by Chris Ryan
With her right hand, Eleanor pushed Abbott's hand away from her mouth. 'Don't listen to him, Matt,' she said weakly. 'Don't listen.'
There's no end to the lies we tell each other, thought Matt. You can say it, but you can't mean it. Your life is more precious than that.
Matt started to remove the Glock from the side of Lacrierre's head. He loosed the pressure on his left forearm, letting Lacrierre slip free of his grip, and he could hear him choking as he filled his lungs with breath. He glanced up towards Harton and Godsall. The two men were standing with their legs a few inches apart, their expressions motionless and their rifles still trained on him. 'You're not working for the regiment, you know,' he said.
Both men remained silent, their eyes still and dead.
Matt looked straight at them, his eyes unflinching. I've got one card. I have to play it right.
'I only met you once, Harton,' he said. 'You I don't know at all, but we're all regiment. We know the code we sign up for, and we never forget it. We fight rough and dirty. We don't bother about the rules, and the less fair the battle the more we like it. We just get on with winning it, that's our job. But there's some lines we don't cross. We aren't bandits, and we're not freelancers, at least not until we pick up our cards and start working for ourselves. We don't rape the local girls, and we don't loot places. We fight for our unit, nobody else.'
He paused, looking straight ahead: neither man showed any flicker of emotion or even interest. 'Today, you're not working for your unit. You're not working for the regiment. You're just executing two innocent people to protect three gangsters who are out to make a fortune for themselves.'
Matt kept his eyes locked on the two men. He could see nothing on Godsall's face, but Harton showed a flicker of something: if you looked closely, his grip on the trigger of the MP-5 had loosened just a fraction.
Abbott tossed the remains of his cigarette on to the ground, stubbing it out on the carpet with the heel of his shoe. 'Very nice, old fruit,' he snapped. 'Now can we skip the matey bollocks please and get on with the executions. I'll repeat my offer once more, Matt. Put your gun down. Let Lacrierre go, and you can be knocking on the Pearly Gates in time for supper. We'll kill you but we'll let Eleanor go.'
Suddenly Harton began to speak. 'You're a coward, Browning. You bottled the job back in Bosnia because you were scared of getting clipped. Now you're still just trying to save your own skin.'
'No, the Increment is just being used to do the dirty work for these three men.' Matt paused, punching home the next sentence. 'If you go to that computer, I'll give you the account number for a private bank in Luxembourg called the Deschamps Trust. You can look it up, and you'll see ten million pounds paid into two accounts by Tocah. The names on the accounts?' Matt paused again, his eyes switching from Harton to Godsall, then back to Harton. 'Guy Abbott and Jack Matram.'
Harton started to lower his gun from his shoulder. He glanced first at Matram, then towards the computer. Slowly, he started walking towards it.
'Stop right there,' barked Matram. 'That's an order.'
Matt looked towards him. 'You can obey him,' he said, nodding towards Matram. 'Or you can obey your conscience.' He focused directly on Harton. 'I'm telling the truth. You kill me, your lives will be ruined. You'll be in prison until the day you die.'
'He's a madman,' said Abbott. 'He's got a grudge against the regiment. You shouldn't listen to a word he says.'
'We drummed him out of the Increment, don't you remember?' said Matram. 'He wasn't our sort. White skin, but yellow blood.'
Matt kept looking straight at the man. 'You can believe me, or you can believe them,' he said. 'Or you can just take a look, then believe the evidence of your own eyes.'
Without looking back, Harton kept walking towards the computer.
'Don't dare to disobey me,' shouted Matram.
TWENTY-FIVE
A single shot rang out, its noise echoing through the confined space of the carriage. It ripped though Matt's eardrums, briefly disorientating him.
Harton was lying dead on the floor, a single bullet hole through his forehead. A trickle of blood was seeping from the wound, spreading itself out across the beige carpet. A few painful breaths were still struggling up from his lungs, but his eyes had already closed.
For a split second, the room was quiet, and Matt felt as if he could watch events in slow motion. Time itself seemed to have stopped. In this brief moment, I can attack.
Matt gripped the Glock in his right hand, using his left hand to hold tighter on to Lacrierre. He steadied himself, rooting his feet to the floor, and locked his elbow into position, holding the gun straight out in front of him. Through its slim, metal sight he could see the bone of Matram's hand, his gun still pointing towards Harton. He squeezed the trigger, taking the recoil in his shoulder.
The bullet smashed into the Smith & Wesson. As the gun spun to the floor, the barrel broke apart. Matram flinched as the bullet grazed the skin of his palm, but his expression remained rock steady.
