Three Lives Down (A Dan Taylor thriller)

by Rachel Amphlett

  He jogged round to the driver’s door and glanced at the bundle on the passenger seat.

  He reached across and lifted the material, the soft glare of the sniper’s rifle glinting in the subdued light.

  Mitch had emptied the chamber and placed all the rounds in a plastic evidence bag next to the weapon.

  Dan exhaled and dropped the covering back into place, gunned the engine and released the handbrake.

  There was no time to lose.

  CHAPTER 59

  Dan parked the car behind an old horse trailer, out of sight from the road, and then climbed out and peered across to the farmhouse.

  It appeared to be deserted, its curtains drawn, and no noise emanated from either of the large corrugated iron sheds that had been built to one side of it. The place seemed to be more of a hobby farm, a smallholding, rather than a commercial venture.

  After waiting for two minutes, during which time he didn’t even hear a dog bark, Dan checked his watch and then leaned into the car and pulled out the sniper rifle.

  He slung it over his shoulder, put the rounds in his pocket, and locked the vehicle.

  By his calculations, he had a twenty-minute head start on the transfer team, and he intended to make the most of that advantage.

  He jogged towards the woodland that bordered the farm and Malikov’s property, knowing he was taking a gamble that the Special Forces team would have already cleared the area.

  He tried not to think about what would happen if he were wrong in his assumptions.

  He’d be up against the best soldiers the UK could throw at him, and he wasn’t sure he’d survive a direct encounter with one of them.

  Dan reached the first line of trees, carefully pulled apart the lines of barbed wire fence that ran at waist and knee height, and climbed through the gap.

  He crouched down, rubbed his hand in the dirt, and smudged his face, paying attention to his cheekbones, nose, and forehead. It wasn’t the best camouflage, but it would have to do. It would, at least, break up his features once he was closer to the property.

  He tested the weight of the sniper’s rifle in his grip. He patted his pocket. He had enough rounds. Only one of those needed to count.

  Dan picked up his pace, resisting the temptation to check his watch. He had to hurry, but there was no point in raising his heart rate too high, only to have to wait for it to settle once more before taking the shot.

  There was also the risk that the hit team would still be patrolling the woodland. He’d reasoned with himself that once Malikov and his men had been killed or apprehended, the team would retreat, and the woods would be deserted.

  He erred on the side of caution, though, stepping through the dense undergrowth with as little sound as possible.

  After a few minutes, he noticed the trees thinning and dropped to his knees. He slung the rifle over his shoulder, made sure the ammunition was safely tucked in his pocket, and then crawled on his elbows and knees towards the perimeter.

  He lay for a moment, getting his bearings.

  On the driveway, outside the house, were two black four-wheel drive vehicles, an ambulance and a dark-coloured panel van.

  Dan flagged the two four-wheel drive vehicles as belonging to the last members of the hit team, so he guessed there to be a minimum of eight men still active around the property. The dark panelled van was surrounded by long black plastic bags, body-sized, and Dan figured the local coroner’s team would be having a busy night.

  He wiped the sweat from his forehead and glanced once more at the ambulance. Two men were rolling a covered stretcher across the gravel driveway from the house towards it, their movements almost reverent in their care of the fragile body as it was loaded into the back of the vehicle.

  Porchester’s daughter.

  Dan’s jaw clenched, and he slid the rifle from his shoulder.

  His thoughts were clear as he loaded a round into the chamber, his actions precise and methodical as he lined up the sight with the waiting cars.

  Once he was ready, he brought his wrist up to his face and checked his watch.

  Any time now.

  He let his body relax into the undergrowth, the musty smell of bracken and rabbit droppings rising up from the earth as the air cooled.

  After twenty minutes, the sound of two cars powering through the nearby lane reached his ears.

  He exhaled, concentrating on slowing his breathing, fighting down the adrenalin that would explode through his veins if he didn’t retain control.

  The cars’ engines quietened as they slowed to turn into the Malikov property and then appeared at the top of the driveway, forming a single file as they approached the house.

  Dan closed one eye and peered through the scope. If he was running the handover, he’d have Malikov escorted out, with men at the front and rear to prevent a last-minute escape attempt.

  The Russian would probably be handcuffed, too.

  On cue, the front door opened, and two of the original hit team descended the low marble staircase to the driveway, their weapons at their side. They each took position at the point where the stone staircase met the gravel driveway and waited.

  The cars slowed and followed the natural arc of the turning circle in front of the house before coming to a standstill.

  The drivers remained behind the wheel of each vehicle, while the men in the passenger seats climbed out.

  Two men climbed out from the back seat of the lead car, their heads turning left and right as their gaze swept the grounds.

  Finally, the last man climbed from the passenger seat of the rear vehicle and spoke to the others.

  Dan swore under his breath as the man stretched, turning his face towards the woods.

  Neil Evans.

  Dan fought down his anger. David and the team being kept out of the loop until the last minute made sense now. The PM would know they would never agree to a Russian criminal being given a chance to do business with the government.

  The current leader of the EPG yawned and then spun on his heel to face the house.

