Last Man Standing

CHAPTER TWO

As Michael Crouch ended the call to Drake a shot rang out behind him. Shocked, he turned, already reaching for the handgun kept in the drawer by his side. The Ninth Division offices near London were kept intentionally sparse. The various chiefs, cyber experts and field-soldiers were in a constant state of flux, always shipping in and then out to the next crisis. Just this month Crouch himself had overseen jobs in Vienna, Zurich and Milan. The world was always warding off a catastrophe of some sort. The room was rectangular, a low-roofed shed with multi-colored exposed cables, thickened walls, expensive computers balanced on the edges of cluttered desks, operatives rolling along at hyper-speed on their castor-fitted chairs, locked and barred weapons cupboards, and privacy corners set apart only by curtains. The Ninth Division had always been rough and ready, poised to act in an instant and used to the constant comradeship and tramp of soldier’s boots; the knife-edge of Britain’s response, the rugged home and op-center of military men.

It was, however, set in the middle of a small regimental compound, surrounded by electric fences and surveillance systems and guards with guns. For someone to breach the security this far it had to be an…

… insider job.

Crouch saw a cyber-information analyst go down, a man he’d trained for eight years. He flinched as blood splashed across a screen. The person shooting was definitely not Shelly Cohen. It was a hired merc, ex-Army, clad in body armor and full-face helmet, but easily recognizable to seasoned men like Crouch because of the way he fired his weapon and conducted himself. Within seconds more men had appeared behind the first, squeezing off careful shots.

Warning shouts came through the comms. Yeah, thanks, Crouch thought. About as much fucking use as a four-cylinder Ferrari. Calmly, he took in his immediate surroundings, logging the young, capable and extremely loyal soldier, Zack Healey, ducking across from the left, and the heavy-boned, craggy-faced Rob Russo rumbling over from the right.

A good, hard line.

Crouch raised and sighted his gun. “Did you call it in?”

Healey replied, “I was already consulting with Armand Argento from Interpol, sir. He’s taken the reins.”

“Good man.” Crouch knew Argento was one of the best. “Now let’s thin the herd a bit.”

The three men opened fire, bullets striking true about the chests and heads of their attackers. Grunts and howls announced their agonies, but the ones with chest-shots only staggered and looked meaner.

“Bloody body armor,” Crouch declared.

“We have armor-piercing bullets behind the bars, sir,” Healey said, looking eager.

Crouch weighed up the options. He counted at least a dozen adversaries inside, and God only knew how many more waited outside. But up against that was the sanctity, the eminence and reputation of the Ninth Division. Crouch would not let it slip away so easily.

“Go. They hit us in our house, we’ll slice their goddamn heads off with paper cuts if we have to.”

Healey scrambled away on all fours. Bullets laced the air in his wake. Unfazed, the young soldier reached the far gun cabinets and punched in a quick four-digit code. Crouch watched anxiously, still tracking his enemies and staying low. Shots flew all around them. A mug full of coffee was shot to bits, sending its hot contents all over him. Great, now to add insult to injury he smelled of cheap, instant brown sludge.

The mercs advanced as a practiced unit. Healey slid a full box of ammo clear across the smooth wooden floor, passing through chair legs and under desks, right to Crouch’s feet.

Russo dived right in with him. “Kid’s got Olympic champion potential for box sliding at least.”

Crouch exchanged the standard rounds for the more powerful ones in seconds. Then he rose and fired a salvo. The mercs, arrogant behind their armor, were advancing hard, firing consistently. Crouch saw techs struggling for cover and professional British soldiers pinned down. Then his bullets made their mark, sending the oncoming team to their knees with shouts of fury. Blood leaked and pumped through their vests. Other men stood over them, shotguns now raised, but Russo took them out in the next few seconds and soon Healey was joining in from the far left. A stray shot passed by Russo’s face, making the man flinch, but Crouch figured his fellow soldier was so heavily boned up top that the slug would either bounce off or simply disintegrate into metal dust. His eyes flicked toward the yard monitors just above his head and locked onto the single one that hadn’t been shot to bits.

“Shag it off,” he said.

Russo looked at him. He’d heard the boss utter that phrase enough times to know what it meant: Get the hell out.

“Dozens of them,” Crouch said. “This crew is only the advance team.”

Rather than a daring raid Crouch now knew that this was an extermination. No warning bells had sounded. No alarms. Not even a shout. Somebody knew the position of every guard, every camera. Every computerized failsafe.

Somebody…

Crouch backed away. As much as he felt a chest-full of anger and determination, he still struggled with the absolute shock of betrayal. And not from just anyone — from the one person he had considered his best. Even worse was her status as a master assassin and her ability to operate right under his nose.

Maybe it was time to hang up the guns and don the slippers; time to concentrate on that other endearing love of his life — archaeological mystery.

