Three Lives Down (A Dan Taylor thriller) Read online

  Three Lives Down (A Dan Taylor thriller)

  Title Page

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  Chapter 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 46

  CHAPTER 47

  CHAPTER 48

  CHAPTER 49

  CHAPTER 50

  CHAPTER 51

  CHAPTER 52

  CHAPTER 53

  CHAPTER 54

  CHAPTER 55

  CHAPTER 56

  CHAPTER 57

  CHAPTER 58

  CHAPTER 59

  CHAPTER 60

  Three Lives Down

  Rachel Amphlett

  Copyright 2015 Rachel Amphlett

  © The copyright of this book belongs to Rachel Amphlett

  No reproduction or filesharing without permission

  The names, characters and events in this book are used fictitiously.

  Any similarity to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental

  ISBN eBook: 978-0-9922685-8-9

  ISBN paperback: 978-0-9922685-9-6

  Three Lives Down

  Rachel Amphlett

  CHAPTER 1

  Captain Matt Ryan sat with his back pressed against the hard surface of his jump seat in the back of the Mk9 Lynx helicopter, ignoring the queasiness at the pit of his stomach as the aircraft banked sharply to the right.

  He didn’t usually worry about being sick on a flight – all of them had been there, done that at some point – but the medic who sat across from him was new to the team, young and inexperienced in battle. The last thing he’d need to see would be his commanding officer throw up into the aisle between the seats.

  Instead, he lifted his head and smirked at the man in front of him. ‘Nervous yet, Thompson?’

  If the medic turned any paler, he’d be invisible. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve before shouting over the noise of the rotors. ‘Just a bit, sir.’

  Matt winked. ‘You never get used to it,’ he yelled. ‘I usually throw up before we land.’

  ‘That’s why none of us sit opposite him!’

  The shout came from a large soldier who was squeezed into a seat further along the fuselage, and the men next to Matt dissolved into laughter.

  Pleased, he noted the young medic joined in and silently thanked Sergeant Simon Blake for lightening the mood.

  ‘Five minutes!’

  The call over his headphones pulled him back to the job in hand, and the fuselage fell silent as each man began to rehearse the plan in his head one final time.

  They’d been flying dark for the past hour, the sun slipping over the horizon minutes after they’d left German airspace, the pilot using the full capabilities of the aircraft’s night vision compatible cockpit.

  The aircraft began a rapid descent, and as Matt’s ears popped, his experience told him they’d just crossed the border.

  Last chance to turn back.

  Instead, the helicopter surged forward, its engines powering the craft through the night and he imagined its camouflaged form hugging the landscape, churning its way over the mountains that led a path to their destination.

  He’d spent the past forty-eight hours poring over the topology maps and then the building’s blueprints, planning the mission with his superiors, discussing the risks, describing his tactics for both the worst and best-case scenarios.

  At one point, the Major General had stepped away from the window he’d been staring through, the grey outline of the HMS Belfast on the river beyond his silhouette.

  ‘Is it worth the risk?’ he’d asked.

  A second man had pushed his chair back from the desk, and Matt had seen the cold steel glint in his eyes before he’d replied.

  ‘Yes. It is,’ he’d said. ‘We’re under threat, and he’s been compromised. We need him back here. Now.’

  The meeting had concluded two hours later, the plan finalised.

  Matt’s stomach lurched instinctively as the helicopter began a fast, sickening descent.

  ‘Two minutes!’

  ‘Get ready to saddle up!’ Matt yelled.

  Last minute nerves threatened, as always, despite the knowledge that the Lynx had diffusers fitted to its exhaust to thwart enemy radar attempts to track its infrared signal, as well as the capability of disrupting its own electronic signature.

  They were flying in as silently as possible, in one of the Army’s fastest aircraft.

  Adrenalin began to course through his veins, the reality of the mission all too clear in his mind.

  Get him out. Get him back to London. Alive.

  ‘Dead is not an option,’ the mysterious man at the briefing had said as he’d fixed his glare on Matt. ‘Is that understood?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Matt had stood as the man had risen to leave, before turning to his superior as soon as the door had closed. ‘What’s going on, sir?’

  The Major General had shrugged. ‘Fuck if I know, soldier. I know as much as you.’

  Which is next to nothing.

  Matt shook the thought away and concentrated on running his hand over the equipment strapped to his clothing.

  At the order of the mission commander, all their insignia had been stripped away. Even the camouflage they wore belonged to a foreign state.

  ‘Just doesn’t feel right, not having Her Majesty’s crown on me,’ Blake had grumbled. The team had laughed, but Matt knew what he meant. He’d been involved in a couple of secret missions before, sure, but there was something different about this one.

  All this for one man? And what if something went wrong?

  When he’d posed that question to his commanding officer, the older man had glared at him.

  ‘Failure is not an option,’ he’d said.