In front of him, Matt could see Godsall step forward, training his MP-5 on Matram and Abbott. 'Hold it right there,' he shouted. He looked towards Matt and Eleanor. 'I want to check that account.'
Matram was standing dead still, looking at the gun Godsall had pointed at him.
Inwardly Matt grinned, although his face remained unchanged. If you've got just one roll of the dice, better make it a good one.
Godsall was standing over the laptop next to Lacrierre's chair. 'Go to www.deschampstrust.com,' said Matt. 'Then click on Account.'
He watched as Godsall's fingers moved across the keyboard. His eyes were locked on to the screen, tracking the page as it downloaded on to the computer. 'Now this number for the account,' said Matt. He read out the twelve-digit number, following Godsall's reactions as he delivered the information. His gun was still jammed into the side of Lacrierre's head. If I can turn him, we can still get out of here alive.
'It's blocked,' said Godsall. 'You need a password.'
Matt listed another twelve digits. 'That'll get you through.'
Godsall hammered the numbers into the keyboard, then hit return. The train was accelerating. It had moved free of south London, and was hitting the new fast stretch of track that took it down to the tunnel. Within five minutes it would be getting up to 130 miles an hour. A steel set of doors connected the engine to this carriage, Matt had observed. The driver would remain unaware of what was happening just a few yards away from him.
We're alone here, as if we were on a different planet. Just the six of us to sort this out among ourselves.
'Got it?' snapped Matt, looking back at Godsall.
He could see the man nodding.
Matt caught a breath. He could feel the sweat still trickling down his back. 'What does it say?'
Matram and Abbott were looking at him. So too was Lacrierre, his head twisting from Matt's grip, with the Glock still pressed hard to the side of his skin.
'There are two accounts listed here.'
'The names,' barked Matt. 'What are the names?'
Godsall raised the MP-5 up into his arm. He held it in front of him, the muzzle of the semi-automatic weapon pointing outwards. From this distance, he could spray the carriage with bullets, leaving no one alive but himself. '. . . Jack Matram and Guy Abbott.'
Matt could feel relief flooding through him. Surely there could be no doubt now? The man could see that Matram had been using them, that he had taken them on a mission to enrich himself personally. At the expense of his own men.
That broke the most basic of all regiment rules. If there were to be any spoils of a battle, you shared them equally. You took the same risks, you got the same rewards.
'How much?' said Matt.
Godsall was still staring at the screen, the calculator inside his mind crunching the numbers laid out before him. 'Ten million,' he said. 'Five each.'
Matt smiled. He tightened the grip around Lacrierre's throat, the gun still pressed against his
head. 'You got the score?' he barked.
As he spoke, he could see the shock written into Godsall's face, but also the anger: for the past few weeks, he and his colleagues had been systematically murdering men around the country. He wouldn't mind that: it was what he was paid to do. But now he could see he hadn't been working for the government: he'd been working for Matram. The blood was starting to feel heavy on his hands.
'As I told you, this is not regiment work, it's private business,' Matt continued. 'There aren't many rules in the regiment, but that's one of them. He just broke it.'
He looked at Matram now, but the man seemed entirely calm. Even though blood was still dripping from his right hand, there was not a flicker of fear or emotion on his face. He had many faults, Matt reflected, but he could hold his nerve under fire.
'Is there anything you want to say, Jack?' said Godsall.
Matram's expression remained as still and placid as the surface of a lake on a perfect summer's day. 'There's a third account,' he said. 'Keep looking.'
'A third account?' said Godsall.
'Something wrong with your bloody ears?' snapped Matram. 'Look under the account in my name. You'll see a payment out.'
Matt glanced across at Godsall. 'It's a trick, you idiot.'
'Look at the account,' snapped Matram, his eyes still fixed on Matt. 'Two weeks ago precisely.'
'Don't move,' said Godsall.
Matt could feel the sweat rolling off the back of his neck. Godsall looked back down at the screen of the laptop. His right hand moved swiftly over the keypad, his expression focused and determined. 'A payment of four million,' he said. 'Made to a separate account set up in the name of Raul Causeland.'
The trace of a smile flashed across Matram's lips, and in his steely eyes Matt could see a hint of amusement there: a sardonic flash of his teeth, as if he were relishing some private joke.
'How many men are in the Increment?' asked Matram.
Godsall nodded. 'Eight, sir.'
'Good answer,' said Matram. 'And four million divided by eight makes half a million each. Now, who is Raul Causeland?'
'Joke name,' said Godsall, his eyes flashing towards Matt. 'The Increment goes out for a few beers, it's Raul who gets the drinks in. Who is he? Nobody. Or rather, all of us.'
