Action: Pulse Pounding Tales Volume 2

BONUS TALE
SUITED AND BOOTED by Matt Hilton

2008, Iran/Pakistan Border

A breeze plucked dust from the desert; throwing grit into the eyes of the man lying prone in a ditch he’d dug with his bare hands. He’d concealed himself beneath a camouflaged tarpaulin alongside his HALO jump gear and parachute, leaving only room through which to peer out. Dirk Ramm, a Specialized Skills Officer of the CIA Special Operations Group, squinted against the sandblasting, crunching down on a grain that caught between his teeth. He tasted silicone. He pushed the grit from his mouth with the tip of his tongue. It would have been simpler to spit it out, but he daren’t make a sound.

Four men were seated on the ground little more than twenty yards from Ramm, using their jeep to shield them from the scouring wind. They couldn’t see him where he hid, but they might hear the clearing of his throat. The men had propped their weapons – Russian AK-47 assault rifles – against the jeep, in easy reach. They’d pulled their headscarves around their hawkish faces. One of them had lit a hand-rolled cigarette and was drawing on it, almost in defiance of the wind. From where he lay watching them, their observer could smell the camel dung fragrance of the tobacco. Then again, the men didn’t smell much different.

The quartet of men had parked their vehicle off road, hidden from the traffic on Road 95 by the convolutions of the earth, after driving there from Zahedan during the night. In Arabic the city derived its name from the plural for “pious”. None of the four men could claim as much. They were Taliban fighters, an Iran based splinter cell of terrorists and murderers. They were in a shallow depression, almost like a natural cauldron between the foothills, barely two miles from where the converging borders of Afghanistan and Pakistan made a spearhead wedge into eastern Iran.

It would have been so simple to kill them. They were unaware of Ramm’s presence, and he could erupt from his hiding place and be among them within seconds, definitely before any of them could bring their guns to bear. But killing them wasn’t why he was there. Sure, they’d die if he had his way. But not before they made the rendezvous and brought his real targets within range. For now he had to wait, let them enjoy their rough jokes, their stinking cigarettes, and he’d put them in a hole afterwards.

Traffic was light on the highway. Occasionally a car would skim by, heading to Zahedan twenty or so miles to the south, or to Zabol or Birjand north of there. Trucks were few, but the roar of diesel engines did resonate the air on a few occasions. Ramm zoned out those sounds, listening for a different type of transportation. He had to wait another ten minutes before the rhythmic chop of rotors brought two of the squatting men to their feet. They passed rifles to their two friends, before picking up their own AK-47s. They didn’t appear alarmed: carrying the guns was all for show.

The breeze that had earlier scuffed the dirt from the nearby hills had dropped. But a fresh barrage of wind-tossed grit assaulted Ramm’s eyes and mouth, as a helicopter swooped in overhead, its downwash setting zephyrs to dance. He stayed low, fully pulling the tarpaulin over him, but more to ensure he wasn’t spotted by any of those on the helicopter than to protect his face. His camouflage sheet, sprinkled over with earth, would conceal him from ordinary view, but if the chopper came equipped with a FLIR camera they’d make out his heat signature if he allowed any of it to leak out. He had to consider that those in the helicopter could be alert to surveillance, the reason he’d brought a sheet lined with tinfoil.

Ramm listened to the pitch of the engine change, and knew that the chopper was hovering a short distance beyond where the Taliban fighters had parked their jeep. They’d made themselves busy earlier, rolling away some of the larger stones that dotted the landscape to form a clear landing zone. The downwash from the rotors kicked up a furious cloud of debris that pattered over Ramm’s shroud before the helicopter touched down. Only when he was positive it was on the ground did he push back the folds covering his face.

Greetings were called in Arabic. Ramm didn’t understand what was said, but then he didn’t need to. Their tone told him that the newcomers were friends of the terrorists. He edged forward a few inches so that he had a clearer view of where the Taliban met with the new arrivals. Two men had alighted from the helicopter, and though they wore clothing not dissimilar to the local men, theirs were cleaner and of better quality. The scarves they wore around their faces could not conceal their occidental colouring or paler eyes. These men weren’t Iranians, but Russians.

Still Ramm didn’t show himself.

He waited.

