Vigilante, p.1
Vigilante, page 1
Vigilante
A Ryker Returns Thriller
Rob Sinclair
Copyright © 2022 Rob Sinclair
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The right of Rob Sinclair to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First published in 2022 by Bloodhound Books.
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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www.bloodhoundbooks.com
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Print ISBN 978-1-914614-78-1
Contents
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Foreword
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
A note from the publisher
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Also by Rob Sinclair
Ryker Returns Series
Renegade
Assassins
Outsider
James Ryker Series
The Red Cobra
The Black Hornet
The Silver Wolf
The Green Viper
The White Scorpion
The Enemy Series
Dance with the Enemy
Rise of the Enemy
Hunt for the Enemy
The Sleeper 13 Series
Sleeper 13
Fugitive 13
Imposter 13
The DI Dani Stephens Series
The Essence of Evil
The Rules of Murder
Echoes of Guilt
The Bonds of Blood
Standalone Thrillers
Dark Fragments
Foreword
This book is a work of fiction and was written before the invasion of Ukraine in February 2022. The Ukrainian people have nothing but my admiration and support.
1
An oven. At least, as close to being inside a heated oven, and still being alive, as James Ryker could imagine. Over thirty degrees Celsius outside with a blistering sun in the sky and not a wisp of cloud. Who knew how many more degrees inside the thick-walled metal van whose occupants sizzled. Ryker’s blood was surely on the brink of bubbling and boiling. In the dry heat he wasn’t even sweating anymore. Every minuscule droplet of water pushed through his skin simply evaporated into the baking air almost instantaneously.
The van went over a bump in the road. No, the van had gone over hundreds already – wherever they were going, the road was a pile of crap. Ryker hadn’t seen the bump coming. How could he? There were no windows here in the back, the only light coming from the plastic panels in the roof. Even if he couldn’t see the bump, Ryker certainly felt it, as he had with every other. Every rattle of the van’s suspension sent a cascade of vibrations through his bones. That last bump though... Ryker stumbled to his left. Pulled down on his hands to help keep himself from falling.
Not that falling was really possible. Not with his wrists secured together as they were, two chains reaching up above him, diagonally, one to the left, one to the right, the other ends of the chains fixed to the roof. The other five ‘passengers’, in their individual box-cells, were similarly secured, and Ryker and each of them had no choice but to remain standing for the uncomfortable journey. At least unless he felt like hanging from his arms like a monkey. He didn’t. But if the heat didn’t let up, if there was no relief, then how long before he simply couldn’t stand any longer?
‘Hey!’
A shout from across the way. More of a slur. Almost delirium. Or was that only how Ryker’s sloshy brain had processed the sound?
‘Hui s’gory!’
Russian. All of the guards hailed from Russia, and all of the prisoners were either Russian or at least spoke the language. The shouted insult finally got the attention of one of the guards. Ryker shuffled closer to the small square of bars in the door in front of him, which gave a pretty poor glimpse of the rest of the inside of the prisoner transfer van. Across the way two beady-looking, bloodshot eyes stared at him from behind the bars of the opposite cell. Ryker knew the man. Knew of him at least. Igor. Perhaps not his real name, perhaps a reference to his hunched appearance. Igor was big, tall, bald-headed. Standing straight, his eyes would have been above the bars, yet his face was pressed up against the hot metal slats. To have reached forward to the bars – face first – with his hands still secured, he was surely off his feet, somehow hovering on the chains connected to his wrists, like a gymnast on the ring exercise. A lot of effort to get the attention of one of the guards. Particularly given the debilitating heat.
‘Hui s’gory!’ came the shouted insult again. Even louder this time. Literally translated as penis from the mountains. Ryker smiled.
A black-clad guard came into view. Big black boots, bulky black clothing. Black helmet, black leather gloves. Weighty utility belt that was crammed full of equipment. He was surprised the guards – four of them in the back – hadn’t passed out from heat exhaustion already.
A modified AKS-74U assault rifle, the shortened barrel pointing to the floor, dangled from the guard’s shoulder, but his gloved hands were empty as he moved closer, his hands held out at the ready to steady himself from the bumps in the road.
