Andy McNab: Battlefield 3: The Russian

Dima was squashed against the rear, Kroll against the doors. He was still going on, apparently unbothered by the imminent apocalyptic danger inches from them.

‘You know, Dima, after this one, I’m really thinking of taking a break. After all, the kids are growing up. Absent fathers and all that. If I showed their mothers that I was really making an effort, showed real willing, I think things could be different. What do you think? Maybe do a little work for Bulganov. Nothing too arduous, you know. .’

Dima wasn’t taking it in. His head was already hammering from an overdose of adrenalin.

The doors opened. For a millisecond the world stood still as Dima looked from Kroll to the open doors and back to Kroll: three guards, and three slugs that smashed straight into his friend before he could even raise his pistol. He’d shielded Dima, buying him an extra split second in which to aim and fire three double taps — one into each guard’s centre mass. In two seconds all three dropped like liquid, one after the other. Kroll’s body blocked the trolley. Dima could only climb over the copier to his friend, who still had a faraway look in his lifeless eyes, the memory of his kids embedded in his expression.

‘Goodbye, dear friend.’

Dima moved the body to one side and grabbed one of the guard’s weapons and spare mags as he pushed the trolley forward, scooting it as fast as he dared towards the cargo dock. No time for any niceties now. Everyone in his path was a target. He manoeuvred the trolley through a set of double doors and into the cargo dock. An electrician’s van was just pulling out. He raced round the trolley, grabbed the door and wrenched it open. The driver didn’t look old enough to own a licence, let alone be in charge of a Transit van.

‘Turn it off. Out. Now!’

The youth obliged.

‘Don’t move.’

Dima looked round for more available hands. The glass booth was empty except for one body — undressed: Kroll’s source of overalls. He saw a movement behind a stack of boxes.

‘Come out!’ He fired a warning shot to speed things up.

Another of the unhelpful men from the glass booth appeared. He looked like he had been sick.

‘Over here. Get this thing into the van.’

Two more guards appeared. Dima took them down in two short bursts. The youth was crying now.

‘Just put the copier in the fucking van or you’re next.’

Dima prodded the boy with his gun. They got the doors open but both of them had lost their strength.

‘You two — that end,’ he shouted, grabbing the other end himself. Together they hefted one corner on to the Transit’s load bed then Dima pushed the copier all the way in.

‘Do nothing to get in my way or you’re dead, okay?’ The youth nodded eagerly.

Dima leapt into the driving seat and was off, accelerating down the ramp and out of the rear of the building. Ten past ten. He headed southwest down Rue de Richelieu, passing the Louvre on his left. Lights on, hazards flashing, gun and steering wheel in his left hand, his right hand on the horn. At the Quai des Tuileries he went right, into the oncoming traffic. At least they could see him and see that he wasn’t getting out of their way. He had to get out, get as far out as he could. It had been so long. All his intimate memory of Paris was either faded or out of date. Think! Where could he find somewhere empty, in Paris, in the time he had left?

Two police vans were now heading towards him, straddling the lanes. Nowhere to go. A question of nerve. He’d have more than them. He headed for the gap between them. They parted at the last second, but he crossed a junction and clipped a bus as he swerved left trying to avoid it, sideswiping a Citroen and scraping off the nearside mirror. The Citroen span round like a toy, taking out three more cars and starting a full scale pile-up. He jammed on the brakes, threw the Transit into reverse, crossed the reservation and continued. On the Voie Georges-Pompidou now, hitting a hundred plus kph. Madness. At any point someone could smash into him and that would be the end. But every metre he travelled was moving the epicentre further away from the heart of Paris. And further away from Adam Levalle.

99

New York City

Blackburn was on his feet, a hood over his head, being marched down a corridor by two goons. For a brief moment, when he was allowed to look at the mugshots, he had dared to think the tide had turned and they had taken him seriously. It didn’t last.

He could hear Whistler and Gordon behind. Their tone suggested that they were arguing, but from under the hood he couldn’t make out what they were saying.

‘Where am I going?’

‘To the special place where we get you to tell us the whole truth real fast, said one of the goons.

The other chipped in. ‘Ever thought you were drowning? No? Well you’re about to find out just what it’s like.’

They entered a lift that plunged them downwards. The next corridor was colder, the floor bare concrete, the sounds bounced and echoed against the hard unyielding surfaces. A door swung closed behind him. The room was dark. The sliver of light coming under the hood had disappeared. Blackburn could smell water, chlorinated like a swimming pool. Suddenly the hood was whipped off and there in front of him was a gurney, at one end a bucket. The goons had gone. Two men stood either side, their faces shrouded by ski masks. One held a large transparent bottle with a tube stuck in it.

‘Wanna change your mind before you lie down?’

Two cell phones went off simultaneously, one playing the Hawaii Five-O theme, the other the Stars and Stripes . Blackburn looked round to see both Gordon and Whistler listening, faces blank with dismay. The ski mask men were both behind the gurney. Laid on a narrow table to one side were several ratchet straps and a night stick.

‘Holy mother of fuck,’ said Gordon.

One of the ski mask men shifted his weight, impatient. ‘We good to go, right?’

Whistler was frozen, open-mouthed. Eventually he spoke. ‘It’s Paris. Full nuclear alert.’

Blackburn’s thoughts were a blur. Just when he had reached the point where he was seriously doubting his sanity, Paris was happening. New York was next. Blackburn looked at the men in the ski masks, the gurney waiting for him. The news had gone through him like a lightning bolt. His whole body jolted into life. No, he said to himself. This is not as far as it goes.

He lunged forward and with both arms outstretched shoved the gurney hard so it slammed against both the ski mask men, pushing them over. Then, twisting to the right, he snatched up the nightstick and swung it at Gordon, smashing it against his skull so hard that he dropped on to the floor in a heap. Whistler was in a corner, nowhere to go. He reached into his jacket but Blackburn landed the stick right on the back of his hand and his M9 dropped to the ground. He lifted his other to protect himself. Blackburn kicked the gun towards himself, grabbed it, and was about to land the stick hard on Whistler’s nose when he paused.

‘What’s it to be, Whistler? You don’t want to be the guy who did nothing while New York was wiped off the map?’

He didn’t respond.

‘Paris is probably burning already. Walk me out of here, you could be the man who helped save your city. Unless you’d rather be found dead in a black ops torture chamber.’

After the institutional greys and khakis of the various rooms he had been incarcerated in, the frenzy of glitz and flashing colours was an assault on Blackburn’s senses. He stood at the north end of the square, a few yards from the red ‘M’ of the subway entrance, wearing nothing but the tunic he had been flown to New York in — under the biker kit Whistler had ridden to work in that morning. Whistler had been a good choice of accomplice. He had enough imagination — just — to give Blackburn the benefit of the doubt. That was generous, since Blackburn knew he could still fail. What did he expect — to find the second shiny suitcase parked next to the Good Morning America studios? The zipper news crawl on the side of the building made no mention of Paris.