by A P Bateman
Kruger screamed in pain.
The sound of metal and glass on the tarmac was overwhelming. The Land Cruiser was hit again. This time, the truck struck the underside of the vehicle with more force than before.
Caroline tensed as she realised there was a stench of fuel. It was all around them, enveloping them, the smell getting to their nostrils and the vapour burning the back of their throats. She could feel the sting of the fuel vapour in her eyes.
The big SUV slowed, and the sound of the scraping metal ceased as the vehicle rocked to a halt. The silence was ominous, but short lived. Rapid gunshots followed. Caroline could not tell from which direction. She searched for her handbag and the comfort of the Sig 9mm pistol. She could not see it.
Bullets impacted against the roof of the vehicle. Caroline looked in time to see holes punching through the headlining of the roof. She fumbled with the seatbelt release and dropped unceremoniously on top of Kruger. He grunted, was trying to get his weapon clear of his hip holster. He wasn’t managing it, and as Caroline stared down in horror, she could see why. The man’s arm was caught outside the vehicle and was taking the entire weight of the wreckage. He was dazed, operating on auto-pilot. There was a distance in his eyes, perhaps a realisation that he had been beaten. That he wasn’t getting out of this situation. It did not look as if he was registering any pain. Adrenaline would be coursing through his veins and numbing his senses.
Vigus Badenhorst grunted and was trying to get himself out of the rear foot well, where he had been thrown during the impact. He looked at Caroline, his expression one of resignation. “I’m hit…” he said. “I’ve been shot!”
Caroline ignored him, worked on getting hold of Kruger’s pistol. She almost had it clear of the holster, but the gunfire resonated again, and the vehicle was peppered by bullets. Vigus yelped, then groaned. Caroline struggled with the pistol. It was secured in a plastic holster with a thumb press locking the pistol in place via a stud on the inside of the trigger guard. A safety feature making the wearer of the rig about the only person who could get the pistol out. She had not come across a holster like this before, but her military days were far behind her, and she didn’t officially carry a weapon for her duties with MI5. She risked a glance and saw that Vigus was bleeding from his left shoulder. As she watched, a crimson dot appeared directly opposite the wound and he flinched again. The crimson swelled, resembled a flower, blooming in front of her eyes. She caught his eye, there was a knowledge behind his stare. The man had organised hunts all his adult life. He knew enough about gunshot wounds to know he was in trouble. The flower was now the size of a cabbage. His breathing rasped. Most of his torso was now red. Either a shard of bone or a fragment of the bullet had clipped the aorta.
Kruger could feel his injury now and had started to moan, gradually becoming louder and more desperate. He muttered something, but Caroline missed it as Badenhorst leaned forward and spoke into her ear. Caroline caught most of what he said over Kruger’s moans, but there was an intense sound, an all-encompassing thud and whoosh and she knew before she saw it, that the fuel had ignited. The heat was intense, like opening an oven door and bending prematurely, getting caught in the steam. Her only thought was in getting out of the vehicle. She spun around, tried to get some purchase and to her horror, realised she was standing on Kruger. He gasped, but to her shame, she knew she had only seconds to get clear. Kruger was trapped. Badenhorst was bleeding out. She had a chance, but it was slim. The gunmen made it all but impossible.
Fuel had engulfed the underside of the vehicle and the interior was heating up at an astonishing rate. Badenhorst had a glazed look, but even so, he tried to move forwards away from the heat.
Caroline eyed the assault rifle. It was wedged between her seat and the centre console. She could see out of the windscreen. There was a man reloading a pistol. He was changing over the magazine, shouting something to someone, but she could not see who, nor hear what he was shouting. She heard a burst of rapid fire and the underside of the vehicle popped and pinged. Badenhorst moaned and she could tell he had been hit again.
“The bastard is going to step over the rear door and finish us off,” Kruger said through gritted teeth. He sucked in air, swallowed and stared at Caroline. It was all he could do to breathe, let alone talk. “Get the rifle and be ready to fire. You’ve got about five seconds. Make it count.”
