The Ninth Step - John Milton #8 (John Milton Thrillers)

by Mark Dawson

  Milton wrapped the Molotov cocktails with the remainder of the torn rag so that they didn’t jangle against each other, and put them and the knife into the rucksack. He slung it across his back and crossed the road to the wall. It was eight feet tall. He pulled on his gloves and leaped, his boots jamming against the rough stones so that he could pull himself up. He clambered to the top, quickly checked the landscape beyond—there was nothing to concern him—and then dropped down onto the other side.

  He lowered himself to his belly and surveilled. He was in an area with plenty of untamed vegetation. There was a narrow strip of cleared land between the wall and the trees that had been planted alongside it, and then beyond that was an expanse of overgrown grass and weeds that swayed sluggishly in the gentle night-time breeze. Milton crept between the trunks of two squat birch trees, then slithered forward through the grasses until he reached the point where they had been trimmed, allowing him a clear view of the estate and the house beyond.

  He had given some thought to undertaking this operation himself, without help. He remembered much of the layout from before. It was his habit to pay close attention to his surroundings, and he recalled enough details from his visit here for the wake that a full reconnaissance had been unnecessary.

  He took out the binoculars and used them to scan the grounds from the main gate, following the winding drive into the gentle hollow with the lake at the bottom and then to the house itself. He remembered that it had been equipped with an excellent security system, and he confirmed that now. The gates were substantial and observed by a CCTV rig. But that had been easily avoided; he had simply breached the perimeter over the wall and away from the cameras. But that would not be the end of the matter. Milton recalled seeing motion sensors and security lights as he had driven nearer to the house, and, although he could see nothing now from his distant vantage point, it was a reasonable supposition that the measures would be continued throughout the grounds. But he was confident that he could get to the house without gaining attention.

  That, then, would leave the matter of getting inside.

  It would be difficult, but Milton could do it. He had breached more impressive security than this.

  He had considered his options, but he had elected to do things a different way. There were two parties deserving of punishment for what had happened to Eddie Fabian. On the one hand, there was Frankie Fabian, and, on the other, Richard Higgins. Fabian had killed his own son, but, had he waited for just a few hours, Higgins would have done it for him. That, in Milton’s estimation, was enough to bring Higgins and the Feather Men within the ambit of his vengeance. Higgins had also been responsible for suppressing the stories that would have brought his hideous paymasters the public scrutiny their previous actions had deserved. There was a payment to be exacted for that, too. Milton could have gone after them both, one after another, but he liked the symmetry of setting them off against each other like this. The Feather Men were impressive: well armed and trained to the highest standards. Milton had needed Fabian to understand that he was in danger, and to bolster his security appropriately, for Higgins and the others would have overwhelmed him otherwise. Milton wanted there to be a stalemate, at least for a short while, because, in the chaos that would ensue, he would be afforded the opportunity to slip into the property and see that justice was done.

  There was Olivia to think about, too. She had complicated matters.

  He put the binoculars to his eyes and scanned down into the hollow. He saw the lake and the boathouse and the single guard who was smoking a cigarette while gazing out over the still waters. The man was leaning against the wooden balustrade that prevented a drop down into the water, and Milton could see the tip of his cigarette as it flared with each breath that he drew in. Milton thought he could make out a shotgun resting against the side of the building.

  He scanned left, following the path through the gardens to the dark expanse of lawn, across the gravelled parking area and finally to the house itself. It was brightly lit from security lights that threw illumination up onto the walls and out over the parked cars and down to the lawns. The curtains in the windows had been drawn, the glow from the lights inside visible as a muted glow through the fabric and more brightly down the middle where they had not been properly pulled together. The kitchen’s grand extension at the back of the house had been finished with a thatched roof, as Milton remembered. He angled the binoculars up a little and scanned across the first-floor windows: some were lit, their curtains drawn, too, while others were dark. Olivia was probably being held in one of the upstairs rooms; that would have been where Milton would have kept her.

  He waited a little longer, studying the building, and was rewarded when he saw the front door open and two men step out. Each was armed with a shotgun.

  Milton watched and waited as the men set off on a lazy patrol, one of them splitting off to descend the gentle slope of the lawn to the lakefront, where he joined the first man that Milton had seen.

  Milton waited there for two hours. He was in position long enough to observe as an Audi Q7 travelled down the drive, delivering four men and then the driver. He watched as the front door of the house opened and a man stepped out to meet them. He pressed the glasses to his eyes and adjusted the focus, waiting until the image was crisp and sharp before he was sure that the newcomer was Spencer Fabian. The men spoke with Fabian for a moment before they were directed to an outbuilding that Milton remembered from before: some of the old barns had been converted into guest accommodation. That, then, was where the extra muscle was staying. Fabian stayed there to speak with one of them for an extra minute and then went back into the house.

  Frankie Fabian had not been bluffing, then. His boys had been bailed. Milton had no idea how that had been managed, but it was bad luck for them. They would have been safer in custody.

