Short Range (The Spider Shepherd Thrillers Book 16)

by Stephen Leather

‘Balloons?’

  ‘Just a bit of fun,’ said Neno. ‘You’ll love it.’

  They stood and watched as the rest of the group continued to fire at the targets. Roger Moorhouse was the last to finish, watched over by Gordan. Moorhouse was surprisingly good for a beginner. He had a good strong stance and his breathing was controlled. Shepherd wasn’t sure if Moorhouse was following Gordan’s instructions but he was firing in groups of two, breathing tidally between each group. The last ten shots all went into the inner two rings of the bullseye.

  When he’d emptied the magazine, Gordan checked the gun and then raised his hand, the signal that it was okay to approach the targets.

  Neno took Shepherd and the McAdams over to the targets and helped them unclip the bullseyes. The husband gave Neno his phone and the Serb took several pictures of the couple proudly showing off the results of their handiwork.

  Neno offered to take a picture of Shepherd. It was the last thing he wanted – he could only imagine what his former SAS mates would say if they’d seen how badly he’d shot – but Shepherd faked eagerness, gave his phone to Neno and grinned happily as the man took several shots.

  Dexter and his pals were gathered around, comparing results and teasing each other.

  Luka, Gordan and Neno took the Glocks back to the tent and returned with a Kalashnikov, an Uzi and a Heckler & Koch MP5, the first carbine that Shepherd had used in the SAS.

  ‘Right, lady and gentlemen,’ said Branko. ‘Time for you to experience some more serious fire power.’ He had them line up some fifty feet from the targets, then had Luka, Gordan and Neno describe the weapons they were holding and demonstrate how they were fired. When they had finished, Branko told the group to form three lines behind the instructors. Shepherd stood with the married couple behind Neno, who had the MP5.

  Neno explained how the MP5 worked and set it to fire in bursts of three shots. He had Carol fire it first, aiming at the target on the far right. Off to their left was the thud-thud-thud of a Kalashnikov being fired. Shepherd looked over and saw Dexter holding the weapon with Branko standing just behind him.

  Carol emptied the magazine and Neno reloaded and gave the gun to her husband. As he fired, Hewson let rip with the Uzi. It had obviously been set to fully automatic and within seconds Hewson had emptied the clip.

  Ian emptied the MP5 in bursts of three, and Neno reloaded and gave it to Shepherd. ‘I just pull the trigger once, right?’ asked Shepherd, pretending not to know how the gun worked.

  ‘Each time you pull the trigger it will fire three times,’ said Neno. ‘There is very little recoil.’

  Shepherd aimed and pulled the trigger and felt the familiar triple kick as three bullets thwacked into the target. There were fifteen rounds in the magazine so after five pulls the gun was empty.

  ‘Well done,’ said Neno, though Shepherd had made sure that his shots were spread all over the target.

  They waited for Moorhouse to finish firing the Kalashnikov, then Shepherd and the McAdams went over to Branko and the other two groups moved down.

  After thirty minutes they had all fired each of the weapons, and once they were checked and cleared they spent another fifteen minutes posing for photographs.

  While they took selfies and group shots, Neno and Branko went over to the tent. By the time the group had finished taking their photographs, they had filled several balloons from a large brown metal cylinder behind the table. Brown meant helium, Shepherd knew, then he remembered what Neno had said about balloons. The two men were filling different coloured balloons with the helium and tying strings around the necks. Luka and Neno put the Kalashnikov, Uzi and MP5 on the metal table then took the balloons that had been filled over to the targets. They tied two balloons to each target so that they hovered a couple of feet in the air.

  As Luka and Neno headed back to the tent, a van came rattling down the track towards them. It was an old Citroën, with a logo of a leaking tap that suggested it belonged to a plumber. It stopped by the tent and a big bald man wearing a leather jerkin and knee-length leather boots climbed out. Neno and Luka went over as the man opened the rear door of the van. They began pulling out crates and putting them on the ground. One of the boxes had Serbian writing on the side and Shepherd saw M75 among the stencils. Shepherd knew the M75 was a type of anti-personnel grenade, known as a Kashikara, manufactured in Yugoslavia and widely used throughout the Yugoslav Wars.

