by Chris Ryan
Again he looked out of the window. Something was moving. A shadow maybe. Nick looked closer. He could hear a rustling, but that might just have been the wind blowing through trees. No, he decided. Tonight was just like every other night on the edge of the Black Mountains. Empty. Still. Abandoned.
He tried another number. Gill was one of Sarah’s friends from university: she was now working in Manchester as a doctor. Nick knew that she sometimes went up to stay with her for the weekend. They’d spend twenty-four hours getting wasted on the clubbing scene. Maybe she was just crashing there for a few days. Perhaps she’d just forgotten to take her mobile charger with her. It was easy enough to do. Nick sometimes forgot to charge up his mobile before leaving for the rigs.
No, said Gill. She’d been up for the weekend about a month ago. She seemed her usual self: strung out like a wire, babbling about work, drinking too much, always looking for the next party, the same old Sarah. There had been a text a couple of weeks ago, but since then Gill had heard nothing. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘Let me know if there’s anything I can do.’
With a sinking feeling, Nick put the phone down. He was running out of options. None of her friends knew where the hell she was. Her professor was acting evasively. She had a hundred grand in her bank account. What the hell has happened to her?
Suddenly, Nick could feel how cold the cottage was. It was a few weeks since he’d been here, and a cold snap meant its old stone walls had frozen solid: they were like ice cubes, freezing everything around them. He’d put the heating on but it would take a couple of days for the place to thaw out again. He looked out of the window again, trying to remember if the BP station on the road into Hereford sold beer or wine, and whether it might be open at this time of night. Just one drink, he thought to himself. To get me through the next few days.
Another movement. Something was out there. Somebody. He was certain of it.
Nick remained still. The expression on his face was relaxed, impassive, as if he was just admiring the shapes the moon and the clouds were creating on the hills. But inside his mind was working furiously. Someone is out there, he told himself. Somebody is watching me.
He started moving away from the window. Whoever they were, he didn’t want them to know they’d been spotted. Just act casual, like you have no idea they’re out there.
Flicking on the TV, he caught the closing headlines on the ITV news. Blair was talking some rubbish about the threat of Saddam Hussein supplying biological weapons to terrorists. Nick turned the sound down. If anyone was watching the house right now, they’d think he was just slumped in front of the box. No threat to anyone.
Quietly, he slipped away to the phone. He picked up the receiver, and started to dial, but used only eight digits instead of nine. The phone just made a rapid bleeping sound. That was fine. Nick didn’t want to speak to anyone right now. Still holding the phone to his lips, he turned his back to the window. Kneeling down, he started to unscrew the back of the phone. It was a cheap receiver he’d bought in Argos for a tenner: the back came away simply enough. Inside, he could see a small black chip measuring one centimetre lengthwise and half a centimetre across. Nick recognised it at once.
A bug.
Someone was listening to his calls.
He screwed the receiver back into place, then dialled Sarah’s mobile number again, just for a number to ring. Whoever was listening into the calls, he didn’t want them to know they’d been rumbled. Not yet. ‘Hiya, silver girl, it’s me,’ he said when he got the voicemail message that was now tediously familiar. ‘Give us a ring when you can.’
Slowly he moved back towards the TV. A Clint Eastwood film was just starting. Perhaps he’d watch it. After all, there wasn’t much chance of sleeping tonight; maybe just crash out in front of the box. Let them think I haven’t seen them.
The listening device was familiar to Nick. One of the first things you learnt on the security circuit was how to sweep a room for bugs. This was nothing special: a simple plug-in device you could buy from a couple of dozen firms that sold them over the Internet. It took the phone call and transmitted it over a short-wave radio signal to a listening post nearby. Its range was about half a mile, depending on the terrain. In these hills, maybe less. That meant they were close by.
Glancing up at the silent screen, Nick could see Clint pulling his Magnum from its holster. Somebody is watching me. And my phone is tapped. Nick repeated the same two phrases to himself sombrely.
Well, mate, all I know is this. You picked on the wrong fight this time. You’ve got a hell of beating coming to you.
