The Black Art of Killing

by Matthew Hall

  He shifted into drive and moved off smoothly, switching on the lights only after he had travelled several blocks. He checked the mirrors. All was quiet.

  Joachim was still asleep when Black eased back into the lobby. He took fifteen seconds closing the door inch by inch, then padded noiselessly across the floor. He swiped his key pass. The security door clicked open and he slipped quietly through. Joachim stirred but didn’t wake. There was a full ten minutes before Black was due to meet with the others.

  He knocked at Riley and Fallon’s room at exactly half past. They were ready and waiting for him.

  ‘We were thinking, boss – maybe the two of us should shoot off and get a car first. Shave the odds of all three of us being seen.’

  ‘I had the same idea. It’s waiting outside.’

  They exchanged a look of surprise.

  ‘Let’s go.’

  He slung his rucksack over his shoulder and headed for the stairs.

  Joachim stirred as they entered the lobby.

  ‘Checking out. Early bus,’ Riley said. ‘Might see you again in a couple of weeks.’ He crossed to the desk and handed over their key cards, together with a twenty-dollar bill.

  Joachim took the money gratefully but looked at them with concern. ‘Have you got a taxi? You need one you can trust. Some of these guys are criminals.’ He reached for the phone. ‘Let me call my friend.’

  Black smiled. ‘I appreciate the thought but we’re fine. We like to walk.’

  ‘Walk? But it’s dangerous.’

  ‘We like a little danger, too. It’s what we’re here for. Goodbye.’

  They headed out, leaving Joachim folding the note into his shirt pocket and shaking his head at the crazy Englishmen.

  Black had parked the Pontiac several spaces along from the hotel. He popped the trunk allowing himself a moment of pride as they stowed their rucksacks. Riley took the passenger seat, Fallon the back. Black touched the bare wires and the already warm motor started without complaint. He pulled out into the sparse pre-dawn traffic.

  ‘What do you think?’ Black asked, hoping for at least a word of acknowledgement. ‘Will she do?’

  ‘Perfect,’ Riley said, poking through the contents of the glovebox. ‘Just a pity it belongs to a cop.’

  ‘What?’ Black failed to hide the note of alarm in his voice.

  Riley grinned back between the seats at Fallon, who laughed.

  They’d got him.

  Black nodded, tight-lipped, taking it on the chin. It would take a lot more than stealing a car to impress this pair of bastards.

  Riley navigated using his hand-held GPS. The location Silva had given them looked only a short distance away on the map but in reality involved a tortuous route to the south-east of the city, followed by a series of switchback climbs over steep hillsides. Here poor outer suburbs – no more than clusters of single-storey houses built from whatever materials were to hand – clung precariously to the slopes among increasingly dense forest.

  The buildings were spread more thinly the further they travelled from the city until they petered out entirely. They crested the top of a hill and started down the far side. The road gradually narrowed and heavy tropical vegetation pressed in from both sides. Black guided the unwieldy Pontiac through several winding miles of steep descent until the sense that they were heading nowhere in particular was confirmed by a sign announcing that they were approaching a dead end. After a short distance the tarmac turned to dirt and the headlights picked out a length of steel crash barrier marking the end of the road. They came to a halt at the head of a deep ravine.

  Black turned the car to face the way they had come and switched off the engine.

  ‘Nice quiet spot,’ Riley said. ‘How many are we expecting?’

  ‘He’s got his money. I can’t see why he would involve anyone else.’

  ‘Best not take the risk.’ He glanced back at Fallon. ‘Shall we?’

  The two of them climbed out of the car and headed in opposite directions to keep watch from the cover of the surrounding trees.

  There were thirty minutes to go until their scheduled rendezvous. Black waited in the car with the windows down, watching and listening, aware of how blunted his senses had become in civilian life. It took a soldier on extended jungle exercise anything between a month to six weeks to hear, see and smell with anything like the acuity necessary for extended, unarmed survival. There had been a time when Black had been at maximum sensitivity permanently. He could enter an apparently empty building and from the smell alone tell if there was anyone inside. It was an ability that had saved his life on more than one occasion.

