Last Man Standing Read online

  Contents

  Also by Stephen Leather

  Title Page

  Copyright

  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

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Also by Stephen Leather

  Pay Off

  The Fireman

  Hungry Ghost

  The Chinaman

  The Vets

  The Long Shot

  The Birthday Girl

  The Double Tap

  The Solitary Man

  The Tunnel Rats

  The Bombmaker

  The Stretch

  Tango One

  The Eyewitness

  First Response

  Takedown

  The Shout

  Spider Shepherd thrillers

  Hard Landing

  Soft Target

  Cold Kill

  Hot Blood

  Dead Men

  Live Fire

  Rough Justice

  Fair Game

  False Friends

  True Colours

  White Lies

  Black Ops

  Dark Forces

  Light Touch

  Tall Order

  Jack Nightingale supernatural thrillers

  Nightfall

  Midnight

  Nightmare

  Nightshade

  Lastnight

  If you’d like to find out more about these and future titles, visit www.stephenleather.com.

  www.hodder.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain in 2019 by Hodder & Stoughton

  An Hachette UK company

  Copyright © Stephen Leather 2019

  The right of Stephen Leather to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

  eBook ISBN 9781473671874

  Hodder & Stoughton Ltd

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London EC4Y 0DZ

  www.hodder.co.uk

  1

  Matt Standing was lying on his bunk listening to an Arabic language lesson through earphones when a Navy SEAL pulled back the flap of his tent and called his name. Standing sat up and switched off his iPod. The SEAL was Rick Lopez, a keen-as-mustard Hispanic demolitions expert and a member of the team Standing had been embedded with for the past four months. ‘We’ve got a live one,’ said Lopez. ‘We’re moving out in three minutes.’ Lopez hurried away without waiting for a response.

  Standing put on his flak jacket and reached for his weapon, a Heckler & Koch 417 assault rifle. He ducked out of the tent and jogged over to where his platoon was assembling, close to the three four-door Toyota Tacoma pick-up trucks that the SEALS used as their preferred transport. They called them NTVs – Nonstandard Tactical Vehicles – and modifications included belt-fed machine-gun mounts, grenade launchers, roll bars, infrared headlights, satellite communications, and tracker units. The NTV was a monster and as it resembled a Syrian rebel truck, it could often pass through high-risk areas when a military vehicle would have been fired on.

  Two more SEALs hurried over. There were sixteen men in the platoon and Standing made seventeen. He had been embedded with the SEALs for more than three months as part of a special forces exchange programme. His place in the SAS had been taken by a SEAL who was presently on operations in Afghanistan.

  The lieutenant in charge was a year or so older than Standing, brown-haired with hazel eyes, and taller than the average SEAL with bulging forearms, and a six-pack that he liked to show off by going bare-chested in the camp as often as possible. Now he was in full combat gear including a Kevlar vest and helmet. His name was Skip Dunnett and while he usually appeared relaxed and laid back, his easy-going nature belied a tough professionalism and a fierce loyalty to his men. ‘This is a chance to get one of yours, Matt,’ said Dunnett. ‘A guy from London who’s been in our Top Ten for the past three months.’ He showed Standing a printout of a bearded twenty-something Asian holding an RPG as he posed in front of an ISIS flag. ‘They call him the Axeman because—’

  ‘I’ve seen the videos,’ said Standing. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘We’ve had intel that he’s meeting with an ISIS commander in a village some fifty clicks south of Manbij. So, two birds with one stone. There’s a drone in the air but it’s for observation, the top brass want them taken alive for questioning.’ He put the printout into a pocket on his protective vest. ‘We’ll drive to within a mile of the target and proceed on foot. Normally we’d wait until dark but we don’t know if the bad guys plan to overnight there, so we’re going to strike while the iron’s hot.’

  ‘How good is the intel?’ asked Standing.

  ‘It’s come through the MID and they’ve requested that we take action rather than the Syrian Army,’ said the Lieutenant. The Military Intelligence Directorate was the country’s military intelligence service, which reported directly to the president.

  ‘Because they know the locals will only fuck it up,’ snarled Warrant Officer Andy Wirral. ‘All they know is how to gas civilians and bomb hospitals.’

  ‘There isn’t a Syrian unit available,’ said the Lieutenant. ‘They’re asking that we hand any ISIS combatants over to them, but my orders are that we take any prisoners straight to our airbase in Kharab A’sheq. Should take us just over an hour if we’re lucky. The CIA will give them a grilling there before deciding whether or not we hand them over to the Syrians.’

  Lieutenant Dunnett climbed into the lead vehicle, followed by four of the SEALs.

  Standing was in the middle vehicle. Wirral was already in the front passenger seat as Standing climbed into the back. The driver was the oldest member of the team, Leeman Jones, who had just celebrated his thirtieth birthday. Jones was a New Yorker, broad-shouldered and square-jawed, his eyes hidden behind impenetrable wraparound Oakley shades. Jones gunned the engine and black smoke bel
ched from the exhaust.