Caroline stared at Kruger, then snapped to. She stepped up onto the edge of Kruger’s seat and caught hold of the assault rifle. She charged the cocking lever and chambered a round, but remembered what Kruger had told her about the weapon’s status when a live 5.56mm round spun out of the breach and dropped into Kruger’s face. She studied the frame, looked for the safety and selective fire switch. She had used the SA80 weapon system in her army days, and remembered Alex once telling her that all assault rifles and machine pistols were all pretty much all the same, and broke it down into five steps.
Load, cock, select, aim, fire.
Alex, she thought. What would he do?
She heard a scrape of metal. A slight movement of the vehicle. The muzzle of a large pistol edged over the broken rear window. Caroline answered her own question and fired half a dozen rounds approximately a foot lower. They tore cleanly through the door, letting in shafts of light. She could hear a man grunt and she followed it up with another six.
“Get out now!” Kruger yelled. “Over your door! I’ll keep this prick busy! Go!” He opened fire through the windscreen, punching holes in the already shattered glass. He had a 9mm Glock with seventeen rounds and he fired single, carefully aimed shots through the glass using his left hand. But his hand was shaking badly.
Caroline fired three bullets through the window above her head, then jabbed at the spider webbed glass with the muzzle of the rifle. The window gave and showered her with thousands of pieces of glass, each the size of half carat diamonds. She pushed her way out, thankful for the fresh air and relief from the fumes, but the heat from the fire was intense. She prayed the fumes inside the vehicle would not ignite, now that she had dramatically increased air flow into the car. She knew that petrol fumes were more volatile than diesel, but had no idea what the Toyota had been running on. The rear and underside of the vehicle were in flames and the heat from the fire was so all consuming that she forgot about the gunmen as she slid over the window frame and fell onto the tarmac. She rolled clear, the rifle clattering and scraping on the road surface. She took a deep breath, knew she had to keep going.
Kruger was still firing and had wounded the man in front of the Land Cruiser. He was limping away towards the pickup truck, aiming his pistol back at the burning vehicle and firing double taps at the windscreen. Caroline shouldered the rifle, aimed carefully and fired twice. Centre mass. The man dropped, his weapon clattering to the ground. He rolled onto his side. She aimed between his shoulder blades and fired three more shots, before turning and sighting the weapon on the body behind her. The man’s legs were engulfed in flames and his rubber trainers were fuelling the fire, glowing intensely like firelighters among the flames. If he wasn’t moving while he was on fire, she figured he was going nowhere.
There were two vehicles approaching from Tokai. Both looked domestic. One old and rusty Japanese pickup laden with fruit, and a white Peugeot estate with a surfboard strapped to the roof. The pickup driver activated the vehicle’s hazard lights and opened the door. He was approaching the Peugeot. The driver of which, was standing at his open door and using his mobile phone. Caroline could see they were no threat to her.
She turned back to the Toyota, but the sudden rush of flame forced her backwards.
“Kruger!” she shouted.
There was no reply, but the fuel was burning fiercely and had now engulfed the cab entirely. She took a step forwards, but the heat forced her back further. She desperately wanted to get to him, but was ashamed that her body wouldn’t allow her, her limbs rigid with fear, as though her brain had simply put on the brakes. Her survival instinct wa
s forcing her back, and much as she tried, there was no overriding it. Her eyes instantly dried as they were hit by the barrier of heat, her eyelids burned as she blinked, and her hair felt as though it were about to singe. Hot smoke caught the back of her throat and burned her lungs, and it was all over. She scurried backwards to clean air, no part of her able to control her actions and remain near the intensity of the inferno. She spat onto her fingers and rubbed them into her hot, dried eyeballs. She turned away from the fire, walked a few steps as she blinked life back into them.
There was a gut-wrenching scream from within the burning vehicle. But it was short lived. It turned into a harrowing gargle that sent a shiver down her spine.
