Deception Game (28 page)

Off to his left, rows of bushes or small trees flitted by in the darkness, all laid out in neat regularly spaced lines that clearly weren’t natural in origin. It took him a moment to realize they were driving through a fruit orchard. This was an agricultural area.

The small cluster of buildings that served the orchard appeared to be laid out at the southern end, all well illuminated by electric lights. The biggest of them was, he assumed, a barn or warehouse for storing produce and equipment, but the others looked more like conventional dwellings for the people who worked here.

Approaching to within a hundred yards of the farm complex, Drake eased off the throttle and took the engine out of gear, allowing the SUV to coast along the flat ground with little more than the crunch of its tyres betraying its approach.

‘This is it,’ he called out. ‘Get ready to move.’

The farm buildings were arranged in a rough semicircle, all facing into an open space in the centre where vehicles could turn or park. Only one of them looked like a residential building, however. A single-storey brick structure with a tiled roof, shuttered windows and an arched portico leading to the main entrance, it looked unusually grand and elaborate for such a rural location.

The weathered and pitted walls suggested this building had been around for quite a while, and the quality of the workmanship told Drake it wasn’t a product of one of the Gaddafi government’s haphazard construction programmes. Likely it was some holdover from the days of colonial rule, when the Italians had owned the country and the nearby orchard had produced olives or figs.

Allowing the SUV to coast almost up to the front door, Drake stomped on the brakes to bring them to a halt.

Frost was moving before they’d even stopped, throwing open her door and leaping down with her weapon already drawn. Drake went out a moment later, feeling his boots make contact with hard-packed dirt that had been rendered like stone by the passage of countless vehicles over the years.

Pausing just for a moment, he cocked his head to listen in on his surroundings. The sound of an engine of some kind was coming from the warehouse nearby, though the steady chugging reminded him less of a vehicle and more of a portable generator. That probably explained where the electricity was coming from, in a region where most houses didn’t even have running water.

Gaddafi had once boasted to the world that nobody had to pay electricity bills in Libya because it was free for all citizens to use. Whether or not that pledge had come true Drake had no idea, but it was probably made easier to achieve when the majority of houses weren’t even connected to the grid. With oil and petrol being dirt-cheap here, it was easier for farms like this to run their own generators twenty-four hours a day.

Still, power generation was the last thing on his mind as he headed for the portico, with Frost on his left side and slightly behind to cover him. Both operatives had their weapons up and ready, though with roughly half a magazine apiece they’d have to rely more on intimidation than firepower.

Their arrival hadn’t gone unnoticed. Even as they closed in on the arched portico, they heard the rasp of a bolt being drawn, and suddenly the front door swung open to reveal what Drake assumed was the owner of the plantation.

A big bear of a man in his late sixties, he sported a halo of bushy grey hair and a face so deeply lined and tanned that it reminded Drake of a worn leather couch. He was wearing stained work trousers, sandals and a crumpled grey shirt that struggled to contain his voluminous stomach.

Of greater interest than his appearance however was the double-barrelled shotgun he was clutching in his meaty hands. A break-action, over-and-under job whose wooden stock was so darkened by years of use that it resembled its owner’s face, the shotgun looked like it belonged in a museum rather than a farmhouse.

Old it might have been, but it was more than enough to make a mess of anyone caught within twenty yards if it went off. Drake suspected the trusty old gun had been used in the past to see off trespassers and potential thieves, and wondered if this farm always had someone standing watch at night. It would explain why the lights were on at such an hour.

Spotting the two operatives heading towards his home, the man started to raise the weapon, an angry shout already forming on his lips. Drake, blessed with faster reflexes and a smaller and lighter automatic, easily beat him to the punch.

‘Drop it!’ he ordered, keeping the man’s forehead in his sights. ‘Drop the gun now!’

Even if he didn’t speak English, he got the message without much trouble. His dark eyes swept from one operative to the other, taking in the silenced gun barrels now pointed his way. Recognizing that this was one intrusion he wasn’t going to see off with a few shouts and a warning shot in the air, he lowered the old gun and laid it down on the stone floor at his feet.

