Red Notice

91

Vatu neared Coach Four and peered through the glass door into the buffet car.

Delphine was gagged and duct-taped on the counter. As soon as she saw him, she made frantic attempts to free herself, moaning and twisting, bucking and shaking her head, but the tape was so tight she barely moved.

Vatu had a job to do — to keep moving and take down whoever and whatever was in his way. Once he’d sorted that, once the attack was going in, he’d come back and sort Tom’s girl. She looked like shit, but she was breathing. She wasn’t bleeding. She was alive.

If it was a trap, he’d soon find out. And then the South Ossetians really would have the mother of all battles on their hands.

Delphine watched in desperation as Vatu piled through the door and the liquid on the floor splashed across the tops of his boots. There was a blinding flash. Sparks flew from the barrel of his Sig and the weapon fell from his hand as if a lightning bolt had erupted from inside his body. He crashed to the ground, collapsing into Laszlo’s supercharged cocktail. His huge, friendly body convulsed and twitched. Smoke streamed from the wiry hair beneath his hood.

Insulated by the counter, Delphine was numb with shock. Stock still, she stared in horror. This was the first time she’d seen a human die. And he’d died horrifically, in excruciating pain. This wonderful, generous, invincible giant of a man had been transformed in the space of a few seconds into a smouldering corpse.

The rest of Blue team were close behind. Jockey got straight on the net. ‘All call-signs, go! Go! Go! All call-signs, go! Go! Go!’

Blue Seven made a lunge for the nylon-webbing grab-handle on the back of Vatu’s body armour and tried to pull him back. The call-signs in the middle of the carriage dived to the right and slammed their axes into the windows, pushed their way through the large frosted panes and spilled down onto the track. The rest of the call-signs joined them, covered with glass sequins, pistols pointing forwards as they ran towards their entry points.

Keenan sprinted along the tunnel, ignoring the carriages on his left, not caring if there was fire or movement coming from the human shields within. His job now was to get forward and take out the PKM position.

He heard a couple of double taps from one of the team’s Sigs. They must be taking incoming. He’d heard no shots. Laszlo’s crew must have suppressed weapons. He heard more glass smashing as the assault groups started to swarm into their target carriages. He stopped short of the engine as a long burst of heavy-calibre fire streamed towards him.

The first rounds ricocheted off the front of the train. Green tracer tumbled and bounced from about a hundred and fifty metres further down the tunnel. The whole area filled with the sound of gunfire and the screech of brass on steel.

Keenan hit the floor, trying to use the PKM’s muzzle-flash to get a sight picture onto the gunner.