After certain protocols were satisfied on both sides, one of the newcomers went back to the helicopter. A third white man stood in the open doorway, and he swung down a large brown case to his colleague. The man returned with it to the small grouping of men, who beckoned him to the jeep. He placed the case on the hood. One of the Iranian’s – obviously the leader of their small cell – moved to unclasp the case, but the Russian held up a hand and placed it against the Iranian’s chest. His warning was too low to be heard, but the Iranian nodded and took a short step back. The Russian then laid his hands delicately on the locks, and it was apparent that there was a safety routine to be obeyed in opening the booby-trapped case.

A pale green wash of light lit the faces of the men clustered around the case. The lead Iranian offered the flash of tobacco-stained teeth and sealed a deal. One of the Taliban fighters who’d stayed by the jeep leaned inside and pulled out a smaller attaché-type case. Ramm doubted that the case would contain money: any monetary deals carried out here would require more hard cash than the small attaché could contain. The Russian locked the case, and left it sitting on the hood. He held out a palm and the attaché was passed to him.

That was all that Ramm had been waiting for. He pushed up from beneath the tarp, shedding dirt as he lunged across the intervening space. From lying prone to being among the men was a matter of less than three seconds. It took almost two seconds for any of the men to register his sudden appearance, another second to process it, and a second or so more to lift a weapon. But already Ramm’s knife had driven in twice, and two of the Taliban fighters fell with their ribcages punctured, the blade having angled in to pierce their lungs and hearts.

Shock.

Abruptness.

Devastation.

All were factors that Ramm relied on in his attack.

Yet his surprise assault would be countered very rapidly. Two Taliban, three Russians, and even the helicopter crew remained uninjured, and heavily armed. Had Ramm employed his gun he’d have invited immediate return fire, and would have probably been pinned down much sooner. As it was, the first counter attack came rapidly, and a gunshot cracked so close to his head that the sound was painful. But Ramm had dodged and the round missed its mark and ricocheted off the jeep instead of his cranium. Ramm rolled, then vaulted off the floor feet first into one of the Russians. His pistoning legs lifted the man, threw him ten feet through the air. Before the man ever hit ground, Ramm was once more back on his feet, and with sense-defying speed he pivoted and kicked the legs from under one of the Taliban. The man went down on his back, but his finger was squeezing the trigger of his assault rifle. Rounds seared the air, and stitched a ragged pattern up Ramm’s chest. The impacts staggered him, but he snarled in defiance and stamped down on the man’s stomach with enough savagery that innards threatened to push from the man’s every orifice. He batted away the rifle barrel, then drove his knife into the man’s throat, pinning him to the gritty earth. Ramm left the blade in situ.

Discounting the man in the doorway of the helicopter, there was still an Iranian and a Russian standing. Both men were those that had laid claim to the respective cases. The Taliban leader grabbed the large brown case to drag it off the jeep’s hood. The Russian ran for the helicopter with the attaché. For now, Ramm ignored the Iranian, confident that the man would be unable to escape him. But if the Russian reached the helicopter and it took off, then he’d be out of Ramm’s reach. For all that his skills and physicality sometimes defied logic, he had his limitations: he couldn’t fly.

Ramm raced after the man, as fast as when he’d sprung from concealment. The man whom he’d kicked through the air was no threat. He lay on his back, squirming in the dirt, his spine shattered from the twin impacts of the kick and subsequent fall to the rocky ground. Ramm jumped over him and caught the running man. He didn’t go for any form of subtlety: he struck a pile-driving elbow strike to the fleeing man’s back, buckling him in half, but never in a fashion the human spine was designed to bend. The man tumbled across the gritty earth, throwing up dust clouds. The attaché case flew from his unresponsive hand. Ramm dipped low: economy of motion, picking up the dropped case, while avoiding the bullets fired at him by the third Russian who was retreating into the chopper.

The pilot was feverish as he got the helicopter in motion. It began to lift off the ground. One yard, two yards, rising quickly. Ramm met the third Russian’s self-satisfied gaze. No way he could allow the man to leave. He leaped and got his free hand on the lip of the open door. Over him the Russian stood, his legs braced against the pitch of the chopper, his gun held with both hands. Ramm’s shoulders spasmed at the repeated impact of bullets flattening against them. Agonized but not willing to give up, he weathered the pain, and hauled himself into the passenger compartment. The Russian wasn’t as satisfied now…more stunned. He staggered back, glancing once in incredulity at his gun. Then something clicked in as Ramm rose up before him, and he swung the pistol up and fired directly at Ramm’s face.

