To my left, the runway stretches off to the line of trees surrounding the small airfield. To my right, a little way off, is a chain-link fence with a gate on wheels, standing open.
The moon is high and clear, contributing to the faint glow around us. I think about my options, but there aren’t any that spring to mind that don’t result in my being killed.
“On your knees,” says the man with the gun. “Ankles crossed, hands on your head.”
I obey, working on the assumption I’m going to, at the least, be asked some questions by somebody before any violence breaks out. I’ll use that to buy myself some time, so I can think of a way out of this.
After a few moments of kneeling there, four people appear from inside the abandoned building ahead of me. They walk purposefully, side by side, across the tarmac toward me, stopping a few feet in front of me and fanning out. They’re all dressed in the same, unmarked camo as my captor. They’re not wearing masks or anything, so I can see their faces quite clearly. There are three men and a woman, all holding weapons ready and loose, staring at me impassively. The guy from the plane steps around from behind me and joins his team, standing on the far right of the line.
The man on the far left of the group steps forward. He’s a monster — easily six-five, maybe six-six. He’s built like a tank, with clean good looks and a military buzz cut.
“Adrian Hell?” he asks, somewhat rhetorically.
“Used to be,” I reply.
He levels his weapon at me — a FAMAS-G2, if I’m not mistaken. Nice gun — shame it’s French.
“Welcome to Colombia.”
16
“On your feet,” says the big guy, who I assume is in charge.
I stand, still trying to figure out why anyone would kidnap me, and take me to Colombia, of all places.
“Now, where’s the laptop?” he asks.
“What laptop?” I reply, trying to keep my poker face in place.
“The one you stole approximately fourteen hours ago. It’s government property, and you’re going to hand it over immediately.”
“So, you work for the government?”
He doesn’t say anything. I can’t get over how big this guy is…
“You guys have me confused with someone else, clearly. The laptop I stole belonged to a known terrorist. I’m actually trying to help the government that you may or may not work for. But it’s okay, you didn’t know. I’ll just get my things and be on my way… I don’t suppose one of you can fly this plane, can you?”
The other four in the line all gesture with their weapons in unison, looks of impatience etched on their faces.
“I won’t ask you again,” says the big guy. “Give me the laptop.”
I relax, looking into his eyes and seeing the first flicker of doubt. He’s in charge of the unit, and presumably very experienced. He’ll be able to tell I’m not lying, which will be making him question his orders, with a bit of luck.
“Like I said, I stole a laptop off a terrorist, not a government employee. I did so on behalf of a private military contractor as part of an ongoing operation. And you people obviously wouldn’t be interested in that, would you?”
I smile, daring them to give me more information.
“What operation?” he asks.
Bingo. I’ll give them just enough to reel them in.
“I’ve been targeted by a terrorist group who want to recruit me,” I begin. “As you say, I’m Adrian Hell, whether I’m retired or not. I refused, and they came after me. Some friends of mine happened to be investigating these assholes anyway, so I agreed to help them out. I managed to get in the same room as one of them and steal his laptop, which I’ve since handed over to my PMC friends. But that’s got nothing to do with the government, so I’m at a loss as to why you’d be sent after me…”
The big guy’s eyes narrow, and I see him working everything out in his head. I have no doubt the orders he received were based on the assumption I’m still in possession of the laptop I took from Hussein. This tells me that the guy Hussein was meeting in Manhattan is definitely a big deal, because this operation to hijack my plane must’ve been put together on pretty short notice — within a matter of hours. Now, they have me and I’m giving him information that directly contradicts what his superiors must’ve told him.
It also confirms my suspicions about the suited Americans and the mystery four-star general at the meeting. Whatever relationship they have with Hussein, they seem eager to keep it a secret. Which means the laptop is just a cover to justify killing me in the middle of nowhere…
I need to persuade these people I’m not the mission here.
“Who sent you after me?” I ask.
The big guy remains silent.
“Come on, get on the comms and ask the question. You know you want to.”
His jaw muscles clench, and he takes a deep breath, eventually turning to the rest of the group.
“Watch him,” he says, before walking a few paces away from us, pressing his hand to his chest, activating his comms unit. I can just about hear what he’s saying.
“Sir, we have the target. There’s no package — I repeat, no package. Please advise, over.” He nods, listening to the reply. “He says he stole a laptop from a known terrorist on behalf of a PMC he was working with. He doesn’t have it on his person anymore… I understand, sir, but can you please clarify the threat here? If what he says is true, we should make contact with the PMC and follow up from there… Say again, sir…” He sighs heavily, glancing over at me. “Understood, sir.” He walks back over, standing reluctantly in front of me. “My orders are to kill you,” he says, matter-of-factly. “But I want to know who you’re working for.”
I shrug. “Why?”
“Because there’s an ongoing mission that I think could benefit from that information.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see the guy from the plane touch his ear, as if receiving a communication. Nobody else in the group acknowledges their comms. But I dismiss it as quickly as I noticed it.
“What’s the mission?” I ask.
“Are you serious?”
“Worth a try,” I say with a shrug. “I know you have your orders, but I’m not the enemy here, you have my word.”
“And what is the word of a two-bit hitman worth, exactly?”
“Two-bit?” I scoff, genuinely offended. “Try world’s greatest, you ignorant prick. And I’m many things, but I’m not a liar. I’m trying to help. I don’t trust you enough to give you everything I know, but I can tell you I have seen solid intel that suggests a pending terrorist attack that nobody else currently knows is coming.”
Everyone in the group exchanges glances, but the big guy keeps his eyes fixed on me.
“I’m trying to help,” I say again. “And I’m offering my help to you now. I’m not the enemy, and given what I know, I suspect your orders are bogus — unjustified and given by someone who doesn’t want the world to know they’re implicated in a terrorist attack.”
“And you can prove this?” he asks.
“Yes.”
He levels his gun at me for a second, and then lowers it again, wrestling with his conscience. I watch the internal debate in his eyes. The soldier in him has his orders, and knows he shouldn’t question them. But the smart, experienced leader in him wants all the information to satisfy the ounce of doubt plaguing his mind.
He kind of reminds me of me.
I look at him, and feel a glimmer of hope that I might have managed to buy myself some time, and talk my way out of a firing squad death.
The guy from the plane, standing on the far right, quickly spins round, aiming his gun at the big guy. Without hesitation, he fires. The bullet hits their leader in the forehead, and he falls to the floor, turning away from us and landing heavily; blood pooling around him from the wound.