The Persona Protocol

6


The Only Way Is Down


Khattak had also heard the shots. He didn’t know if Marwat or Toradze had fired last, but was taking no chances, his gun covering the stairs as he held up his phone, trying to get a signal. There had to be another mast in range, there had to be . . .

He reached the roof’s edge, the ground several vertiginous floors below. Still no network. He glanced at the stairwell. No movement. Back at the phone—

An icon appeared. He had reception! Only one bar, but that was all he needed. He redialled the last number.

Adam stopped just before the top of the stairs. He peeked through the doorway. The residents obviously considered the rooftop as much a part of their living space as their apartments. It was strung with washing lines, padlocked wooden boxes stacked beneath a makeshift shelter of corrugated metal.

But Khattak was out of sight.

With the drone destroyed, Adam had no extra eyes to help him. It was him versus the terrorist, and the other man had the advantage: there was only one place from where his pursuer could appear.

But he heard a voice, somewhere to the left. Khattak. Syed recognised it instantly. He will be warning Nasir about the Americans!

Adam rushed up the last steps and out on to the roof.

He spun to the left, gun raised in a two-handed grip. Khattak was at the edge of the roof, pistol pointed straight at him – but the mere act of speech had slowed his reactions. Only by a fraction of a second, but enough for Adam to drop and roll sideways. The bullet seared past him.

He jumped up to return fire as Khattak ran along the roof’s edge. Sodden washing on the lines blocked Adam’s line of sight. He aimed at where he thought the other man would be and pulled the trigger, but hit nothing except wet cloth.

There was a chimney-like brick structure near the rooftop’s corner. Khattak darted behind it, pressing his back against the wall. He returned the phone to his ear. ‘Nasir, I’m being—’ Three beeps interrupted him: a dropped call. The chimney had been enough to block the weak connection. ‘No!’

Adam heard the cry of dismay, immediately guessing its cause. He ducked past the washing and advanced on the chimney—

Khattak burst out from behind the brickwork at a sprint – and leapt off the roof.

Adam didn’t have time to fire before the other man fell out of view. A thump and a pained yell reached him. He ran to see where Khattak had gone.

Another apartment block, a storey lower, came into view below. The two buildings were separated by an alley about twelve feet wide. The Pakistani had made a hard landing on the roof, which was even more cluttered than the one he had just left. He scrambled behind a pigeon loft.

Adam knew he had to follow. But he would be vulnerable in mid-air, more so immediately after landing. Easy prey for the terrorist.

Unless—

He backed up, then made a running leap across the gap . . .

And opened fire in mid-air, unleashing every remaining round in the SIG at the wooden loft – not with any expectation of hitting Khattak, but to force him to stay in cover.

The trigger clicked, the gun’s slide locking back. Empty. The roof rushed at him—

The impact sent a hammer-blow of pain through his legs. He rolled. The umbrella in his coat pocket dug hard into his side as he came to a stop and looked up.

Khattak was just a metre away, having ducked as bullets tore through the pigeon loft. He blinked in surprise at the sight of the American.

No time to reload. Adam dropped the P228 and sprang at him, tackling the Pakistani back against the wooden structure. Birds flapped in panic inside their cages. Khattak staggered, his gun clattering away across the roof.

But he was far from incapacitated, delivering a vicious kick to Adam’s stomach. The American lurched back. Khattak straightened and reached into his jacket.

He pulled out a knife.

Adam stared at the nasty little blade. It was only about four inches long, but it was serrated, sharp, strong.

And Khattak knows how to use it.

Syed’s memories provided proof. The terrorist was well-practised with a knife, both for fighting and for his own personal pleasure. More than one man had been tortured with it, finally meeting a bloody end at Khattak’s hands while his leader watched approvingly. The image of flesh peeling away from bone as easily as the skin of an orange flashed through Adam’s mind.

Khattak read the wariness on the American’s face. His mouth twisted into a cruel smile as he swept the blade in a series of swift, measured movements, a cobra swaying before the strike. He stepped closer.

Adam kept his gaze fixed on the knife. Syed’s knowledge of his comrade was betraying him. Khattak would be overconfident—

The blade thrust at his face.

He jerked back. Another stab forced him to sidestep. Khattak advanced, jabbing the knife. Adam dodged each time, but realised that the Pakistani was trying to corner him. He had to fight back or be trapped.

Weight in his coat. The umbrella.

He snatched it out, wielding it like a truncheon. Khattak let out a mocking laugh. He lunged, the knife aimed at the American’s chest—

Adam whipped up the umbrella. The terrorist yelped in startled pain as it cracked against his hand. Hard. The flimsy-looking cylinder was solid as a cosh.

It was no ordinary umbrella.

Anger drove him to attack again, the knife slashing at Adam’s throat. The umbrella blurred to intercept with another heavy thud. Khattak gasped through bared teeth.

Adam watched him closely, reading his face, his body movements. Khattak was still angry, but now cautious too, knowing that his advantage had shrunk. Another stab – but this stopped short, a feint, changing direction as Adam moved to block. The blade’s tip sliced through his sleeve . . . and the skin beneath.

This time it was Adam who let out an involuntary gasp. The cut was not deep, but it burned like a thin line of acid.

Khattak’s malevolent smile returned. Adam suppressed Syed’s anger, controlling his own.

Another stab—

Adam batted his arm away – then slammed the umbrella against the side of Khattak’s head.

The Pakistani lurched back. Before he could recover, Adam hit him twice more, rapid yet brutal blows to his face.

Khattak retreated, expression now fearful. Adam kept pace as the pair circled. The terrorist made an experimental jab at him, but it was easily deflected. ‘Who are you?’ demanded Khattak. ‘Who are you really?’

