I slung the empty rifle onto my back and pulled round the MP5. No voices left on the radio now, not even any breathing. Good.
Chapter Forty-seven
Tiburon
I had a perfect view along both directions of the central passageway of the ship, seated half in the radio room, chair wedged into the doorway. Through the window overlooking the stern, the oppressive sky was pushing the sun into the sea. We were in the dead of winter: it’d be pitch black again soon. The darkening sky had brought with it a return of the waves crashing over the bow, so far not as severe as the previous night’s storm, but a far cry from the fat, rolling seas of the morning.
From my spot in the doorway I could see the door to the saloon, also wedged open, inside the adjoining galley Doc was cooking a stew that I certainly wouldn’t be eating. If he stepped foot outside, I’d know about it. Next to the door I could see the foot of the stairs up to the bridge, where Katanga was keeping us on a direct course to south Devon. Behind me in the radio room, Nic monitored traffic, weather, and anything from the authorities, while also scanning news articles to give me the latest from La Rochelle.
‘Divers have brought a car up,’ he said, holding his laptop out to the side to show me a picture of a mangled BMW M5 hanging from a crane, dripping onto the similarly mangled wreckage of a yacht. ‘What actually happened?’
I turned the page of an old, dogeared magazine on my lap. ‘Probably driving too fast.’
‘It says the car has bullet holes in it.’
I tutted, shook my head. ‘Road rage.’
He put his headphones on and went back to the radio. I rested my pistol on the magazine and looked at my watch, 5:30 p.m. Since getting both engines online Vincent had managed to increase our speed to thirty knots, forging through the swell towards the narrow, deepwater inlet that would take us to the village of Combe Wyndham, and hopefully our route inland.
Unfortunately, our pursuers had also increased speed and were now within spitting distance.
Voices drifted up from below, Miller leading the crew plus Fields back up. He appeared round the corner shaking his head at me, his confirmation that Seb was nowhere to be found.
‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Hours, we’ve checked every single space, even ’tween decks and the spaces down in the bilges, the tanks, under the engine room floor… He’s not on this ship.’
Fields stepped round him, holding his hand out. ‘Found these in the workshop though.’
Brass cartridges glinted in the light. Mine, from when Seb had tried to kill me.
I picked one up. ‘Nine-millimetre. Marty used a nine-mil Walther PDP.’
Miller grimaced. ‘That’s what we figured, though if she did for him I can’t say I’m overly distraught. I’d throw the bastard over myself just for messing with my engines.’
Poubelle clapped Fields on the back. ‘Looks like maybe your assassin wasn’t just here for you.’
Fields grunted. ‘That’s comforting.’
Miller looked past me. ‘Any noise on the radio?’
Nic lifted the headphones from his ear and shook his head. ‘Whoever they are, they’re running silent now.’
‘How’s the weather looking?’ he asked.
‘It’ll be rough but we’ve had worse. Tide’s on our side at least; it’s high now, it’ll still be deep enough.’
Miller nodded. ‘At least that’s something.’
‘Gentlemen, dinner is served,’ Doc announced from the saloon doorway.
I poured the cartridges back into Miller’s rough paw and stood, stretching, as Poubelle, Vincent, and Fields followed their stomachs into the saloon. Nic got up from the desk and pushed round me.
‘You coming?’ Miller asked.
I looked up and down the passageway. ‘I can wait until we get to a Maccy Ds on the mainland, thanks.’
‘Suit yerself.’ He glanced round at the swinging saloon door and leaned in close. ‘Did Marty kill Seb?’
‘No.’ I left it there.
He pointed down at my pistol on the chair, at the lettering etched into the slide. ‘That says nine-millimetre.’ His eyebrows lifted.
I slid it into my holster. ‘You better go get some tea.’
He continued to watch me through narrowed eyes for a moment then walked away to join the others.
Pulling the chair into the radio room, I closed the door, got down on my hands and knees, wincing as the dressing on my side split, and crawled to the radio sets. Leads ran from them under the desk, where everything was plugged into an extension. I pulled it from the wall, took out my knife, and unscrewed the plug. I pulled the fuse out, screwed it together, and pushed it back into the wall.
I scrawled some calculations on a pad of paper and left it in the middle of the desk along with a note at the bottom of the page. Arrive Devon 6:30 p.m. At thirty knots they can’t overtake us now. Full power, easy.
I left the door open and walked to the lounge. The TV was on, picking up the BBC now we were off Cornwall, a pointless Christmas gameshow with a celeb panel. The crew and Fields were all seated round the two tables; the only man missing was Katanga on the bridge.
I leaned in the doorway, hanging on to the frame. ‘Miller, I’m gonna wait ’til we hit land to eat.’
‘Yeah, okay,’ he looked puzzled at my repetition, waving his fork, ‘suit yourself.’
I nodded, started to leave, then swung back in again. ‘And I’ve been exercising my maths, we’re home free.’
The others looked up.
‘How so?’
‘We’re not making much less speed than the boat that’s following us. We’ll make it to Devon comfortably, no problem.’
