“We’re going in!” Hudson yelled.
They sprinted through the yard and slammed into the wall of a garage block a few yards to the north of the main building. Lights were on all over the property now and they heard screams coming from all over the inside of the place.
“What’s going on, Commander?” Hud said, keeping himself pinned against the wall, gun raised an inch from his face.
“Man on the upper balcony,” Hart said. “Jonny just took him out but he got George first. That’s what started the fireworks party.”
“I see that scumbag Campbell!” Mack’s gravelly voice rasped in everyone’s earpieces. “He’s making a break for it — coming this way!”
“He wants to get to the garage,” Hud said.
“Then he’s shit out of luck,” said Cairo, cocking her gun.
A second later a panicking, sweating man dashed out of the back door and staggered toward the garage. One arm was across his chest, clutching a sheaf of papers. In his other arm was what Cairo thought looked like an old Soviet combat knife.
“Going somewhere, Kevin?” Mack said.
“Just what the hell is this?” Campbell said. The hand gripping the dagger was shaking as the adrenalin pumped through his arms. “Is this Akmetov? Has Akmetov sent you? I knew I couldn’t trust that bastard!”
Behind them in the house came the sound of rapid burst gunfire as Commander Hart and Jonny Lane cleared the rest of the property.
Mack raised his gun. “Drop the knife, lad. Looks like your pals are all gone now.”
Campbell screamed and threw the paperwork into the air. Hundreds of pieces of paper drifted all over the place as the Canadian turned on his heel to run back into the house, but he was met by Hud’s fist.
Bones crunched.
Cartilage squashed.
Campbell screamed again and fell back into the hard dirt of the yard, knocked out colder than a Moscow winter.
Mack picked him up with one arm and hauled him over his shoulder in a fireman’s lift.
Hud spoke rapidly into his mic. “We have the target. Everyone out.”
They met at the Escalades and hit the gas, skidding out of the side street in a hail of diesel and dust and with a trail of death behind them. The sound of sirens rose into the Karachi night as local police responded to calls about gunfire at the property, but the joint SAS-SBS squads were already driving north on the Lyari Expressway.
No one mentioned George Fleming at all. There would be time for that later. After a silent cruise, they were in a safe house in Jamshed Town half an hour later, and Kevin Campbell was tied to a chair in a grimy kitchen. He blinked wildly and tried to speak through the gag in his mouth.
Hart had kept everyone out of the room except Mack and Cairo, and now Mack tore the gag from the Canadian’s mouth as the young Englishwoman pulled her gun from her holster and leaned back against the sink.
“Who are you people?” Campbell asked. “If not Akmetov, then Russians maybe?”
“I’m no fuckin’ Russky, lad,” Mack said, and punched him in the face. He pulled his punch. It was just meant to rattle him, and it worked.
“Then who, dammit?”
“We’re from the Boy Scouts,” Mack said. “And we want you to play nice.”
“Or what?”
“Or you’ll go home with more than a bloody nose,” Cairo said.
“What are you?” Campbell said defiantly. “Fifteen?”
Cairo’s kick was so fast even Mack didn’t see it coming, and the first anyone knew about it was when the Canadian doubled over in pain, his eyes watering.
As he screamed, Mack winced and gave a low whistle. “I do hope you’ve already got a little family started, Kevin, because I don’t think it’s gonnae happen after what just happened to your nuts now.”
“What… do… you… want?” he croaked.
Cairo spoke up. “Where is Akmetov?”
Campbell began to give a sad, pathetic laugh. Blood from his smashed nose ran down over his lips. “So that’s what all this is about?”
Then Mack moved with such speed that this time it was Cairo who never saw it coming. Before anyone knew what had happened the Scotsman grabbed the Canadian’s ear with his right hand and gripped his head with his left hand.
Campbell tried to recoil, but Mack’s grip around his head was just too tight. He started to grunt in pain as the battle-hardened SAS sergeant’s arm constricted around his skull and his leathery fingers increased the grip on the money launderer’s ear.
“One more fuckin’ peep outta you, son, and you lose your ear, you hear me?”
“What the fu…”
Mack pulled at the ear and Campbell stopped talking and began to squeal. “Yes, I hear you! Dammit, I hear you!”
“It’s not hard to tear an ear clear off,” Mack said quietly. “And yours won’t be the first.”
Cairo took a step back and instinctively looked from Mack to the door behind them. She wondered if Commander Hart knew this was happening.
“Now, where does that fuckin’ numpty Akmetov hang out these days? Answer me quick and quiet. Me and my friends are running out of time. Got it?”
Campbell started sobbing and when he nodded his head he screamed in pain.
“Best not to move your head,” Mack said. “Just say got it.”
“Got it.”
“There’s a good lad. Now, give me the location or you’re never gonnae wear sunglasses again.”
“Akmetov’s in the Garmser district for the next few days.”
“In the compound by the mountains?”
“Yes. Please let me go.”
We’re not letting you go until that’s confirmed, Kev… so if you’re bullshitting me you’re losing the ear.”
“I’m not bullshitting you. It’s the Garmer compound until the weekend.”
Mack released him and moved around to the front of the chair.
Campbell breathed a sigh of relief. “Oh, thank God for.”
Mack’s gnarled fist stopped Kevin Campbell finishing the sentence, and then Hart, Hud and Jonny were in the room.
“You hear that?” Cairo said.
Hart nodded. “I’ve already told our men in the field to get there at once and put the place under surveillance. In the meantime Imran’s taking this piece of crap into ISI custody and we need to get to Garmser.”
“I don’t imagine ISI custody is going to be the nicest of places if you’re a man like Kevin Campbell,” Cairo said, sliding her gun back in the holster.
“That’s his problem,” Hud said.
“Aye,” Mack said, “and ours is finding a chopper at this time o’ night.”
Hart pulled out her phone. “Just leave that to me.”
PART THREE
Cairo peered out of the chopper as it blasted its way through the night. Outside the desert was black and only visible when the moon broke through the clouds and everything turned a strange, ghostly silver color for a few seconds. She wondered what could drive a man like Kevin Campbell to cross over to the dark side and work for someone like Erzhan Akmetov.
The two SEALs, Petty Officer John Richards and Seaman Franky Loretto, had joined them at the airbase and were now on the other side of the chopper swapping stories with the British guys and talking about tactics. Cairo could hear them through her headset but she ignored the banter. She was nervous about her first deployment with the regiment and distracted by sudden thoughts of her parents’ bloody execution. She had witnessed it as a child and the psychological scars were deep and rough. The images rose up into her mind like black phantoms and she worked hard to shake them away.
She couldn’t afford to make any mistakes right now — the life of the young photojournalist was in her hands. She comforted herself with a promise — a promise to hunt down and kill the men responsible for her parents’ deaths no matter what it took, no matter how long it took, and then she focused on Dagger Strike.