by Anthony Fox
A Pillow and Bear Book
All characters and events in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
First published 2017
Copyright © 2017 by C. A. S.
The moral right of the author has been asserted
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher at the address below.
[email protected]
ISBN 9781549824883
This book was edited by Jane Hammett, Robert Matthews, and Nikki Brice.
Cover by Amy Smith
pillowandbear.com
CONTENTS
The First Chapter
two
three
four
five
six
seven
eight
nine
ten
eleven
twelve
thirteen
fourteen
fifteen
sixteen
seventeen
eighteen
nineteen
twenty
twenty-one
twenty-two
twenty-three
twenty-four
twenty-five
twenty-six
twenty-seven
twenty-eight
twenty-nine
thirty
thirty-one
thirty-two
thirty-three
thirty-four
thirty-five
thirty-six
thirty-seven
thirty-eight
thirty-nine
forty
forty-one
forty-two
forty-three
forty-four
forty-five
forty-six
forty-seven
forty-eight
forty-nine
fifty
fifty-one
fifty-two
fifty-three
fifty-four
fifty-five
fifty-six
fifty-seven
fifty-eight
fifty-nine
sixty
sixty-one
sixty-two
sixty-three
sixty-four
sixty-five
sixty-six
sixty-seven
sixty-eight
sixty-nine
seventy
seventy-one
seventy-two
seventy-three
seventy-four
seventy-five
seventy-six
seventy-seven
seventy-eight
seventy-nine
eighty
The Final Chapter
The First Chapter
Fear was the only thing driving Beth forward. A combination of all that effort, coupled with the horrific scene she’d just witnessed, had robbed her of all her energy. She must keep going. The figure – the monster – was gaining. Beth knew what would happen if they didn’t make it. She knew even in this moment of total fear that they’d meet the same end.
Oh God, the children!
***
It was the third time Beth and Chris had come to the Franz Josef glacier on the South Island of New Zealand. The glacier, situated in the small town of the same name on the island’s west coast, is one of only three glaciers in the world to be surrounded by rain forest. The ice cascading down between two green mountains, looking like a flowing river frozen in time, is in stark contrast to its surroundings and appears strikingly out of place.
Beautiful.
The setting of a bloody massacre.
For the first time Beth and Chris decided to climb the rocky wall that rose up from the ice. Despite the No Trespassing signs, Beth was confident, having marked out the area on their map. The signs were surely just to discourage inexperienced tourists. The local guides would probably say it’s too dangerous, that they’re being reckless.
They wouldn’t be out here if they didn’t know what they were doing.
Setting out that morning, filled with a cocktail of adrenaline and excitement, no thought of danger entered her mind.
It was a bitch of a climb and took all afternoon. Once on top of the rock the happy couple secured their ropes for the abseil back down. They set off on a walk to absorb the amazing view. Looking below, the trees of the rain forest were a green so vibrant they appeared unnatural against the ice, which in turn was at various parts blue, white and grey, as if different sections of the twelve-kilometre stretch of glacier had a different mood. Earlier they’d noticed the ice was slick and weeping in the afternoon sun. Now from this height it seemed dry, hard, and – like the rest of nature – unforgiving.
Just a mile in, they found a ledge overlooking a large gorge. They stopped. They sat. They took the opportunity to attach their abseil harnesses to save time later. Beth huddled up to Chris. Night was falling. The sky bled pink and orange through the growing darkness.
A black dot appeared on the horizon. As it grew, their comfortable silence was interrupted by a distant dum from the skies, the sound as soft as a finger tapping on a cushion. The dum gradually became louder as they recognised the small shadow of a helicopter.
Beth couldn’t judge the direction it was heading at first, but it grew closer and closer. Eventually the helicopter came to land right in the centre of the gorge that the couple overlooked. Even though it was some distance away, Beth still felt the light rush of a warm breeze from its rotor blade caress her face. Her surprise at its appearance soon gave way to curiosity. This was a restricted area, which could only mean it was a private helicopter. Beth and Chris leaned over the rock that obscured their view to see who would get out.
The helicopter’s spotlight, which had swept the landing zone, was replaced by another above the cabin door. It now provided the only source of illumination as it cut through the evening air around the cabin. First to get out were two men in black suits. They jumped down and turned to help the next passengers. Even from this distance Beth could see their muscular bodies. Both figures wide, with square shoulders and a confident stance.
They looked like stereotypical bodyguards. Like the ones you see on TV.
What type of people needed bodyguards? Maybe it’s someone famous? A celebrity, perhaps?
Her intrigue was quickly halted, however, by the appearance of a woman, followed by two young children, a boy and a girl. Beth recognised none of them.
The bodyguards helped the woman and two children down. They turned to survey the area. The family politely waved goodbye to the pilot.