Miller cocked his head, forehead furrowed, but the other faces lit up at the prospect of not having to deal with a boatload of armed bastards. I watched Vincent carefully, but if anything other than food was on his mind he was hiding it well. He glanced up at me, I turned away.
‘Good times,’ said Fields.
I smiled at him. ‘I’m gonna go wait up on the bridge until we dock.’
Chapter Forty-eight
Tiburon
‘So how far’s the dot?’ I asked, squinting at the radar screen.
‘Just over the horizon,’ said Katanga, flicking a thumb over his shoulder.
‘And Devon?’
‘Over the other horizon.’ He nodded ahead out of the black window.
‘What are our chances?’
‘Non-existent.’ He grimaced. ‘We’re at full speed.’
‘At least the engines are holding. So far so good.’
‘That is what the man said as he fell off the roof.’ He smiled. ‘Give it time.’
‘At least the weather’s better.’
‘She’s on the change, Mr Tyler. Another storm coming in.’
He pointed out of the port window, where the sky roiled black. I couldn’t see the difference myself, but the look on Katanga’s face said it was about to get hairy again. I opened the outside door, feeling the blast of frigid winter air, the rain and salt spray stinging my skin.
‘What you doing, man?’
‘Take this.’ I dug around in my pocket and held out my hand.
‘A fuse?’ He held it up to the light. ‘What…’
‘Keep hold of it for now. I didn’t fancy anyone talking to that yacht on the radio, not yet. You’ll need to put it back in after.’
‘After what?’
‘I’m going outside.’
‘I just told you, weather’s coming!’
I gave him a wink. ‘I may be some time.’
I stepped out onto the wing and closed the door, leaving him wondering. I waited for the ship to right itself then launched down the slippy metal steps to the deck. The sea was black again now we were nearing the end of our journey. At the bottom I slid sideways, grabbing the railing, out of the main glare of the spotlights attached to the front of the superstructure. I clung to the railings as I made my way forward. Above me, Katanga watched, I could see the
confusion on his face. In the saloon below shapes moved past the windows, I had to be quick. Katanga switched on the powerful work lamps on the cranes to help me as I neared my car, I turned and waved, making a cutting motion across my neck, they flicked off.
My knuckles ached on the cold metal as we dropped down a wave, I gave my eyes a few seconds to adjust, looking out across the charcoal sky. In the distance, a dim glow reflected off the clouds, visible only because the rest of the sky was so dark. The mainland. The glow disappeared as we hit the bottom, I gripped tighter as white water engulfed the foredeck, spray shooting up and soaking me. As the ship groaned and started its ascent I lurched for my car, grabbing the door handle to steady myself. I gave the roof a tap and headed for the forward hatch down into the hold.
I knew neither Seb nor Marty had clocked Nic over the head. And I was willing to bet that now that person thought we were home free and there’d be no payday, and they couldn’t use the radio to contact our pursuers, they’d resort to less subtle methods.
Chapter Forty-nine
Château des Aigles
Two days ago
It had taken me nearly ten minutes to check the bodies. I was slowing down, reflexes dulling, yet I’d just bested at least twelve men – probably more, I didn’t check all the remains in the burning chalet. No use kidding myself, though, they had definitely not sent their A-team. There was that complacency again.
None carried any ID, which was to be expected. The runic 88s, Sonnenrads, Wolfsangels, and other far-right tats adorning the bloodstained necks and faces told me enough. Unlikely to be military or professional mercs employed by the group, these were thuggish incels drawn to the cause, probably handy in a fight but evidently not a gunfight, and not when they came up against someone who’d spent their adult life hopping between war zones from South America to East Asia.
The only one I recognised was a German guy we’d nicknamed Simon Le Bon, a former KSK operative who’d been discharged for far-right extremism. I reckoned he’d led the assault team – more fool him, as most of him was still steaming, spread as he was across the decking out back. Seemed he’d taken a fair amount of the blast from the gas explosion and been blown out the bedroom window.
Bono was not among them, which told me two things – that their best was yet to come, and that it was likely in the form of a team in reserve somewhere nearby, waiting. For what, I couldn’t know, but I suspected I’d find out the hard way as I tried to get off the mountain.
A shame, because no way could I lug two people off the mountain on foot. I’d crammed Ringo into the boot with the target, laid my HK rifle on the rear seat and the MP5 in the passenger footwell.
Now I was shivering in a layby, engine off, letting the fat flakes settle on the windscreen and bonnet that hadn’t been running long enough to have warmed up. Sat waiting for the sirens.
I’d called the police before I’d left, swept the second chalet clean of anything – not difficult since I’d hardly used it. No evidence of my occupation left, but I’d set it burning anyway. Now, despite the carnage, several bodies, and a hundred or so shell casings scattered around, it was doubtful anything would be traced back to me – plus Holderness would have me covered. As soon as the cops figured out who these guys were, French intelligence would be all over it to suppress it with fake news stories. Behind the scenes they’d be livid, but that wasn’t my problem.
