The Will Slater Series Books 1-3 Page 12

  Relief trickled through Hussein. He wanted nothing more than to avoid suspicion, not just for his sake and the sake of his superiors, but for the little girl’s.

  If it had been deemed necessary, he would have stabbed the young girl and the receptionist in a back-alley.

  If it meant the operation had been compromised.

  But the pair didn’t even look at him as he made the quick journey back across the lobby to the stairwell.

  They would live to see another day.

  Quietly pleased with that outcome, he took the stairs three at a time, hurrying now that he was out of sight. He made it back to his flat in record time, passing no-one else along the way.

  When he closed the front door behind him and set the cardboard box down on the thin mattress across the room, he breathed a long exhale, diffusing the tension that had locked up his muscles ever since he’d picked up the package.

  Everything had gone off without a hitch.

  Just as he’d suspected.

  Barely able to contain his excitement, he ripped the packaging tape off the top of the box and folded its four sides outward, staring at the contents within.

  All the smaller parcels had been labelled with the same Arabic scrawl.

  Apis mellifera yemenitica.

  It had been a crucial part of the process. To successfully smuggle the true contents in-country, a believable cover story had to be crafted. It didn’t matter how many plants they had in the British postal service, or how heavily they had researched the chain of delivery.

  At the end of the day, the contents had to be embedded deep within boxes of Yemen’s luxury honey.

  Hussein had lived in the Hadhramaut Valley all his life, yet despite that he had never tasted the top-shelf products that the region was renowned for. He had been privy to all the usual details — Hadhramaut exported over thirty tons a year of the honey, famous worldwide for its rumoured medicinal advantages.

  After he had been recruited to carry out an unprecedented task for his superiors, he had also been told other details — like how the luxury honey was often ignored by customs officials due to the unavoidable mess it created in searching its contents.

  Maybe that was how they had done it.

  Or maybe it was the string of devout agents they had embedded through the chain of delivery.

  It didn’t matter.

  The box was on his bed.

  Now nothing would get in the way.

  Hussein tore open one of the tins, full with the shiny golden syrup, and dug his bare hand straight into the goop. His fingers touched a small parcel inserted deep into the centre of the tin. He shook his head in disbelief as he extracted the sealed device.

  A steel bomblet, packed tight with a lethal virus.

  It had been that easy…

  There were three of them in total.

  He had a traditional set-up tucked into the back of his wardrobe. It hadn’t been hard to secure the plastic explosives — he’d done so two months ago. They were fairly common on the black market. There wasn’t much damage that could be done with traditional explosives, especially the minuscule amount he had ordered. Any larger quantity of C-4 would attract unwanted attention.

  However, if you used the plastic explosives as a trigger for something more devastating…

  Hussein extracted each of the bomblets from the tins of luxury honey and lay them out on the bed, ignoring the golden stains on his mattress.

  He couldn’t believe the gravity of the devices that lay before him.

  He closed his eyes, whispered a silent prayer, and asked that the rest of the journey would unfold as seamlessly as the first portion.

  There wasn’t long left now…

  26

  Diana could still feel the sting on her cheek from where Steve had struck her.

  She didn’t know what she had done to deserve it. In fact, she hadn’t said anything all day. The arguing had reached a climax earlier that morning, so vicious and unrelenting that Diana had broken down in tears and run straight to her room.

  She must have slammed the door too hard.

  Steve had burst in with venom in his eyes. She hadn’t been able to see him charging across the room, because her face had been buried between two pillows — the usual routine.

  Steve hadn’t liked that.

  He’d ripped the top pillow away and hurled it across the room.

  ‘Slam the door, bitch?!’ he’d yelled. ‘Not in my house.’

  Diana remembered her mother screaming from the living room, but that hadn’t changed a thing. Words didn’t stop strikes.

  The backhand had caught her in the side of the face hard enough to turn her whole cheek numb. By then, the tears had already been flowing.

  Somehow, she’d managed to stumble past Steve and out the front door. He’d let her through, perhaps a little shocked by the force he’d put into the blow. By the time he came running after her, she had made it to the stairs.

  He hadn’t opted to follow.

  Beryl had visibly stiffened at the sight of her face when Diana had burst out onto the ground floor, looking to go anywhere but home. The elderly receptionist had applied an ice pack underneath her eyelid for most of the morning, but it seemed that the skin would inevitably turn a dark shade of purple within a couple of days.

  Now they sat silently in the empty lobby.

  Diana could tell that Beryl was unsure of what to say.

  ‘Darling,’ the woman finally said. ‘I need to take you to the police.’

  Diana shook her head. ‘That’ll make Steve more mad.’

  ‘That’s exactly why I need to, my dear.’

  Diana didn’t know much, but she knew that the police would be a bad idea. Her mother might never talk to her again. ‘He didn’t mean it.’

  ‘I doubt that.’

  The facade melted away. Diana let out a nerve-wracking sob, unable to hold it in any longer. That triggered a wave of emotions, none of them pleasant. She bowed her head and let the tears flow.

  It didn’t take long for Beryl to reach over, whispering reassurances in a soothing voice, and press Diana’s head to her chest.

