On the Run, page 4
part #1 of Ryan Kaine Series
Under battlefield conditions, he’d simply open fire and wipe out the second man from a safe distance. Clean, simple, and with little risk, but this wasn’t a battlefield. What if he was wrong and the occupant had nothing to do with Shooter? He couldn’t take the risk of adding more deaths to his tally. No way. He needed the ‘up-close-and-personal’ approach. That way, he might even learn something useful.
He rolled Shooter out of sight under the hedge. The corpse would make a nasty surprise for the next underpaid gardener who made the rounds with a grass strimmer. Although, judging by the raggedy height of the undergrowth, Shooter might well lie undisturbed for a while.
The route between Kaine and the Range Rover remained largely hidden between the campervan and the truck. Another rookie mistake. The wet team should have made sure all their sight lines were clear. One more error Kaine could use to his advantage. Clinging to the shadows and crouching low, he crossed to the hotel side of the car park, and reached the rear of the truck without incident.
He edged closer to the Discovery, held his breath, and listened.
A man spoke, paused, and spoke again in the unmistakeable cadence of a man on the phone. Kaine waited for silence and counted to five.
He raised the Makarov, edged around the back of the truck, wrenched open the Discovery’s front passenger door, and slid inside.
The driver turned, smiling. “Hey, Stu. About time you—”
His expression hardened. Lightning fast, he swept an arm up. Metal glinted.
Kaine twisted away from the lunge. Pain flared along his left side, and he squeezed the Makarov’s trigger. The bullet shattered the man’s wrist and perforated the windscreen. Blood painted the glass arterial red. The driver screamed, dropped the knife, and grabbed the wound, desperate to staunch the flow.
Kaine rammed his gun into the driver’s throat. The man jerked his head back, crunching it against the side window. He blinked. Stunned. Mouth agape, he gulped air, chest working like a bellows. Cigarette-fouled breath and body odour assaulted Kaine’s nose.
Keeping his eyes on the driver, Kaine picked up the knife, doing his best to ignore the sharp pain in his side. He felt the weapon’s weight. Heavy, well-balanced, one side honed to a razor’s edge, the other serrated. A hunting knife. Deadly at close-quarters.
The gasping driver hugged his arm tight to his chest. Frantic, his eyes scanned the car, searching for an escape route.
“Go on,” Kaine whispered, “try me.”
The man—about the same age as Shooter, with flaming red hair and bulging blue eyes—clamped his mouth shut, flared his nostrils. Sweat bathed his face. The foul stench of unwashed bodies filled the car and mixed with the newer smell of gun-smoke and blood.
“Stinks in here,” Kaine said. “You really should have cracked open a window or two. It might have saved your wrist.”
Red frowned in question, but Kaine wasn’t in the mood to explain. The man’s eyes searched through the windows, no doubt looking for his partner.
“Give me your gun. Use your left hand, finger and thumb only. Move fast and you die.”
“If I let go this wrist, I’ll bleed out.”
“Tough. Do as you’re told.”
Face creased in pain, Red complied, and Kaine added a second bloodied Makarov to his collection.
“Magazines, too. Same conditions apply.”
As with Shooter, Red had arrived at the party with the Makarov and three full clips. Kaine sneered. “Were they having a two-for-one sale at Assassins-R-Us?”
Red frowned. “Huh?”
He placed the second gun and the magazines on the seat between his legs. His private fire-fight could grow from two-platoon skirmish to mini battle and he’d still be odd’s on favourite, all other things being equal.
A trickle of warmth spread down his left side. Each time he breathed, an extra spear of pain stabbed at his injured side, sharper than the bruising. Kaine snatched a downward glance. A patch of red blossomed through a neat slice in his sweater. More than he expected.
A wave of nausea swelled and his vision dimmed. Red’s knife thrust had found its mark. A long gash tore open Kaine’s ribcage. He could feel the skin part each time he breathed in. Warm blood ran down the inside of his T-shirt and with it flowed his life. He clamped his left arm hard against the wound, trying to hold off Death. Apocalypse could wait another day.
Red followed Kaine’s gaze. His lips twitched into a smile.
