember Ricardo Chavez?”

“Yeah I remember him. Where is he?”

“He’s on Fenway. Number 157. I’ll call ahead and let him know you’re coming.”

“We’ll head there now. I’ll call you back as soon as I’m free.”

“Will you manage with him on the bike?”

“Clinton’s a tough son of a bitch. He’ll make it,” replied Bush.

“When you’ve done that, follow us,” said Lincoln. He ended the call.

He turned to the rest of the team. He shook his head. “We’re already one man down. Clinton.”

“He gonna be okay?” asked Washington, looking up from his laptop.

“Bush says he’ll live but he’s out of the game for now. Bush will join up with us when he’s able. Washington, I need you to work your magic on the tech. How are you doing getting a fix on the last team’s sat-phone?”

Washington nodded at his laptop. “I’m narrowing it down. The main power is switched off but the secondary chip pings once every three minutes. I need to load all of yesterday’s data and pinpoint where the last signal came from.”

“Okay, stick with it. Then at least we’ll know where the last team are and how far they tracked the target. I suppose it’s too much to ask that the bitch is updating Facebook or Tweeting her coordinates?”

Washington curled his lip. “No activity since before the previous team made first contact.”

“Well keep an eye on her feeds. People are stupid.”

Lincoln walked out of the hangar office as he loaded the email app on his phone. It was possible that the target would try to take a flight or a bus, but there was no way his team could cover that much ground. As well as North Las Vegas Airport and McCarran International, there were dozens of smaller airfields within a hundred miles, and several major bus terminals. But Lincoln made a point of knowing the right kind of people in as many cities as possible, they could save a lot of legwork if you were running someone to ground. Hotel porters, waitresses, police officers… and transport personnel. Nobody paid them any attention but they tended to see and notice a lot. If you weren’t shy with the green they could come in very handy. He sent out an email to all the relevant contacts at local airfields, bus terminals and train stations, with a photograph of the target. If she tried to use public transport, there was a good chance that one of his sources would spot her.

He turned to where Kennedy and Roosevelt were loading up their weapons. Kennedy worked the firing bolt on one of the long guns. He’d served as a Marine Corps sniper and still enjoyed the thrill of the long-range shot. It took real skill to operate as a trained sniper. Kennedy was a valuable asset. Long hours of solitude, pinpoint concentration and above all else, discipline. The gang-bangers of the world could put a bullet in an enemy but it tended to be a spray-and-pray affair. Civilians got hurt. A lot of soldiers seemed to be that way as well. But Kennedy’s mantra was:
There’s no such thing as friendly fire, only careless fire
. Of his seventeen confirmed kills under Lincoln’s leadership, not one involved any collateral damage.

“Roosevelt” preferred it up close and personal. A Saiga-12 assault shotgun twinned with a modified Dan Wesson Valor .45 were his firearms of choice. Lincoln considered him a blunt weapon. Valuable but more expendable than Kennedy and the tech-savvy Washington.

A tapping on the glass window of the hangar office alerted Lincoln that Washington was trying to get his attention. The tech specialist had set up shop in the cramped space, and as Lincoln entered, the aroma of burned oil and stale sweat greeted him. Washington pointed to a map display on his laptop. “We’ve got a fix on the other team’s sat-phone.”

“Where?”

“Like I said, the main power is still off but the secondary chip pinged from a single location for nearly twenty-two hours. See, here’s where the first team reaches the hotel, on the target’s trail. Then they’re on the move, out in the wild, going fast. Then the phone is static, as I said.” He pointed to an area of desert. “There’s nothing on the map, but it’s worth a shot.”

Lincoln stared at the screen for a few seconds. “They could have been parked up at a rest stop.”

Washington shrugged. “Maybe.”

“Or they could have been lying low at a safe house,” Lincoln continued.

A smile from Washington. “Maybe.”

“Worth checking out. We’re a man down, and could do with their backup, and whatever intel they have on the target. She could be anywhere now, but they might have knowledge of her intended destination. Better than sitting here with our thumbs up our kazoos.”

“Sir, I like a thumb up my kazoo. I’ve even paid for it on occasion.”

Lincoln laughed. “Okay mount up. We’re moving out.” He left the office and repeated the order to the other two operators. Within less than a minute all four were in the SUV, with Washington at the wheel.

The Toyota gathered speed as they left the airport grounds. Washington was being guided by his GPS. The route to the satellite phone’s last location skirted close to a couple of small towns. These were of no interest. The nearest relevant population centre was a small dot labelled Castillo. The phone’s coordinates corresponded to a location some twenty miles past Castillo’s dot. They skirted the busier roads out of Las Vegas, then joined the 157 heading east.

Roosevelt leaned forward from the back seat, growling, “I don’t care who these guys are. I’m gonna deep-six every last one of them.”

No one in the vehicle disagreed.

Danny Gunn worked his jaw, feeling the muscles begin to tighten. Clinton had caught him with a couple of solid blows. He silently berated himself. A few years ago he would have dropped the man with that first throat strike. He glanced down at his callused hands, making a promise to himself that he would sharpen up his hand-to-hand skills as soon as he was done with this shit-stick.