Drake was on him immediately, turning him forcibly around and marching him back inside with the silenced automatic pressed into his back, using his considerable bulk as a human shield.

‘Let’s go, mate. Inside,’ he said in the man’s ear. ‘Cooperate and we won’t hurt you.’

The farmer growled something in response which Drake suspected was less than complimentary, not that he could blame him. He felt shitty for invading an innocent man’s home in the middle of the night and holding him at gunpoint, but there wasn’t much alternative. Desperate times and all that.

‘Anyone else live here?’ he asked in fragmented Arabic. ‘Anyone with you?’

‘This is my house,’ was the only reply he received.

Venturing in through the arched doorway, Drake found himself in a wide entrance hallway with white walls and a tiled floor. Ahead lay the kitchen, with a solid wooden table in the centre. To the left, another arch led through to a living room. Drake spared it a momentary glance, taking in the patterned rugs, worn furniture and boxy-looking TV in one corner. Pretty unremarkable for a moderately prosperous home in this part of the world, save for one detail. A PlayStation games console was sitting on top of the television, its controllers hanging down the side by their power cables.

Straightaway alarm bells started ringing in Drake’s head. Somehow this 60-year-old farmer didn’t strike him as hardened videogame player.

‘Keira, go right. Eyes on,’ he said, his voice low and commanding as he pointed to a closed door. ‘Check your fire. Could be kids in the house.’

‘On it.’

The farmer was getting more agitated now as they moved deeper into his home, his voice growing louder and more aggressive with each passing moment. It must have been obvious to him by now that they were neither common thieves nor the dreaded Libyan state police.

‘Shut up,’ Drake hissed, jabbing the silencer hard into his fleshy back. He didn’t want to panic him, but he needed the man to take him seriously.

Far from being cowed by this display of force, however, the threat of violence only seemed to stoke the fire of his anger. Swinging around to face Drake, he jabbed a thick finger at him and continued spouting off in Arabic, his face twisted in hatred. Drake caught the liberal use of Allah along with some other less pious words, and doubted the man was pronouncing a blessing on him.

Before he could respond, however, his attention was distracted by a commotion to his right. Just as Frost was reaching for the door leading deeper into the house, it had suddenly swung open to reveal a pair of men in their early twenties. They were both tall and gangly, and bore enough of a resemblance to the farmer that they had to be related.

Judging by their bleary eyes and dishevelled hair, they’d been woken by the noise in the hallway and had come through to investigate. One, perhaps sensing trouble, had had the presence of mind to bring a knife with him. It looked like more of a utensil than a weapon, but a knife was still a knife, and Drake had enough injures to contend with tonight.

The sight of his father being held at gunpoint was more than enough to drive away the last vestiges of sleep for the young man. Quickly taking in the scene, he let out a cry and lunged at Frost with the blade.

Frost, to her credit, reacted to the unexpected encounter like the professional operative she was. Ducking aside to avoid the vicious swipe, she lashed out with a kick to the stomach that doubled him over, finishing it with an elbow to the back of his neck that sent him crashing to the floor.

Even as this was happening, the second youth started towards her. He was unarmed and looked more frightened than angry, but if his brother’s life was in danger he wasn’t about to stand and do nothing.

Raising her weapon, Frost took aim and put a round through the wall less than a foot from his head, the high-powered projectile blasting a gaping hole in the plasterwork. That shot across the bow was enough to halt his stride.

‘Back off! Both of you!’ she shouted, gesturing with the still-smoking barrel of her gun for them to move into the hallway where she could cover them.

It was at this moment, while Drake was momentarily distracted, that the farmer decided to act, making a sudden grab for his gun. It was a gutsy move for a civilian, and against a different opponent it might well have worked, but not today.

Sidestepping the clumsy move, Drake retaliated with a hook to the side of his face that jerked his head around, staggering him. A kick to the back of the leg dropped him to his knees, allowing Drake to step back a pace and cover him with the weapon once more.

‘Don’t try that again,’ he warned in the man’s own language, then glanced over at Frost. ‘Bring the kids over here, and secure the rest of the house.’

