Operative 66 : A Novel

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Operative 66 : A Novel Page 24

by McDermott, Andy


  But she had more urgent concerns. ‘Two men are running up the road! I drove here as fast as I could – but they’ll be here any minute.’

  ‘Operatives 53 and 57,’ Scott informed them malevolently. ‘Proven men.’

  ‘We’ve got to go.’ Reeve kept his gun trained on Scott as he backed out. Then they both ran for the front door.

  Connie’s car was at the gate beside the mailbox. ‘I’ll drive,’ Reeve said. He glanced down the road. Two figures pounded along it, three hundred metres away.

  ‘In, quick,’ he called. Connie jumped in beside him. He set off with a rasp of tyres. A glance in the mirror. One man stopped, arm coming up—

  ‘Duck!’ he yelled, pushing her down. A shrill clank as a bullet struck the Saxo’s tail. He hunched lower, expecting more shots, but none came. The car was beyond a handgun’s effective range, even for an Operative.

  ‘Jesus!’ Connie shrieked. ‘Did they just shoot at us?’

  ‘Yeah.’ He concentrated on driving. The roads ahead were unfamiliar; tight turns could catch him out at speed.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  A brief, grim look. ‘I don’t know.’

  The two Operatives reached the house and raced inside. The dogs greeted them excitedly. ‘Sir!’ one man shouted, ignoring them. ‘Are you okay? Sir!’

  ‘I’m fine,’ Scott snapped, emerging from the office. ‘It was Alex Reeve. He’s Fox Red. Get after him – and kill him.’

  ‘Our car’s wrecked, sir,’ the other Operative admitted.

  Scott glared at him. ‘Take mine. It’s in the garage.’ He tossed over a set of keys. ‘And there’s a woman with him. She’s a witness. Kill her too.’

  ‘Sir,’ the first man replied with a nod. They both hurried out.

  The garage was beside the house. Inside was Scott’s vehicle: a powerful Jaguar XF Sportbrake estate car. They got in and started it.

  Scott had chosen the top-of-the-range model. The engine roared, shaking nearby windows. The Jag tore out of the garage, through the gate, and on to the road. It snarled past the 60mph mark less than six seconds later.

  The gap to the escaping Saxo was already closing.

  Fast.

  CHAPTER 40

  ‘You shouldn’t have come in,’ Reeve said, as the car sped down the narrow road. ‘Now Scott’s seen you.’

  ‘But he doesn’t know who I am,’ she protested.

  ‘He can describe you. That could be enough to have you stopped at customs.’ A flash of reflected sunlight in the mirror caught his eye. A red car was racing down the road after them. ‘They’re coming.’

  Connie looked back in alarm. ‘Are you sure it’s them?’

  ‘There hasn’t been a single other car on this road. And it’s speeding – really speeding.’

  The pursuing vehicle disappeared behind trees as they rounded a bend. Reeve braked sharply for a junction. Left or right? He had no idea where either road led. ‘Hold on!’ he said, going right. The Saxo threatened to roll, Connie yelping as it lurched back upright.

  The road weaved uphill. More junctions. Some led only to dirt tracks. Not an option; he couldn’t risk a skid. He shot straight through the first two, going right at the third. To his relief, the road widened. The landscape levelled out, lavender fields whipping by. Was the other car still following? He couldn’t see it, but vegetation could be obscuring it.

  Past farmhouses, open fields – and he saw a main road ahead. Going right, a tighter turn, would require him to slow. He swept left. Trees lined the roadside ahead as it curved. If he reached them, they would be hidden from view—

  The red car reappeared in the mirror, powersliding on to the road after them.

  It had closed the distance enormously. A Jaguar – the little hatchback couldn’t outrun it.

  So it had to evade it.

  Reeve powered into the bend, losing sight of the Jag. But it would be back in sight in seconds. Through more curves, the surroundings trees a blur. Then the valley opened out ahead. A sign warning of a junction was there and gone in a split-second. One more sweeping corner – and the road forked. The left route led downhill, the narrower right staying level. Two signs, one pointing each way. He registered their words almost subconsciously – as he went right.

