Crisis Point Read online

  Crisis Point

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Prologue

  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

  Copyright

  Prologue

  ‘So what’s it to be, soldier?’

  Sam Driver rested the muzzle of her Glock .22 between Tom McNeil’s deep-set eyes.

  She squeezed her thighs tight against his ribcage. Pitched forward to apply more weight to his chest.

  Tom looked up at her. ‘You’re actually doing this? You’re putting a gun to my head?’

  ‘You leave me no choice.’ Driver leaned in close, her cool blue eyes narrowing. ‘Now answer the damn question.’

  He broke into a smile. ‘Okay, okay.’

  ‘Okay? What does okay mean?’

  ‘It means yes,’ Tom said. ‘I’ll do it.’

  ‘You will?’

  ‘Yeah, screw it. Now point that thing somewhere else.’

  Driver straightened up and cocked the butt of the pistol.

  Tom eyed the gun. ‘Ah, shit, you didn’t even load it.’

  Driver laughed. ‘And you didn’t notice.’

  Tom shrugged. ‘What can I say, you’re a distracting woman.’

  ‘I knew it was a bad idea working together,’ Driver said.

  Tom rolled her onto her back. ‘We worked together first, remember?’ He snatched the pistol from her grip and tossed it aside. ‘Can’t believe you held a gun to my head.’

  ‘Can’t believe I had to ask.’

  ‘I was gonna—’

  ‘Oh sure,’ Driver replied. ‘I’ve been dropping hints for a year.’

  ‘No, seriously. Next weekend, our trip to Paris.’

  Driver slammed her head back into the pillow. ‘And I went and ruined it.’ She looked into Tom’s hazel eyes, ran a hand over his shaved sandy hair and down a rough, stubbled cheek. ‘I’m such a dumb-ass.’

  Tom’s sun-weathered features cracked into a smile. ‘Ah, Paris is a cliché anyway. This is way more original.’

  Driver laughed and planted a kiss on Tom’s lips. She caressed the dark yang tattoo on the inside of his wrist, the companion to the light yin tattoo on hers. The result of a wild night out in Vegas.

  ‘As soon as we hit home soil, we’re going ring shopping,’ Tom said.

  Driver felt butterflies in her stomach, the reality dawning on her. ‘We’re getting married!’ She pulled Tom in for a hug, a hand straying down between his thighs. ‘Is this gun loaded?’

  ‘Careful, it might go off.’

  ‘I’m counting on it,’ Driver said, as they kissed to the thud of a distant helicopter.

  The kiss was interrupted by a loud thump on the door. ‘Commander McNeil?’

  ‘Yeah, what is it?’ Tom yelled over a shoulder.

  The door opened. A private stepped into Tom’s small and basic quarters. Tall, skinny and a year out of school, he froze like a rabbit staring at an oncoming eighteen-wheeler. ‘Oh, um…’ The young private looked away, face flushing. ‘Wheels up in, um…’

  ‘Thank you, Private,’ Driver said with a warm smile.

  ‘Yes, sir… I mean, sirs,’ the private continued, edging towards the door.

  ‘And Private…’ Tom said.

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘This never happened. Understood?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ the private murmured, slipping out through the door.

  Driver shook her head. ‘You’re a real hard-ass, McNeil.’

  ‘Look who’s talking,’ Tom replied, checking his watch and rolling off the bed.

  ‘Look who’s talking, sir,’ Driver said, getting to her feet.

  She picked up her sunglasses from the bedside table and snatched her black jacket off the back of a steel chair.

  The pair of them tied their boots. Driver fixed her shoulder-length blond hair into a ponytail. ‘You think we’re ready?’

  ‘My guys have been ready for weeks,’ Tom replied. ‘How about you?’

  ‘I was born ready,’ Driver said, scooping a brown file off a writing desk and accompanying Tom through the door.

