Carter was aware that he was winging it. He had no idea where the Americans were going or what their game was. For all I know, they might be heading out for a nice kebab.

  But I doubt it.

  This had all the hallmarks of a major drug deal. Carter could almost see it mapped out in front of him. The operation to bring the heroin out of Afghanistan using the smuggling route. The double-cross of their Tajikistani partners. The onward transfer of the product from the roadhead to a private facility in Talbarok. Then the escape on a cargo jet filled with top-quality heroin and cash.

  The two Americans at the hotel were the grunts, Carter reckoned. Big guys, the concierge had said. Very big. Like wrestlers. Hired muscle, probably brought in as extra firepower for the double-cross at the roadhead.

  Which made the third American the boss, with Vann as his 2iC. Vann and his associate wouldn’t need the muscle to accompany them for the onward journey to the airfield, Carter decided. No need. They had already done their job.

  The boss would have told them to wait at the hotel while they handled the flight arrangements. Probably with orders to report to the facility later that afternoon to collect their payments. The big Americans were probably sitting upstairs right now, talking excitedly about how they were going to spend their hard-earned money. Cocaine, women, champagne. The ultimate party.

  At exactly two o’clock, a late-1990s Toyota Camry turned off the main road and pulled up in front of the hotel.

  A minute passed.

  Then the hotel doors yawned open, and two pasty-faced figures walked out into the glare of the afternoon sun.

  They were obviously American. Ex-SF. Both of them had the look. Carter recognised it in the way they carried themselves. They were tightly coiled. Slow and heavy, but capable of snapping into violent action in an instant. They wore khaki combats, dark boots and polo T-shirts so tight they were practically shrink-wrapped around their bulging biceps. Both carried small rucksacks.

  They’re leaving, Carter thought. They’re going to collect their money.

  Endex.

  Carter was already out of his chair and snatching up his rucksack as the Americans folded themselves into the back of the Camry. He paced over to the Yamaha, mounted the saddle, kick-started the engine and took off in the same direction as the taxi, heading east on the main road. He held right back, keeping a safe distance of two hundred metres from the Camry as it continued east.

  Traffic was light. Carter saw delivery trucks, trolley buses, battered taxis. A few locals buzzed around on Indian-manufactured bikes. Private car ownership wasn’t really a thing in Tajikistan, seemingly.

  He followed the taxi as it hung a left at a T-junction and rattled north for a couple of kilometres down a two-lane road lined with neon-lit fashion stores and American-style fast-food outlets. They passed a brightly painted bus terminal in a mainly residential area on the outskirts of town. Two minutes later, the Camry dropped its speed before it angled down a bumpy side street.

  Carter took the same route, nudging the Yamaha past several derelict properties.

  A hundred and fifty metres away, the taxi had stopped in front of a two-storey brick building, at the end of a dilapidated industrial estate.

  Carter stopped beside a derelict garage. He cut the engine on the Yamaha, dropped the footstand and dumped his backpack on the ground. Across the road a kid in a replica Argentina football jersey was kicking a leather ball against a brick wall. Carter tucked himself into the shadows of the garage and carried out a recce of the stronghold. Making a visual assessment of the target. He didn’t want to walk into another one of Vann’s traps.

  Most of the other units in the industrial estate looked vacant. There was an old steel shipping container to one side of the estate, a couple of rubbish dumpsters overflowing with flattened cardboard boxes. Pallets and wire mesh cages.

  A steel roller shutter had been lowered down over the vehicle ramp at the front of the stronghold. There was a small door to the right of the shuttered opening, and a faded business sign on the front of the building printed in some sort of Cyrillic script. Carter spotted a security camera mounted to the wall above the side door. Fluorescent lights glowed through the windows.

  This must be the facility, he realised with a hot thrill of anticipation.

  Vann must be inside.

  I’ve found him.

  He could guess at the set-up. The American boss would be running a front business out of the unit. Electrical goods, or a laundry service. Something unlikely to arouse any curiosity among the locals. The Americans would have brought the heroin here directly from the roadhead, for safe storage before its onward transfer to the airfield. The cash profits from the deal would be washed through a series of offshore shell companies. Carter was looking at a highly sophisticated trafficking operation. Months of planning. Huge profits.

