On the Hunt

by Kerry J Donovan

  Kaine raised the Sig, took aim at the man’s left eye.

  Brown eyes blinked. Merc lifted his good hand a few centimetres from the floor, all he could manage in the form of surrender.

  “No, please,” he whispered, pain clear in his low voice and written deep on his face. “No!”

  Kaine lowered the Sig. He patted Merc down, but found no more weapons. “Stay right here until this is over. Move, and I’ll kill you. Understand?”

  “Understood. I’m done.”

  Merc’s hand dropped back to the floor. He closed his eyes, and his chin fell to his chest. Kaine stood and made his way back to his lookout point at the window.

  “Captain!” Danny called from the first floor landing above him. “Two flankers coming your way! They’ve split up.”

  Kaine stood. He leaned out and craned his neck to look up. Danny smiled down at him. He looked cool, unflustered.

  “Thanks, Danny. You okay?”

  “Yes thanks. This is fun.”

  “How many others your side?”

  “Apart from the flankers, three for definite. There could be others. Don’t know for sure. Bloody propane didn’t ignite.”

  “Didn’t think it would. Worth a try though, eh?” he said, winking.

  Danny shook his head and sighed. “Now he tells me!”

  Kaine was about to say something inane like, “Good luck”, or “Take care”, but Danny pulled back from the banisters and moved out of sight.

  Take care in a gunfight? Yeah, right.

  He turned towards the kitchen.

  Time to get serious.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Wednesday 3rd May – Danny Pinkerton

  Amber Valley, Derbyshire, UK

  Danny had found the ideal vantage point—bedroom two, overlooking the back garden. It held perfect views of the sprawling lawns and well-maintained borders, and took in most of the outbuildings, including the triple garage, the potting sheds, and the hut plastered in yellow warning triangles.

  Unfortunately, that was as far as the “ideal” part of the equation extended.

  The original glazing in the Victorian sash windows might have added character, but the flawed manufacturing process and the ripples in the glass it produced made them useless as a sniper’s optical aid.

  Opening a window wasn’t an option at this point, either. If he opened them too early he’d give away his position. He needed to wait.

  Danny hated the wait.

  Breathe easy, Danny. Take your time.

  Three gunshots rang out in rapid succession.

  “A signal!” the captain called out.

  At the front, men screamed. At the back, more men howled and yelped. Loads more.

  Four men, no, five. Maybe more out of sight.

  The five broke clear of the trees and bushes planted to hide the perimeter wall. Three wore incongruous business suits and shiny leather shoes. Two others, the ones on the extreme flanks, wore camouflaged military fatigues and armoured vests. One of the soldiers, a huge man with ebony skin, wore the green beret of a Commando. The other was bareheaded, hair cropped short—a squaddie. All five men carried handguns.

  No rifles. No grenades. No heavy artillery.

  Some good news, at least.

  Danny pulled in a long, slow breath and released it, puffing out his cheeks.

  Five attackers at the rear, maybe more, and who knew how many the captain faced at the front.

  The odds weren’t brilliant, but at least they held the high ground and had the protection of thick stone walls. To access the house the enemy would have to cross open ground.

  Danny twisted open the lock securing the windows and heaved on the lower casement. Stuck. He tried the upper one. Also stuck.

  Thick layers of paint had sealed them both shut.

  Shit a brick.

  He should have tested the bloody thing earlier. The antique glass would have to go. A shame, but he had no alternative. No time to move positions, and none of the other bedrooms gave such a commanding view.

  Danny cast his eyes around the room and chose the only thing movable. A lampstand. He removed the fancy tasselled shade, found the balance point, and held it like a javelin—heavy base end first.

  He lined up the makeshift spear, checked his aim for the first shots, and waited, breathing deep and slow.

  Still yelling, screaming, the three suited attackers raced towards the rear of the house, bounding over tufts of long grass. They funnelled towards the path leading to the outbuildings that formed the small courtyard.

  Still some distance away, the two flankers disappeared behind the walls of the house. Commando would find the kitchen and the shattered bifold door. Squaddie would find nothing but boarded windows until he reached the front of the house and the captain.