A red flash of pain shrieked through Ramm’s skull and he almost pitched out the open doorway. Almost. Grimacing, he wiped at his scoured cheek with the back of his free hand and flicked a glob of blood across the floor. Now the Russian was incredulous. Had Ramm actually dodged a bullet?

‘Who…what in God’s name are you?’ Spittle flecked the Russian’s chin as he spoke in accented English.

‘I’m the Battering Ram. Perhaps you’ve heard my name and have learned to fear it? I’m the one who’s going to stop you murdering any more innocent civilians,’ Ramm said, holding the attaché case out by his side. ‘This will not fall into any filthy Bratva hands now.’

The Russian shook his head adamantly. ‘No, I will take it from you. I will kill you. You can’t be bulletproof. You’ve been lucky that’s all.’ He aimed the gun at Ramm’s chest and pulled the trigger. ‘Now die!’

A bullet struck Ramm dead centre.

He took the impact with a simple bracing of his feet.

‘Think again, scum ball,’ Ramm said, a vibration of rage passing through him. He whipped out his own pistol and put a round low in the Russian’s gut.

Gasping, the Russian fell against the compartment wall.

Ramm gave a crooked smile. He could have stopped the man’s heart with a well-aimed shot but he had something else in mind for him. The mobster must suffer, the way all murderous Red Mafia soldiers of the “brotherhood” should suffer. He should experience similar terror to that Ramm’s family had endured when the Bratva slew them simply for being blood kin to the Battering Ram, their deadliest foe.

Ramm swung the attaché case. The gun flew from the Russian’s broken fingers. Then Ramm was upon him. The man hollered, his voice tinged with both pain and fear. His scream didn’t curtail as Ramm hauled him out the open doorway and dropped him kicking and flailing to the ground now hundreds of feet below. Corresponding shouts of alarm came from the pilot and his co-pilot who twisted in his seat, a gun levelled at Ramm.

Bullets punched through the fuselage of the helicopter.

But they didn’t come from the co-pilot’s firearm.

On the ground the Taliban leader shouted curses as he fired indiscriminately at the craft. Ramm ignored him for a moment longer. He stopped and picked up the Russian’s dropped gun. It felt light, almost depleted of bullets, but plenty remained in his. As the co-pilot fired, then so did Ramm, his two guns exploding simultaneously. Ramm’s shoulder jerked at the almost point-blank impacts, but his aim remained steady enough and he shot the co-pilot a double-tap in the chest. The man slumped, blood trickling over the back of his chair.

The pilot wasn’t armed. He was concerned with holding the chopper steady, but also cast around for the co-pilot’s weapon. Killing him in cold blood went against the grain, but no witness could be allowed escape. Ramm put away his gun, giving the man an opportunity to arm himself, holding the Russian gun down by his side. With a cry, the pilot grabbed up the dropped pistol from his friend’s side and twisted to confront Ramm. Ramm brought up the gun, squeezed the trigger and blood spattered the cockpit. The slide locked back, the ammunition gone. A moan broke from the pilot, as he struggled with the controls. Not dead. Ramm turned the gun in his hand and brought the butt down on the man’s nape and the pilot folded over the controls. And the world turned on its axis as the chopper nosedived for the ground.

It was doubtful that the pilot would recover before the helicopter pitched into the earth, but Ramm wasn’t taking any chances. He leaned over the man, dropped the empty pistol and braced himself against the pilot’s seat while he again withdrew his own pistol. He emptied the magazine into the instrument panel. Sparks popped and fizzed from the burnt out controls.

Wind screeched through the passenger compartment, buffeting Ramm. The turbine made a similar wail as it sliced air. The helicopter was a dying beast, but as seemingly immune to bullets as Ramm proved, he wouldn’t survive an evisceration when it struck ground. Clutching the attaché case to his chest, he struggled uphill to the open door. One hand on the fuselage, his eyelids flickering against the blast of winds, he waited. The rocky ground rushed at him.

