His booted feet pounded along the gangway and the blueprint of the oil tanker flickered back into his brain; gangways, ramps, stairwells, containment tanks, derricks — all now seemed a blur and Pete halted, slowed his breathing, and took a quick glance behind him. He stepped sideways behind a doorway and waited, his breathing suddenly calm, his professionalism kicking him into — reality.
Nothing, no sounds of pursuit, and… the black-clad figure glided into view, its attention focused on something ahead, it sensed rather than saw Pete at its side. The head, no more than twelve inches from the levelled MP5 submachine gun, snapped left — and Pete found himself staring into the ocean blue eyes of a killer…
He squeezed the trigger.
Everything happened at once; the world seemed to explode as the Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine gun hammered in the confines of the gangway. The Assassin was snatched and thrown up against the iron wall and drilled with the entire magazine of bullets whose impacts held the body upright, dancing and twitching, until the ‘dead man’s click’ reverberated in Pete’s brain and abruptly brought with it a sudden echoing silence. Pete pulled out a fresh magazine from his jacket with gloved hands covered in brain and gore, trying not to look at the pulped goo that covered his arms, trying not to gag on the cordite reek that filled his nostrils and throat.
The corpse slithered to the metal deck and lay in a crimson pool of its own blood.
He firmly clicked the fresh magazine into place, and then breathing slowly and heavily through blood spattered lips — looked left and then right. He was temporarily deaf from the thunderous roar created by the weapon and could only hear a ringing in his ears. What the fuck is going on, he thought.
He stepped over the corpse, then headed towards the steep stairwell ahead. Warily, firmly gripping the rail, he climbed towards the night. Outside the rain was still pounding, driven by the high winds off of the South China Sea. Above, Pete could see nothing but darkness and the diagonal slashes of sheeting rain.
Carefully, and with all his senses on full alert, he pulled free his Matrix G8 communicator and, placing his forefinger on the biometric reader to activate the device, initiated the emergency mayday signal. But instead of the usual flicker of blue lights the G8 failed to respond. Pete stared at the futuristic looking device in disbelief. Since joining the Scorpion unit a G8 had never failed him. Unlike conventional civilian devices the Matrix G8 had been developed by Government boffins exclusively for the Scorpion units. These compact devices encased in titanium do not conform to normal rules of physics; signals can bypass electromagnetic interference, and the devices allow nearly always instantaneous communication at the most extreme distances from any point on the planet without the need for satellite links.
“Bollocks.”
He drew in a deep breath. Calm, whispered his racing mind. Focus.
Zhu De Chung: Pete knew that he had to reach the North Korean. Had to protect him; save him. Get them both off thisdesolate rusting graveyard.
The only escape craft that the squad had were inflatable ribs, moored at the stern of the tanker on the starboard side. But the most pressing question now was:
How many Assassins were onboard?
Had he killed the only one? Or were there more waiting for him?
However many there were, they had killed five members of a Scorpion Unit. It had to be more than one. Hadto be. Which meant — the game was not yet over.
Pete gingerly peered over the edge; the tanker, at eye level, was a rusting bucket of twisted metal, slippery like ice, stretching away into apparent infinity. Pete glanced along the gangway, towards theforward deck and the storage tanks, which seemed to descend into nothing.
It’s not far.
But not far is always too far when someone is firing hollow point bullets at your heels.
What to do? Run or sit tight?
Pete crept up to the open doorway until he was crouching on the platform; the rain stung his face and the wind howled as it drove into him, finding its way into his tight military clothing, and soaking him to the skin. His eyes followed every contour that the weak gloomy light could reveal. He searched for every possible sniping position. He racked his jangling brain for the best place to lay an ambush.
He decided it would best to move around to the other side of the ship. This might allow him the time to sneak down to the lower deck where Zhu De’s quarters were located. Hopefully, the fucker would be there, waiting, ready to sprint to the safety of the boats… Pete smiled to himself, craving the nicotine hit of a cigarette.
He suddenly froze to the spot, more out of instinct than anything else.
And then it was there, his worst nightmare.
Cold metal, pressing against the back of his skull.
“Fuck,” he whispered.
He started to turn, but a hard warning jab stopped him. Slowly, he crouched and placed his MP5 on the deck.
“Get up and move.”
Pete started to walk… everything ahead of him was starting to blur and he realised that he was weeping — not from fear, fear was no longer an option, but from sheer frustration. Of all the ways to be caught, of all the fucking ways to die.
The crack echoed dully against the howling wind.
A limp lifeless figure toppled over the rail and disappeared into the black boiling cauldron of sea far below.
Ocean blue eyes watched coldly as it fell.
And, in the next instant, the Assassin was gone.
The air was so still and the heat so intense it felt as if it were pressing down with a force that was almost physical. The robust contours of the scarred government building glittered in the sunshine. It stood defiant and majestic against the elements themselves. The recent bombing had left one of the front wings between floors six and thirteen now exposed, water cascaded down the side of the building from the sprinkler system, and trailing cables hung from what used to be service shafts. The Argentine Ministry of Defence building was wounded, torn, betrayed. To the people of Argentina it was a symbol of their world gone berserk.
Flint squatted, the heat from the mid-day sun pounding his tropical fatigues; he listened to the radio and glanced at the Matrix G8 in his hand. Blue LEDs flickered. A voice in his ear said, “They’re on the move.”
Flint crawled forward, then glanced down, checking the magazine of the AMSD OM 50 Nemesis 12.7mm sniper rifle. He repositioned himself, peering from the rooftop of the building towards the other side of the harbour. The government building was hazy in the heat, the harbour spread out before him like the stage set of an enormous theatre. Flint reached out and steadied himself on the narrow parapet
— he felt the usual tension flowing through every muscle and sinew of his body. He felt alive. He pushed a small electronic button just above the trigger guard of the rifle and placed his forefinger over the large touch-screen of the G8; a tiny red light illuminated and a click as the rifle synchronised with the device. For a brief moment Flint watched the scope automatically rotate and focus; then he placed his eye against it and the world seemed to become very clear.
The building had been evacuated except for a small number of officials who had been taken hostage by the terrorists. The scene was rendered in a blue purple tint; he zoomed the scope quickly forward, until he could see even the finest details of the building, each bullet hole and shrapnel scar. Then he pulled back and swept round to the right along the harbour front, searching for the 4x4s and power boats that he knew were coming.