Shadow Conflict Read online

  Shadow Conflict

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Part One – Repercussion

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Part Two – Evasion

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Part Three – Provocation

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Part Four – Conflagration

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Part Five – Conclusion

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Read More: Insurrection

  Read More: Ghost Target

  Copyright

  Shadow Conflict

  Will Jordan

  For Maureen and Wilma, my thanks for their encouragement and support.

  Prologue

  Berlin, 2 April 2010

  Anya coughed, pain lancing through her body with the effort. Her eyes were streaming, the smoke-filled air searing her throat with every breath. All around her was fire and ruin and destruction, the building devastated by the recent explosion.

  She had to leave while there was still time.

  She tried to move, but the smashed remnants of a table were pinning her down. Gripping the splintered wood, she gritted her teeth and pushed with all the strength she could summon. But as she fought to escape, a figure emerged from the drifting smoke and sparks, appearing like a demon come to claim her.

  A tall, powerful figure who moved with slow, deliberate strides. His clothes were torn and darkened with dust and soot, his face bloodied by shrapnel, but his eyes were fixed on her as he approached.

  ‘You planned all of this,’ he said, his voice rasping through the smoke. ‘Everything you did, every person you killed, all of it brought you here to this moment.’

  Anya turned away, looking desperately around for the carry bag she had brought with her, seeking the compact UMP-45 submachine gun that was inside.

  There!

  It had been moved by the blast, but lay just feet away from her now, the bag partly ripped open to reveal the weapon’s collapsible stock. Still trying to free herself from the wooden wreckage, she stretched out her arm towards the weapon.

  Cain watched her as he approached, knowing now he had the advantage. Knowing he could take his time.

  ‘You said you would rather die for something than live for nothing,’ he said, drawing the automatic holstered inside his jacket. ‘Is this what you’re ready to die for, Anya?’

  She was almost there. Her fingers brushed against the canvas bag, almost enough to pull it towards her, agonisingly close but infuriatingly far.

  ‘You were right,’ Cain said as she kicked frantically at the table, managing to shift it a little, gaining a few meagre inches in which to move. Straining towards the weapon. ‘In the end, it did come down to the two of us.’

  He raised the gun, taking aim with slow, deliberate precision. Anya’s eyes turned on him then, knowing she had lost. The eyes of a hunted animal now cornered, awaiting its fate.

  ‘It was always between us,’ Cain said, staring down the sights at the woman he’d once risked his life for.

  The woman he would have died for.

  ‘The things we could have done together,’ he whispered.

  Part One – Repercussion

  ‘Truly, it is in darkness that one finds the light, so when we are in sorrow, then this light is nearest of all to us.’ – Meister Eckhart

  Chapter 1

  Five days earlier

  The cold was insidious.

  Like a living, devious enemy constantly seeking new ways to overcome him. It crept into his body through every inch of bare skin that rested on the rough stone floor, or leaned against the damp, uneven brick walls. Slow at first, barely noticeable, but relentless, like a glacier inexorably grinding its way down a valley and devouring everything before it.

  He’d tried to fight it for the longest time – keeping his body moving, exercising as much as possible, minimizing his contact with the ground, even trying to turn the aching grief into anger that he could use to fuel his efforts.

  For a time he’d occupied himself with ideas of escape, instinctively falling back on his years of training to divert himself from his own dark thoughts. He had spent hours groping and feeling his way around every inch of his six-by-eight cell, searching for hidden crevices in the walls or floor that could yield something useful, fallen objects he might turn into weapons or tools, weaknesses around the hinges or frame of the solid wooden door that barred the only exit.

  But his captors were nothing if not methodical, sweeping the floor clean of anything that might have been useful, and ensuring the walls yielded up not a single loose brick or sliver of mortar. At last, frustrated by his fruitless efforts, he’d given in to his mounting anger and hammered his fists against the door until his skin split and bled, screamed until his throat was left raw with the effort.

  It changed nothing.

  And always the cold was with him, and it was a patient enemy. It had all the time in the world to wear him down, and after two days and nights without sleep or food, that was exactly what it was doing.

  Ryan Drake lay curled in a foetal position on the floor of his windowless cell, shivering violently, the sheer and absolute darkness concealing the cuts and bruises that marked his naked body. The chill air around him smelled of damp, mould and stale urine. He was too weary to stand up. What was the point anyway? Eventually his meagre strength would wane and he’d slump back down again.

  How long he’d been here he could no longer say. With no windows there was no way of marking the passage of day and night. In any case, time had begun to lose all meaning as fatigue and malnutrition took their toll. He couldn’t sleep. Sleep in conditions like these would bring death by hypothermia.