Adam had no answer. He continued circling, waiting for the next strike . . .

Khattak made his attack – but not the one Adam expected.

He didn’t stab with the knife. Instead he roared and rushed at the American, the blade leading his charge like a rhino’s horn.

Adam delivered a fierce hit to his head with the umbrella, but not hard enough to fell him. He twisted to dodge the knife.

He was only partly successful. It ripped through his coat, slashing across his chest. Khattak ploughed into him, knocking him backwards. They crashed against the pigeon loft. Cages broke open, terrified birds blinding Adam in a swirl of flapping wings. His foot caught something and he fell. He sensed as much as saw Khattak through the maelstrom and kicked as hard as he could. The Pakistani stumbled away from him.

Adam used his arm to shield his eyes from the whirling pigeons. The empty SIG was a few feet away.

He still had a spare magazine.

He scrabbled for the gun. He grabbed it, about to drop the umbrella and take out the new mag . . .

Khattak had retrieved his own pistol.

The wood and wire of the pigeon loft would not stop a bullet, and the cover of the stairwell was too far to reach in time. But the roof’s edge was just a few strides away.

The agent ran for it. Khattak turned, gun raised—

Adam plunged off the roof as the terrorist fired, the bullet whipping above his head.

Khattak stared in amazement before a brief, disbelieving ‘Hah!’ escaped his mouth. Toradze, or whatever his real name was, had just committed suicide. Even if the four-storey fall hadn’t killed him, the landing would have broken his legs, leaving him a helpless and immobile target below.

He swaggered to the edge and looked down.

The other man was on the ground. But he was neither dead nor crippled. He was standing, the open umbrella a discarded black flower at his feet as he slapped a new magazine into his SIG-Sauer and took aim—

The bullet went through Khattak’s right eye, punching out of the top of his skull in a spray of blood and fragmented bone.

He collapsed, toppling forwards and falling. His body hit the ground with a horrific crunch, limbs splayed at unnatural angles. Blood oozed out from his head.

A good shot. A good kill.

Adam returned his gun to his coat, then dragged the broken corpse against a wall beside a pile of trash, using a flattened cardboard box to conceal it as much as possible. ‘Holly Jo?’

Her reply was hesitant. ‘Are you okay?’

‘Yes.’ He glanced down at his chest. There was blood on his shirt, but not enough to concern him. ‘Tag this location. There’s another body for Imran’s people to clean up. It’s next to a pile of garbage under some cardboard. Tell Tony that you can start packing up your gear. I’ll make my own way to the airport. Out.’

Before Holly Jo could say anything else, he tapped a spot behind his right ear. There was a small bulge beneath the skin – a control for the implanted radio. The touch switched it off. He fastened his coat to conceal the blood and picked up the umbrella. The shaft was made from kevlar and steel, the spokes ultra-strong carbon fibre able to support his weight on parachute-grade nylon. The device, which could slow a person enough to survive a thirty-foot fall unharmed, had inevitably acquired the nickname ‘Mary Poppins’.

Adam’s landing from a greater height had not been painless, but training had taught him how to roll to absorb most of the impact. He raised the umbrella over his head, then set off down the back street, limping slightly. Behind him, the rain slowly washed the splattered blood into the gutter.

‘Hey, hello? Can you hear me?’

Malik Syed slowly opened his eyes to see people looking down at him with concern. The closest, a man, patted his cheek a few times. ‘Can you hear me? Are you okay?’

‘He’s waking up,’ said a woman behind him, relieved.

Hands helped him to his feet. Syed looked around in bewilderment, his neck aching. Where was he? An alleyway – he had been lying amongst plastic sacks of garbage at its end. ‘What . . . what happened?’

‘I think you were mugged,’ the man said. ‘I saw someone run out of here and came to see what was going on.’

Syed hurriedly checked his pockets. His phone had gone, as had his wallet. The latter was only a minor inconvenience, as the identity card in it was a fake and he could easily get hold of a replacement as well as more money, but the phone was more of a worry. While he didn’t keep the numbers of any of his al-Qaeda contacts in its memory, it still held a record of its most recent calls, which the authorities might be able to use against the group. ‘Did you see who did it?’

‘I didn’t get a good look, but he was just a kid. Sixteen, maybe seventeen. He had a spanner or something in his hand – he must have hit you with it and pulled you down here.’

That was, oddly, a relief; it was unlikely that the police or counterterrorism agents would use street urchins to do their dirty work. He checked the rest of his belongings. His mugger had left his watch, a cheap Casio. Several minutes had passed since he last remembered checking the time . . .

What was the last thing he remembered? Thanking his benefactors, he stepped out on to the street. He wasn’t far from the market. He had gone through it to shake off anyone who might have been following him, but then . . . nothing. He frowned.

‘Are you okay?’ the man asked again. ‘Are you hurt?’

‘I’ll be all right.’ He squinted down the road, mentally trying to retrace his steps, but the memory would not come.

‘He might have hit you on the head,’ said the man. ‘Maybe you should see a doctor.’

‘I’m fine,’ Syed said irritably. He turned in the other direction and strode away. He was already dismissing the incident as bad luck, falling victim to an opportunistic thief, rather than anything sinister. If Pakistani or American intelligence agents had been behind the attack, he would be on his way to a torture cell by now.

The other onlookers dispersed, leaving the man alone. He watched until Syed was out of sight. The earpiece that had been in his pocket while he ‘helped’ the terrorist was returned to his ear. ‘Tony, it looks like Syed bought it,’ reported Lak. ‘He doesn’t remember what happened. Now,’ a sigh, ‘where are these bodies we need to clean up?’