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  ALEX HICKS was on his belly, pressed close to the muddy earth. He had his Heckler and Koch 416A5 laid out in front of him, its weight supported by the after-market bipod that was screwed into the housing just behind the bayonet lug. He had attached a flash hider to the muzzle; it would eliminate some of the visual evidence of his position, but not all of it. He had left his sub-compact variant at the lock-up where he kept his weapons and had selected the full-sized iteration of the weapon with the longer 19.9-inch barrel. It was more accurate at distance, especially with the PVS-14 night vision monocular sight that he had mounted to the rail. Hicks knew that he would be taking shots from range tonight.

  The general had tasked all of the unit with the operation. Milton’s intelligence to the general had been that the house would be guarded, and Higgins was not the sort of man to take chances. He had decided to send them all in. Gillan, Connolly, Woodward and Shepherd were in the broad grounds of the estate with him, each man scaling the wall at a separate point and advancing slowly and carefully. The house itself was not visible from the southern wall where Hicks and the others had breached it. They had proceeded to the north, passing from cover to cover, grateful for the areas on the other side of the driveway that were generous with trees and bushes. All five men were wearing black, and they had all daubed their faces with black camouflage paint. They approached in a line formation, fifty metres between each man. Hicks could just see the outline of Gillan to his left as he was similarly pressed to the ground. Connolly was to Hicks’s right, but he was deep within a copse of fir and rendered invisible within the gloom. Woodward was beyond Connolly.

  The general had stayed in his car, laid up in a quiet turning before the estate’s main gate. Hicks heard his voice through his earpiece.

  “Report.”

  Connolly spoke. “In position, sir.”

  “Anything?”

  “Affirmative. Multiple guards, sir. Two by the lake, two others just coming out of the cottage to the side of the house. We’ve seen another four on top of that.”

  “Hold position.”

  Hicks found that he was holding his breath. H
e knew that he and Milton had been fortunate to be able to persuade the general to mount the operation. The story that they had constructed in Milton’s hotel room was decent, but it wouldn’t have stood any real investigation. Hicks had known that the general was motivated by greed, and it had been that upon which he had staked his hopes. They had presented the old man with an opportunity to recover the money that had been taken from him, and the chance to confiscate enough additional loot from the vault to make even that look like small change.

  Woodward radioed: “General?”

  “I’m blind from here. Recommendation?”

  “I can only see three men now. The fourth has gone around the back of the house and the others are inside. Hicks—can you take the two by the lake?”

  “Affirmative,” Hicks replied.

  “I can get close enough to take the third out. Connolly and Gillan can attack the cottage. I say we go ahead, sir. We’re here and we have surprise on our side.”

  There was another pause, marked by a crackle of static across the troop net.

  “What about Milton?”

  “He knows what he’s doing. We give him a distraction.”

  “Afterwards?”

  “You can leave that to me.”

  “Copy that, sir.”

  “You’re clear to proceed. In and out as quickly as you can. Higgins out.”

  Hicks felt a moment of relief, but it was quickly washed away by a surge of adrenaline as his body prepared itself for the concentrated burst of action that was about to be unleashed. There was fear, too, because the course he had chosen to take did not allow for the possibility of failure. If it went wrong, he was dooming himself and, more than that, he was dooming his family. It was only because he was so desperate to leave the Feather Men that he had even contemplated what Milton had suggested.

  “You heard the man. Hicks, take out the guards by the lake. I’m going to go around it and get as close to the house as I can. Gillan—cut the telephone line.”

  “On it. Cutting in three, two, one. Line is down.”

  “Fire on my mark.”

  “Copy that.”

  “And don’t fuck it up, Hicks.”

  I don’t intend to, he thought.

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  DETECTIVE CONSTABLES Banks and Edwards were leaning against the balustrade that protected against the short drop into the lake beyond. They had their elbows on the pitted, weather-beaten wood. It was a cool night and a bracing breeze curled small waves across the surface of the water. Banks looked up into the sky; the thick cloudbank that had been in place all day was unmoved by the wind. It smothered the light of the moon, but at least the rains were holding off.

  Edwards took out his packet of cigarettes. “Smoke?”

  Banks took one, took Edwards’s lighter and lit it. He inhaled smoke and blew it out, watching as the breeze tore it to pieces. “What are we doing here?” he said.

  “Tell me about it.”

  “The DI say anything to you?”

  “About what?”

  “About how long he expects us to freeze our arses off here?”

  “Smith put the wind up Fabian. We’ll be here all night.”

  “Can you believe his lads got bail? It’s ridiculous.”

  “Money talks.” Edwards shrugged. “And Fabian has a lot of it. Bruce said that he has a pet judge. There were all sort of restrictions on the bail—residence, passports surrendered, curfew.”

  “Doesn’t matter how much money he’s got. It won’t be enough to get those two off the hook. They were caught in the vault, mate. Bail’s one thing, but they’re still going down. They’ve got to be looking at ten years for what they did.”

  Edwards shook his head. “You don’t know?”

  “What?”

  “He’s getting them out of the country. He’s got a plane coming to fly them out tomorrow afternoon, Bruce said. They’ll be on the Costa del Sol working on their tans.”