  Matt exhaled, closed his eyes for a moment, and stretched his neck, psyching himself up for the imminent attack. He consoled himself with the thought that at least they were landing, not jumping out with parachutes.

  ‘Sixty seconds!’

  He heard the Sergeant pull back the starboard sliding door of the fuselage, then the port. The wind whipped through the gaping holes, and when he opened his eyes, they began to water. He slipped goggles over his face, and then stood and nodded to the medic. ‘Come on, Thompson. Time to dance,’ he shouted, the roar of the engines whipping his voice away as quickly as he’d spoken.

  The young man nodded and leapt to his feet, his eyes wide.

  Matt turned to the rest of the team. ‘Okay, you’ve rehearsed this enough times over the past twenty-four hours. Now it’s for real. Everyone
knows their job. Get on with it. Get out. Get back here. Understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir!’

  The men lowered night vision goggles over their faces, and then reached above their heads for the hand straps dangling from the airframe as the gunner aimed his weapon towards the building that loomed below them.

  Matt leaned forward until he could peer out the starboard opening and got his first glimpse of the granite-hewn prison they were about to break into.

  The two lookout stations that had once towered over the prison walls were now derelict, crumbled from decay and exposure to the frigid elements, whilst the perimeter walls appeared deserted.

  Evidently no-one expected anyone to break out – or break in – from the desolate location.

  As the helicopter dropped from the sky, its wheels bounced on the ground, the pilot executing a textbook manoeuvre before he slowed the rotors.

  ‘Go, go, go!’ Matt urged as he stepped from the aircraft, keeping his body hunched over from the rotor wash above him.

  The helicopter had landed in a large walled area, which Matt knew to be the exercise yard of the prison. His feet scuffed up dirt and small stones as he ran.

  He didn’t look back – he didn’t need to. He knew his men would be right behind him, falling into position, covering him and the aircraft while he led the smaller team, including the medic, towards their target.

  There was room in the cabin for one stretcher patient only.

  The freezing temperature turned his breath to steam as he ran across the bare earth, his fingers already turning numb in the thin mountain air. He flexed his hand around his weapon and brought it up to his chest before he threw his shoulder against the far wall, turning to provide cover fire if required.

  As Blake slid to a halt next to him, he glanced over towards the abandoned guard towers positioned along the perimeter and frowned.

  ‘Do you see anything?’

  ‘Negative, sir.’

  Matt tapped the microphone he’d stuck to his body armour with black electrical tape. ‘Alpha One, confirm area appears deserted, per intel.’

  ‘Copy that.’

  ‘Where is everyone?’ hissed Blake.

  Matt covered his microphone. ‘It’s an old Soviet prison,’ he murmured. ‘The CIA was using this for extradition purposes until they got caught. Intel suspects that someone’s been using this for their own agenda ever since.’ He dropped his hand back to his weapon, the familiar surface a comfort under his grip, checked the lead to the camera on his helmet, and then took a deep breath. ‘Okay,’ he said, turning to the men beside him. ‘Stay sharp. Let’s go.’

  They ran single file along the length of the wall until Matt slowed and held his fist in the air. He recalled the blueprints, pleased that his superiors had, at least, managed to get the details right – so far.

  Beside him, a solid metal door barred entry to the building. He beckoned to Blake, and then stood to one side as the man pulled out a line of det cord from his vest and began fixing a small explosive to the door. He waited until Blake stepped back, then joined Thompson by the side of the building and turned his head.

  The explosion was short and effective.

  The lock on the door disintegrated under the force of the plastique, and the men entered the building one after the other without incident. Matt ordered the last of the men through the door to pull it shut and stay on guard.

  ‘We’re in,’ he murmured over his comms link. ‘Heading towards the cells now.’

  ‘Intel says he’s on the inner block. Blueprints show a flight of stairs to your six o’clock position. Two levels down.’

  ‘Copy that.’

  ‘Down!’

  Matt ducked, the urgency in Blake’s tone leaving no room for argument, dropped into a crouch, and spun on his toes, raising his rifle to his chest.

  Gunfire echoed off the enclosed space, and he saw a shadow drop to the floor, the sound of metal on concrete reaching his ears as the victim’s gun fell from his hands a moment before his body collapsed.

  Matt’s attention snapped to Thompson, who was standing, his rifle still raised, his face pale.

  ‘Good work, soldier,’ he said. ‘Stay focused.’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘Stairs,’ said Blake. ‘So there must be more people somewhere.’

  Matt ran through the building’s plans in his head, recalling the layout that he’d pored over in the room above the River Thames.

  After the first flight of stairs, there was a room that intel believed was being used for storage. In the old days, prisoners would have been kept there, although that was supposed to have come to an end twenty years ago.

  The real fun and games would begin on the second level.