  As he did so, a figure was half-pulled, half-pushed through the open door, his wrists cuffed in front of him.

  Malikov.

  His shirt and trousers were dishevelled, his hair a mess; blood covering one side of his face seemed to have congealed around a bruise under his eye.

  Evidently the oligarch had refused to give up easily.

  Dan frowned as the man shuffled awkwardly over the threshold, before realising that ankle cuffs also bound the Russian.

  His captors weren’t taking any chances.

  Once on the steps, two guards each grabbed one of Malikov’s elbows and began to march him down towards the waiting cars.

  Two more men hovered at the doorway, their stance suggesting they were watching the tree line, not their captive.

  Dan exhaled, knowing that if he didn’t take the shot within the next few seconds, he wouldn’t get another chance.

  He steadied his grip on the stock of the rifle, his right forefinger resting gently on the trigger.

  The two men in front of Malikov took another step forward, putting them at a lower level to their prisoner behind them, and exposing the Russian’s chest.

  Dan squeezed the trigger and held his breath.

  Almost.

  A shot rang out from Dan’s right, and he jerked his eye away from the sight of the rifle in shock.

  Malikov’s body arced away from his captors at the force of the bullet striking his torso, a burst of red showering the men around him, before he slumped to the stone steps and fell still.

  Dan’s head snapped to his right, the sound of a person moving through the undergrowth next to him reaching his ears.

  He turned back to the house at a shout.

  The two men beside Malikov dropped to the ground, their comrades falling to their knees as they brought up their weapons, sighting them at the perimeter of woodlands surrounding the property.

  Evans stood, facing the woods, and the
n cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted.

  ‘Taylor! Give yourself up now!’

  Dan held his breath and remained rigid until their gaze swept past him and then shuffled back on his elbows and knees, dragging the rifle with him.

  What the hell?

  Who shot Malikov?

  And how did Evans know I was here?

  Once concealed within the undergrowth, he raised himself up into a squatting position and disassembled the rifle, tipping the unused rounds into his hand, before stuffing them into his pocket.

  Raised voices carried on the wind from the direction of the house, and he jerked his attention back to the property.

  The team were good; they’d already worked out the trajectory of the kill shot and were pointing towards the woodland in Dan’s direction, weapons raised.

  Dan began running at a crouch, knowing that the stance would slow his progress, but desperate to get away without being seen.

  He also wanted to find out who’d killed Malikov before he’d had the chance.

  He zig-zagged through the fallen pine needles and bracken, sliding across damp leaves until he could see the perimeter fence that separated Malikov’s house from the farm.

  A shot rang out, and Dan ducked as the tree trunk next to him exploded and then swerved left and right once more to try to avoid the gunman’s line of sight.

  Evans’s team were onto him.

  He slowed as he reached the barbed wire fence separating Malikov’s property from the farm, pulled apart the top and bottom lines of wire to climb through, and then jerked his head to the right at the sound of branches snapping.

  He swore as the wire fence fell back into place, whipping against his jaw, and instinctively reached for the scratch that now bled freely.

  His eyes found the Prime Minister’s car, the vehicle unmoved from where he had left it. He discarded the idea of taking it again. Evidently a location tracker had been placed somewhere on the vehicle, which was why Evans had guessed he’d been there. He needed something that wouldn’t be tracked, that wouldn’t be reported stolen as soon as he’d escaped.

  He sensed movement to his left and spun in time to see a man running in the opposite direction, a rifle similar to the one Dan held slung over his shoulder.

  ‘Hey!’

  The man kept running away from the farm property and up towards the lane.

  Dan checked over his shoulder and swore.

  If he tried to catch the killer, he’d be captured, and somehow, he didn’t think that was a good idea. Not if Evans believed him to be the killer.

  He turned back to the direction of the lane. The other gunman had disappeared from sight, but then the sound of a motorbike starting up reached his ears, and Dan realised he needed to concentrate on his own escape.

  He grunted in pain as something slammed into his shoulder, a fiery force searing his muscles, and then stumbled forward, falling to his knees.

  He raised his gaze to the trees beyond the barbed wire perimeter and knew he was out of time.

  CHAPTER 60

  It was twilight by the time Dan reached a small fishing village and parked the stolen four-wheel drive behind a chandler’s office.

  The business was closed for the day, its windows floodlit to show the scant collection of boats for sale.

  He sat for a moment, pain flooding his shoulder. He lowered his chin until he could get a better look at the skin above his chest and then gritted his teeth.

  It was a bloody mass of tissue, torn away by the bullet as it had exited his body.

  He poked his finger through the hole in his jacket, tracing the scarred edges. He’d been lucky – if the bullet had lodged in his shoulder, his situation would be a lot worse. As it was, he would have to seek help as soon as it was safe to do so and hope the wound didn’t get infected in the meantime.

  He’d been fortunate that the farmer’s beat-up vehicle had been left unlocked, forgotten perhaps in the haste to leave the property. Mud and fur covered the back seats, and the distinctive aroma of damp dog permeated the interior.

