Deadly Intent: An Action Thriller (Adrian Hell Series Book 4) (20 page)

I smile again and walk over to the door, which is halfway along the right side of the fuselage, opened and revealing stairs. As I step onto them, I glance to my right, out the other side of the hangar at the long runway.

“You a nervous flier?” asks Daniels.

I shake my head. “Not at all,” I reply. “Just looking around. Can’t be too careful nowadays.”

He frowns at my answer, confused, but he just smiles politely and walks off around the other side of the plane. On my left, the man with the fuel disconnects the piping, gives the plane a final check, and then climbs aboard the small truck with the tank on it.

“Everything’s good to go, Mr. D,” he shouts.

“Thanks, Al.”

He drives off without a word, and I board the plane without another thought. Inside is much narrower than the Leah jets I’ve been on recently, but the seats still look comfortable and spacious. The white leather has been well looked after, and I sit down on the first seat on the right side, resting my bag at my feet.

Compared to the paint job on the outside, the interior is definitely in better condition. There’s not much in the way of luxuries, but I only need it to get me from A to B, and for that, I’m sure it will do just fine.

After a couple of minutes, Daniels climbs aboard and closes the door behind him, locking it in place.

“Just be another few minutes, then we’ll be in the air,” he announces.

I nod. “Thanks, Jim,” I reply.

I sit back and relax as best I can. I feel pretty good about this. It’s a positive step toward sticking it to the bad guys—the first for a good while. I just want to get Tori back. That’s more important to me than killing Clara, if I’m honest. I know there’s still a terrorist threat to worry about, but I’ll deal with that later.

True to his word, just over five minutes later, we’re screaming down the runway about to takeoff for Belarus.

“Here we go…” I mutter to myself.

25.

APRIL 15
TH
, 2017

17:13 FET

So, let me explain to you why I no longer like flying.

In the past week or so, I’ve been on more planes than I have in the ten years before that combined. I’ve never traveled via private jet before all this, and I’ll admit they are nice and comfortable. In another life, I could afford to buy ten of the damn things if I wanted. But the first plane I went on took me to New York, where I ended up jumping out of a window with terrorists shooting at me. Not the flight’s fault, I know, but the circumstances surrounding why I had to get on the plane led to me having a bad experience, so it’s all relative.

A CIA black ops squad hijacked the second plane, and I was taken to Colombia, where I was almost killed. Twice. Once by the CIA, and once by a cartel.

The third plane, I’ll admit, wasn’t actually too bad—got me home in one piece, but overall, after the first two, I think I could be forgiven for thinking flying wasn’t really the way to go.

Which brings us to my most recent flight… a private charter, flown by Jim Daniels—someone GlobaTech has apparently used in the past for things they don’t want to keep a record of.

We left a small airstrip in Pleasant View, Tennessee, and have flown for around ten hours until we passed over Minsk, which is the capital city of Belarus. At this point, the delightful Mr. Daniels announced we were about twenty minutes away from Gomel, which was where I was to meet the GlobaTech operative who would take me over the border, into Ukraine.

In keeping with the tradition of everything going against me nowadays, at this exact moment, the cockpit of the Cessna Citation 500 decided to explode. No warning, no explanation, no nothing. Just… gone. We were at a decent altitude, so I had a little bit of thinking time, but I admit, it was something of a shock.

The plane was blown in half and began plummeting vertically, and I was doing everything I could not to get sucked out of the damaged fuselage. But nevertheless, I managed to slide my bag over my arms and shoulders, at the front, against my chest, before getting the parachute out of the security compartment just outside of where the cockpit used to be, and putting it over my shoulders and onto my back. After a moment to compose myself and think about just how shitty my life has become, I crawled over to where the door used to be and rolled myself out of the flaming wreck that was once my airplane—something I’ve not done for many years, and even then, only a handful of times. Luckily, there’s not much skill to it. You quite literally step out of the airplane. Or, in this case, kind of flop out of it. Ideally, with a parachute attached to you.

