The Will Slater Series Books 1-3 Page 13

  Abu froze in place, paralysed by fear. Slater ground both rows of his teeth together to prevent a furious outburst, painfully aware of how little time they had. He grabbed two handfuls of Abu’s business shirt and hurled the man toward the grand staircase in the lobby.

  ‘Go!’ he hissed.

  Abu stumbled out into the lobby, just as another vicious impact smashed against the other side of the lobby’s front doors.

  Hinges snapped.

  The doors flew open.

  28

  Slater watched Abu dive for cover, slamming into the first few steps and ducking behind the exquisite banister running the length of the staircase.

  Gunshots cracked from the front porch, passing through the open doorway and taking chunks out of the wall above Abu’s head.

  Dangerously close.

  Slater cursed and squeezed off two shots with the Jericho, both tearing through the gap in the doorway and whizzing outside to destinations unknown.

  He wasn’t sure if he’d hit anyone.

  He doubted it.

  But it bought another couple of seconds for Abu to sprint up the stairs, racing past the dead guard. The man took the steps three at a time, reaching the second floor of the mansion at an unbelievable speed. Slater could recognise the effects of adrenalin when he saw them.

  Abu was scared for his life.

  The computer technician disappeared from sight, hurrying into the depths of the mansion. In such an enormous building, Slater prayed that the man would find a suitable hiding place to burrow down until the attention faded.

  The most dangerous game of hide-and-seek in history, he thought.

  Only if Slater could make it out of the complex alive.

  Just as Abu vanished across the second-floor landing, a trio of fully-armed perimeter guards poured into the lobby. Slater ducked back into the office, electing to avoid remaining out in the open. He spotted al-Mansur still facing the ceiling, rendered immobile by the chair’s restraints.

  Kill him, a voice in his head hissed.

  It would be simple enough. A single round through the man’s skull would eliminate him from the equation, but Slater knew it would achieve nothing. If he wanted to get to the bottom of the infected wolf and the CCTV feeds across London, he would need al-Mansur alive.

  His gut told him that al-Mansur was at the heart of something gravely sinister.

  So he snatched the Brigadier-General and his chair off the floor, wheeling them into position and crouching behind the man instead of turning him into a corpse.

  Instead, he used al-Mansur as a human shield.

  It carried the risk of losing his most valuable asset, but Slater had no other choice. He watched as — almost in slow-motion — the trio of hired security hurried into the office, guns raised, sweeping methodically across the room for any sign of hostiles.

  They were doing all the right things.

  But, one by one, they saw al-Mansur tied helplessly to his seat in the centre of the room. They hesitated, unwilling to kill their boss in the crossfire.

  It cost them their lives.

  Slater blasted each man’s head apart with a trio of well-placed shots, his aim barely wavering as he worked the Jericho from man to man. He killed them all in the space of a couple of seconds, opting to end it quickly so that none of the trio would ever know what had hit them.

  They would have seen their boss tied to a chair, then the silent figure crouching behind him.

  Then nothing at all.

  Slater had thrown rationality away at the sight of the CCTV cameras dotted across London. He wasn’t willing to pull punches anymore. He remembered leaving the Brigadier-General’s men alive on the mountainside above Qasam with nothing but superficial bullet wounds.

  Mercy.

  There was no mercy left here.

  He knew what he would have to do to prevent a greater evil from unfolding.

  He knew the ramifications, and accepted them.

  He had for years.

  This was nothing new.

  There were fifteen rounds in Jericho magazines, so he knew he had more than enough ammunition to deal with the last three perimeter guards. So far there was no sign of the others, obviously opting not to follow their comrades inside the mansion.

  For a moment, Slater considered the fact that the other three might have employed caution. They might have hung back, waiting in the dark corners of the compound for Slater to slink away and send a bullet through his back when he tried.

  Then he remembered the phrase that had been drilled into him for over a decade.

  Combat is hell.

  It took a near-impossible level of self-control to remain level-headed and clinical in the midst of chaos. Lead and blood created hysteria, a panic which sent hardened men fleeing in the face of adversity. Slater had seen it many times before. Soldiers on the battlefield were fully prepared for combat, able to psyche themselves up before war.

  But in the face of the unexpected, few could control themselves.

  And this was the definition of an ambush.

  Keeping low, Slater slunk out into the lobby, stepping around the three corpses now bleeding profusely across the marble floor. He kept his hearing acute. Any kind of advantage he could seize — whether that came from the soft noise of a distant footstep or the racking of a rifle’s slide — he would take.

  Nothing.

  He couldn’t hear a peep.

  He pressed his back to the right-hand front door, still firmly shut. The left hung open, revealing the same sun-baked courtyard he had seen on the way in. Slater leant across and flashed a glance out into the open, revealing himself for less than a second.

  Then he ducked back, anticipating a barrage of gunshots to head his way.

  But nothing happened.

  Tinnitus piped up in his eardrums, an incessant whining after such an unrestrained volley of unsuppressed gunshots indoors. Above that, Slater couldn’t hear a thing. There was no panicked shouting, no sound of running footsteps, no gunshots or panic to speak of.

