“Stay down, and don’t move until the captain or I come for you.”
“The captain?”
She stared up at him through the darkness, eyes shining with tears and terror.
“Griffin, I meant Griffin.”
Fuck’s sake, Danny. Get a grip!
“All these military terms, guns, traps. Who are you?”
“This isn’t the time for our life story. We’ll tell you later. I promise.”
Assuming there is a later.
Her arm snaked out from under the mattress, and her hand took his.
“Save me, and save my baby, please.”
Baby?
“Jesus! You’re pregnant?”
Duh, stupid question.
“Thirteen weeks,” she said, voice trembling. “Robbie didn’t even know. I was planning to tell him this weekend, but … but ….”
Fresh tears spilled from the bruised eyes.
“Congratulat—Shit, I mean, we’ll get you both out of this, Marian. I promise.”
“Thanks, Danny. Thanks for … everything.”
“My pleasure,” he said, meaning it.
He hurried out of the salon and into the hallway. The captain, on one knee and peering through the gap between curtain and wall as Danny had done hours earlier, signalled him keep low.
“What do we have?” Danny asked, whispering for some unknown reason. No one outside could have heard them through the double-glazed windows.
“A few seconds ago, three cars parked up the other side of the gates. Three men just wandered into the grounds. They’re hiding in the bushes to the right, there. See them?”
Danny scoped out an area, fifty, maybe sixty metres distant. A little outside the maximum effective range of their handguns, but not by much.
With a Sig P226, Ryan Kaine was better than ninety-nine-point-nine percent of the shooting population, but even he was limited by the weapon at his disposal. Danny’s marksmanship wasn’t bad—in military terms, he was first class—but compared with Ryan Kaine, he was barely adequate.
A rifle would have been handy, but no one expected to be involved in a pitched battle in the middle of the Derbyshire countryside. With an SA80, Kaine could have shot the eye out of a potato at more than four hundred metres—even further with the right sights. Give him a sniper’s rifle, a British made Accuracy AS50 for instance, his effective range would be well over a mile. Once, on a still day, Danny’d seen him hit the centre of a target at over eighteen hundred metres. The captain had an uncanny ability to steady himself for a shot. He also had a deadly eye.
However, since they didn’t have access to an Accuracy, they’d have to wait for the opposition to draw closer.
“Yep, I can see them, sir. Not making much of a job of hiding.”
“They can’t be certain we’re in here. See the one in the suit cowering behind the tree?”
“Just about.”
“That’s Vadik Pataki.”
“You reckon?”
“I recognised him from the video, and he’s the one doing all the talking. The other two are minions. Spot the one hiding behind the yellow bushes further over to the right?”
Danny slid his gaze across.
“Nope.”
“He’s the only one in camo gear. The way he moved, he’s had military training. Probably a mercenary. The other two are in business suits, easily spotted. They’ve been bumbling around like amateurs. I’ll keep a close eye on the merc.”
Danny pitied the man in camouflage gear. At the first sign of aggression, there would be one less merc on the Pataki payroll.
“I’m surprised there are only three,” Danny said, more out of hope than expectation.
“Three cars out there, Danny. There’ll be others. Vadik probably let them out earlier. I imagine they’re trying to outflank us.”
Danny couldn’t find any reason to argue with the assumption.
“How come he’s so well supplied. How’s he managed to raise a bloody army so quickly?”
The captain cocked an eyebrow in a shrug.
“No idea. Perhaps we’ll get the chance to ask him sometime.”
Danny tilted his head.
“Perhaps.”
They watched the activity outside in silence for a few moments. Nothing much happening.
“Better get ready, I suppose.”
“You want to take upstairs or down?” the captain asked.
They should have discussed their preferred positions earlier, but there hadn’t been a whole lot of time.
“You’re the better shot, sir. Maybe you should take the first floor?”
Kaine held up one of his borrowed Sigs and shook his head. “These popguns have a limited range and you don’t know how I’ve setup the kitchen. You also know the upstairs and the grounds better than me. If you don’t mind going upstairs, I’ll be happy here.”
