by Chris Ryan
‘Tucker, go get my phone out of the truck. Call Sheriff Tatum. Tell him he needs to haul his fat ass over here, right this fuckin’ minute.’
‘Why, uncle? What’s in there?’
‘Dammit, boy, just do as I say!’
Kid Rock got the message. He spun away, giving his back to Cooper and Street as he set off up the gravel path towards the Hilux.
Billy Bob still had the Remington sighted on Bald and Porter. Eight metres between the operators and the redneck. Wilbur stood on the porch, his rat-like gaze fixed on Kid Rock.
We’re fucked, Porter told himself.
As soon as the sheriff arrived, they could forget about any hope of escape. Porter could see it all playing out in front of him. Arrest for the murder and kidnap of two federal agents. Life sentences in a super-max prison, if they were lucky.
Death by lethal injection, if they weren’t.
Shafted by a bunch of gap-toothed hillbillies.
Kid Rock was five metres up the drive now. Fifteen metres from the pickup. From inside the cabin, Silver Hair screamed again.
‘Stay here,’ Wilbur said to Billy Bob. ‘I’m gonna check the rest of the rooms. Make sure there ain’t no more nasty surprises.’
‘Sure thing, Wilbur.’
The old-timer nodded. Turned back towards the door.
Then his head exploded.
TWENTY-ONE
Porter was three metres from Wilbur when he heard the gunshot.
In his peripheral vision he saw Cooper standing five metres away, on the opposite side of the porch. P30 in his right hand.
Billy Bob had been focused on Bald and Porter. The obvious threats. Kid Rock had turned away from the porch. Wilbur had stepped towards the cabin door, giving his back to the others. There had been no eyes on Cooper or Street for a split second. Long enough for Cooper to draw his weapon and squeeze off a round at the nearest redneck.
The 9x19mm Parabellum round smashed into the side of Wilbur’s head and exited somewhere out of the base of his skull. Bone and brain matter pebble-dashed the cabin door. Porter felt the splashback, warm drops of blood spattering his face as Wilbur dropped to the porch, loose and heavy and fast.
Billy Bob didn’t react at first. He just stood dumbly on the spot. Which didn’t surprise Porter. The guy was suffering from sensory overload. His brain was trying to process the cold hard fact of his brother’s sudden death, along with a load of other information. It took a second for the lizard part of his brain to engage. Billions of years of evolution kicked in, telling him he had an urgent threat to his existence to deal with. It took another second for him to identify the shooter as Cooper, and a third to arc the Remington rifle towards the new target.
Three whole seconds.
By which time Porter had whipped out the Glock 22 from the back of his cargo trousers.
Billy Bob had no time to adjust to the new threat. He was still bringing the hunting rifle to bear on Cooper when he glimpsed the gun in Porter’s right hand. Then he froze.
Billy Bob’s face was a picture of indecision, his eyes flicking between Porter and Cooper. Do I shoot this guy, or do I shoot that guy? He looked like an audience member at a magic show, trying to decide which cup the ball was under, left or right.
He needn’t have worried about it.
Porter squeezed the trigger and made the decision for him.
The Glock 22 barked. A tongue of flame licked out of the snout, an instant before the .40 S&W round thumped into Billy Bob’s chest, just above the right pectoral. There was a lot of vital plumbing in there. Heart, lungs, plus several major blood vessels. The force of the impact spun Billy Bob away from Porter. He did a kind of drunken pirouette and then tumbled to the dirt. In the next moment, Porter heard a series of shots ringing out. Three of them in quick succession.
Half a metre away at his three o’clock, the cabin window shattered. Another bullet thwacked into the timbers below the window, showering Cooper and Street with wooden splinters as they dived to the floor.
He didn’t see where the third shot hit.
Porter automatically ducked low, then glanced up. He saw Kid Rock in the middle of the drive, fifteen metres away, holding the Smith & Wesson in a crap single-handed shooting stance as he emptied rounds at the Brits. Bald hit the deck in the same instant as Kid Rock unloaded another two rounds at them. The bullets whipped over Bald’s head and thudded into the open doorframe over Bald’s head, missing him by a matter of inches.