  Everything had fallen apart in Pakistan two days earlier. He had gambled with the lives of his friends, staking everything on one last chance to take down Marcus Cain, the corrupt deputy director of the CIA. And he had lost, completely and utterly.

  His companions were all go
ne now. Cole Mason, his loyal second in command, had been executed right in front of his eyes. Drake had chosen him for death, been made to choose him, hoping it would spare the life of another. He would never forget the look in Mason’s eyes just before the gun went off.

  Keira Frost, the fiery young technical specialist who had stood by him more times than Drake could count, was separated from him, perhaps dead herself. Another little game by his captors to hammer home how completely he had failed.

  Worse was to come. Samantha McKnight, the woman he’d placed so much faith in, had been working against them all along. She had given away their plans, compromised their operation, crippled the entire scheme before it even began. That betrayal had cut particularly deep, because he’d trusted her most of all.

  And as for Anya, the woman who had started it all: she too was gone. Maybe she had somehow managed to escape the disastrous battle, or maybe her enemies had finally caught up with her and ended it. Drake would likely never know.

  He closed his eyes as a fresh wave of shivering rocked his depleted body, clenching his fists so hard that it hurt. Good – he wanted to feel the pain. Pain was something he could use.

  The sound of footsteps in the corridor drew his thoughts back to the present. Someone was coming for him. This was the first sign of activity since he’d been brought here, and straightaway he felt his heart start to pound fast and hard, adrenaline rushing through his veins as his body reacted to the primordial instinct for fight or flight.

  He had no means or desire to attempt the latter. That only left one option.

  He was already resigned to the fact he wasn’t getting out of here alive. What was the point in deluding himself with false hope? No, hope was something he’d abandoned in Pakistan. When you accept that you’re doing to die, you can do and endure things you’d never have the courage or desperation to attempt otherwise.

  That was what he needed now, as he clawed at the freezing concrete and heaved himself to his feet, sucking in gulps of air to try to get more oxygen into his bloodstream. He was naked and unarmed, but that didn’t matter now. He could kill a man with his bare hands if it came down to it.

  It wouldn’t be the first time, and he’d rather go down fighting than spend what remained of his life in this cell. Maybe he’d even take one or two of the bastards with him.

  A slow and lingering death, whether by hypothermia, starvation or torture, was his starting point. Anything up from that was an improvement.

  The steps had halted outside the door. There was a sudden metallic scraping, and Drake found himself squinting into a sliver of harsh light that had appeared at eye level. After two days of darkness it was like staring into the core of the sun.

  ‘Stand facing the rear wall with your hands on top of your head!’ A loud, commanding voice echoed through the small cell. ‘Do it now!’

  They wouldn’t open the door until he complied; Drake knew that much. Standard procedure for dealing with dangerous prisoners.

  ‘Stand facing the rear wall now!’ the voice repeated. Drake didn’t recognize it as belonging to any of the men who had captured him in Pakistan, not that that meant much. Cain commanded a large pool of manpower.

  Drake turned and shuffled towards the rear of the cell, limping noticeably so that they could see the poor condition he was in. A pathetic, wretched form worn down by injury and hunger, no more of a threat to them than a bent old man in the street.

  ‘P-please, don’t hurt me again,’ Drake mumbled through the shivering as he stared at the wall and placed his hands on the back of his head.

  ‘No talking! Eyes front!’

  The light shining in through the viewing port at last afforded a proper look at his surroundings, and he immediately drank in as much detail as possible. Despite everything, he found himself oddly surprised that the bricks facing him were darkly coloured, almost black, and gleaming faintly with moisture. The wear around the edges and their slightly irregular shape suggested they were pre-industrial, carved by hand in an earlier era.

  Wherever he was being held, it wasn’t a new building, which meant it was unlikely to be a purpose-built prison. A building not originally designed to hold prisoners was inherently less secure, less easy to patrol and guard. He made sure to file that piece of information away for later. For now, he had more important matters to attend to.

  He heard the gritty hiss as a rusted bolt was withdrawn from the door, and took another deep breath to psych himself up. He couldn’t say what would happen in the next few seconds, but it was likely to be very fast, very violent and very painful. After two days spent shivering in the dark, he was ready for all three.

  A moment later he heard the creak of old hinges as the door swung inwards, and knew the time had come.

  Don’t think about what might happen. Just act.

  Spinning around, he turned and launched himself across the cell with every ounce of speed and aggression at his command. The close confines of his prison worked in his favour now, cutting down the distance he needed to cover. He knew he’d have a second or so of surprise on his side, but no more. They’d recover quickly, and act to stop him.