  Together, Danny and the captain would deal with any others as they showed themselves.

  Danny could do nothing about the flankers. He ignored them and drew his attention to the three in the middle as they slowed and gathered closer to the smallest shed.

  Two shots shattered a downstairs window. A man yelped—not the captain.

  The three suited men in the garden stopped shouting, slowed their approach. They exchanged glances but kept moving, pointed their guns towards the house, aiming low. None looked up to the first floor.

  The narrow cement path forced them into single file. A man with close-cropped dark hair and bright blue eyes took the lead. The others followed in tight formation and they drew closer to the propane shed.

  Three paces. No more.

  Danny pulled back his arm, taking the spear with it.

  Blue Eyes drew level with the shed, passed it. Middle man’s head turned. He frowned.

  Danny punched the base of the lampstand through the glass, dropped it through the opening, and squeezed the Beretta’s trigger again and again.

  Five shots, five hits.

  Holes peppered the shed’s lower panels. Nothing happened. No expected explosion.

  “Fuck!”

  The suits scattered, started firing. Bullets flew through the broken sash, one tugged at Danny’s hair. He snapped his head back and pulled into the protection of the room.

  He reached up to his hairline. The fingers came away clean.

  Jesus. That was close.

  Keep your bloody head down, Danny. Don’t be so fucking cocky, you idiot.

  The three-man barrage continued. The window’s upper pane disintegrated, shards dropped to the carpet. Bullets tore holes in the ceiling. Plaster fell in clumps and powder. The light fitting broke and the small chandelier crashed to the floor.

  Danny leaned out, emptied the Beretta into the propane shed. Still nothing happened. So much for a fucking gas explosion. Ordinary bullets didn’t work. He needed incendiary ammo—or flares.

  Downstairs the captain’s Sig fired once more. Fell silent.

  Firing from the three-man assault team continued, shooting from cover, but shooting wild and wide. Time to move. Rather than crawl through slivers of broken glass, Danny hugged the wall, skirted the room, and slid through the open doorway. Out in the hall, he dropped full-length to the carpeted floor and crawled towards the next bedroom. He slithered closer to the balcony and stole a glance down at the entrance hall.

  The captain stood by an open window, Sig pointing through the smashed glass. On the chessboard tiles behind him, a blood smear trailed towards the side staircase, leading to where Danny had hidden Nemeth from Marian. So long ago.

  “Captain!” Danny called. “Two flankers coming your way! They’ve split up.”

  He glanced up. “Thanks, Danny. You okay?”

  “Yes thanks. This is fun.”

  “How many others your side?”

  “Apart from the flankers, three for definite. There could be others, I don’t know. Bloody propane didn’t ignite.”

  “Didn’t think it would. Worth a try though, eh?” he said, winking.

  Danny shook his head and sighed. “Now he tells
me!”

  The captain ducked below the windowsill and scrambled towards the kitchen. By now, Commando would have reached the back of the house. Danny left the captain to his business.

  A momentary pause in the shooting gave Danny time to enter the third bedroom and shimmy to the window. Another sash, but these had replacement double-glazed panels. Modern.

  From his new position, he could make out the arm and shoulders of Blue Eyes as he crouched beside the propane shed, taking pot-shots through the window of the bedroom Danny had recently abandoned. He stopped shooting to reload. The others kept firing, but none of the shots came anywhere near Danny in bedroom three.

  With his back pressed firmly into the wall, he stood, stretched out an arm to release the window catch, and dropped into a crouch once again. This time, the lower casement slid up easily, but the movement drew Blue Eyes’ attention. He screamed a warning and started shooting, firing rapid, wild shots.

  While the bullets thumped into the plasterwork around him, Danny took careful aim, and fired twice. The first shot fell short, kicking gravel and dust into Blue Eyes’ face. He jerked back and away, gun hand raised.

  Danny fired again. Missed again.

  Shit. Come on, Danny.

  The Beretta’s slide shot back, locked into place. Gun empty.