  We’ve been working with them for months, Hakimi had said, right before the light had gone out in his eyes.

  The taxi waited outside. Engine rumbling, fumes eddying out of the exhaust. The Americans clearly weren’t planning on staying in the area for longer than necessary. A couple of minutes at most. They would be keen to collect their winnings and bug out. Get on a plane, crack open the bubbly and start celebrating.

  Carter focused on the building. The security camera was the biggest obstacle to a frontal assault. As soon as he approached, the occupants would have eyes on him. Anyone inside might escape before he could breach the entrance. Or reach for a gun to defend themselves, depending on how confident they were feeling.

  Which led to problem number two.

  He was facing an unknown number of targets. Maybe even a trap.

  I’ve got to find out what I’m up against here.

  If I go in half-cocked, I could get my fucking head blown off.

  Thirty seconds later, the Muscle Brothers stepped out of the side entrance. Both of them carried small daysacks in addition to their own rucksacks. Bundles of cash, no doubt. Their slice of the heroin profits. They were laughing as they strolled back over to the Camry. Like they’d hit the jackpot. They were looking forward to hitting the casinos and the strip joints. The party of a lifetime. Wild times. As long as you didn’t have a problem with getting rich off human misery.

  The lights were still on inside the building.

  Carter shrank back from view as the Camry rolled past, crouching behind a stack of wooden pallets next to the garage. He waited until the vehicle had turned back onto the main road before he stood up from behind his cover. Then he walked over to the kid.

  ‘You speak English?’

  The boy trapped the football under his bare foot and eyed up Carter suspiciously. ‘A little.’

  Carter produced a twenty-dollar bill from the roll in his pocket. ‘Want to make some money, lad?’

  The kid’s eyes widened. Carter pointed to the stronghold, indicating the adjacent yard. A two-metre-tall wire fence enclosed a patch of bare ditch littered with rubbish, metal trolleys and pallets.

  ‘See that yard?’ The kid nodded eagerly. ‘I want you to go over there, kick your ball over the fence and ask for it back. Then tell me who’s inside. Can you do that?’

  ‘Why?’

  Carter gave him a sharp look. ‘Do you want the money or not?’

  ‘OK.’ The kid made a grab for the note. Carter snatched his hand away. The kid shook his head. ‘Money first. Then I knock.’

  Carter laughed. ‘I might be a foreigner, but I ain’t stupid. Knock, then money.’

  ‘OK. You wait here.’

  The kid scooped up his football. A moment later, he was running off in the direction of the industrial park. He stopped just short of the yard to the right of the unit, picked up his ball and hurled it over the top of galvanised steel fence. It landed with a thud amid the clutter of garbage, bouncing on the dirt before it rolled to a halt beside a wheelie bin.

  Carter quickly shifted back into the shadows of the garage. He crouched down behind the pallets, looking on from his concealed position as the kid jogged round to the front of the unit.

  He felt a twinge of unease at sending in the kid to unwittingly clear the entry point. Carter knew there was a slim chance that the Muscle Brothers might have been the last to leave the building. Maybe they had rigged it up with explosives and deliberately left the lights on, ready to detonate if anyone else approached. Or someone might come out with a gun before Carter could breach the stronghold.

  The kid knuckled the wooden side door.

  Several moments passed.

  No one answered.

  The kid knocked again.

  Same result.

  The kid stood back. Scratched his head. For an instant Carter thought he might turn around and give up.

  Then the door snicked open. Carter breathed a sigh of relief.

  No booby trap.

  From his vantage point 150 metres away, Carter saw a figure standing in the gloom of the doorway.

  Vann.

  He stared at the kid while the latter made a pleading gesture, pointing at the yard. Vann didn’t seem moved. A man with bigger concerns weighing on his shoulders than a kid’s football on his property. He said something to the boy, slammed the door shut behind him. The kid waited. Thirty seconds later, the door opened again. Vann handed him the ball.