  Lopez climbed in after Standing. They were joined by Bobby-Ray Barnes. Standing had trained with Bobby-Ray during a one-month stint at the unit’s base in California prior to being sent out to Syria and the two men had become firm friends. He was close to Standing’s age but a couple of inches taller and ten kilos heavier. He was from Los Angeles and had the look of a surfer, blond-haired and blue-eyed with gleaming white teeth. ‘So they’ve found the Axeman,’ Bobby-Ray said as he dropped down next to Standing. He patted him on the leg, close to the Glock 19 in its nylon holster. ‘What the fuck is it with your Asians? Why are they so keen to leave the UK and fight in this shithole?’

  ‘They’re not my Asians, Bobby-Ray.’

  ‘You know what I mean, dude. We don’t see American Asians over here. They know that the US of A is the best fucking country in the world and they’re lucky to live there. But your Asians, they must fucking hate the UK, right?’

  ‘Again, they’re not my Asians. No one understands these guys. And they’re a very small minority at best.’

  The jihadist known as the Axeman was a British-born Asian, Abdul Khan, the only son of a Leicester doctor who, up until the age of seventeen, had seemed to be destined to follow his father into the medical profession. Khan had been radicalised at his local mosque and a few days after his eighteenth birthday had flown to Syria to fight for ISIS. He had appeared in several ISIS propaganda videos, bearded and waving an AK-47, but in recent months had taken to executing prisoners using a large axe. Bobby-Ray was right: Khan was a wild animal that needed to be put down, the sooner the better.

  The final space in the back of the truck was taken by Ryan French, his skin tanned brown from tours in Syria, Iraq and Afghanistan and the proud owner of a bushy beard that reached halfway down his chest. He was a skilled sniper and cradled a Knight’s Armament Mark 2 Sniper Weapon System that he was capable of using at well above its usual one thousand-yard range. ‘Off to work we go,’ he said, grinning.

  Lopez stood up and grabbed the machine gun. He pushed his sunglasses up his nose and loosened the red and white checked scarf around his head. ‘Rock and roll!’ he shouted.

  The gates opened and the three vehicles drove out of the camp. The operational command centre had been set up on the outskirts of the town of Ayn Dadad in 2016, not long after the area was seized by the Kurdish militia. It had initially been used to monitor the movements of opposition groups affiliated with the Free Syrian Army but was now used as a springboard for US special forces to mount search and destroy missions in the north of the country.

  All the houses within a quarter of a mile of the base had been demolished and the rubble removed. The land was used by local farmers to graze their goats and for local kids to play football. A dozen or so young men were kicking a ball around but they stopped to watch the convoy drive by. One of the men pulled a mobile phone from his pocket and began talking into it. Standing turned to stare at the man. A call from his girlfriend or tipping off ISIS that the Americans were heading out? There was no way of knowing, but Standing feared the worst.

  ‘Phone a friend, do you think?’ asked Bobby-Ray as if reading his mind.

  ‘Happens everywhere,’ said Standing. ‘Afghanistan, Iraq, anywhere there are troops there’s always a hostile with a phone ready to call in troop movements.’

  The man put the phone away but continued to stare at the convoy. French casually sighted his rifle on the man. ‘Bang, bang,’ he said.

  The convoy kept at a steady thirty miles an hour. The traffic was light and the vehicles behind the convoy held back, intimidated by the fire power. The drivers coming from the opposite direction stared openly at the Americans, some with undisguised hostility but most were simply curious.

  Once they were a few miles from the town the traffic thinned out to just the occasional pick-up truck or agricultural vehicle. The fields either side of the road were mostly bare of crops. Food production had dropped by half since the civil war had erupted in 2011. The conflict disrupted the State system that subsidised farming and provided seeds to farmers, and the country had moved from being an exporter of grain to an importer. The majority of the millions of refugees who had poured out of Syria were former farmers and their families who were no longer able to make a living from their land, and many of the buildings either side of the road had been abandoned.

  Standing’s earpiece crackled. ‘Heads up, guys, there’s something in the road ahead.’

  Standing peered over the top of the cab. The wreckage of what had once been a people carrier was lying across the road, riddled with bullet holes. It was on its side and a child was hanging from the window. At first Standing thought the child was dead but an arm twitched. It was a boy, and his white robe was spotted with blood. Just behind the people carrier was an old pick-up truck, its doors open and steam feathering from the engine.

  The three US vehicles slowed to a halt. Lopez kept his machine gun moving as he scanned the surrounding area.

  ‘Stay frosty, guys,’ said the Lieutenant.

