‘Shoot the first guy,’ said Lennon.
A curl of hair stuck out from under the skier’s hat. They’d switched places. I swung the rifle onto the second skier, adjusting for the reduced distance. ‘Lennon, heads up in five seconds, four, three…’ I exhaled and held my breath.
The rifle punched into my shoulder, the heavy .450 Bushmaster round exiting the Ruger’s suppressor at 1,500 mph with enough energy to put down an elephant. After a hundred metres the bullet was still travelling with nearly eight times the energy of your average handgun round over the same distance. The bodyguard was no elephant.
The bullet slammed home, burrowing and expanding through soft flesh to obliterate his chest. He kept going, delayed reaction, before slumping sideways, legs following. The skis flashed in the sun as he slipped, almost in slow motion, over the edge of the precipice.
The suppressor hadn’t dampened the sound like it would a small-calibre handgun, you can’t silence shit like that. I swung onto Bob. In my scope he looked up, searching for the source of the sound, confusion painted on his actions. He glanced round, couldn’t see his bodyguard, looked over his other shoulder, but still he kept going. His mind would be whirring now, wondering where his buddy had gone, wondering what the noise had been, slowly putting two and two together in real time in my cross hairs.
There was a loud whump sound in the earpiece, followed by a bout of German swearing. ‘Flachwichser,’ said Lennon. ‘He bounced, just missed me.’
Bob was thirty metres from me now, the penny had finally dropped.
Twenty metres from me he started to turn, pulling down his scarf.
I tugged a loop of cable tied around my wrist.
Fifteen metres from me he turned his skis, digging his poles to help him stop.
Too late.
He hit the cable sideways, folding in half. The cable which had now leapt out from being buried, to exactly knee height. He’d turned side-on, momentum carrying his body over the wire, landing on the other side in a tangle of skis, cable and confusion.
‘Bob is down.’
I exploded from the hide, sliding the few metres down the snow bank, running over to the struggling figure. He heard me and turned just as the palm of my hand flattened his nose. I crouched beside him.
‘Ringo, status on Sting?’
‘Two minutes from the turn.’
‘Stop him.’
The man on the ground gurgled behind the broken nose and reached up. I slammed a fist into the baggy jacket, into the belly behind. He went limp, gasping.
I pulled a syringe from my jacket pocket, biting the cap off, bringing it in hard against his neck. It only took seconds from depressing the plunger for the writhing to stop.
‘Ringo, where’s Sting?’
I pulled off my gloves and patted Bob’s body down, finding his phone in a chest pocket. It lit up as I waved it. I took a guess, pulled off his right glove, and rested his thumb on it. It unlocked, a bright screen filled with apps. The phone would contain valuable information; I scrolled looking for the settings, then went in and tried to remove the phone’s lock. It asked me for a passcode before it’d let me change the settings, an existing passcode I had no way of knowing.
‘Fucking hell, Ringo, gimme an update. Where’s Sting?’
‘Sorry, he got by me.’ Ringo panted. ‘He’ll be on you in sixty seconds.’
I flicked open a carpet knife from a leg pocket and pushed it into the man’s thumb, slicing a chunk of flesh down to the bone, then pulled his glove back on. I took out a sandwich bag, scooped a fistful of snow into it, and dropped the thumbprint in. The bag and phone zipped securely into my pocket.
I pulled out the smartwatch I’d bought in the village and fastened it to his wrist, then yanked off his hat, throwing it over the cliff, and took a canvas shopper bag from my pocket. I pulled it over his head, tugging a drawstring tight under his chin.
‘Ringo, fucking kill Sting, NOW!’
I unclipped the tripwire from a cam set in a boulder near the edge, threw the cable over, then removed the cam from the crack. Off my shoulder came a simple figure-of-eight climbing harness, which I looped under Bob’s arms and pulled tight, dragging him to the boulders at the edge of the precipice.
‘Sting’s making the turn,’ said Ringo. ‘I’m on my way.’
I clipped another carabiner with a short rope on to Bob’s harness. ‘Radio silence,’ I said, looking back at my snow hide, at my rifle and bag. A silhouette was growing against the darkening sky as Sting approached. Already nervous following his encounter with Ringo, he could easily screw the job, or at least make things difficult. He had a radio on him, not to mention a weapon.
