Blind Impact

Book 2: The Gabriel Wolfe Thrillers

by Andy Maslen

Genres: Military Thrillers

Synopsis

Who’s murdering RAF test pilots mid-flight? Flying a fighter jet while tripping is inadvisable. Flying it blind is suicidal. So when an RAF pilot suddenly loses his sight and crashes his Typhoon, answers are needed. Fast. British pilots are using an experimental performance-enhancing drug. SAS veteran Gabriel Wolfe discovers that someone is fatally sabotaging the top-secret testing programme. If the test succeeds, the UK will have a huge advantage over the Russians. An unholy alliance of Chechen separatists and Russian gangsters want it to fail. Two British women are snatched by the separatists. And the Farnborough Airshow is fast approaching. Gabriel has to rescue the kidnap victims and prevent another pilot’s death. The mission calls for street-fighting skills, military strategy and a stint undercover as a doorman for Jonny Rocketz. It's a sleazy bar in Talinn’s red light district owned by a Russian Mafia boss, Yuri Volkov. Gabriel is up for the challenge, but he’s still carrying guilt for leaving a comrade’s body behind in his last, disastrous mission for the SAS. Will it overwhelm him just when he needs to be at his most focused? Things get complicated when Volkov wants Gabriel to work with two of his own men. Tooled-up and heading for a confrontation with the Chechens, Gabriel has to keep one eye on his so-called allies, Erik and Konstantin, who have their own orders from Volkov. DOWNLOAD YOUR COPY OF BLIND IMPACT NOW

Release date: April 29, 2016

Publisher: Tyton Press

Print pages: 346

Sample

Chapter 1

 

The call Kasym Drezna had been waiting for came in at 10.30. He went out onto the balcony of the hotel suite to answer his phone. The stars reflected in the screen matched the white headlights streaming along the road beneath him into the centre of Stockholm.

 

“It’s Erik. The Bryant women are here. They just asked for a car to take them back to the hotel. The Birger Jarl on Tulegatan. You know it?”

 

“No, I don’t know it, you idiot. And it doesn’t matter, does it? That’s what satnav’s for.”

 

“Oh, no. Sorry. How long shall I tell them?”

Kasym checked his watch. “Fifteen minutes. Give them a drink on the house.”

 

“OK. Text me when you arrive and I’ll bring them out.”

 

“No. Elsbeta will come in and get them. Just keep them happy. Oh, and Erik?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Pack up some food for me. I haven’t eaten today.”

 

He ended the call and went back inside.

 

“Elsbeta! Get your jacket, we’re leaving.”

 

The woman he’d shouted for came out of one of the bedrooms. She was dressed in a smart, black trouser suit. Only a careful observer would have noticed that she wore combat boots under the well-cut trousers, or that the space under her left armpit was bulkier than that on the right.

 

Together, they took the lift down to the parking garage. He thumbed the door-unlock button and pointed at a big black saloon flashing its indicators behind a square concrete pillar edged in black-and-yellow hazard tape.

 

Clearly, the tape was insufficient warning for the hotel’s guests: it was rubbed away on the edge, and replaced with scrapes of blue, red and black automotive paint. He gave her the chunky black key for the Mercedes.

 

“You drive,” he said. “They’re at Gro Restaurang. Waiting for a car to take them to The Birger Jarl on Tulegatan. Think we could manage that?”

Elsbeta settled herself in the driver’s seat and pressed a button marked “2” by her left thigh.

 

They sat, not talking, as electric motors inside the seat brought it closer to the steering wheel, raised it by four inches, tilted the backrest more upright, and performed a half dozen other movements, accompanied by a conversation of whirrs, hums and buzzes from inside the thickly padded leather.

 

“Are we ready now?” he asked.

 

“It’s not my fault you’re built like a giant,” she said. “I want to be comfortable.”

 

She selected Drive and rolled the car around the pillar and along the rows of expensive German and Swedish cars, then left the car park via the ramp that took them out onto Råsta Strandväg. The car was virtually silent inside. She spoke.