  ‘What did that other sign say?’ Connie asked.

  ‘Itinéraire recommandé poids lourds,’ he replied. ‘Or “recommended route for heavyweights” – trucks. So it won’t be as steep or twisty as this one.’

  She looked at him in alarm. ‘Then why are we going this way?’

  ‘Your car’s not as fast as theirs. But it’s smaller, more manoeuvrable. If I can keep our speed up through the turns, we might lose them. Or they might crash.’

  She was not reassured. ‘So might we.’

  Reeve could do nothing but focus on the road. Driveways shot past; they were nearing a village. The other sign had said Simiane. Simiane-la-Rotonde, he remembered from yesterday’s journey, was a few kilometres west of Banon. But he knew nothing about it. Would it offer an escape route – or be a trap?

  They were about to find out. A last couple of increasingly tight turns, and he saw a large building ahead. A castle, a grey stone cylinder overlooking the valley. Mirror. Red flicked between the trees. The Operatives were only a couple of hundred metres behind.

  A few vehicles dotted a small car park along the roadside. The village had drawn tourists. The main road turned sharply right, a track descending to the castle’s left. Reeve almost took the latter – until he glimpsed rooftops below. The hillside was steep, and in a village this old probably inaccessible to cars. Instead he braked and flicked the Saxo to the right, tyres shrieking. Connie joined them as she was thrown sideways.

  The road dropped towards a tight hairpin a few hundred metres ahead. Reeve accelerated and checked the mirror, hoping the bigger Jag had been forced to slow. To his dismay, he saw it round the corner in a screaming rally-style drift. High-speed pursuit was apparently a speciality of the Operative driving. He had actually gained ground.

  ‘Shit!’ Reeve gasped. The other car would soon catch up. ‘Plan B.’

  ‘What’s plan—’ Connie began – before screaming as Reeve yanked the handbrake and turned hard.

  The Citroën’s back end swung around in a barely controlled skid. Ninety degrees, more, the valley spinning before them – then handbrake off. His right foot stamped down. The Saxo lunged forward . . .

  Off the road.

  The ground between the hairpin’s legs was rough scrub, speckled with small trees. He spun the wheel in a desperate attempt to follow its contours. A pounding bang rattled his teeth as the front suspension compressed to its limit. Connie wailed, but he barely heard her over the raucous roar of flying stones. The car slammed over a bump, briefly airborne, then pitched nose-down—

  It hit the ground like a plough. Both airbags fired. The impact was like a punch to Reeve’s face. A hideous tearing crunch as the front bumper was ripped off. Dizzied, he hauled at the wheel, sliding the Saxo about. It jolted as it ran over its own debris. The deflating airbag flapped over his legs. He saw the road below angling towards them. Another turn, revving hard to keep the side-slipping car from rolling. It pounded back on to asphalt. The suspension hit its limits again – and went beyond them. Metal sheared apart.

  Another blow, this to the base of Reeve’s spine. A moment lost to pain, then he recovered. The battered car reeled drunkenly across the road. He tried to correct, but the wheel was slack in his hands. A steering arm had snapped. He turned harder, finally dragging the Saxo about. Buildings loomed ahead. They were nearing the village.

  ‘Oh my God!’ Connie cried. ‘You’ve wrecked my car!’

  Reeve accelerated as best he could. A dying shrill came from the gearbox. ‘Only way I could stay ahead of them.’ The Jaguar wasn’t following his insane s
hortcut. It would take thirty seconds to round the bend and catch up.

  That was all the time they had to escape.

  The road dropped into a right-hand hairpin. A smaller street ahead led past houses. Reeve guided the crippled Citroën towards it. Red flashed in the mirror. The Operatives rounded the turn. He shot between the buildings, the new road narrowing—

  Steps led uphill. He braked hard, stopping at an angle blocking the confined street. ‘Up there, quick!’ Connie blinked at him, dazed; he jabbed her seatbelt release, then jumped out. A look back. The Jag powered towards them. He vaulted the buckled bonnet and yanked open her door. ‘Come on, run!’

  She scrambled out with her handbag. ‘But we’ve left our stuff!’ she protested. The rest of their luggage was still in the boot.