I placed the cam in a crack in a boulder I’d earmarked earlier, attached the rope, and lowered Bob over the edge. The rope slipped, he dropped a few feet and jerked to a stop, the cam biting hard into the rock. I slid over after him until I was standing on his shoulders, gripping the rope with my head just above the edge.
I had to hope Sting didn’t notice the blood and scuffed-up snow, hope he’d ski straight past.
We hung together, creaking in the wind, Bob’s unconscious body attached to the rope, me standing on him. The cam was placed in the boulder directly in front of me, I could see the teeth jammed into a centimetre of rock, all that was stopping us from dropping. I know these things are up to it and can hold more than us, but logic went out the window the moment I looked down. One wrong move and there was nothing between my boots and the sharp rocks 120 metres below.
I screwed my eyes shut, trying to control my breathing as my heart pounded ever faster. Visions of McCartney’s broken body at the bottom of the ravine played in a loop through my head. The wind rustled the pines along the edge, dropping snow across us. Then another noise, the hiss of skis on snow, approaching slowly. I crouched lower, pulling my head down, holding on to the rope. The hissing stopped.
Shuffling in the snow above: he’d seen something. The tracks, the glistening red on the fresh snow… Something had stopped him. I tentatively moved one hand to my pocket. The rope creaked, we started to spin round. My pocket was empty, my pistol wasn’t there.
I gripped the rope with both hands again and slowly raised my head. A dark figure crouched below my hide, looking at the disturbed snow. My pistol was still in my bag in the hide, along with the rifle that he was sure to see if he just climbed a couple of feet up the bank.
I reached up and scooped snow in my fist, made a snowball, pulled myself up higher, and launched it at the trees further along the edge to my right. He didn’t see it but his head snapped sideways as it crashed through the branches. He jumped his skis round and slowly slid towards it, reaching in his pocket, either for his radio or his pistol. Where the fuck is Ringo?
I hauled myself up the rope, sliding belly-first along the ground. When I was behind the boulders I pushed onto my knees, moving round them as the figure slid the other way. He’d reached the trees hanging over the ravine, and I could see now he’d gone for his pistol over the radio.
My crampons dug in as I launched towards him.
He turned as I approached, surprise switching to fear. He should have pulled his radio, called it in immediately. He scrabbled at his jacket with one hand, trying to unzip it as he brought the pistol up in the other but too late, I was on him.
I stood on his skis, with his boots locked to them his legs may as well have been encased in concrete, he tried instinctively to back away but lost his balance and almost pitched sideways without my help, throwing his gun arm out to steady himself. I helped him on his way with a fist to the head, which he blocked easily with his other hand, the trade-off putting himself further off balance. I pulled my knife, he whipped the pistol down. I adjusted and swung the knife up into his wrist, he grunted, hand springing open. The pistol dropped without a shot, bounced off a root and disappeared over the edge.
He snarled and swung a fist, I jumped to my right, off his skis, into the trees along the edge, yanking him toward
s me, bringing my boot up. The skis slid out from under him, he stumbled, clawing at the knife embedded in his arm. I slammed my boot down into his thigh, felt the crampons bite flesh, he roared and collapsed on the edge of the ravine. At the last minute he grabbed for my jacket, dragging me with him. The branches parted to reveal empty space, we landed side by side, heads sticking out over the long drop.
His hands went for my neck, I felt his blood hot on my cheek. I pushed out with my feet, crampons digging into the snow. Our shoulders slid over the edge. Gloved fingers clawed my face, going for my eyes. I bent my legs, extended again, digging in, pushing. He tried to counteract but his skis were tangled, boots useless, all he had to stop himself were his hands, and they were currently wrapped around me. His thumb found my right eye socket and pressed hard, fortunately his thick gloves prevented him from doing real damage. I thrust out again, hard, sliding over the edge up to my stomach, momentum doing the rest as we slid over. At the last moment I grabbed for a branch of the nearest tree.