'So you see, a big chunk of the money goes to you guys,' said Matram. 'Haifa million each, sitting waiting in a private numbered account in Luxembourg. Makes a nice, tidy little pension. Better than scrambling around looking for security work. Or getting your balls shot off protecting American oil executives out in Iraq.' He nodded towards Matt, the smile on his face widening. 'Or serving up warm beer and cold chips to the gangsters on the Costa del Crime.'
Godsall's expression changed. The strain and tension of the last minutes lifted, replaced by the first flicker of a smile. He lifted the MP-5, raising it back up to his shoulder, his finger jammed tight over the trigger. 'I understand.'
Matram nodded, looking hard towards Matt. 'So, Browning, what's it to be? Granite, sandstone, marble? One of those nice fancy surrounds, or just a plain slab of rock with a Bible quote on it? I always like to see a regiment man getting a decent headstone. Particularly when you want to make sure the bastard doesn't crawl out and start giving you any trouble.'
Within his right forearm Matt could feel Lacrierre starting to relax too, the tension on the man's skin easing down. Ahead of him, a sly grin was starting to spread out across Abbott's face. A Dunhill was dangling from the edge of his lips, its smoke settling in a small cloud clinging to the ceiling of the carriage.
Outside, another train was flashing past in the opposite direction, the vibrations rattling the train. At the speed both trains were passing each other, it would have been impossible for any of the passengers to see what was happening in this carriage.
So Matram cut the rest of the Increment in on his scheme, reflected Matt. I should have guessed that. Every commander has been doing that from Julius Caesar onwards. You go in, take your loot, but even though you might take the bulk of the gold and diamonds for yourself, you make sure the men have just enough to keep them loyal.
'Come on, Browning,' sneered Matram. 'You must already know what kind of tombstone you want. Every regiment man has the answer to that question in his head.'
'A white wooden cross will suit me just fine,' said Matt softly.
Matram nodded. 'The unknown soldier. I'll certainly forget you pretty damned quickly.'
Matt could see Eleanor shivering in the corner, the fear whipping through her with the force of a gale. For her sake at least, perhaps we should get this over with quickly.
'Can you take him with one shot?' Matram spoke without looking around, but it was clear the question was directed towards Godsall.
Matt could see the man examining his options. He was a trained assassin, good at his job. From the detached, curious expression on his face, Matt could tell he was studying the angles, judging the force and velocity with which his bullet would smash through Matt's skull, chew into the brain, and shut down the nerves that processed commands from the brain to the fingers.
If you're going to be shot by anyone, Matt reflected with bitter humour, it might as well be the best in the business.
'One shot will be OK, sir,' said Godsall.
'He won't have time to shoot Lacrierre with that gun he's holding in his hand?'
Godsall shook his head slowly from side to side, with the expression of a man thinking through his answer. 'I can't guarantee that, sir,' he replied. 'I'd say the odds were good. This is a bloody powerful bullet at this range. Once it strikes, you don't have many fractions of a second left to you. One-, two-tenths, that's the most. Never a whole second.'
'Damn it, man,' snapped Matram, his tone impatient. 'Give me the percentages.'
'Seventy–thirty, sir,' responded Godsall instantly. 'In our favour.'
Matram looked towards Lacrierre, his eyes focusing upon him. 'You happy with those odds, sir?'
Matt jammed the gun into Lacrierre's head, struggling to decide whether to pull the trigger now while he still had the chance. Godsall was certainly right: the moment the MP-5 bullet struck, he would probably lose all control of his fingers, and even if he survived for a few miserable moments, he wouldn't be able to shoot anyone. Yet fire now, and a rainstorm of bullets would instantly descend upon both him and Eleanor. He might kill Lacrierre, but he would be killing both Eleanor and himself as certainly as if he pressed the gun to his own temple. While there was just the shadow of a chance, he would hold his fire.
'What about the girl,' said Matt. 'She's not part of this.'
Abbott took a puff on his cigarette, blowing the smoke high into the air. 'Sorry, old fruit, we're not negotiating any more. Should have taken my offer when you had the chance. It's going to cost this little muffin her life.'
'Drop him, Godsall,' snarled Matram. 'Drop the bastard right now.'
Matt could see Godsall raising the MP-5 back up to his shoulders. A look of quiet satisfaction had settled on to his face: the look of a man who had made up his mind, and now just had to implement his decision. The word execution, Matt reflected, had never seemed more appropriate.
He had thought about this moment many times. Soon after he'd joined the regular army, a man in his unit had died on a training exercise. Then, of the ten men who had joined up in his year, four had died during the following decade of active service in the regiment, two of them in combat, two of them in training. With men falling around you at that rate, there were many nights spent lying awake in the darkness, pondering your own fate, and how you would meet it when the day came.