Ghosts

Chapter Forty-One

“Going explosive, main gate,” Hammond said over the troop net.

Milton had stowed the binoculars, pulled down his goggles and switched to night vision. They had dismounted the building quickly and sprinted for the muster point at the dacha’s gate. He could see Hammond, kneeling down at the wooden gates and slapping the explosive to the lock. Blake, Spenser, Underwood and Callan were arrayed behind her, pulling security, their weapons focussed on the hole that she was about to create.

“Fire in the hole.”

Here we go.

Hammond hit the detonator and the blast buckled the gate right down the middle. Spenser was the first to attack it, kicking and yanking at the rent until it was wide enough for the others to pass through. Milton was the last to pass inside, turning his body so that his gear didn’t snag against the sharp edges of the split wood.

Beyond the gate was the small courtyard.

The six of them communicated over the troop net as they split up into their assigned roles. Milton and Callan’s first target was to clear was the guesthouse. It was secured by a set of metal double doors with a glass window slit across the top; a window to the right had bars across the glass. There was no light in the windows and that made Milton nervous. The Russians would definitely have heard them breach the gate which meant that anyone here had either moved to the main building or they were inside, waiting in ambush.

Callan let him go first. It wasn’t because of cowardice; Milton was quite sure that a psychopath like Callan was not prey to something as mundane as fear. He wanted Milton in front of him so that he could keep an eye on him and so, perhaps, that he could put a bullet into his back once they had achieved their objective.

Milton tried the handle. It was locked. He unlatched his sledgehammer from the back of his kit and pulled out the extendable handle. He struck the lock with a hard downward swipe. The hammer clashed into the knob but it was strong and didn’t break. He tried again with no more luck.

“One, Group,” he radioed. “Going explosive.”

He stepped back, reaching around again but this time for a breaching charge. He peeled the adhesive backing from the charge and was on one knee, ready to place it, when the doors were suddenly flung open. A guard was above him, firing out in a wild burst. Milton rolled to the side, the rounds passing above his head. He was fortunate that he was already down or they would have cut him in half. He saw movement inside, a figure revealed as his goggles adapted to the deeper darkness inside the room. He brought up the M4 and squeezed off a tight volley, catching the man diagonally across his body and dropping him to the ground.

A second man appeared at the back of the room. Callan fired, the rounds whistling above Milton’s head and stitching a dozen bullets into his head and torso.

“Shots fired,” Callan reported. “Tangos down.”

The door had swung backwards again, half closing. Milton got up and approached it cautiously, nudging it open with the barrel of his rifle. He heard a voice calling out. He tightened the grip on his weapon. He saw a figure in the green glow of his night vision goggles. It was a woman. He held his breath, nudging the M4 around until the infrared laser sight rested on her head. She was holding something. Milton held the laser sight steady. He felt the give of the trigger beneath his index finger. She stepped forward; Milton gave the trigger a little more pressure; she changed her stance, revealing a baby in her arms.

“Stay where you are,” he said in Russian.

“Don’t shoot.”

Callan stepped up behind him and a second laser sight flashed across the woman’s face.

Milton held up a hand to hold him back.

“Who are you?”

“Just na

Two additional children appeared behind her, hiding behind the black fabric of her dress.

“Come forward,” Milton called out.

He kept the sight steady on her forehead as she did as she was told, the children holding onto her legs.

“You killed them,” the woman said. “They are dead.”

“Who are they?”

“Guards. The colonel’s men.”

Milton glanced beyond her. The night vision revealed a pair of feet in the doorway of the room, pointing up to the ceiling. Callan aimed down and fired two shots into the body, then aimed at the second body and repeated the trick.

“One, Group. Guesthouse secure at this time,” Milton reported over the troop net. He cracked a chemlight and dropped it at the guesthouse’s front door to indicate the the building was safe.

“Is the colonel here?”

“I believe,” she said.

“And the Englishman who was here a few days ago?”

“Yes,” she said. “Definitely. Guards for him.”

“Where? The basement?”

“No. In bedroom. Third floor. He is sick.”

“Stay here,” he said. “Don’t come out, not for anyone. We’ll be gone in ten minutes.”

Milton and Callan hurried the courtyard. “One, Group,” he spoke into the throat mike. “Pope is not in the basement. They may have moved him to a third floor bedroom.”

“Two, One,” Spenser said. “Copy that. We’re splitting.”

Milton slid behind a low wall and brought his rifle up to bear on the dacha. There were two exterior doors, north and south, and they had divided the team so that they could control both. Milton was not able to say for sure whether there was a corridor co

Callan prepared his charge, slapping it against the door and pulling back to wait for the order to blow it. Milton held his position, his laser showing green through his night vision as it danced across the wall of the building.

Spenser detonated the charge on the door on the other side of the building. Milton heard shots being fired: it was a close, controlled burst, from a weapon fitted with a suppressor. Likely an M4. There was a pause and then return fire, unsuppressed, the ragged chack chack chack of Russian AN-94s.

“Heavy resistance,” Spenser reported in a calm voice, bullets ricocheting nearby. “Five or six soldiers, all behind cover. This isn’t going to be easy.”

“One, Alpha. Get well back. We’ll blow the door from this side. Ten will attack from behind them. Use smoke. Copy?”

“Copy. What about you?”

“I’m going to go up.”

Milton heard suppressed fire across the radio. “Copy, One. We’re out of the way.”

He turned to Callan. “Initiate.”

Callan detonated the breaching charge. The rolling boom echoed around the courtyard and the door blew inwards. It fell so that it was blocking their path inside and so, with Callan covering him, Milton went forwards and yanked it until he had moved it out of the way. The blast had knocked a soldier backwards, the pressure slamming him into the wall. He was knocked out cold. Callan aimed and fired two shots into his head. Milton watched with a mixture of horror and appreciation; he was utterly ruthless.

“Successful breach.”

Callan took two smoke grenades from his bandolier, popped them and tossed them down the corridor to the room in which the Russians had made their stand. Alpha Team had already thrown their grenades and the room was quickly filling with dense, impenetrable smoke. Milton doubted that they would have been equipped with IR goggles. He heard the rattle of automatic fire, some suppressed, most not. The Russians were firing at shadows. Callan, Spenser and Hammond were picking off their targets carefully and efficiently