Hurst - Robin Crumby (bookreader TXT) 📗

do a deal with Briggs, you pay up, or bad stuff tends to happen. Well, you’re going to get what’s coming to you.”

He fired a single shot and the man bent double, clutching at his abdomen. A sad, almost disappointed expression settled in his eyes as a red stain formed around his midriff and his body went limp. There were gasps of disbelief from the dinner guests, who recoiled in horror, pushing their chairs away from the blood that began to pool around his body.

Captain Armstrong stepped forward, spitting with indignation, pointing angrily at Briggs. “That’s brave. Shooting an unarmed man. You coward.”

Briggs parried his intrusion, pistol-whipping the naval officer across the face, leaving a bloody streak across his cheek. Armstrong fished a white handkerchief from his trouser pocket and pressed it to his face to staunch the flow of blood.

“You and who’s army? All your men are dead, captain.” He laughed in his face. “You really think a bunch of sailor boys can match my army of street fighters and career criminals? I don’t think so. I’d take one of my boys for ten of yours. I’ve spent eight long years on this bloody island.”

Peterson placed himself between Briggs and Captain Armstrong. “You should know that I’ve dealt with Somali warlords, drug barons in Columbia, guerrilla fighters in Syria, Afghanistan, and Iraq. You’re a bunch of convicts with shotguns, nothing more. I have a Navy Seal team expert in weapons, tactics, counter-terrorism and explosives I can summon at a moment’s notice.” He clicked his fingers. “I have drones that can hunt you down when you least expect it. Precision weapons that can take out a vehicle travelling at 50mph. Trust me, mate,” he said the word “mate” in as good a cockney accent as he could manage, “you don’t have a hope in hell.”

“I’ll take my chances. You really want a war you can’t win? My lot sabotaging your relief effort at every opportunity? Smuggling sick people from the mainland and letting them loose in your precious Camp Wight? Do you?”

“Listen, Briggs, this virus is bigger than any local feud. It’s too important for petty squabbles to interfere. We’re facing an extinction event for humanity. Total annihilation. Please, lay down your weapons and join us. You can’t win, you know that. And there will be plenty of other battles to fight. I’m sure we can find suitable jobs for your men that would keep them, how shall we say, entertained.”

Briggs came and stood with his nose almost touching the American’s, a snarl on his lips. “You really think we want anything to do with your lot? Don’t waste your breath. Why doesn’t everyone sit down and make themselves comfortable, shall we? We’re going to work out a different kind of deal.”

Out of sight, within Lieutenant Peterson’s trouser pocket, a micro-transmitter was flashing red, broadcasting a distress signal. Every sixty seconds it buzzed lightly against his trouser leg to confirm its activation. Even now a rescue team on a high state of readiness would be scrambling, ready to be on site in less than ten minutes.

Chapter Thirty-four

Sam’s curiosity had got the better of him and he’d ignored Jack’s instruction to stay with the boat. He was crouched behind a hydrangea bush, peering through the grand window of the stateroom where they were holding Jack and the others. There was nothing he could do but watch.

He caught some of the conversation whenever the tattooed man in the T-shirt approached the window or when the wind dropped and the trees grew still. He noticed a guard bound and gagged by the main entrance with a swarthy-looking guy standing over him, keeping an eye out for any late arrivals to the Osborne gathering.

Sam racked his brains. What could he do? Light a fire? Cause a distraction? Set off the fire alarm and then try and steal into the room unseen? He gripped the old service revolver Jack had entrusted him with. It was a useful deterrent if nothing else. It deserved to be in a museum, which ironically was exactly where they had found the weapon, along with muskets, suits of armour, swords and instruments of torture salvaged from nearly five hundred years of history.

In the distance Sam heard a faint mechanical sound but it was gone again before he could locate its source. It sounded close and far away, all at the same time. It was nearly dark outside and, with his back to the bush, he was fairly sure he couldn’t be seen. He had no idea what was going on in the stateroom, but from the looks on people’s faces, they were scared. The man with the tattoos paced around the room, jabbing his finger in people’s faces, lecturing someone.

Sam kept watch for some time, pondering his next move. He was straining to hear what was being said when footsteps behind him made him freeze. Without disturbing the flower heads, all he could make out from his cramped position, were dark shadows advancing deliberately towards him, their faces obscured by helmets and goggles. They moved fluidly as one connected organism, taking up position with their backs against the brick wall of the building. Sam was only a few feet away holding his breath, hoping he was invisible in the half-light.

One of the men walked straight up to the bush where Sam was crouched within and put his finger to his lips. He removed his headset and gestured for Sam to come out from his hiding place. Sam dropped the gun and came out, holding his hands up. The soldier grabbed him, spun him round and roughly pushed him down on to his knees.

He drew Sam’s arms behind his back and secured both hands together with what felt like a cable tie, doing the same with his legs. The soldier stuffed a piece of cloth in Sam’s mouth and whispered in his ear. “Stay down and you’ll be fine. Don’t move, okay?” Sam nodded, reassured by the American accent that they were friendly.