* * *
The sky was darker tonight, Nick noted. A thick layer of clouds had settled into the valley early in the day and showed no signs of moving. The moon was hidden, and none of the stars was visible. Perfect, he told himself. For this evening’s work, I need all the darkness I can get.
Once or twice he’d glanced towards the spot where he’d seen the movements, but he hadn’t looked at it for more than a fraction of a second. That would create suspicion. He had no idea who might be watching him, or why, but he assumed they’d been properly trained. That meant one of the first things they’d be looking for was a sign that they’d been rumbled. Any hint of that, and they’d evacuate the place on the spot. The first rule of surveillance was always the same, whoever you were working for: Don’t get bloody caught.
Nick picked up the phone. There had been almost twenty-four hours now since he’d realised he was being watched. Enough time to plan his response down to the last detail. He called Sarah’s mobile again, waiting for the voicemail to click on. ‘It’s me again, love,’ he said. ‘I’m going to be in all evening, so give me a ring.’ Next, he called Ken’s Pizza Delivery in Hereford. ‘One large pepperoni, and a beer,’ he said, then gave the address. ‘For about ten, please.’
That should convince whoever is listening I’m staying in for the evening.
For a few minutes that morning, Nick had wondered if he should call Jed and get his help. He could stay in the house, while Jed could stalk the men in the bushes. He’d decided against it. I can handle this by myself. I don’t need that arrogant little tosser buggering things up.
Nick flicked the TV on. It was already pitch black outside. He glanced out of the window but could see nothing, only darkness. He pulled the curtains together, then bolted the front door. Taking off his shoes to stay as quiet as possible, he walked upstairs to his bedroom. The cottage only had one entrance, at its front. The back door that led into the kitchen had been bricked up years ago. His bedroom looked out on to the side of the house, and was protected by a large oak tree which, even in winter with its leaves down, effectively camouflaged the window. Stopping by the cupboard, he pulled out a tin of boot polish, and started to smear some across his cheeks and forehead. He was wearing black jeans and a black sweatshirt. Catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror, Nick flashed a menacing, malevolent smile: the smile of a man intent on beating his way to the truth. It feels good to be back in action, he told himself. This is who you are.
Swinging open the window, Nick climbed gently on to the ledge. He’d owned this house for more than a decade, but until this evening he’d never thought how to turn it into a fortress. A gutter ran down the side of the house, a yard from the window. Nick reached over, gripping the pipe tightly into the palm of his fist, then started to lever himself across the side of the house. The stone from which the cottage was built was pitted with crevices, perfect for climbing. In a few seconds, he’d secured his grip, and slid effortlessly down the drain-pipe on to the grass below.
Keeping low to ground, with his back bent double, he moved across the stretch of lawn towards the adjoining field. There was a gap in the hedge through which some sheep sometimes broke and ate whatever few flowers Nick had bothered to plant in the garden. He pulled himself through, and started to walk across the field, keeping himself close to the hedge. Glancing up at the sky, he could see it was still pitch black; the cloud cover was he
avy, and a few light drops of rain were starting to fall. A biting wind was blowing through the mountains. Perfect, Nick thought. The worse the weather is, the harder it will be to spot a man coming towards them.
He reckoned the observing post was where he’d spotted the movement last night. It would be nothing special – if they had any brains, they’d keep themselves as mobile as possible. A sheet of green tarpaulin to cover themselves, and a pair of binoculars, plus whatever kit they needed for listening to the bugged phone calls. So long as their clothes were camouflaged as well, that should be enough to stop them being spotted. Nick’s plan was to skirt around the front of the house through the fields, then crawl up on them from behind. Keep it simple, he could remember one of his instructors yelling at him during his training courses for the Regiment. If you can stab the fuckers in the back, that’s as good a place as any.
Nick paused. He’d moved about three hundred yards now: two hundred yards up from the front of the house, and a hundred yards across the field, so that he was looking straight down at the cottage. He could see the light seeping out from behind the curtains, and underneath the front door. The light above the porch cast a few pale shadows across the path that led to the road, and just about touched the bonnet of his six-year-old Rover parked a few yards from the door. Otherwise, the hillside was shrouded in darkness.
