‘Adam!’ It took him a moment to register Holly Jo’s voice in his ear over the adrenalin surge. ‘Are you okay?’
He got to his feet. ‘I’m fine. One terrorist down. Tag this location — Imran’s people need to get a clean-up team here to remove the body. Third-floor apartment, on the left.’
He went to the door. Marwat lay by it, bloodied hands pressed against the bullet hole. The terrorist groaned, looking up as Adam approached…
The SIG roared twice.
Wet starbursts of red and grey exploded across the floor from the exit wounds in Marwat’s skull. Adam stepped over the corpse and returned to the landing, resuming his run up the stairs.
He would have compromised the mission if he had been left alive. Again, Adam and Syed shared the same cold, pragmatic view on the termination. But there was something else; part of it regret at the death of a comrade in the war against the infidels, another part…
An almost visceral joy in taking a life.
That was Syed. It was all Syed.
It had to be.
More floors passed, sounds of concern and confusion coming from the apartments as the residents reacted to the shots. On the top landing, a woman peered out timorously through her door, only to slam it shut as Adam rushed past.
The last set of stairs led to the roof. Daylight from above — the door at the top was ajar.
He ran towards it.
Chapter 6
The Only Way Is Down
Khattak had also heard the shots. He didn’t know if Marwat or Toradze had fired last, but was taking no chances, his gun covering the stairs as he held up his phone, trying to get a signal. There had to be another mast in range, there had to be…
He reached the roof’s edge, the ground several vertiginous floors below. Still no network. He glanced at the stairwell. No movement. Back at the phone—
An icon appeared. He had reception! Only one bar, but that was all he needed. He redialled the last number.
Adam stopped just before the top of the stairs. He peeked through the doorway. The residents obviously considered the rooftop as much a part of their living space as their apartments. It was strung with washing lines, padlocked wooden boxes stacked beneath a makeshift shelter of corrugated metal.
But Khattak was out of sight.
With the drone destroyed, Adam had no extra eyes to help him. It was him versus the terrorist, and the other man had the advantage: there was only one place from where his pursuer could appear.
But he heard a voice, somewhere to the left. Khattak. Syed recognised it instantly. He will be warning Nasir about the Americans!
Adam rushed up the last steps and out on to the roof.
He spun to the left, gun raised in a two-handed grip. Khattak was at the edge of the roof, pistol pointed straight at him — but the mere act of speech had slowed his reactions. Only by a fraction of a second, but enough for Adam to drop and roll sideways. The bullet seared past him.
He jumped up to return fire as Khattak ran along the roof’s edge. Sodden washing on the lines blocked Adam’s line of sight. He aimed at where he thought the other man would be and pulled the trigger, but hit nothing except wet cloth.
There was a chimney-like brick structure near the rooftop’s corner. Khattak darted behind it, pressing his back against the wall. He returned the phone to his ear. ‘Nasir, I’m being—’ Three beeps interrupted him: a dropped call. The chimney had been enough to block the weak connection. ‘No!’
Adam heard the cry of dismay, immediately guessing its cause. He ducked past the washing and advanced on the chimney—
Khattak burst out from behind the brickwork at a sprint — and leapt off the roof.
Adam didn’t have time to fire before the other man fell out of view. A thump and a pained yell reached him. He ran to see where Khattak had gone.
Another apartment block, a storey lower, came into view below. The two buildings were separated by an alley about twelve feet wide. The Pakistani had made a hard landing on the roof, which was even more cluttered than the one he had just left. He scrambled behind a pigeon loft.
Adam knew he had to follow. But he would be vulnerable in mid-air, more so immediately after landing. Easy prey for the terrorist.
Unless—
He backed up, then made a running leap across the gap…
And opened fire in mid-air, unleashing every remaining round in the SIG at the wooden loft — not with any expectation of hitting Khattak, but to force him to stay in cover.
The trigger clicked, the gun’s slide locking back. Empty. The roof rushed at him—
The impact sent a hammer-blow of pain through his legs. He rolled. The umbrella in his coat pocket dug hard into his side as he came to a stop and looked up.
Khattak was just a metre away, having ducked as bullets tore through the pigeon loft. He blinked in surprise at the sight of the American.
No time to reload. Adam dropped the P228 and sprang at him, tackling the Pakistani back against the wooden structure. Birds flapped in panic inside their cages. Khattak staggered, his gun clattering away across the roof.
But he was far from incapacitated, delivering a vicious kick to Adam’s stomach. The American lurched back. Khattak straightened and reached into his jacket.
He pulled out a knife.
Adam stared at the nasty little blade. It was only about four inches long, but it was serrated, sharp, strong.
And Khattak knows how to use it.
Syed’s memories provided proof. The terrorist was well-practised with a knife, both for fighting and for his own personal pleasure. More than one man had been tortured with it, finally meeting a bloody end at Khattak’s hands while his leader watched approvingly. The image of flesh peeling away from bone as easily as the skin of an orange flashed through Adam’s mind.
Khattak read the wariness on the American’s face. His mouth twisted into a cruel smile as he swept the blade in a series of swift, measured movements, a cobra swaying before the strike. He stepped closer.
Adam kept his gaze fixed on the knife. Syed’s knowledge of his comrade was betraying him. Khattak would be overconfident—
The blade thrust at his face.
He jerked back. Another stab forced him to sidestep. Khattak advanced, jabbing the knife. Adam dodged each time, but realised that the Pakistani was trying to corner him. He had to fight back or be trapped.
Weight in his coat. The umbrella.
He snatched it out, wielding it like a truncheon. Khattak let out a mocking laugh. He lunged, the knife aimed at the American’s chest—
Adam whipped up the umbrella. The terrorist yelped in startled pain as it cracked against his hand. Hard. The flimsy-looking cylinder was solid as a cosh.
It was no ordinary umbrella.
Anger drove him to attack again, the knife slashing at Adam’s throat. The umbrella blurred to intercept with another heavy thud. Khattak gasped through bared teeth.
Adam watched him closely, reading his face, his body movements. Khattak was still angry, but now cautious too, knowing that his advantage had shrunk. Another stab — but this stopped short, a feint, changing direction as Adam moved to block. The blade’s tip sliced through his sleeve… and the skin beneath.
This time it was Adam who let out an involuntary gasp. The cut was not deep, but it burned like a thin line of acid.
Khattak’s malevolent smile returned. Adam suppressed Syed’s anger, controlling his own.
Another stab—
Adam batted his arm away — then slammed the umbrella against the side of Khattak’s head.
The Pakistani lurched back. Before he could recover, Adam hit him twice more, rapid yet brutal blows to his face.
Khattak retreated, expression now fearful. Adam kept pace as the pair circled. The terrorist made an experimental jab at him, but it was easily deflected. ‘Who are you?’ demanded Khattak. ‘Who are you really?’