by Zoe Sharp
Durrie frowned, his eyes narrowing. If he’d drawn up the plans for this operation, Owens would be dead by now, and Durrie would be moving in to wrap up the corpse and get it out of there.
“Sorry about that,” Larson said. “The op we wanted to talk to you about is sensitive. So the more isolated, the better.”
Owens snorted a laugh.
Oh, he knows, all right.
“Okay,” Owens said. “So tell me about it.”
“It’ll be easier if I show you. I’ve got some photos and a map you’ll need.” The agent turned and started walking toward the far wall, then stopped and looked back. “They’re over here.”
Owens didn’t budge. “Are they heavy?”
“No,” Larson said, confused.
“Then I like where I am right now.”
There was a click over the radio comm, then Timmons – the ops leader and other man stationed at the barn – said, “Prep alt B.”
Durrie knew Timmons wasn’t particularly fond of the automated gun setup either, but its inclusion had come down from someone above him. Peter, perhaps. He was their employer on this one, head of an organization known only as the Office, so it was either him or someone who worked for him. Thankfully, Timmons was an experienced operative, and had laid out several options in case their primary plan failed. Something that at the moment looked very possible.
On the screen, Larson continued to the back wall where he’d left a briefcase earlier.
“Mills?” Timmons said.
Durrie realized the other man hadn’t responded to Timmons’s command.
“Mills, what’s your twenty?” the head man asked, wanting to know his colleague’s location.
When there was still no response, Durrie’s gaze instinctively flicked to the mirror. Everything looked quiet outside the barn.
“Mills, what’s your twenty?” Nothing. “Mills!”
Durrie tensed. Something was definitely wrong.
He’s going to abort, he thought. Durrie would have, in a flash.
He quickly scanned the area around his position, double-checking where everything was – his two kit bags with his tools and supplies, the monitor, and the coveralls he’d resisted putting on so far because of the heat. And the mirror. He couldn’t forget the mirror.
“Larson, Durrie. Ac—”
The radio cut off.
Durrie waited a moment, then touched his transmit button. “Didn’t copy. Repeat.”
He waited, but Timmons said nothing. For a second, he wondered if something had gone wrong with his communication gear. It seemed likely, given that everything else was screwed up. But when he glanced at the monitor, he could see Larson hovering over his briefcase, looking unsure.
Durrie touched his transmit button again. “Larson, touch the left side of the briefcase if you can hear me.”
On the screen, Larson moved his hand down and touched the case as instructed.
“Son of a bitch,” Durrie said under his breath.
His comm gear was working fine. Something had happened to Mills and Timmons.
He looked at the mirror again. There was a man by the door. Though dressed in dark clothes like the ops team, Durrie was sure this was the first time he’d ever seen him. Where the hell had he come from?
“Larson, find cover,” Durrie said. “Unfriendly coming in the front door.”
“I thought you wanted to show me something,” Owens said, still standing in the barn by the door. “What’s up?”
Larson rose, the briefcase in his hand. “Just . . . making sure I have everything.”
In the mirror, the man outside had his hand on the door handle.
“Larson! Quit dicking around and take cover.”
One corner of Larson’s mouth turned up in a half smile, but he didn’t move.
Then, in a near flawless single motion, the briefcase flew open, and Larson’s hand darted inside, coming out with a Glock G29 10mm pistol as the case fell away. He fired twice before the briefcase even hit the ground.
While the bullets missed Owens as he dove to his left, they pierced the door, and smacked into the other man just as he started to enter. The one that caught him in the shoulder didn’t matter, but the other went straight through his neck, dropping him to the ground. Even a hundred feet away, Durrie was sure the man would never get up again.
Inside, Larson finally took Durrie’s advice and moved behind the cover of a stack of rusted barrels. Owens, in the meantime, had scrambled into the remnants of an old animal stall.
“Guy at the door is down,” Durrie said into the radio.
“Your friend is dead,” Larson called out.
Owens remained silent.
“Step on out, and keep your hands high.”
For a moment, there was still no response, then Owens said, “You brought me here to kill me. Did you really expect me just to let that happen?”
“Hey, I’m just doing a job here. Don’t blame the messenger.”
“Are you kidding me?” Owens said. “Your job is to kill me. Like hell I won’t blame you!”
“If you’ve got a weapon, toss it in my direction now,” Larson ordered. “Then step out where I can see you.”
“No way. I’ll take my chances. You against me.”
“You really think I’m here alone?” Larson asked.
“No. But my friend took care of your backup.”
“Really? How many did he get? One? Two? You don’t really know, do you? Because he didn’t get a chance to tell you. How do you think I know one of my bullets killed him? I still have people out there.”
In response to this, two clicks came over the radio, and both Durrie and Larson knew the two other men who’d been stationed by the road were on their way back. Unfortunately, Durrie also knew it would take them at least two minutes to get to the barn – an eternity in situations like this.
“Even if I believed you, it wouldn’t matter,” Owens said. “I’m not going to just let you kill me.”
“You’re making a fool of yourself,” Larson said. “Take it with some dignity.”
Just go get him, Durrie thought but didn’t say over the radio. It was doubtful Owens was armed. He would have played it safe, just in case the others had planned on patting him down when he first arrived. His buddy was probably carrying two weapons, one of which he was undoubtedly supposed to have given to Owens when they reconnected.
But Larson was playing with him, almost like he was teasing his prey.
The angle of the camera in the barn was such that Owens was mostly hidden from view in the stall. Durrie could only see the top of the guy’s head and one of his shoulders. He could tell he was moving around, but couldn’t see what he was doing.
“Enough, Owens,” Larson yelled, but while he was giving the impression his patience was starting to run out, his body language was calm and controlled. “Enough screwing around. Get rid of your weapons and step out now.”
“Go to hell!”
Owens shuffled back a couple of feet from the stall divider, instantly giving Durrie a better view. The guy was looking at something in his lap. No, not his lap, his hand.
Durrie pressed the transmit button. “He’s calling someone!”
As Owens lifted a mobile phone to his ear, Larson sprinted out from behind the barrels. Durrie could see Owens start to talk, but he couldn’t hear what the man was saying. Whatever it was, he didn’t get much out before Larson came around the end of the stall and fired twice.
Owens fell backwards, his phone clattering to the ground beside him. Larson checked his pulse, but Durrie had yet to see anyone survive a shot through the forehead. Satisfied the target was dead, Larson picked up the discarded phone and looked at the display.
A second later, his head snapped to the side, his eyes looking directly into the lens of Durrie’s camera. “He called 911.”
Copyright © Zoë Sharp 2001
First published in Great Britain 2001
Judy Piatkus (Publishers) Ltd
This edit
ion published 2011
Murderati Ink
Foreword copyright © Lee Child 2010
excerpt from RIOT ACT copyright © Zoë Sharp 2002
excerpt from BECOMING QUINN copyright © Brett Battles 2011
The moral right of the author has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the author, nor otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than in which it is published.
All characters and events in this collection of stories, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
www.ZoeSharp.com
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