Danny nodded. “Makes sense. Have you tried to contact Corky? My earpiece is dead.”
“Mine, too. And the mobiles are out. The Magyars must have a signal jammer.”
“That’s not supposed to happen. Corky said these comms units are failsafe.”
“Nothing’s failsafe, Danny. Not totally. You know that.”
Too true.
“If we can’t use comms, maybe the Magyars can’t either.”
“Hopefully. We’ll have to do this old school. Battlefield hand signals wherever possible. I trust you haven’t forgotten them?”
Ouch!
“Captain, you cut me, sir. How many are we facing do you think? Did Blondie tell you anything about their UK strength?”
“Claims there are dozens of them on hand, but he was lying. Can’t be that many. Either way, we should be able to hold out until Cough and Stinko arrive. Won’t be long now.”
“Couple of hours at the most,” Danny said, although he didn’t really have a clue.
They were both looking on the bright side—the only side to look on if you didn’t have any other information to go by. Ryan Kaine and his men were nothing if not optimists. Famed for it the world over.
“Draw them in close, Danny. Good hunting.”
“Yes, sir. Good luck.”
Danny turned and headed for the staircase.
“Oh, Danny?”
He’d only taken two steps. He stopped and glanced behind him.
“Sir?”
“Don’t forget the tripwires,” he said, a big wide grin splitting his bearded face.
“Funny, sir. Very funny.”
“I try.”
His smile fell and he held up a hand. “Hold on, Danny. Movement.”
Danny returned to the observation point and stared over the captain’s shoulder. Vadik Pataki had stepped out from behind the oak tree. He stood, feet shoulder-width apart, left fist planted on his hip as though he owned the place, which he probably did—at least technically. His right fist held a semi-automatic handgun, but Danny couldn’t see enough of it to make out the manufacturer.
“Englishman!” Vadik bellowed. “Are you ready to die?”
“Cocky beggar, eh?” the captain mumbled. “I’ll take him out the moment he comes a few steps closer.”
“Should I answer?”
The captain shot him a lightning quick glance, but immediately returned to eyes-front. “Not for me to say, Danny. This is your party. Keep it short, though. No telling how long the rest of them will take to surround us.”
Thank you, Captain. Very helpful.
“If our roles were reversed, what would you do?”
The smile returned. “Someone once said, ‘jaw, jaw, not war, war’, but in this situation, I’d be inclined to keep schtum. The longer we can keep them guessing the better. Vadik might start getting cocky and come a little closer.”
“Englishman!” Vadik screamed again. “Are you in there?”
“Nope,” Danny whispered, “no one here but us chickens.”
“Speak for yourself, Danny.”
“Kidding, Captain. It’s an expressi
on.”
“I know, lad. I know.”
Vadik ducked back behind the oak.
“Guess I’ll head upstairs then?” Danny said, his mouth suddenly very dry.
The captain nodded.
“Good luck, Sergeant.”
Danny stood and headed for the stairs.
“Oh, Danny?”
“No, sir. I won’t forget the bloody trip wires.”
A repeated joke was never funny. Danny ignored the summons and climbed the stairs, two treads at a time. He stepped over the fishing line and, once safely on the landing, he stopped and turned to face his subordinate for the day.
“Sergeant,” the captain said, more forcefully, “remember that propane tank?”
“Yes, sir,” Danny answered.
The captain’s focus remained fully on the view through the window.
“It’s fifteen hundred litres, stored in the wooden shed on the other side of the rear courtyard. About thirty metres away.”
“Yes, sir?”
Where’s he going with this?
“It’s plastered in yellow warning stickers. Apparently propane is highly explosive. Rather dangerous.”
“I know that, sir. I’ll be careful where I’m shooting.”
“Thought you might like to know I loosened the outlet regulator.”
Ah, I see.
“You did?” Danny asked, smiling.
“I did. Thirty metres is probably a safe distance from the house, wouldn’t you say?”