Freefalling through the air, I counted to six and pulled the cord, deploying my ’chute and settling into a nice, almost peaceful glide.

And so, here I am. I’m currently… I don’t know, maybe four thousand feet above the ground, making my way slowly down to earth via a parachute, thinking about how much I hate flying.

I hate terrorists and I hate flying.

I hate not knowing what the hell is going on, I hate terrorists, and I hate fucking flying!

26.

17:31 FET

I’m lying on the ground, looking up at the sky and watching the fireball that used to be my plane descend out of sight. The parachute is covering me almost completely—just my head and left arm are exposed. I’m aching all over, and I have no issue admitting I’m a little shaken up after the experience of jumping out of a plane.

You know how, in the movies, the hero always lands in a field, on a farm, or something? Somewhere out of the way where the good-looking woman can find him? Well, that’s bullshit… In real life—in
my
real, shitty life—you land in the middle of a busy street, surrounded by people and cars.

I take a few moments to compose myself, and then prop myself up on my elbows as I take a look around. Horns are sounding from angry drivers, and there’s a small crowd of people gathered around me, curiously looking at me as I lie in the center of the road.

I slide my bag off my chest and rest it next to me. I run through a quick mental check of my vital limbs and organs, coming to the conclusion I’m still in one piece. I scramble to my feet, shake the parachute off my back and pick up my bag. I jog to the sidewalk, dragging the ’chute behind me as I hold my hand up in silent apology to the cars that have been delayed as a result of my unexpected appearance.

I take a proper look around as people start to go back about their business. I’m on a busy street in a one-story high, industrial-looking city. There are no tall buildings, no designer outlets… no modern or expensive cars on the road. The whole place seems to have a perpetually gray hue to it. I could be anywhere east of Germany. But I know we passed Minsk before the plane blew up, so I’m hoping I’m somewhere near where I need to be.

I step into a doorway and crouch down, opening my bag and putting my holster on. I’ll definitely feel better with my babies at my back. I take out the phone and put it in my pocket. I’ll call Josh in a minute, once I’ve figured out where I am.

I carry on down the street, trying to look like I know where I’m going. But I come to a crossroads and stop on the corner, searching around for a clue as to which direction is best.

Yeah... I have no fucking idea where I am…

I step to the side and take the phone out of my pocket. I dial Josh’s number, hoping he’s done something technical so that no one knows I’m using it.

“It’s me,” I say as he answers.

“Have you made contact with our operative yet?” he asks.

“Not exactly... There was a slight problem on the way here that delayed me.”

“What happened?”

“The plane exploded.”

“What?” he exclaims. “Your plane blew up?”

I let out a heavy sigh. “Yeah. Just the cockpit, and it was ten hours into the flight, so I’m pretty certain it was sabotage,” I explain. “If I had to guess, I would say it was the guy who was refueling the plane when we arrived.”

“Jesus… Adrian, this means the bad guys must know you’re there. Watch your back.”

“Copy that. And I’m fine, by the way…”

“Sorry, yeah, I mean… I figured, so I didn’t… y’know?”

“It’s fine. The main problem is,
which
bad guys are after me? The terrorists? The CIA? The NSA? It could be anyone.”

“I think we can rule out the NSA for this—not really their thing. Could feasibly be the CIA, but I don’t see the logic.”

“No, me neither. Plus, they’d have sent the D.E.A.D. unit after me again, and I’d never seen the guy at the airfield before, so I think the safe bet is El-Zurak’s band of merry men are coming my way.”

“I guess they figured you’d work out Tori was in Pripyat with Clara and head there?”

“Sound thinking, but how did they know where I’d be flying from? Even though we were hacked by the NSA back in Arkansas, that doesn’t explain how the Armageddon Initiative found out about the flight.”

“Still no clue on that one, but we’ll get there. You just focus on getting Tori back, okay?”

“I will. Which reminds me, where the hell am I? I jumped out of the plane and landed in the street, but I don’t know how far I am from the rendezvous point, and there are no signs.”

