Rebel Dark

Chapter 1

1

London, England

Bathed in the warm sun of an early August evening, Sam Driver moved through the oak trees, as they cast long shadows over the clipped, dry grass. She’d been jogging slow and in circles for thirty minutes to the soundtrack of birdsong and the dampened hum of the capital.

Tracking her target through Hyde Park, it wasn’t the run itself that troubled her, but the pink jogging top exposing her midriff and the figure-hugging shorts that hugged a little too tight in the most uncomfortable areas.

It was Anna Patel, the team Operations Liaison who’d sourced most of the outfits for the mission. She obviously thought the ex-CIA operative a size smaller than she was. Flattering, but chafing nonetheless. Yet perhaps it was the top itself that bothered her the most, leaving her feeling exposed.

Driver breathed in the earthy scent of the park, Spandex sticking to her skin. A wipe of her brow brought her wrist away, damp with sweat. She flicked off the beads and cut across the grass, joining a narrow pathway snaking through the park.

After a hundred yards, it widened and curved around a shallow miniature lake where ducks glided over the calm surface and small birds gathered and preened by the water’s edge.

Hyde Park was populated but far from busy. Most people were emptying out of the city in the mad scramble home for the weekend, massing in pubs and bars for after-work drinks.

Perhaps that explained why Ukrainian oil billionaire, Denys Kravchenko, mid-forties and lean with dark stubble, liked to stroll alone through the park of a Friday evening.

Of course, the word ‘alone’ was entirely relative. It didn’t take into account his entourage of security, following behind in two pairs at twenty-metre intervals.

They were hardly inconspicuous, stuffed into dark suits with matching open-neck white shirts, sunglasses and marine-like haircuts. But maybe that was the point, Driver thought, as she followed them down the slope towards an underpass in the distance. A visual deterrent, if nothing else.

‘Jogger Mom in position,’ Driver said over the comms piece concealed in her ear.

‘Everyone’s in place,’ said Wells. ‘Prepare for contact.’

Driver glanced up at the bridge, where Sunny Wells played lookout and amateur photographer with a long-lens camera to his eye. He looked good in a pair of beige chinos and a short-sleeve linen shirt tight against his dark skin and rock-like biceps. She refocused her attention beyond the overpass, where Isobel Lim strolled arm-in-arm with Yuri Baptiste towards them. They made a stylish couple – a slim, suave greying man with his light-blue shirt buttoned low and precision-cut stubble, partnered with Lim, deceptively innocent in an orange cotton summer dress.

‘This is Newlywed One,’ Baptiste said over comms. ‘We have visual on the target.’

‘Copy that, Newlywed One,’ Driver replied. ‘Roller Girl?’

‘Hot on your ass,’ Maria Rios confirmed.

Driver heard the roll of blades over the path before she saw the diminutive young Latina approaching fast from behind, dressed in denim cut-offs and a black vest with a small blue backpack over her shoulders.

‘Anyone think Newlywed Two looks too young for Newlywed One?’ Rios asked, as she made up the ground.

‘You’re just jealous,’ Baptiste replied, putting an arm around Lim’s slender waist and drawing her in.

‘At least you’re not dressed as a bloody blue whale,’ Russell Pope grumbled in his thick Australian tone. He hung around beyond the underpass, holding a sign for a London aquarium, but looking very much the fish out of water. ‘I’m sweating like a lamb in a kebab shop.’

‘You wanna swap for denim hot pants and roller blades?’ Rios asked.

‘Nah,’ Pope said. ‘I reckon you’re doing a good job in ’em already.’

‘Manioso,’ Rios groaned, a word Driver recognised as Spanish slang for pervert.

‘What’s that mean?’ Pope asked.

‘It means save the small-talk for later,’ Driver said between light, rapid breaths. ‘Kravchenko’s almost at the underpass. Paparazzi, are we clear?’

While pretending to line up a shot of the park, Wells surveyed the scene through his long-lens camera. There were only a few civilians in the vicinity. And none close enough to take note of their actions. Kravchenko paid no attention to the two bodyguards behind him, just as they paid no attention to the second pair of security men behind them.