Three seconds from impact, Ramm jumped. He experienced a moment of weightlessness as he arced through space. His next sensation proved agonizing. He bent at the knees to soften the landing, but he’d travelled almost thirty feet and most of it downwards. He felt a shattering glass impact in his shinbones and he crumpled, and rolled, arms and misaligned legs flailing. The attaché case was lost momentarily in the plume of dust behind him. Ramm’s chin furrowed the rocky earth like a plow.

The eruption of the helicopter blasted hot wind over him. Metal shards tinkled around him, smoking hot. The stench of aviation fuel made him gag. Something massive and deadly spun overhead and slammed into boulders, but in Ramm’s dazed mind he didn’t immediately comprehend it was one rotor shorn from its moorings. He lay for a few seconds, then twisted over on to his back, propping his elbows beneath him. He didn’t search for the wreckage, but looked down at his legs. Happily he found them still attached to his body, and they weren’t misshapen. Friggin’ painful as all hell, but it was an agony he’d grown used to over countless combat missions. Finally he spun over on to his knees, testing his limbs, and then came up to a crouch.

Goggle-eyed, the Taliban leader peered at him from the front seat of the jeep. He was probably thinking much the same as the man in the helicopter had: what in God’s name was Ramm? He came to the wrong conclusion.

‘Devil!’ he screamed, as he leaned over the jeep door and rattled off a hail of gunfire.

Bullets zipped by Ramm. Some tugged at his outer clothing, but he suffered no direct hit this time. He stood a moment, sucking in lungful’s of air. He took a step forward and found that his limbs were steady beneath him. He took another step, and another, gaining momentum.

The Taliban leader cried out, throwing the assault rifle down so that he could turn on the jeep’s ignition. In his haste he missed the key the first time. He looked frantically from Ramm to the key, then back to Ramm again, who was now approaching at speed. The engine barked, and the Taliban man hit the gas. He didn’t think escape was a possibility, so he took the fight to his adversary. He gunned the engine and the jeep lurched forward. A war howl broke from him as he pushed the heavy vehicle directly at Ramm.

Ramm didn’t pause. He ran at the oncoming vehicle, then pounced, landing on the hood. His heels dug in, but the momentum took him over the windshield, and it took a dramatic twist of his body to settle him in the seat behind the driver. The Iranian twisted to get a bead on him, but Ramm moved, leaning over his opposite shoulder and he plucked the keys out of the ignition. The jeep swerved in a slow semi-circle, the tyres digging into the grit. Unlike the helicopter, Ramm was pleased that this vehicle didn’t end in a fiery explosion. He glanced down at the large brown case on the backseat alongside him. Then his attention was all on the terrorist. The man scrambled to get away, but Ramm grabbed a handful of the man’s jacket. He tugged the man in the air, as he stepped out of the vehicle to the ground. The man grunted as he was slammed to the earth.

For good measure he gave the man a couple of pile driving punches to the gut that set him juddering, while Ramm took one last look at the brown case. He shook his head slowly as he turned to peer down on the Taliban fighter. The term was a misnomer as all fight had left him. Shaking from the after-effects of the shock, he squirmed across the ground on his back, arms reaching to fend Ramm off, while he jabbered hysterically in Arabic. The words were lost on Ramm, but he guessed the man was pleading for mercy.

‘You planned to detonate a dirty bomb,’ Ramm said. ‘Had you any pity for the thousands of innocent men, women and children you would have killed?’

The man screeched out a sentence, and from the rapid fire delivery Ramm caught only one word: jihad.

Holy War, he’d heard the term meant.

‘You hypocritical piece of shit.’ Ramm wasn’t sure to whom he directed the words. It wasn’t as if Ramm’s war against the Red Mafia could be as clearly defined. He was driven by rage, by vengeance, by feelings of inadequacy for those he’d failed to save. He reached, grabbed the man by the front of his jacket and hauled him up to meet him eye to eye. ‘There’s no excuse for what you had in mind. None.’

Defiance suddenly lit up the Taliban man’s features. His eyes grew feverish. He spat full in Ramm’s face. He was preparing to die. But he had one last act in mind before that. He dug into his jacket and came out with a curved blade that he jabbed into Ramm’s gut. Ramm’s eyelids pinched as the Iranian grinned in victory.