He didn’t get the chance to wave back.
Suddenly the sound of shattering glass filled the gorge. The woman’s screams filled the skies. A painful scream that made Beth freeze the second the noise reached her, a sensation sliding through her as if her spinal fluid were turning to liquid nitrogen. The helicopter obscured any view of what the woman was screaming at, but it could only have been the pilot. Something awful must have happened to him. Beth did not know he was already dead.
The next seven seconds produced five more dead bodies.
***
He was furious with himself.
How could this have happened?
The job itself was a tremendous success. He couldn’t have planned it better. Six hits, six dead bodies. Not even the hint of a chance to escape.
He’d felt surp
risingly relaxed leading up to it. In relation to the importance of the job, that is; not the killing itself. That never bothered him. It didn’t strike up any emotion at all. He’d completed the job, but something had gone wrong.
There he lay, waiting in position. He checked the rifle yet again. It worked fine, but it never hurt to check one more time. He was always the same when using a weapon that wasn’t his own. The model was the L96 sniper rifle formerly used by the British Special Forces. It held eight 8.5mm bullets. Heavier than a standard military rifle’s, to improve accuracy over long distances. The rifle’s effective range was over twelve hundred metres. However, his rifle was modified slightly for shorter distances, effectively making it one of a kind.
Once satisfied, he pulled at the black balaclava around his face until it felt comfortable - or as comfortable as one of those things can feel.
He’d seen the VH-3D Sea King before he’d heard it. The dull dum, dum from the skies eventually breaking the chasm of silence. As it landed the dum of the main rotor blade changed to a whipping noise. He tightened his grip around the rifle. Leaned in to rest his eye against the scope.
The copter landed. He aligned the telescopic sight of the rifle with where the door would open. Adjusted the parallax to zero in. As the two bodyguards exited the sniper moved the sight over to the other side and looked through the window of the helicopter’s passenger cabin, past the clear glass separation and into the pilot’s cockpit. The sniper smiled to himself. From this position he had a clear view of the back of the pilot’s head.
He softly wrapped his gloved index finger around the trigger. Slowed his breathing. Focused on the brown shaven hair that ran down the back of the pilot’s head and onto his neck. The sniper could even see a small black mole just below his neckline. He tightened his grip on the trigger. He was still. His breathing all but stopped.
The pilot turned to confirm all his passengers were off. The sniper pulled the trigger.
One.
Blood engulfed the inside of the pilot’s cockpit.
He hadn’t waited to confirm the bullet hit. He moved the rifle straight across and got the first bodyguard in his sights.
Two.
The body dropped as if someone had just turned off the power.
A slight adjustment for the second bodyguard.
Three.
This one lifted off his feet as if kicked in the chest, a visible hole through his left pectoral.
Not three hits – he was counting three bullets used, which meant five remaining. He enjoyed taking out the wife, just to stop her awful screaming.
Four.
Her head snapped to the side at an impossible angle. The top of her cervical spine destroyed. Half her throat blown clean away.
The sniper saw the woman fall out of the corner of his sight as he made the adjustment and froze. Something caught his attention. He wasn’t sure what. It could have been movement. Not within his eyesight. Outside the area of the helicopter. But the pause was brief, because the professional in him told him to finish the job. Like the beat of a drum going off in his head: finish the job, finish the job, finish the job.
His eye had moved from the rifle’s scope. He looked back and once more tightened his finger around the trigger as he focused on the final two targets, Bo and Richmond.
Ridiculous names for children.
Five
Her head popped like a balloon.
Six.
Just like his sister.
Six bullets – six dead bodies. Perfect.
He put the last two rounds into the pilot to be a hundred and ten per cent sure. An almost dead pilot can still push the emergency transmitter on the control panel, alerting whoever is on the receiving end that they’re in trouble. The last thing the sniper wanted was for people to be alerted before he was well out of the country.
Assassinating the family of a prominent UN ambassador, not to mention one of the world’s most recognisable politicians, on foreign soil, means the authorities will come down on this with everything they have. Time to disappear now.
He heard it just as he moved his head back from the scope, and turned immediately to the sound, the smile wiped off his face. A small cluster of rocks crashed against the gorge wall in the distance and tumbled to the ground. He looked up in astonishment from where the noise was to the ledge above … and immediately made out the silhouettes of two people staring straight back at him.
***
Now Beth was a few strides behind Chris and both were powering their arms and legs with all they had. The cliff above the glacier was maybe a quarter of a mile ahead.
It felt like they’d been running for hours. The lactic acid in her muscles made every limb burn. Just as they caught sight of their ropes, visible on the ground, Beth glanced behind her and knew they weren’t going to make it. She was still a few strides behind Chris, with little distance to travel, but the sniper was gaining. His strong, confident strides swallowed up the ground as he ran, as if he were floating with the wind.