  He released the spent magazine, reloaded a fresh one and fired again, three shots. Blue Eyes bucked, took a slug in the shoulder. Screaming, he dived to his side and crashed through the shed door. He scrambled though the opening and slithered into the darkness, still screaming what Danny imagined were either orders to his buddies, or Hungarian expletives.

  The other two kept shooting. Danny pulled away from the window as the bullets screamed into the room and destroyed Marian Prentiss’ careful renovation job.

  Still, that was the least of her problems.

  During another lull in the shooting, and with the door to the propane shed standing invitingly open, Danny rolled out from his hiding spot and tried again. He aimed and unloaded four shots into the blackness. Bullets thumped into the shed’s concrete base, ricocheted up and away.

  Sparks flew, but once again, nothing happened. Danny scrambled back into the room and away from the window.

  Breathing hard, he cursed.

  Fucking propane wouldn’t take the hint.

  From the darkness below, Blue Eyes shrieked in clear terror. He must have finally realised where he’d taken cover. The smell of escaping gas would have cut through the acrid tang of spent gunshot. In a blind panic, Blue Eyes raced through the door and smack into one of Danny’s bullets. It hit him in the chest, centre mass. No ballistic vest. No protection.

  With his momentum halted, Blue Eyes lunged to his side, and collided with the doorjamb. His gun popped, sparks flared, a bullet flew, and the percussive fireball arrived straight from hell.

  Blue Eyes exploded through the open door on a cushion of gas and smoke as though shot from a cannon. He flew three metres though the air before he hit the ground and the flames engulfed him.

  The heavy boom rattled Danny’s teeth and thumped through the stonework. The whole house trembled.

  For a moment, Danny stopped breathing. His ears rang, high-pitched and painful.

  Black smoked billowed through the shattered windows, filling the bedroom, sulphurous and bitter. He blinked stinging tears from his eyes and pulled up his jacket to cover his nose and mouth.

  Still his ears rang, momentarily deafened.

  “Well, that was fun,” he said aloud, but it sounded muffled over the pounding, high-pitched tinnitus.

  He risked a quick glance through the window. In a fraction of a second, the courtyard had turned from a quaint and charming rest area into an active warzone. Almost as quickly as it started, the raging fireball died, leaving behind it gentle flames licking at the remains of the shed and a blown-out propane cylinder that looked like a part-exploded bomb from the last world war.

  The brick walls of the triple garage remained intact, but two of the blackened wooden doors would need a new paint job at the very least. To an inexperienced eye, the two smouldering husks lying on either side of the shed might have been firebombed garden ornaments, but were the remains of two suited attackers. Of Blue Eyes, there was no sign. He might well have been vaporised by the explosion.

  As battlefield deaths go, at least it had been quick.

  Danny tore himself away from viewing the carnage and ducked back into the bedroom. The flankers would have been protected by the house’s granite walls. They, and anyone else, would still be dangerous. The captain might need a hand.

  With the tinnitus still dinging away strongly, Danny opened his mouth wide and waggled his jaw. Someone once told him it would help overcome the effects compression. He was game to try anything.

  His ears popped and creaked. The tinnitus receded a little.

  Well, that worked.

  The creaking continued.

  Danny waggled his jaw again. More creaking. Metallic creaking.

  Fuck.

  The loft ladder in bedroom four!

  The crunching, splintering of a closet door being shouldered open and the tumbling crash of an upset chest of drawers spurred Danny into action.

  Danny barged himself away from the wall and raced through the room. He reached the open doorway as a shaggy-haired man dressed in a crumpled business suit burst from bedroom four and out into the landing. He caught sight of Danny, yelled, and snapped off the lightning-fast whip shot of an old-school gunslinger. The doorjamb exploded centimetres from Danny’s head.

  He dived backwards into the bedroom, rolled sideways and came up on one knee, his shoulder pressed into the safety of the solid wall.

  Stupid move, Danny.

  Shaggy fired again. Four more shots. Two hit the open door, splitting the upper panel. The third careened though the opening and punched a neat hole in the opposite wall. The fourth slammed into an upholstered chair. A throw cushion on the chair exploded. Feathers flew into the air and fluttered down like gentle snowfall on a still day.