  ‘We’ll come back for it,’ he said, as they reached the steps. They ascended to an even narrower cobbled street. It led left and right. Right meant away from their pursuers; he took it. A couple of tourists outside a café reacted in surprise as they raced past. This was not a village used to excitement.

  It was about to get it. Tyres screeched below as the Jaguar stopped. The Operatives were coming.

  Reeve pulled Connie around a corner. A paved path weaved uphill between the warm stone buildings. Another route angled right. He made the turn. The more twists they took, the better the chances of losing their pursuers.

  But he knew those chances were still terrifyingly small.

  Both Operatives charged up the steps, guns in hand. They didn’t care about their weapons being seen. In rural France, the police would take several minutes to respond. By then, their job would be done.

  They reached the top of the steps. Their targets weren’t visible in either direction. No need for consultation; Operative 57 went left, Operative 53 right. One of the tourists cried out in alarm as he saw the latter’s gun.

  Operative 53 was a rangy, jut-jawed man with thinning blond hair. He went by the name West. No sign of his prey on the street continuing onwards. Instead he turned uphill. The steep path winding up through the village was also empty. The targets hadn’t been far ahead. If they’d gone that way, they would be in sight. Instead he rounded a corner to the right—

  A brief glimpse of movement where the new street curved past a church. Someone running. Reeve and the woman. West charged machine-like after them.

  Reeve and Connie hurried past a small church. A fork ahead; the route split on either side of a little shop. Reeve angled left, uphill. ‘Wait, wait!’ Connie cried, panting. ‘It’s too steep, I can’t run up there.’

  He looked back at her. ‘You have to. We—’

  One of the Operatives ran into view by the church.

  His gun came up—

  The ivy-covered building to Reeve’s left housed an art gallery. Beyond it was a side path. He tackled Connie around the corner as the Operative fired. The bullet cracked against a high stone wall just behind Reeve.

  He released Connie and snatched out his own gun. Their hiding place wasn’t a path, but access to another property behind the gallery. Dead end. A wooden bridge crossed over the nook to the gallery’s upper floor. He could climb up to it – but Connie probably couldn’t. Not in the time they had.

  Which was almost nothing. He heard running footsteps—

  A large potted bush sat on a low wall at the building’s corner. Reeve whipped out from behind it, weapon raised.

  West was almost at the fork. He saw his target’s gun and ducked against some railings as Reeve fired. The suppressed round twanged off flagstones. The Operative returned fire. Several shots tore up the hill. The bush shuddered, leaves flying as Reeve ducked. Someone in a nearby house screamed.

  Reeve switched the gun to his left hand and fired blind around the corner. Two shots struck stone. He risked a peek. His opponent had retreated to the gallery’s entrance.

  ‘Connie!’ Reeve barked. ‘Run, now. Up the hill!’

  Though reluctant, she hurried past him. She still trusted him enough to keep her safe, at least. Reeve fired another two shots to hold the Operative back, then glanced after her. She hared breathlessly up the slope and rounded a corner to the left.

  She was clear – for now. Now he had to get away himself.

  The Walther’s magazine only contained another two rounds. He unleashed one in West’s direction, then turned to run. If he could reach the corner before the Operative reacted—

  The other man had the same training. He was just as capable, just as quick. West was already leaning out of cover to locate him. Two rapid shots, but Reeve had jumped back into the nook.

  He was pinned.

  Unless—

  West waited for a few seconds, poised and ready to fire. His target didn’t reappear. Reeve couldn’t run uphill without exposing his back. That more suppressing fire hadn’t come implied he was almost out of ammo. And since he’d told the woman to run, his hiding place had no other exits . . .

  He had him.

  West bent low, gun trained on the corner as he advanced. He reached the end of the building. A glance at the bush. Nobody lurking behind it. He readied himself – then snapped around the corner.

  Reeve wasn’t there.

  What—

  A noise – and his target leapt down at him from above.

  Reeve had scaled the wall and grabbed the little bridge above. No time to climb on to it as he heard movement. Instead he threw himself back at the other man.