 

“When we get there, I’ll bring them out. Are they both going in the back with you?”

 

“It’s best, I think. Easier to watch them. I don’t want any funny business, grabbing the steering wheel.”

 

They drove to the restaurant without further conversation. Elsbeta was a good driver. Careful, nothing flashy. She slowed early for red lights and waved people out in front of her. Sometimes it drove Kasym crazy, but tonight it felt right.

Appropriate. Luxury limousine drivers didn’t power-slide round corners like those stupid American cop shows, or streak away from traffic lights leaving trails of black on the road surface.

The fact that she could do all those things was helpful, but tonight he felt the need for calm.

 

He looked out the side window as Stockholm rolled by. Such affluence. Such ease. These people didn’t know what they had. Back home the only cars like the one he was riding in were owned by the men at the very top of Government. Or men like him, he supposed. But here, in social democratic Sweden, they were everywhere. Perhaps not the top models like this one, but plenty of BMWs, Mercedes and Volvos for the common man.

 

“We’re here.”

 

Elsbeta’s short sentence roused him from his musings on the inequalities life dealt to different people, different countries. He fished out his phone and sent an even shorter sentence to the Maître D’.

 

Outside.

 

He turned to Elsbeta.

“Go.”

 

She opened the door and walked up to the front door of the restaurant. He watched her disappear inside, then got out, moved to the rear seats and squashed himself down on the extreme right of the soft, sculpted seat. God, those fat-arsed Germans loved their comfort.

From the outside, the darkened glass would give no hint of his presence.

 

Then he saw them. Two western women. English women. Coming out ahead of Elsbeta, who had even found a cap with a shiny, black plastic peak from somewhere. She was smiling broadly and extending her arm towards the rear of the car. He noted with approval the foil wrapped package in her other hand. Erik was nothing if not obedient.

 

He evaluated the two women. The older one, Sarah Bryant: the wife. Elegant, middle-aged, maybe late forties, early fifties. Blonde hair tied back away from her ears. Tanned skin. Light make-up. Grey skirt and cardigan. High heels. Bad for running. The younger woman, Chloe: the daughter. Still well-dressed, but not formal like her mother. Tall. Tight jeans, red leather biker jacket. Baseball boots. The women were laughing and talking. He watched as they drew closer to the car door.

 

Elsbeta moved in front of the daughter and opened the door. The young woman slid in, looking out at her mother. By the time she bumped into Kasym’s hip, it was too late.

 

He pulled her across and clamped his hand over her mouth. Elsbeta pushed the mother, not too hard, but hard enough to unbalance her so that she stumbled off the kerb and fell into the back of the Mercedes. The door slammed behind her and in another two seconds, Elsbeta had arrived in the driver’s seat and they were pulling away.

 

As often happens when you catch people out, Sarah Bryant had said nothing, done nothing. Chloe was quicker on the uptake and was writhing and kicking out.

 

Then Sarah Bryant found her voice.

 

“What are you doing? Leave her alone.”

 

Kasym needed to take decisive action to silence her and to end the struggles of the daughter, who was now kicking out at the back of the driver’s seat, threatening to unsettle Elsbeta.

 

He reached inside the jacket of his suit and withdrew a long-bladed knife. Keeping his left hand around the young woman’s mouth he brought it into her eyeline, where it caught the orangey-yellow glow of the passing streetlamps.

The move worked. It usually did. She became completely still. The mother stared, open-mouthed, at the blade. It had a very narrow tip, and glinted viciously along its stone-whetted edge.

 

Slowly, so that his intent should not be misinterpreted, he uncurled his palm and freed the girl’s face from his grip.

 

She gasped and sobbed in one drawn out, halting exhalation. Before either woman could speak, Kasym began his prepared words.

 

“Please listen and say nothing. Not until the end. Then you may ask questions. We are kidnapping you.”