Another one. The biggest yet. Ryker jolted. The eyes of the prisoner opposite went wide as his face squashed and contorted against the bars of his door. The guard stumbled and reached out to place his hand against Igor’s cell door to stop himself from falling. Still, his near-trip didn’t go unnoticed. The beady-eyed Igor guffawed, then roared in amusement, soon followed by shouts and calls and heckles from the other cells.
The guard whipped his gun up, pushed the barrel against Igor’s forehead.
‘Step back,’ he said in Russian, calmly delivered.
A moment of silence before Igor’s face glided back from the bars, neat lines of red down his cheeks from where he’d pushed himself up against the metal.
‘We’re dying in here!’ another prisoner shouted. ‘My insides are cooked. Roasted meat. I’ll eat myself soon enough if I don’t get some water!’
A raucous rally of insults and demands and bravado followed from the other prisoners in response, though Ryker didn’t say a word. Even if he felt many of the points were justified. He had no clue how much of the journey was left. How many of the men inside the superheated tin can would still be alive when they eventually made it.
The noise died down. The guard had said nothing more. Remained facing away from Ryker, the gun now back down at his side.
‘There is no water,’ the guard said. He turned left and right, as though addressing a large audience in a theatre. ‘Even if there was, you wouldn’t have it, we would. Another word from any of you...’
He spun around. Locked eyes with Ryker. Whatever threat he’d been about to deliver never came. Instead, he simply stared. Glared, more like. The guard had a young face, but it was lined with anger and swagger. He definitely enjoyed his position of authority. Perhaps too much. But he wasn’t the bad guy here, not really.
Eventually the guard turned and walked back to where he’d come from, toward the front of the van, out of Ryker’s sight.
Ryker was left staring across to the cell opposite. Igor hadn’t returned his face to the bars, but Ryker still had a good enough view of him. He glared at Ryker, much like the guard had moments before. His bloodshot eyes were squinted, menacing – full of distrust and distaste, though Ryker had no idea why. They’d never set eyes on each other until today, though had shared sightless conversations with each other through the wall of their prison cells plenty of times.
Ryker’s m omentum shifted as the van pulled to a stop. He listened. The diesel engine chugged away, the van jostled from the vibration.
‘Hui s’gory!’ came the renewed shout from across the way. ‘How about that water now!’
No noticeable response.
Igor shouted again. Again. Soon others were shouting too.
The van remained at a stop. With no windows in Ryker’s view, he had no clue where they were, or what was around them, but beyond the bulky walls of the van he heard the deep rumble of machinery nearby. A truck of some sort, pulling close to them.
Was this it?
He’d be ready, even if he remained shackled.
The noise inside ratcheted up a level or two. How many of them knew? The prisoners shouted, banged, stamped. Then Igor did the inexplicable. He rushed forward – or his head did at least – and his face slammed into the metal bars of his cell door. Ryker winced and reeled back. Igor smashed his face into the bars a second time. Was the guy out of his chains?
Ryker winced again with the third blow. Blood streamed down Igor’s face, and dripped down off the bars. Igor paused as he glared at Ryker. Then a manic laugh. A crazed cackle, together with an open mouth full of broken and bloodied teeth.
Smash.
He did it again and finally two guards rushed forward.
‘What are you doing!’ one of them shouted.
Igor’s mania didn’t stop. He spat blood at the guards, then laughing, coughing, spluttering blood, he shouted out insults and hit his head against the bars, over and over. One of the guards fumbled with keys. The other brought his weapon up, pointed it at the prisoner. The door opened...
BOOM.
The thunderous explosion lifted the van from the ground.
2
The van crashed back down. Ryker and the guards and the battered prisoners all tumbled. Ryker’s insides rattled and his brain whirred.
No smoke. No fire. So perhaps not an explosion at all, but an almighty shunt? Something big. Something powerful.
Ryker tried to right himself, but the next moment the engine growled and revved and the van shot forward.
CRASH.
Another jolt and Ryker was sent flying the other way, his body twisting around his bound arms, nearly pulling his shoulder out.
He tried to push his weight back to his feet. The van lurched backward. High revs again. They were under attack. No doubt. Wedged in position? He imagined the driver, desperately flooring the accelerator, the van pushing backward and forward as he attempted to manoeuvre out of the hold before...
Before what?
