The Darkest Day

FIFTY-NINE

It was a big, old-model vehicle with a white cab and a long articulated bed that rested on eight wheels. The bed had been filled by a single intermodal shipping container. There were some seventeen million such containers in the world. This one was painted blue, but faded and marked over long years of use. Victor had never seen two tons of plastic explosives before, but he didn’t have to look inside the container to know they were there. He could only imagine the devastation it would cause.

A noise alerted him to an approaching figure before he had come into view. The slow, shuffling footsteps told him it was a man, and that he was bored or tired. Not alert. Vulnerable.

Victor switched the UMP to his left hand and held it down by his hip, by the barrel, while he drew the fillet knife into his right fist. He stood with his back to the wall of the building and his right shoulder at the corner. He had his knife in a downward grip, positioned close to his left shoulder, arm across his chest.

He shut his eyes to better concentrate on the sound of the footsteps, as they grew louder, nearer, until they were near enough for —

Victor to snap out his hand through a fast one hundred and eighty degree arc until his arm was perpendicular to his body.

A gasp.

The resistance the knifepoint met told him he had stabbed the man in the chest, through the ribs, before he had turned to see.

He released the knife while the man was still gasping, pivoted, and swung the UMP, striking the man in the face with the weapon’s stock and taking him from his feet.

He hit the ground, unconscious. He was never going to wake up.

Victor switched the UMP into a firing position and surveyed the area for others. No one in sight. No one in hearing range.

‘We’re good,’ Raven said.

He knelt and kept the gun in a one-handed shooting grip while he worked the knife free with his left hand. It took some effort; the knife was buried up to the hilt. Victor wiped the blood from the blade on the man’s jacket. Gaze still searching for enemies, he patted the man down, recognising the feel of a wallet, car keys and phone but ignoring them all. He was checking only for items that might help him in his mission. He was here to kill, nothing more.

He tucked the man’s handgun into his waistband. There was no such thing as too many guns.

Raven was looking at the truck.

‘What are you waiting for?’ Victor whispered. ‘Hot-wire it and go.’

‘They’ll have other, faster, vehicles. I’ll never make it out of the airfield.’

‘Then you’d better help me, hadn’t you?’

Her eyes narrowed at him and he kept to the wall and the shadows as they passed between the buildings. He heard laughter and sounds of merriment coming from an open window on the second floor. They were relaxed and unprepared. He noted the location on the map inside his mind and moved on. If he could catch them while they were still in the room, he could take out half the opposition in a matter of seconds.

Light up ahead framed a closed door.

Victor gestured for Raven to halt and he approached, careful and quiet. He heard noise from inside. It sounded like someone cooking; he could hear the hiss of steam and the clang of pans.

The door opened to the left, so Victor stood on that side of the doorframe and rapped on the door with his knuckles three gentle times.

It was enough to gain the curiosity of the person inside, who came to the door and opened it wide enough that the outside handle touched Victor’s stomach.

He saw the man’s shadow on the ground and the head turning in confusion.

Victor watched the shadow change and the door begin to close.

He stepped out and around it, grabbed the man’s outstretched arm that was trailing behind him to pull the door shut as he was turning away, and yanked him backwards.

The man fell, knocking open the door, and crashing to the ground outside of it.

Victor leapt on him while he was still prone and shocked, going into full mount with his knees tucked against the man’s armpits, and forcing the stock of the UMP against the man’s throat. He pushed down with all the strength of his arms and back. The man gasped and spluttered and suffocated below him.

Three down without discovery had been Victor’s minimum assessment for operational success if they were going up against six. Which meant there were still at least three alive and armed if Halleck had sent ten men to FDR Drive, but there could be up to eight more if Halleck had dispatched fewer. If Halleck hadn’t fallen for their deception there would be even more.

If Halleck had not fallen for the ruse and all thirteen remaining men were here, then things would get messy.

They entered the kitchen. The building had long fallen into disrepair. Cracks ran through the plaster. Paint was chipped. Wood had warped. Tiles were cracked. The dead guy had been preparing the evening meal for the others. Before he reached the exit, he switched off the stove as he went. The ragu sauce was starting to boil and stick to the pan.

They passed through the kitchen to a corridor. One by one, he cleared the adjoining rooms, fast, easing open each door and then charging in, sweeping with the UMP from left to right, Raven following a step behind and sweeping right to left.

Ahead was a doorway. Peeling paint covered the doorframe. Empty hinges were all that was left of the door itself. On the other side of the doorway the paint and plaster on the walls was cracked and chipped and had fallen or been pulled away in large chunks. Exposed wires ran around the walls where skirting boards had once been. The room was empty. It appeared to have been an office space or a dormitory for pilots from the days when there were no night flights. An open door on the south wall led to a small toilet.

Another open door led to a room of similar size that occupied the building’s southwest corner. The walls in here had been stripped of their plaster, exposing bare brick and vertical wooden runners. Black-and-white tiles had once covered the floor, but now the black tiles were grey and the white tiles had turned yellow with dust and grime. Some had become loose. Others were missing.

Beyond the room was a corridor and a staircase that led both up and down. Victor had no desire to leave areas behind him unchecked for threats, but clearing it would burn time they didn’t have. Each passing second increased the chances of being discovered — either them or the corpses — and enemies were unlikely to be in the basement. It was a risk, but most plans were based on compromise, and most fell apart when the first round was fired.

So far, no rounds had been fired.

The plan was working.