  Diana let the warmth seep into her. It calmed her at the darkest point of her life, letting her know that everything was going to be okay.

  A footstep scuffed against the floor from across the lobby.

  She lifted her head to meet the gaze of the nice Middle-Eastern man. The one who always smiled at her. She watched him cross the lobby in front of them. He seemed startled, or rattled, but she thought nothing of it.

  There were tears rolling down her cheeks and one side of her face had become a swollen mess.

  No wonder he froze in his tracks.

  Then the man smiled briefly at her, and it sent a wave of calm through Diana’s tiny body. Beryl was always there for her, after all, but a complete stranger displaying such an outward sign of reassurance warmed her insides. She smiled back, returning the gesture. The man carried on his way, but even after he stepped outside Diana found the nerve and the courage to compose herself.

  There were people out there who cared.

  She might not know them … but not everyone was like Steve.

  That gave her hope.

  Beryl set into a routine of handing Diana documents and instructing her to answer the phone in an official voice. Diana smiled and laughed and played along, momentarily distracted by the charade, but she couldn’t take her mind off the Middle-Eastern man.

  Maybe he could be her friend.

  Then a strange thought entered her mind.

  Maybe he could stick up for her. She pictured the man striding into their cramped flat and yelling at Steve for laying his hands on her. It brought a smile to her face. When the man re-entered the lobby a couple of minutes later carrying a large cardboard box in both hands, looking jovial, Diana pretended she didn’t notice him.

  But out of the corner of her eye, she watched his every move.

  He had seemed like a pleasant fell
ow in all the encounters they’d had. She couldn’t imagine him posing a threat. Her mother always said not to talk to strangers, though…

  Diana shrugged it off. She had little confidence in her mother anymore.

  As he disappeared into the stairwell, walking noticeably quicker than before, she made a mental note to talk to the man the next time she saw him.

  She returned to Beryl’s game, comforted by the thought.

  It didn’t matter that her mother would yell at her when she got back. It didn’t matter that Steve might hit her again.

  She found herself clutching onto the thought of the Middle-Eastern man being some kind of vigilante hero.

  He would help her.

  She was sure of it.

  27

  Slater used a stretch of rope he found in a long-unused cupboard to fasten al-Mansur to one of the swivelling office chairs.

  He tied the thick, frayed ends together, uncomfortably tight across the Brigadier-General’s chest. The man squirmed and bucked with little success. When he had been effectively secured, and Slater grew confident that the man was going nowhere, he pulled up one of his own chairs and sat facing al-Mansur from across the wide space.

  ‘I’m sorry you have to be here,’ he said to Abu.

  The man shrugged, standing at the ready between the two parties. ‘I trust you. I can stomach this if it means getting to the truth.’

  Slater hesitated before diving into the questions. He recalled the lone security guard patrolling the balcony on the third floor of the mansion. He considered that the only significant, immediate threat. The men stationed at the outer perimeter wouldn’t dare venture inside while al-Mansur was conducting his private dealings.

  Especially when it involved information they had no business overhearing, like skimming dirty money off the khat plantations’ profits.

  He let the silence turn uncomfortable, listening intently for any shred of noise from upstairs.

  Nothing.

  Satisfied that the man had been ordered to remain on the balcony, he skittered a little closer to al-Mansur, dragging the wheels over the shiny office floor. They squeaked harshly, echoing off the walls.

  He opted to start fast.

  ‘I know everything,’ he said, allowing a pause after each sentence for Abu to translate his statements into Arabic. ‘I know about the tests in the mountains above Qasam. I know your targets. But you don’t know who I am, or who I work for. Correct?’

  Al-Mansur listened to the spiel with a wry smile plastered across his features. As the time had passed since the initial brawl, the man had settled into a cocky, confident mood. His initial shock and fear had come to pass. Slater didn’t want to let it show, but the behaviour didn’t exactly instil confidence in him.

  Al-Mansur began to speak for the first time.

  Slater found himself shocked by the man’s tone.

  He talked with a gravelly, high-pitched rasp. Slater couldn’t fathom a reason for such an affected tone, but it made him sound ludicrous. The man talked fast, and Abu struggled to keep up with the translation.

  ‘You’re coming to me,’ Abu said in English, ‘with your hands shaking and your face trying desperately to hide the fact that you know nothing. I won’t bother saying a word to you. No matter what you do. You’re naive enough to think you can get details out of me with physical pain. Do you know where I’ve come from? Do you know what my life was like before I was rich? I’m bulletproof. You should leave. Save yourself the embarrassment. You’re too late, anyway.’

  Slater listened to the spiel with clenched teeth. When al-Mansur’s wild ramblings finally petered out, he slid his chair forward and seized the man by the throat. He applied pressure to the carotid artery with a practiced squeeze, cutting off the blood supply to the man’s brain.

  Al-Mansur turned the colour of beetroot, writhing pathetically against the restraints.

  He was going nowhere.

  After enough time had elapsed to bring the man close to the pull of unconsciousness, Slater released the hold and sat back.

  ‘I can do this all day,’ he said. ‘I’m not happy about it, but I don’t have a choice.’

  Abu translated.