  They marched out of Tom’s quarters and through the bland, dim corridors of the Kuryk Forwarding Base, a stone’s throw from the Caspian Sea. It was a five-minute stride to the hangar, where SEAL Team Six awaited instruction.

  ‘You’re coming in a bit low there, Commander,’ Driver said, glancing down at Tom’s fly.

  He zipped up fast.

  ‘Nice of you to make it, sir,’ Holland sniped – a bull of a man with a fiery orange beard.

  Tom was sheepish. ‘Last minute briefing from Officer Driver.’

  ‘Don’t you mean de-briefing?’ asked Cooper, short and squat behind a thick black jungle of facial hair.

  In the cool night air penetrating the open hangar, Driver couldn’t help but crack a smile. She composed her face, removed a large glossy print from the file and held it up for all to see. ‘Okay, gentlemen, this is what you’ve spent the last two months training for – Abbas Jemal. Code name Elvis.’

  ‘It’s about time,’ Cooper said.

  ‘Considering his status, I’m sure you can appreciate the radio silence.’ Driver handed over the photograph – a pudgy, middle-aged Kazakh man with a grey beard. ‘As you may be aware, Jemal is the money man of Nurian Serik, leader of the January Seven terror group. Formerly of Kazakhstan, now operating out of Libya. Serik has a compound in his home village of Orin, where Jemal is currently hiding out.’ Driver looked around the group. ‘Our target is the keeper of all Jan Seven’s dirty secrets. We get Jemal, we get Serik.’

  Tom stood with hands on hips. ‘This is the CIA’s ball, so Officer Driver’s along for the ride, our liaison with Langley.’

  ‘She know what she’s doing?’ Holland asked.

  ‘She is in command of the mission,’ Driver countered. ‘And she’s standing right here.’

  Tom glared at Holland. ‘Officer Driver has seen more action than your one-inch cock.’ The group broke into laughter. ‘She’s not here to interfere. But she is the reason we’ve got a shot at this scumbag.’

  ‘We don’t need a babysitter,’ Holland grumbled.

  ‘Yeah, soon they’ll be watching us
wipe our asses,’ added Cooper.

  ‘You got a beef with her, you got a beef with me,’ Tom said. ‘Anyone got a beef with me?’

  The team fell silent. Driver didn’t like to admit it, even to herself, but she found it a turn-on when Tom took command.

  Her partner of two years clapped his hands. ‘Let’s saddle up.’

  The men broke out and made a beeline for a long metal side table laid out with munitions.

  ‘Don’t forget to switch out your mags,’ Tom said. ‘It’s bad enough with Holland firing blanks.’

  Laughter echoed off the hangar walls as the SEALs loaded their weapons with live ammunition.

  As Tom strapped a backup pistol to his ankle, Driver fastened her Kevlar vest in place. She picked up an empty steel mesh basket and held it aloft. ‘Leave your tags in here.’ Driver handed the basket to the lurking young private. The men removed their tags and dropped them in the basket. ‘Any IDs, family photos, they go in too.’

  ‘Come on,’ whined Holland. ‘My baby girl’s my lucky charm.’

  ‘It’s for your family’s protection,’ Tom said.

  ‘Sure it is,’ Holland muttered, dropping in his tags. He then produced a small photograph of a year-old girl with flame-red hair. He kissed the photo and placed it in the basket. ‘Lose that and I’ll break every bone in your dick,’ he growled at the private.

  Driver placed her CIA badge inside and Tom drew an X with a luminous green pen on her helmet and sleeve. He did the same with his own. She looked at him, confused.

  ‘So we can spot each other easily,’ Tom explained. He sniffed the pen and offered it to Driver. ‘Want a hit?’

  She laughed and grabbed her rifle. The team strode out of the hangar in full beige-and-green assault gear, the signature uniform of the SEALs.