The kid turned and made a run for the Hilux.
Porter’s training instincts took over. Every muscle in his body was working in cooperation, ingrained with decades of fighting experience. He remembered reading somewhere that you needed to practise something for ten thousand hours before you became good at it. Porter had spent many more hours than that in the Regiment, down the shooting ranges and on ops.
This is what I’m good at.
Killing.
He took up a kneeling firing position. Elevated the Glock, drawing it level with Kid Rock. The young redneck was scrambling towards the Hilux, arms and legs pumping. Porter estimated the distance between Kid Rock and the pickup at ten metres.
Beside him, Bald had also drawn his Glock.
Porter didn’t panic. He lined up Kid Rock’s slender back between the front sight post and notched rear sight. Kept the target focused, kept his trigger arm firm but relaxed.
Eight metres now. Seven metres. Six.
Porter took a breath, then fired on the exhale.
Kid Rock was five metres from the pickup when the round slammed into his upper back. He jolted and went down as if someone had hit him with a sledgehammer. The Smith & Wesson clattered to the dirt a few inches to his right.
The kid rolled onto his front, coughing up blood. Some sort of primal instinct made him reach for the revolver. Then Porter heard a double-bark from Bald’s Glock as the latter emptied a pair of rounds at Kid Rock.
The rounds nailed Kid Rock in the back and neck.
The kid stopped moving.
Silence descended over the cabin, broken only by the wet sucking noise coming from the hole in Billy Bob’s chest. Porter looked over at the others. Bald had moved forward, side-footing the Remington away from Billy Bob’s grasp.
Cooper was on his feet, rushing over to Street. The latter was lying face down on the porch, his hands placed over his head, his body trembling. Cooper bent down, checking him for injuries.
‘It’s alright,’ he said. ‘You’re okay, Charles.’
Bald glanced at his mucker with puffed-out cheeks. ‘Jesus, mate. That was fucking hairy. Thought we’d had it for a moment.’ Porter nodded then looked towards Cooper. ‘What the fuck were you doing back there?’
Cooper swung around to face the operators. ‘Someone had to take action.’
‘Bollocks,’ Bald snarled. ‘You almost got us fucking killed. If that prick in the overalls had been any quicker, he’d have slotted me and Porter.’
‘If I hadn’t stepped in, those inbred thugs were going to jeopardise the entire mission.’
‘You should have left it to us. We had it under control.’
‘Really? Because from where I was standing, it looked very much like you were out of options. Honestly, you should be thanking me for saving your lives.’
Bald looked away, bristling with anger. Street was still lying on the front porch beside the Adirondack chairs, now curled up in a foetal ball, knees hugged tight to his chest. Porter caught sight of Wilbur lying on the cabin porch. Blood was gushing out of the huge hole in the side of his head. He turned back to Cooper.
‘Where’d you learn to use a weapon properly, anyway?’
‘I took a firearms training course when I joined counter-intelligence.’
‘You didn’t look rusty when you were blowing his head off.’
‘What can I say?’ He shrugged.
Porter stared at Cooper but didn’t say anything more. Thought, There aren’t many Vauxhall types who have got the skill
s to execute a guy in cold blood. Even fewer with the balls to pull the trigger.
Maybe there’s more to this bloke than I realised.
Bald scanned the bodies sprawled in front of the cabin. ‘These pricks might have done us a favour.’
‘How’d you mean?’
‘We can fix it to make it look as if these twats got into a bullet-pissing contest with the FBI. When their mates show up, they’ll think it was the hillbillies who slotted them, not us.’
Cooper stroked his chin, deep in thought. ‘That might actually work. It could buy us some more time to get to the safe house.’
‘But only if there were no witnesses,’ Porter said, thinking of Silver Hair.
Bald spread his hands and made a helpless gesture. ‘We’re committed, mate. We’re already deep in the shit. At least this way we’ve got a chance of getting away.’
‘I agree,’ said Cooper.
Porter shook his head. ‘Even if we made it look like the hillbillies got into a shootout with the Bureau, their investigators won’t buy it. They’ll figure out what happened soon enough. The ballistics won’t match.’