 

Sarah Bryant caught her breath at the word and clutched her daughter’s left hand. She glanced down at the chrome door handle.

 

“Please don’t bother. Child locks,” he said. “We do not intend, at this point, to harm you, but you must behave yourselves. This is a delicate business, and we have some travelling to do tonight. We need you to encourage your husband to carry out certain actions for us.

When he has done as we ask, and we have achieved our objectives, we will let you go. We will even drive you to the airport and give you first-class tickets back to London. But please know this. If you do not behave as required, I shall kill you. In war, one must be prepared to take difficult decisions. Perform unpleasant duties. You would think women would always be safe, but, sadly, it is not so. Now. Question time.”

 

The mother had been rendered speechless by his monologue, but the daughter was less scared. Brave girl. He liked her spirit.

 

“What war? What actions is Dad supposed to do for you? Why are you doing this? Who are you people?”

 

“My name is Kasym. Your driver tonight is Elsbeta. We are Chechens. We have our own resources - money, guns - but we need outside assistance from time to time. Your father will be assisting us.”

 

“How? He runs a publicly owned pharmaceutical company. He’s not a banker. He can’t just give you money to buy guns or whatever.”

 

Kasym grunted his approval at her smarts.

 

“We have someone on our payroll at your father’s company, in the R&D department. He has a . . .” he paused briefly, “. . . a fondness for young girls. Very young girls. We discovered this, and now he is our inside man at Dreyer Pharma. He is making certain modifications to a drug your father’s company is working on. For

the British Royal Air Force. Then there is a very evil man in Moscow called Oleg Abramov. He is what you would call an oligarch, though this is a polite word for an ex-KGB commander who gets fat by stealing state assets. We heard he plans to buy this drug and sell it to the Russian Government. We cannot allow that to happen.”

And after telling you this, I’m afraid your freedom won’t happen either.

 

The mother had regained her composure and asked the next question.

 

“Promise you won’t hurt us? Promise! Chloe is only twenty-five. She has her whole life in front of her.”

 

“Dear lady,” he said. “You have only to cooperate and everything will be fine.”

 

“And where did you learn English? If you’re really a Chechen.”

 

“I know, amazing isn't it? A savage terrorist from a place you couldn’t even point to on a map, able to speak the Queen’s English. I learnt while at university. UMIST. You know it?”

 

“University of Manchester Institute of Technology,” Chloe said. “I studied at the University of Manchester.”

 

“Coincidences, eh? Such an amazing thing. I studied aerospace engineering there. Plenty of time to pick up the lingo. Your Radio 4. Very educational.”

 

Elsbeta spoke. “We’re here.”

They had pulled up outside the Birger Jarl Hotel.

 

“Ladies,” Kasym said. “Your room number, please.”

 

“It’s a suite,” Sarah said. “749.”

 

“Very good. A suite. So, Elsbeta will go inside and fetch you some things. We will stay here and get to know each other a little better. Keycard please.”

 

Ten minutes later, Elsbeta exited the hotel’s front door carrying two weekend bags. The thumps as she dropped them into the boot were barely audible inside the soundproofed cabin, felt, rather than heard. Then she was back inside the car, and they were pulling away into the traffic on Tulegatan.

 

“Where are you taking us?” Chloe asked.

 

“All in good time, young lady,” Kasym said.

 

“And all this. This is for your cause, is it?” Chloe asked. “You’re, what, nationalists? Separatists? You want to get out from under Russian control, is that it?”

 

“You are a clever young lady,” Kasym said. “Yes. No doubt they don’t teach Chechen history in your English private schools, and I will spare you the details. But let us just say that I have no love for Russians, and nor do my countrymen.”

 

“Actually, I do know some history. You fought in the war for independence?”

 

“I fought in many wars. I even fought for the Russians in Afghanistan against the Mujahideen. It was . . . expedient. Then, yes, in 1994, against the Russians for a free Chechnya, and once more in 1999. Now I fight once again to free my country from the yoke of the oppressor. I would not expect you to understand, as a child of a great colonial power, but Chechens were not born to be slaves to the Soviets, or the Russians.”