  The two Sikorsky Pave Hawks, painted carbon black, idled under dark Kazakh skies. Driver let Tom pace on ahead and approached the helicopters a few feet behind the SEALs. Over the previous fortnight, she’d tried her best to integrate herself within the unit. She’d shaken off the sexist jokes as the team tested her mettle and delighted in sneaking into Tom’s private quarters after lights out. But the time for fun and games was over. So too, all thoughts of their marriage.

  Driver had to maintain a clear line of separation between the CIA and the SEALs. First and foremost, she pursued the interests of the Agency. And she could throw the switch in an instant.

  Driver stooped low as the rotors picked up speed, blowing sand in her face. She climbed on board her designated ride and took her seat across from Tom inside the windowless door. He rolled it closed, the cabin lights glowing a hellish red.

  With the Sikorskys built for stealth rather than comfort, the team clutched their M4 assault rifles held tight to their chests. It would be a tense, claustrophobic ride. Driver felt the usual nerves in the pit of her stomach. It was like being strapped into a rollercoaster. Once those wheels left the ground, there was no getting off. And no going back.

  Yet there was no bigger challenge. And no bigger rush.

  She felt the chopper rise high into the air. It made a ninety-degree turn to the right, and accelerated away.

  CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia

  Operations Chief Bryan Gilmore stood on a ramp behind a row of monitors manned by analysts zeroed in on their screens. The cool breeze from the air conditioning vents in the ceiling did nothing to lighten the fug of stale coffee in the room. It could have been noon or night in the room and no one would know. On the giant screens facing Gilmore, it was the early hours of a Kazakhstan morning.

  High above the Earth, a US satellite tracked the flight path of two objects. They flew fast and low over mountainous terrain. Sleek white tadpoles – helicopters, bound for their target, a mere twenty miles from the Russian border.

  Gilmore wore his usual white shirt, black tie and grey suit slacks. His silver hair and rugged features showed the wear and tear of age. He had been handsome once. Decades of sleepless service had put paid to that.

  He rolled up his sleeves and flexed his left shoulder, which seized up when he got tense. ‘How far off are we?’

  ‘Five minutes out, sir,’ said Anna Patel – a young Harvard graduate he’d recruited to his team. She resembled a shy librarian in her green cardigan and glasses, but Anna had a cool head and a strong stomach.

  ‘Kwan, what’s the situation on the ground?’ Gilmore asked, sipping on his black coffee.

  ‘All quiet on the eastern front,’ said Jim Kwan, another of Gilmore’s personal hires, tasked with liaising with the flight crew at Creech Air Force Base.

  The drone circled high above the tiny Kazakh village of Orin, a camera locked on to Serik’s compound.

  ‘Two minutes out,’ Anna said.

  ‘You all know the drill,’ Gilmore ordered. ‘Shake it out and hunker in.’

  The team removed their headsets and stood up from their desks. They shook out their arms and legs and took a collective breath before settling back in at their stations.

  It was a pre-mission routine mocked by his peers, so Gilmore had banned all doubters from the room. It was his operation, his way. As a man recently tipped for the top job, his colleagues no longer argued. Besides, on black-book missions, the fewer observers the better.

  ‘ETA thirty seconds,’ Anna said.

  ‘All clear on the ground,’ added Jim.

  Gilmore ditched his empty coffee cup in a nearby bin and watched the two white heat signatures slowing to a stop on a giant screen on the wall. He clapped his hands and breathed out the nerves – still there after twenty years of operations. But this one was big. If it went to plan, it would be one heck of a win. If it went wrong, there’d be hell to pay.

  Orin, Kazakhstan

  The village of Orin was little more than a dead end on a dirt road. A corridor of ramshackle stone houses, enveloped by trees and fields. The shadow of a mountain range lay in the far distance.

  Driver felt a jolt as the wheels of the Sikorsky touched down. She jumped out quickly and quietly with the others, the second helicopter emptying fast.

  The two groups merged, with Tom as the lead. Driver brought up the rear, moving at speed towards Jemal’s compound.