  There were other larger crates that didn’t have writing on the side but they looked plenty big enough to hold RPGs. Finally the two men pulled out large serving dishes covered with aluminium foil, and a basket of bread rolls. As the driver got back in the van and drove away, Neno and Luka carried the dishes and basket over to the tables.

  ‘Right guys, we’re going to have a competition,’ said Branko, tying off a blue balloon. He nodded over at the targets where there were already twelve balloons bobbing in the wind. ‘You’ll take it in turns to shoot the balloons. You’ll be a bit further away this time but you can take your time. You do six shots each and the one who bursts the most gets a prize.’ He gave the balloon to Luka, opened his backpack and took out a bottle and held it up. ‘The one who shoots the most balloons gets this slivovitz,’ he said. ‘Plum brandy, one hundred per cent proof. It will put hairs on your chest.’ He put it on the table.

  ‘I’m not sure I’d want that,’ said Carol and all the men laughed.

  ‘Branko, this isn’t fair,’ said Scott. ‘Charlie was in the army. The Royal Anglian Regiment.’

  Branko squinted at Scott. ‘Royal Anglian?’

  ‘Infantry,’ explained Dexter. ‘Cannon fodder. He did five years. The boy can shoot.’

  ‘Rifles,’ said Palmer, holding his hands up. ‘I hardly ever touched a handgun.’

  ‘A gun’s a gun,’ said Hewson.

  ‘And you did get four in the bullseye,’ said Dexter. He grinned at Branko. ‘Maybe we could give him a handicap?’

  ‘Yeah, how about a blindfold?’ asked Moorhouse.

  Branko laughed. ‘Okay, we’ll put Charlie a bit further away,’ he said.

  ‘Fuck that,’ said Palmer. ‘I was never good with a pistol. My hands are too big.’

  ‘Here we go, we know what else is big, right?’ laughed Dexter.

  Palmer laughed and slapped Dexter on the back.

  Luka and Neno attached the final balloons to the targets. There were nine targets and eighteen balloons in total, a mixture of red, blue, green and yellow. The targets had been lined up close to the wall of the quarry, about forty feet from where they were shooting. At that sort of distance most handguns were capable of a grouping of less than two inches in a bench firing, but in the hands of amateurs and with the balloons bobbing in the wind that was blowing across the quarry, Shepherd didn’t expect to see many of them pop. When he was at the SAS’s Hereford base he spent a lot of time on the range there, and one of the instructors had explained to him early on that accuracy on the range was less about the shooter and more about the quality of the gun and the ammunition in the clip. The instructor had said that in his opinion a quarter was down to the shooter, a quarter to the gun and a half to the ammo. Shepherd figured the man was right, but accuracy on the range was totally different to accuracy in combat. When you were shooting at targets who were moving and shooting back, Shepherd knew that it was all down to the man. The type of gun and the ammo didn’t really matter when you were ducking and diving and firing on instinct.

  ‘Ladies first,’ said Branko, slotting a magazine into a Glock. He had Carol face the targets and stood behind her. She frowned as she brought the gun to bear on the balloon on the far right and Branko whispered her some advice. She began to pull the trigger but her grip was scrappy and she didn’t seem to be using the sights. All six rounds went wide and thwacked into the quarry wall.

  Her husband was next. Branko passed the gun to him. He had clearly been listening to Neno. He had a good firm stance and his left hand was cupped around his right as he gently squeezed the t
rigger. A balloon tied to the second target exploded and the string holding it flopped down. He laughed. ‘That’s not the one I was aiming for,’ he said. Everyone laughed but Shepherd was pretty sure the man was joking. The next two shots went wide but his fourth hit the balloon on the far right. The last two shots missed. Branko took the gun from him, clapped him on the back and congratulated him. ‘Two balloons hit, well done.’

  Luka and Neno jogged over with a new balloon each and tied them in position.

  Branko slotted a fresh magazine into the Glock and handed it to Shepherd. Shepherd could feel his natural competitiveness trying to kick in. He would have loved to have shown them what he could do. He knew that he was perfectly capable of taking out six balloons at double the distance and on the move. But he was John Whitehill and Whitehill was a gun virgin so he figured the best he could do was to match Ian’s score. He didn’t mind not winning the bottle of slivovitz, he had never been a fan of the fiery brandy, but his professional pride was definitely hurting from pretending to be a lousy shot. He pulled back the slide and slotted a round into the chamber.