Chapter 5
Thursday 10th September – Better Red than Dead
“Don’t get your hopes up, son. You’ll be dead before I am.”
Red tilted his head towards his own injury. “This is bleeding bad. There’s a first aid kit in the boot. Can I go get it?”
“I don’t think so.”
Red licked his lips. “Okay, I’ll be cool. Where’d you come from?”
He had a Welsh accent—south, not north—and spoke calmly. Kaine guessed he was playing for time, hoping Shooter would swoop to his aid.
“I’ll ask the questions, and don’t expect help from your friend. He won’t be riding to the rescue any time soon.”
Red shot a look towards the white Nissan. His expression changed from hope to disappointment, and then to fear.
“What was he doing over there?” Kaine asked, keeping his tone conversational. Two old friends passing the time of day.
“Having a piss.”
“Taken short? Too bad.”
“What have you done with him?”
“Don’t worry about him. Worry about you.”
Kaine raised the gun and drilled the muzzle into Red’s forehead. The Welshman shuddered and closed his eyes.
“Time for a little chat. What were your orders?”
Hesitation.
Kaine pressed the muzzle harder.
“I won’t ask twice.”
“We were told to watch your Citroën and report back if anyone showed up.”
Kaine shook his head. “That’s the only lie I’ll allow you. Your mate, the SAS wanna-be shot first, didn’t ask questions. The next lie from your lips will cost you a testicle.” He pressed the tip of the knife against the trousers at Red’s groin.
Red winced, tried to edge away, but had nowhere to go. Blood seeped through the fingers holding his shattered wrist. His rancid breath filled the car.
“Your orders were to kill me, right?”
Red nodded. “And now you’re gonna kill me, right?”
“Not necessarily,” Kaine answered, his voice quiet and steady. “You might be able to bargain your way into tomorrow. Who signed the contract?”
“I don’t know.”
Kaine leaned on the knife. It cut through the denim and reached skin. Red grimaced, sucking air between his teeth.
“No, no. I swear it. I don’t know. We received an anonymous email from a blind IP address yesterday afternoon. It had a description of your Citroën, the location, and your photo.”
“What’s the going rate for murder these days?”
“Two … two grand each. Half before and half when the job’s done. Paid into a deposit account by secure transfer. If you didn’t turn up, we’d keep the deposit.”
“Two grand each? Four thousand quid? Not much for a man’s life, is it?”
Sweat flowed from Red’s hairline, ran in rivulets down his Bradley Wiggins sideburns, and dripped from the point of his chin. His Adam’s apple bobbed twice.
“Sorry, man,” he whined. “After the army kicked me out, it’s the only way I can earn a living.”
The line from The Outlaw Josey Wales popped into Kaine’s head, “Dying ain’t much of a living,” but he couldn’t bring himself to say it aloud.
“Where’s the email?”
“On my phone.”
“Show me.”
Red hesitated. Kaine twitched his knife hand and the blade sank a fraction deeper.
The would-be murderer squirmed. “Please, don’t.”
“Just reminding you of the rules. Do as you’re told. Open the email and show me the photo.”
Trembling, blood-soaked fingers swiped the mobile a couple of times, and he turned the screen towards Kaine. The picture—one of him relaxed and smiling on a sunny day—confirmed his suspicions. The photo had been taken at a barbecue in Gravel’s back garden the previous summer. Only Kaine’s close friends had access to the photo, it would never have made his military personnel file, nor would anyone have posted it on social media.
“What were you supposed to do after dealing with me?”
Red swallowed hard again before speaking. “We were to take a photo as proof of death and get rid of your body.”
Kaine nodded.
He removed the knife, wiped the blade clean on Red’s jeans, and eased the pressure on the Makarov. As expected, Red grabbed the barrel of the gun with his good hand and rammed it into the car’s roof. The shining light of triumph filled his eyes.
Kaine slid the blade under Red’s ribcage and angled it upwards. The stainless steel sliced through muscle, connective tissue, and pierced the heart. He twisted the handle and held it steady until Red’s heels stopped scraping on the carpet and the life faded from his pale blue eyes.
He could have shot the hired killer in the head easily enough, but that would have gone against Kaine’s personal code. Red had the chance to die fighting.
