‘Yeah, I’m fine,’ he replied.
She looked round, worried, but saw no sign of the kidnapper. ‘What happened? Where did he go?’
‘He got away.’
‘But you were right behind him.’
‘He got away,’ Eddie repeated flatly. He started back towards the park, leaving the bewildered Nina staring after him.
8
‘This whole thing’s not right,’ said Chase. ‘I don’t like it.’
‘Beggars can’t be choosers,’ Sullivan told him, though with considerable disquiet. ‘We’ve still got to get those hostages out of there, no matter what. But…’
‘But they are obviously not just bandits,’ Castille said, finishing his thought.
‘Then who are they?’ asked Rios.
‘You said they were all carrying 74Us?’ Sullivan asked Chase, who nodded. ‘The only Vietnamese who are issued those as standard are members of their special forces — or TC2.’
‘What’s TC2?’ said Lomax.
‘Tông cuc Tình báo — Vietnamese military intelligence, officially, but it also acts as secret police and a spy agency. But I can’t think of any reason why they would be taking aid workers hostage.’
‘And what about these Russians?’ Chase asked. ‘It looked like they were in charge of whatever they were doing to Natalia. But what were they doing, and why her?’
‘First things first,’ the New Zealander said. ‘We’ve got to rescue her and the others — and if these people really are TC2, then that makes doing so with a zero body count even more important. If we kill members of their secret police, then believe me, we will be hunted down.’
‘I don’t see how we’re going to manage that,’ said Hoyt. ‘If there’s as many of ’em as Chase said—’
‘We find a way,’ Sullivan snapped. ‘Understand? I got a taste of communist Vietnamese hospitality in the seventies. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy — and I sure as hell don’t want to experience it again!’
‘If we’re going to go in stealthy, this is the best time,’ Chase pointed out. ‘The storm’ll give us cover. No bugger’ll go out into this if they don’t have to.’ Even in what shelter they could find, the mercenaries were still drenched.
Sullivan peered over the rock behind which they were crouching. ‘There’s still only one sentry on this side of the camp,’ he reported, spotting the speck of torchlight. ‘Looks like he’s sticking to the same route. If we time it right, we should be able to take him down without any trouble. Non-lethally,’ he added, giving Hoyt a warning look.
The American made a sarcastic sound. ‘Yeah, yeah. I got the message.’
A plan was rapidly worked out, then the six men advanced on the camp. Having already covered the ground, Chase took the lead. Pausing occasionally to confirm the sentry’s position, he moved in until he reached the line of footprints, then signalled to the others.
No words were needed; everyone knew what to do. Chase hunched down behind a bush a few feet from the path, while Castille took up position nearby. The other men spread out behind them, ready to react if needed.
The wind gusted, raindrops bursting against the Englishman like little bombs. For all the dryness his poncho provided, he might as well not have bothered wearing it. But it served another purpose, the blotchy camo pattern breaking up his outline. With his head low and the bush’s branches further hiding his shape, the sentry wouldn’t see him until he was just a few feet away.
He hoped…
A glance to the side revealed a crouching shadow: Castille. In the other direction, the light gradually got closer, its bearer taking on form as he plodded along the track. A faint gleam of wet metal showed that the gun was still slung over his shoulder. As before, the torch’s beam was mostly following the path, only occasionally checking the undergrowth on each side.
Fifteen feet, ten. Chase tensed, ready to strike. Five feet, and the torch briefly swept over the bush — then abruptly snapped back towards him—
He sprang, slamming his shoulder into the Vietnamese man’s stomach and knocking him to the ground. The sentry tried to cry out, but only managed a choked gurgle as he took a savage elbow to the groin. He convulsed in pain. Chase rolled and wrapped one arm tightly around his throat as Castille rushed over to toss the AKS into the bushes.
Chase tightened his chokehold. The man writhed, clawing at his face with one hand, but then Castille pinned him and the result was inevitable. Eyes bulging, the sentry made a last strangled moan, then went limp. Chase maintained the hold for a few more seconds to make sure he wasn’t faking, then eased the pressure. The man’s head lolled. He quickly checked his pulse. He was still alive.
Shapes rose from the undergrowth. ‘Is he okay?’ Sullivan asked.
‘He’s out,’ Chase reported, pushing the unconscious man away and standing.
‘Good.’ Sullivan looked round. ‘Hoyt, Rios, tie him to that tree there. Gag him, too — he probably won’t be able to shout loud enough for anyone in the camp to hear him over this wind, but let’s not take chances. The rest of us’ll move on. Eddie?’
Chase took point again, retracing his earlier path to the edge of the encampment. Before long, the team were in the bushes behind the largest tent, Rios and Hoyt soon catching up. ‘No one in the open,’ said Castille, surveying the scene.
‘Two men guarding the hostages, yes?’ Rios asked.
Chase nodded. ‘Better check nobody else has gone in there, though.’
Hoyt glanced towards the dark block of the cabin. ‘What are we going to do about the girl?’
Sullivan considered the question. ‘We deal with the guards inside this tent first,’ he decided. ‘Once they’re out of the way, you and Eddie go and get her while we secure the rest of the hostages.’
‘The two guards were at opposite ends,’ warned Chase, ‘and there’s only one entrance. If one of them raises the alarm we’re fucked, so how’re we going to get ’em both at the same time?’
Sullivan grinned, reaching under his poncho to take out a glinting knife. ‘Make another entrance. Okay, let’s move.’
The group split into two teams of three, Chase accompanied by Castille and Sullivan. They went to the closed end of the large tent, while the other mercenaries crept towards its entrance. The Englishman peered through the plastic window again. ‘Still two guards,’ he whispered as he rejoined his companions. ‘One’s sitting by the door — back to it, watching the prisoners. The other’s got his back to the other end of the tent.’
Sullivan quietly used his radio headset to relay the information to the others. Rios gave him a thumbs-up. ‘All right,’ said the New Zealander, ‘let’s open up another door…’
He examined the tent’s corner, then with intense concentration and precision pressed the tip of his knife against it, about four feet above the ground and right beside the supporting pole. The wet canvas strained, then split as he applied more pressure. The constant beat of the rain covered the thin crackle of fibres being severed. Slowly he forced the blade downwards. It was extremely sharp; the fabric peeled apart as if he were slicing a boiled egg. Castille held the material in place as the cut lengthened.
Finally the blade reached the groundsheet. Sullivan withdrew it, taking hold of the bottom corner of the slashed canvas to prevent it from flapping in the wind. A nod to Chase, who in turn leaned around the side of the tent and signalled to the men at the other end. He got another thumbs-up in reply. ‘They’re set,’ he whispered.