But now he grabbed the box of ammo and rushed over to the far wall. Healey grinned at him, all boyish excitement. Damn, he needed a hard man or woman to curb that boy’s fire. It was either that or the daft kid would get himself killed.

Daft kid? Crouch thought. More like one of the youngest proven soldiers in my regiment. Was he really getting too old for this shit?

Russo dashed up behind. Crouch turned to gauge the positions of his other men and women. All were ready, prepared to fight. As he lifted his arm, preparing to move, there came an almighty crash as if the whole shed was falling in, collapsing on top of them. Crouch saw two grappling hook arms break through the shorter wall, then burst open as they sensed space or air, each one deploying four grappler arms and digging back into the wall of the shed.

“What in the name of astounding warfare is that?” Crouch whistled.

“Nothing good,” Russo said. “Not for us.”

A sudden jolt rocked them all off balance. The entire prefabricated shed shuddered, and Healey pointed out a fact that Crouch really didn’t like.

“You realize the floor is a part of this structure, don’t you? It’s bolted and welded to the base of the walls.”

“They just plonk these things down wherever we go,” Crouch said, “if they can.” Then he looked around. “Brace yourselves.”

Another stomach-churning lurch and one of the grapplers looked as if it was about to tear its way back through the wall, then the whole shed shifted. Desks grated and displaced their burdens. Computers, phones, files and drawers crashed to the floor. The shed stirred one more time, throwing Healey to the ground amidst the clutter. Then, suddenly, as Crouch reached down to help Healey up, the shed heaved and pitched, then faltered forward as if being dragged.

It picked up speed.

Crouch stumbled. The shed yawed. A grating noise like the slow opening of the world’s most rusted gates made him want to cover his ears. The entire structure was moving and there was nothing they could do about it.

At least, that was Crouch’s first fleeting impression. Once that ridiculous moment of weakness passed, he applied himself to the actual problem.

How to get out of the moving office.

He pictured the geography of the area around them. The shed had been put down on the outskirts of an industrial park, alongside electrical-goods outlets, builder’s merchants, conservatory retailers and blocks of brass-name-plate offices. Directly in front of them was a barely used airfield. Beyond that a steep grassy bank and the Thames.

Crouch reeled back as the shed shook again, threatening to come apart. In his heart of hearts he actually doubted that would be a good thing. Their enemies probably had many weapons readied for just that scenario. He flinched as a lampstand crashed down, narrowly missing his skull; watched as Russo palmed off a sliding, chest-high filing cabinet that might have crushed a lesser man; and looked to the weapons cabinet.

Healey gave him a hopeful look.

Crouch nodded. “Rocket launchers,” he said. “Time to step up our game a little.”

Healey grinned like a boy with a new bike. Again he punched in the access code and pulled out the weapons. By now more of Crouch’s team had made their way to his side. Crouch grunted as metallic pings clattered against the walls.

“Someone forgot to check our defense upgrade,” he said. Which cast doubt on this being a Coyote operation; it was more likely to be a different, lesser enemy.

He felt the lurch as the shed slid out of their compound and onto the industrial park’s streets. A slight turn and they were dragged over grass, through a briefly resisting fence, then they hit tarmac again. If Crouch had interpreted their movements correctly they were now traveling across the airfield.

Why? What on earth—

Then it hit him.

“Shit.” He motioned for Healey to pass him one of the RPGs. “Best get a move on, lads. Unless you want to go for a swim in a tin box.”

Quickly he checked and loaded his weapon, even as the jouncing shed jolted its way along the road. Another salvo of bullets ricocheted off the walls. Two of Crouch’s men lost their balance and rolled away as one metal edge slammed into the ground harder than before. An RPG slithered after them, worryingly already loaded. The shed travelled uphill for a short while and then hit a long downhill slope. Crouch felt a table slam into his back and pushed it aside. The dead and dying mercs all rolled toward the far wall, one of them still groaning but seemingly incapacitated.

There was no time left.

Crouch lifted the rocket launcher and balanced it over one shoulder; not an easy feat in the zigzagging shed. Healey did the same. Russo and the other men and women took cover as best they could. Then, with a shout, Crouch let the missile fly. The explosive warhead arrowed toward the shed-wall, fins spinning in flight. The downside to his plan happened next — the payload detonated on impact, sending metal fragments and fire bursting far and wide. Healey’s missile hit further along, also detonating when it struck metal. A fireball mushroomed up the wall and spread across the roof, most of it escaping through the new ragged holes. Crouch, having prostrated himself in a hurry, looked up to see a torn-apart wall and scenery swishing past.

“Move it.”

What was left of the Ninth Division struggled toward the blackened sides of the holes. As they approached, a new vehicle came into view; a flatbed truck, laden with men — their machine guns standing ready.

“Down!” Crouch yelled.

Bullets spattered the shed, peppering its frame and flying through the newly opened cavities. Fortunately the shots were all high. Crouch crawled hard, pistol in hand.

