Viper Nine Read online

  Reaching the summit of the hilltop, she motioned for them to drop low, a view of the shallow valley below through a gap between trees.

  The valley had been cleared to make way for a low-rising pre-fab complex and an access road beating a straight path out of the jungle.

  Rios crouched and unzipped her rifle bag. She put the M110 semi-automatic sniper rifle together and laid herself down on a flat patch of grass.

  The scent of ferns and citrus-like magnolias danced in her nose, while the whir of tiny wings zipped back and forth around her head. It was startling to notice them. The crickets too. Growing up on the edges of the jungle, the sound of insects and the cackle of hidden creatures was more like white noise.

  Pope didn’t bat an eyelid at the daunting environment of the jungle. He was from Australia, after all.

  Flopping down by her side, the big man whispered in her ear. ‘Looks like the place.’

  ‘This is definitely the place,’ Rios said. ‘Big fence. Brand new compound. White-ass guards with guns.’

  She swept the night-sighted crosshairs over the bland, flat-roofed building beneath. The roof was concrete. The cladding corrugated steel. There was a perimeter fence topped with rolls of barbed wire and a tarmac road that looked fresh-poured and smooth.

  ‘Give me a look,’ Pope said, muscling in on the rifle.

  Rios shuffled aside and let him get his eye behind the sight.

  ‘Two-man patrols,’ he said. ‘Regular intervals along the perimeter fence. You can take ’em out from here, right?’

  ‘Check out the signs on the fence,’ Rios said.

  Pope slumped in the shoulders. ‘Electrified.’

  He allowed Rios back in for another look. She watched a man getting a pat-down before entry through a main door. ‘Full-body searches on entry.’

  ‘So long as it’s not cavity,’ Pope muttered. ‘I hate bloody cavity.’

  Rios glanced his way. ‘Cavity?’

  ‘They didn’t have cavity in your prison?’

  ‘Just the once,’ Rios said. ‘A finger up the ass and a flashlight in the mouth.’

  ‘You were lucky,’ Pope remarked. ‘In Libya, Abdul checked your arsehole every Wednesday. Or at least, that’s what he said he was doing. He did seem to take his time up there—’

  ‘Spare me the nightmares,’ Rios said. ‘Did the schematics come through from Anna?’

  Pope pulled his phone and scrolled. ‘Yeah, just in. We’re looking at vocal recognition to get through the front door. Then a bloody retinal scan to get at the cell.’

  ‘Plus watchtower snipers,’ Rios added, running the night sight over sharpshooter positions on all four corners.’

  ‘Get this,’ added Pope. ‘Just for kicks, they’ve added tripwires around the outside the perimeter.’

  Rios blew out her lips in frustration. ‘So we can’t get through the fence and we can’t get through the doors.’

  Pope looked across at her and shrugged. ‘Any ideas?’

  * * *

  Pope fought his way down the hill through a dense wall of giant palms and spider webs. He came to a stop at the foot of a tall cecropia tree. He grabbed hold of the trunk. He shimmied up the rough, pale wood, heels gripping tight to the bark and one hand moving over the other. It was tough work for a man of his size and a tree that swayed left and right under his weight.

  Yet he made it to the top, where the trunk fanned out into spindling branches and a thin canopy of finger-shaped leaves.

  ‘Strewth this is high,’ Pope whispered, breathless. He edged out along one of the branches of a tree known for its flexibility. Or at least, known to Rios. He didn’t have a clue. And was far from convinced of the plan.

  ‘You sure this is gonna work?’ the six-four Australian asked.

  ‘No,’ Rios answered over comms.

  ‘Thanks, good pep talk,’ Pope grumbled, positioning himself high above the jungle floor with a ten-foot gap to the perimeter fence. He tested the branch, almost falling to his death. Pope’s heart stopped as he regained his balance. ‘What am I, Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon?’

  ‘On my mark,’ Rios said, as he psyched himself up to jump.

  She counted him in. ‘Three, two, one…’

  Pope watched as the sniper in the nearest watchtower took a hollow point to the chest. The man dropped without a sound. The same in rapid succession for the three remaining shooters manning their towers.

  That was the cue. Pope jumped and caught hold of the furthest branch out. The tree whined as it bent under his weight, carrying him out of the jungle. He swung over the grass and the perimeter fence towards the watchtower.