He had a split-second choice to make, and predictably made the wrong one. He’d been focused on me, hadn’t fully realised the danger, and now it was too late. He scrabbled then gripped even tighter, huge fingers now encircling my neck as we slipped all the way over. I kicked his skis away, he pressed harder but he was done and knew it. There was a flash of realisation in his eyes, fear, panic, then he was gone, all without a word.
‘Lennon, look up!’
A blast of static a few seconds later followed by another bout of German swearing indicated the bodyguard had made it to Lennon waiting at the bottom.
I swung my legs back up, slid round the tree, pushed back onto the snow, giving myself a few seconds’ rest. Just from that short burst of action my lungs burned, arms ached, heart raced. It raced too much these days. If I had a set number of beats in my life I was going through them far too quickly. I was overdrawn on time, past life expectancy for someone in my profession. These were reminders I should be getting out, not limping from one job to the next.
‘Where’s Sting?’ asked Ringo, sliding to a stop beside me.
Chapter Thirty-four
Tiburon
I swung in the darkness, rope wrapped around my right wrist several times, clutching the loose end in both hands. As I slowly paid it out it slid over the railing and down to me, lowering me towards the glow from the cabin window below. Centimetre by centimetre I let out the rope, keeping it tight around my wrist, fingers burning. I realised as I dropped lower I actually got further away from the window, as the ship climbed upwards and swung me out towards the stern.
I looked down past my trainers at the churning water at the back of the ship, huge props pushing us onward, up, then we levelled off. I braced myself, holding tight. The ship groaned, every rivet strained, the screws lifted out of the sea, spinning wildly for a moment, it seemed like they were metres from my feet, I lifted my legs and gripped the rope even tighter, then the ship dropped forward, the rope swung, I bounced along the side of the ship, letting rope slip from my arms as I did, dropping lower as I swung forward.
I hit the window seam, bouncing painfully off, kicking at the glass, trainers squeaking and sliding and then I was flailing past it. I wrapped the rope tighter around both wrists, holding on as the ship hit the bottom, the crash reverberating through every girder and weld. Something moved at the window, a shadow across the light, the glass opened an inch.
‘Fields!’ I shouted above the roar of the waves.
The window opened further as I swung back, I turned and angled my feet first, they slid off the glass and bounced against the window frame. I braced against it, my grip on the rope slipped, I dropped a foot, grabbing tight, wrapping it round my arm some more. The window opened fully, a silhouette appeared.
‘Tyler?’ It was Marty. ‘What the hell are you doing?’ She grabbed my arm.
‘What the hell does it look like?’ The screws churned beneath me again, we started to level off. ‘Pull me in!’
Marty had her arms out of the window, holding my wrist, Fields was next to her but there was little room for them both to help. I let go of the rope with one hand and reached up, catching hold of the porthole opening. The rope slipped off the railing and dropped into the sea, I kicked it away and reached for the window. Another hand grabbed my arm, pulling up in a last-ditch effort, this time I managed to grab the metal edge. A hand grabbed my collar, hauling me up, I pulled and got my head in, my shoulders, soon the sharp edge of the window was digging into my wound dressing as I dragged myself over it and down inside.
I fell onto the bed, Marty beside me. Fields pulled the window shut behind us and then stood looking down at me, expecting answers.
He didn’t get them as the door pounded.
‘Open up,’ shouted Miller.
‘What the fuck is going on,’ Marty hissed.
I held a finger to my lips and slipped into the bathroom, motioning for Fields to open up as I closed the door and locked it.
I heard him opening the cabin door as I stripped off my wet jeans and socks.
‘Where is he?’ Miller shouted, there was a scuffle, I could picture him pushing into the room.
‘Where’s who?’ Fields asked.
‘Don’t be a fucking smartass,’ Miller replied. Noises, muttering, I could hear Katanga speaking to someone else. I pulled off my T-shirt.
‘Tyler, where’s Tyler?’ Miller continued. ‘He’s not in his cabin. Kat, get Seb, I want this ship turned upside down. He gives you any trouble, shoot first.’
‘I won’t give you any trouble,’ I shouted.