  The clock on the dash crept slowly towards six a.m. Dawn started to break and the landscape appeared in monochrome that slowly rose to colour. They were in a narrow, steep-sided valley with a view over forested hilltops beyond. Here and there accessible parcels of land had been terraced and planted with banana palms, but for the most part the surrounding country remained in its natural state. After the dirt and squalor that lay only a few miles to the north, it should have made for an attractive scene, yet something in its atmosphere felt oppressive. Then Black put his finger on it: territory this untamed so close to a violent city told him that inevitably it would serve as a dumping ground for the bodies of the murdered. Root around at the foot of the ravine and he’d put money on reaping a grim harvest of white bones.

  Two minutes ahead of time a single pair of headlights flickered in the near distance. Black stepped out on to the dirt road as a Ford Ranger painted in military green approached. Its windows and windshield were heavily tinted, obscuring the face of what appeared to be a single occupant. It turned in a tight arc in front of the Pontiac, spewing up dust from its tyres, eased forward, then backed up until its rear end drew level with Black’s boot.

  Black waited for the driver to show himself but the doors remained shut and the engine idling. Whoever was inside was determined to remain anonymous. He doubted it was the Colonel. He had most probably sent an underling. Someone anxious to make the drop and disappear.

  There was a green tarpaulin stretched tight over the pick-up bed. Black went to the tailgate, slid the pins from the hasp that secured it and lowered it to ninety degrees. He peered under the tarp and made out three black nylon holdalls. The driver revved the engine as if urging him to hurry. Black ignored the prompt and took his time. He dragged the nearest holdall forward and unzipped it on the tailgate. It contained three AK-47s with separate bayonets, three Smith and Wesson M&P 9 pistols fitted with suppressors and three shoulder holsters. An interesting mix – Russian assault rifles and one of the FBI’s preferred sidearms. In among them were three Aselsan intercom units with headsets and mics, each one smaller and sleeker than a phone.

  He dumped the bag on the ground and reached for the next. It was a dead weight. He opened it to find thirty-round magazines for the rifles, boxes of 7.62 x 39-millimetre ammunition and more boxes of 9-millimetre slugs for the pistols.

  The third and final bag was heaviest. It contained a wooden crate two feet long. Printed on its top: 30 X M67 FRAGMENTATION GRENADE. NATO’s favourite since 1968. Light, effective and reliable. Jammed in alongside the crate was a further package: a two-and-a-half-kilo lump of plastic explosive, four detonators and a remote-control unit. The Colonel had been true to his word – the inventory was better than he could have hoped for. He slapped the side of the truck twice and the driver took off in a cloud of red dust.

  Black remained on his guard, wanting to be sure he was alone before he turned his back on the road. He waited for the sound of the engine to die away until all he could hear was the throbbing chorus of waking cicadas. No tricks. A straightforward drop and run.

  ‘All clear.’

  Riley and Fallon emerged from their hiding places.

  ‘Looks like Colonel Silva delivered,’ Black said.

  Riley and Fallon stooped to examine the contents of the holdalls, making approving noises as they checked the weapons.

>   ‘Hate to say it, boss, but I’d take an AK over our carbines every time. These babies look brand new.’

  ‘Straight out of the stores,’ Fallon said, peering down the barrel of a Smith and Wesson. ‘Still got grease in the barrels.’

  Riley brought out a rifle and turned it deftly in his hands. ‘Nice. Very nice.’

  He handed it to Black, who held the butt to his shoulder and stared down the scope. He felt a pulse of excitement. It was as familiar to his touch as an old lover.

  ‘Where to now?’ Fallon said, hauling the load of ammunition into the Pontiac’s boot.