Kaine wasted no pity on either Red or Shooter. If they’d had their way, Kaine would be in the boot of their car, on his way to a dump site. If you wage war, you need to accept the consequences.
The dashboard clock read 06:41. Time to go.
Kaine was surprised the car park had yet to start filling up. Such were the benefits of being on the run at the end of the holiday season. Although the rolling dice came up with double six on that front, his luck had run out with Red’s knife thrust. His side throbbed, and another waft of dizziness washed over him.
He squeezed the edges of his wound together with his left hand. The blood flow slowed to a trickle. God, he was thirsty and tired. So tired.
Perhaps a few minutes rest would help?
No. Stay awake.
If he passed out in the Range Rover, the story would end. No chance to investigate, no hope of exposing the conspiracy, and no chance for revenge. All he’d have to look forward to was a tiny cell for the rest of his days—if he lived that long.
He’d be finished.
Kaine left the knife in Red’s chest. No point trying to remove his fingerprints from this crime scene with all the DNA he’d spilled into the carpets.
Keeping pressure on his wound with his elbow, Kaine wrapped the weapons and magazines in a cloth he found on the back seat and stumbled to the familiarity of his Citroën.
He dropped the weapons package into the boot, grabbed a roll of all-purpose duct tape from his tool box, and dropped behind the steering wheel. He wiped sweat from his face with his sleeve. Vision darkened. His stomach threatened to erupt.
Breathe, Ryan. Breathe. You’re not done yet.
Kaine peeled back the sodden sweater and T-shirt. A six-inch diagonal gash exposed the purple of muscle and the white of two ribs. Bad, really bad. Fifteen stitches at least. He packed the wound with a rolled T-shirt from the grab bag in the passenger footwell and bound it tight with the tape. It took six loops to stem the bleeding. How many uses had he found for duct tape over the years?
Removing the tape would be agony, but as a field pressure dressing and a stop-gap, it worked. Although, if he didn’t do something soon, the wound would prove fatal.
Given more time, he’d have swapped cars. Clearly, the opposition knew his Citroën and the licence plate, but he had to put distance between himself and the bodies. Flight first, medical treatment second, change of car third. No alternatives. He keyed the ignition, and the Citroën purred.
Kaine vacated the battlefield without a backward glance.
Chapter 6
Thursday 10th September – MG Sampson
Malcolm Gareth Sampson—Sir Malcolm to his business associates, MG to the few he called friends—uncrossed his legs and smoothed out the creases in his trousers. He muted the sound on the Business News AM and picked up the ringing telephone. After hitting the scrambler button, he waited five seconds for the software to engage before speaking.
“What do you have?” he asked, his voice relaxed, his accent a carefully crafted blend of Oxbridge superiority and Home Counties aloof. He’d paid the elocutionist a shedload of readies for the snotty accent. It opened doors money alone wouldn’t. Fuck, even Her Majesty had fallen for it during his investiture. A heady day at the Palace.
“Mission accomplished,” came the equally plummy voice, this one bred and not learned.
Excellent.
MG relaxed his shoulders, closed his eyes, and breathed deep. He took air in through the nose and released it through the mouth. A technique learned from an aggressively attractive yoga instructor.
“Fatality confirmed?”
A pause.
MG opened his eyes and sat up. Rudy Bernadotti, MG’s Senior Vice President of Internal Security, rarely hesitated.
“Fatalities confirmed,” Bernadotti corrected.
“Fatalities?”
“Affirmative. Multiple collaterals. Final number to be confirmed.”
“Fuck’s sake, Rudy, what have you done?”
Naughty, naughty, Malcolm. No need to resort to swearing.
His voice coach, Mincing Michael, would have been pissed. Well, the old poof could go fuck himself.
“I did what was necessary to complete the task we discussed.”
MG willed himself to keep calm. In through the nose, out through the mouth.
“What have you done?” MG repeated, spitting the words from the back of his throat.
“For expediency, I made an … executive decision.”
“Details, man. Give me the fucking details.”
MG listened to the terse report, blood pressure rising, sweaty fingers crushing the handset. “Flight BE1555, that was down to you?”
“Us, MG. It was down to us.”