Healey was already there, firing through the gap at the swerving truck. When the shed gave another fishtail bounce it barely upset his aim; the bullet drawing sparks from the truck’s rear tailgate. Crouch squinted and made every shot count, picking off one guy with a shot to the chest, making him tumble over the truck’s low sides and smash to the ground.

Where the hell is the backup?

“We need to get out of here,” he said suddenly.

For there, snaking along to the left, was the Thames itself, wide at this point and relatively deep, nothing standing between them and it except a half-mown flowery bank. Beyond the serpentine, reflective waterway, Crouch now saw lights in the sky, coming fast.

Helicopters. “Good guys are almost here,” he said. Hoped.

He emptied the clip, forcing the truck to rev hard and surge out of sight after losing another soldier. Then he fixed Healey with a tough stare.

“Jump.”

The young man blinked rapidly. Even his thirst for adventure was slaked a little by the prospect of jumping out of an office being towed by a bunch of gun-wielding mercs, it seemed.

“Stop being a little bitch,” Russo growled. “And get your shrunken balls airborne.”

The big man showed an example, leaping ungainly through the jagged gap, just missing a sharp curve of metal, and landing in a bouncing tangle of arms and legs on the bank outside.

“Now if you can’t do better than that,” Crouch said. “You’re sacked. All of you.”

Healey jumped. Crouch pulled up the next man. But, as his remaining half dozen soldiers lined up to escape, they all felt a sudden jerk and swerve in the motion of the shed. With abrupt savagery it swept to the left, almost as if the vehicle pulling it had swerved hard right.

And it had, Crouch realized. This is where we hit the goddamn river.

The shed suddenly tipped, the side with the holes slamming into the earth, then slithered dramatically down the steep slope. Crouch lost all sense of balance, tumbling head over heels and hitting the far wall. Debris crashed all around him. Bodies glanced off his legs; some screaming, one grunting deeply as bones audibly snapped. Then, as their minds became used to the speed of the slide, the shed’s momentum was instantly arrested as it struck the water.

All quieted for a moment; then hell erupted.

Crouch had lost all sense of direction, not even sure which way was up or down. He struggled to his knees, noticing the swirling water already flooding the shed. A pile of papers floated by. A handgun knocked against his left arm as if reminding him it might yet be needed. He shook his head and tried to focus.

A hand gripped his right shoulder. “Sir! We should—”

The face disappeared as the shed shifted and a heavy filing cabinet rammed into the man. Crouch tried to help but the force of the collision tore him away and crushed him into the far wall. Before Crouch could do anything else the shed drifted sideways and sent its contents barreling in yet another direction.

Crouch saw the only way out of this thing was to head for the holes. He crawled as fast as he could, using the new floor to help him move forward. To hell with the torn nails, the lacerated fingers. The bubbling escape route was filling up fast with swirling debris and he needed to escape before it became too deadly. A deep, resonating groan echoed through the thinning air, bolts and welds already yielding to pressure. Crouch wasted no time. Nobody else was around him; he couldn’t see a single person. So, unsure exactly how long he’d been dithering he simply dived into the big hole against the flow of water. Instant mayhem and confusion caused his heart to race. The surging current was strong, forcing him back. He flailed, kicking his legs. Another swirling flux spun him away and down, currents fighting each other as they tried to cope with the huge interloper. Crouch found his face hitting something soft, the river bank, and dug his fingers in hard. Already the breath was burning in his lungs, longing to be expelled. Desperate now, he forced his way up, using the bank to navigate. The surface was not too far, just a few feet…

White trails streaked through the water around him. Bullets!

But there were no choices left any more. Crouch had to keep on climbing, struggling. In seconds he would gulp water and die. The rippling surface was just feet away. A trail of fire ripped down his forearm, drawing swirls of blood. At last he broke the surface and gulped for air, momentarily unable to gauge his peril.

A splash sounded next to his ear. Any second he expected the lights to go out. But when he was able to open his eyes he saw a spectacular sight: Healey and Russo running and firing across the top of the river bank, tormenting the mercs that had abandoned their enormous tow vehicle and discarded grapples, and forcing those that remained to flee.

In seconds, Healey had reached Crouch and, still firing with one hand, reached down with the other to help him out of the river.

“You made them run?”

“Us,” Healey said. “And them.”

He pointed over Crouch’s streaming shoulders.

He looked back, and saw two hovering choppers, packed with men. Crouch took another moment to look around.

“Where’s everyone else?”

“I… I don’t know, sir. You’re the first we found. We thought we’d lost you too.”

The enormity of their loss hit Crouch and he slumped. The Ninth Division had been decimated. Files and hard drives were replaceable. Men and women were not — particularly the group he had helped train and nurture during his reign.

Crouch felt fury infuse his body as he stared around at wreckage and death.

“Somebody’s going to pay for this,” he said. “And if it’s all down to Coyote then that bitch is soon gonna wish she’d never been born.”