A single gunshot rang out and made her recoil. For a moment, she reacted by raising the rifle, but almost as quickly, she could tell it had come from inside the wreckage and she lowered the weapon, allowing the muzzle to point at the ground. She turned and walked towards the two parked vehicles, taking some relief from the knowledge that the South African intelligence agent had found a way out of that hell and was no longer burning alive.
31
“I love the sea,” Amanda said, somewhat wistfully. “Gorgeous on a day like today. I would love to move down here, perhaps have a little cottage hideaway like you do.”
Her words stung, but King didn’t correct her as he looked out across the bay from Castle Beach. His cottage laid in tatters. A mass of rubble and burned out timber. He’d never step foot in it again.
Amanda had taken the scenic route along Castle Drive, the road which wrapped its way around Pendennis Castle and took in the mouth of the Carrick Roads where it met the Atlantic, signifying the end of the English Channel. The water glistened and shimmied. The sky was deep blue, almost mirroring the sea. Three tankers were moored in the bay, waiting their turn for repairs or unloading at Falmouth docks. Days like this so early in the season were rare.
It was indeed a beautiful view. But he was in no mood for it. Amanda had performed the autopsy on Sir Ian Snell’s body. That wasn’t the problem. The problem had been her verdict. Or inherent lack of it. She had taken scrapes and samples, DNA offerings really and little more, from the Jameson family. She was adamant that nothing more would be gleaned, and had handed the task back to the resident pathologist and his team at Treliske Hospital. She had taken a call from somebody in the Home Office and agreed to a meeting. King had not been pleased. He wasn’t a man to hide displeasure well.
“I need something to work on,” he said curtly. “Anarchy to Recreate Society will be looking at new targets. There may just be one person left alive on the original rich list, but it’s constantly evolving. They never killed those people in order, and they won’t start now. There are potentially five targets, all of them at risk. I don’t think we are going to see them single out just one more name, I must consider the fact that any one of five people are at risk. I need all the information I can get to stop these people.”
“They’ll finish their list,” she said.
“What makes you so sure?”
“Their psyche. They are a special bunch. They’ve delivered on every promise they’ve made so far. They’ll see it through.”
“So, give me something now!” King snapped. “I need to get moving. Your findings are important to me. I wouldn’t have hung around here waiting if they weren’t crucial to my investigation.”
“And I’ve already told you! I have to report my findings to the Home Secretary first,” she said, and in no way apologetically. “You have your orders and I have mine.”
“And that’s it?”
“We shared a few glasses of wine and a steak dinner. You make it sound like I owe you. We weren’t lovers,” she paused. “No matter how much you wanted us to be.”
“What?” King asked incredulously. “I have a fiancé, I told you that!”
“Well, why else would you invite me over for an intimate dinner in a secluded location?”
“What are you talking about? It was just dinner,” he glared across at her, but she was concentrating on the road and his stare went conveniently unnoticed. “So, by that statement, why did you come over? You have a fiancé also…”
“Maybe I wanted to sleep with you,” she said flippantly. “Or perhaps I felt obliged. Pressured into accepting a pass made by the lead investigator on the case. A career make-or- break case… your words, remember? Maybe I didn’t feel that I could turn down your advances? Look, don’t sweat it, I know that you’re taken. So am I. All I’m saying is, I don’t owe you anything, and my job comes first. I must present this to the Home Secretary. He will then, no doubt, fill in his minions.”
“Thanks,” he said warily. He had been wavering, but could now see Amanda Cunningham in a whole new light. She had the ability to twist both fact and inference. A dangerous person to be around. King wondered if she had carved out her career making work colleagues casualties in her wake.
Collateral damage.
She shrugged. “That’s just the way it works. You should know that by now.”
“I want to catch these bastards,” King interrupted tersely. “I need an edge.”
“And you’ll have my verdict by lunchtime tomorrow. I’m leaving in the morning,” she said. “You’re welcome to share my ride.”
“I’ll drive back tonight, thanks.”