  A painful, bone-jarring collision. They both fell. West’s gun went off. Then it flew from his hand as he crashed down.

  Reeve was on top of him. He slammed his right elbow into the other man’s face. West’s head cracked against the paving. Reeve had been forced to pocket his own gun as he climbed. He fumbled for it while the Operative was briefly stunned—

  Too briefly. West’s hand caught his right wrist. Reeve strained to twist the PPK towards him. He was too close; the suppressor caught the side of West’s head. Reeve tried to point the muzzle at the back of his skull. The other man realised what he was doing and pushed with his legs, rolling sideways. Reeve lurched and went with him. He pulled the trigger. A thud of tearing flesh and a shrill crack as his last round hit stone. The Operative screamed.

  But he wasn’t dead. The round had shredded his right ear and carved through his scalp. But it had not penetrated his skull. West flailed at him in raw fury. A knee pounded against Reeve’s back. He fell against the low wall.

  The Operative pushed out from under him – and sent a punch at his face. Reeve had nowhere to go. The blow struck with heavyweight force. The back of his head smacked against rough stone. Dazed, he swung the now-useless Walther at West, but scored only a glancing blow.

  The SC9 man pushed himself up – then lunged. Reeve tried to deflect him, but West’s hands clamped around his throat. Thumbs dug hard into his trachea. Reeve choked. He struck back, gouging at his attacker’s wound. West cried out again, but squeezed harder. He pulled Reeve upwards – then pounded his head against the wall.

  Colours exploded in Reeve’s vision. Intense pain almost overcame him. West rose higher, adding his weight to the force crushing the other man’s neck. Reeve strained to throw him off, but had no leverage. The Operative loomed over him, silhouetted against the bright blue sky—

  Greenery above him. The bush.

  Reeve desperately reached up – and grabbed the plant pot.

  He jerked it from its roost with all his remaining strength. West looked up – and the heavy piece of earthenware struck him in the face.

  He jerked back, releasing his grip. Reeve slammed the pot against him again. It cracked, spilling soil. Reeve closed his eyes as it spattered him. He threw the plant at West. Another solid impact, the pot shattering. He rolled clear and looked around. The Operative was on his knees, wiping dirt from his face, temporarily blinded—

  Ree
ve sprang up and grabbed him – then smashed his head against the wall’s corner.

  Again. And again. Bone cracked. One final blow, then he let go. West collapsed, blood gushing from his pulverised face. Reeve drove a heel into the back of his neck. Vertebrae crunched sickeningly.

  Gasping, swaying, Reeve staggered back. If his opponent wasn’t dead, he was definitely no longer a threat. Where was the Operative’s gun? He turned, spotting it a few metres away. A man watched fearfully from the shop doorway as he collected it. The police would have been alerted by now. He had to move—

  A gunshot.

  Connie. She had run on ahead – and now the other Operative had found her.

  Despite the pain, despite his lack of breath, he ran after her.

  Connie fled up an ever-steepening path, breath burning in her throat. Long hours, stress and lack of exercise had all taken their toll.

  But the gunshots behind her provided a fearsome jolt of adrenalin. She kept running as the pathway curved upwards. Nowhere to hide, walls penning her in. Terror threatened to swallow her. She had once been mugged, a youth snatching her phone from her bag. The fright she had felt was nothing compared to this. The men chasing her were going to kill her . . .

  A side alley led back downhill. She reached the turn and looked down it—

  A man rounded the corner at its foot.

  Her heart froze. He saw her – and stopped, snapping up his gun—

  The terror now drove Connie onwards, survival instincts taking control. A bullet exploded against a wall just behind her, spitting stone chips.

  The hill continued towards the castle. All she could do was run.

  Operative 57, who called himself Hayes, didn’t pursue her. Instead he reversed direction at full speed. In his dash through the village, he had seen another path heading upwards. He was sure it would intersect the higher route near the hilltop. If the woman kept ascending, he would still reach it not far behind her. But if she turned down it, trying to evade the man she thought was following . . .

  She would run right into him.

  Connie saw the castle looming above. If she continued past it, she would be back on the main road. Out in the open, exposed. Nowhere to run – or hide.

 

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