The sirens were closing. I looked through the narrow gap where I’d opened my window, squinting through the blizzard at the blue lights pulsing off the drifts. If my theory was correct, there’d be a team waiting at the bottom of the road to intercept me, should I make it past their hit squad. That team – having no doubt seen the explosion, heard those first accounts of the firefight, and then been out of radio contact for nearly ten minutes – would be extremely wary and extremely trigger-happy.
But the police would clear the way for me.
The flashing lights swept past with an accompanying wail, two four-wheel drives on their way to investigate my frantic call about an explosion and possible gunfire. I waited until the lights had rounded the corner then put her in gear, turned the key, and – keeping the lights off for now – pulled out from the layby. The wipers kept the blizzard at bay as I turned down the hillside, flashing lights and orange glow now far above in my rear-view mirror. I floored it, sliding the corner, flicked the headlights on. I raced down the hill before the path in front was blocked. If I was that second team I’d have had spikes or a van across the road. They’d have moved them for the police but I now had to get through before they closed the door again.
The lights of the main road shone bright up ahead, I changed up, not braking for the junction, flying out into the road sideways, engine screaming, all wheels spinning. No gunshots, no cars, no tail. I slowed for an upcoming corner; headlights in front revealed upcoming traffic, lights flared, it was a fire engine following the gendarmes. I dropped my speed, not wanting to give them anything to tell the gendarmes about when they reached the burning chalet.
As I watched the flashing lights in my mirror something else caught my eye. A car had pulled out of a side street and was accelerating behind me, headlights off. I changed down, burying the loud pedal and feeling the tyres seeking out the best route across the hard-packed snow.
The headlights turned on in my mirror. A big BMW, possibly a 5 Series.
Round the corner I planted it to the floor and used a straight to put as much distance between us as possible. Several seconds later, and way behind me, the lights came round the corner, the angle of the beams slicing through the falling snow telling me they’d taken it sideways. The headlights slewed one way then the other as the driver fought the ice to accelerate. I flicked my eyes back to the road.
I wove through the meandering alpine roads as fast as the tyres allowed, clawing miles from them, using every advantage my four-wheel drive could bring to bear. I glanced at the fuel gauge, half a tank left. A fair bit in most cars but in this you can practically see the needle dropping, especially with the revs constantly soaring on the ice.
I roared past the garden centre where we’d acquired the Porsche the week before. The light behind was a pinprick in the mirror, only visible on long straights before disappearing round rocky walls in the tight mountain passes.
The road widened as it wound lower, the snow thinned as the altitude dropped until, after a few minutes, I was firmly on tarmac and able to double my speed while they still had to negotiate the iced corners. No lights behind now.
Drivers on the right always turn right when evading a tail: it’s an easier, quicker turn – just like left turns are easier in the UK. That’s what police are taught, and it’s the logic I used on the outskirts of a town when I took a left instead, cutting through a Super U car park onto a main road through a light industrial area, business parks and garages and DIY stores. Still no lights. I swung right at a traffic lights and immediately left again, snow piled at the side of the road against factories and warehouses. The road turned, I followed around the edge of town until I exited to the west onto a dual carriageway where I could dial up the speed even more.
Geneva 50 km, the sign flashed past quickly, I followed it onto the autoroute. The revs climbed in time with the speedo, 100, 120, 130, 135 miles per hour, I eased off and watched the mirror. Nothing. I gave the road my full attention, dialled it up to 150 miles per hour, held it there as long as I dared, until a mental image of me wrapped round a bridge support climbed to the front of my mind. The road was wide and clear, no cars and no snow, but that didn’t mean no ice. I had four-wheel drive and the best snow tyres on, the rubber compound gave fantastic grip in low temperatures – none of that matters on ice. On ice, four-wheel drive can just mean twice the number of spinning wheels.
I eased down to 115 miles per hour, which still seemed like overkill given my pursuers were probably way back still navigating at a crossroads somewhere in the town. The miles passed by, almost one every thirty seconds, the fuel n
eedle dropped lower and lower.
It was a dicey strategy: bored gendarmes had a notorious distaste for British numberplates, and could be lurking anywhere – not to mention I was burning through petrol I couldn’t afford to waste. I waited another minute then eased it down to eighty and checked the fuel gauge again. I had thirty miles or so if I held at this speed, just enough to get to Geneva.
Chapter Fifty
Tiburon, off the south Devon coast
I dropped quickly down the pitching ladder at the front of the hold. The lights still flickered ominously, the neon characters and deck-spinning DJ dripping down the rusty walls still scowled down at me, the ghosts still whispered from every rivet and weld. I ignored them all as I crossed the heaving tread plates in worsening waves, the rolling motion juddering through the keel, the laboured groans and shrieks of the old ship desperate to make it to port. Murky water splashed up across my trainers, the stink of saltwater, oil, the constant racking cough of the bilge pumps.
I climbed the ladder up to the platform as quickly as possible then stopped to pull out my pistol. I cocked it, held it down low, remembering how easily Seb had knocked it over the railings into the hold. Not gonna happen again.
I stepped silently through the doorway into the gloomy red access corridor, pausing outside the door into the workshop. A Russian warning sign was painted in red, the German sticker which had been stuck over it peeled and cracked. Damn right there was danger, but not the kind they’d been worried about.
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