“Probably.”
“The shed’s likely full of gas by now.”
“I imagine so. And even if it isn’t, propane’s heavier than air, right?”
Yep, he and the captain were on the same wavelength.
“Indeed it is, Danny. If you find it necessary, remember to aim low.”
“I will, sir.”
Danny headed for the second bedroom, which overlooked the back of the house and gave him the perfect view of the shed with the propane cylinder. Explosive, heavier-than-air gas meets red-hot bullets. A match made in hell?
Time would tell. He crouched next to the window and settled down to wait.
Won’t be long now.
Chapter Sixteen
Wednesday 3rd May – Morning
Amber Valley, Derbyshire, UK
With Danny in charge upstairs and Kaine’s back protected by an expert, one he trusted, he was able to concentrate fully on the frontal attack.
Prentiss House was as good a place as any to make a defensive stand. Solidly built from stone and with an open aspect—they had a good field of view through most of the three-sixty degrees—the two of them ought to be able to hold off an infantry attack. Even though the opposition had superior numbers, of the three he’d seen thus far, only one had demonstrated anything like a decent knowledge of fieldcraft. Unless the attackers had some form of heavy artillery, he and Danny ought to be able to hold them off for a while.
All other things being equal.
From the first time they’d met, in a downmarket bar in Germany, Ryan Kaine always knew Danny Pinkerton would make a good leader. In a fairer world he’d have been an officer, but a lack of academic qualifications had held him back, kept him in the ranks. This operation had shown Danny’s true worth. He’d listened to all the advice on offer, weighed up the options, and made the correct decisions. At least, he’d made the same decisions Kaine would have done, had their roles been reversed.
Yep, Danny had Kaine’s back, and Kaine had Danny’s. The best either could hope for in the current situation.
Marian Prentiss’ quiet whimpering underscored the reason for the battle. The poor woman was terrified, and understandably so.
Although she’d been beaten and had learned of her husband’s death in the worst possible way, she’d coped remarkably well. The inevitable heartbreak would arrive soon enough but, so far, she’d handled the situation better than anyone could have hoped.
She would survive. No matter the odds against them, he and Danny would protect her.
Vadik stepped out from behind the tree once more. He raised his gun and shot in the air three times.
“A signal!” Kaine shouted for Danny’s benefit, probably unnecessarily.
The two men to Vadik’s right jumped out of their concealment, and raced towards the house, yelling and screaming, guns in hand. Aiming for “shock and awe”.
Good luck with that, guys.
Vadik Pataki stayed put, behind the tree. Safe and sound.
A true coward leading from the rear.
Shouts from the back garden and from each flank added to the noise and told of more attackers. Danny would handle them.
Kaine licked his lips and regulated his breathing. Maintaining control was key to their survival. He knew how things worked in battle. He had plenty of first-hand experience.
The two men closed the gap between front gates and house at different rates.
The one in the business suit, long dark hair flowing, zig-zagged, darting from tree to shrub to bush. In an attempt to minimise his exposure and put off a defender’s aim, he was taking much longer to cross the open ground. This one held his gun in his right hand, swinging it wildly with the finger on the trigger. The fool was more likely to shoot himself than anyone he actually targeted. An amateur’s mistake.
Kaine dropped him to the bottom of his list and focused on the one in the military fatigues—the dark-skinned mercenary.
Carrying the top-heavy bulk of a big man wearing a ballistic vest, Merc ran tall and fast. He held his Sig two-handed, tucked close, pointing down and to the side. For safety, Merc’s trigger finger ran along the trigger guard.
He headed for the window, Kaine’s window, not the heavy front doors, pounding the gravel pathway with long, loping strides.
Fifteen metres … ten.
Still, Kaine waited.
At five metres and without changing his stride, Merc aimed and fired two rounds at the window. Kaine turned and crouched as the windowpane exploded. Glass fragments speckled his back, his hair, and clattered on the tiles at his feet.