  The plan was to bypass the fence, drop to a safe landing on the sniper platform and descend the tower. From there, he’d open a gate and Rios would join him in forcing a guard to let them into the main building.

  And bloody hell, if it wasn’t working! As he swung over the fence, Pope prepared to drop to the wooden platform on the other side.

  Yet the tree had other ideas. It fell a foot short of the tower. He hung out a leg and got the tip of a toe on the edge of the platform. But the tree pulled back the other way.

  Pope lost his foothold and heard a loud splintering overhead. The branch snapped in two. Pope fell towards the ground. Only he didn’t hit the ground. First he landed on the electrocuted barbed wire of the fence.

  The sharp spikes cut into his flesh as ten-thousand volts fried him half to death, muscles convulsing to the point of snapping.

  The Australian rolled off the barbed wire to the grass below. And that was the last the world would know of Russell Pope.

  * * *

  Rios floored the accelerator. The Chevy kicked up rocks and mud as the tyres gripped and the pickup bolted forward along the narrow dirt road. She switched the headlights to full beam, cutting through a swathe of bushes and bumping onto the tarmac road. It lead straight to the compound. And to her relief, Viper Nine had cheaped out on a rolling wire gate.

  As she sped towards the compound, an armed guard spat out his cigarette in the glare of the headlights. He snatched his rifle off his shoulder. But Rios had a pistol in hand and a window down.

  She hit him first-time, his throat exploding blood as he spun out of the way.

  The pickup took a barrage of sniper fire as it flattened the compound gate. Rios ducked low in her seat and careered across a large courtyard, firing blind out of the driver-side window.

  As she made it through the line of sniper fire, the Mexican sat up and aimed the nose of the Chevy straight at the main doors to the building.

  She braced for impact and kept her foot all the way down. The Chevy slammed into the entrance, airbags deploying. It felt like a punch to the face. Rios coughed, the wind knocked out of her. She spilled out of the pickup, airbags like empty balloons.

  The front-end of the Chevy was trashed, yet the doors to the building intact. They had to be blast-proof to sustain that kind of impact. She confirmed it with the toss of a grenade, hiding around the rear of the pickup.

  As the smoke cleared, she found herself trapped. Unable to get in, unable to get out. The pickup was un-driveable and a pair of perimeter guards came running her way.

  Rios raised her pistol to fire. A bullet hit her in the small of the back. A flash of burning pain. She dropped to a knee, but forced herself to stand as the guards circled her.

  She spat blood. ‘You motherf—’

  A crossfire of ammunition cut her down.

  * * *

  ‘Damn, I forgot about the blast-proof doors,’ Pope muttered.

  ‘Yeah, that’s not gonna work either,’ Rios said, wondering whose plan had been worse. Rios’ bendy tree approach or Pope’s all-or-nothing ram-raid through the main entrance. ‘So two dumb ideas down,’ she continued. ‘Any other brainwaves?’

  ‘Dress up as women?’ Pope suggested.

  ‘I am a woman,’ Rios replied.

  ‘Ah, yeah,’ Pope said.

  ‘And anyway, to what effect?’
Rios asked.

  Pope shrugged. ‘Y’know, seduce our way in.’

  ‘Have you looked in a mirror?’ Rios asked. ‘You’re not exactly Angelina Jolie.’

  Pope shook his head and chewed on a lip. ‘Yeah, plus we’ve no disguises.’

  Rios peered again through the night sight, as if the answer lay out there in her crosshairs. ‘Let’s face it,’ she sighed, ‘neither of us are Isobel Lim.’

  ‘You’ve got that right,’ Pope said. ‘But what are we gonna do? Lie here all night and hope they change their mind?’

  Rios drew back from her rifle. Much as she wanted, she couldn’t avoid the inevitable any longer.

  The Latina dropped her head. ‘There is one way,’ she said, feeling sick to the core. ‘But you’re not gonna like it.’

  Chapter 25

  Private Airfield, Hong Kong

  A Mercedes was waiting. Sleek and black with diplomatic plates. Lim stepped down from the plane onto the runway of the private airfield, the warm air thick as soup with a light drizzle and a mild crosswind.