  “Lucky bastards.” Banks shivered. “I bet you anything you like it pisses down before we’re done.”

  “I had a lovely plan to go and get smashed tonight. You know the girl behind the bar at The Cat and Mutton?”

  “Piss off.”

  “Seriously. Been seeing her for the last couple of weeks.”

  “You dirty old man. She’s half your age.”

  Edwards reached out, put his arm around Banks’s shoulders and squeezed. “Jealousy’s all right, mate. I’d be jealous, too.”

  #

  MILTON TRAINED the binoculars on the house. He had done his research. The property had been in the Fabian family for decades, but it had come onto the market fifteen years ago. The reason for the attempted sale was unclear and it had been quickly removed, but not before Google had cached the sales page. The agents had prepared a plan of the property for prospective purchasers, and Milton had printed it, blown it up to A3 size, and then fixed it onto the wall of his hotel room. He had studied it and assessed the means of attack that would be most likely to yield results. There was a boot room at the back of the property that offered access to the kitchen extension and then the rest of the house.

  He heard a voice over the radio.

  “I can only see three men now. The fourth has gone around the back of the house. Hicks—can you take the two by the lake?”

  Milton recognised Hicks’s voice: “Affirmative.”

  “I can get close enough to take the third out. Connolly and Gillan can attack the cottage. I say we go ahead, sir. We’re here and we have surprise on our side.”

  The conversation was hushed, tight with the anticipation of imminent violence.

  “What about Milton?”

  “He knows what he’s doing. We give him a distraction.”

  “Afterwards?”

  “You can leave that to me.”

  “Copy that, sir.”

  “You’re clear to proceed. In and out as quickly as you can. Higgins out.”

  Milton swung the glasses around and tried to spot the soldiers. There were plenty of places that they could hide, and he was unable to place them.

  He heard the first man’s voice again. “You heard the man. Hicks, take out the guards by the lake. I’m going to go around it and get as close to the house as I can. Gillan—cut the telephone line.”

  “On it. Cutting in three, two, one. Line is down.”

  “Fire on my mark.”

  “Copy that.”

  “And don’t fuck it up, Hicks.”

  Milton wriggled forward a little more. He held his breath. He waited in the cover of the undergrowth until he saw the first muzzle flash spit out against the darkness.

  The first flash was two hundred metres to his five o’clock, a split four-way burst that was quickly followed by a single barked report. That was Hicks and his HK, Milton assessed; the gun was equipped with a muzzle suppressor. Milton scanned back to the lakefront and saw that one of the two men who had been smoking had fallen backwards, landing on his backside, his hands pressed to his chest.

  The second and third shots followed quickly after. Milton watched as the second man by the lake dropped to his side, his legs twitching.

  The fourth shot was aimed at the guard who had stayed by the house, and it was a more difficult shot, especially so given that the man had heard the first three cracks and perhaps seen his colleagues drop. The guard threw himself to one side, rolling until he was in the cover afforded by the parked Q7. The shot missed, ploughing into a window and detonating the glass with a crash and then the jingle of shattering fragments. An alarm sounded from inside and the security lights that Milton had noticed earlier flicked on, throwing out blinding sheets of light.

  Milton pushed himself to his haunches and then crouched low, his muscles aching for action, the adrenaline pulsating through his veins. He needed to wait. Needed to assess.

  “Two down.”

  “Eyes wide, boys. Advance.”

  Milton saw the suggestion of movement through the undergrowth. He k
new where to look, and, even with that advantage, it was still difficult to be sure that his eyes were not deceiving him. The men were SAS veterans, honed by months of training and years of operational experience. This kind of assault, backed by the benefit of planning, would not faze them.

  “Firing.”

  Milton saw the starburst and heard the angry chug as an automatic rifle fired. The shooter was a hundred metres to his four o’clock.

  Now.

  Milton set off quickly. He hugged the trees and moved with cautious speed. He hurried with his head down, careful where he placed his feet.

  He heard the sound of automatic gunfire from behind him, and he quickened his pace. The terrain dipped down into the shallow depression and then climbed up again. When Milton crested the top and paused to take his bearings again, he was adjacent to the house, at the corner, with a view that allowed him to see around to the wide patio area, the outside kitchen to the rear and, closer to him, the screened-off area that he had noticed when he had visited the house for Eddie’s wake. It was the location of the domestic oil tanks.

  There was a man there, pressed against the wall, cradling a submachine gun.

  Milton paused.

  He watched as the man stayed down low and then sprinted ahead, scurrying into cover behind the Q7.

  “Movement!”

  “Behind the car.”

  There came another burst of automatic fire from the vicinity of the lake. Bullets thunked into the bodywork of the Audi and then the windows were blown out.

  Milton ran. He stayed in cover for another twenty metres, stopped, satisfied himself that the way ahead was clear, and then broke cover and sprinted as hard as he could for the cover of the fuel tank. If he could get there and then around to the back, he would be sheltered from the firefight behind him.