‘Tyler?’ He banged on the bathroom door. ‘What the hell are you doing?’
I wrapped a towel around my waist and unlocked the door. ‘What do you think?’
Katanga and Poubelle held their rifles up in the doorway.
‘There’s a perfectly good shower in your cabin,’ said Miller as he looked me up and down.
The dressing Doc had applied had been ripped off, the stiches held but fresh blood was trickling across the towel. I put a hand over it and looked at Miller. ‘There’s safety in numbers.’
‘You need Doc again?’
‘Since when did you care? What do you want, anyway?’
‘Need you on the bridge.’
‘You’ll forgive me if I’m not overly enthusiastic about that.’
‘Situation’s changed.’
‘The situation changed when one of your crew…’ I looked at Katanga and Poubelle, the fewer people knew about my dead prisoner the better, ‘…when one of your crew murdered my mate.’
Miller looked down at the floor, muttered something, and walked over to me. Marty flinched, I waved her hand away from her holster.
‘The shit has hit the fan,’ Miller whispered.
‘Let me get dressed, I’ll be ten minutes.’
Chapter Thirty-five
Château des Aigles
Two days ago
Hanging from the rope, the unconscious man swayed in the wind rushing up the vertical rock face. I lay on the snow, braced against the rocks, holding the other end of the rope. I squeezed the descender gear gently, the rope passed through as our cargo was lowered down to Lennon and the car waiting below.
Ringo strapped his skis together and picked up the rifle. ‘Told you this Ruger would put him over the edge. You can keep your Heckler & Koch.’
‘Didn’t so much put him over the edge as vaporise him. We all clean back there?’
He nodded. ‘Some spray but most of it went over with him. I’ve wiped down everything I could see.’
He crunched over to my hide. I’d already checked it over, packing my gear into the rucksack on my back. He paused, bending down. ‘One spot of blood.’ He kicked at the snow. ‘Gone.’
‘Package down,’ said Lennon in my earpiece. ‘All yours.’
The rope went slack, I pulled off my gloves and opened the descender. Ringo pulled on a climbing harness and slung the rifle over his back. I looped the e
nd of the rope through the cam still wedged into the boulder, tying it off.
I gave Ringo a nod then crouched to remove my crampons. I grabbed my harness and pulled it on, made sure my pistol was secure in my jacket pocket, and gave the place one last look-over. The sun was down, darkness descending rapidly. In another hour the snow would cover the tracks, there’d be nothing left to say any of us were ever here. I clipped the crampons to my harness and looked back at Ringo, he’d already started, only his head now visible above the edge.
He nodded and waved. ‘Don’t look down.’
I ignored his advice and leaned over to watch him dropping down the face to the waiting car. The Porsche’s headlights cut a path through the whirling snow in the narrow pass far below, I leaned back in, breathing heavily. I tightened the straps of my harness, slackened them off and re-tightened them as I waited.
‘All yours,’ Ringo finally said through the radio.
I opened my descender and threaded the rope through. I locked it, opened it, checked it again. I went through this cycle several more times before I finally snapped it onto the carabiner on my harness. Far below, the figures loaded the car. I looked back at the cam wedged securely in the boulder, breathed in, held it, trying to stop my hands shaking, finally leaning back, over the abyss, boots firmly planted on the edge. I brought one hand down to the descender but quickly grabbed the rope again, still shaking.
‘FUCK,’ I shouted.
I eased back and let the rope take my weight. I didn’t go anywhere, the rope could have held all of us without breaking, the more weight on the descender the harder it gripped the rope. I knew all this, of course, and had relied on it umpteen times before, but it never got easier. Another glance at the lights below, I let go of the rope, squeezed the descender, and walked backwards over the edge.
I hung from my harness, boots planted against the rock face, the worst bit over. I squeezed the handle of the descender gently, slowly creeping down the rope.
A sharp crack echoed, flecks of stone hit my face. I looked at a fresh gash in the rock next to my boot, then glanced down at the car below. A flash next to it, another bang, there was a sharp tug on my jacket. He was getting closer, the bastard. I’d sighted the Ruger for 200 metres, Ringo’s next shot wouldn’t miss.
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