  The initial plan had been to land one of the helicopters inside the perimeter walls. The other would drop off a second team on the roof. They would engage Jemal’s personal guards from the top and ground floors, squeezing them into a turkey shoot on the first.

  But last-minute intel had shown a rooftop newly covered in barbed wire and an old blue bus parked in the courtyard.

  January Seven had learned from past raids. If someone was coming to get them, they were going to make it as difficult and drawn out as possible.

  Gilmore had wanted to pull out of the mission, suspecting Serik and Jemal had got wise. Driver had convinced him otherwise. Now her boss spoke in her ear. ‘Bobcat, this is Yellowstone, confirm your status.’

  ‘Bobcat on the move,’ Driver whispered. ‘Approaching the compound.’

  Driver saw little through her night-vision other than the man in front. Heard little else but the rhythm of her own breath and the shuffle of boots.

  As the team reached the entrance, Holland fixed a small plastic explosive to the wrought-iron gates. ‘Three, two, one, breach.’

  There was the briefest of flashes. The gates collapsed inwards.

  Tom gave the signal. Teams Alpha and Bravo flanked left and right across the courtyard.

  Driver noticed a shadow to the right. An AK-47 cocked. A silenced round from Tom put him down. Another guard appeared to the left, but Cooper saw him coming.

  The teams converged at the entrance to the main house. Davies, a tall burly soldier, drove a lightweight battering ram through the door.

  ‘Going internal,’ said Tom, as the team streamed inside.

  The house was basic, with cramped stone hallways and a dark tiled floor.

  Driver dropped against a wall and let the rest of Alpha Team move in first.
Her instinct was to lead, to engage. But that wasn’t her role. So she stayed put with Bravo Team, lasers trained on the space around them.

  She saw flashes of gunfire. Heard a command from Tom. ‘Zone one clear. Bravo Team go.’

  While Cooper led Bravo Team up the stairs, Driver stayed inside the door. ‘Yellowstone, this is Bobcat. Requesting sitrep on the village.’

  ‘Village clear,’ Gilmore replied. ‘Either no one’s home or they sleep real heavy.’

  ‘Ask Eagle Two to circle the area,’ she requested.

  ‘Will do, Bobcat.’

  From up the stairs, Driver heard shouting, and AK rounds.

  ‘Zone two clear,’ Cooper said over the team radio comms. ‘No sign of Elvis, but we’ve got a live one.’

  Tom returned with his team and signalled to Driver. She followed him up the stairs – hard on legs no longer used to the weight of combat gear.

  The SEALs folded into one on the landing and made their way up a second flight of stairs.

  Driver stepped over a pair of dead guards and into a room with a single bed and a small boy in pyjamas wrapped in his mother’s arms. She hugged her son tight, swamped in a white nightgown.

  Cooper held his rifle to her head as she pleaded with them to spare her boy.

  It was Jemal’s wife, Fatima. ‘Where’s your husband?’ Driver asked her in Arabic.

  ‘Don’t kill him. Don’t kill my son.’

  ‘Cooperate and your son lives,’ Driver said, hearing boots and falling bodies overhead.

  Fatima shook her head. She buried her face in her son’s tangled black hair.

  ‘Zone three clear,’ Tom said. ‘We’ve got hard drives and files, but no sign of Elvis.’

  ‘Hurry it up, Bobcat,’ Gilmore ordered. ‘It’s nearly home time.’

  ‘Elvis could be hiding,’ Driver replied.

  ‘And we’re looking,’ Tom said. ‘But we’re out of here in five.’

  Driver hated the next part of the job, but it was necessary. She grabbed the boy and wrenched him away from his mother.

  ‘He isn’t here,’ Fatima screamed, ‘I swear!’

  ‘We know for a fact that he is,’ Driver said, as the boy began to sob.

  Fatima looked at her son, tears in her eyes. Her hand shot out and pointed to the bed. Driver breathed a sigh of relief. She had no intention of harming the boy. But the next step would have been to shoot Fatima in a kneecap.