  ‘Take it nice and slowly, and remember to use the sights,’ said Neno, standing at his shoulder.

  Shepherd nodded and aimed at the first balloon, then moved the barrel to the right and fired, allowing the gun to jerk in his hand.

  ‘A bit more to the left,’ said Neno.

  This time Shepherd aimed to the left and fired. The round smacked into the sandbags.

  ‘Too far,’ said Neno patiently.

  Shepherd aimed and fired and this time a blue balloon burst. Carol clapped. ‘Well done, John!’ she said.

  Shepherd deliberately missed with his next two shots, but popped a yellow balloon with his final round.

  ‘So we have a draw,’ said Branko, taking the gun from him.

  Shepherd stepped back and saw that Luka was looking at him with a slight frown on his face. Shepherd flashed him a thumbs-up and Luka smiled back and mirrored the gesture, but his eyes remained hard and Shepherd wondered if the Serb had realised that Shepherd had deliberately missed with four of his shots. He pushed the thought from his mind. One of the problems with being undercover was a tendency to jump at shadows and it was a reaction that had to be controlled.

  ‘Right, who’s next?’ asked Branko.

  Atkinson stepped forward and Branko prepared the Glock for him. Atkinson turned the gun gangster-style and fired six shots in quick succession, all going low and thwacking into the targets.

  ‘Wanker!’ shouted Moorhouse.

  ‘The sights are off!’ shouted Atkinson.

  ‘You weren’t using the bloody sights,’ said Dexter and they all laughed.

  Branko took the gun off him, shaking his head in disgust.

  Dexter was next and he managed just two balloons. Hewson managed three to his obvious delight, doing a little victory dance after handing the Glock back to Branko.

  Moorhouse only managed to pop one balloon, and Scott hit two.

  They left Palmer until last. Branko moved everyone back so that they were another twenty feet away from the targets. Sixty feet in all. Branko gave Palmer the gun. Palmer confidently pulled back the Glock’s slide and slotted a round into the chamber.

  Palmer’s friends fell silent as he took a deep breath, relaxed his shoulders, then stood with his left leg slightly forward and bent, the right hand on the butt of the gun and his left hand cupped around it. ‘Go on, Charlie!’ shouted Dexter, though Shepherd figured it was more an attempt to distract Palmer than to support him.

  Palmer sighted on the balloon on the left of the middle target, and squeezed the trigger. The bullet went low and thudded into the head of the target. Palmer took a breath, let half of it out, and squeezed the trigger a second time. The balloon popped and the bits of yellow rubber fell to the ground. He aimed at the other balloon tied to that target and fired again. Another hit.

  His friends started whooping and cheering but Palmer was in the zone; he fired three more times and each time a balloon popped. He handed the gun back to Branko and raised his arms in the air. Dexter and Moorhouse hurried over and patted him on the back.

  ‘An almost perfect score!’ shouted Branko. ‘Five out of six. Well done!’ Branko checked the gun and put it into his holster. Neno gave Branko the bottle of slivovitz and he presented it to Palmer. His friends took out their phones and began taking selfies.

  ‘Right guys – and girl – it’s time for lunch,’ said Branko. He waved his hand at the metal tables where the aluminium foil had been taken off the serving trays. In the middle one was a whole suckling pig, glistening in barbecue sauce.

  Dexter laughed when he saw it. ‘Not expecting any muzzies, hey, Branko?’

  Branko’s forehead creased into a frown. ‘Muzzies?’ he repeated.

  ‘Muslims,’ explained Dexter.

  Branko burst out laughing. ‘Muzzies,’ he said. ‘Okay, I get it. No, we don’t have any muzzies on these trips.’

  Gordan mimed shooting a gun. ‘If we did, we’d use them as targets,’ he said.

  Dexter and his friends laughed.

  Shepherd went over to the table. There were dishes of barbecued chicken, sausages, coleslaw, baked potatoes, peppers stuffed with rice and minced meat, and a green bean stew. On the floor next to the table was a blue icebox with a white lid that was full of cans of soft drinks, including Coke, Sprite and Fanta, and bottles of water.

  Neno was putting out chairs and tables and Luka was stacking plates, knives and forks. Using the old Army principle that you never turned down food because you never knew where your next meal was coming from, Shepherd went over and filled a plate. The pig was perfectly cooked, the skin crisp and fatty, the meat lean and succulent. He carried his laden plate and a bottle of water over to a table where Charlie Palmer was tucking into a chicken leg with gusto. Shepherd sat down opposite him. ‘Nice shooting,’ he said.

