The Persona Protocol - By Andy McDermott Page 0,114

objective was to capture al-Rais, not kill him. Instead he found a new target as the other three terrorists sprinted after their leader. This time, he didn’t hesitate to pull the trigger. One of the running men fell from a bullet wound to his upper back.

He tracked the next man – but al-Rais had already kicked open the broken door, his remaining followers piling in after him. Unlike the other ruined structures, this had stone walls rather than wood, giving the terrorists much more cover.

But they hadn’t gone there purely for protection. For Zykov to have contacted him, al-Rais must have had a satellite phone of his own. If he warned his organisation, anything Adam learned from the terrorist’s persona would be rendered worthless.

It would take Tony and his team a couple of minutes to reach him. More than enough time for al-Rais to make a call . . .

Adam ran back through the building and out of the rear door, rounding the side of the derelict structure. He paused at the corner, glancing across the tracks at the stone building. Movement behind a broken window, one of the terrorists pointing an AK towards the shore.

He ran—

The Kalashnikov swung towards him, but Adam raised his own gun and fired five rapid shots as he raced across the cutting. The bullets smacked off the stonework. The AK briefly jerked away from the impacts – then returned, unleashing a burst of automatic fire. Rounds sliced through the air just behind him. He fired once more, then dived headlong behind a couple of overturned mine carts.

Snow sprayed in his face as he landed. He wiped his eyes, then ejected his SIG’s magazine. It still had three bullets remaining, but he wanted to reload while he was still in cover.

The new mag clacked home. He popped his head out from the side of the wagon, seeing broken planks piled against the stone building’s windowless side wall, then ducked back as the gunfire resumed. Screaming ricochets bounced off the thick metal, but an AK couldn’t rock ’n’ roll on full auto for long . . .

The gun fell silent. Now it was the terrorist’s turn to reload, the thirty rounds in the curved magazine gone.

Adam burst out from behind the carts. He heard a warning shout, but kept running for the stacked planks. They were slippery with ice and rot, but he had enough momentum to charge up them and vault on to the roof.

There was a large hole where decay and the weight of a winter’s snow had made a combined attack. He jumped down through it, landing with a thump inside a back room.

Al-Rais was just six feet from him, whirling in surprise at the noise. He had a satphone in one hand, gun in the other.

The pistol came up—

Adam charged, slamming his shoulder into the Saudi’s stomach and driving him back against a wall. He lashed out with his gun hand, metal striking metal and sending the terrorist’s weapon clattering across the room, then whipped it back up to smash against his opponent’s skull. Al-Rais slumped to the floor.

Movement to one side—

Adam spun and fired three shots into the chest of one of the terrorists as he rushed into the room. The dead man tumbled to the ground.

Where was the third? He had—

Something hit him hard from behind.

Adam stumbled, landing painfully beside al-Rais. Another blow struck his arm. The SIG was jarred from his hand. He cried out, twisting to look up at his attacker. It was Qasid, fumbling to reload his AK after using it as an impromptu club.

The magazine slotted into the receiver with a solid clack. Qasid yanked back the charging handle, then pointed the gun at the downed American—

Shock filled his face. ‘You! But—’

Adam took full advantage of the moment of confusion to sweep a foot up at Qasid’s leg. The steel-reinforced toe of his boot cracked against the other man’s kneecap. The Pakistani shrieked, his leg buckling and pitching him to the floor. The AK barked as he landed, bullets tearing into the ruined ceiling. Before he could recover, Adam scrambled to him and drove a savage punch into his face. Qasid went limp.

The American pulled the Kalashnikov from Qasid’s hand and used it as a support to get back to his feet. He checked on the two terrorists. Qasid’s face was twisted in pain, blood oozing from his nose. Al-Rais moaned, head lolling. The satphone lay nearby. A number had been entered . . . but