by Mark Dawson
He kept walking.
John Milton trudged across the border as the light turned from black to mauve, the sun coming around again.
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An extract from the first full-length John Milton novel
THE CLEANER
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THE ROAD THROUGH THE FOREST was tranquil, the gentle quiet embroidered by the gurgling of a mountain rill and the chirruping of the birds in the canopy of trees overhead. The route forestière de la Combe d’Ire was pot-holed and narrow, often passable by just one car at a time. Evergreen pine forests clustered tightly on either side, pressing a damp gloom onto the road that was dispelled by warm sunlight wherever the trees had been chopped back. The misty slopes of the massif of the Montagne de Charbon stretched above the treeline, ribs of rock and stone running down through the vegetation. The road followed a careful route up the flank of the mountain, turning sharply to the left and right and sometimes switching back on itself as it traced the safest path upwards. The road crossed and recrossed the stream and the humpback bridge here was constructed from ancient red bricks, held together as much by the damp lichen that clung to it as by its disintegrating putty. The bridge was next to a small enclosure signed as a car park, although that was putting it at its highest; it was little more than a lay-by hewn from the hillside, a clearing barely large enough to fit four cars side-by-side. Forestry reserve notices warned of “wild animals” and “hunters.”
It was a quiet and isolated spot, the outside world excluded almost as if by the closing of a door.
Milton had parked his Renault there, nudged against the shoulder of the mountain. It was an nondescript hire car; he had chosen it because it was unremarkable. He had reversed into the space, leaving the engine running as he stepped out and made his way around to the boot. He unlocked and opened it and looked down at the bundle nestled in the car’s small storage space. He unfolded the edges of the blanket to uncover the assault rifle that had been left at the dead drop the previous night. It was an HK53 carbine with integrated suppressor, the rifle that the SAS often used when stealth was as important as stopping power. Milton lifted the rifle from the boot and pressed a fresh twenty-five round magazine into the breach. He opened the collapsible stock and took aim, pointing down the middle of the road. Satisfied that the weapon was functioning correctly, he made his way towards the bridge and rested it in the undergrowth, out of site.
Milton had scouted the area and knew it well. To the north, the road eventually led to Saint Jorioz, a medium-sized tourist resort that gathered along the shore of Lake Annecy. The descent to the south led to the small village of Chevaline. The village made its living from farming, but that was supplemented by renting the picturesque chalet farmhouses to the tourists who came for cycling and hiking. Milton had stayed in just such a chalet for the past three days. He had spent his time scouting the area, departing on his bike early in the morning and returning late at night. He had kept a low-profile, staying in the chalet apart from those trips out.
Milton heard the engine of the BMW long before he saw it. He collected the rifle and slipped behind the trunk of an oak, hiding himself from the road but still able to observe it. The wine-coloured estate car was in second gear, struggling a little with the steep camber of the road. It emerged from the sharp right hand turn, its lights lit to illuminate a path through the gloom.
The car slowed and turned in towards the Renault. Milton held his breath, his pulse ticking up, and slipped his index finger through the trigger-guard of the rifle. The driver parked alongside and switched off the engine. Milton could hear music from the interior of the car. The passenger side door opened and the muffled music became clearer: French pop, disposable and inoffensive. The passenger bent down and spoke sharply into the car and the music was silenced. For a moment all Milton could hear was the crunch of the man’s shoes on the gravel, the rushing of the water and the wind in the leaves. He tightened his grip on the rifle and concentrated on keeping his breathing even and regular.
The driver’s side door opened and a tall, dark skinned woman stepped outside.
Milton recognised both of them. The passenger was Yehya al Moussa. The driver was Sameera Najeeb.
He stepped out from behind the trunk and brought the HK53 to bear. He flicked the selector to automatic and fired off a volley of shots. The bullets struck Najeeb in the gut, perforating her liver and lungs. She put her hand to her breast, confusion spread across her face, and then pivoted and fell back against the side of the car. Najeeb shrieked, moving quickly, ducking down beneath the line contour of the car. Milton took two smooth sidesteps to his right to open up the angle again and squeezed off another burst. The scientist was trying to get back into the car; the bullets tattooed his body in a line from throat to crotch.