  Al-Mansur smiled with glee and spat a retort.

  ‘He asks how long you can keep this up before the perimeter guards come storming in?’ Abu said.

  ‘I’ll deal with them too.’

  Al-Mansur said something else.

  ‘You sure?’ Abu said, mimicking the man’s confident tone.

  Slater paused.

  Something seized his attention, barely perceptible amidst the hollow quietness of the mansion. His reflexes tingled and he spun in his chair, staring out through the wide passageway into the marble lobby.

  There was a man on the staircase.

  Within a half-second, Slater identified the shadowy figure as the guard from upstairs. The man who he’d spotted patrolling the third floor balcony minutes earlier. The guard must have had the footsteps of a ghost, for he had materialised seemingly out of nowhere. It had been the faintest echo that had attracted Slater’s attention, and now he found himself panicked.

  His heart rate skyrocketed and he snatched for the IWI Jericho 941 by his side.

  The man — in his mid-thirties, with a bulky physique and fat fingers — began to raise a hefty Kalashnikov assault rifle as he spotted al-Mansur fastened to the chair against his will.

  Slater fired once, sending an unsuppressed round through the top of the man’s skull. An arterial spray of blood painted the staircase like a grotesque piece of artwork, and the guard collapsed in a motionless heap across the steps. The Kalashnikov thudded uselessly by his side.

  The noise of the gunshot speared through the silent mansion like a nuclear bomb. Abu and al-Mansur simultaneously recoiled, ducking away from the horrific sound. It rattled off the walls, tearing through the empty high-ceilinged rooms, blisteringly noticeable.

  Slater swore under his breath.

  The noise was unmistakeable. Jerichos were heavy, powerful sidearms, and the sound of their reports couldn’t be passed off as anything else. It would attract the attention of every soul in the compound.

  Recent memories tore through his mind. He thought of every perimeter guard he had spotted patrolling the exterior of the complex, as well as the man who had greeted them within the walls.

  At least six men.

  Men who were devoted to protecting their employer.

  He imagined the Brigadier-General was held in high regard by his underlings. They likely received a pretty penny for their services.

  Slater’s stomach twisted at the situation.

  He looked across to see al-Mansur staring at the Jericho pistol in Slater’s hand with unrestrained glee. The man knew what the gunshot meant. He knew his forces would be inside the mansion in seconds.

  Slater picked up distant shouting outside, growing rapidly closer.

  Abu went pale.

  Slater shot off the chair and thundered a boot into al-Mansur’s chest, toppling the General’s chair over with sheer kinetic force. The chair and its occupant thudded onto the hard floor, facing straight up. Still pinned into place by the rope, al-Mansur was in no position to move. His gaze was fixed toward the ceiling.

  He couldn’t see what Slater was about to do.

  Thinking fast, he snatched hold of Abu’s forearm with a vice-like grip, seizing the man’s attention.

  ‘You’re going to stay here,’ he said.

  ‘What?!’ Abu shrieked, shooting a glance at al-Mansur’s placid form across the room.

  ‘He can’t speak English,’ Slater said. ‘He won’t know. I need you to hide out in here. You’ll get killed if you step outside.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘I’m the centre of attention. I’ll draw them away. You get me?’ Slater heard the whir of an electronic gate crawling open. ‘There’s not much time. I need an answer.’

  Abu flapped his lips like a dying fish, trying to compr
ehend the gravity of what Slater was asking him to do. ‘They saw me come in with you.’

  ‘I’m going to kick up a storm,’ Slater said. ‘They’ll assume you slipped away if you stay hidden in the madness.’

  ‘What if there’s cameras in here?’

  ‘If there were cameras, they would have been onto us the second I fought that guard.’

  Abu said nothing. Slater could see the terror on his face.

  ‘If we both leave, we won’t get back in,’ Slater said. He jabbed a finger toward the state-of-the-art computer setup. ‘I think that’s the key to all of this. We can’t lose what little progress we’ve made.’

  ‘What do you want me to do about it?’

  ‘You’re a computer technician…?’

  ‘Yes, but…’

  ‘Abu, some serious shit is happening here. Isn’t it obvious?’

  ‘I know, Will.’

  Something crashed into the front doors, out in the lobby. It sounded like a battering ram, rattling them on their hinges. Slater remembered he had locked the doors from the inside. He raised the Jericho and fired a single round. The bullet hammered through the wood, shredding a fist-sized hole in the left-hand door.

  The incessant thudding ceased momentarily.

  They were probably ducking for cover.

  He’d bought himself a few seconds.

  ‘You have a phone on you?’ he said to Abu.

  Abu nodded.

  ‘Give me the number. Right now.’

  Abu rattled off almost a dozen digits, speaking fast, his voice laced with nervousness. Slater listened hard, pulse pounding as he considered the ramifications of forgetting the number.

  If he couldn’t communicate with Abu, the man would be effectively trapped within the compound’s walls.

  ‘Got it,’ he said, committing the string of digits to memory as best he could.

  Abu furrowed his brow, already sweating. ‘Will, this is madness.’

  ‘You got another option? Get upstairs. Find a wardrobe or something. Wait for my call.’