“Have they fixed the windscreen?”
“I’m sure they have,” he said. “Anyway, I could do with the drive.”
“Over another night in a decent hotel paid for on expenses and a government chartered helicopter?” she scoffed. “We could have a drink, some dinner. Who knows what else?”
Amanda negotiated the narrow entrance to the hotel. There was a parking space on the left. She slammed on the brakes and reversed with little skill or judgement, encroaching on the other space. King would have to limbo around the door frame to avoid dinging the other car’s door.
“I’m driving up now. I’d prefer the company,” he said curtly.
“But you’ll be on your own.”
“Exactly.” He squeezed his frame out, sparing the other car’s door. She got out and he spoke over the roof as he slammed the door. “My department will call you and arrange a debrief.”
“It’s cut and dry, Alex.”
“If you say so.”
“I’m a Home Office pathologist. It’s what I say it is. The man was shot at long range by a single point three-three-eight calibre bullet.”
“Goodbye, Amanda.”
King was seething. Mad at her, mad with himself. He knew the dinner incident had been a mistake. And now he had Amanda Cunningham hanging over him. Had she wanted to sleep with him last night? Or had she felt obliged, pressured even, to meet? Either way, he felt she had leverage over him in both his private life, and with his work. He could care less about work. He was always close to quitting, ever drawn back in by a sense of duty and obligation. But it was his private life that mattered. That was truly priceless. He loved Caroline, heart and soul. He would do anything for her. Anything to keep what they had. And if Amanda Cunningham could see inside him, see what he had done in his life, she would not have been so flippant. She would not push him an inch.
He walked across the carpark to the hotel and made his way down the steps to reception. He had already settled his bill and they had held onto his travel bag for him. They gave him the keys to his hire car and he thanked them for both his stay and accommodating the vehicle’s repair.
When he went back outside, Amanda Cunningham’s car was no longer there. He thought it strange. He had not seen her check out or take her bags to the car this morning and she had said she was staying another night and flying back tomorrow. Perhaps she was searching for a better parking space? One where the owner of the car next to her stood a chance to get in.
The Ford was parked where he had left it, but now there were new windscreens front and back, and the vehicle had been cleaned. He opened the rear door and dropped the bag on the seat. The interior had been
vacuumed and wiped over. It had that new car smell. He settled in behind the wheel and went to start the engine.
A shiver ran down his spine.
He was getting sloppy.
Complacent.
A man had tried to kill him last night.
He cursed himself. He popped the bonnet and stepped outside the vehicle. He backed away and crouched down. He looked for wires, anything that should not have been there. He walked around, crouched again and studied the other side.
Nothing.
King got down into a press up position and held it while he looked. He checked the inside of the wheels on the driver’s side, then got up and walked around the vehicle and repeated the process.
Nothing.
He walked around to the front and carefully felt around the bonnet opening. He was satisfied there was nothing to trip, so he gently opened the release catch and eased the bonnet upwards just an inch or so. He peered through the gap for a trip wire, two contact points – anything that could initiate a device.
Nothing.
Engines were more like vacuum cleaners these days, so there was little to look at. But that also made the task easier, and he knew his way around an engine bay and could see there was nothing there that shouldn’t have been. He closed the bonnet and stepped back.
Was he simply being paranoid?
No doubt about it. But paranoia had kept him alive so far. Although he was angry with himself at taking the status of the vehicle on face value. It had been a stupid mistake. He had told himself for almost twenty years that if he ever started to make mistakes he would walk away. Perhaps he needed another few weeks up at Hereford. Another refresher with the regiment. Another chance to hone his skills and push himself to his limits. The thought of yomping thirty miles across the rain swept Brecon Beacons with an old and heavy FN rifle and fifty pounds of Bergen, chasing twenty something year old SAS recruits made him cringe. Now he knew he was softening in his role with MI5. He was losing his edge. The killer streak that the dark and secretive department within the walls of MI6 had kept alive in him for so long.