Cooper said, ‘We’re not trying to persuade a jury. We just need to muddy the investigative waters, long enough for us to get to the safe house.’
‘We don’t have time to piss around. The locals will have heard those rounds going off. They might already be on the way over.’
‘You’re forgetting where we are. Hunting is practically a way of life in West Virginia. A few gunshots won’t have alarmed the locals We’ve got time to clean this scene up.’
From inside the cabin Porter could hear Silver Hair’s gagged cries.
‘Of course,’ Cooper went on, ‘one of you will have to put that chap out of his misery.’
Bald and Porter looked at each other. Both thinking the same thing. Not me. They were seasoned operators. They had no problem with killing those who had it coming. But there was no honour in slotting a bloke who was supposedly on the same side as them. Especially when he was unarmed and handcuffed to a stove-top.
‘I’ll do it,’ Bald said at last.
‘Good man. I’ll take Charles over to the car. He needs to rest.’
Cooper smiled. He stooped down beside Street, slipped an arm around his back and slowly helped the ex-spy to his feet. The pair of them slow-walked up the drive towards the Civic, giving a wide berth to the dead kid with the Kid Rock t-shirt and the slotted Malinois.
Porter turned back to Bald. ‘You don’t have to do this.’
‘One of us has got to drop the bastard. Might as well be me.’
‘You sure about this?’
Bald shrugged. ‘What choice do we have?’
He didn’t wait for an answer. Bald stepped towards the porch, picked up the Remington 798 lying beside Wilbur’s dead body and yanked open the cabin door. Porter caught a glimpse of Silver Hair inside. The FBI agent went white with fear as he saw Bald moving towards him with the hunting rifle. Then the door swung shut.
Silver Hair screamed. As loud as a man could when he had a soiled rag stuffed into his mouth.
The Remington ca-racked.
A couple of beats passed. Then Bald stepped back outside. He nodded at Porter but avoided making eye contact. Porter tried to think of something to say to comfort his mucker, but there were no words. He just stood there in numb, cold silence.
‘Let’s do this,’ Bald said quietly.
The first priority was to move the bodies. Before they set to work, Porter tore the other sleeve off his shirt and wrapped it around the wound on his left forearm to help stem the bleeding. Once he’d secured the emergency dressing, he and Bald got to work.
They dragged Kid Rock over to the cabin and dumped him on the porch, a few paces from Wilbur and Billy Bob. Then they hefted up the FBI agent Bald had clubbed to death and carried him over to the door, using his dead mass to wedge it open. Porter took the agent’s Glock, wiped it down for prints using a floral tea towel he’d taken from one of the kitchen drawers, then placed the gun in the guy’s hand. He dumped the Smith & Wesson next to Kid Rock then emptied the last round into the front of the cabin.
Bald took the other Glock belonging to Silver Hair and dropped low beside Billy Bob, checking his pulse to make sure he was dead. Then he opened the redneck’s right hand, spreading out the fingers. Took the butt of the Glock 22 and brought it crashing down on Billy Bob’s hand, crushing the digits until all that was left was a gristly patty of knuckle and tendon.
When he was done, Bald manoeuvured across the room, positioning himself directly behind Silver Hair. He fired three rounds at Billy Bob with the agent’s Glock. Wiped down the weapon with the same floral-print tea towel. Planted the gun in Silver Hair’s stiff, cold grip. Patiently wiped down every surface they’d touched.
It was hard, hot work. Seven-thirty in the evening, the temperature outside was in the high twenties, the air in the cabin was thick with cordite and the hot stink of blood. At 1938 hours, they finally stepped out to the porch to survey their handiwork. Twenty-six minutes had passed since they had first arrived at the cabin.
Bald said, ‘Two FBI agents were searching the cabin for a suspect. The retreat owners showed up after suspecting a possible break-in. They confronted the agents on the front porch. An argument broke out.’