  His first priority was to wedge himself between the door and the frame, preventing them from closing it. That was likely to cost him a lot of hurt, as he was quite certain they’d do everything in their power to batter and shove him backwards into the cell, but it had to be done. Men he could fight, but a locked wooden door braced with metal would bar his way for ever.

  Once this was done, he would turn his attention to the guards beyond. He’d only heard one voice, but there were almost certainly more waiting. No way would a lone man enter the cell of someone like Drake without backup.

  Still, the first man in the door was his priority – putting him out of action was Drake’s goal. In lieu of weapons, fists, kicks and teeth would have to suffice. There was no finesse or honour in moments like this, no prizes awarded for fair play or mercy. You used every tool at your disposal, hurt or killed your enemy in any way you could.

  You won, or you died. It was that simple.

  Despite his weakened state, Drake was still fast off the mark. In barely a second he had almost covered the distance from the far wall to the door, and was already lowering his shoulder to ram his way through whoever happened to be standing in his path. He’d never been much of a rugby player, but he had nearly two hundred pounds of solid muscle, and knew how to utilize that weight to its fullest effect.

  Any fucker unlucky enough to be caught by that impact was going down hard.

  He could see them in the doorway now, silhouetted against the light filtering in from whatever room or corridor lay beyond. The door was fully open, and they were making no attempt to close it, as if they’d already realized such an effort would be futile.

  Smart of them, but it made no difference. He was almost on them.

  Then he saw something. A blur of movement, something short and stubby pointed at him…

  Bang!

  Drake’s first impression was that a firework had just gone off right in his face. The muzzle flash and sudden discharge of sparks and smoke reminded him more of a stage pyrotechnic than any kind of firearm. This spectacular piece of illumination was accompanied by a dull boom that reverberated around the small room like the inside of a drum.

  Then its purpose became all too obvious.

  Something slammed into Drake’s left shoulder like a concrete fist, jerking it backwards so hard he felt sure his arm had been wrenched from its socket, and spinning him around with the sheer power of the impact. Twisting in agony, he immediately fell backwards and collapsed, hitting the stone flagstones with bruising force.

  Through a fog of pain and disorientation, Drake was vaguely aware of voices shouting at him.

  ‘Stay down on the ground! Do not move or we will fire again!’

  Fire again. He’d been shot – that much was obvious. But by what?

  Reaching up with his good arm, he felt around the impact site, expec
ting to find torn flesh seeping blood. Instead his fingers brushed heavily bruised skin, and in that moment the pieces came together.

  He’d been hit with a non-lethal projectile, either a rubber baton or more likely a ‘beanbag round’ – a shotgun shell loaded with rubber buckshot inside a high tensile bag, designed to flatten against anything it hit and spread the force of the impact. They were popular with riot police for crowd control, because they packed a comparable force to a rubber bullet but were generally less dangerous. He’d never used one himself but the effect was, as he’d discovered, akin to being punched with a giant fist, particularly when fired at close range.

  That explained the pyrotechnic display as well. Such rounds employed a more primitive, less powerful form of gunpowder not dissimilar to the kind used by musketeers two centuries earlier. Big on flash and bang, small on killing power. That being said, if he’d taken the round in the face or chest rather than the meat of his shoulder, it almost certainly would have broken ribs or fractured his skull.

  Which meant they didn’t want to kill him. They needed him alive.

  He watched as one of his captors moved into the cell, looming over him like a vast black shadow. The man was getting ready to restrain him, and temporarily blocking the shotgunner’s line of sight with his sheer size. In a show of defiance, Drake twisted around, forcing aside the pain in his shoulder, and slammed a fist straight into the man’s midsection, expecting to double him over so he could grab for a weapon.

  He knew from experience that a good body shot to the base of the ribs could knock the wind right out of a man’s lungs, incapacitating him and buying valuable seconds to do some serious damage. Such was his hope.

  Instead his fist met solid, unyielding muscle, barely eliciting a grunt from his intended victim. It was like trying to punch his way through a brick wall. The man must have been a quarterback or a bodybuilder in another life, because his neck was as thick as Drake’s thigh, his arms and shoulders rippling with huge corded muscles.

  No way was Drake taking down a man of that size in his condition.

  The answering fist, when it swung at him out of the darkness, snapped Drake’s head around and came close to knocking him out altogether. With his vision blurring and his senses dulled, Drake was unable to offer further resistance as the giant jerked his hands in front of him and secured a pair of plasticuffs around his wrists.