Beyond The Law Box Set

by Tom Benson

  “Surely you’ll kill the bastard?”

  “Not right away, Kevin,” Hartley said. “We’ll have him by tomorrow. We’re going to find out everything he knows about our operation before I kill him.”

  “How do you know you’ll have him by tomorrow?”

  “We have eight fine men out there who know what they’re about. They’ll catch him and bring him in. Would you like a bet, like Bobby? What do you reckon to odds of eight-to-one, eh?” All three men laughed. Somebody closed the window.

  Phil scurried along the wall, back towards the bushes and the stables. His heart was pounding, but he wasn’t worried about himself. He was concerned for Dave, alone on the side of the hill, unaware of the danger. Radio signals were easily monitored, but perhaps radios might have been a good idea after all.

  By the time Annabel’s car had left the street, Rachel made a decision. She couldn’t do much right away, but she’d be ready. She made a call, and five minutes later was on her Norton.

  Rachel was back at her house forty minutes later. She stripped off her leathers and turned to her latest guest. “If you come and sit at the table, I’ll show you what I discussed with Annabel earlier, and we’ll all know the maximum.”

  Jake said, “I appreciate being brought in on this right away.”

  “You have to get a grip of two things,” Rachel said and smiled. “Your lack of self-worth and your ability to think like a team member.”

  “I’m shit on both, but I’m working on them.”

  “Would you like to impress me?”

  “You know I would,” Jake murmured.

  “If we get a call, I want your arse on the line. Pick the right tools, don’t fall apart, and if somebody hits you—fucking hit them back—but harder.”

  “Rachel, you’re a helluva motivator.”

  They both laughed.

  “We’ll sleep on the sofa,” Rachel said. “And don’t get your hopes up. We’ll do a two-hours-on, two-hours-off shift system. If one of our phones rings, we need to respond.”

  “You rest first,” Jake said. “I’ll start reading this logbook.”

  Rachel lay on the sofa. Two minutes later, she opened one eye.

  Jake turned away from gazing at her and recommenced studying the logbook entries.

  Phil reached the tree line and stopped. His senses were on high alert as he slipped between the trees, occasionally pausing, to observe with eyes and ears.

  Phil and Dave had discussed and rejected wearing night-vision goggles for this mission. They had used them many times and agreed the goggles were a superb piece of equipment in the right circumstances, but they had drawbacks.

  A direct light source changed them from being magical, to becoming a weapon of suicide. They were terrific until a light was shone directly at the lens. To someone like Phil, who had learned to stalk wild game as a youngster, the equipment was a calling card.

  Phil slipped his hunting knife from the sheath. It had a dull-coloured blade, which was the weapon’s single dull aspect. Phil set off up the hill, creeping like a wild cat. No speed, but a lot of stealth.

  When he stopped and crouched, he opened his mouth slightly, which improved hearing. He moved his eyes slowly from side to side, knowing his peripheral vision was more dependable. Phil was about to set off from one of his brief stops when he became aware of the buzz. It wasn’t an insect, but it was a steady, faint hum.

  He moved forward and stood close to a broad tree. Phil flexed the fingers of his left hand and gently ran the fingers of his right hand on the handle of the knife. When the figure stopped beside the tree, the humming noise was like a hive full of bees to Phil.

  It took a few seconds to focus on the weapon and how it was held. An AK47, the weapon preferred by many terrorists. Phil would have one chance. He watched the man’s head turning slowly to left and right.

  The sentry maintained a rhythmic movement, which was one of his mistakes. As the head turned left, Phil squatted. When the man turned right to scan with his night-vision goggles, Phil moved his left hand around his opponent’s body and raised his knife hand up to neck level. Phil simultaneously gripped, and pulled up on the rifle with his left hand, while using his right hand to run his blade across the man’s throat.

  The mercenary’s finger wasn’t inside the trigger guard. His first instincts were to hold onto his weapon and turn on his assailant. Phil’s blade sliced from throat through to the vertebrae. A gush of air was followed by a low gurgling noise. Phil lowered the corpse to the ground.

