He smiled. ‘You took something from those mountains that doesn’t belong to you.’
‘Did you kill King?’ I hissed through gritted teeth.
His savage grin was answer enough, he steadied his feet as the deck shifted, levelling the gun at me.
I stared into the suppressor barrel. ‘You’re fucking up in a big way pointing my own gun at me.’
‘You messed with the wrong people.’ He squeezed the trigger.
A very heavy, very crunchy, very unexpected 20lb trigger pull to someone unfamiliar with the pistol.
I kicked out with my left leg, slamming my shoe against a big green button on the workbench.
Startled by the sudden whirring noise right next to his head, he turned, still squeezing the trigger. His arm followed his eyes as he looked at the big circular saw, unable to stop the gun drifting with his head. The bullet buzzed past me, tearing up the rubberised flooring as I launched forward. He leaned back, putting distance between us, squeezing the trigger again, but I was too close now for him to turn the gun onto me, especially with the unwieldy suppressor attached.
I punched his arm as hard as I could, it turned, the gun coughed again three times in rapid succession, bullets spat at the wall this time. I pushed his arm, he carried on squeezing the trigger as his wrist hit the safety guard of the circular saw, I grabbed his right arm, forcing it down towards the spinning blade. Inch by inch, closer to the buzzing steel. I had the advantage, pushing down, even so it took all my strength. His wrist was a centimetre from the whirling teeth, I put all my weight behind it.
He reached behind him with his free left arm and pulled the plug from the wall, the noise stopped, the blade whined slowly to a halt. Seb smirked.
I brought my right arm round in an arc, burying the screwdriver to the handle in the side of his now unguarded neck, instantly severing his carotid artery. Ambushed by a saw. He spluttered, eyes wide, pulling the trigger over and over again even as he slumped backwards, bouncing off the workbench and rolling onto the floor. His mouth flapped, trying to take breaths to displace the blood filling his lungs. I prised my pistol from his fingers, slid out the magazine. Empty. I looked back at the door; the handle hadn’t moved. His mate in the engine room hadn’t heard the commotion, still stood in between those two thrumming engines.
I grabbed a roll of paper towel from the bench and mopped it through the blood pumping across the floor, thankfully with the screwdriver still embedded there was far less than there should have been, most of it was pumping out on the inside. One of his hands was on his neck, the other reaching for me weakly. His eyes were glassy, breathing shallow, I swatted his hand away from his neck and lifted his head to mop under it, then slid a plastic rubbish bag over his head to catch the rest, wrapping some duct tape around his neck to hold it on. I stood, hands on my knees, thinking of my next move as the plastic bag moved in and out with his gurgling breaths.
He’d followed me in here, attacked without asking questions, and the few words uttered suggested he was friendly towards my pursuers. Unfortunately, it’d been over before I could get more information, and he was beyond speech now. Had he killed King? Almost definitely. But had he somehow broken into my cabin to kill my captive?
The man out there in the engine room could probably tell me more, but I didn’t fancy a one-sided conversation with that AK-47, not when a single shot could bring the whole ship running.
Then everyone would find me in here, standing over the dead body of one of their crew mates with his bloody head wrapped in a plastic bag. Not a good look if, as I did, you want to make it home to England.
Like I said, subterfuge is always preferable to conflict, running and hiding a better policy than standing and fighting. It’s not cowardice, just facts bred of experience in war zones. If you have an out, that’s better odds than facing down a gun. Take the odds.
I picked him up under his arms and dragged him backwards through the doors, into the cargo hold, leaving him on the platform while I ran back to check the workshop. The place was already filthy, a few wipes with paper towels and you’d never know anything had happened. I scuffed up a couple of new gashes in the rubber-coated floor, wiped an oily rag across a couple of dings on the wall made by ricocheting bullets, grabbed a few shell casings rolling round the floor and put them in my pocket. Couldn’t find them all but amongst fifty years of detritus I wasn’t too concerned. Good as new, or rather, as good and grubby as it had been.