“Let me ping your signal from the nearest cell tower and pinpoint the location of your phone…”

There’s a moment or two of silence while he works his magic. As I stand there, holding the phone to my ear and absently gazing at my surroundings, I feel a sharp prod in my back. Without reacting, I casually look over my shoulder and see a man standing behind me, holding a gun two-handed, leveled at the center of my back. He’s a rough-looking guy, dark stubble and tired eyes beneath a baseball cap. He’s about my height, dressed in scruffy jogging pants and a sweater with a sleeveless jacket over the top. My initial thought is that he’s a terrorist, but I dismiss it almost as quickly. There’s no way they’d send
one
guy after me.

“Adrian?” he asks. His voice is deep and coarse, like he’s smoked twenty a day for the last decade.

Keeping the phone to my ear, I slowly turn around and face him, raising a quizzical eyebrow. I glance at the gun, and then back at him. I look at his professional, trained stance, his body language, the confidence… definitely not a terrorist.

“Josh?” I say into the phone, ignoring the new arrival. “What’s the name of the operative I’m meant to be meeting?”

“His name’s Collins. Ray Collins,” he replies.

“Thanks,” I say, before putting the phone against my shoulder and looking back at the man with the gun. “Ray Collins?”

He regards me for a moment, and then slowly holsters his gun, extending his hand. I nod and put the phone back to my ear.

“Josh, never mind—he’s just found me. Call me if you find anything more out.”

“Oh, good. Yeah, I will do. Watch your back, Boss.”

I smile and hang up, putting the phone back in my pocket before shaking Collins’ hand. “How’d you know where I’d be?” I ask. “
I
don’t even know where I am.”

“Ya fell from the sky in a ball of fire,’ he replies casually. “Ya weren’t exactly hard to fuckin’ miss.”

I shrug. “Fair point. Where are we?”

“This… is Gomel,” he says, gesturing around us at nothing in particular. “Ya were lucky—the wind must’ve carried ya farther south, so ya landed just a couple of miles short of our rendezvous point.”

“First bit of luck I’ve had in a while,” I say with a humorless smile. “So how quickly can we get over the border?”

“Follow me, my car’s nearby.”

He walks past me and crosses the street, heading over to the other side. I follow him, taking a quick look around out of habit. We walk for a few minutes before turning right onto a side street, where a battered, rusted European sedan last sold in the 80s is parked against the curb. Collins walks round to the driver’s door and climbs in. Somewhat skeptical of the safety risks potentially involved in traveling in this thing, I climb in the passenger side.

Without a word, he drives off, turning right at the end of the street.

“In the glove compartment are fake papers for the border patrol,” he says. “If ya reach behind ya, the back seat will lift up. Use the space to hide your bag—they’ll check it otherwise, and I’m guessing ya don’t want what’s in there being seen?”

I look behind me and do as he says, putting my guns and holster in my bag and hiding it in the seat.

“You done this before?” I ask.

He smiles. “Once or twice, yeah.”

“Where are you from, Ray? Your accent is distinctive.”

“I was born in Northern Ireland,” he says. “But I’ve lived between the U.S. and Eastern Europe for the last thirty years, so my twang has faded a little.”

“A good friend of mine is from London—always corrects me on my allegedly poor use of the language.”

He laughs. “Yeah, you Yanks sure ruined that over the years!”

“Oh, Christ, don’t
you
start…”

We follow the M-10 road for about half an hour, before turning left on the P-33. It’s another forty minutes of fairly straight, unadventurous road before we veer left onto the P-35.

“Okay, it’s about an hour’s drive along here ’til we hit the P-56,” says Collins. “That’s the road that will take us over the border and into Pripyat. Once we cross, it’s about thirty klicks into the city itself. If ya wanna rest up, now’s the time.”

I shake my head. “I’ve slept enough,” I say.

