Burning Angels

7

Jaeger hoisted Narov by her legs, and propelled her upwards. She reached for the top of the wall and hauled herself on to it. Then she leant down and helped him to scramble up. Seconds later they dropped on to the far side.

All was pitch darkness.

It had taken only seconds to scale the wall, but already Jaeger could hear muffled shouts coming from the building.

The front door swung open and a figure stumbled out, flashlight sweeping the darkened compound and glinting off the assault rifle gripped in his hand. Jaeger froze. He watched the figure make his way to a shed set in one corner – very likely the backup generator house.

As the figure disappeared inside, Jaeger dashed forward, Narov bang on his shoulder. He flattened himself to one side of the villa’s doorway, Narov doing the same on the other. Jaeger whipped out a canister from one of his pouches, unhooking a small hand-axe at the same time.

He glanced across at Narov.

She gave a thumbs up.

Eyes cool like ice.

Jaeger grabbed the pin holding the retainer clip. Once he pulled it, the grenade was primed to pump out its gas. They were on the point of no return now.

Gently he eased the pin free, his fingers holding the fly-off lever closed. If he relaxed his grip, the clip would spring free, and the grenade would start gushing.

‘In position,’ he breathed into his radio.

‘In position,’ Raff echoed. Having killed the villa’s power, the big Maori had made his way to the rear, the only other way in or out of the building.

Jaeger steeled himself. ‘Going in.’

He swung the axe through the window. The sound of breaking glass was drowned out by those inside crashing about in the darkness. He dragged the axe out again and heaved the canister in, letting the fly-off lever ping free.

Opposite him, Narov mirrored his movements, hurling her canister through the window that she’d just smashed.

Jaeger mouthed off the seconds. Three. Four. Five…

Through the broken glass he could hear a fierce hissing, as the grenades gushed out their choking contents. It was followed by a gasping and retching, as the Kolokol-1 began to take effect, and panicked bodies stumbled into unseen obstructions.

Suddenly there was a cough and a roar at Jaeger’s back as the generator kicked into life. The figure emerged to check if the power had come back on, but all remained pitch black. He swung his flashlight this way and that, trying to identify the reason for the blackout.

Jaeger had a split second in which to deal with him. He dragged his SIG Sauer from its chest holster. The silhouette of the pistol was different now: longer, and more barrel-heavy. He, Raff and Narov had each fitted an SWR Trident silencer to the business end of the P228s. They’d also loaded the magazines with subsonic rounds – ones that travelled slower than the speed of sound, so avoiding the crack that a bullet makes when going through the sound barrier.

To compensate for the lack of velocity, the rounds were heavier in weight, the combined effect rendering the weapon almost silent but no less lethal for it.

Jaeger raised the P228, but before he could open fire, a familiar figure emerged from the shadows and squeezed off a double tap – pzzzt, pzzzt; re-aim; pzzzt. Raff had been a split second faster than Jaeger, and one step ahead in taking the shot.

Ten. Eleven. Twelve… The voice in Jaeger’s head continued counting out the seconds, as the Kolokol-1 did its work.

Momentarily, he was struck by a sense of what it must be like inside the building. Pitch darkness. Utter confusion. Then the first chilling caress of the Kolokol-1. A moment’s panic as each man tried to make sense of what was happening, before the terror hit, the gas searing down windpipes and flaming into lungs.

Jaeger knew from personal experience what such a gas did to people; what a horrible way it was to go under. You might well survive, but it was something you would never forget.

For a terrible moment he was back on that Welsh mountainside, as a knife sliced through the thin canvas of his tent and a nozzle was thrust inside, disgorging a cloud of choking gas. He saw hands reach in and grab his wife and child, dragging them out into the darkness. He tried to raise himself to fight, to save them, but the Kolokol-1 seared into his eyes, freezing his limbs completely.

And then a gloved fist grabbed him savagely by the hair, forcing his face upwards, until he was staring into the hate-filled eyes behind the mask.

‘Get this moment burned into your brain,’ a voice hissed. ‘Your wife and child – they’re ours. Don’t ever forget: you failed to protect your loved ones.’

Though distorted by the mask, Jaeger had figured he’d recognised the man’s vicious, hate-filled tones, but he couldn’t for the life of him put a name to the voice of his tormentor. He knew him, and yet he didn’t know him, and that had proved to be a torture from which it had been impossible to hide.

Jaeger forced the images from his mind, He reminded himself just who they were gassing here. He’d witnessed the murderous horrors visited on his team in the Amazon, not to mention on poor Leticia Santos herself. And of course there was a part of him that hoped to discover here something that might lead him to his wife and child.

Every second was precious now. Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty!

Jaeger stepped back, raised his leg and smashed his boot savagely into the door. The rich tropical hardwood hardly gave an inch, but the frame was made of cheap plywood and it splintered, the door cannoning inwards on its hinges.

Jaeger fought his way into the dark interior, SIG at the ready. He swept the room with the beam of the torch attached to the underside of the barrel. The air was thick with an oily white fog that danced in the light. Bodies writhed on the floor, clawing at their faces as if they wanted to rip their own throats out.

No one even noticed that he was there. Their eyes were blinded by the gas, their bodies on fire.

Jaeger moved deeper into the room. He vaulted over a figure heaving and writhing underfoot. He used his boot to roll another over, taking a good look at faces as he passed.

None was Leticia Santos.

Momentarily his torch beam caught in a slurry of vomit, a body writhing in the shadows. The stench would have been sickening, but no smell could make it through Jaeger’s respirator.

He forced himself to keep pressing ahead, to blank out the horror. He had to remain focused on the job: find Leticia.

As he moved through the eerie, disorientating cloud of gas, his flashlight picked out a ghostly white fountain – a Kolokol-1 canister gushing out the last of its contents – and then he was at the rear of the room. A set of stairs lay ahead: one flight up, the other down. Instinct told him that Leticia would be held underground.

He fished inside his smock and pulled out a second canister. But as he ripped out the pin, ready to hurl the grenade down the stairwell, a spike of blinding claustrophobia hit him like a punch to the stomach. He felt himself freeze, his mind locked in that dark moment on the mountainside, which seemed to play through his head on a continuous loop.

It was crucial to keep the momentum going on an assault such as this. But waves of nausea swept up from the pit of Jaeger’s stomach, doubling him over in their vice-like grip. He felt as if he was back in that tent, drowning in the sea of his own failure, unable even to defend his own wife and child.

His limbs seemed utterly frozen.

He couldn’t hurl the canister.