Viper Nine Read online

  ‘And what about me?’ Pope said, as the team disbanded.

  ‘Stand there and look pretty,’ Rios replied, looking him up and down. ‘Well, just stand there.’

  Hurrying out of the main building, Wells stepped out into the boom and blast of armed combat. He spied the two-seater FAV buggy on the other side of the fence, with its camouflage bodywork and fat, monster tyres.

  Wells also spotted a perimeter gate left open a short sprint away, so he turned to Rios, pointing out the FAV. ‘On three.’

  ‘Three,’ Rios replied, rushing past Wells and sprinting through the door. He followed fast, head down through shrapnel bursts and a nearby fuel barrel exploding into the air.

  The Latina led the way through the gate in the fence and jumped in the driver’s seat of the parked-up buggy.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Wells asked, sliding into the passenger seat.

  ‘What does it look like?’ Rios replied, snatching a dangling set of keys off the rear view mirror.

  ‘I’ve never seen you drive,’ Wells replied.

  She jammed the key in the ignition and revved the engine. ‘That’s ’cause no one lets me.’

  Rios floored the accelerator and span the rear wheels of the buggy, kicking up a wave of sand and shale. Wells’ head snapped back as it took off like a rocket, swerving off across the desert floor. They outpaced a round of machine gun fire from the invading forces, the Mexican not one for braking.

  Instead, she drifted the buggy across a stretch of sand, with all four wheels catching air off a dune.

  Wells held on as the buggy landed with a shunt and slid sideways onto a dirt road. ‘Girl, you can drive.’

  Rios nodded in agreement.

  ‘Surprised you volunteered,’ the British agent yelled over the road noise.

  ‘Why?’ she replied.

  ‘Didn’t think you were the volunteering type.’

  Rios glanced sideways. ‘You’ve got trust issues.’

  ‘Yeah, I’m starting to get that,’ Wells said.

  ‘Besides,’ Rios continued. ‘Blondie could have left me behind in Rome… She didn’t.’ Rios steered on opposite lock as they drifted off the dirt road onto the highway. They blasted ahead at seventy, eighty, ninety… ‘Now let’s get this hating motherfucker,’ Rios yelled over the roar of wheels and wind.

  Wells nodded, the feeling mutual.

  * * *

  Lim ran out of the main building with the GPS nano-tracker in hand. She took cover in the entrance as bullets punctured the steel door.

  A gun-metal grey Huey had landed off to the right on an even patch of land. The markings were Russian, doubtless slapped on for the sake of the raid, with a pilot behind the controls, alone and prone.

  ‘I must be an idiot,’ she muttered to herself, readying herself for the sprint to the idling helicopter.

  Pulling her rifle over her head, she threw it to the ground and drew her pistol from her side holster. Lim took a breath, spun out into the open and ran at pace across the courtyard of the jail.

  An invading Russian soldier in a blue beret turned his rifle on her as he entered the compound. She shot him in the thigh, knocking him down to a knee.

  One of Kovac’s units to her left saw it as an opportunity, taking aim at the special forces soldier. The former MSS agent tilted her pistol sideways. She fired on the run, flooring the man with a round to the base of his throat.

  With the Russian soldier saved, Lim refocused on the chopper, ducking low in the swirl of sand and flak. She moved fast around the rear of the helicopter, approaching on the pilot’s blindside.

  Hopping up into the open cabin, Lim had her pistol to the pilot’s head before he even saw her. She dragged him out through the rear, knocked him out cold on the back of the neck and booted him out of the Huey.

  Lim slid into the pilot’s seat and scanned the cockpit, with sticky labels slapped all over the control panel in Russian. The language wasn’t a problem. Her lack of recent experience behind the controls was.

  She gripped the stick and it started to come back, but she sensed a presence behind her. A man, armed. Lim whirled around in her seat, her pistol raised.

  ‘Don’t bloody shoot,’ Pope said in surrender. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Stealing a helicopter. What are you doing?’

  ‘Feeling left out,’ Pope replied. ‘That’s what.’

  ‘Then make yourself useful,’ Lim said, tossing Pope the tracking device.