He saw a father and his two sons, but what about the mother? His recent experiences in Sowan’s house warned him against the dangers of leaving loose ends untied.

Shoving the young men into the centre of the hallway where Drake could keep all three residents covered, Frost turned and darted off through the open doorway.

‘Down on your knees, both of you,’ Drake said, indicating for them to get down.

Reluctantly the youths complied. One of them, the one who had thought to use the knife against Frost, glowered at him and spat a muttered curse, only for his brother to hush him. Drake said nothing, hoping that silence would allow the more sensible of the two to prevail.

Much to his relief, Frost soon returned from her sweep of the house. ‘We’re clear. Nobody else is home.’

Drake nodded. Thank fuck for that. Reaching up, he touched his radio transmitter. ‘The house is secure. Bring them in.’

‘Copy that,’ Mason replied over the radio net.

‘What do you want to do with
them
?’ Frost asked, nodding to their three new captives. ‘At this rate we’re going to need a fucking minibus.’

‘Tie them up and secure them in the living room for now,’ he decided. ‘Someone will find them once we’re out of here.’

The young woman glanced at him. ‘They’ll call the police.’

Drake shrugged. ‘Let them. We’ll be long gone by the time they get word out.’

They’d be sure to destroy any phones or radios in the house before leaving, hopefully buying enough time to get clear of the area.

Behind him, the front door flew open and Mason appeared, supporting a heavily bleeding Sowan on his arm.

‘Anyway, we’ve got bigger problems right now,’ Drake added, watching the arrival.

While Frost went to work on the farmer and his sons, Drake hurried over to Mason and helped him carry Sowan through to the kitchen, leaving a trail of blood on the tiled floor as they went. The big dining table he’d spotted earlier was cluttered with dishes, cups and cutlery – the remains of last night’s dinner – but one swipe of Drake’s arm was enough to send it all crashing to the floor, creating enough space for them to work.

Laying the injured man on the table, Drake stepped back, allowing McKnight access to him. Reaching behind him, she cut the bindings at his wrists. Even if he was foolish enough to make a break for it, he wouldn’t make it more than ten paces on that leg.

Leaning over him, she looked him hard in the eye, hoping to see a response. His pupils were dilated, his eyes unfocussed as he teetered on the verge of unconsciousness.

‘I’m going to help you now,’ she said, speaking slow and clear. ‘It’ll hurt, but the less you fight me, the easier it’ll be. Nod if you understand.’

For a moment she saw a flicker of recognition, of understanding, in the dimming eyes. He nodded; a slight but purposeful acceptance of what had to happen.

His wife too had been brought into the kitchen, rather than risk leaving her alone outside. Even bound and gagged she could still cause problems. At least here they could ensure she didn’t try to run.

Escape however seemed to be the last thing on her mind. She was backed up against the kitchen worktop, staring at her husband and the bloody gunshot wound that was slowly killing him.

‘Cole, look around, see if you can find a med kit,’ Drake said, surveying the small, cluttered kitchen. They were on a farm, after all. With plenty of heavy machinery at work, the possibility of injury was never far away – surely such a place would keep basic medical equipment on hand. ‘Keira, how are you doing?’

‘Party central here,’ she called through. ‘What about Sowan?’

Drake looked over at the injured man just as McKnight loosened the tourniquet for a few moments, allowing blood to flow through his leg. If she didn’t, the tissue would die off and become infected. There was no point in treating his gunshot wound only for him to die later of gangrene. However, the result of her effort was a renewed surge of bleeding from the open wound.

Glancing up, McKnight met his gaze, the look in her eyes telling him everything he needed to know before she’d spoken a word. ‘We’re losing him, Ryan. I can’t stop the bleeding.’

It was at this moment that something happened. Something even Drake hadn’t expected.

Sowan’s wife had not been idle since they’d brought her into the kitchen, neither overcome with grief nor paralysed by fear. Instead she had backed up against the cluttered kitchen worktop, managed to grasp a small cooking knife with her bound hands, and had used it to quickly saw through the plastic cable ties securing her wrists. With her hands suddenly freed, she reached up and tore the gag from her mouth.