Renegade, p.26
Renegade, page 26
‘I’m... sorry,’ he uttered, the words barely audible.
He didn’t need to say anything more. Ryker got it. Chester wasn’t here. Fischer wasn’t here. Nothing more than a skeleton crew now. There was one very obvious reason why that was the case.
They already knew where Moreno was.
‘Just tell me where she is,’ Ryker said. ‘You have to tell me everything.’
51
Of all the places in the world that Moreno could have gone in her time of need, it felt to Ryker like fate – luck? – that her likely very deliberate planning had seen her end up on the same continent. Not so close as to be in the Black Forest, or Germany even, but the city of Trieste in northeastern Italy was only an eight-hour drive from where Ryker had started. A long, gruelling drive. A spectacular drive, Ryker was sure, if it had been daylight, with the roads he took traversing forests and mountains and valleys and plains.
Sunrise was still nearly an hour away when Ryker arrived outside the city. He’d been here twice before, long before he’d met Moreno. He was unsure what link she had to this place that had made her choose it as a refuge.
Or was that the point? There was no link.
Nestled at the far edge of Italy, on a narrow strip of land between the glistening Adriatic Sea and Slovenia, Trieste was a city with a rich multicultural past, but it also had a history of bloody warfare and violence from the constant push and pull of surrounding civilisations. In that sense, Ryker felt an affinity with the city, and given Moreno’s own troubled past, he could understand why she, too, would feel at ease here.
Not that Ryker would be seeing the best that the city had to offer tonight. He was only edging along the outskirts. The city’s waterways and seaport and promenades all lay a couple of miles further to the east. The roads at the periphery of the city remained quiet, as they had been for the entire journey here. Ryker had needed to stop only once in the Range Rover he’d stolen from Fischer’s home, in order to refuel for the 500-mile journey, and he was now nearing empty again.
Unless he hit a problem, he’d make it. Just.
The intervening eight hours since he’d left Schiffler to die in that putrid basement had been long and fraught. Ryker had tried to call Winter, hoping his old ally could provide some sort of assistance, but all his attempts had failed. And Ryker really had no one else he could call upon, especially at such short notice.
Finally, the chequered flag came into view on the map on the Range Rover’s high-definition screen. He was only a mile away. That mile seemed to take as long as the entire rest of the drive as Ryker snaked slowly left and right through the mainly residential streets.
He took a left turn. The final turn. His destination was a plain-looking apartment block 200 yards in front of him. A hodgepodge of three- to six-storey buildings lay to his right. A dark and seemingly empty space off to his left. A small park or green square, judging by what he could see on the map, though there was no sense of its layout in the darkness of the night.
What Ryker could see, however, about halfway between him and his destination, was a row of three parked cars. Big, dark, expensive. At least compared to the other vehicles parked on the street, which were mainly banged-up smaller cars.
Ryker pulled over, convinced the cars in front were part of the posse sent to retrieve – kill? – Moreno. But was there anyone still inside? He was sure Chester wouldn’t be part of the initial assault team. Was Fischer also here?
Ryker switched off the engine, and without his headlights on the poorly lit street was plunged into near darkness. He remained in position for a few seconds, barely moving, his eyes flitting between the three cars and the third and top floor of the building further ahead. No sign of anyone outside at all. No sign that his arrival had alerted anyone in the cars either.
Ryker looked over to the seat next to him, to the two handguns he’d brought with him. Plus the assault rifle for which he’d obtained four additional magazines from the various downed guards at Fischer’s home.
He grabbed a handgun and stuffed it in the waistband of his jeans. Filled his pockets with the magazines then picked up the rifle and opened his car door.
He only had one foot out when the huge explosion erupted.
52
Ryker threw himself down behind his open car door. In the space of a couple of seconds a thousand thoughts went through his mind. The first was that he had been the target of the explosion. A hand grenade? An RPG? He quickly figured that wasn’t the case when he realised he was still alive and in one piece, and so was the car he was standing next to. So, too, were the three cars further ahead.