  The door closed.

  The boy jogged back over to the garage, carrying the ball under his arm. Carter moved forward from the pallets and nodded at him. ‘What’s the craic, lad?’

  ‘There is only one man inside,’ the boy replied, slightly out of breath. ‘He looks like you.’

  ‘Like me?’

  The boy laughed and pointed at Carter’s face. ‘White. But older.’

  ‘You didn’t see anyone else inside?’

  ‘No. Just the white man and the truck.’

  ‘A truck?’ Carter frowned.

  ‘Yes.’ The kid spread his arms bear-hug wide. ‘Big truck. Like this.’

  Carter pressed the crisp twenty into the kid’s palm. The boy clenched his fist tightly around it. Carter waved a hand in the direction of the main thoroughfare and said, ‘Do me a favour. Go and get yourself a new ball or something. Get out of the area.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Just do it.’

  The kid flashed a toothy grin and scampered back down the street. Carter lingered in the shadows of the building until the kid had hurried off in the direction of the main road. He shoved the rucksack behind a pile of rubble outside the garage and cast another look up and down the road, making sure he was alone before he deholstered the Grach semi-automatic concealed beneath his shirt.

  He thumbed the safety on the left side of the polymer frame, keeping the pistol down at his side as he broke forward across the estate. He could feel the weight of the full clip in the Grach. Eighteen rounds of 9 x 19 mm ammunition. Ready to drop anyone who might be lurking inside the stronghold.

  Carter reached the nearest unit and then increased his stride, hustling towards the stronghold from an angle to avoid being captured by the security camera. He didn’t want his face showing up on anyone’s monitor, not until the last possible moment.

  In another six quick steps he made it to the side door leading into the stronghold. It looked sturdy. There were signs fixed to it at head height, with lots of warning symbols. Carter didn’t understand the words, but he didn’t need to. He got the gist of the message.

  Do not enter. Trespassers beware.

  Too fucking right, he thought.

  He backed up a metre, giving himself space to generate plenty of momentum. He paused momentarily.

  Raised his left leg.

  Kicked out.

  There was a sharp splintering crack as Carter drove the heel of his Gore-Tex boot at a point to the left of the scuffed handle, striking the door at its weakest part and breaking up the internal locking mechanism. The door flew back on its hinges, slapping against the internal wall.

  Carter brought up his pistol.

  Then he charged inside.

  Twenty-One

  Carter ghosted through the doorway in a blur of motion. Room clearance. Something he had done tens of thousands of times before. On the ranges at Pontrilas, on raids in Afghanistan and a bunch of other places. Breach the entry point, move forward with speed and controlled aggression. Suppress the threat on the other side of the door. Just like he’d taught the SF recruits back in Santiago.

  Except this time, the target was a fellow Blade.

  He swung his pistol from left to right as he moved deeper into the unit, instantly sweeping the area for threats. He found himself in a dimly lit space, ten metres wide and about twenty deep, all exposed brickwork and grey resin flooring. Fluorescent batten lights dangled from the steel rafters. Carter saw a small office cubicle built into the wall to his left, kitchenette and ablutions to the rear. A white box truck in the middle of the floor space, front cab facing the lowered roller shutter.

  There was a metal workbench to the right of the truck, with a clutter of charging cables, burner phones and computer equipment laid out on the surface. Black duffel bags, three of them. Unzipped. Bricks of black tar stuffed inside. And weaponry. Carter saw a ton of hardware. Glock pistols. A Dragunov sniper rifle. AK-47 assault rifles. What looked like a GM-94 Russian grenade launcher, plus ammunition pouches filled with 43 x 30 mm thermobaric projectiles.

  Vann was standing next to the workbench.

  Hands at his sides. Unarmed.

  Smiling.

  ‘Hello, Geordie,’ he said. ‘What took you so long?’

  Carter stopped dead. The gun wavered in his hand. Vann laughed and wagged a finger at him. He had changed out of his Afghan rig into regular civvies.