  It was like the entire compound had been deserted in the blink of an eye.

  He opted to take one more look, leaning into view of any hostiles, placing himself in mortal danger. With his pulse booming in his ears, thudding underneath the high-pitched whine of tinnitus, he leant around the doorway and took in what he could see.

  One of the military vehicles, packed with the other three men, hurtling desperately for the front gate.

  Fleeing in the face of chaos.

  Just as he expected.

  Then he noticed something else. Out of the corner of his eye. A strange blur in his peripheral vision.

  He turned his attention to the sight…

  …and the blood drained from his face.

  From his elevated position on the mansion’s front deck he could see over the top of the perimeter fence, able to view the sweeping wadis of the Hadhramaut Valley for dozens of miles into the distance. The trail he and Abu had come from — crossing the wadi from Qasam — was now packed with a convoy of pick-up trucks, each jammed with a handful of occupants. Even from such a distance, Slater spotted the sun glinting off automatic weapons.

  A small army — headed straight for the compound.

  The three perimeter guards weren’t fleeing because they were scared. They were fleeing because a mercenary force of tribesmen were on the way.

  Slater put two and two together in an instant. If he hesitated another second, he wouldn’t make it out of the compound in time — and he would find himself trapped against at least fifty juiced-up, barbarian tribesmen.

  All armed to the teeth.

  With his heart rate skyrocketing, he leapt off the porch and sprinted across the courtyard for the Land Cruiser they’d arrived in.

  29

  It was the definition of a race against the clock.

  Slater screamed toward the Land Cruiser he and Abu had exited minutes earlier, the same vehicle taken off the al-Qaeda mercenary who had stormed into
Qasam in search of his head. He heard the drone of approaching engines resonating over the walls of the compound. Now that he had stepped down onto the hot, dusty earth, his view was blocked. He couldn’t see a thing, operating off his hearing alone — a dangerous notion, given how the conflict inside the mansion had impaired it.

  The sweat began to flow freely from his pores.

  Underneath the baking desert sun, he dove into the cabin, wrenching open the driver’s door and slotting into the seat. It was stifling within the Land Cruiser, its interior having been fully exposed to the sun while Slater and Abu were inside.

  Abu.

  A bolt of fear rang through Slater. An overwhelming number of tribesmen were heading for the compound, and if they searched the mansion all at once they were destined to stumble across the man at some point.

  Slater needed to cause a scene.

  One that would make everyone forget about searching for the computer technician.

  He also needed to make it through the front gate before it was blocked off by the motorcade.

  He watched the military vehicle containing the three perimeter guards barrel out of the compound, twisting radically on the hot earth and screaming out of sight.

  At the same time, the din of the approaching convoy grew louder.

  He slammed the truck into gear and stamped on the accelerator — as he did so, the front gates began to trickle closed, accompanied by an electronic whir.

  ‘Oh, fuck,’ Slater muttered.

  The tyres spun on the loose sand, kicking up geysers of the stuff as he battled for control of the Land Cruiser. He slammed back into his seat as they found purchase and the truck rocketed off the mark, spearing toward the gate.

  It inched steadily closed.

  A couple of seconds into the mad dash, he realised he would make it through the gates in time. He breathed a momentary sigh of relief, ignoring the sweat drenching his forehead.

  Then the convoy roared into view all at once. Three pick-up trucks led the pack, racing into the narrow mouth of the compound’s entrance. The two vehicles on the far side had a little more ground to cover — they were aiming to form a tight semi-circle, blocking off the entrance to anyone attempting escape.

  And they were about to succeed.

  A head-on collision was imminent. Slater passed through the closing gates with inches to spare and aimed for the far side of the fast-moving blockade. The third truck moved to block him off.

  He pressed down harder on the accelerator.

  It was all or nothing.

  In the blink of an eye, the cabin of his vehicle passed out onto open ground. The truck packed with tribesmen speared nose-first into his Land Cruiser’s rear tray, accompanied by a horrific metal screeching. Sparks flew, and automatic rifle fire crackled in the air.

  Slater realised the men in the enemy truck were firing on him, even as the collision took place.

  The driver’s window shattered, spraying glass across both his arms. He ducked instinctively and wrestled with the wheel as the enemy truck lodged into the side of his rear tray.

  But he’d picked up enough momentum.

  The Land Cruiser separated from where it was pinned between the compound wall and the enemy pick-up truck. Its rear wheels fish-tailed in the sand and Slater’s heart skipped a beat as the vehicle lurched up on one side.

  For a moment, he thought the truck would roll.

  Then there would be nothing he could do to prevent a grisly demise, surrounded on all sides by vehicles loaded with heavily-armed occupants.

  But the big pick-up truck slammed back down onto flat ground and shot away from the compound, its rear tray crippled.

  Another half-second of hesitation, and enough of the vehicle would have been log-jammed to freeze him in place.

  He wouldn’t have lasted ten seconds if his course had been halted.

  You’re not out of the woods yet, he thought.

  Bullets flew from seemingly everywhere at once. He had roared out onto open ground in full view of the arriving convoy, and every tribesman with a weapon had decided to unload their ammunition to prevent him from leaving.

