Chris Ryan - Who Dares Wins

It took a while to come.

The van was moving steadily. Not too fast, but steadily. That was good. It would be better if he could see out of a window, check the surroundings. But that was not possible. He waited, breathing deeply, preparing himself for the manoeuvre that he had planned out in his head.

He waited.

‘Looks like someone had a late night,’ one of the unit said in mock-motherly tones. A couple of the others laughed.

He waited some more.

The van swerved, slowing down into a bend. The SBS men leant into the curve, their balance momentarily precarious. Now or fucking never, Sam told himself. He tugged his hands away from the attachment; the Plasticuffs dug into his skin. This was going to hurt. It didn’t matter. He had to do it.

Now.

He yanked his wrists with all his strength.

It was the plastic digging into his flesh that he felt first. Cutting it. He ignored the stinging sensation. The muscles in his arms burned as he continued to pull. And then, with a sudden snap, the Plasticuffs broke.

For a moment, no one seemed to know what was happening. Sam hurled himself towards the nearest guard and grabbed a flashbang from his ops waistcoat before throwing it to the back of the van. Confusion. He shut his eyes and – as he prepared for the noise – jumped to his feet, spinning round so he was facing forward.

Impact. White light against the inside of his eyelids before he opened them again. He was deafened and slightly disorientated, but he reckoned he had the advantage. Ten seconds before the others were back to full capability. He had to work fast. With brute force he pressed the driver’s head flat against the steering wheel. The horn beeped loudly.

Shouting all around. With his free hand – bloodied from the deep cut on his wrist – he reached down and unclipped the seat belts of both front passengers. He grabbed the steering wheel; and only then did he check the road.

They were in a country lane. Long. Straight. Just them and an area of woodland on either side. He felt hands on his shoulders. ‘ Get on the fucking floor! ’ a voice shouted. ‘ Get on the fucking floor, now! ’

Sam ignored the instruction. He twisted the steering wheel sharply, towards the forest on the right-hand side. A tree fifteen metres away: he headed towards it. In the rear-view mirror he saw a jumble of bodies. The sudden change in the vehicle’s direction had knocked his guards off balance. The guy in the passenger seat put one hand in his face and grabbed his arms, trying to push him away from the driver. But Sam held firm. He continued to drive the van straight towards the forest, then braced himself firmly against the driver’s seat, waiting for impact.

When it came, it sent a vicious shockwave through his whole body. He jolted harshly and painfully. The hand came away from his face, but not willingly; it only moved because its owner had moved too.

The windscreen shattered. Blood and glass as his assailant’s head slammed into it. The four-man unit in the back lurched forwards in a confused mess. But they wouldn’t stay confused for long. Sam threw himself forwards, past the bloodied face of the guy in the passenger seat and headlong through the shattered windscreen. Shards of glass needled his skin, but he did what he could to ignore them as he slid down the steep, crumpled bonnet of the Transit and hit the ground to one side of the tree they’d crashed into.

Shouts behind him. Orders barked. He couldn’t hesitate for a single second. Sam powered himself up to his feet and ran. Hot blood from his cut-up face pumped into his eyes, half-blinding him. Still he ran with all the force in his body.

There was a copse of trees up ahead. Ten metres. If he could make it there in the few seconds before the others were out of the van, he had chance. He sprinted, half-expecting to feel a bullet slam into him. But he didn’t, and he just kept running.

The urgency of the chase surged through him. The SBS guys could be one metre behind or fifty, he just didn’t know and he wasn’t going to slow down to find out.

The forest passed by in a blur. Sam didn’t know where the hell he was or where the hell he was going. He only knew he had to run. If the unit got him in their sights, they’d open fire; an M16 round slamming into his back and it would be game over.

He weaved and threaded randomly through the trees. Under different circumstances he’d have taken more care, covered his tracks. But he couldn’t do that now. The only thing he had on his side was whatever speed he could muster.

And if that speed failed him now, it would be end of story…

Jacob’s flight – a charter that carried about thirty Russians, but which had been put in the air, he suspected, especially for him – had landed in Marseilles earlier that morning. He entered the country using his false identity of Mr Edward Rucker, an IT contractor, without difficulty; and within half an hour of landing, Mr Rucker had hired himself a Laguna and a GPS navigator from the AVIS office just opposite the terminal building. He had paid the extra few euros to waive his damage excess, even though he knew he would never be returning the vehicle. A man stealing a hired motor doesn’t pay any more for it than he has to – it was just a way of diverting suspicion.

From the airport he drove to the outskirts of Marseilles, a concrete mess of low-rent high-rises. Gangs of kids – North African, mostly – hung around in groups, smoking and drinking. Jacob navigated the streets swiftly. Surov’s man had given him the name and address of a contact round here and he wanted to get the meet over and done with.

He pulled up outside one of the concrete towers, pocketed the GPS and stepped out into the humid exterior before locking the doors and glancing skywards. Thirteenth floor. A bastard to break out of in an emergency. He made his way into the building. The lift was broken and the stairwell, covered in graffiti, smelled of piss and spices. He trotted up hurriedly, aware of some voices down below that hadn’t been there when he entered. Had he attracted attention from the dealers and the drunks? Probably. But it didn’t matter. He could handle them.

The entrance to Flat 207 was the fifth in a long line of doors along an external corridor. The paint was peeling away. Jacob banged a fist against it and then stepped to one side. He waited tensely.

A voice from the other side.

‘ Oui? ’ A man. Gruff. Unfriendly.

‘Edward Rucker,’ Jacob called. ‘ Vous m’attendez. Je veux acheter quelques trucs .’

Another pause. The door clicked open slightly. Jacob gave it a moment, then used his foot to open the door further. He peered in. Gloom. No noise from inside.

He stepped over the threshold.

As his eyes grew used to the dimness, he saw there was someone standing in another doorway at the end of the corridor. Black skin. Patchy stubble and a scarred face. As soon as their eyes met the man disappeared into the room, leaving Jacob to shut the door behind him and follow.

It stank in the flat, a mixture of marijuana and sweat. As Jacob entered, his mind instantly catalogued what was there. Thin, frayed curtains against the windows. Yellowing walls. A bare light bulb hanging from the ceiling by a flex and a woman, mixed race, crouched in the corner. Asleep? High? Impossible to say. Upturned milk crates – chairs, Jacob supposed. A sofa, threadbare. Several flight cases. None of them open. The man stood in front of them. He wore a brightly coloured woollen top, but his face was a lot less friendly. He scowled at Jacob.

‘English?’ he asked in a heavily accented voice before taking a drag on a roughly rolled cigarette.

Jacob nodded.