Warlord by Chris Ryan

Author:Chris Ryan [Ryan, Chris]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton
Published: 2017-05-23T04:00:00+00:00

1115 hours.

‘Alpha One, this is Alpha Two and Alpha Three, check.’

‘Check. We’re in position. What’s your status?’

‘Preparing to enter the target building. Over.’

Tyson had parked the Tahoe one block north of the target, in a regular parking place outside a shabby mini-mart. Fifty metres along the road was an open-topped Federales vehicle. Tyson had noticed a few of these artfully positioned vehicles around the city. Here, he could make out the shadow of two federal police officers in the front, but he didn’t allow himself to stare too closely and attract their interest. Not with an M4 rifle in his rucksack and a Sig 9mm about his person.

Instead, he and Spike quickly headed south. They were now standing in front of a fast-food joint. It was closed at this hour, a metal shutter pulled down over its frontage. The shutter was covered with cartel graffiti. The sidewalk was littered with polystyrene burger boxes. The two men stared at the building in front of them, their heavy rucksacks slung over their shoulders.

‘Do you think the building is occupied by cartel members?’ Spike asked.

‘Doubt it, Snowflake,’ Tyson said. ‘It’s a dump. My money’s on poor locals. They’re probably terrorised by the cartel, so if the Zetas use their premises, they can be sure no-one’s going to grass them up. It makes sense for them to have places they can hole up dotted around the town.’

Tyson continued his examination of the building. It was four storeys high. Concrete render. Securely shuttered windows. No visible entrance. This was the northern edge of the square where Spud was being held. The gate where Danny Black would attempt to gain entry was on the southern edge. To provide decent surveillance and effective fire support, he and Spike needed to be up high – preferably on the roof of the building, with one of them on the western side and one on the eastern side.

Which was why they were about to split up.

A homeless guy staggered past. Tyson waited for him to be out of earshot before speaking. ‘There’s no external staircase to the roof,’ he said. ‘We’ll have to try and gain access from inside the building. You go west, I’ll go east.’

Spike nodded and instantly headed east along the road. Tyson strode west. Took a right after twenty metres. He was now walking along the eastern edge of the building. It looked similar to the northern side. Ageing concrete, metal shutters. But also, twenty-five metres along, there was a door. Made from solid, varnished wood, with dull brass fittings, it looked oddly out of place against the concrete. It was locked, of course. On the right-hand side was a wide panel of intercom buttons. Forty: ten buttons for each of the four floors. Tyson pressed one of the fourth-floor buttons: 43. There was a pause of twenty seconds before a voice answered. ‘Si?’

‘Entrega,’ he said in good Spanish. ‘Delivery. For number 42, no answer.’

There was a mumbled response that Tyson couldn’t hear. A buzz from the door.

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