Short Range (The Spider Shepherd Thrillers Book 16)

by Stephen Leather

  Katra’s mother lived in a small cottage in a village about five miles from the centre of Ljubljana, a grey stone building with a slate roof and a dozen or so chickens scratching around a coop. There were fields of vegetables all around and in the distance there was a much larger farmhouse. She was a small woman with grey hair done up in a bun and a face that was lined and wrinkled from too many years working outside. Liam figured she wasn’t much more than sixty-five but looked older. She beamed when she opened the door and saw Katra there, then rushed forward and hugged her. Katra introduced her to Liam and she gave Liam a hug, too, the top of her head barely reaching his shoulders.

  Katra’s mother began talking in Slovenian and they headed for the kitchen. Liam followed. Mrs Novak was wearing a simple black-and-white checked dress and flat shoes that slapped on the stone-flagged floor.

  There was a huge wood-burning stove against one wall on top of which were three large pans. There was an oak table with two bench seats and Mrs Novak waved for them to sit down.

  She made them cups of tea, and then joined them at the table. She spoke to Katra for a few minutes, then Katra asked a few questions and her mother answered. Katra looked more and more worried as the conversation continued. Eventually she sat back and looked at Liam, ashen-faced. ‘Mia can’t leave the house where she works,’ she said. ‘She hasn’t been in touch since she called my mum. She used a customer’s phone.’

  ‘And this place she’s being held, it’s what? A bar? A hotel?’

  ‘It’s a house where men go to have sex,’ said Katra. ‘They can buy drinks there but it’s not about the drinks, it’s the girls. It’s on the motorway between Ljubljana and Zagreb, near a town called Novo Mesto. Men in Zagreb like it because they are driving over the border from Croatia. It makes them feel safer.’

  ‘And who runs the place?’

  ‘The big boss is a man called Zivco Žagar. Everyone knows him. He’s like a godfather. He helps people when they need help. If you have a problem with the police or the council, Mr Žagar can fix it. If you need money, he can help if the bank won’t.’

  ‘And if you don’t pay, he forces you to work for him?’

  ‘Mia didn’t know that. She just thought it was a loan.’ Her eyes filled with tears and she wiped them away with the back of her hand.

  ‘It’s okay, don’t cry,’ said Liam hurriedly. ‘We can fix this.’

  Katra forced a smile. ‘I hope so.’

  ‘I know so,’ said Liam. ‘He’s a businessman, so it’s all about the money. I’ll pay him what Mia owes plus interest and that’ll be that.’

  Katra nodded.

  ‘So your mum has told you where this place is?’

  Katra nodded again. ‘I’ll be able to find it.’

  ‘Before we go you need to take me to an ATM,’ said Liam. ‘I’ve got two debit cards and a Mastercard. I don’t know how much it’ll let me withdraw in one day but with what I got at the airport I should be able to get a few thousand euros together.’

  ‘But that won’t be enough,’ said Katra. ‘My sister borrowed eight thousand euros.’

  ‘He’s a businessman, he’ll be able to take a credit card payment,’ said Liam. He sipped his tea, then looked at his watch. ‘We should be going.’

  Katra’s mother started speaking again, then reached out to hold her daughter’s hands. Katra replied. From the body language alone, Liam could tell that Katra’s mum was telling her daughter to be careful, maybe even asking her not to go. Eventually Katra’s mother released her grip. Katra stood up and nodded at Liam. ‘Let’s go before I change my mind,’ she said.

  After they had finished lunch, Branko took the group over to a table that had been set up outside the tent. On it was a Dragunov rifle with a bipod stand supporting the barrel and a distinctive skeletonised stock. Neno was slotting cartridges into a ten-round box magazine.

  Shepherd knew that the Dragunov was the sniper rifle of choice for the Warsaw Pact countries, and had been enthusiastically copied by the Chinese. The Russians had designed it as a rifle that could be used by marksmen at infantry level rather than by highly trained snipers. The idea was to disperse the marksmen through the regular infantry so that they would be readily available when needed. Such marksmen were generally accurate up to about five hundred yards, which was well below the skill set of a trained sniper, but more than enough for most battlefield situations. Unlike rifles designed for ultra-long range shooting, the Dragunov also had mounts on the barrel to fix a bayonet. It was lighter than most sniper rifles so that it could be carried for long distances and had been built as a semi-automatic so that it could take out multiple targets in rapid-fire mode.

