From the way each of the team members moved, he was sure Cavendish wasn’t among them. They were too fit and fast to be the older man. Nash only hoped his nemesis was in the secondary group holding back.
“Hold, Paul.”
Paul was stationed inside Nash’s house, awaiting the violent incursion. In a hushed voice, he replied, “Holding.”
Using a breaching ram, the lead mercenary smashed into the front door. Instead of the old wooden door splintering into a thousand pieces, it held firm. Second and third attempts garnered equally unimpressive results. The lead mercenary shook his sore arms and turned to his team, issuing orders.
Nash turned to Sophia and grinned. “Had it reinforced years ago.”
Returning his amusement, she asked, “I thought you were retired?”
“I was, but I’m also not an idiot.” He raised an amused eyebrow. “You make some enemies in the espionage game.”
“Obviously,” Sophia responded with a smirk, still observing the unfolding scene.
A second mercenary stepped forward with a breaching shotgun and blew out the hinges. The blast echoed through the still night. A similar explosion was heard from the other side of the house, no doubt the back door being breached.
“Subtle these guys aren’t,” Nash observed. More to himself, he added, “They’re going for speed over stealth.”
“That means they’re being reckless.” Sophia’s features grew serious in the moonlight. “It means they’re more dangerous.”
Nash watched the last of the team storm into what had once been his quiet little sanctuary. “Let’s do something to lessen that, shall we?” He pressed the talk button. “Paul, hit it.”
There was no immediate response. Not via comms, nor any obvious activity inside Nash’s house. The following seconds were among the longest of Nash’s entire life.
“Paul, status?”
Receiving no response, Nash stood to rush to Paul’s aid. Sophia gripped his arm and shook her head. They’d discussed this. If Plan Omega went sideways there would be no rushing in to save his friend because it would already be too late.
Time ground on and Nash’s heart was in his throat. Had everything fallen apart already?
The silence of the country village was as oppressive as it was terrifying. At least they hadn’t heard gunfire, but that didn’t mean Paul was safe. What the hell is happening?
“Gas,” Sophia stated quietly. “I see gas.”
She was right. A white vapour billowed out through the demolished front door, noiselessly rising into the cold night. Nothing happened for several more glacial seconds.
Finally, a tall lanky figure slouched through the front door. Clad in black, the man’s head was encased in a large gas mask. Once clear of the gaseous substance now seeping from Nash’s house, he removed the mask and sucked in the night air deeply, like a drowning man taking his first gulp of precious oxygen.
Fiddling with his ear, Paul’s voice came through Nash’s earpiece clearly. “Result.” There was clear relief in his voice. “Sorry, when I put on the mask I knocked out my earpiece. They’re sleeping like babies.”
Nash had gotten the idea from an old Spetsnaz operation. In 2002, Chechen terrorists had stormed a theatre in Moscow. The FSB team had pumped a gas known as M-99 into the ventilation system to incapacitate the terrorists. Unfortunately, the results of the raid had been less than stellar, with many of the hostages dying. Hawk and Nash had created their own home-grown version of what had been used that day, a fentanyl-based compound capable of rendering anyone unconscious in a matter of seconds. In the small confines of Nash’s house, the risk was far less than in a huge theatre. The concoction Eva had mixed had done the trick.
Nash and Sophia donned their own masks and followed Paul back into the house. They stripped the Tartarus team of all weapons, tossing them into a large plastic tub Nash had used to store his winter coats. They bound their captives’ hands and feet with FlexiCuffs. They also opened all the windows and doors so the fentanyl-based mixture would dissipate and not cause respiratory issues, a major reason for the failure of the Spetsnaz assault.
Paul, Nash and Sophia made their way outside and called in the success of the third phase. In a matter of minutes, half of Tartarus’s team had been taken out of the game. More importantly for Nash, no one had died. He knew the next phase would not be as clean.
“What’s the status of the second set of Land Rovers?” Nash asked.
“Same position,” Bishop replied. “Likely shitting their pants now that they’re receiving dead air from their… hold up. They’re moving. Heading south to your position. Phase three in play. Repeat, phase three in play. You ready Eva?”
“Affirmative. In position. Team Spikey One ready. You ready, Team Spikey Two?”
Nash broke into a jog, Sophia close behind. “We’re not calling ourselves Team Spikey.”
“Yeah, we are.” Eva waited a moment. “They’ve rounded the corner. Paul just joined me.”
Breathless, Paul replied, “In position and in desperate need of some cardio training when this is all over.”
“Sophia and I are in position,” Nash said.
“I bet.”
Nobody replied to Eva’s snide comment. Crouching behind a brick fence in a neighbour’s front yard, Nash didn’t dare glance at Sophia next to him.
Nash was concerned they hadn’t had a visual on Cavendish yet. He wasn’t one of the unconscious Tartarus team on the floor of his lounge room. He could be in one of the approaching SUVs, but that was an assumption. Without capturing him, this whole operation would be for nothing.
Nash sucked in a lungful of air and waited. It was all he could do.
Hitting the comms button, Nash asked, “You ready Hawk?”
“When haven’t I been ready?”
“Tanzania.”
“That was once, and they were twins.”
Not wanting to tie up the channel, Nash chose not to answer. Sophia gave him an amused, quizzical look. He replied with a look of his own: I’ll tell you later.
