Burning Angels

With two guys gripping him by the armpits, he was thrust towards the lights, his feet dragging uselessly. The next moment he was slammed face-first into the front grille of the vehicle, pain shooting through his forehead.

‘BASTARD KNEEL! ON YOUR KNEES! KNEEL!’

He was thrust into a kneeling position. He could feel the headlamps playing across his face, the blinding light bleeding through the bag. Without a word of warning it was torn away. He tried to turn his head from the glare, but he was held by his hair in a savage grip, eyes forced into the light.

‘NAME!’ the voice snarled. It was right beside his ear now. ‘Let’s hear your bastard name!’

The speaker was hidden from Jaeger, but the voice sounded foreign, and thick with some Eastern European accent. For a terrible moment Jaeger had visions of the gang who’d suffered the Kolokol-1 attack — Vladimir and his lot — taking him captive. But surely it couldn’t be them, for how in God’s name would they have found him?

Think, Jaeger. Fast.

‘NAME!’ the voice yelled again. ‘NAME!’

Jaeger’s throat was dry with shock and fear. He managed to rasp out the one word: ‘Jaeger.’

The men holding him slammed his face into the nearest headlamp, leaving his features scrunched up tight against the glass.

‘Both names. Both bastard names!’

‘Will. William Jaeger.’ He coughed out the words through a mouthful of blood.

‘So, this is better, William Jaeger.’ The same voice, sinister and predatory, but a fraction calmer now. ‘Now you tell me: what are names of the rest of your crew?’

Jaeger said nothing. No way would he answer. But he could sense the anger and aggression rising again.

‘One more time: what are the names of the rest of your crew?’

From somewhere Jaeger found his voice. ‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’

He felt his head being wrenched backwards, then his face was rammed into the forest dirt, deeper than it had been before. He tried to hold his breath as the insults and curses began again, punctuated by expertly aimed kicks and blows. Whoever his captors were, they sure knew how to hurt someone.

Finally he was pulled upright and the bag was yanked over his head once more.

The voice spat out a command. ‘Lose him. He’s no use if he won’t talk. You know what to do.’

Jaeger was dragged around to what had to be the rear of the vehicle. He was lifted up and hurled aboard. Hands forced him into a sitting position — legs out straight, arms linked behind his back.

Then silence. Just the rasp of his own laboured breathing.

The minutes dragged on. Jaeger could sense — taste — the metallic tang of his own fear. Eventually he had to try to shift position, in an effort to ease his aching limbs.

Slam! Someone booted him in the stomach. Not a word had been spoken. He was forced back into the same seated pose. He knew now that in spite of the spikes of pain, he was not permitted to move. He’d been put into a stress position, one designed to deliver a relentless and unendurable torture.

Without warning, the vehicle gave a sudden lurch and began to move. The unexpected motion threw Jaeger on to his front. Instantly he was booted around the head. He dragged himself into position again, but moments later the truck hit a ditch and he was catapulted on to his back. Again, elbows and fists rained down, driving his head into the cold metal skin of the vehicle.

Finally one of his tormentors dragged him back into the same stress position as before. The pain was intense. His head throbbed, his lungs were bursting and he was still winded from the beating. He felt as if his heart was about to explode out of his chest. Fear and panic gripped him.

Jaeger knew he’d been captured by utter professionals. The question was, who were they exactly?

And where in God’s name were they taking him?

17

The truck ride seemed to take forever, jolting along rutted tracks and rattling over rough ground. In spite of the pain he was in, at least it gave Jaeger time to think. Someone must have betrayed them. No one could have found them in the Falkenhagen Bunker otherwise, that was for certain.

Was it Narov? If not, who else had known where they were meeting? None of the team had been informed of their end destination. All they’d been told was that they would be collected from the airport.

But why? After all they’d been through, why would Narov have sold him out? And to whom?

All of a sudden the truck slowed to a stop. Jaeger heard the rear door being hinged open. He tensed. Hands grabbed him by the legs and hauled him out, letting him drop. He tried to use his arms to break the fall, but still his head cannoned into the ground.

Jesus, that hurt.

He was dragged away, pulled along by his feet like an animal carcass, his head and torso ploughing through the dirt. From the brightness filtering in through the bag, he could tell that it was daylight. Otherwise, he had lost all sense of time.