I stare out the window at the foreign land passing us by. It always feels strange, being somewhere new. You forget you’re still on the same planet as home sometimes. The landscape looks and feels so different from Texas. Even the sun is colder here—the heat not quite reaching as far as the light. Fields and trees run off to the horizon in every direction. It’s actually quite a beautiful place. Just a shame I’m here under such ugly circumstances.

“What exactly do ya plan on doing in Pripyat?” asks Collins after a few miles of silence.

“I’m going to kill the person who’s kidnapped my girlfriend,” I reply, matter-of-factly. “And with some luck, I might take out a terrorist or three along the way.”

Collins lets out a whistle. “Sounds heavy,” he says. “I guess the rumors are true.”

I turn to look at him. “Rumors?”

“About you. Most guys who work for GlobaTech’s PMC have heard of ya, because we know your best friend is one of our top boys now. A lot of what people say about ya I’ve dismissed as campfire stories, but looking at ya, seeing how ya got here, and the belief ya have in what you’re gonna do next… maybe there’s something to those stories after all. I’m glad you’re on our side.”

“I’m not on anyone’s side,” I say. “I just want to do what’s right. I hung up my guns a couple of years back, but some radical pricks tried to lure me out of retirement. And now I’m balls deep in God knows what, trying to outrun the U.S. Government and stop a bunch of terrorists doing something bad with a satellite that no one’s meant to know about.”

“I’ve only got a few hours before I have to get back to my assignment,” he says regrettably. “Otherwise I’d offer to help. Sounds like ya need it.”

“Thanks,” I say. “But you’d just get in the way.”

He laughs, shakes his head, and silence falls inside the car once more.

19:56 FET

It doesn’t take long to reach the border to Ukraine. We slow to a stop as we join a short queue of traffic waiting to get through the checkpoint. The sun is disappearing behind the trees that line either side of the narrow strip of road. The surrounding terrain couldn’t be traversed in any vehicle. And if you approach on foot, you’ll be picked up anywhere within five miles in a matter of minutes. It’s a pretty secure checkpoint—one road in or out of the country.

There’s a low concrete wall running away to the sides, with a large barrier covering the only gap in it that I can see from the car. There’s a guard’s hut to the right, housing three men in military fatigues—all armed. There are two more men either side of the barrier and at least four patrolling the queue of cars on the road.

One of the men signals the car in front to move forward. It does, stopping level with the hut. There’s a guy behind bulletproof glass looking at screens inside. I’m guessing there’s some kind of electronic pad underneath the ground measuring weight, maybe even producing an infra-red scan of the vehicle, I’m not sure.

Another man comes out and approaches the vehicle. The driver’s hand appears through the window, passing over his papers for inspection. I can see a muted conversation—short, no pleasantries. The guard makes a quick lap of the car and hands the papers back. He signals to the men by the barrier and, between them, they manually raise it and usher the car through.

The guard from the hut turns to us and gestures for us to drive forward.

“Play it cool,” murmurs Collins. “Don’t say anything ya don’t have to. We’re two guys on a road trip, no business.”

The guard taps on my window, and another appears and does the same on Collins’ side.

He says something that I don’t understand, and I look at him like a confused tourist. Seeing my reaction, he sighs impatiently.

“English?” he asks.

“American,” I say with a smile.

He rolls his eyes. “Papers.”

I hand them over and look around casually as he checks them. Next to me, Collins is doing the same, but he’s showing off and speaking in Russian.

“What is business in Ukraine?” asks the guard.

“Just on a road trip,” I shrug.

He eyes me wearily, but I don’t think he’s suspicious of anything. I think it’s just professional boredom from his mundane job. He glances back at the hut, at the guy looking at the screens. He gives an almost imperceptible nod, which the guard acknowledges before turning back to me. He then looks over the car at the guy on Collins’ side. They start talking in Russian.

“What’s going on?” I whisper to Collins, a little worried now.

He shakes his head. “I don’t know,” he replies. “Something about the car.”

My door opens, taking me by surprise, and the guard leans in. “American—out of the car, now.”