The fusillade sounded around the trees for a moment. Frightened birds exploded into the air on wingbeats that sounded like claps. The echo of the reports died and faded away and then, short moments after the brutal outburst of violence, all was quiet again; the wind rustled through the trees, the water chimed beneath the bridge, a nightingale called from high above.
Milton paused. There was another sound.
A second car approaching.
Hiding would have been pointless; the bloody tableaux would have given him away. The car emerged from the mouth of the forest. It was a Renault Megane, painted blue with white and red chevrons screen-printed across the bonnet. The policeman in the front of the car must have seen him immediately. The Megane came to a sudden stop, fifty feet away.
Milton ejected the magazine and slapped in a replacement.
The officer opened the door and stepped out of the car, his hand on the butt of his holstered pistol. “Arrét!” he called out.
Milton did not pause to think. His reaction was hard-wired, a response that had been drilled into him across ten years so that now it was automatic, an expression of muscle memory without conscience, sudden and terribly deadly. He swung the rifle around and squeezed the trigger for a longer burst. The car was peppered with bullets, half a dozen slamming into the radiator and bonnet, another handful into the windscreen. The officer was struck in the face and chest, stumbling backwards and then dropping onto his back where he lay for a moment, twitching horribly. Milton walked towards him, the gun cradled low, and put a final bullet into his head. Finally, the man lay still.
Peacefulness returned, ornamented now by the sound of the shards of glass that fell to shatter on the road from the breached windscreen.
Milton crossed the road to the Renault. He opened the boot and wrapped the rifle in its blanket, then stowed it away carefully beneath the spare wheel in the false floor. He pulled on a pair of latex gloves and collected the ejected shell casings from the rifle. There were forty of them, and they were still hot to the touch. He dropped them into a small evidence bag. He crouched by Najeeb’s body and frisked her quickly and efficiently. He found her smartphone and a USB stick and bagged them both.
He went around to the other side of the car and lowered himself to examine al Moussa. The door was open and, as he raised his gaze from the body to peer inside, he saw a small, pale face staring back out at him. Milton did not rush. There was no need. The face belonged to a young boy, perhaps five or six years old. His skin and his hair was dark and his features recalled those of his parents. He was cowering in the footspace, a streak of blood across his forehead as if it was paint that had been thrown over him. It was not his blood: it was blowback from his father.
Milton reached for the Sig Sauer he carried in his shoulder holster, his fingers brushing against the butt. The boy held his eyes. His face was white and quivering with fright but he did not look away. He was brave. Milton felt a swell of vomit in his throat as his memory cast him back twenty years and a thousand miles away. He remembered another young boy, a similar age, the face peaceful despite the obscenity of his death.
He lowered his hand from the Sig and stepped back. He gently pulled the
man’s body onto the muddy surface of the lay-by and went back to the car.
“Stay there,” he told the boy. “Help is coming.”
He closed the door. He checked that he had removed the evidence of his presence and, satisfied, got into the Renault, put it into gear and drove away.
He turned to the north, upwards, and drove towards the Lake.
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THE CLEANER
is out now at Amazon.com and Amazon.co.uk
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Mark Dawson works in the film industry. He lives in Wiltshire.
ALSO BY MARK DAWSON
The Art of Falling Apart
Subpoena Colada
In the Soho Noir Series
The Black Mile
The Imposter
In the John Milton Series
One Thousand Yards
The Cleaner
Saint Death
DEDICATION
To Mrs D and FD.
COPYRIGHT
A BLACK DOG PUBLISHING ebook.
First published in Great Britain in 2013 by Black Dog
Ebook first published in 2013 by Black Dog
This ebook published in 2013 by Black Dog
Copyright © Mark Dawson 2013
Formatting by Polgarus Studio
The moral right of Mark Dawson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor to be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
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IF YOU ENJOYED THIS BOOK…
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ALSO BY MARK DAWSON
DEDICATION
COPYRIGHT