Sam saw them move off towards the main entrance. A few seconds later he heard the soft pop of a silenced weapon as the guard went down. One of the team caught the guard’s body and weapon before it could clatter on the ground.

The team moved out of sight, heading inside. Sam whispered a silent prayer as he lay prone on the ground, incapacitated. The grass was already damp with evening dew. A loud explosion made the windows rattle but not shatter. An American voice shouted, “Lay down your weapons and surrender.” A volley of small arms fire answered their demands. Sam craned his neck towards the window, desperate to see what was happening. He could see smoke and bright flashes, then all the lights went out.

In the half-light, Briggs’s men didn’t stand a chance against highly trained soldiers with night-vision goggles. The window nearest Sam shattered into a thousand pieces as a grenade exploded nearby. He was stunned for a few seconds, his ears ringing.

The fire fight seemed to move to a different part of the building and then grew louder outside beyond view, heading into the woods, away from where the hostages were being held. Perhaps a few of the terrorists, if that’s what they were, had gotten away, thought Sam. There were several further shotgun blasts from inside, a heart-rending scream and then silence.

After what seemed like an eternity, the soldiers re-emerged, escorting Peterson and two others to safety, lowering them down next to the wall by the front entrance. Sam couldn’t see their faces.

The soldier who had bound Sam jogged over and flashed a torch in his face before removing the gag from his mouth. “Talk fast. Who are you?”

“My name’s Sam,” he replied, his voice cracking. “I’m one of the good guys, came here with Jack and Terra from Hurst Castle. They’re my friends.”

The soldier dumped him back on the floor and double-timed it over to the main group, where a medic was checking the hostages and treating their injuries. He spoke in a low voice with his sergeant and Lieutenant Peterson who nodded in Sam’s direction. The soldier relaxed a little and wandered back, flicking open a knife to cut the ties securing Sam’s hands and legs, hauling him back to his feet.

“Nothing personal, just doing my job.”

Sam nodded. The blood was rushing back to his extremities and he felt a little faint but unharmed.

“There’s someone over here wants to talk to you, will you come with me, sir?”

Sam followed the soldier, his legs stiff and leaden. He spotted Jack propped up against another hostage and bent down to comfort him. Jack looked a bit bashed up, with a blackened face, split lip, and blood soaked down his right side.

Peterson interrupted their reunion. “Gentlemen, I suggest you come with us. We can’t vouch for your safety here. Briggs’s men were easily scared off but they’re likely to come back in greater numbers.”

Jack looked up with fire in his eyes. “Wait, what about Terra?” he said, seizing hold of Peterson’s arm, to the protestation of the medic trying to dress a cut on Jack’s forehead.

Peterson looked confused.

Jack continued, “Terra? The woman I came here with? What happened to her? We need to go back and look for her.”

“Jack, there’s no time. Listen…” He took a deep breath, choosing his words carefully. “I saw her. Briggs took her, along with some of the others. We couldn’t get to her. I’m sorry.”

Jack looked exhausted and distressed. “Will she be okay? I couldn’t take it if they did something to her.”

“I can’t promise you that,” said Peterson, shaking his head. “But if they’ve got any sense they’ll look after her and make a trade. We’ve captured a couple of theirs. She’s a smart lady, Jack. She’ll do what it takes to stay alive.”

Peterson turned towards the special forces team leader. “Sergeant Jones, your team stay behind to secure the area and help with the clean-up. I’ll take Jack back to the ship to get patched up. Sam, you want to tag along and keep the old man company?”

Sam nodded enthusiastically and they both followed Peterson and his men through the wood behind the house, across a golf course and down a slope towards a hidden valley where the helicopter had landed to maintain the advantage of surprise and stealth.

Sam put his arm around Jack’s shoulders, supporting his weight. “I’m sure she’ll be fine. Have faith.”

Jack shook his head. “You didn’t see this guy, Sam. He’s delusional, thinks the island belongs to him.”

“She’s a survivor,” reassured Sam.

Jack’s chest was wracked by another coughing fit. The medic said it was smoke inhalation. They limped a few feet behind the others to find their ride back to the ship.

Chapter Thirty-five

Zed was dreaming. It was a fitful, restless sort of sleep he’d been trying to wake from. It was as if he was trying to climb out of a giant Petri dish with smooth slippery sides. Every time he nearly reached the top, he’d lose his grip and slide back down again. The pit was an inferno, sweat dripped from the tip of his nose. Drip, drip, drip. It wouldn’t stop. His skin was prickling, pulsating with sores that appeared and disappeared on his hands and forearms. He steeled himself one more time and clambered up the contour-less surface. His palms were damp with perspiration. There was a tingling sensation in his fingertips. Just as he felt himself begin to slide back down, he thrust his hand into the air, stretching every sinew. A woman’s hand grabbed his and pulled him clear.

Zed opened his eyes and found Riley sitting patiently by his bedside. She looked so peaceful. Her eyes were closed. He gingerly flexed his fingers and a wave of pain shot up to his shoulder, making him wince. The bandages were clean and blood-free. The pain felt strangely reassuring. A reminder he was still alive.

Riley placed Zed’s hand back down on the bed sheet and went to find