 

The car swung right at a roundabout, leaving Birger Jarlsgatan for the 277. It wasn't the most direct route, but safer. They had to wait while a blue and white city bus pulled past them, its rubber concertina joint flexing as the double-length vehicle negotiated the tight turn.

 

Without warning, Sarah Bryant leapt forward from her seat and clawed wildly at the back of Elsbeta’s head, tearing out a hank of her dirty-blonde hair.

 

“You take us back right now! Take us back!”

 

The car swerved as Elsbeta yelped in pain and swung her free hand behind her, landing a glancing blow on Sarah’s cheek.

 

“Shit! You bitch. You could have killed us all. Kasym, do something or I’ll stop the car at the next junction and deal with her myself.”

 

As if the effort of attacking Elsbeta had exhausted her, Sarah sank back against the seat and sobbed quietly, her face covered by her hands.

 

Chloe was sitting upright, tense, arms crossed, sandwiched between mother and kidnapper. Kasym leant across her body and pinched her mother’s chin between his strong thumb and forefinger. He wore a heavy gold ring on the third finger of his hand set with a red carved seal. A dragon, it looked like.

 

He breathed in, then out again, clenching his jaw. It would not do to let these English women see the other side of his character. For now, the courteous kidnapper was the trump card.

 

“My dear Mrs Bryant,” he said. “Please do not be aggressive to Elsbeta. She was assaulted by Russian troops in our capital city, Grozny. It left her with a horror of violence. Will you promise me that? Please?”

 

Sarah Bryant lifted her head and glared at him.

 

“Fine. But if you hurt as much as a hair on Chloe’s head, I will kill you.”

 

“Oh, I have no doubt you would try. Which is why we must all agree to get along peaceably. We have a long trip ahead of us, and I do not want to have to restrain you beyond the bare minimum

necessary to prevent your escape.”

 

“What do you mean, ‘a long trip’? Aren’t we staying in Stockholm?”

 

“Tell me something,” Kasym said. “Have you ever visited Estonia?”

 

“Estonia? No, of course we haven’t been to Estonia!” Sarah Bryant said. Her eyes widened and she reared back away from Kasym.

 

“Why ‘of course’? The Baltic States are very beautiful countries. Friendly people, lots of money now. Ideal tourist destinations. You agree, don’t you, Elsbeta?”

 

“Tallinn is Estonia’s capital and cultural hub. Its walled, cobblestoned Old Town is home to many cafes and shops. Kiek in de Kök, a fifteenth century defensive tower, guards the city centre like a sentinel.” She paused. “Wikipedia.”

 

Kasym grinned at them, showing a row of mottled teeth.

 

“We will put you up somewhere nice, and you can learn all about the history and culture of this fine city.”

 

“Mum,” Chloe said. “Leave it for now. Think about Dad. He’s going to be worried.”

 

Kasym approved of the younger woman’s tone, and her suggestion. The father would need to be contacted. But not until he had the women safely in Tallinn. For now, they could keep their counsel.

 

Elsbeta stuck to the speed limit. Kasym didn’t want any attention from the police, even though he was a skilled corrupter of underpaid public officials. Keeping his knife in plain view, he looked out of the window, thinking about the Swedes and their designer shops and upmarket restaurants. So much affluence in the West. So much freedom. So much softness, too. Try this little stunt with a couple of Chechen women and you’d likely end up eating your own balls instead of succeeding in the kidnap. He checked his watch: 11.15. Dukka and Makhmad should be tied up at the jetty by now, the boat fuelled and provisioned for the trip. They’d reckoned on a trip of perhaps 12 to 15 hours depending on wind and currents, which meant they’d be at the dock in Tallinn at about two o’clock the following afternoon.

 

Something caught his eye through the windscreen. A flashing blue light. Elsbeta was already braking. She said a single word.

 

“Police.”