  The short, thin chauffeur of the Mercedes held a door open for them under sagging grey skies, his shoes polished and uniform spotless. Lim ducked into the limo and found her old friend, Minister Chiang on the backseat, checking his phone. He looked up over his glasses with a weak smile.

  This mission just got better and better.

  Lim hadn’t forgiven the man and he knew it, being overly-friendly with none of his usual arrogance on display.

  Not only did he owe her his life, she could snatch it from him at any moment. So it was no surprise he seemed jittery.

  ‘Agent Lim. Please take a seat,’ he said.

  The chauffeur closed the door behind them as they took their places. Lim sat next to Chiang while Mo faced her on one of the hand-stitched leather seats.

  ‘Pleasant flight?’ Chiang asked in Chinese as the limousine pulled away.

  ‘Speak English,’ Lim replied, motioned towards Mo. ‘I’m surprised to see you here,’ she continued.

  ‘I’m here for emergency talks on cybersecurity,’ Chiang replied. ‘Ambassador Zhao asked me to brief you on this group—’

  ‘Attack Dog,’ Mo said.

  ‘Yes,’ Chiang nodded.

  ‘What can you tell us?’ Lim asked as the limo cruised along the busy highways of Hong Kong, the late afternoon rush starting to gather pace.

  ‘I can tell you they’re a menace,’ Chiang replied. ‘And they’re well-protected.’

  ‘By who?’ Mo asked.

  ‘Triads,’ Chiang replied, folding his reading glasses and slipping them in the front pocket of his grey blazer.

  ‘Triads?’ Mo said, his right leg jigging at a hundred taps a minute.

  Lim noticed dried flecks of ketchup on the Minister’s yellow and blue polka tie. She’d once been assigned as his personal security on a trip to this very part of the world, back when she was an MSS agent. Lim recalled the sight of Chiang destroying a mountain of ribs at the table of his five-star hotel suite in Paris. The grunting he made as he ate and the smacking of his lips as he sucked the grease off those fat, stubby fingers – the memory was brutally vivid.

  ‘Which gang are we talking?’ Lim asked, shaking off the image.

  Chiang’s gout-tinged face turned solemn. ‘The Kowloon Dragons.’

  Was the Minister concerned for her safety? Unlikely. The man was a politician. As fake as a five-dollar Gucci bag.

  ‘Great,’ Lim said, gazing out of the window.

  ‘Great as in good or great as in bad?’ Mo asked.

  Lim didn’t have the energy to explain the subtleties of sarcasm to Mo. Instead, she gazed out at the skyscrapers rising into view against a backdrop of fertile green mountains.

  The former MSS operative wasn’t a big fan of the island. It was too frenetic for her liking. It was bad for your health. So was having your picture pinned on the most wanted wall of the Hong Kong police department. And then there was the world’s longest escalator, transporting people through a dizzying array of department stores. ‘What’s wrong with using your legs?’ her father would have said, had he still been alive. ‘Legs are meant to climb, not sit on,’ he’d say, whenever she’d complain at the exhausting hikes up the green cliffs of their fishing village home. He’d died climbing those steps, but not before conditioning her to move at every opportunity. Riding around like meat on a conveyor belt seemed wrong.

  But they needn’t worry about traversing the city streets and shopping malls. She and Mo were headed into the heart of Kowloon, the place beyond the skyscrapers and show.

  Making a right turn, the chauffeur brought the Mercedes to a stop between two high-rising buildings. On the right was a modern hotel with a glass façade. On the left, a shabby brown building with a strip of bars, cheap restaurants and convenience stores at its base. The street was gloomy in the shadows of the buildings with a smattering of homeless people investigating a row of overflowing bins.

  ‘This is it,’ Chiang said, glancing at Mo, ‘assuming your coordinates were correct.’

  ‘They’re correct,’ Mo said, peering out of the window. ‘Though I don’t know why Attack Dog would hang in a place like this. They make millions.’

  ‘The criminals who last don’t flaunt their wealth,’ Chiang remarked.

  ‘Then you can’t be that smart,’ Lim sneered. ‘What do you know about the hotel?’ she asked, staring up at the older building, rising fourteen storeys high.