  He fired several shots from the Jericho, aiming out the open window, hoping to send men scattering for cover.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of the gunmen jerk unnaturally and cascade off the back of his truck.

  He’d killed one.

  Slater’s eyes widened at the sight and he threw himself below the line of cover. Each impact from the following barrage of Kalashnikov rounds thudded against the Toyota’s chassis, resonating through the cabin, horrendously loud in the confined space.

  He felt the vehicle mount the trail outside the compound — the trail that led to Seiyun.

  He twisted the wheel and gave the engine everything it had, redlining the tachometer. The engine screamed, the bullets poured, the tyres spun…

  They found purchase and Slater rocketed away down the road.

  He considered it safe enough to raise his head back into view. Any more time he spent driving blind ran the risk of ending up in a ditch, helpless to prevent the convoy from tracking him down.

  He kept the Land Cruiser running at close to eighty miles an hour and wrapped both sweaty palms around the wheel.

  In the distance, Seiyun beckoned.

  Distant, intermittent shots pinged off the back of the rear tray, but Slater barely flinched. He glanced in the rear view mirror and spotted the congestion around the front of the compound. The convoy had been so desperate to cut off the entrance that they had manoeuvred themselves into a logjam. Most of the vehicles had rumbled off the trail in an attempt to cut to the gates, and now they were in the desperate act of backing up and recovering their position.

  None of the stragglers on the outskirts of the convoy felt the urge to pursue Slater.

  Aside from a handful of potshots still spearing in his direction, he had made it out of harm’s way.

  With inches to spare.

  As the occasional incoming bullet faded away into sheer quiet — at least, compared to the roar of a close-quarters gun battle — Slater checked himself for any wounds. With his vision wavering and his head throbbing from the overwhelming dose of adrenalin, he knew the risks of failing to recognise that he was hit.

  It had happened before.

  Thankfully, he was clear. He patted himself down, searching for blood or a sharp jab of pain in a specific area. Coming away with nothing, he settled into a measured pace along the track to Seiyun, making sure not to overheat the Land Cruiser’s engine. A breakdown at this point would spell certain death.

  Every few seconds he checked to see whether the convoy of tribesmen had elected to give pursuit. Each time showed the cluster of vehicles growing further and further into the distance. He squinted in the glare, analysing their movements.

  The group seemed frozen around the compound’s entrance, like deer in headlights.

  They hadn’t anticipated that he would make it out alive. Their entire game plan had been predicated on the element of surprise, opting to throw everything into sealing him into the compound.

  Despite everything, the rapidity of the encounter brought a smile to his face. If he had been sucked into a drawn-out skirmish with automatic weapons and a horde of corpses, attention would have almost certainly been drawn to the mansion in the event of his escape.

  But everything had happened so fast.

  None of the tribesmen had managed anything more than a fleeting glimpse inside the vehicle.

  Slater imagined they would assume Abu had come with him.

  He hoped that they did.

  Otherwise the computer technician would meet a grisly demise…

  …and there would be hell to pay.

  As Seiyun grew closer and closer on the horizon, the reality of the situation began to set in. He’d been forced to flee from the one man who knew anything about the complex riddle he’d stumbled across. He had next to nothing to work with, apart from a man he’d forcib
ly trapped inside an enemy compound and a strange bioterror incident on a dusty Yemeni mountainside.

  ‘You’re clutching at straws,’ he muttered under his breath.

  The steering wheel rattled in his hands as the Land Cruiser bounced and jerked over a series of increasingly jarring potholes. Ahead the road turned smoother, freshly paved and leading toward a strange formation of bright-green trees surrounding the outskirts of Seiyun.

  An oasis amidst the wasteland.

  With his morale crippled, Slater considered turning back and waging war with the convoy.

  He had always preferred combat. As far as he was concerned, it provided the solution to a swathe of problems. He knew that it would be a suicide mission, and it would simply act as a defence mechanism so that he didn’t have to confront the gravity of the situation at hand — but right now, the concept seemed appealing.

  So far, he had dismally failed to achieve anything significant.

  Senses reeling, he prepared to slam on the brakes and spin the wheel in a tight arc.

  Heading back.

  Going down in a blaze of glory.

  His pulse quickened.

  Then he noticed the passenger seat — or rather, the glove box hanging wide open. It had been unlocked by the blunt trauma applied to the Land Cruiser during its escape. Now it hung loose, its contents spilled across the footwell.

  Slater took one hand off the wheel and leant over to rummage through the pile of tidbits that had come loose from their container. Most were indecipherable — sheets of faded scrap paper with half-complete sentences scrawled across them in Arabic. Save for finding another rare soul in the Hadhramaut Valley who happened to speak perfect English, he wouldn’t be able to translate their contents.

  But the device in the centre of the footwell, surrounded by the documents, seized his attention.

  A portable GPS.

  These were the possessions of the al-Qaeda mercenary who had stormed into Qasam earlier that morning. Slater had guessed the man had been recruited for a quick errand by the security checkpoint guard, paid a handsome sum to eliminate a common enemy.

  Out of sheer curiosity, he reached down and plucked the GPS out of the footwell.