  Dan opened the door and eased himself from the vehicle, ignoring the blood-stained upholstery, and craned his neck until he could see the far end of the quay, towards the lifeboat shed hugging the algae-covered concrete wall.

  A gust of wind tugged at his collar as he glanced over his shoulder.

  A small trawler had rounded the end of the harbour wall. Once white, its hull was now a dirty cream colour, its wheelhouse a dull blue. Nets and machinery filled the back section towards the bow, while aerials and a small flag post leaned with the boat as it rocked in the waves towards him.

  Dan checked his watch, calculating the time it had taken him to reach the small seaside village. He lowered his arm and squinted into the distance, back towards the main road that skirted the top of the heathland, and dropped down the hill towards the village.

  He reckoned he had a head start on the transfer team, now his pursuers, if he was lucky.

  And they would know he had been shot. The trail of blood that he’d left at the scene would be a clear indication that he needed medical attention.

  No headlights swept along the coast road towards him; the only noise that carried across the harbour echoed from the one pub that stood on the edge of the main street between the quay and the first row of houses; no doubt full of the local residents comparing sizes of catch that day and planning on early nights to be up before dawn the next day.

  Dan exhaled, exhaustion seizing him. He turned as the sound of the approaching trawler reached his ears over the waves crashing against the concrete jetty.

  The vessel appeared deserted, except for the captain, who steered the boat expertly alongside the quay. Dan heard him put the engine in neutral, and then he stepped out from the wheelhouse.

  A large man, his face obscured by a large brown beard with flecks of grey, moved with precision across the deck, a cigarette dangling from his mouth. He hurried to the stern and grabbed a coil of rope, tossing it towards the quay, his eyes full of expectation.

  Dan dropped his hand from his shoulder and grabbed the line, holding the boat steady as its fenders bumped gently against the reinforced concrete, and then used one hand to tie it off and waited while the captain switched off the engines. When the man emerged from the cabin once more, Dan called down to him.

  ‘What’s it like out there?’

  ‘Perfect,’ said the man. ‘You heading out now?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Dan. ‘Figured I might.’ His hand found his shoulder again, and he grimaced as a fiery spasm shuddered through his body. He pulled the jacket closer so the fisherman wouldn’t notice the gaping wound in the fading light. His fingers rested against the bloody skin, sticky and warm. ‘I should probably get a move on,’ he managed.

  The man raised his hand. ‘Might see you when you get back, eh?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  Dan nodded in farewell and hurried along the quayside. He’d spent enough time stalling.

  He slowed as he approached the boat at the end of the row of vessels.

  He ran a practiced eye over the cream-coloured fibreglass hull and cabin and noted that only day-to-day grime clung to the surface.

  She looked abandoned, and Dan wracked his memory to try and recall when he’d last taken her out.

  He blinked in surprise when he realised it had been several months ago, and crossed his fingers that the local reputation of the harbour as being a safe one with little fuel theft still held true.

  ‘Guess I’ll soon find out,’ he murmured.

  He crouched down and loosened the ropes that held the vessel to the quay and then stepped over the low lip of concrete that bordered the quay and dropped to the deck of the vessel, landing on both feet with soft thump.

  Dan hurried to the rail and gathered the ropes, coiling them onto the deck where he wouldn’t trip over them, before running his hands across the roof of the cabin until he found the loose flap of metal that concealed the keys.

&n
bsp; He unlocked the cabin and pushed his way into the small space, inhaling a mustiness that hinted at the months of neglect since his last visit.

  He’d never told anyone about the Seahorse. His father had bought her several years before his death, and Dan savoured the times he spent on her in between missions. The vessel gave him a sense of normality and a way to relax.

  Not tonight, though.

  He patted the wheel.

  ‘Guess we’ll be spending quite a bit of time together,’ he said and then turned his attention to readying the boat for departure.

  He ran though his preparations with the sixth sense of someone who was comfortable at sea, habits born from school holidays spent with his father on the boat, scooting around the south coast of England during the winter months, with the occasional foray over to France during summer holidays.

  He exhaled, trying to work through the pain in his shoulder.

  Somehow, he didn’t think France would be far enough this time.

  Maybe not Spain, either.

  He inserted the key into the ignition and listened to the engine, trying to gauge whether it was going to run without issue or whether he was going to have to abandon his plans and steal another car.

  He crossed his fingers and raised his gaze to the fuel indicator.

  Still full.

  Satisfied the engine wasn’t going to leave him cast adrift in the busy shipping lanes of the English Channel, he turned to shut the door of the cabin and froze.

  Car headlights were descending the narrow lane from the main road along the ridge towards the village, and whoever was driving the vehicles wasn’t hanging around.

  His heart lurched painfully, galvanising him into action.

  ‘Dammit, Mel.’

  Somehow, somewhere on his clothing, Mel had planted another tracking device.

  And it had worked.

  He pivoted on his toes, reached out, and eased the throttle open, powering through the other moored vessels as fast as he dared.

  He reached up and switched off all the lights, squinting in the dusk, and steering his way out towards the breakwater.