‘Oh God, oh God,’ Chris said to her, horror in his voice. ‘Keep running, Beth!’
As they reached the tree, Chris seemed to reach a decision, stopped and turned. Beth ran past as he suddenly accelerated the other way. Her eyes were focused on the cliff. Her karabiner already held open. As she bent down and picked up the rope, she realised Chris wasn’t next to her. She looked up and saw him running away – towards the sniper.
‘Chris. No!’ she screamed. But he didn’t react.
***
As Chris charged he tried to clear his mind. One solid hit is all it would take. He stooped in an attempt to tackle the sniper, who was dressed completely in black from head to foot. The only skin showing was the tanned skin around the eyes. Chris saw the sniper’s mismatched eyes, and they shot terror through him. One of the eyes was as brown and plain as old wood. The other was a bright emerald green that shone in the night like a rare, cursed jewel. They were like the demonic eyes of a soulless creature. They would be the last thing Chris would ever see.
***
As the man leaped at him, the sniper took a quick step to the right and smashed his left elbow into the temple. The man was unconscious before he hit the ground. A loud crack rang out into the night as the man’s skull connected with rock.
The sniper left the body where it landed and reached the ropes, just in time to see the woman disappear over the edge. He instinctively reached behind his back for his knife, and came up empty. For once, he wasn’t carrying it.
His fury rising higher, he thought quickly and lined up the options. He ran back over to the man’s unconscious body, lifted it as best he could by the harness and the collar of the jacket, and dragged it to the edge of the mountain.
Expertly, he removed the harness, threw it to one side and peered over the edge. The woman was directly below, pushing hard off the rock as she descended, and making good progress. The sniper turned and lifted the man off the ground, hoping to literally kill two birds with one stone.
Lining up the body with the woman’s rope, he dropped it over the edge.
It glanced off the abseiling woman and continued at a tremendous speed toward the glacier below. She shrieked and began to fall, her arms and legs flailing, but then the sniper saw the rope go taut again as she regained her grip.
His roar echoed into the night.
Turning back to pick up the harness, he put it on backwards and tightened the straps. The second rope he fed behind him through the karabiner. The sniper walked over to the cliff so his toes stuck out over the edge as if ready to jump. He closed his eyes. Took in two deep breaths.
Men have limitations. But he was Caracas.
I’m capable of more than any man.
I am capable of anything.
He opened his eyes and slowly lowered himself, face first, over the cliff until he was horizontal at the top of the mountain. Moonlight bounced off the icy blue glacier far below him. Taking a breath, Caracas brought the rope out from his
waist until it was level with his hip and began to sprint down the side of the mountain.
***
Feeling the wind rushing past his face, Caracas powered his legs. He held the rope out straight and focused on the woman below. She vanished behind an overhang. Then came back into view as he ran over the top of it. He was close. She still had maybe a hundred feet to go and was looking straight at the rock face, completely unaware of the killer gaining above her. As he closed the distance, Caracas let the rope go altogether and jumped from the mountainside, head first at the woman like a guided missile.
***
Beth, still wailing, heard the same whistle of wind she heard just before Chris’s unconscious body hit her. The surprise and pain of that blow nearly threw her from the mountainside, so this time she looked up. A black figure flew through the sky towards her. Just before they collided, Beth was certain she’d seen a single snake-like emerald eye. Then everything went black.
2
One year later…
Torrevieja, Spain.
July on the Costa Blanca.
It’s hot.
Too hot.
A near-full moon hung in the sky like a king ruling over the night, the stars acting as its royal subjects. Robert ‘Bob’ Paxman walked side by side with his companion down the deserted street. The air felt as thick as soup.
Paxman turned and heard music blasting out of a parked silver Citroen at the next corner. He’d heard the music from two streets away. The six Spanish teenagers surrounding the car drank from bottles of cusquena negra and laughed and joked amongst themselves. They paid no attention to the two men.
Passing the car, Paxman and his companion reached the corner of Avenida Suecos, made a sharp left towards the Hotel Atlas on the Avenida de Francia and walked on.
Both men were American – the only two on the team from that side of the Atlantic – white, in their late forties, six feet two inches tall, and dressed in suits. The man to Paxman’s left, Phil Connelly, wore his Prada suit with considerably more arrogance than his companion. Paxman considered that a man in Phil Connelly’s position shouldn’t be able to afford such a suit, but Connelly said he’d seen a famous actor wear something similar to a film premiere and had to have it. Bob Paxman’s suit, which might look to the uninitiated similar to Phil Connelly’s, was in fact a cheap imitation.