Porter said, ‘The lad with the baseball cap lost his nerve and opened fire, missing his targets. Special Agent Clay Kennard, after shooting the kid, was attacked by Billy Bob, who clubbed him in the face. Kennard’s partner shot and killed Billy Bob. In retaliation, Wilbur turned his weapon on the agent and slotted him.’
‘Who killed Wilbur?’
‘Special Agent Kennard turned his weapon on Wilbur, killing him before he lost consciousness. Died of his head injuries.’
‘Sounds good to me, Jock.’
Bald fumed through his nostrils. ‘This was meant to be a routine exfil.’
‘When was anything straightforward when it comes to Six?’
‘Aye. But I didn’t expect to have to slot that cunt.’
‘Don’t blame yourself. We had no choice.’
‘Maybe.’ Bald shook his head. ‘Fuck it. A few doubles of Famous Grouse and I’ll be fine. One thing’s for sure, though. This is the last time I lift a finger for those tossers at Vauxhall. Telling that lot to fuck off is the best decision I ever made.’
Porter studied his mucker for a beat. On the one hand, he understood where Bald was coming from. They had been doing Six’s dirty work for years now, risking their lives on the ground while Moorcroft and others like him kept their hands clean and stayed safely behind their desks. That setup would test anyone’s patience, and Bald’s relationship with MI6 could be described as frosty at best. He had his reasons to quit, and that was fair enough.
But there was something coldly cynical about Bald’s decision as well. Bald had never been a team player, even during his years at Hereford. Fighting for his country, for his mates, none of that meant anything to him. The guy was in it purely for himself. Jock’s never happy lifting a finger for anyone else.
‘We should get going,’ Porter said at last.
‘Aye. I need that fucking drink. You’ll have to get that shit checked out, too.’
Bald nodded at Porter’s left arm. The sleeve of his flannel shirt had been ripped to shreds by the Malinois. Blood stained the emergency dressing he’d applied to the wound. There was no severe damage but Porter knew he would have to get it cleaned and properly dressed as soon as possible.
‘I’ll get it sorted once we hit the safe house,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’
They marched up the driveway towards the Civic. Darkness had begun to settle over the land. Crickets chirped in the woods. As they moved on Porter heard the old familiar voice in his head. The one scratching at the base of his skull, telling him that he needed a drink.
Something strong.
He would never be free of that voice, Porter knew. It had stalked him remorselessly for most of
his life, but his struggles with the demon drink had really begun after he’d left the Regiment. Without the discipline and routine of life in the SAS, Porter had started hitting the bottle big-time. Half a dozen pints and a few whiskies down the pub became a bottle of Jim Beam every day. He’d gone from being a part-time drinker to a full-blown alcoholic.
Porter had worked hard to keep that voice under control. To lower the volume. But it was still there, every day, making its presence felt. Whispering in his ear, telling him to get a drink in. Now, as he felt the stress of the mission building in his chest, Porter could hear the voice getting louder again. The old temptation was beginning to come back.
He refocused on the voice. Shoved it aside, forcing it back into the mental box inside his head. Porter put the lid on it, and carried on towards the Civic.
Street was sitting in the back seat, one hand clutching his side, the other resting on top of the brown envelope on his lap. As if he was afraid someone might snatch it from him.
Cooper sat in the front passenger seat. He stepped out of the vehicle as Porter and Bald approached.
‘Well?’ he asked. ‘Is everything taken care of?’
‘It’s done,’ Porter said.
Bald stayed quiet. Cooper stared at him for a beat.
‘What are you waiting for, then? Come on.’
‘Where are we going?’ Street asked.
‘Somewhere safe, Charles,’ Cooper replied. ‘Somewhere the Russians won’t be able to find us.’
That didn’t seem to put Street at ease. He shook his head frantically. ‘There’s no such place. We have to get out of the country, Terry. The Russians. They’re still out there.’
‘They won’t get you now. You’ll be safe with us.’
Street slumped deeper into his seat, looking down at the envelope on his lap. The guy looked like a broken man. I know the feeling, Porter thought. He pointed to the Hilux.
‘Jock will take the pickup. We’ll take the Civic. We’ll have to stop on the way, find somewhere to dump the Civic. Make it harder for anyone to trace the vehicle.’