I grabbed a rope looped from a hook on the wall and went back into the hold, closing the doors behind me. As I stepped over Seb I noticed the plastic bag on his head was barely moving now.
Chapter Thirty-two
Tiburon
I paused at the top of the ladder, tied the rope off on the top rung. Crashing surf swooshed above my head again, on the other side of thick steel plates. I held on tightly as the ship dived down another trench, waited until the waves had broken over the bow, then turned the handle and pushed the hatch open. I caught my breath as seawater poured through, freezing me to the bone. I pushed again, moved up a couple of rungs, heaving it all the way open, head and shoulders out onto the deck. The water cascaded away off the sides, I climbed up again as the boat climbed the next wall of water.
For the second time I hauled myself up and over the raised threshold of the hatch as we reached the top of the wave, the ship hanging in mid-air for a second before groaning and shuddering, pointing straight back down again. I used the momentum to roll up and onto the deck, swinging the hatch closed behind me and sliding underneath my car as we reached the bottom of the trough. Again, a wall of water descended on the deck of the boat, drowning everything. I braced myself against the wheels as the water raced away again, threatening to carry me over the side with it.
As soon as we were on the up I opened the hatch again, reaching in and grabbing the rope. I pulled the first few loops arm over arm, picking up slack until the line went taut. I spun round, sat on the edge with my feet braced against the other side of the hatch, the rope disappearing between my legs. I heaved, lifting the dead weight, trying to use the rolling of the boat to my advantage. Another wall of water loomed, this time I just closed my eyes and mouth, letting the deluge hit, wrapping the rope round my arms. Water poured down into the hold, dragging on the weight in my hands. I carried on hauling as we rose out the other side.
My arms burned as the rope pendulummed around the hold with the motion of the ship, harder at first as it swung in long, heavy arcs, but it got easier as the rope shortened and the arc shortened. Several waves later, Seb’s head, still shrouded in the plastic bag, reached the top of the ladder.
I waited until we were crawling up another wave to haul Seb up onto the deck, untying the rope from the ladder and slamming the hatch closed.
Here we were in darkness – just the small navigation lamp at the prow beaming into the inky black – but I knew if anyone on the bridge saw anything they’d flick on the work lamps and I’d be frozen like a rabbit, standing over the dead body of their pal.
We started down into another black trough, I braced against the front of my car again and took some time to get my breath back. A jarring crump as we hit the wall of water, it curved over the bow and then everything was drowned. The freezing water poured away again as we rose, the rope slipping through my numb fingers, Seb’s body was almost swept out past my car.
I looked up at the wheelhouse, could just about make out a figure through the blurry glass. No panic, no excitement, it looked like they were just staring ahead, trying to keep course. Above, the running lights on the mast winked in the driving rain. I noticed the sky behind was lighter now as the grey dawn approached the horizon in the east.
I dragged Seb back across the slick metal, slipped the loop of rope off his body, wrapping it over my shoulder. Now at the top of the wave, hanging in mid-air for a second before teetering and dropping back into the abyss, I crouched, dragging him by the arm towards the railings. The wall of water was approaching.
>
Barely visible was the low metal wall, punctuated with small holes to let water drain from the deck back into the sea, while also hopefully preventing an unwary crew member from being swept overboard. I grabbed it and dragged Seb closer, lifting his head, his shoulders onto it. An arm jerked out, gripping onto me, the blood-filled plastic bag turned, his other arm reached for me. I grabbed onto the railings as water crashed over the bow again, pulling me off the deck, he grabbed for my legs, fingers tearing at my jeans, briefly underwater. When I could take a breath I realised I was on the wrong side of the railings, being dragged off the ship, into the whirling Atlantic.
I looked down at my leg, Seb was clamped to it. I uncurled my other leg from the railings, let myself hang over the side of the ship, swinging round, and aimed a kick into the plastic bag. I felt the tug on my leg as my foot connected, the brief squash of flesh against my heel, and then he was gone, dropping into the black.
