Maslen, Andy - Gabriel Wolfe 03

by Condor

  Gabriel was starting to believe they might, just, get out of the unholy shit storm they’d got themselves into when a sound he hated almost more than any other shattered the calm that had descended after they’d put down the four militiamen.

  A booming, thudding, and very, very loud, automatic weapon had opened up from way back beyond their last position. A “Dushka.” Officially, a Soviet-manufactured DShK heavy machine gun that wouldn’t kill you so much as obliterate you. It could destroy light vehicles, helicopters, buildings, or firing positions thanks to its 12.7mm calibre rounds, each possessing enough kinetic energy to put a football-sized hole through anything softer than armour plating.

  Whoever was behind the Dushka had them pinned down and was methodically chopping away at the tree ferns. Huge umbrellas of leaves tumbled from the tops of the ferns and fell to cover Britta and Gabriel. As the Dushka’s rounds crashed into the trunks, they tore out lumps of wood that fragmented into lethal shards with points and edges sharper than the best tactical knives.

  “Switch to single-shot,” Gabriel shouted over the roar of the Dushka rounds.

  Britta nodded again, discerning his meaning. If they were to stand any chance against the remaining fighters advancing on them, they had to take out the Dushka.

  She was the better shot of the two of them and had completed a sniper training course in her Swedish Special Forces training. Now she began listening hard, trying to pin down the position of the heavy machine gun. Gabriel peered through the broken fern fronds, trying to identify the firing path of the rounds still smashing into the trees in front of him.

  They both reached the same conclusion. The shooter was off to their right, two o’clock. Probably standing in the bed of a pickup, a Toyota Hilux probably, or a Land Cruiser if they had a bit more cash. That would put his head about ten feet off the ground and his torso and the Dushka maybe two feet below that.

  Gabriel closed one eye and sighted down the SA80’s barrel, aligning the iron sights on an imaginary machine gunner. He tightened his finger on the trigger and squeezed, slowly and steadily as his gunnery instructors in the SAS had taught him, until the rifle almost seemed to fire itself. The 5.56mm round tore into the trees. The Dushka kept firing, pouring red-hot, copper-jacketed lead into the rapidly diminishing cover hiding Gabriel and Britta.

  Now Britta began firing, too. She was systematic. One round high, one low, one to the left, one to the right. The Dushka kept firing.

  Then it stopped. Gabriel’s heart leapt. She’d done it! The super-Swede had actually taken out a Dushka that was completely invisible.

  The roar of the heavy machine gun was replaced with taunts.

  “Come out, pussies!” one voice called, a high-pitched giggle following the words.

  “We’re going to fuck you up bad, man. Yes we are,” called another, deeper voice.

  “Take your heads into Maputo and go bowling,” yelled a third.

  Then the Dushka started up again, only now its deep, bass roar was joined by the excitable chatter of three AK-47s being fired in unison and clearly in full expectation of a quick victory. The shooters burned through their magazines in a matter of seconds and had to stop to reload.

  In the gap, Britta squeezed off another six rounds in quick succession. There was a scream. One more down.

  But the enemy were still firing, even if they’d lost a man.

  There was a slashing rustle ahead of the tree ferns. Someone had cut their way through the undergrowth into the small clearing. Gabriel risked a look. A tall, grinning man stood there, machete in his left hand, Kalashnikov held by the pistol grip in his right. Gold teeth glinted across the front of his mouth. A single round from Gabriel’s Glock put him out of action, his heart smashed by the 9mm Parabellum round that left a gaping exit wound big enough to put a fist into.

  “How’re you doing,” he whispered to Britta. She didn’t reply.

  He looked over.

  Britta Falskog was lying on her back. Her eyes were closed. Blood was running down her forehead, obscuring the freckles that spattered her face like caramel-coloured snowflakes.

  He crawled over to her and pulled up her right eyelid. The eye was rolled back in its socket. He bent to her chest and listened for a heartbeat. Couldn’t hear one. Put his ear to her nose. No breath either. “Britta!” he whispered hoarsely. “Come on!”

  He knelt astride her and began thumping her chest. Not the interlaced fingers of TV medical dramas. These were full-power punches that would crack ribs. He leaned forward, pinched her nose and covered her mouth with his own before blowing fiercely into her, trying to put breath back into her lungs.

  “Too late, my friend,” a voice said from above him.

  He looked up into a brown face, incised with dozens of V-shaped scars on both cheeks. The man grinned, revealing a double row of gold teeth. Then he drew a pistol.