The rain was starting to gather strength. Nick could feel it starting to beat on to him. Water was curling around his hair, and dropping down over his face. The blacking on his face was starting to smudge. He looked down towards the house, his eyes scanning the surface of the ground. They’ll be somewhere, he told himself. And they’ll be looking in the wrong direction.
Nothing. He scanned the field that lay directly in front of the cottage, and where he had seen the movement last night, but it was completely still. The rain and the darkness made it hard to get an accurate picture, but two men even lying flat under a green sheet should be visible from here. He started to inch closer. Maybe I just need to get nearer, he thought.
Nick advanced ten, then twenty yards. Somewhere to the left he felt certain he heard a noise. He paused, listening harder. A creak. He glanced nervously in the direction the sound had come from. A tree was starting to sway as the wind and the rain battered against it. Nick pressed forward. He was seventy yards from the front of the house now, in the centre of the field looking down on it. No sign of them. Maybe the buggers decided to knock off for the night. Maybe they don’t like getting their hair wet.
He started to move to the left, heading towards the next field. He squatted down close to the hedge and came to a gap. The ground was chewed up by the cattle that sometimes grazed there, and the rain had filled it with puddles that mixed the mud with cow dung to create a foul-smelling pond. Nick held his breath, and crawled through the gap. The dung was soaking into his body. Too risky to stand up, he warned himself. If they’re here, they’ll see me.
A gust of wind whipped up through the field. Fifty or sixty yards in front of him, Nick felt certain he saw something. It was just a shape. The field was rough, sloping down towards the side of the cottage, but the hump was a distinct mark. It rose up out of the ground by a foot or so, and it was looking straight down at the cottage. Nick crawled forward. He was forty yards from the lump now. And the conviction was growing within him: he’d found them.
He steered himself further along the field, then looked straight down. He was twenty yards back from their position. Nick sometimes wished he’d kept a gun in the house, but with his reputation for drinking, the local police would never have given him a licence. Instead, he’d armed himself with a thick, two-foot length of lead pipe, and a sharp, six-inch steel kitchen knife. That should be enough, he told himself. You don’t need guns to take vengeance on a man. Just muscles, determination and the will to fight.
Suddenly, he heard a voice: it was just a whisper, but carried on the wind it managed to travel to where Nick was squatting as vividly as if the man was lying right next to him. ‘Shit, this rain.’
You’ve got worse things to worry about than the rain, pal, Nick thought grimly.
Nick pulled himself forward. He could feel his body rustling in the long grass, but in the wind and rain the noise of his approach was smothered. His skin was soaked already, and the mud made progress slow. He could smell the cow dung reeking off his body. Ten yards. He hesitated, and took a closer look. The sheet measured six foot by five, and was spread flat over the ground so it blended into the ground. Nick could just about see the soles of four boots sticking out of it. Two men. Lying flat on their stomachs, with binoculars trained on the house. They probably did shifts of four or five hours, so there must be some backup not far away. I’ll have to deal with them fast, before the help arrives.
He took two more lunges forward. The mud was spitting up into his eyes and his face. Five yards. He took the kitchen knife from his pocket, and held it tight in the fist of his right hand. He could see the boots wriggle as the rain lashed into them, and he could hear one of the men speaking.
‘I think the old bugger’s fallen asleep in front of the telly again,’ the man said, in what sounded like an Irish accent.
‘Looks like another cold, boring night,’ replied his mate, in what sounded to Nick like a German accent.
Nick plunged the knife into the first foot he could see before him. The thin blade sliced though the leather then cut through the sock and into the skin below. A blood-curdling scream howled up from the man’s lips. Nick swiftly withdrew the blade: he’d have liked to have searched around for a vein to cut, but the edge of his blade risked getting caught in the leather of the boot. He stood up swiftly, holding on to his lead pipe, swinging it forward. Both men were scrambling to their feet. The metal collided with the jaw of one of them, smashing into the bone and breaking the skin, so that a small trickle of blood started to dribble on to his neck.
