The Hunt series Boxset 2

by Tim Heath

  Filipov made that clear seconds later by handing Rad a sheet of paper, handwritten in what Rad had to assume was the President’s own hand, the sheet empty but for a short list of three names. Rad took in each name. It was not the first time someone had handed him such an instruction that way––it’s how he worked. Filipov had done his homework.

  “You know these people?” Filipov asked.

  “Can’t say I do,” Rad said, his voice calm as if they were just discussing the starting line-up for the national football team’s next match.

  “For the two Russians you will find there to be plenty of information available online,” Filipov started. That there were Russian names on the list was a rarity. The fact they had come to him via his own President ominous enough in itself. “As for the third name, you must take special measures. That one is probably the most dangerous of them all.”

  Rad took in the third name. It meant nothing to him, nor could he place the nationality, other than know it apparently wasn’t Russian; Filipov had already said the first two were Russian. Rad now realised he recognised at least one of these first two names.

  “Wasn’t this man part of your network?” Rad asked, pointing to the second name on the list and wondering if he should even offer conversation on the subject with a man about whom he knew little. That Rad had been summoned immediately was confirmation what type of Presidency the country would get for at least the next six years. As a loyal soldier, Rad followed any order someone gave him. At least he had time in Moscow, a nice break from the heat, dust and bloodshed that surrounded him before.

  “He was at one time a man close to me––a good friend. Those days have sadly long passed.” Filipov stood up, forcing Rad to do the same––protocol dictated you mirrored the actions of the President, sitting after he did, and not remaining seated once he’d stood. The meeting was apparently over.

  “You’ll be well compensated. Svetlana will issue you with an ample expense account. Anything you need, you only have to ask her. All communication will be through her though please keep it to an absolute minimum. And this will be the only conversation you and I ever have on the matter. You’ll drop the list into the fire before you leave this building.” Rad understood; it was how he always worked. He’d memorised the names by that point already, his mind taking a snapshot of the piece of paper, their names now locked into his brain.

  “Understood,” Rad said, shaking the hand of his President one final time at the door, before leaving the office. Svetlana Volkov stood just metres away, looking radiant as always, the actress-cum-Presidential aide––it wasn’t clear to anyone what she did for Filipov, and that was causing much gossip to circulate––but very much a woman Rad knew a lot about. Most Russian men with a pulse knew of her. She handed Rad a sealed envelope and he would not bother to open it there. It was plain what it contained from what Filipov had just said. Rad walked over to the fire that was burning in the fireplace on the far wall and threw the sheet of paper into it. The corners curled up before the paper burst into flames seconds later, nothing but charred remains left moments after, Rad now followed Svetlana down the hallway, back the way he’d come in just minutes before. In less than a quarter of an hour, Rad had arrived, seen the President and was leaving again, now with a fresh mission before him.

  Syrian Frontline

  One Month Earlier

  American warplanes had been bombing heavily nearby overnight, the morning sky thick with smoke, columns of black still seen rising to the cloudy, smog-filled skies above. They had smuggled Radomir Pajari into the country a week before, on one last mission for Putin, a promise the then Russian President had made to his Syrian counterpart. Rad was there to offer an invisible layer of protection for the endangered Assad. The American sorties overnight––the missile attacks providing the USA good cover for the team of their own Special Forces that had been dropped into the conflict zone––clarified that time was running out.

  Daesh still offered a considerable threat––not in firepower as they were significantly out-gunned in that department. But they had the ground, and also the numbers, locally anyway. They too were after Assad––if they could kill the tyrannical leader, their stranglehold on the region would only increase.

  They introduced Rad to the unit which would work with him––their job specifically to watch his back, to get him into place and to make sure nothing happened to the most celebrated sniper the Russians had over recent decades. His legend had gone before him––many knew of him, few knew him personally. Still just thirty-five, he’d been in the army since his conscription and had never left. Georgia had happened during those first years, and they had already established his expertise behind a sniper’s rifle before the war was over. That conflict allowed his renown to grow. It was the making of the man.

  Ever since he’d been part of the elite forces, and he’d done work for the FSB too. They quickly established a dedicated unit around him, though it wasn’t uncommon for someone to hand them over to other groups who knew the ground more, as was the situation in Syria.

  Daesh snipers were becoming more of a problem in the area, their skill and experience growing with every successful hit they made. The Syrian Army had lost several men to them, including a few senior officers. Daesh was now dangerously close to the Assad complex and added to that threat there was now an American unit on the ground. Assad was the target, now that the West knew of where he camped out.

  The West couldn’t be seen to openly bomb the man––American F-22s pounding the President’s hideout might be enough to force a third world war––so it had to happen under the radar. The shot needed to appear to come from Daesh territory. Everyone knew Daesh openly warred with Assad and his army for control, so no one would really question that it was a Daesh hit if the Americans were successful.

  Rad was there to make sure they were not.