Still roaring, Merc dived headlong through the shattered window and through the billowing curtains. He twisted in mid-flight, executed a perfect barrel roll, and righted into a crouched shooting stance, gun raised, raking the room.
Three metres away.
A sitting duck.
Kaine, his back pressed into the wall, shot him in the thigh, a couple of centimetres above the bent knee. An automatic reaction shot, he barely needed to aim. The Sig’s report echoed throughout the entrance hall.
Merc screamed and rolled onto his side, pulling his gun around, searching for a target.
Kaine’s second round entered Merc’s right upper arm, tearing through the bicep where it joined the deltoid. The third shattered his gun hand. The Sig dropped, clattered to the floor. Kaine’s fourth round hit the Sig, and it skittered across the tiles and into the foot of the staircase, out of Merc’s reach and useless, its handle destroyed.
The howling, cursing mercenary crawled awkwardly away—using one arm, one leg—heading for the apparent area of safety behind the staircase. Kaine let him go and turned towards the window.
Longhair had finally reached the open space of the driveway. He slowed, stood tall, and lowered his weapon. He cocked an ear. The screaming from the back garden stopped. Only Merc’s howling curses broke the silence.
Longhair turned and called to Vadik, whose head popped out from behind the tree. The leader smiled and raised his fist. Longhair responded in kind. Did they assume Merc had won, and the house had already fallen?
Really? That naïve?
Vadik waved Longhair away, barking his orders in Hungarian. Longhair called a response, turned to face the house, and headed straight for the destroyed window. He wore the confident smile of a winner and strolled along with a swagger.
Upstairs, a window smashed and five rapid gunshots destroyed the silence—the multiple sharp cracks of Danny’s Beretta. Muffled sho
ts answered, fired from the back garden.
Kaine edged sideways, out of hiding, but he stayed protected by the stonework. He exposed little of himself, but one eye, his gun arm, and the whole of his Sig.
Longhair’s smile dropped, along with his jaw. He stopped dead.
Kaine took careful aim. At this range, another certain kill shot.
“Don’t do it, son,” Kaine said, quiet as a prayer.
For a silent microsecond that stretched out into infinity, Longhair hesitated. He blinked, and his gun arm twitched. Slow. Much too slow.
Kaine’s Sig coughed, and the 9mm bullet punched a neat hole in Longhair’s forehead. His face had no time to register the shock of impact.
Slowly, the longhaired man in the dark blue suit toppled backwards, dead before he’d made another scuffmark in the gravel path.
Out back, a battle raged. Men shouted, screaming instructions in Hungarian and English.
Gunshots exploded upstairs from Danny, and outside from the men in the garden. Small arms fire, no rifles. A blessing.
Windows smashed, shattered glass tumbled.
Kaine checked the front. Longhair lay on his back in the gravel drive, arms spread wide, staring up at the cloud-filled sky though unseeing eyes. Vadik stayed hidden behind the tree, out of harm’s way, at least for the moment. In hiding. A true armchair general. Damned coward. Kaine had no immediate worries from that front.
He turned to face the entrance hall. To his right, on the kitchen side, Merc’s smeared blood trail led behind the staircase where Danny had hidden the first body, Nemeth. A useful place away from prying eyes. A good place for a sniper’s nest.
He crouched, arcing away from the blood, moving towards the front room where Marian Prentiss lay hidden. His full attention targeted the staircase. He reached the corner where front and side walls met. His view of the darkened space behind the staircase increased. A booted foot, heel on floor, toe pointing up. A lower leg dressed in camouflaged trousers, stretched out straight, bleeding from the bullet he’d taken in the thigh, unmoving. An empty left hand, covered in blood, also unmoving.
Dead?
Still crouching, still hyper-cautious, Kaine raced to the side of the staircase, dropped to one knee. Leading with the Sig, he leaned forwards. Merc’s face, pale from severe blood loss, turned towards him. His mangled right arm draped across his chest, the crippled hand still, useless.
On the Hunt Page 13