  Keeping low, Danny pushed his gun arm through the doorway and fired blind. Five rapid shots aimed in a cross. Shaggy grunted. Stopped firing. Something solid thumped onto the carpeted floor.

  Yeah, right!

  Sneaky sod was playing dead.

  I’m not falling for it, dickwad.

  The chances of hitting a moving target when firing blind weren’t worth trying to calculate. Danny ground his teeth. What to do?

  Think, man.

  Danny held the advantage over the smartarse Shaggy. He knew the layout of the upstairs. Shaggy didn’t.

  The bedroom layout.

  Of course.

  Danny smiled. He’d been such a bloody idiot. If he hadn’t needed his free hand to push himself up off the floor, he’d have used it to slap his forehead for being such a dingbat.

  Time to use some smarts for a change.

  Crouching low and keeping tight to the bedroom wall, Danny made his way to the door of the Jack and Jill bathroom that separated bedrooms three and four. He held his breath. Slowly, he turned the handle and pulled. The door opened silently. Inside, no sound, no movement.

  He risked a quick glance.

  Bathroom empty. White tiles, white ceramics, chrome fittings. Same as he’d seen earlier that morning.

  Danny stepped inside, padded across the floor, reached the second door and stopped. He pressed his ear to the panel. More silence.

  Beretta raised and ready, he leaned aside, yanked open the door, and burst into bedroom four. Shaggy stood with his back to Danny, hiding behind the outer door, waiting for Danny to show himself in the hallway.

  “Freeze, dickwad!”

  Danny didn’t expect it to work, but had always wanted to play the US lawman taking down the bad guy.

  Shaggy stiffened. He actually froze!

  That’s a surprise.

  “Drop the gun!”

  Shaggy held out his gun hand making sure it was in full view,
his finger still hooked around the trigger of a Sig 17 with its extended, twenty-one round mag.

  “Drop it, I said!”

  Slowly, Shaggy bent at the knees and waist. At the same time, he rotated his wrist and lowered his arm towards the bedroom carpet.

  “No shoot! I drop. No shoot.”

  Shaggy’s voice—the rasping, wheezing voice of an asthmatic or a heavy smoker—showed confidence and aggression rather than fear. He’d been in similar situations before.

  Danny ran his eyes around the room, searching for other interlopers, Shaggy’s backup. He came up empty.

  The closet door stood ajar, slammed against the rear wall. One of its upper panels had shattered under the force of Shaggy’s shoulder charge. The chest of drawers Danny’d used as a barrier lay on its back. Next time, he’d use a chair hooked under the handle.

  Shaggy lowered the gun further, it was within ten centimetres of the fawn carpet. If he was going to make a move it would be soon. Danny lined up his shot between the man’s shoulder blades. He couldn’t miss. He wouldn’t miss.

  The gunman opened his fingers and the Sig fell harmlessly to the floor.

  “No shoot,” Shaggy said, calm and cool. “I stand now. Yes?”

  “Slowly.”

  “Okay, okay. I slow. You no shoot unarmed man in back.”

  “Don’t bank on it, Shaggy. Not after what you bastards have—”

  Shaggy took off at a speed Danny didn’t expect from such a sinewy man with a rasping chest. He dived through the doorway and darted right, heading for the stairs.

  Danny took off in pursuit.

  By the time he’d reached the door, Shaggy had made it to the head of the stairs. Danny took aim. Four metres away, a running duck.

  “Stop!”

  Shaggy’s head snapped up and around. Fearless, he sneered, certain Danny wouldn’t fire at an unarmed man running away. Two steps down, his lead foot caught the tripwire. The sneer turned to wide-eyed shock, and the running duck took off in flight.

  He tumbled through the air, twisting, screaming, arms whirling in a desperate scramble for a handhold. His hands missed the banister and its spindles. His head didn’t. It hit the metalwork with a resounding, sickening thwack. Neck bones snapped. Skull shattered. Blood splattered. The body slumped to the lower treads, slid down to the floor tiles, and lay in a crumpled, unmoving mess.