  ‘We’ll take back roads down towards Charallave, pick up a few provisions and tuck ourselves away till morning. Conserve our energy. We’re going to need it.’

  They hefted the holdalls into the Pontiac’s boot and set off in high spirits. Craftsmen reunited with their tools.

  In the space of minutes the sky lifted from flat grey to brilliant blue. The air was warm and sweet. Riley and Fallon laughed and joked as Black nursed the car’s battleship bulk back up the hill.

  As they neared the summit they turned a sharp corner to be met with a sight that caused the laughter to stop in their throats. The Ford Ranger that had delivered the weapons was half buried nose first in dense bushes at the side of the road as if it had swerved to avoid a collision. A young soldier was standing, legs splayed, with his hands pressed up against the passenger door and a gun aimed at his back. It was wielded by a man in a similar uniform wearing a blue helmet with white letters printed on its front. A third figure, also in a blue helmet, was standing in front of a military Toyota SUV parked in the centre of the road. He raised his rifle and aimed it at the Pontiac’s windshield as his colleague held up a hand, ordering them to stop.

  Black stepped on the brakes. ‘Hands up where they can see them. Sit tight.’

  He came to a stop a short distance from the Toyota. Close enough to be able to make out the letters on the blue helmets: P.M. Policía Militar. Black looked over at the driver the two military police had run off the road and saw that he was no more than eighteen years old. A kid. Colonel Silva had screwed up badly.

  Black, Riley and Fallon held their hands above their shoulders and remained casual, looking puzzled, as if they had no idea what the problem could possibly be. The two blue-helmets exchanged words in Spanish then the one who had been aiming his weapon at the young soldier ordered him to lie face down on the ground before cuffing his hands behind his back. Both men then approached the Pontiac with their rifles raised, one covering the left flank of the car, the other the right. They were also young. Twenty-three or twenty-four at the most. Tense and scared, their fingers were twitchy on their triggers.

  Black smiled at the MP who was coming alongside the driver’s window, letting him get a good look at his face, trying to let him know that there was no need for drama. He guessed that their plan was for the one on their right to continue providing cover while his partner would order each of them out in turn and have them lie on the ground before cuffing them.

  The options were limited.

  The MP on their left motioned Black to step out first.

  ‘No problem,’ Black said, keeping up the friendly pretence. He reached for the door handle. ‘I got this,’ Black whispered to his passengers.

  Riley and Fallon met each other’s eyes in the rear-view mirror.

  Black stepped out, hands raised, still smiling. ‘Habla inglés?’ Do you speak English?

  ‘¡Al suelo!’ Down! The MP pointed to the ground at the side of the road.

  Black nodded and walked three steps away from the car. On the third he looked sharply to his right as if something had startled him. It was an old trick but worked every time. The MP’s head turned instinctively in the same direction. In his split-second of distraction Black sprang to his right and caught the muzzle of his rifle in his left hand. Turning on his left foot he swung his right elbow into the man’s jaw and hit the sweet spot. The shock of the impact caused the soldier to loosen his grip. Black tore the rifle from his hands and continued through an anticlockwise arc, spiralling to the ground to face the Pontiac as the second MP opened fire over its roof. Black found the trigger and fired a return burst beneath it, cutting the shooter off at the ankles. He cried out in a mixture of surprise and pain as his legs folded beneath him. As he hit the deck, Black loosed a second fatal burst into his head and torso, rolled twice, then came up into a crouch to see the first MP scrambling to his hands and knees, groping for the pistol holstered on his belt. Black took aim at his chest and fired again. Six rounds ripped through his tunic, exploding his heart and lungs. His limbs flailed. He jerked and twisted and came to rest on his back with his knees bent awkwardly under his body.

  Black spotted movement to his right. The young soldier, the one who had delivered the arms, had made it to his feet and had started to run, his hands cuffed behind him.

  Black shouted after him. ‘Halt!’

  He kept going.

  Shit. A witness.

  The greater good.

  He had no choice.

