Chris Ryan - Who Dares Wins

He felt a little tremor of excitement as he stepped into the booth. He thought of Kelly, and how she hadn’t believed him. He thought of his mum and dad, and how little they thought of him. It brought a small sneer to his lips and a heat to his blood.

He picked up the handset, waited for the dialling tone, then pressed the fifty pence into the slot.

And then he punched in the number…

‘ GET OUT! GET OUT OF THE FUCKING HOUSE! EVERYONE … NOW … GET OUT! ’

Davenport was already moving, but the two Georgians were frozen with shock. Sam suppressed his urge to hurl the briefcase away, instead laying it softly on the floor. Then he put the gun to Beridze’s head. ‘ Get out! ’ he repeated and pushed the ambassador to the door. His alarmed assistant tried to start putting his clothes back on, but Davenport grabbed the semi-naked man, lifted him from his feet and threw him towards the door.

Chaos over the comms. The rest of the unit were talking over each other. ‘Just get the fuck out of here!’ Sam bellowed over the top. ‘This whole fucking place is going to blow!’

They were on the landing, then the stairs. Beridze tripped; he fell headlong down the steps, ending up in heap on the hallway. Sam launched himself down, covering the entire staircase in two big jumps. At the bottom he didn’t bother to stop and see if the Georgian ambassador was injured; he just picked the heavy man up, his strength increased by adrenaline, and dragged him to the door. It was locked. Sam fired at the lock, emptying the chamber of his Sig with a succession of blasts that tore the air in two as they splintered and split the door open. It was a fucking hair-raising manoeuvre, because if the round hit the lock at the wrong angle it could ricochet off the metal and back into the discharger’s face, and Sam would be properly fucked. But he had only a split second to act. Then two solid kicks and he was out, the bruised and terrified Beridze was with him.

Gigo came next, rushed out by Davenport and his M16. Sam was briefly aware of Tyler’s features, but he didn’t stop to count the rest of the unit into the street. There were pedestrians in the road – only a few, but too many. ‘ Run! ’ he yelled at Beridze. ‘ Fucking run! ’ And then he waved his Sig in the direction of the pedestrians. ‘ Get away from this house. Now! ’

The terrified members of the public didn’t need telling twice: they joined the waddling ambassador and ran away from Sam.

More shouting over the comms before a voice shouted, ‘Clear!’ He turned round to see the rest of the unit sprinting the opposite way down the road. ‘We’re clear!’

Sam jumped over the bonnet of a parked car and hurled himself onto the other side, landing heavily on the tarmac, but protected by the metal shell of the vehicle.

He felt the force of the blast almost before he heard it, like a hot, dry wind that scorched his hair and made him grind his face into the ground. And then the sound of the explosion, a flat, deep thump that blew out the windows of the safe house and rocked the car.

A wave of cordite-bleached fog followed, like a giant, thick burnt cloud passing over them. Sam held his breath and closed his eyes, but thick, hot dust filled his nostrils and singed his eyes. He accidentally inhaled and coughed till he was red in the face. It was like he’d smoked fifty tabs in a row.

Shrapnel showered onto the ground.

Then silence.

It didn’t last long. From either end of the street, the sound of shouting. Panicked members of the public. Doors opposite the safe house opened. Alarmed residents spilled into the streets. In the distance, sirens.

Sam pushed himself to his feet. His whole body ached. Squinting, he looked down the road and saw Beridze. The Georgian ambassador to London was open-mouthed and shocked. But he was alive, and that was all that mattered.

Then, over the comms, a voice. One of the unit, he didn’t know who. ‘Mission accomplished,’ it said. ‘Mission fucking accomplished. Christ, Sam. Try and make it a bit closer next time, will you?’

Sam drew a deep breath. ‘Yeah,’ he replied. His voice was dry and croaking. ‘Yeah. I’ll see what I can do.’

And with that, he ripped the comms earpiece from his head and threw it to the ground. He didn’t give the safe house a second look. He just walked down the road, gun in hand, and as he walked he had the unnerving sensation that two ghosts were walking alongside.

Sam Redman didn’t try to shake that feeling. He didn’t try to run from those spectres. He knew they would be with him for a long time to come.

He carried on walking, past Beridze, past the curious, alarmed members of the public: a brooding, solitary figure.

A man who knew how lucky he was not to be a ghost himself.

Barely a mile away, Jamie Spillane replaced the handset. He had only heard a single ringing tone before the line had been cut off. And he knew what that meant.

The operation had been a success. He had been a success. His limbs were trembling with the thrill of it all. Now that he had shown what he was capable of, maybe he would be asked to do it again. Maybe his country would call on him once more. The idea made him shiver with excitement.

Jamie Spillane turned, walked out of the phone booth and made for home, smiling broadly as he went.

Two days later.

Gabriel Bland had slept well for the first time in weeks.

When word had come that there had been an explosion in the safe house, he had been paralysed with an icy sickness. Toby Brookes, newly demoted from field work, had been the unfortunate messenger and he had been shot down by an alarmed Bland. ‘Find out what’s happened. Now!’

Gradually, though, more information had filtered in. No casualties. Beridze alive. All of the SAS team accounted for, except one.

‘Who?’ Bland had demanded of his timid subordinate.

‘Redman, sir. The unit said he made it out alive, but there’s no sign of him. I’ve got eyes ready to search for him, sir. I can put out the word.’

Bland considered this for a moment. ‘No,’ he said. He looked out of the window of his office. ‘No. Let him be, for now.’

Toby had seemed wrong-footed, but he knew not to argue.

‘Claire Corbett. Is she still in custody?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Release her.’

Toby looked confused. ‘But sir, we haven’t questioned…’

‘Release her.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And I want a representative of the service to visit Mac Howden’s wife. She’s to be told her husband died as a result of enemy fire in the service of his country. No more, no less. Understood?’

‘Understood, sir.’

‘Then get on with it.’

Toby had nodded and slipped away, leaving Bland with his own to-do list. The reinstatement of Mark Porteus at SAS HQ would take some clever talking, but Bland was certain he would be able to manage it.

Which left Sam Redman.

Even now, two days later, Bland didn’t know what to do with him. The SAS man’s face – with its lacerated skin and flat, hard eyes – rose in Bland’s mind. He experienced a rare moment of empathy. Redman had endured more in the last few days than most men would ever be able to cope with, and Bland included himself in that. What would he be feeling? What would he be doing ? Where was he? Bland was momentarily tempted to call Toby in to the office, to get him to set the eyes out on Sam after all, just to satisfy his own curiosity. But he didn’t. After all, he told himself, if anyone had earned a bit of slack, it was Sam Redman.

Bland sighed. The world, he thought to himself, seemed to be getting more and more complicated. Maybe he was growing too old for the game; he didn’t know. In front of him was a document: a DA notice restricting the story of a fatal shooting in a Hereford churchyard some days previously. Bland took a fountain pen, signed it, then stood up and left the room.