  He caught it and climbed into the cockpit alongside her, turning the tracker over in his hand. ‘What’s this do?’

  ‘It’s linked to Driver’s blood,’ Lim said, pulling on the stick and easing the Huey off the ground. ‘We’re going after her.’

  ‘We are?’ Pope asked, as the helicopter rose ten feet in the air. ‘The same Driver who’s sitting on a big fat nuke?’

  ‘If you want off this ride, now’s the time,’ Lim replied, struggling to balance rising with turning.

  Pope peered out at the growing drop and the ensuing firefight. ‘Nah, think I’ll give it a miss.’

  Finally getting a handle on the controls, Lim pulled up and sideways over the battle ground.

  A stray hollow-point pin-balled in off the cockpit walls, missing a flinching Pope by an inch. ‘I’m not getting paid enough for this,’ he complained.

  Lim rolled her eyes as she accelerated away from the compound. He wasn’t getting paid enough? Please.

  Chapter 48

  The FAV chewed up the highway and spat it out like undercooked rice. With the speedometer touching a hundred, Wells pointed out the sight of a military truck in the far distance.

  It grew fast in the windscreen. The truck was doubtless driven at its top speed, but nowhere near as fast as the buggy was capable of.

  As Rios brought the FAV in behind the truck, he shifted up in his seat, a hand on the central roll bar.

  ‘Bring it in close,’ he yelled over the roar of the road.

  ‘Why not shoot out the fuel tank?’ Rios shouted back.

  ‘Too risky,’ Wells answered, planting a foot on the edge of his seat. ‘We need the tablet in one piece.’

  ‘Why does life have to be so complicated?’ Rios wanted to know, bringing the buggy alongside the left-hand side of the truck.

  Why indeed, Wells thought, as he considered the rush of tarmac below. Poised ready to jump, he waved Rios in closer. As she swung the FAV in, he made the leap.

  The truck swerved right and he missed a clean landing. But caught hold of a buckle strap holding the canopy in place. The hard rubber soles of his boots kicked off the road as he struggled for grip, swinging too close for comfort to the rear tyre.

  Down to one hand, Wells pulled himself back in and got a firm grip. A foothold on the bed of the truck saw him stand tight to the edge of the canopy. With serious difficulty, the British agent hauled himself up and onto the roof.

  He spun himself around on his belly, drew his sidearm and made his way towards the back of the truck.

  * * *

  Kovac saw the desert vehicle coming too late. It was alongside the truck in a flash, the British agent in the passenger seat one minute, gone the next.

  ‘Where did he go?’ the Serb asked the man behind the wheel. ‘Did you see?’

  ‘On the roof,’ the driver replied.

  ‘Well shake him off,’ Kovac said, reaching across the cabin and pulling the wheel.

  He turned to find a ponderous Graf sitting on his enormous rear like a useless lump of meat. ‘Get up there!’.

  The German was reluctant, but rose to his feet. None too keen to climb up onto the roof of a fast-moving truck. Still, he obeyed, moving to the rear of the trailer and climbing up.

  ‘How far?’ Kovac asked Jana as he pulled his Beretta from his hip.

  Jana glanced up from her tablet. ‘Not long now.’

  * * *

  Wells crawled like a lizard over a rock towards the rear of the canopy. Yet Kovac wasn’t a man who made things
easy. A shock of white-blonde hair appeared in his line of sight, followed by the pug-like features of Otto Graf.

  Wells raised his weapon, yet the truck swerved suddenly. He dropped the gun out of instinct to get a grip of the canopy. The pistol slid away. And Graf was up on the roof, blocking his path.

  The German pulled himself onto the canopy with bionic-like arms and reached for his SIG-Sauer. Wells spun around on his back and kicked it from his grip. Graf caught his ankle and dragged him in closer. He replied with the other boot. A kick to the face. The German took it and launched himself forward, pinning the smaller Wells to the deck.

  He held the weight of Graf at bay, but took a left to the jaw. Wells shook it off and fired the flat of his palm into the big man’s throat. The German coughed, unable to breathe. Wells rolled him over and reached for a knife on his belt. But the truck swerved to the left, attempting to run Rios off the road.