  ‘You should have stayed out of this, fella,’ Vann went on. ‘Should have walked away when you had the chance.’

  He was still smiling. A hollow sensation spread its fingers through Carter’s core. Something was wrong, he knew.

  Very wrong.

  ‘Too late now, of course,’ Vann added. ‘Fucking shame, that. But then you never were very good at taking advice, were you, Geordie?’

  Carter felt an intense pressure building between his temples. He kept his pistol trained on Vann’s centre mass. The smirk on the guy’s face widened. He didn’t look surprised to see Carter. The opposite, in fact.

  Like he’d expected Carter to come crashing through the door at that precise moment.

  ‘Put the gun down, son,’ a voice drawled.

  It came from Carter’s nine o’clock.

  A voice he’d heard somewhere before.

  American.

  Carter looked past his shoulder.

  A silver-haired man with a heavily lined face and pale blue eyes stood in front of the cubicle doorway. He was dressed in a black T-shirt, stone-grey trousers and dark hiking boots, and he gripped a Glock 17 pistol in his right hand.

  The dark mouth of the barrel aimed squarely at Carter. Trained at a spot between his eyes.

  Carter felt his guts turn to ice.

  Bill Ramsey grinned and said, ‘Hell, son. You ought to see the look on your face right now. Frigging priceless.’

  Carter stared at the ex-CIA director speechlessly. The pressure between his temples became steadily more intense. Invisible vice jaws clamped around his skull.

  Bill Ramsey.

  The man who had presented Carter with the Medal of Honor several months ago. The president’s most trusted confidant.

  What the fuck is he doing here?

  ‘I won’t ask you a third time,’ Ramsey said in his languid Southern accent. ‘Lose the piece. Do it nice and slow.’

  ‘Do as he says, Geordie,’ said Vann. ‘Don’t be a fucking idiot.’

  Carter ground his teeth in anger. He hated to admit it, but Vann was right. Two against one. Shite odds. Vann was less than arm’s length from the hardware laid out on the workbench. Carter could take down one of them, but not both.

  The moment I open fire, I’m a dead man.

  Very slowly, Carter lowered himself to a kneeling position and placed the Grach on the floor. Bill Ramsey’s knife-edge-thin lips parted into a smile.

  ‘Attaboy.’

  He kept the Glock fixed on Carter while Vann stepped forward and picked up the Grach. The Ulsterman straightened up and set the weapon down on the workbench, out of Carter’s reach.

  ‘What the fuck’s going on?’ Carter said, flicking his gaze from Ramsey to Vann and back again.

  Vann sidestepped the question and said, ‘I tried to keep you out of all this. Remember that. I gave you the chance to fuck off back home, and you didn’t take it. None of this is my fault.’

  Carter shook his head. He tried to think clearly. To make sense of the situation. Couldn’t. All the wiring in his brain had been scrambled.

  ‘What the fuck is he doing here?’ he demanded, indicating Ramsey.

  Vann said, ‘Bill is my business partner, fella. We’ve been working together for a while now.’

  Carter stared disbelievingly at the former CIA man.

  ‘Got to hand it to you,’ Ramsey droned on. ‘You’re one stubborn son of a bitch. When I got the call to say you were approaching this place, hell, I almost spat out my coffee.’ He glanced at Vann and grinned. ‘Guess you were right. Your friend hasn’t got the good sense to know when to quit.’

  The words floored Carter. ‘You’ve been tracking me?’

  ‘Every step of the way.’ Ramsey laughed and dipped the Glock 17, pointing the barrel at Carter’s side pocket. ‘The satphone. In case you’re wondering how we did it. There’s a tracking device in the battery pack. We’ve had eyes on you since you landed in Uzbekistan.’

  The realisation didn’t dawn on Carter. It punched him in the face. He thought back to the briefing. Santiago. Chile. Only a few days ago, but it felt like it predated the Big Bang. He remembered Mike Mullins’s serious expression as he handed Carter the satphone.

  Whatever happens, do not lose this phone.

  He said, anxiously, ‘Mullins. He set me up.’