  ‘It’s vacant, owned by a local property magnate,’ Chiang explained. ‘He lets the Dragons run the place as a love nest. Better than leaving it empty. The triads don’t pay rent, and in return, the owner takes a skim off the top.’

  ‘And right across from a business hotel,’ Lim said. ‘Lots of lonely travellers.’

  ‘The police are customers too,’ Chiang continued, as Lim whistled through her teeth.

  The Kowloon Dragons. This was going to be tough. Or impossible, depending on who the triads had stationed inside.

  And then there was Mo. As if it wasn’t enough watching her own back, she had to play bodyguard to the trembling tech with his big Bambi eyes.

  The chauffeur opened the rear door on the passenger side, letting in the sound of warring traffic horns and the smell of fried pork.

  Lim climbed out of the Mercedes while Mo stayed put, clutching his laptop bag close to his chest.

  ‘You coming?’ she asked.

  ‘I think I’m going to stay here,’ he replied.

  Lim reached in and grabbed the German by the strap of his laptop bag. She hauled him to his feet on the road and thanked the driver, rather than Chiang.

  Thanks were wasted on the Minister. He was fulfilling an obligation, nothing more. And the limousine wasted no time in high-tailing it from the kerb.

  Lim glanced around her. The way was clear. She took a firm grip of Mo’s arm and marched him to the pavement.

  The entrance to the old hotel featured a set of metal doors with tinted glass. A security camera sat above the doors, aimed at the point of entry.

  It didn’t take a tech genius like Mo to figure out how it worked, so Lim pushed him towards the doors. ‘Press the button,’ she said, pointing to an intercom panel next to the doors.

  Mo was like a four-year-old on his first day at school. ‘What, me?’

  ‘Just do it,’ Lim said, hiding against the wall, out of sight of the camera.

  Mo walked towards the doors and turned. ‘What do I say?’

  Lim gave him the Chinese phrase for an hour with a girl. He pushed the button, waited and jumped at the loud crackle of a reply.

  ‘Yes?’ a terse voice asked.

  Mo repeated the given phrase. There was a pause. Lim psyched herself up for the mission. She could always turn around and disappear. The Chinese government had even gone to the trouble of building a thirty-four-mile sea bridge to the mainland. It would be so easy melt back into a two-billion population. If she was going to do it, now was the time. But her fe
et stayed welded to the spot and the door buzzed loud.

  As Mo pushed his way inside, Lim cursed her own stupidity and hurried in behind.

  Chapter 26

  Western Saudi Arabia

  The sun was almost blinding. The hood removed from her head. Driver swayed on stiff knees, blinking spots from her eyes in the ferocious heat of the Saudi desert. She’d felt the Shogun roll to a stop and heard the crunch of fine dirt under its wheels. The men inside the Mitsubishi had bundled her out and marched her ten paces before feeling it safe to reveal her surroundings.

  As Driver got her bearings, a swirl of sand left its taste on her tongue.

  The land was vast and flat. Desert and dunes for miles around. Except, that was, for the complex in front of her. A rusting, sun-bleached sign on a wire fence announced the presence of a provincial jail. An old and abandoned one by the looks of things – a crumbling stone building with two upper floors of barred windows.

  Wrapped in wire fencing, it made the ideal makeshift forwarding base for Kovac and his crew. Though why he was all the way out here still baffled her.

  Behind the small prison complex ran a shock of trees and vegetation. Impossibly green when contrasted against the giant slab of burnt-orange rock behind. It was clear to see why the builders of the jail had chosen this particular spot for its construction.

  As Driver turned to look around her, she noticed it was a good few miles at least back to the highway. And as the sloping rock stood firm against the blue sky, it cast the prison in shadow, offering much-needed respite from the sun. To the plant-life at the foot of the rock, and the prison guards who used to work here.

  As she took in her surroundings, Driver’s personal escort pushed her on through a steel gate.

  In the shade of the jail walls, an Alsatian barked and pulled at the chain around its neck, front paws in mid-air as it tried to get at her. Driver ignored the dog and walked among the men through a door-shaped hole in the wall. The old jail was well-staffed with guards of a decidedly Caucasian persuasion. Each came armed like her escort, with P12’s, Viper Nine’s weapon of choice. Had Kovac bought in bulk for a discount?