  Standing looked around. The nearest high ground was several miles away but there were several dozen buildings within sniper range. Most had flat roofs and open windows. Bobby-Ray was following his example and scanning their surroundings. Jones was tapping his gloved hands on the steering wheel. ‘What are we waiting for, that kid needs help,’ he muttered.

  ‘We’re on a mission,’ said Wirral. ‘This is a distraction.’

  Jones turned to look at the warrant officer. ‘That kid’s dying,’ he said.

  ‘The LT’s doing the right thing,’ said Wirral. ‘This could be an ambush. Don’t get too close in case we have to move quickly.’ He twisted around in his seat. ‘Stay alert, guys!’ he shouted.

  The child stopped moving. Blood dripped down from his arm to the road.

  ‘Everyone stay put,’ said the Lieutenant in Standing’s ear. ‘I’m sending a medic over. Keep your engines running and your eyes open.’

  One of the SEALs in the lead vehicle dropped onto the road and jogged over to the people carrier. He was carrying a first-aid kit in his left hand, his carbine in his right.

  Standing continued to scan the surrounding area, his trigger finger in position. Lopez had the machine gun aimed in the general direction of the two damaged vehicles. Standing knew that every second that passed meant a sniper attack was less likely – any sniper in the vicinity would have started firing as soon as the convoy had come to a halt.

  The other two machine guns were moving left and right, covering the sides of the roads.

  ‘We’ve got company,’ said Jones, checking his wing mirror.

  Standing twisted around. Two saloon cars were heading towards them.

  ‘LT, we’ve got two vehicles fast approaching at the rear,’ said Wirral over the radio.

  ‘Make sure they’re not hostiles and keep them back,’ said the Lieutenant.

  ‘Roger that,’ said Wirral. He climbed out of the cab and walked around to the rear of the truck. ‘Matt, Bobby-Ray, with me,’ he said. ‘Ricky, keep the gun on them but hold your fire until I say otherwise.’

  Lopez turned the gun to aim down the road as Standing and Bobby-Ray jumped down and walked to stand either side of Wirral.

  As they walked to the last truck, three more SEALs piled out and joined them, fanning out to block the road. The warrant officer held up his left hand to stop the cars while Bobby-Ray and Standing raised their weapons.

  Standing felt reasonably relaxed. Both cars looked well cared for and their windows were up. The front car had a man driving and a female passenger, her head covered with a hijab. There were two men in the second car, both elderly. The cars braked smoothly a hundred feet or so from the final truck in the convoy. The second car was directly behind the first, which was another good sign.

  ‘Stay back!’ Standing shouted in Arabic. ‘Stay where you are!’

  ‘The kid is still alive,’ said the medic through Standing’s earpiece.

 
‘That’s not our problem,’ muttered Wirral.

  ‘We can’t just leave the kid to die,’ said Bobby-Ray.

  ‘Kids are dying all over this godforsaken country,’ said the warrant officer. ‘The best way to stop that happening is to take out as many of these ISIS scumbags as we can.’

  ‘Well, it’s the LT’s call,’ said Bobby-Ray.

  The lead car edged forward and Standing raised his hand again. ‘Stay where you are!’ he shouted in Arabic. The SEALs had their weapons pointed at the cars. ‘It’s okay guys, they’re just nervous,’ he said.

  ‘We should tell them to turn around,’ said one.

  ‘They’re cool,’ said Standing. He smiled and waved. The passenger in the front vehicle waved back.

  ‘Everything under control at the rear?’ asked the Lieutenant.

  ‘All good,’ said Standing.

  ‘We’ve got three vehicles heading this way from the north,’ said the Lieutenant. ‘Matt, you and Bobby-Ray move to the front. Gator and T-J, go with them.’

  ‘Roger that,’ said Standing. He and Bobby-Ray ran along the road towards the front of the convoy. Lopez had turned the machine gun around and was covering the two cars. Wirral raised his hand to tell the two cars to stay where they were.

  Ed ‘Gator’ Hebert, a native of Louisiana, jumped down from the lead truck, followed by T-J Hamelin, a Texan who favoured a black cowboy hat when he wasn’t on duty.

  As Standing reached the lead truck, he saw the medic pulling the child out of the people carrier and lowering him gently on to the ground. The boy was covered in blood but his chest was moving. The medic knelt down and opened his first-aid kit.

  The SEAL manning the machine gun on the lead truck was pointing the barrel down the road. Beyond the two damaged vehicles blocking their way were three trucks, each leaving plumes of dust behind them. Standing had a bad feeling the moment he saw them. They were powerful pick-ups, not too dissimilar from the ones that the SEALs were using. Unlike the NTVs, the approaching trucks didn’t have machine guns mounted on them, but there were men sitting in the back. They could have been workers heading to or from work, but if that had been the case Standing would have expected the vehicles to have slowed.

  ‘I don’t like this, LT,’ said Standing, shouldering his weapon.