Zooming in on Driver, he watched her position herself for the first attack. It would be a lie to say he was blind to her toned figure, blonde hair, high cheekbones or dazzling blue eyes. Or for that matter, the way her mouth creased in the corners when she smiled. Yet there were more pressing concerns than Driver’s physical appearance, and it felt wrong staring down the camera lens at her. He’d seen her naked in Rome, of course, but only for a split-second before she’d covered up and he’d looked away, apologising for bursting in on her in the bathroom.

A little ashamed, he pressed a finger on the zoom button and pulled back, only to stop as something caught his eye. He increased the magnification again and focused into her ribcage, where her running vest rode up an inch as she swung her arms.

It was only a second or two before the vest returned to its natural position. But he snapped a picture of it, just to be sure. He zoomed out, took the camera from his eye and checked the photograph on the HD screen.

There was no mistaking it. Driver had a small tattoo on the upper left of her abdomen, of a red flag, with a white fist contained in a black star in the centre. It was a tattoo he recognised from his days at MI5 and MI6. It was the symbol of a right-wing extremist group led by self-proclaimed philosopher and revolutionary, Sergei Molevchek. The group had long since disbanded following raids by the FSB, with Molevchek reduced to publishing inflammatory texts from an unspecified prison cell.

Wells found himself robbed of breath, losing track of the chatter over the comms. What was Driver thinking? Had she been brainwashed during her time in Siberia, or had she always held those opinions?

Driver had admitted to him before that she’d been obsessive in her pursuit of Jihadi terrorists, but could there be more to it than simply doing her job as a CIA officer?

Sure, they hadn’t known each other for long – a few missions at most, but Wells thought he knew her better than that. He thought they had something. So how could she joke and flirt and have his back when she bore the mark of neo-Nazi racists?

Perhaps Driver was keeping her real views hidden from sight, for the sake of her own place on the team. But how could he possibly work with her now that he knew the truth?

The betrayal hit Wells like a punch to the gut. Maybe he had presumed too much, thinking the attraction was mutual. Yet this wasn’t delusion on his part, it was Driver faking interest to get him onside.

The British agent’s head spun with scenarios as he peered through the lens with a whole new filter on reality. Every quirk of her movement and character taking on an air of falsehood, only fanning the flames of resentment.

‘Are we clear?’ Driver snapped over the comms.

Wells switched on and swept the area again. ‘Clear. No witnesses.’

‘Executing now,’ the American said with a cold look in her eye.

Driver ran up fast on the left of the path, where one of two bodyguards strolled either side. She gripped the tiny needle in her left hand between the knuckles and flew beyond the man. A single prick to the back of his hand was all it took. So fast he would have barely felt it – a scratch at most. She turned and smiled. The bodyguard smiled back, then staggered to his left, onto the grass. A hand to his throat, he fell and disappeared into a dense clutch of shrubs.

Right on cue, Rios flew into the picture and did the same with the man on the opposite side of the path.

‘Two down, two to go,’ Driver whispered, slowing to a jog behind her next target.

‘Ready when you are,’ Rios said, appearing by her side.

Driver gave the nod. They split and went in for the kill. This time it was a knife. A small, razor-sharp blade pulled from the money belt around her waist.

‘Good to go,’ Wells confirmed from his elevated position.

‘Executing’, Driver said, speeding towards her next target. Before he could turn, she rammed the blade deep into the bodyguard’s thick neck. He was almost dead, but not dead enough, so Driver shoved him sideways into a line of bushes where he could convulse in peace.

The man pulled the knife out, which she was hoping he would. Leaving him to bleed, unable to speak.

‘Target’s none the wiser,’ said Lim of the oil billionaire, walking ahead, blissfully unaware in a light-grey business suit. ‘Move to Phase Two.’

As Driver re-joined the path. Rios had the remaining bodyguard eating grass, his leg kicking out as he too bled a fast death.

The former Mexican sicario rolled his body down a gentle incline into a bed of pink begonias. She unzipped a side pocket on her backpack and tossed Driver a Glock 9mm with a silencer attached.

‘Time’s almost up,’ Baptiste said.

‘I’m on it,’ Driver replied, gaining fast on Kravchenko.

The Ukrainian was no more than a few feet from the underpass. Baptiste and Lim strolled the opposite way, past a tiny funfair for the tiniest of children – a couple of old-fashioned carousels, a candy floss stall and an ice cream van parked off to the right.

Pope lurked nearby in his giant blue suit. As usual, he’d drawn the shortest straw, acting as an extra pair of eyes, a Beretta hidden inside his costume.