Beyond them, however, the apartment building where Moreno had been hiding out was now a monstrous fireball with huge yellow-and-orange flames leaping and spiralling out of what used to be its top floor. Smoke billowed all around.
Ryker stared aghast. He heard screams, shouts. Then a flaming body cascaded out of the mess and tumbled to the ground with a thud. Ryker’s heart pounded his chest.
He looked over to the three cars. A door opened. Then another. Then another. Two men stepped out. Both armed. Then a woman. Chester.
Ryker’s eyes narrowed. He clenched the rifle a little more tightly.
All three of them were staring ahead at the burning building. Then one of the men turned around. Shouted out to Chester, a look of confusion on his face. Ryker was too far away to hear what he said, or what the response was, but they didn’t look happy.
He got it. Moreno. Not a damsel in distress. Far from it. Yes, she’d left London in fear of her life. She’d travelled here to hide. But she’d also planned for the worst. Had planned for this very event.
Moreno was not the type to go quietly into the night.
Ryker jumped when there was a flurry of rat-a-tat gunfire from his right. He hunkered down and pointed the gun in the direction of the sound, almost immediately adjacent to him.
Out of the shadows came a darkened figure. Ryker was about to open fire...
‘James.’
She let off another round and Ryker heard a groan in the distance.
‘Sam.’ Ryker wasn’t sure whether to smile or not. In an instant it was like they were back in Africa. A deadly duo. Even if events there hadn’t panned out well for her.
Would they this time?
She darted as quickly as she could on her prosthetic from behind a van and over to Ryker’s Range Rover, two bullets smacking into the tarmac just inches from her toes. She slid down, pressed herself up against the metal, her face a painful grimace and her breathing laboured. She wasn’t hurt as far as Ryker could see, just unused to this kind of physical exertion.
‘They’re right over there,’ Moreno said. ‘Fischer and that bitch. In the same fucking car.’
Ryker wasn’t sure he liked the bloodthirsty look in her eyes.
‘I’m going to finish this,’ she said. ‘You with me?’
‘Wh... Sam?’
‘Are you with me or not?’
Both of them squirmed when another round of gunfire blasted into the front of the Range Rover, though they were both too far in cover for the shots to trouble them. For now.
‘They’re trying to surround us,’ Ryker said.
‘Only two shooters left,’ Moreno replied. ‘But I’m not waiting around here for the police or the cavalry to arrive. Cover me?’
Ryker nodded.
Moreno jumped to her feet and darted from around the car. Ryker bobbed up over the car door. Spotted one of the men out in the open, attempting to circle around to the rear of the Range Rover. Moreno had seen him too. She squeezed the trigger of her rifle – an ageing AK47 – as she ran. Perfect shot. The man went down.
Then the last man standing peeked from behind a parked car the other side.
‘Sam!’ Ryker shouted.
She ducked, changed her course. Enough distraction as Ryker darted right to get a better view and then pulled hard on the trigger of the Steyr. A flurry of bullets. Another direct hit.
Moreno was almost at the cars. Chester – what was she doing? – jumped back out of the middle car, unarmed, as if she could talk Moreno down now. Moreno didn’t give her the chance to say a single word. She swiped the rifle against Chester’s face, then grabbed her and threw her into the back of the car.
Moreno looked back to Ryker. A questioning look on her face.
At least that was what Ryker thought he saw.
No. Not a questioning look. One of concern. And she wasn’t looking at Ryker, but beyond him. To the cascade of police cars that were now racing along the road.
Moreno mouthed something to Ryker. Then jumped into the driver’s seat of the car. The rear lights flicked on and the car jerked out into the road.
‘No!’
Ryker darted back into the Range Rover. Fired up the engine. Before he’d even swung out into the road, the fuel indicator warning blinked angrily. Five miles to empty.