  For the Russian, the dilemma that faced the Americans faced him too––a Russian sniper couldn’t be confirmed as taking out the Americans. He too had to make it look like a Daesh hit, the same people he was also in the conflict zone to eliminate. That meant he had to take the shot from the part of Syria that had become a rebel-held hell-hole. Few buildings remained untouched by the years of civil war, a conflict that had left thousands dead and millions displaced. A battle that had no visible end in sight––unless Assad was maybe removed, or Daesh destroyed. Rad was in Syria under orders from the Kremlin to make sure that wasn’t possible by taking out any snipers after Assad.

  Someone showed Rad into the cramped quarters that made up the Russian unit’s base camp––they weren’t there for luxury, nor did he intend to stay longer than needed. It would only take one stray bomb and it would leave them exposed if the explosion didn’t take them out first.

  On the only table in the room––a space filled with debris, the shattered glass from three windows littering the floor––lay a map. Rad joined three other Russians as they sat around the table which stood in the centre of the room. A fourth Russian sat to one side, a military computer on his lap, satellite phone attached to give them a connection to Moscow.

  “Assad is here,” said one man, pointing on the map to a building that was just a few blocks away from where they were. “This area is Daesh controlled. We think they have their snipers in either this building,” and he tapped that part of the map with his finger, Rad taking in the proximity to where they were, “or this one across the square.” Both gave a good line of sight. Rad would have chosen either himself, especially given the target area. The man who’d just been speaking drew an imaginary line with his finger between the two sites––the probable sniper locations and where the Syrian President stayed. “This is the current front line. There are Daesh fighters stationed here, here and here,” and he once more tapped the map as he spoke, Rad taking it all in. Rad couldn’t tell the scale though it seemed to him to be nothing more than a square kilometre or two where all the sides were concentrated. It was guerrilla warfare though Rad had be
en in similar situations before.

  A fifth man entered the room. He’d been bringing up Rad’s supplies from the vehicle, and he placed the final case beside the other two. The last one had been by far the heaviest as it carried the weapon of choice for Russia’s greatest marksman. They had known Rad to hit targets over two-and-a-half kilometres away––unofficially up there with the best. Nothing existed on record, however, which is what both Rad and his superiors demanded. His best approach was to be an unknown presence in whatever battle zone they inserted him into.

  Rad used the AWSM––its unofficial name but most used in their field––despite the primary weapon of choice for the Russian army being the AK-12. The limited range of the AK-12 placed Rad too close to the action, and given his ability from a distance, he’d bought his own custom-made weapon that was usually only used by the British. Rad’s preference had at least rubbed off onto the snipers of the Russian Alpha Group, who now used a similar weapon.

  From outside, stopping the conversation mid-flow, and occurring not far away, came the distinctive sound of a high calibre weapon being fired, the sound of gunfire rocketed through the air. Rad recognised it at once––someone had fired a sniper rifle. Two of the men went to the window as they could see brick dust still rising from the side of the wall on the Assad compound about nine hundred metres from them.

  Rad immediately got to work on his cases, pulling on another bulletproof vest––something that was supposed to be able to stop a sniper’s shot, though not before winding him severely. That was assuming it hadn’t been a headshot––something they knew Rad for, despite it being a much higher risk practice. Usually, you only got one attempt before it alerted the target to the danger, though given the distance Rad typically operated from, it wasn’t uncommon to have fired three rounds before the sound, or impact, ever alerted anyone to the imminent danger. That was why given a choice Rad preferred the range being anywhere from fifteen hundred to two thousand metres. Far enough away to make his escape before anyone could hope to close in on his position.

  Rad screwed a suppressor into place––it wouldn’t make the gun silent but it did dramatically reduce the otherwise loud noise such a powerful weapon made––and loaded it with a full magazine of bullets. He hung the gun over his left shoulder, its total weight well over seven kilograms by that point, but he was used to it. They left the room, three of the unit with AK-12s at the ready, flanking Rad as they guided him to where he said he wanted to be. They jumped into the back of the waiting vehicle, driving at speed down abandoned streets, the occasional shot––not always at them, though the constant danger remained––confirming there were at least a few enemy fighters around. After dodging their final piece of concrete––another part of a destroyed building littering the road––they swerved into an underground parking area, now about a kilometre from where they’d just been. They had gained height and while not able to see the Assad fortress from their more elevated position; they had a clear view on where they thought the Daesh sniper or snipers were holed up.

  On the top floor––the entire building, like so many others, empty and derelict––Rad quickly set about getting his equipment ready. The other three Russians guarded the building, one inside the door watching the street they’d just driven down, the other two stationed in the darkness behind two second-floor windows, again waiting for trouble. They left Rad to his work, as he preferred to work alone for the actual kill, headphones already in place, classical music playing quietly from his iPod. The music far removed from the scene before his eyes.