  He wiped his blade on the dead man’s uniform and moved away from the body. He stood for five seconds to regain control of his breathing. Killing another human being with a knife was in a different class. It took nerve to know what you were about to do, and how. To feel the final breath escape from a man was a surreal experience. Phil knew it well.

  The dead man was wearing a throat mike and an earpiece, which thanks to Phil’s blade skills was now useless, but its silence might work in Phil’s favour. He stepped back to his tree and waited. It felt like a lifetime, but in reality, it was ten minutes.

  A dark shape came through the trees, moving like a shadow. The silent approach lasted until the next sentry saw his comrade. He kept his goggles in position as he looked left and right. He advanced and made a fatal error. When he knelt down to check his associate’s condition, he took his hand from the pistol grip of his weapon.

  Phil didn’t hold the man steady or place weight on him. He used the enemy’s own movements to cover his approach. Instead of attempting to slit the man’s throat, Phil moved his right hand wide and thrust the knife point into his adversary. The metal tip appeared through the back of the neck. Phil felt the warmth of fresh blood on his hand, as he let the body fall to the side. A twist helped to release his blade.

  Phil was at his weakest, both mentally and physically for a few seconds after such a kill. The phenomenon wasn’t new to him. Phil was wiping the blade on the dead man’s uniform when he felt a tremendous pressure on his back, and he was pushed forward. He landed face down on the forest floor with somebody on his back. His knife hand was gripped and held fast to the ground.

  28. Shots in the Dark

  .

  Saturday 27th July

  00:15 - Phil was pinned down, but alive. He was to be taken alive, or the man effectively keeping him under control was friendly forces. Near to his face, an open palm came into focus. No weapon, no threat. It was Dave, which made it a bittersweet moment for them both.

  Phil acknowledged with a sharp nod of his head, and the pressure was removed from his body. The pair separated slowly and silently. It wasn’t a time for ‘high-fives’ and cheering. When they could see each other’s eyes in the flickering moonlight, the gratitude came in another nod and was accepted with a wink and the ghost of a smile.

  Dave shouldn’t have been there in the first place, which meant he wouldn’t later have bragging rights about gaining the upper hand, over hero and legend; Phil McKenzie.

  When they crouched ready to move, Dave pointed to himself and held up two fingers and gave a ‘thumbs down’ sign. He nodded to Phil, who indicated similarly using two fingers and a ‘thumbs down’. Phil held up his right forefinger, and made a circular, sweeping motion, before holding up four fingers. Dave nodded. Between them—four X-rays were down, but four were active.

  The pair set off using a system whereby one moved at a time. In normal circumstances, it would be referred to as ‘fire and manoeuvre’. One man or section would give covering fire, while the other moved. On this occasion, they used stealth.

  Dave led, and crept between the trees. After he’d covered five metres in the darkness, he stopped. Phil covered five metres and stopped. Each time they moved and remained apart, it would appear to an onlooker it was a shadow caused by the moonlight.

  01:15 - It was during one of their staged moves the moon shone between the clouds and picked Dave out as if he was in a flashlight beam. If he was closer to a tree, he could have
reached out an arm or leg, froze, and become a shadow, but it was too sudden. A man leapt on him from the left side, and the pair rolled down the hill, both fighting for their lives.

  Phil drew his automatic, about to set off down the hill, when he saw three more bodies where the attacker had been. The mercenaries had become wary. Four of their call-signs had ceased to exist, and they’d changed tactics to hunt as a pack. The four remaining killers would feel safer as a group.

  As Dave and his opponent rolled down the hill in the darkness, bouncing off trees and grunting like wild animals, the three remaining men ran headlong behind them, stumbling through the trees and undergrowth. Phil used the cover of their noise to follow as closely as he could. It would have been suicidal to try shooting at fast-moving bodies between trees, and it would alert the X-rays of a second enemy.

  Phil had known the horror and frustration of seeing a man taken before, but as he would have expected Dave to do, he held back and followed the action. As long as they didn’t kill their prisoner outright, Phil would be in a much better position to rescue him when things settled down.