Mercifully, Kravchenko didn’t pause to look behind him. A man like him had to be shadowed wherever he went. And no one ever stopped to check their shadow.

Little did he know he’d been marked for death by world powers desperate to solve an ongoing fuel crisis. It had been sparked by the oligarch’s premeditated hampering of the supply line from Siberia, all in a bid to stop the UN negotiating a new deal that would prevent his companies from rigging oil prices.

Driver was about as comfortable with the mission as she was with the sportswear biting into her lower regions. The man should have been extradited and put on trial. Not killed illegally in cold blood on foreign soil.

‘We all sure we want to do this?’ Driver asked over comms.

‘We’re the bullet, not the gun,’ Baptiste replied.

‘Besides, I thought we’d had this conversation,’ Lim sighed.

Driver held the pistol tight to her thigh as she ran. ‘I know, but this is the last chance.’

‘I agree with blondie,’ Rios said. ‘This isn’t what we signed up for.’

‘We signed up for whatever they give us,’ Wells snapped. ‘And I didn’t picture you for the moral kind, Rios.’

‘Just feels kinda off,’ Rios muttered under her breath.

‘You want me to do it?’ Pope asked.

‘No, I’m good. I’m just saying,’ Driver replied, her finger on the trigger.

As he dropped down into the underpass, Kravchenko picked up his stride, disappearing into the shadows beneath the bridge. Driver lost sight of him momentarily before entering the tunnel behind him.

She expected the Ukrainian to turn at the sound of her footsteps beating a path towards him. But instead he clapped his hands and shuttled forward into a run.

Driver had the weapon raised, but she’d lost her chance to plant the barrel in his back and fire through his heart.

She would settle for a bullet through the skull at distance. Yet as Driver took aim, Kravchenko dropped to the balls of his feet, his arms wide open.

Two small children with hair the colour of straw came running his way, overtaking Baptiste and Lim and rushing into the billionaire’s arms.

‘Daddy, daddy!’ the boy and girl yelled in Russian as he drew them in tight.

‘Where’s mummy?’ Kravchenko asked them.

‘Getting ice cream!’ came the reply.

‘s**t, he was supposed to be alone this weekend,’ Wells said over comms.

‘That’s what the intel said,’ Baptiste replied. ‘Do it anyway.’

‘Now?’ Driver whispered. ‘Are you kidding?’

‘It’s now or never,’ said Lim, as she and Baptiste approached.

Driver hung back in the shadows of the underpass, the gun held behind the small of her back. ‘Not in front of the kids.’

As the children broke from the hug with their father, Pope lumbered into the picture and waved them over. ‘Hey kids, over here! I want a hug too.’

‘Go on,’ Kravchenko said, laughing.

His children sprinted over to Pope as he crouched to the ground. They flew into his arms, the six-four Australian burying their faces in his chest.

Driver had her window. She raised her weapon.

But Kravchenko seemed to sense her presence. He whirled around and saw her in the darkness, the barrel of the gun catching the evening sun. Driver hesitated. She couldn’t do it. Wouldn’t do it. Not like this.

In a split second, the decision was stolen from her. Baptiste appeared behind Kravchenko. He put him in a headlock, arm around his windpipe and dragged him into the underpass. Lim was right by his side, a pistol drawn from her handbag and a compressed double-tap fired into his heart.

Baptiste let Kravchenko fall to the ground. Lim put a third bullet between the billionaire’s eyes and hurried on through the underpass, arm-in-arm with Baptiste, her pistol returned to her handbag.

Further up the path, Pope let the children run to their mother, a statuesque blonde carrying two ice creams in either hand. He backed out of the picture, ditching the sign for the aquarium in a nearby bin.

‘Meet back at the rendezvous,’ Wells said over comms.

‘I’m already gone,’ Rios replied.

‘Jogger Mom!’ Wells snapped. ‘Get out of there.’

Shaken out of a daze, Driver ran back the way she came. She passed by Baptiste and Lim, handing the ex-Russian agent the weapon. She glanced over a shoulder as he took out a handkerchief, wiped it down in a flash and tossed it into the bushes.

Driver skirted around the miniature lake, Rios speed-skating in low-slung strides into the distance.

They all knew their exit routes. Driver took hers out through the trees.