  Seconds later, the sound of a sniper’s weapon firing once more rose above the otherwise sporadic gunfire of lesser powered weapons. To his trained ear, Rad knew what to listen out for. He spotted smoke residue come from one window in the target property he’d been told about earlier. Rad lowered himself into position, lying on the dirty floor with his rifle set up on its stand before him. Zoning out every other distraction, Rad focused into the scope, channelling out everything as he took in the window he was looking at. Rad could now see the end of a weapon, though, from his angle, there was no way he could see the actual sniper. He didn’t need to. Rad knew where he was, based on the position of the weapon. Given the state of the brickwork on the building he was looking at, he would take the shot directly through the wall. Rad had used special bullets precisely because this was the only shot Rad knew he would have. Rarely did he have the luxury of being able to see his target in the flesh.

  From Rad’s distance, thermal imaging wouldn’t be possible, nor would it have been much help in that heat––everything was hot and sweaty. He ignored his own discomfort, taking a moment to slow his breathing, sweat running down his forehead, as he pressed one eye harder to the scope and adjusted his weapon to take in the trajectory and the distance. Given the fact he could only see the tip of a gun––far from enough to identify what it was––there was no way to be sure exactly how long the thing was, and therefore where the sniper would be with the weapon. It most probably wouldn’t matter as the blast from the bullet going through the brick wall would be like a small bomb going off, and if the shot didn’t then cause a fatal hit, the exploding debris would.

  Rad could see the sniper’s rifle edge a little more out of the window––the Daesh fighter was preparing to take the third shot––and that might be one too many. Sometimes it took two bullets to get a sniper’s range sorted––not something Rad needed himself––but often what even experienced men required.

  Aiming for a part of the wall about two metres from the window opening, Rad slowed his breathing, the weapon held steady; the sight focused and accurate. His finger coaxed the trigger, almost caressing it, as he anticipated the shot, preparing himself for the inevitable kickback such a powerful weapon gave. He both relaxed his body and pressed his shoulder into the gun all at the same time, before pulling the trigger, the firearm giving off a powerful sound due to the small space, despite its silencer.

  Less than two seconds later, the bullet hit the wall at precisely the spot Rad had been aiming, the outside showing a small hole, and then seconds later smoke––presumably, brick dust––billowed from the window giving the impression a grenade had just gone off. The end of the sniper’s rifle dropped forward a little, lowering as if something had knocked it onto its side. A clean kill.

  Rad’s shot would have alerted Daesh to their position, and being deep in enemy territory, Rad wasn’t planning to hang around, but then a bullet hit the outside of his window––not near enough to cause him alarm––but apparently the work of another sniper. Rad caught the movement through his scope of a second man, who was seen pulling away from the window, his weapon dragged out of position. Rad focused in on the building––it was the second location they’d discussed earlier, and clear proof that there were, in fact, two Daesh snipers in that zone. Apparently, the second sniper had been alerted to Rad’s position by the shot he’d just made.

  “We need to go!” came the command in Russian from behind as one man entered the room, though Rad had not moved from the floor. He would let no one get away with taking a shot at him.

  “Just a moment,” Rad said, the other Russian not knowing what to do––if they were to be surrounded by dozens of men, they wouldn’t be able to keep them out for long.

  Looking through his scope, Rad once more tried to drown out all the outside interference, the noise from the Russian unit agitated by their continued presence there or the sound of gunfire that was erupting once more. He focused on the building he was watching, sure that the sniper would make a run for it––perhaps coming for him directly, though that would be a foolish thing to do. A minute later, he saw the side door open––another building mostly obscured the scene in the foreground and some bins that were located by that door. He could see a car boot being opened––apparently, the sniper was placing his weapon into it––and seconds later the car pulled away. The road was out of view, but Rad traced the tops of the buildings in that part of the city to gues
s at where it might lead. He scanned the scene quickly, looking for a spot that would give him a clear shot, and landed on a junction moments later. Assuming the car was going back into Daesh territory, it would probably hit that intersection within the next thirty seconds. Rad set his range––it was borderline on two-and-a-half kilometres, both the weapon’s and his own maximum range––and a headshot would be all but impossible. He would aim instead for the petrol tank. There was more than one way to skin a cat.

  At the point Rad assumed he’d lost the car, just two seconds later, a red vehicle shot across the junction. It was now or never. Rad made the instant recognition that this had to be the man who’d just taken a shot at him. The streets were empty, and this was in the middle of Daesh territory, right where the action was most fierce. Rad had about ten seconds before the car would be out of range. He used just two to calm himself, expecting the movement of the vehicle in the two-and-a-half seconds it would take the bullet to reach the target, before Rad fired, this time two rounds just milliseconds apart. Rad pulled himself immediately away from the window and off the ground, though he was barely on his feet when a ball of flames rose in the distance, the car engulfed.

  A man from the unit had been standing in the doorway––his ears still ringing from the sound of the weapon––his mouth now open, stunned at what he’d just witnessed.

  “That was an impossible shot!” he said, as Rad expertly undid his weapon, slipping the still hot sections back into place in the case as quickly as he could. Rad chose not to say anything in reply––he’d pulled off enough impossible shots in his time to know what really was possible, though granted, only for a select few.