  It threw the British agent across the rooftop, scrambling for grip. He caught hold of the canopy again as Graf recovered his breath.

  Rolling back onto the roof, he put a hand on the smooth carbon grip of his knife and pulled it clear of its sheath. He crawled towards the German, buffeted by wind. Yet Graf had a serrated blade of his own, and time was fast running out.

  * * *

  Driver fought again to turn the wheel. It moved an inch or two, but only of its own accord, following the curvature of the road.

  Again she consulted the GPS screen. It offered no clue where the truck was heading, other than a pulsing blue dot at the end of a long, long line of highway.

  A line of sweat slid off from Driver’s brow and dripped into her lap. The sun was rising higher, growing fiercer in an azure-blue sky. It blazed through the windscreen, robbing her still-foggy mind of any clear thinking and cooking her organs alive. She felt the perspiration under her palms. It welded her skin like glue to the hard rubber of the giant steering wheel. She stamped again on the brake with her bound feet, but to no avail.

  Yet at last there were highway signs up ahead. They marked out different destinations, each relating to a lane in the highway. Driver blinked the sweat from her eyes and squinted into the blinding glare of the sun.

  The signs were a dark green and written in Arabic. Her brain struggled to switch languages with its usual seamless ease. The truck switched lanes and Driver missed the sign as it rushed overhead.

  The truck changed down as it rumbled up an incline. Driver focused on the crest of the hill in the near distance. As the truck neared the top of the rise, a sprawling city appeared out of thin air, walled off by a vast, dark range of mountains.

  Driver looked up at the next overhead sign as the truck rolled down the other side of the hill. It said Mecca, host to millions of innocents making their pilgrimage to the epicentre of the city.

  She looked across at the warhead and estimated the distance to the city. The device was timed to detonate on arrival.

  Suddenly, Kovac’s plan became clear.

  Chapter 49

  The truck swung to the left, shunting the FAV off the highway onto the opposite side of the road. She turned out of the path of an oncoming fruit truck and slid in behind Kovac’s military transporter.

  Flooring the pedal, Rios accelerated along the right-hand side, only to take another hit. The buggy hit the hard shoulder, carpeted thick with windswept sand. She wrestled with the steering as the buggy slid sideways at sixty, snaking back onto the highway.

  The Mexican spat out a mouthful of dust and rubbed the grit from her eye.

  ‘Fuck this,’ she said, braking as the truck swerved again.

  Dropping back once again, Rios pulled left and took a wide arc as she sped ahead of the truck.

  With a sharp turn of the wheel and using her mirrors as a gauge, the buggy slid back in,. Rios dabbed the brakes and slowed the buggy from eighty to fifty, the front of the truck ramming the chassis from behind.

  The two vehicles stuck fast with the rear end wedged under the front bumper of the truck. She spun out of her seat, hopped onto the back of the buggy and up onto the grill of the transporter.

  Kovac was in the passenger seat and quick to fire through the windscreen. But Rios was quicker, bullets at her heels as she hit the roof of the cab and threw herself onto the trailer canopy.

  Scrambling onto all fours, she saw Wells and Graf ahead of her. The German winning their personal battle, pinning the Brit down by the throat by the edge of the roof.

  Rios crawled fast across the roof. She drew her pistol and slid it across the canopy to Wells. But Graf beat him to it, the first to grab hold of the weapon.

  She cursed her stupidity – should have put a bullet in the guy herself. But no time for regrets, Rios whipped her combat knife from her belt and stabbed the blade in the hard-woven fabric of the canopy. She left Wells to wrestle Graf for the gun, slashing an X in the roof.

  Tucking her elbows in, Rios gripped the blade between her teeth and dropped through the hole.

  She landed in a low squat in the rear of the truck.

  Kovac turned in his seat, fired and missed. Rios snatched the knife from her mouth and hurled it across the truck. It stuck in the Serb’s shoulder as he moved to fire once more.

  Kovac dropped the gun and fell back into his seat. That left Jana, tablet in hand. She dove for the spilled firearm, but appeared a stranger to a gun. She fumbled to take aim in Rios’ direction.