  ‘Just lucky,’ said Palmer. ‘I’ve hardly ever fired a handgun. Like I said, I mainly used a rifle.’

  ‘So you were in the Army, yeah?’ asked Shepherd.

  Palmer nodded. ‘Royal Anglian Regiment. First Battalion, based in Woolwich.’

  ‘See any action?’

  Palmer shook his head. ‘I missed all that,’ he said. ‘Just training and there were so many cuts that most of that was boring crap. And they counted every round so we hardly did any live fire shooting.’ He shrugged. ‘Waste of time if you ask me.’

  Shepherd knew that Palmer was right. The British Army’s staffing and resources had been cut to the bone over the years. The SAS suffered less than most, but there was no doubt that defending the realm was a long way down the government’s list of priorities, no matter who was running the country. Despite the cuts, the SAS still spent a small fortune on equipment and training, and an SAS trooper often fired more rounds in a day than a regular soldier would fire in his whole career.

  ‘That’s why you left?’

  Palmer put down a chewed bone and licked his fingers. ‘Pretty much.’

  ‘What about now?’

  ‘I work security. Close protection when I can get it, static security if there’s nothing else.’

  Shepherd wondered if Palmer worked with Gary Dexter’s brother, but there was no way he could raise the subject without causing suspicion, so he just smiled and nodded and tucked into his roast pork.

  ‘What sort of stuff do you write?’ asked Palmer.

  ‘Travel features, mainly. Basically I’m a hack, I’ll write for anyone who pays me.’

  ‘But you’re not writing about what we’re doing?’

  ‘Not the guys personally. But a travel piece about what’s on offer, maybe. I might do a feature on adventure holidays, you know? Skydiving. Paramotoring. Clay pigeon shooting.’

  ‘I wouldn’t want to see my name in print,’ Palmer said, picking up another chicken leg.

  Atkinson came over with his plate and joined them. ‘Jammy bastard,’ he said to Palmer.

  ‘I’m a
highly trained professional,’ said Palmer, then he waved his chicken leg as he laughed. ‘Mate, I’m as surprised as you are.’

  Branko walked over to another table, carrying a plate piled high with pork and chicken in one hand, and two bread rolls in his other.

  ‘I could do with a beer, Branko,’ said Atkinson.

  ‘Alcohol and guns do not mix,’ said Branko. ‘But we have cold beer for when we’ve finished.’ He nodded at the bottle in front of Palmer. ‘And we can all drink his prize.’

  Branko sat down at a table and was joined by Luka and Gordan with piled plates. All three men began tucking in.

  Palmer waved his chicken leg at Shepherd. ‘I was just telling John here, I don’t want my name appearing in any article he writes.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, no,’ said Atkinson. ‘I don’t want my bosses knowing I was over here firing guns. Mum’s the fucking word.’

  ‘Sure, no problem,’ said Shepherd. ‘It’ll only be a travel piece, not about the people on the trip.’

  Atkinson waved his knife in Shepherd’s face. ‘You’d better fucking not, that’s all I’m saying.’

  ‘Trust me,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘It’s not about trusting you,’ said Atkinson. ‘It’s about what we’ll do to you if you let us down.’

  Liam had booked seats on a midday EasyJet flight from Stansted. It was a three-and-a-half-hour drive from Hereford so it was still dark when they left the house. They had checked in online and had no luggage and made the flight in plenty of time. The plane landed at Ljubljana Jože Pučnik Airport five minutes early but it took them almost an hour to get through immigration. They rented a Renault Clio from the Enterprise desk and collected the car outside.

  Liam drove and Katra gave him directions. She was wearing a black polo-neck sweater and blue jeans and was holding a sheepskin jacket in her lap. She looked tired and Liam figured that she hadn’t slept much the previous night. Truth be told, he hadn’t felt much like sleeping and had spent much of the night staring up at the ceiling. He had phoned his father at just before midnight and the call had gone straight through to voicemail. It wasn’t unusual for him to switch his personal phone off when he was working. Liam had fallen into a dreamless sleep eventually but he doubted that he had slept more than three or four hours.