information from the moonlight, looking for footprints in the first few feet of the damp corridor inside, and searching for signs of IEDs. Again, he got nothing. So far so good.
He could order the twins into the breach. He could let them take the risk. Maybe he should. That was how plenty of leaders he knew operated, considering themselves their most precious tactical asset and those beneath them in rank as expendable.
He knew neither twin would complain. He’d already wired money anonymously from one of his numbered Swiss accounts into one of theirs. They’d follow his orders. He owned them for as long as his money was good.
But a part of him wanted,
needed,
to be first in. Not only because he trusted his judgement and experience above theirs, but also because he wanted to be first to confront whatever might be waiting inside. He remembered the dead who had been littered across the London street as he’d looked down on them from that hotel balcony. The adults, yes, but mainly the children, thin-limbed and broken, as if frozen in a two-dimensional montage of impossible twists, turns and somersaults against the hard, cold concrete backdrop.
Danny thought of his own dead son too. His dead wife. In the cold vortex of the wind and the rain, he reached deep into his memory, and there he saw her as she’d once been, and remembered the slow, sensual curl of her smile as they’d walked through a park, her laughter as she’d played catch with the kids, or the sound of her yawning in the morning, as she rolled slowly onto her side to face him, in a tangle of crisp white sheets, her eyes opening, her hand reaching out to touch his, before pulling him into her soft, sweet embrace, as if he were falling through a perfect, never-ending summer sky.
It had been so long since he’d seen her and Jonathan alive. A thousand lifetimes was how it felt. They were gone. His brain told him so, but his heart, his soul, could not accept it.
Instead he dared hope. He dared pray. He dared to believe that if he died, they
would
be there. And all this might fade, like a dream, and he would find himself awakening once more in their arms.
A crackle from his radio. Danny slid the mirror shut and hooked it into his jacket. Snapping his night-vision goggles back on, he switched on his flashlight and gripped it on the barrel of his AK-9, then slithered flat on his belly through the gap between the door and the ground.
His mud-spattered clothing rustled on the concrete. He stared ahead, ready to fire, but no one leaped out of the shadows. The corridor terminated fifteen feet away and was clear. The stink of mildew clogged his nostrils. His skin burned with sweat.
He stilled himself and listened hard, wary that someone might even now be reaching for the handle of the door, wanting to maintain the element of surprise. He waited for it to creak, for a muffled voice to be raised. But then, hearing nothing but the whip of wind and the drumming of rain behind him, he moved in further, away from the entrance, deeper into the dark.
Halfway along the corridor, he trailed a gloved finger across the floor, leaving a clear line in the muck gathered there, which his goggles picked out just as surely as if it had been written in black pen. But that was the only mark there was. It seemed that no one had set foot there for years.
He studied the closed door at the end of the corridor. No light showed around its frame. Was it sealed? Or blocked off? Or even bricked up from the other side?
He crouched, then stood, weapon up, safety off. He moved quickly to the end of the corridor, again cursing the fact that he was operating outside the law. He was low on equipment. Had no fibre-optics or micro-drills to enable him to search for sounds of occupation in whatever room lay beyond this door. No way, even, of telling if the door was alarmed or wired to explode.
He examined it up-close. Its paint had long since peeled away. He pressed his hand against it. MDF, he
He could order the twins into the breach. He could let them take the risk. Maybe he should. That was how plenty of leaders he knew operated, considering themselves their most precious tactical asset and those beneath them in rank as expendable.
He knew neither twin would complain. He’d already wired money anonymously from one of his numbered Swiss accounts into one of theirs. They’d follow his orders. He owned them for as long as his money was good.
But a part of him wanted,
needed,
to be first in. Not only because he trusted his judgement and experience above theirs, but also because he wanted to be first to confront whatever might be waiting inside. He remembered the dead who had been littered across the London street as he’d looked down on them from that hotel balcony. The adults, yes, but mainly the children, thin-limbed and broken, as if frozen in a two-dimensional montage of impossible twists, turns and somersaults against the hard, cold concrete backdrop.
Danny thought of his own dead son too. His dead wife. In the cold vortex of the wind and the rain, he reached deep into his memory, and there he saw her as she’d once been, and remembered the slow, sensual curl of her smile as they’d walked through a park, her laughter as she’d played catch with the kids, or the sound of her yawning in the morning, as she rolled slowly onto her side to face him, in a tangle of crisp white sheets, her eyes opening, her hand reaching out to touch his, before pulling him into her soft, sweet embrace, as if he were falling through a perfect, never-ending summer sky.
It had been so long since he’d seen her and Jonathan alive. A thousand lifetimes was how it felt. They were gone. His brain told him so, but his heart, his soul, could not accept it.
Instead he dared hope. He dared pray. He dared to believe that if he died, they
would
be there. And all this might fade, like a dream, and he would find himself awakening once more in their arms.
A crackle from his radio. Danny slid the mirror shut and hooked it into his jacket. Snapping his night-vision goggles back on, he switched on his flashlight and gripped it on the barrel of his AK-9, then slithered flat on his belly through the gap between the door and the ground.
His mud-spattered clothing rustled on the concrete. He stared ahead, ready to fire, but no one leaped out of the shadows. The corridor terminated fifteen feet away and was clear. The stink of mildew clogged his nostrils. His skin burned with sweat.
He stilled himself and listened hard, wary that someone might even now be reaching for the handle of the door, wanting to maintain the element of surprise. He waited for it to creak, for a muffled voice to be raised. But then, hearing nothing but the whip of wind and the drumming of rain behind him, he moved in further, away from the entrance, deeper into the dark.
Halfway along the corridor, he trailed a gloved finger across the floor, leaving a clear line in the muck gathered there, which his goggles picked out just as surely as if it had been written in black pen. But that was the only mark there was. It seemed that no one had set foot there for years.
He studied the closed door at the end of the corridor. No light showed around its frame. Was it sealed? Or blocked off? Or even bricked up from the other side?
He crouched, then stood, weapon up, safety off. He moved quickly to the end of the corridor, again cursing the fact that he was operating outside the law. He was low on equipment. Had no fibre-optics or micro-drills to enable him to search for sounds of occupation in whatever room lay beyond this door. No way, even, of telling if the door was alarmed or wired to explode.
He examined it up-close. Its paint had long since peeled away. He pressed his hand against it. MDF, he
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