  The Mexican agent stepped forward. ‘Bitch, please.’

  A swipe of the hand knocked the pistol from the girl’s grip. A hard left to Jana’s jaw put her on her back, the tablet caught in Rios’ other hand as the hacker flopped to the deck.

  Rios flipped the tablet around in her hand, the truck swaying left and right. She scanned the screen – a live feed of Driver behind the wheel and a slider control to disable the self-drive function on the automated box truck.

  With a swipe of an index finger, Rios disabled self-drive function. ‘Huh, that was easy,’ she said.

  * * *

  Realising her efforts were in vain, Driver gave up and slumped forward in her seat. Her arms weighed as heavy as the fate of the millions gathering for Hajj did on her conscience.

  Meanwhile, the city of Mecca loomed larger on the horizon, the highway plugged straight into the heart of the sprawling metropolis.

  It was clear to Driver why Kovac had chosen it as the first step in his campaign of hate. If the hacks were the launch pad for the Serb’s plans, an attack on Mecca would be the catalyst for a retaliation of terror. That, in turn, would spark the spread of further right-wing extremism.

  Had Viper Nine consolidated its grip, it would have been the step one in a series of power-plays intended to establish Kovac on a new Aryan throne.

  Now, it would be his consolation prize – the ratcheting of tensions and a fertile ground for a second coming.

  From her brief time in his company, Driver felt sure the man would not give up so easy. He was a disciple of Molevchek’s. A true believer who would live to fight another day in a world where society’s fault lines would crack wide open and an all-out race war erupt. Meanwhile, she would be the one at the wheel as the truck delivered its megaton payload to the people he hated most.

  Futile as her exertions were, the very idea of it gave her an extra surge in strength. Again she pulled left and right on the wheel, the tape digging deep into her wrists and every small movement exhausting in the crushing heat.

  Yet to her surprise, the wheel moved, the truck swerving right across the highway. It continued to roll downhill, but the accelerator was no longer depressed. And the brake pedal operational. She stepped on the brake with both feet, bound tight together. The truck creaked and changed down, the gearbox automatic.

  Driver let out a shriek of relief, ‘Yes, yes, yes! Come on!’

  Looking for a place to turn, she saw an opportunity ahead. A gap in the barrier. She could make a right, spin the truck around and steer it back up the hill away from Mecca.

  D
river didn’t know how it was happening. A fault in the system? A faltering computer chip? Divine intervention? She had no idea and didn’t care a damn.

  * * *

  Wells pushed the heavyweight Graf off him with a boot. He struggled to his feet with the gun. It was useless, emptied of rounds as the pair fought for control. He tossed it away – they were down to fists now. Or so Wells thought. Graf pulled a Velcro strap from his ankle and produced a second, smaller knife.

  As they both rose upright on the roof of the truck, the German lunged forward with a giant swipe.

  Wells arched his back, sucked in his gut and hopped clear of the knife. The blade cut a rip in his T-shirt. A stinging kiss to the abdomen where the tip barely touched the skin. Wells rocked back on his feels, close to falling off the rear of the truck.

  He wobbled for balance as Graf advanced.

  The German had the edge, but had to be careful himself. One false move for either of them and they’d be hitting the road and bouncing under the giant, bone-crushing wheels of the truck.

  Wells bent at the knees in a half-crouch. Graf swiped again with a fierce grin. The arsehole was enjoying himself.

  Forced further back, Wells’ boot heels teetered on the edge. The psychotic German would settle for a walk-the-plank tumble to the highway. But he’d forgotten about one thing – the English rugby tackle.

  As Graf swiped and missed, Wells ducked low and drove forward. He hit the German low around the waist and tackled him to the canopy.

  They fell through the hole made by Rios and landed hard on the steel floor of the trailer. The knife spilled. Wells felt numb with shock from the fall. Graf struggled with the same. The pair rolled slow onto their sides, like heavyweight boxers who’d connected with each other’s jaws at the same time.

  It was a race onto their feet, to recover the knife. The slowest race on record, Wells getting his bearings and seeing Jana on the floor, Rios with the tablet and Kovac pulling a blade from his shoulder.