  Rescue was a futile gesture in two cases—if too early, or too late. Timing was crucial.

  The two struggling bodies stopped rolling downhill. Phil closed the distance and was five metres from the small group. He raised his pistol into the aim and stopped. One man got up on his knees, and in the moonlight, Phil saw the glint of liquid on the victor’s blade.

  Dave had won the battle for survival and was kneeling over the prostrate figure of his opponent. Another man crashed the butt of a rifle against the back of Dave’s skull.

  It would have been easy to drop at least two of the three remaining X-rays, but Phil held his ground, listened, and observed. The risk to Dave would be increased. The commander spoke English, but with a European accent. He was a brute, whose neck was as wide as his jaw-line. He knelt to check the unconscious SAS man.

  “The client wants this Hawk character alive, and if you want your bonus—keep him alive until we reach the house.”

  “But Anton, he killed Sergei—” a short man said.

  “Sergei lost to a better fighter.”

  “He was my brother, I deserve to—”

  “You don’t deserve anything Ivan. Pick up this man’s knife and take it with you. Perhaps our client will allow you to use it on the owner.”

  02:00 - Phil watched as the two subordinates tied Dave’s wrists behind his back and dragged him down the hill, ensuring he fell face forward several times on the journey. Dave was going to have a severe headache when he regained consciousness—but he dealt with headaches on most Sunday mornings. He was alive.

  Although wearing night-vision goggles, the mercenaries took twenty minutes to reach the rear courtyard of the mansion. When they stepped clear of the trees, they were close to the stables. The two guardians dragged Dave to the side of the stables and waited. Anton went to report.

  Two minutes later, a door opened, and the leader approached his two cronies. “The client wants to see the prisoner. He assures me we’ll be paid a bonus if this bastard is alive at dawn.” He turned to Ivan. “You may take some revenge for your brother, but don’t kill him—if I lose my bonus, I will kill you.”

  “We should first wake him,” the third mercenary suggested.

  “I agree, Pyotr.” The leader lifted a nearby hose and sprayed Dave’s face with water.

  When Dave opened his eyes, the two henchmen hoisted him to his feet. While the prisoner was held defenceless with arms bound behind him, the big man head-butted him and punched him several times. Dave fell to the ground, and Anton kicked him twice in the ribcage, rendering him unconscious.

  Pyotr kicked Dave, and stepped back, laughing with his colleagues.

  A bright light shone across the courtyard as Hartley and Metcalfe came from the house. Both were wearing waistcoats, and their neckties were undone. The pair were smoking cigars, and carrying glasses of whiskey.

  Hartley said, “I hate having a game of snooker ruined.” He stood over the battered and bloodied body. “This is the source of my fucking headaches. He doesn’t look too dangerous.” He turned to Metcalfe. “What do you think Lawrence?”

  “He looks like a piece of shit.” Metcalfe had never been in a fight but took the opportunity to kick a real man who couldn’t respond.

  “Where are the rest of your men, Anton?” Hartley asked, and pulled on his cigar.

  “Dead ....” Anton spat on the bound and battered SAS man.

  “Dead?” Hartley coughed smoke instead of exhaling. “I had fucking eight of you out there. Eight professional killers—and he took out five of you.” He turned to Metcalfe. “I take it back Lawrence. This Hawk is one dangerous bastard.”

  Hartley took a sip of whiskey and another pull on his cigar. He turned to walk back to the house, but stopped and surveyed the dark forest which formed the backdrop to his mansion. When he turned toward the house, he glanced up, as if at the moon shining over the mansion. He nodded imperceptibly.

  “Let’s finish our game of snooker, Lawrence.”

  The pair went inside, and the large door closed, but not before laughter could be heard.

  Anton told his men their dead comrades would be left in the woods until daylight. They’d be buried where they fell, in unmarked graves.