Perhaps he had come to the conclusion that Ramm was wearing a bulletproof vest, and that was why the guns had been ineffective against him. Though some antiballistic jackets could withstand a bullet, they couldn’t contend with a piercing weapon like his dagger. Still held aloft, he twisted the blade, hoping to open Ramm up.

‘You shouldn’t have spat on me,’ Ramm growled. ‘I don’t like spitting. It’s a foul habit. To be expected from the likes of you.’

The terrorist blinked in confusion. He tried again to saw open a hole in Ramm’s guts. It was as if a clamp had been fixed to the blade holding it in place, then despite pressing all his strength into one final push, the knife resisted him, as if expelled by some magical force.

‘Are you done?’ Ramm demanded. ‘Actually, you are.’

Ramm head-butted him, even as he released his hold on the man’s jacket. The Taliban leader stumbled away, blood gouting from his smashed nose. His voice cords rebelled and all that came from him was a noise like steam escaping a ruptured boiler. Ramm booted him between the legs, doubling him over, making the turbaned head a perfect target for his knee. The blow brought him back to his tiptoes, but there was no lucidity in his eyes. That should have been it, but the would-be bomber had misplaced Ramm’s rage from the dead Russians: it had been a bomb that had ripped the lives from Ramm’s loved ones. Ramm clamped a palm both side of the man’s head, and twisted harshly.

Ramm hurled the man from him.

He somersaulted away, his arms and legs pinwheeling until he landed in a heap alongside the jeep. He lay there in a broken pile of twisted limbs, his neck at a wholly unnatural angle, eyes glazed in death. Ramm ignored him. He plucked out the dagger and checked for an incision in his guts. Grateful for the nanocomposite anti-ballistic/stab suit he wore beneath his outer clothing, he found that the knife had barely found its way to his skin, but had instead punctured one of the nano-gel inserts that had held it firmly from his body. The Israeli techs that originally designed it deserved kudos for developing his armour, because this had proved a successful field-testing of their experimental suit.

He walked back across the desert towards where the fuselage of the helicopter was a blazing husk. Oily smoke tarred the heavens. It would be a beacon to others. He found the attaché case where it had fallen when he leaped from the crashing helicopter. It weighed little, but carried the fate of dozens within: if it had been allowed to fall into those wrong hands. It contained the identities of CIA and MI6 assets working deep cover within the Russian organised crime syndicates, one of whom had been responsible for alerting Ramm that the Red Mafia was willing to give up one of their suitcase bombs in return for the information. The Red Mafia would have savagely murder every man and woman on that list, not to mention their nearest and dearest in warning to anyone else thinking to infiltrate their ranks or to betray them from within.

Ramm returned to the jeep and fed the liberated key into the ignition. As an afterthought he dragged the brown case over onto the passenger seat alongside him. Both cases appeared innocuous; both would have been the slaughter of many, but not now. He started the jeep and spun the wheel. Thirty miles north, a CIA Special Activities Division exfiltration team waited, with them a SOG agent called Virginia Holladay, Ramm’s current commanding officer and clandestine lover. He took a glance in the dusty rear-view mirror. The bullet stroke to his cheek was vivid, bleeding, as was the graze on his chin. But he knew from experience that Virginia liked a bit of rough. Some girls preferred their lovers to romance them with chocolates, roses or poetry: Ramm knew Virginia would far appreciate the dirty bomb and death list. Tonight would be their final night together, he’d decided, and he wished to make it special. In the morning he’d be gone. He wondered if anyone would miss the tactical suit he intended taking with him in lieu of severance pay.

BIO:

Matt Hilton quit his career as a police officer with Cumbria Constabulary to pursue his love of writing tight, cinematic American-style thrillers. He is the author of the high-octane Joe Hunter thriller series, including his most recent novel ‘Rules of Honour’, published in February 2013 by Hodder and Stoughton. His first book, Dead Men’s Dust, was shortlisted for the International Thriller Writers’ Debut Book of 2009 Award, and was a Sunday Times bestseller.

Matt is a high-ranking martial artist and has been a detective and private security specialist, all of which lend an authenticity to the action scenes in his books.

www.matthiltonbooks.com