  ‘Right, gentlemen and lady,’ said Branko. ‘Let me introduce you to the Dragunov sniping rifle.’ He pointed down the quarry where Gordan and Luka were placing a large watermelon on top of an old oil barrel. ‘Firing a sniper rifle is a world of difference to aiming a handgun. It’s a much more technical operation, and because we are so much further from the target, things like the wind become more important. But this isn’t about training you to be snipers, it’s about the experience. So you’ll be firing three shots each. The target is the watermelon, but to be honest I’ll be impressed if you hit the barrel.’

  In the distance, Gordan and Luka were walking away from the target. They stood about fifty yards away next to a couple of carrier bags which Shepherd assumed contained more watermelons.

  Branko had a pair of black binoculars hanging around his neck. There were several other pairs on the metal table and he nodded at them. ‘If any of you want a closer look, feel free,’ he said. Moorhouse, Atkinson and Ian McAdam went over to get a pair each.

  ‘So I think lady first,’ said Branko, beckoning for Carol to come forward. He positioned one of the folding chairs next to the table so that she could sit down to fire the gun. Her husband gave his binoculars to Shepherd so that he could film her on his phone.

  Branko showed her how to use the telescopic sight and explained that breathing was even more important than when she had been using the Glock. The best way was to take a full breath, then slowly exhale until about half the air was out, then hold it. While holding the breath the trigger had to be gently squeezed. ‘Pull it so slowly that it feels as if you are trying not to pull it,’ he explained, which was as good as any way of describing the process.

  Neno trained his binoculars on the targets while Branko stood at Carol’s shoulder. She pulled the trigger but the motion was jerky and Shepherd saw the round spark off the rock face behind the barrel.

  ‘High,’ said Neno.

  Branko adjusted the sights and Carol fired again. This time the bullet smacked into the oil barrel.

  Her husband cheered. ‘Chest shot,’ he said. ‘He’d be dead as dead can be. Nice one, honey.’

  ‘We want to hit the watermelon, remember,’ said Branko. He adjusted the sights again but her third shot hit the barrel again.

  Branko congratulated her, then waved for her husband to take her place.

  It took almost an hour for them all to have a go with the Dragunov. Palmer was the best by far, though he claimed it was more down to luck than judgement. Shepherd could tell the former soldier was being less than honest. He had his breathing and trigger-pull just about perfect and while the first shot was low it was only a few inches below the watermelon. His second shot hit the dead centre of the watermelon and it exploded into a dozen pieces. Everyone cheered and he raised a hand to acknowledge the praise.

  Gordan put a fresh watermelon on the barrel and then went back to stand next to Luka. Palmer’s final shot nicked the side of the fruit.

  Shepherd went after Palmer. He had fired a Dragunov on several occasions and wasn’t a big fan, but he was enough of a marksman to have put all three of his shots into an apple, never mind a watermelon. But he wasn’t Dan Shepherd, former SAS sniper, he was John Whitehill, journalist, so he smiled and fumbled his shots, missing the barrel and the watermelon with all three.

 
‘Never mind,’ said Branko when he had finished. He patted Shepherd on the shoulder. ‘Snipers train for years, it’s not easy.’

  Of the rest of the group, only Matthew Scott managed to hit the watermelon, grazing the top but revealing the red flesh inside. His two other shots went wide, though.

  Hewson hit the barrel with all three shots and actually had quite a tight grouping, but, having watched the man’s technique, Shepherd was sure it was down to luck rather than judgement.

  When they had all fired their three shots, Branko removed the magazine and checked the breech was clear and passed the rifle to Luka who took it over to the tent.