“You stupid prick!” he yelled, all pretence of polish gone. “What the fuck were you thinking of authorising a SAM strike on a passenger aircraft?”
“I made it look like a terrorist attack.”
“And your operative?”
“Alpha Two? What about him?”
“Is he trustworthy?”
Another slight hesitation threatened to pop one of MG’s blood vessels. Sod the breathing exercise. Increased tension behind his right eye promised an approaching migraine. He’d need some stress relief later. “Answer me, Rudy.”
A sigh, barely audible above the hum of the voice scrambler did nothing to ease MG’s growing anger.
“He’s a contractor, sir. Of course he isn’t trustworthy.”
“Can he trace anything back to either of us or to the company?”
“It doesn’t matter, sir. No one will see or hear of Alpha Two again.”
If Rudy could relax, perhaps MG could, too. The pressure behind his eye eased. “Explain yourself.”
“He used a modified GRAAS tricked out to look like a—”
“What!” MG jumped out of his seat. “Are you fucking mad? You shot it down with one of our own weapons? The authorities are gonna trace the fragments right back to us.”
Despite the early hour, MG rushed to the drinks cabinet in the corner of his walnut-panelled office and poured himself a large Louis XIII Remy, spilling some of the expensive cognac on the inlaid leather surface. He drained the cut glass balloon in one fiery swallow and poured another.
“MG, I said he used one of our modified GRAAS launchers. I had it tricked out to look like a PAAS-4 and adapted to fire Stingers. Alpha Two, the dumb schmuck, thought he was launching a Buzzer. If the investigation team finds anything at the bottom of the North Sea, it’ll link back to ESAPP, not to us. Everyone knows the French are worse than the Yanks for letting their ordnance fall into the wrong hands.” He laughed. “You’ve been following the news reports? The media’s already linking the crash to ISIS.”
MG lowered the glass and rubbed his forehead. Perhaps things weren’t as bad as he feared. “ISIS,” he breathed, “everyone’s modern day Bogie Man.”
“Yeah, and the arseholes have already claimed responsibility. A win-win. Couldn’t have worked out better for us.”
MG dropped into the red leather wingback chair, stretched out his legs, and reclaimed the glass. Maybe Bernadotti wasn’t just a psychopathic fruitcake after all. “But those deaths? Was it absolutely necessary?”
Down the other end of the line, Rudy snorted. MG imagined the cocky smile on the faggot’s square-jawed face. “Let me put it this way. When the Professor booked the flight to Amsterdam and the departure time coincided with the field test on our GRAAS, I considered it an opportunity too good to miss.”
“But eighty-three people.”
“Eighty-four, if you include Alpha Two. Admittedly, the collateral damage is unfortunate,” Rudy said, without sounding at all put out by the death toll, “but it does mask the Professor’s demise rather nicely. If he’d died any other way, suspicion would have inevitably fallen on anyone who benefitted from his loss. Any fool of a cop would look at us and maybe ESAPP. This way, we’re covered.”
MG took a moment to absorb the information. Try as hard as he might, he failed to find fault with the logic. “Okay. Understood. As long as there’s no blowback on me, I’m happy.”
“There won’t be, Sir Malcolm.”
“So, tell me why you made this Alpha Two bugger use a GRAAS?”
“You haven’t read the latest modification specs?” Bernadotti chuckled at the end of the question.
MG bit back an instant rebuke. The man was definitely finding too much enjoyment from his work and starting to outgrow his fucking boots. It could soon be time to find another second-in-command.
“No, Rudy. I don’t have time to read the engineering specifications of all our prototypes. What did I miss?”
“For a start, the GRAAS is a component-by-component copy of the PAAS-4—ESAPP’s baby—right down to the composite materials and firing electronics. Without our badge on the barrel, few could tell the launchers apart. And then there’s the nifty auto-destruct feature,” Rudy announced. This time, the laugh was real and extended into the subsequent sentence. “Twenty seconds after Alpha Two pulled the trigger, the launcher blew up in his face.” He took a second, presumably to let MG absorb the message fully. “Christ, MG, wish I’d seen the expression on the dull fuckwit’s face. Maybe we should incorporate a camera in the next upgrade.”