  It was decided Pyotr should complete the first two-hour shift guarding the prisoner. Pyotr stripped off his webbing. He remained alert for the first half hour, occasionally walking back and forth in the semi-darkness of the large courtyard. More than once, he stopped beside Dave’s unconscious body or gazed into the darkness of the forest. He nodded to himself. This Hawk had been a true warrior.

  While Hartley and Metcalfe had been standing talking to the three mercenaries, they were being observed, from above. Norrie Armstrong was situated on the roof of the mansion. He had a reputation as one of the top hit-men to become involved with organised crime in Glasgow.

  Armstrong was thirty-two and had made his name by killing and walking away. He never left a witness or evidence and had no criminal record. He’d served in the Parachute Regiment for six years, and left at twenty-seven, having grown disenchanted with the prospect of continually fighting other people’s causes.

  He hired himself out as a mercenary during the conflict in the Balkans, until he was wounded. Being killed didn’t figure in his long-term plan. He returned to Glasgow, socialised in the right places, made discreet enquiries, and became a freelance killer.

  When he saw the three mercenaries return with their prize he shook his head - five men down. He had a sneaking suspicion the Hawk character was ex-SAS, and he had a healthy respect for the regiment. Armstrong didn’t believe the vigilante would come alone, and he’d suggested as much to his client, Hartley.

  Armstrong said he’d stay on the roof for twenty-four hours if necessary, but he told Hartley if he suspected two infiltrators he was merely to nod. When the nod came, Armstrong smiled. He enjoyed being pitted against a professional—it gave him a sense of pride in his work.

  .

  02:45 - Phil knew he couldn’t use the classic ‘Fireman’s Lift’ to get Dave to safety because of the damage to his ribcage. Phil could kill the sentry, untie Dave, and carry him up front like a baby, but he’d leave a trail a boy scout could follow.

  He considered nudging Dave with a branch to whisper he was there, and he’d return for him. He shrugged the idea off as sentimental, and foolish. They’d both had worse beatings, and he was confident Dave would be okay until the rest of the plan was set up.

  It was going to be a long, painful night for both of them for different reasons, but it was what made the SAS soldiers legendary. As things turned out, the call of nature played a part.

  Pyotr ceased his endless strolling from the stables to the garage and back. He checked his prisoner. The man was bound, unconscious, and going nowhere. Like most men, the mercenary wasn’t satisfied taking a leak out in the open. He stepped inside the tree-line.
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  He undid the studs on his combat kit and gazed into the darkness of the forest as he listened to his piss tinkling into the foliage. It wasn’t much sound, but it was enough. The hired killer relaxed and sighed as the pressure was released from his bladder.

  Pyotr’s eyes opened wide in shock when Phil’s hand clamped over his mouth. The blade of a hunting knife entered his lower back and was thrust up through his internal organs. His body went into spasm, and he wasn’t going to die quickly. Phil lowered him into the undergrowth. He stuffed a handful of earth into his mouth to dry him out, and stop him yelling. Before he left him, he took his weapon to unload, and ditch in the forest.

  .

  04:15 - It was reaching the period when men find it hard to keep their eyes open if they’ve been deprived of sleep. Armstrong had been doing fine, because as usual, he had popped the occasional pill, and it worked a treat. He had been dosing himself up for several hours but didn’t keep an accurate count.

  He pulled the small packet from inside his combat smock to find it empty. He made a professional misjudgement. Like Pyotr down below, Armstrong was bursting to piss. Instead of remaining in position, he decided to stand for the relief, followed by a walk around the large flat roof. It would refresh him.

  He peered over the edge, and could clearly see the prisoner tied up. Pyotr was missing though. He’d probably gone for a brew or an early breakfast. Armstrong slid away from the edge of the artificial battlement until he was two metres back. He stood up, walked to the middle of the roof, chose a spot, and relieved himself. He watched the reflection of the moon in the ripples.

  When he’d finished, he stood taking deep breaths and stretching. It was light enough to see the magnificent view of Loch Voil, and Balquhidder. The graveyard where Rob Roy was buried was clear. Armstrong smirked.