  Black took aim and made sure to do it cleanly. A single round to the back of the skull.

  The fleeing boy’s legs stopped moving but his momentum kept propelling him forward. He pitched face first into the road.

  And then there was silence.

  ‘All clear.’

  Riley and Fallon’s heads appeared above the tops of the doors. They surveyed the scene and climbed out with the look of men trying hard to disguise the fact that they felt lucky to be alive.

  Black saw them trade a glance. ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘No problem,’ Fallon said.

  Black spat a bad taste out of his mouth. ‘Let’s clean up and get out of here.’

  It was a crude job by normal standards but it would have to do. When the dead men’s colleagues finally got a fix on them they would arrive to find two vehicles having narrowly avoided a head-on collision. The teenage driver of the Ranger was lying naked and handcuffed next to his truck, apparently having been executed by a single bullet to the back of the head. The Ranger’s tyres were slashed and its seats torn open, their stuffing ripped out as if during a search for drugs or other contraband. The two MPs were lying on opposite sides of the road with their weapons at their sides, seemingly having turned their fire on each other, most probably during a dispute over the blood-stained US twenty-dollar bills that were scattered around the scene.

  Just another day in Venezuela.

  44

  Sarah Bellman picked at her breakfast while Holst held forth from the position he had recently assumed at the head of their table in the corner of the compound’s mess hall. In a small concession to their dignity the four scientists were allowed to eat together, away from the Sabre officers and NCOs who shared the same mealtimes. Kennedy, sitting opposite her, and Sphyris to her right, were feeling equally queasy. Oblivious to the effect he was having on his three colleagues, Holst tucked into his sausages with gusto, gesticulating with his fork between mouthfuls.

  ‘Everything is ready for the next trials. I can assure you no harm will be done.’ He smiled at Bellman. ‘When can I expect you to deliver the first batch of usable particles?’

  She glanced at Kennedy. He had grown thinner and frailer even in the last two days and hadn’t said a word since they had sat down.

  ‘Professor?’ she prompted.

  ‘In a day or two,’ Kennedy said.

  ‘Excellent. If we are anything like as successful as you have been in your primate trials, the end will soon be in sight.’ Holst smiled, his eyes bright and alive above his glowing cheeks.

  Holst noticed, as if for the first time, that the others weren’t sharing his enthusiasm.

  ‘Are you quite all right, Professor?’ he said to Kennedy. ‘I hope it’s not rude of me to say that you’ve not been looking yourself lately.’ He appealed to the others for confirmation. Sarah stared into her cup. Sphyris pretended to be absorbed in removing
the peel from an orange.

  ‘I’ve felt better,’ Kennedy said sourly. ‘You, on the other hand, Dr Holst, seem to be positively thriving. This work seems to be suiting you.’

  Holst’s smile faded.

  Sphyris, who had scarcely uttered a word, stepped in to defuse the tension. ‘We all have different ways of coping with stress, I’m sure.’ He offered Holst a conciliatory smile.

  ‘Nevertheless, I think perhaps you ought to see a doctor, Professor. Just to be on the safe side.’

  Kennedy put down his fork and placed his yellowing hands either side of his plate. ‘You have no need to worry about my ability to complete this project, Dr Holst. I will do it just for the pleasure of telling everyone who cares to know exactly what you have done. Perhaps you would be well advised to spend the next forty-eight hours finding some obscure corner of the planet on which to live out your days, because no decent human being will ever want to consort with you again.’

  ‘Good morning, everybody.’ Dr Razia appeared with his breakfast tray. ‘May I join you?’

  Kennedy pushed up from the table. Abandoning his food, he marched unsteadily towards the door.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ Razia said, detecting the frigid atmosphere.

  ‘He’s not well,’ Sarah said. ‘I’d better go.’

  Leaving the others at the table, she went after him.

  Bellman caught up with Kennedy halfway across the parade ground that separated the mess hall from the block that housed their quarters and laboratory.