I used the motion of the ship to swing my legs back up, managing to hook them around the railings as we reached the zenith of yet another crest. Still the face in the window stared past me, fixed on some point on the rolling horizon. I jumped to my feet and launched across the deck, gripping my car as the ship tilted up, trainers sliding on the deck plates. I crouched for a moment as the ship stabilised, I didn’t have to look behind me to know we were on the crest, I took advantage of it and ran aft towards the superstructure.
I didn’t get far before the deck tilted the other way, bow angling down steeply, a big one, I ran harder. The deck pitched forward ever steeper, I leaned into it, running uphill on wet steel in trainers without decent grips, trying to make it to the superstructure and back inside, but it was no good. The impact at the bottom of the wave knocked me off my feet, sent me stumbling backward, I spread my arms and reached out, managing to grab a cargo strap before I was pitched into the beam of the deck lamps. Seawater enveloped the bow, most of my car, sweeping back across the deck, wrapping itself around me as the ship tilted the other way. We climbed again, the strap slipped between my fingers, I was tossed across the deck like a takeaway cup going over a waterfall. I threw my arms out again, ready to grab the railing, but didn’t make it that far as I slammed against the superstructure, spinning round, fingers finding the doorframe.
The water washed away. I grabbed the door handle, pulled myself up then ducked back down quickly, reversing away from the door. A figure had been stood just inside, back to me, rifle in his arms. I wrapped a hand round the skeletal external staircase up to the bridge wing, pulled out my pistol. It was empty but anyone confronting me wouldn’t know that, it could still be useful.
Fortunately, no one opened the door, I hadn’t been spotted. I waited another minute, spent another couple of cycles of waves clinging to the stairway, then rose again to peer inside. The figure hadn’t moved, back still to the door, rifle ready as if expecting trouble. Miller must have posted them around the ship, had them all wound so tight they’d shoot if a fly buzzed past. I needed to get back to my cabin without being seen. Seen meant implicated, especially when Seb’s disappearance was noticed, and out here, with this lot, that would mean death, unpreventable with my ammo back in my cabin.
A number of hatches peppered the deck, including the one I’d come out of, but they all led to the hold or access spaces, all of which funnelled me into that same corridor outside the engine room and didn’t solve the question of how to get to my cabin. There was no telling how the crew was dispersed, who was roaming the passageways.
I leaned over the railings, looking down into the sea. The lights from my cabin glowed out across the dark water below. I ran back to the superstructure and stuck to it as I made my way aft, careful to duck under the windows at deck level. The crashing water didn’t make it back this far – easier to walk gripping the various grab-handles and window frames. I stopped as the deck rounded towards the stern, ducking under the lifeboats hanging from the davits and pausing by the tattered flag flapping in the gale. Dawn was definitely on the march, it’d be light soon. The brighter sky was further round to starboard, we must have turned north earlier than Katanga’s plan.
I briefly considered taking refuge in the bilge access King and I had used earlier, but that was a pointless dead end. I ducked back under the lifeboats and ran to the starboard side, leaning over the railings there. A light in Fields’ cabin glowed weakly, just a couple of metres below my feet. I uncoiled the rope from my shoulders, slipped my arms through the loop I’d used to hoist Seb’s body up the ladder, and with one last look out over the writhing black, I slipped the rope around the railings and jumped overboard.
Chapter Thirty-three
Château des Aigles
Two days ago
The red dot shone bright against the white canvas as I swept the cross hairs over the mountain. I took my eye away from the Ruger rifle’s Viper scope, blinked a couple of times, looked out across the distant peaks, towards Mont Blanc. The last few minutes of afternoon sun seemed to set fire to the peaks, sparkling copper off the compacted snow of the piste further up to my right. The wind was picking up again, beyond the piste a line of pines shivered, dropping the last hour’s-worth of snow and springing back, ready for more.