Above the prisoners shouting, the guards shouting, the clank and clanging of the van... gunfire. Rat-a-tat-tat. Quick-fire rounds. Close by. Ryker looked out his cell door. Igor... his door was open. His hands now freed and wrapped around an AKS-74U. The guard the weapon belonged to lay by his feet. Down. Dead. The other guard was reaching for his own rifle.
Igor darted forward, thwacked the butt of the gun against the guard’s head before he could do anything. With another shunt of the van, both figures lost their footing and collapsed out of Ryker’s sight.
The van moved forward at speed once more. Where to, Ryker had no clue. The next moment a lock released and his cell door swung open. Igor, crazed look still in his eyes, winked at him and tossed him the keys. Luckily the throw was decent and Ryker somehow gripped the keychain in his shackled hands before it could fall uselessly to the floor.
Ryker freed himself. He was about to move out but then hunkered and cowered down, almost to his knees, when a thunderous boom clattered directly above his head.
Like before, he expected smoke. Fire even. But no. He craned his neck. Bright sunlight. His confused brain took a couple of seconds to figure out why.
Part of the van wall in Ryker’s cell, and the one next to his, had gone, along with a four-foot-wide portion of the roof. Jagged metal edges protruded. Ryker glanced across what he could see of the sky. The next moment a huge crane arm lurched into view. The jaws crashed down onto the van a second time, clamped around the thick metal structure. The jaws squeezed together with a mechanical whir.
A horrific scream from the next cell tore at Ryker’s insides. The van jolted and bounced as the crane arm lifted away, pulling a mouthful of twisted metal with it. Not just metal this time. Dangling from the jaws... a man’s torso. Pulsing and quivering. The crane arm moved out of sight again.
Ryker took a step toward the hole. Looked outside as the van sped along a straight, desert-like road. A gigantic articulated lorry raced alongside, the crane arm on top. Surely the van could have outrun that thing. Which likely meant that, even though they were moving, they remained boxed in. Audaciousness, or craziness, Ryker wasn’t sure which best described the tactics of the attackers.
‘Free the others.’
A voice from behind him. Ryker turned back to Igor. His weapon was pointed at Ryker’s chest.
He hesitated for only a second then moved forward. The van swayed left and right, making each step clumsy and difficult. Two more armed guards remained in the back, but where were they? Were they even still alive?
Ryker set about opening the other cell doors. Released the first of the remaining prisoners. He moved to the second. Threw himself to the floor when the roof above him peeled away. When he looked back up, to what remained of the cell and the prisoner in it, he shuddered. Another one dead. The man’s headless body slumped, suspended strangely in the air by the one remaining chain he was shackled to.
‘Hurry up!’ Igor shouted.
Ryker got back to his feet. No sign of the crane lorry now. Where had it gone? Then the sound of gunfire echoed. Outside. But who was shooting, and at who, Ryker had no idea. Two cars had made up the convoy with the van on leaving the prison. Were those cars still with them now?
Ryker moved to the next cell. He unlocked then opened the door, and was in the process of uncuffing the long-haired man there when a volley of bullets whizzed past his ear. Ryker pushed himself forward. Took the now released prisoner with him. They landed in a heap on the floor. Ryker pulled himself off. A black-clad guard raced past. Ryker jumped up and to the door.
Another guard, right there, no more than two feet from him. No time for him to twist the gun to shoot...
Ryker lunged for him. An elbow to his head sent him reeling. A knee to the groin sent him down. Another hammering elbow to the top of his head ended the fight and Ryker yanked the gun free.
He ducked instinctively at the gunfire right by him. He wasn’t the target. He looked across to the back of the van. Igor was crumpled in the corner, rifle in one hand, two holes in his chest. Not quite dead, but he soon would be. The guard who’d shot him stood over him, at the ready to finish him off. Ryker lifted his weapon...
Above him the crane arm reappeared. It swung down toward him at speed. Ryker dove forward. The arm smashed into the van. No attempt by the operator to grab using the jaws this time, the arm instead acted as a hammer, a pulveriser, and smashed into and through the van’s structure. The hefty vehicle was near cut in two.
Screeching brakes filled the air. The back end of the prison van twisted and lifted from the ground. Ryker fell back. He grasped onto the open cell door to keep himself from flying. The severed end of the van crashed down, twisted around. Sparks flew as the two broken parts of the truck slid across the tarmac, the back grinding to a halt a few yards before the front.