Nick stood straight up. He had the pipe in one hand, the knife in the other. Even through the murky darkness, he could make out the faces of the two men. The guy with the Irish accent was the taller of the two. He had longish brown hair, and a short, close-cropped beard, and eyes that seemed to sparkle in the rain. He had taken a bad blow to the side of his face from the pipe: it looked as if at least one tooth had been knocked out, and there was blood on his tongue. The smaller man, with the German accent, had dirty blond hair, cropped, and a thick, bull-like face that was pitted with spots. He’d taken a nasty slice to his foot, but was standing firm on the ground. He knows how to take a cut, Nick thought. And he probably knows how to deliver one as well.
‘Who the fuck are you?’ shouted Nick.
His face was red with fury. Rainwater was pouring down the side of his blackened face, and the blood was still dripping from the lead pipe in his hand. ‘Who the fuck sent you to watch me?’
He was standing three yards from both men. The shorter man was inching towards him. He had no weapons in his hand, but Nick could see he didn’t need them. He held the knife out in front of him. ‘Where the fuck is my daughter?’
The man swung a fist. Nick slashed at him with the knife, but missed. He was just cutting the air. A blow landed on the side of his face. Instinctively, Nick thrust his arm up to parry it. He could feel the bone stinging where the fist had landed. A kick landed on his shins, briefly destabilising him, but he managed to hold his balance. He swung the pipe round, hitting the German in the stomach. ‘Fuck you,’ spat the German. ‘Fucking bastard.’
‘Leave it the fuck alone, Kurt,’ shouted the Irishman. ‘We’re not here to fight.’
Nick slipped as Kurt had raised his fist, and Nick could see that it was about to crash into his skull. ‘Who in the name of hell are you?’ Nick shouted again, louder this time.
The German’s fist was about to crash into him, when his mate rushed forward and got hold of him, pulling him back. Nick reached out, grabbing at the Irishman’s hair, but he ripped himself away, leaving just a few strands in Nick’s fist. ‘We’ve no
reason to fight, old man,’ snarled the Irishman. ‘And we certainly don’t want you dead, you’re no use to us like that.’
The German broke free. He smashed another blow into Nick’s stomach, doubling him up in pain. The pipe dropped from his hand. The German picked it up, and crashed it into Nick’s ribcage. He could feel at least one bone quiver, then snap. The pain was shooting up through his spine and exploding inside his head. Still bent over double, he smashed his head into the man’s groin, but his muscle was like rock, and Nick could feel a bruise on his skull start to swell.
‘Leave him alone, you bloody idiot,’ shouted the Irishman.
‘I can finish him,’ shrieked the German, his voice turning ugly.
‘We’re not meant to kill the old fucker.’
The German wasn’t listening. He lunged forward with the pipe in his hand. Swinging around, he smashed it towards Nick’s chest, aiming for the broken rib. Nick swerved. Next, the man was flinging a punch with his left fist. It collided with the side of Nick’s jaw, impacting against his skin with the force of a mallet. A dull ache started to spread down his neck into his spine. He thrust the knife towards the man’s stomach, but he saw it coming, and put his arm out to deflect the weapon. The knife ripped into the waxed surface of his jacket, tearing the cloth. As it snagged in the material, Nick lost his grip on the blade and, within a second, the German had whipped it free. He pointed it towards Nick, then thrust the blade at him. Nick jumped backwards. The German advanced, oblivious to the wound in his foot. The knife was stabbing in the air. It slashed into Nick’s arm, cutting the fabric of his sweatshirt. Nick slammed his fist into the side of the man’s arm, planning to knock the blade out of his fist. The German’s grip flinched as the blow struck him, but his muscles were like iron, and the knife stayed steady in his hand. He flicked it upwards, this time cutting into Nick’s skin. He could feel its cold blade slicing into his flesh, and a cry of pain erupted from his lips. Another strike. This time the blade sunk deep into his arm. He screamed, louder this time. Blood was starting to flow from the wound, mixing with the rain that was lashing into his side, and running down into a muddy, crimson pool beside him. He steadied himself, but the German was advancing towards him once again. There was a look in his eye that Nick recognised from the battlefields he’d fought on: a steely mask of concentration that descended on a man’s face in the moment before he was about to kill someone.