  Blake led the way, with Matt bringing up the rear as they descended.

  Reaching the bottom of the stairs, Matt pushed his night vision goggles up onto his forehead and peered along the dimly-lit corridor over Blake’s shoulder.

  A bare, unpainted wall, its surface slick with damp, ran to their left flank. On the opposite side, a series of heavy steel doors remained closed, the dark paintwork chipped and peeling.

  ‘Which one?’ hissed Blake.

  ‘Fourth,’ said Matt. His attention snapped towards the far end of the corridor. ‘Incoming!’

  All three men dropped to a crouch, spreading out and raising their weapons at the two figures that had emerged from the shadows of the basement cell block.

  Matt flinched as brickwork sheared off the wall while their enemies’ gunfire filled the enclosed space.

  He squeezed the trigger of his own rifle and felt a moment’s satisfaction as one of the guards dropped to the floor, clutching his leg.

  Next to him, Blake fired a rapid burst at the second guard, and the man’s silhouette spun with the force of the bullets before crumpling to the ground.

  The first guard had begun to crawl towards his discarded weapon, one hand wrapped around his leg.

  Matt stood, sighted his rifle, and fired.

  The corridor fell silent; Matt signalled to Blake to cover their rear and then ran towards the fallen men.

  He didn’t expect to find any identification on them, and he wasn’t disappointed. He left the bodies and jogged back to Blake and Thompson, pointing at the fourth door.

  Blake pulled out a second line of det cord from his pocket, but Matt tapped him on the arm and held up the keys he’d taken from one of the dead men.

  ‘Quieter this time. And less chance of damaging the goods,’ he said and gently jangled the bunch of metal in his hand.

  ‘But also less fun,’ grumbled Blake, standing back.

  It took two attempts before Matt found the right key and then twisted the handle and pushed the door open.

  All three men took an involuntary step back at the stink emanating from the gloom.

  ‘Jesus,’ said Matt.

  He swept his gaze across the floor in the dull light from the corridor until he located a bundle of ragged clothes, a pair of large feet sticking out from the far end. As his eyes travelled up the form, he picked out a pair of hands that clutched at a bare chest, the skin blotched and scratched, and then finally a face, bruised and battered, eyes half closed from the bruises that surrounded the man’s cheekbones and eye sockets.

  Blake swore under his breath, and then returned his attention to the corridor, his rifle sweeping left and right.

  Matt moved his fingers along the wall of the room until he located a light switch, but it failed to work, and then he noticed the fitting hanging from the ceiling of the cell, stripped of any light bulb.

  He swallowed. Evidently, the prisoner’s captors were determined not to let the man take his own life. At least, not until they were finished with him.

  ‘Come on,’ he murmured to Thompson. ‘Let’s see what we’ve got.’

  Matt crouched down next to the curled-up form and beckoned the medic towards him.

  ‘Assessment. Quickly,’ he said. ‘Can he be moved?’

/>   Thompson joined him and pulled out a small flashlight from his vest, shining its beam over the man, who blinked through swollen eyelids and raised his hands to protect his eyes from the sudden glare.

  The medic ran his hands over the prisoner’s body, checking for major injuries that his blood-stained clothing might hide.

  Matt reached into his webbing and pulled out a small rectangular-shaped electronic device and switched it on. The screen flashed once, then a swipe screen on the front of it illuminated, casting a green glow across his face.

  He reached out, turned the screen towards the man, and gently lifted one of the prisoner’s hands until his index finger rested against the swipe screen. He held the man’s hand steady until a low beep sounded from the device, then turned the screen and checked.

  The man’s fingerprint had been captured, the whorls and folds of his skin scanned and evaluated.

  Confirmed.

  Matt flinched at the cuts and bruises on the man’s face as he switched off the device and tucked it back into his webbing, and wondered if the prisoner could walk or needed to be carried.

  Blake moved closer, his rifle aimed at the open cell door. ‘Is it him?’

  ‘Yes.’ He leaned towards the medic. ‘Well?’

  The man turned, sweat pouring down his face. ‘I can’t find any compound fractures, sir. I can’t vouch for internal injuries. There appear to be cigarette burns on his legs. These cuts on his arm have had bleach or something poured onto them.’

  ‘Right, we’re going.’ Matt stood and gestured to Blake. ‘Help me. Grab him. Let’s get out of here.’

  He ducked under one of the prisoner’s arms, waited until Blake had done the same, and then staggered for a moment as they adjusted the man’s weight between them.

  ‘Ready?’

  ‘Go.’

  ‘Cover our backs, Thompson.’

  ‘Sir.’

  Matt stepped sideways through the open cell door, fumbling to keep his rifle steady in his right hand as he moved.

  Their progress was going to be slower than he’d have liked, but there was nothing he could do about it, so he gritted his teeth and instead kept a constant watch on the other cell doors as they passed.