I bit off a chunk of Toblerone and squinted at the pass a few metres beneath my snow bank. Here the snow was still deep: skiers stayed away from this section of the mountain, with its rocks and inclines leading only to the thick trees and the village a kilometre below. Today no one had been through. I knew, I’d been watching through a slot the size of a paperback since I’d dug in hours ago.
Gore-Tex gear and the mat spread under me had prevented the damp from seeping up, but not the cold. Nor had the Belleville boots prevented my toes going numb. I’d got used to it around midday. Used to it, but not immune. I wiggled my feet again and shivered, an involuntary spasm shaking my arm. I swore under my breath and flexed my fingers, took a slow breath, rested my cheek against the stock of the rifle and put my eye back to the scope. I angled up, looking towards the tree that marked the turn onto this section. Out of focus white blobs drifted lazily in the magnified image as the snow started up again.
Ringo buzzed in my ear. ‘Two minutes to the turn.’
‘Two minutes, aye,’ I replied, bringing the rifle down slowly, looking for the stick I’d stuck in the ground, the one that marked 200 metres. So much snow had fallen it was half-buried. I panned across, picking out the route they’d take. ‘Where’s Sting?’
‘Bringing up the rear,’ said Ringo. ‘As per.’
I flexed my arms and settled in again, eye to the scope. ‘Time to turn?’
‘Thirty seconds. Going in now.’
I flexed my hands for the final time, holding my breath. On the radio there was a scuffle, shouting, cursing as Ringo skied into Sting, taking him out while Bono and Bob skied on, oblivious. The scuffle eased, steps crunched through the snow.
‘Shit,’ Ringo buzzed. ‘Bad news.’
‘You slowed Sting?’
‘Yeah, yeah, but I lost the other two in the trees. And the guy with him isn’t Bono.’
I lifted my head and blinked a few times. ‘What do you mean?’
‘It’s Midge today, Bono must have stayed in the cafe.’
‘Bono always takes point. Are you sure?’
‘He’s not hard to miss, is he? Size of him… Bono is definitely not here.’
‘Shit. The one day we needed them to stick to routine.’
‘It makes no difference to the plan,’ said Lennon.
‘Means I can’t shoot the motherfucker though.’ I settled back to the scope. ‘They still in formation?’
‘I… I think they’ve switched places.’ Ringo’s voice had risen in pitch.
‘Is Bob front or rear?’ I asked.
‘Ten seconds until they’re on you.’
‘I need to know which is Bob!’
Lennon’s voice broke in. ‘They always go Bob in the middle, Sting at the rear. They’ll stick to that. Bob is
second.’
‘But that’s when Bono is on point. If it’s Midge…’ I angled up slowly, to the left of the lone pine, finger tensing up on the trigger, thumb sliding the safety off.
Two figures shot into view, slicing through the powder.
‘Three hundred metres.’
I tracked them down the slope as they slowed for the turn into the narrow pass. They wore identical gear, scarves up to their noses now the sun had dipped below the peaks. The last run of the day. The last opportunity this side of Christmas. One of the skiers tucked in behind the other.
‘Ringo, I need to know which is Bob.’
The duo skied on, nearing the pole which represented the kill zone.
‘Ringo?’
‘I… I don’t know. It’s on you.’
I put the red dot on the first figure. They slowed to walking pace, skier one looking back over his shoulder to talk to skier two. I panned to skier two, who was nodding. My 200-metre stick marker flashed past behind them. Any second now they’d accelerate as the ground straightened and dipped into the trees. I controlled my breathing and tried to speak calmly to avoid the dot jumping around.
‘Lennon, you ready?’
‘Go. Remember, Bob always goes second.’
I was cursing Bono’s decision not to ski today, did the guy have a sixth sense? Now I was faced with identical figures, impossible to differentiate height or mass as they flashed past in a crouch. I followed them both, every second an extra couple of metres closer to me, narrowing the angle, shortening the window, increasing the risk. Both skiers faced forward now, poles up, tucking in. I gently squeezed the trigger. The merest flash of neon orange as the first figure turned to look back, passing my second marker, 150 metres, I was out of time.
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