  ‘Right,’ Branko said to the group. ‘It’s grenade time.’ He led the group over to the tent where Neno had placed the crate of grenades onto the metal table and opened it. Inside were a dozen dark green plastic containers, each the size and shape of a pineapple. Branko took one out and turned to face the group. The container was in two halves and he twisted them to pull them apart and took out a dark grey grenade. Branko held it out so they could all see it. ‘Right, this is a grenade and so long as this pin stays in, it’s totally safe.’ He pointed to a small metal ring that was connected to a pin that kept the handle in place. Branko tapped the handle with his finger. ‘When you do pull the pin, so long as you keep the handle pressed against the grenade, it stays inert. You can hold it as long as you want, nothing will happen until you release the handle. The handle is also called the spoon, and it’s from the Yugoslav word for spoon that we get the grenade’s name, Kashikara. Once the spoon is released, a chemical fuse is activated. It will take just under four seconds to detonate the explosive. The explosion sends three thousand tiny steel balls hurtling through the air. They will rip through anything within a range of fifty feet or so. We will be pulling the pins and throwing them straight away. No counting to three or anything like that. You pull the pin, you throw it, as far as you can.’

  ‘You throw the pin?’ asked Hewson in a loud voice.

  Branko opened his mouth to reply but Dexter interrupted. ‘He’s joking, Branko! He’s taking the piss.’

  Branko frowned. ‘Taking the piss?’

  ‘It means he’s joking,’ said Dexter. ‘He’s not serious.’

  Branko shook his head. ‘These are not toys,’ he said. ‘If you are within twenty feet of one of these when it goes, you are dead. Another twenty feet away and you might not die but your life won’t be worth living. So no jokes.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Hewson, his cheeks reddening.

  ‘No problem,’ said Branko. ‘But I haven’t lost anyone yet on these trips and I don’t want to start now. We’ll be doing it from behind a line of sandbags on the far side of the quarry. And this is important. Once you have thrown the grenade you duck behind the sandbags. You don’t try to watch it go off. Understood?’

  He was faced with a wall of nodding heads.

  ‘What I suggest is this. We’ve set up a point about a hundred metres from the sandbags where everyone can watch safely. That will be a safe enough distance, so we’ll split into two groups and one group can watch and film as the other group throws. How does that sound?’

  ‘Perfect,’ said Dexter.

  Branko put the grenade back into its plastic container and gave it to Gordan who put it back into the crate.

  ‘Right, let’s go,’ said Branko. Gordan picked up the crate and hoisted it onto his shoulder.

  Shepherd fell into step with Moorhouse as they walked across the quarry. ‘This should be fun,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘I know, how fucking crazy is it? Throwing grenades, I mean, I can’t believe they’ll let us do it. Gary said we could but I thought he was bullshitting.’

  ‘They mention it on their website,’ said Shepherd. ‘But I was only planning on shooting a few guns. So the trip was Gary’s idea?’

  Moorhouse nodded. ‘He loves guns and stuff. His brother was in the Army. I think Gary tried to enlist but didn’t get in.’

  ‘Yeah? Why’s that?’

  Moorhouse shrugged. ‘I don’t know. He doesn’t talk about it.’

  Ahead of them was a line of sandbags, about five feet high. Beyond was an open space of about a hundred feet, surrounded by the walls of the quarry. About thirty feet from the sandbags were three stacks of wooden crates.

  Gordan put the container at the base of the sandbags and took off the lid.

  ‘Right, we need two groups,’ said Branko.

  ‘Can we do six and three, Branko?’ asked Dexter. ‘The lads would prefer to stay together.’

  ‘Mr and Mrs McAdam aren’t doing it, and I’m not sure six and one will work,’ said Branko. ‘I mean, if that’s what you want that’s fine, but you’ll only see the one grenade go off, if you see what I mean.’

  ‘I’ll go with John,’ said Palmer.

  ‘Yeah, why not,’ said Scott.

  ‘Okay, that’ll work,’ said Branko. ‘So why don’t I take John, Charlie and Matthew with the McAdams to the viewing area and Gordan can supervise you throwing.’ He patted Gordan on the back, then started walking away. The McAdams followed him.

  ‘Videos,’ said Atkinson. ‘I want a video of this.’ He took his phone out of his pocket, tapped in the pin code and gave it to Palmer. ‘Make sure you get it, yeah?’

  ‘Good idea,’ said Moorhouse. He pulled out his iPhone and gave it to Scott.

  ‘Take mine as well,’ said Hewson, handing his phone to Scott.

  ‘And mine,’ said Dexter.

