Ryan, Chris - Zero 22

The car windows were misting up. The General cleared his with one hand. His skin squeaked across the wet glass. He pointed at the house directly adjacent to them. ‘That’s it,’ he said. ‘The one with the black door.’

Danny couldn’t make out the colour of the door, nor any other feature of the house. It was in complete darkness. There was no lamp post in front of it, no lights on in the windows. He strategised. If he were putting in surveillance on this place, where would he do it from? Easy. He would set up an OP on the roof of the townhouse opposite. In weather like this, nobody would look up, nor expect anybody to be out in the elements. But he knew how the average surveillance guy thought. They were not Regiment trained, willing to endure any amount of physical discomfort in order to get the job done. They would take the easier option, which would be to set up behind one of the windows of the building opposite. Danny wiped away the condensation on his side of the car and examined that building. He observed that each floor had a light on. But if there was surveillance on any of those floors, they would keep all the lights off in case they unexpectedly had to move into another room.

‘Wait here,’ he told the others. He stowed his Sig, raised his hood and exited the vehicle. The rain soaked him to the skin in seconds. He strode twenty metres along the sidewalk, head down, checking out the other vehicles parked on either side of the road. He was looking for something that stood out as a surveillance vehicle. A van, marked or unmarked. Even a larger car with blacked-out windows. He saw nothing suspicious, so he turned 180 and walked back past the SUV and twenty metres in the other direction. Still nothing. He returned to the others and sat behind the wheel again. His clothes were cold and clammy. Rainwater dripped from them on to the seat and floor. There was another fork of lightning. As it flashed, Danny saw Bethany’s face reflected in the rear-view mirror. It was pale. Almost gaunt. She looked more tense than he’d ever seen her.

‘I’m going in by myself,’ Danny said. ‘I can move quicker and more quietly alone, and if something goes wrong it means you have another chance to retrieve the memory stick. Once I get into your apartment, I’ll check it’s empty. I’ll turn on a light overlooking the road for five seconds if everything’s clear. If you haven’t heard from me in ten minutes, you need to get the hell out of here. I’ll leave the fob with you. Any questions?’

‘I guess I should tell you where the memory stick is,’ the General said.

‘Damn right,’ Danny said.

‘It’s taped to the underside of a unit in the kitchen.’

‘You’ll find it quicker than me,’ Danny said. ‘Get up as quickly as you can when I give you the all-clear sign. What are the access codes for the flat?’

The General told Danny the codes. ‘Apartment three,’ he said.

Danny nodded. ‘Ten minutes,’ he reminded them. ‘No longer.’

He stepped out into the rain again. Looked left and right. There were no pedestrians. Still no sign of surveillance. He crossed the road quickly and approached the front door of the General’s house. He was weirdly reminded, by the black paint, the brass fittings and the ornate detailing above the frame, of the door of Number 10 Downing Street, which he’d only ever seen on television. To the right there was a keypad. He entered the numeric code the General had given him. The door clicked. He gently opened it, just an inch, drawing his Sig at the same time.

He waited. Listened through the torrential rain. Tried to discern any other sound behind the door. There was nothing. He kicked the door open, gripping his weapon two-handed. Entered.

He was in a tiny hallway. To his left, four locked cubby holes for mail. Straight ahead, a door with a brass ‘1’ plaque. Ahead and to the right, a carpeted staircase winding steeply into gloom.

He closed the door. Allowed himself a few seconds for his eyes to grow accustomed to the dark. Water dripped from his clothes on to the stone floor. Not ideal. It meant his presence could be detected. But as long as he was aware of that, he could take steps to mitigate the risk.

He moved across the hallway to the staircase. Aimed the Sig up and at an angle. Searched the gloom for shadows and movement. Nothing. He advanced.

The stairs were steep, the treads shallow. He trod lightly but couldn’t help them creaking as he walked. His hyper-acute senses amplified each creak. He stopped at the first landing. Breathed. Scanned. Tried to listen beyond the thumping of his heart. Kept his weapon raised, his finger on the trigger. Noted the door on his right with a brass number 2. Advanced again.

The next set of stairs creaked louder than the first. Every sound seemed exaggerated in the silence of the stairwell. He paused after each step, checking ahead of him and behind him. There was no sign of anything, or anyone.

The second landing was almost identical to the first. The only noticeable difference was the number on the door of the apartment.

3.

He approached the door. Listened hard. Heard nothing. He removed his shoes to keep his footfall silent. Felt for the keypad with his left hand, gripping the Sig with his right. Keyed in the code. Opened the door just a couple of inches. Listened. Stepped inside. He closed the door behind him and stood for a moment in the darkness. He was in a square entrance hall. Three doors leading left, right and straight ahead. All shut. A posh, high-backed armchair in one corner. An occasional table with an internet router, two green lights glowing, and a vase of tall flowers that emitted a pungent, floral odour. He couldn’t make out the flower heads in the darkness, but the smell suggested they were past their best. Evidence that nobody had been here for a couple of days. There was something else on the table, but he couldn’t quite make it out.

No sign of any break-in. Absolute stillness.

Danny raised his Sig. Breathed slowly and deeply to control his pulse. Somewhere at the edge of his senses he could hear distant traffic. But nothing else.

He stepped towards the table, his feet making no sound. The other object on the table was an antique mahogany letter-writing set. Next to it was a silver letter-opening knife, blunt but pointed.

And there was something else.

On the edge of the table was a circular mark where somebody had placed a glass – or more likely a bottle – of water. Danny touched it. The ring was wet. Fresh.

Someone was in here. He was certain of it.

And he would be waiting for Danny behind one of three doors.

Question was: which one?

Thunder cracked outside, so loud that the house seemed to shake with it. Danny analysed the layout. The window looking out on to the street where Bethany and the General were waiting would be through the door to his left. That meant the room with the rear fire exit would be to his right. Perhaps the door opposite the main entrance led do a bedroom or bathroom. If Danny was lying in wait for someone, he would definitely choose the room with an extra exit. Basic tradecraft. But would his guy think the same way?

The sound of a toilet flushing answered that question for him. It came from the room Danny had identified as the bedroom and he knew the door would open any moment. He didn’t want to fire his weapon. Not if he could help it. It was not suppressed, and the sound could bring people running. He grabbed the silver paper knife in his right hand and moved over to the door. He stood to the right of the door frame, back to the wall, Sig now in his pocket.

There was another crack of thunder.

He waited.

Five seconds passed. The door opened. A figure appeared. He was taller and broader than Danny, which was unusual. He had a handgun in his belt, but was still doing up his fly. He didn’t see Danny until it was too late. Danny’s strategy was to hit him hard and fast. Not too much of a swing, because that would waste precious seconds and he knew he could achieve the power and momentum he wanted without it. He grabbed the man’s neck with his left hand and drove the tip of the paper knife into the bottom of his skull. The knife sank halfway up to the hilt before the tip hit something hard and gristly. He gave it a good wriggle and felt the man’s legs collapse beneath him. Danny eased him down on to the ground, one hand still on the hilt of the knife. There wasn’t much blood. Each time the knife moved position, the guy’s legs flickered uncontrollably. Once he was on the ground, Danny kept wriggling the knife until the nerve movement stopped and the dead man was completely still.