He growled in frustration. The car Moreno was in, a gleaming BMW M5, was already nearly out of sight. Ryker floored it. The Range Rover lunged forward. He took the hard left to follow, and the tall SUV rocked on its heightened suspension, the damn thing near toppling over. Ryker shook his head in frustration. On twisting urban streets he had no chance of keeping up with Moreno in the far superior M5.
But did he need to keep up with her, or just lose the police?
It took him less than two minutes before he realised there was no police to lose. Had they stayed at the site of the carnage and not realised that Moreno and Ryker had scarpered?
The problem for Ryker, though, was that Moreno had pulled even further ahead, and when the fuel indicator on the Range Rover hit zero, she was nowhere to be seen.
‘Come on!’
Ryker banged on the steering wheel in frustration. He turned into a narrow alley. Kept his eyes on the rear-view for several seconds. No. Definitely no police on his tail.
But where the hell was Moreno?
He looked at the map on the Range Rover screen. He was only one street away from the seafront now, right alongside the city’s sprawling seaport. An area filled with all manner of warehouses and storage yards.
That had to be why Moreno had come here. She’d planned this. Planned to steal Chester and Fischer – her nemeses – away from the clutches of the police, away from their own crew, away from everyone.
Ryker put the Range Rover into reverse, then carried on. Low revs, low speed now. Because he was desperately looking all around for any sign of the BMW, but also because the engine was running on fumes.
Ryker turned right and was soon on a long straight road that trailed into the distance. Warehouses loomed high on both sides, but to his right the scene was also dominated by hulking industrial cranes and storage yards with sea containers stacked high. In the night the road was quiet of traffic, but areas of the seaport, where some of the businesses worked around the clock, were bathed in bright white light.
For the first half a mile, all of the premises Ryker passed looked to be in use, even if they were locked up for the night, but after that the buildings and the grounds became more and more unkempt.
This had to be the spot. Somewhere near here.
Ryker glanced at the satnav screen. It wouldn’t be long before the seaport ended altogether and he was on a barren road heading out of the city and out of the country.
So perhaps Ryker’s instinct was wrong. Moreno had already scarpered. If she had, Ryker really had no way of tracking her, particularly with his transport about to give up on him at any moment.
Then Ryker spotted it. A warehouse off to his right. No sign of the BMW, but the security fence for the abandoned unit was hanging open, and although the forecourt beyond appeared empty, there was the faintest orange glow emanating from a slit up in the corrugated steel roof of the windowless building.
Ryker pulled into the forecourt. Headed slowly around the side, toward the water, so his vehicle would be out of sight from the road.
No sign of the M5. He parked the car and got out, grabbing the Steyr as he did. A chilling wind blasted off the Adriatic and Ryker shivered as he looked across at the warehouse. Even with morning approaching the night was as silent as it was bleak.
Then a noise cut through. A shout. Of pain, or fear?
Not from the warehouse after all, but from beyond the security fence at the other side of the grounds.
Ryker held the rifle at the ready and moved for the fence. He found another break in the clumsily erected criss-cross metal. Beyond was a railway track, and a mishmash of decrepit industrial railway engines and carriages.
And there was the BMW.
Not far away were three figures. Two of them on their knees, facing away from him. The third was Moreno. On her feet, standing over her captives, gun in hand.
‘Sam!’
She jumped at his voice and looked around. Agitation clear on her face even in the thinnest of pre-dawn light.
‘You can’t stop me,’ she shouted. ‘Please don’t try.’
Did he want to? He really couldn’t be sure. Whatever wrongs Chester and Fischer were responsible for, and Ryker was positive there were many, was it sufficient and acceptable to simply execute them?
No. That was the clear answer in Ryker’s mind. Not because they didn’t deserve to be punished, but because there was far too much he still didn’t know about Fischer’s corrupt life. Secrets that Ryker wanted exposed. Accomplices that Ryker wanted exposed.