  ‘Fuck me, mate, I’ve only got two hands,’ said Scott, holding up the phones.

  ‘John, you okay to video me and the guys?’ asked Dexter.

  ‘Sure,’ said Shepherd.

  Dexter pulled his iPhone from his jeans and used the facial recognition ID to open it before giving it to Shepherd. ‘Cheers, mate,’ he said, then turned his back on Shepherd to watch Gordan taking the grenades from the box.

  Shepherd followed Palmer and Scott as they trailed behind Branko. He couldn’t believe his luck. He’d been handed his target’s phone which meant he had full access to his messages, his contacts list, everything. The downside was that he was about six feet away from two of Dexter’s friends who were almost sure to notice if he started snooping through his phone.

  He kept Dexter’s phone in his left hand. Palmer and Scott were deep in conversation so he flicked through to the phone’s gallery and started going through the photographs. Most of them were selfies with his mates, though there were several with a pretty blonde girl. He stiffened when he recognised two of the men in one photograph, taken in front of the Houses of Parliament. Neil Burnside and Lee Barnett, two members of Combat 18, a neo-Nazi group that had been implicated in numerous attacks on immigrants around the world. Shepherd had seen the men mentioned in a recent MI5 report on the group. Combat 18 had been quiet for a few years, though members of the group were still banned from joining the police and the prison service. MI5 had managed to get an undercover agent into the group’s London chapter in an attempt to find out what they were up to but so far he hadn’t had much luck. What the agent had discovered was that the group was expanding overseas and now had members in Australia, Germany, Belgium and Northern Ireland, and had recently moved into the United States, with chapters in Texas, Florida and Alabama.

  Branko reached a line of sandbags about a hundred metres from the target crates. ‘Right, everyone stand behind this.’

  ‘We’re out of range of any shrapnel, right?’ asked Carol.

  ‘Of course,’ said Branko.

  ‘So why do we need to stand behind the sandbags?’ asked her husband.

  ‘They’re a marker more than protection,’ said Branko. ‘You’re welcome to stand in front of the bags if you want.’

  ‘He will not!’ said his wife.

  They all took up their positions behind the bags and got their phones ready. Branko held up his hand and waved at Gordan. Gordan waved back.

  Dexter was the first to throw. Shepherd aimed the phone and zoomed in
to get a better view. Gordan was talking to Dexter, obviously running through what he had to do. Dexter was listening and nodding. Gordan took a step back and Dexter pulled out the pin and threw the grenade. It curved through the air and landed to the left of the crates. Dexter and Gordan ducked down behind the sandbag wall. The grenade lay on the ground for several seconds and Shepherd was starting to think that it might be a dud when it exploded and the boxes were rocked by the blast wave and shrapnel.

  There were whoops from Dexter and his group as they stood up to survey the damage.

  Gordan opened another plastic container and took out the grenade. He gave it to Atkinson, gave him instructions and watched as Atkinson pulled back his arm and threw it. Gordan ducked down behind the sandbag wall but Atkinson stayed upright, his mouth open. Gordan realised that Atkinson hadn’t dropped down and he hurriedly grabbed him by the belt and pulled him to the ground, just as the grenade exploded. It had landed among the pile of boxes and one of them was blown high in the air.

  ‘Wow, did you see that?’ asked Scott, a rhetorical question as they had all been watching.

  ‘Got it on video,’ said Palmer.

  Shepherd stopped videoing and while Hewson and Moorhouse were throwing their grenades, he stood behind Palmer and Scott and scrolled through the address book in Dexter’s phone, then went through the messages. Most of them were from the guys he was with, but there were some to a girl called Tracey, presumably a girlfriend. He memorised her number and the number of Dexter’s phone. There were several messages back and forth with Neil Burnside of Combat 18 talking about the services offered by Gunfire Tours and in one of the messages Burnside mentioned Branko. Shepherd effortlessly committed the messages to memory.

  When the final grenade went off, Shepherd slid the phone into his jacket pocket.

  Branko took Shepherd, Palmer and Scott across the quarry, meeting with Gordan and his group on the way. Palmer gave Atkinson, Hewson and Moorhouse their phones back. Shepherd took out Dexter’s phone and gave it to him. ‘It looked good, mate,’ he said.