Would the truth be buried with Fischer?
And yet if he’d been in Moreno’s shoes...
‘Sam, please.’
Ryker went to take a step forward, onto the railway line. Then jumped back when out of the dark a bulbous shadow loomed. Ryker stumbled and fell back as the clattering diesel engine of the train rattled past.
He bounced back to his feet. Looked to his right. He was perched, ready to dash forward across the line, but the train’s multitude of carriages kept coming and coming as it came to a stop at the edge of the seaport further ahead.
‘Sam!’
Ryker balled his fists as frustration gripped him. He stooped down and glimpsed flashes of Moreno through the gaps between the passing carriages; it felt like he was watching the action unfold in strobe lighting.
‘No!’
He couldn’t hear the shots. But he could see the flashes of light.
Chester crumpled.
Then Fischer.
Then Moreno hunched over and heaved Chester’s limp body which toppled over the edge of the dock, out of sight.
Next was Fischer.
The last carriage had already swept past as Moreno completed the task.
‘Sam!’ Ryker shouted again as he raced forward.
Moreno turned to him. A look of anguish on her face. Ryker knew from experience there was never any satisfaction in taking the life of another, however much it was deserved.
Ryker darted to the edge. Looked down. He could see nothing of Fischer or Chester, just ripples on the black water.
He looked at Moreno. She was staring at him, the anguish on her face growing with each second that passed.
‘It’s done,’ she said. ‘They’re both exactly where they belong.’
Her voice quavered. Her body was shaking.
Ryker said nothing. Moreno moved toward him. She was only inches away. Ryker still held on to his rifle. He stared deeply into her eyes, trying to read her thoughts.
Then he let go of the rifle, opened his arms and pulled her close.
53
For two weeks, Ryker had watched the scandal unfolding on the TV, had read about the fallout online and in the newspapers. Winter couldn’t have been more right. The intelligence services landscape was changing forever. For the better? Ryker didn’t know. Nor was he sure where the media’s attention was likely to stay focused – on the UK’s intelligence community, or on the widespread wrongdoing and corruption of Bastian Fischer that was only now coming to light following his death.
Perhaps the problem was that those two areas of focus were inextricably linked, as a result of the reach of Fischer’s prickly tentacles.
Ryker still feared that the full truth, the full list of corrupt conspirators working with Fischer, would never be known. He could at least hold out hope.
Two weeks. It had felt far longer to Ryker, even if he had spent the majority of that time on the move. Today he was walking through Burneside in the UK’s Lake District, a village nestled in a valley among the jagged and spectacular Cumbrian hills. Ryker wasn’t staying in Burneside, but it was a good enough and quiet enough place to meet. Since leaving Trieste, Ryker had only been back to London once – to collect his belongings – and he wasn’t planning on going back again. Not if he could avoid it.
He arrived at the small café with an outer terrace above the trickling River Kent. The sky was blue, the sun was shining. Walkers in their muddy boots and colourful jackets roamed free.
Peter Winter in his smart loafers and dark jeans and designer jacket looked seriously out of place. He was sitting at one of the café’s tables, two take-out cups in front of him.
He spotted Ryker approaching, got to his feet and grabbed the coffees. He looked pissed off. Ryker was vaguely amused by that as he was sure the bad mood was due to Ryker’s choice of location.
‘Seriously?’ Winter sounded disgusted. He handed Ryker one of the cups.
‘Seriously what?’
‘Don’t tell me you’ve taken up hiking or something. What on earth are you doing all the way up here?’
‘Living,’ Ryker said.
Winter looked around him as though none of it made sense. Could a man who ran agents working in all manner of places across the globe – from the exotic to the downright awful – really be unnerved by such a quiet and quaint place? Perhaps it was the smell of manure drifting across from the nearby fields which he couldn’t hack.
‘Why don’t we take a walk,’ Winter suggested.
Ryker nodded and the two of them set off along the far from bustling streets.
