by Ryan, Chris
Just enough time to set the trap.
This is going to be a hard fight, John Boy, the voice warned him. Hardest of your life. You’re taking on four ex-SEALs.
Not good odds.
Maybe not, thought Bald. But I’m not ready to die like Porter. Not fucking yet.
He darted off the track in the opposite direction from the high ground, listening out for the arrival of the enemy. With the curtain of forest all around them the Americans weren’t going to be visible until they were no more than fifteen or twenty metres from the ambush point.
But I’ll hear them a lot further away than that.
He took a couple of paces into the trees and broke off three thin branches, snapping them down into peg-sized lengths, each one roughly six inches long. He carried the pegs back over to the track and paced five metres south, heading away from the hollow. Stopped again and dropped down beside a sturdy tree at the side of the path. Shook his daysack from his shoulder and pushed four of the pegs into the ground at the base of the tree, forming a small box. Retrieved one of the fragmentation grenades from the sack and placed it inside the box, securing the grenade in place between the pegs.
Then he reached into a pouch on his vest and pulled out a bundle of paracord: a four-mil diameter length of interwoven nylon strands. He pinched the end of one of the dark individual braids and pulled on it, unwinding it from the rest of the cord.
Bald threaded the thin material through the splayed pin on the grenade, squashed the ends together and eased the pin out slightly, so that it was only held in place by a hair’s breadth.
A moment later he heard voices in the distance. Men shouting at one another in urgent voices. At least two of them.
The enemy.
Bald couldn’t make out what they were saying. Just the general timbre of their voices. Urgent, aggressive. Like a hunting party closing in on its prey.
They were around two hundred metres away from the ambush point, Bald estimated.
Hurry up, John Boy.
He snatched up the daysack and the pegs and counted five metres forward, kneeling down again beside a smaller tree. He went through the same process. Planted the second grenade in another peg-box. Looped the braid through the pin. Teased out the splayed pin fractionally.
He took the other end of the nylon string and trailed it across the track at a right angle for two metres. He wedged another peg into the ground and wrapped the cord around it three times. Then he took the rest of the string and anchored it to another branch at a ninety-degree angle, making sure it was taut. As soon as anyone set foot on the tripwire lying across the track, the peg would come out, pulling on the wire and yanking the pins out of the two grenades at almost the same time. The trees would shield Bald and Fuller from the blast, directing it outwards in a lethal killing arc. Clobbering anyone who was caught within the killing zone.
He snatched up a fistful of leaves and sprinkled them over the length of the wire across the track, making sure it was hidden. He scattered more rotting vegetation over the grenades to obscure them as well. In the distance, beyond the claustrophobic green curtain, Bald could hear the voices. They were more distinct now.
There was a wild holler, and then he heard Dudley yelling out to the others that he had found something. The signs Bald had left behind for them, presumably. They were no more than a hundred metres away now.
They’ll be here in a couple of minutes.
Bald paced further along the track and took out the water bottle from his daysack. He wasn’t worried about being seen by the enemy. They’re still not close enough to see me yet.
He emptied the remaining liquid, placed the bottle on the ground a couple of metres due north of the hidden tripwire, nestling it at the side of the track. Then he pulled out the strip of torn-off material from Fuller’s blouse and hung it at eye-level from a nearby bush, making sure it was visible to anyone coming up the track.
He stepped back and surveyed his work. The water bottle and the shred of clothing would instantly catch the eye of the lead scout. The enemy would follow the signs he had left, spot the discarded water bottle and the material hanging from the bush. Assume that their quarry had been drinking some water before rushing off moments earlier.
They would be hurrying forward, concentrating on the signs in front of them.
Not looking at the ground at their feet.
They wouldn’t see the tripwire until it was too late.
That was the plan.
Not the greatest trap ever set. Not foolproof.
But it’s the best I can do.
He scuffed the ground, kicked a few leaves over and snapped a few branches, adding to the signs near the path. The enemy was dangerously close now. Bald could hear twigs snapping beneath boots, the guys crashing through the bushes, making a ton of fucking noise.
They’re almost right on top of us, he realised. Sixty or seventy metres away.
He sprinted up the track for ten metres. Doglegged back around to the high ground on the other side of the path and hit the hollow next to Fuller. Turned to her and pointed out a spot five metres further along the hollow, facing out across the approach to the tripwire.
‘Get over there,’ he said. ‘Watch the track. As soon as you see the lead scout approaching, give us the thumbs-up.’
‘Then what?’ she asked, voice fraught with tension.
‘Once they trigger the tripwire, the grenades will go off and cut down everyone on the team. I’ll mop up. Make sure you keep your head down and don’t fucking move. If it goes sideways and they start overrunning us, take as many of the fuckers down as you can but make sure you save the last bullet for yourself,’ he added. ‘Trust me. You don’t want Dudley getting his slimy hands on you.’
She nodded with a look of grim determination in her eyes. Clasped her right hand around the Browning Hi-Power and crawled across the hollow, lying flat on her stomach with the trees four metres away, along the side of the track. Bald shifted two metres across to the right and went static, putting himself in a prone firing position between the two grenades, with a line of sight overlooking the trail. He extracted a spare thirty-round clip from his pouch and placed it beside him for easy access in case it went noisy.
Then he waited.
He heard Dudley again. The redneck’s voice was full of aggression as he urged the others on. Any moment now. To the right, Fuller focused on the approach to the track. Waiting for the first sign of the enemy.
Bald felt his muscles tense. His mouth was dry at the prospect of a firefight. He felt that there was a fifty-fifty chance the ambush would succeed. He was banking on a lot of things happening. The lead scout charging forward, not paying too much attention to the overall scene. The rest of the guys bunching up tightly behind him.
If the ex-SEALs were thinly spread out, with multiple metres between them, the grenades might only take out half the team. Or the enemy might approach the trail in a linear formation, strung out like a clothesline across the ground.
If that happens, thought Bald, we’ll find ourselves in a heavy firefight. We’d start taking rounds from all sides. No way we’d survive that.
Five seconds later, Fuller looked round and gave him the thumbs-up.
Enemy in sight.
Bald flicked his gaze back to the tripwire. The track ran from left to right in front of him, six metres away, with the approach to his right and the water bottle and scrap of torn fabric at his eleven o’clock. Fuller was a few metres away to his right, observing the enemy.
A beat later, the four Americans slid into view.
They were fifteen metres away from the ambush point, cutting their way along the track in a tight patrol formation. Dudley was in the lead scout position, with Hulk three paces further behind. Shades was third in line, with Freak Show several paces further back, lagging slightly behind the others. Weighed down by his monstrous mass. They were moving in quick, aggressive steps, scanning the area ahead of them.
Stalking prey.
Five metres from the tripwire, Dudley momentarily halted. Bald saw the redneck squinting with mean eyes at the trail and felt the knot in his guts tighten.
Shit, he thought. We’ve been rumbled.
Then Dudley pointed out the water bottle and torn clothing to Hulk. ‘Looks like we’re on these bitches. Ain’t gonna be far from here, Hulk.’
He started down the trail, increasing his pace. Like a dog with its nose to the ground, picking up a powerful scent. ‘I’ve got you now, you son of a bitch.’
Hulk and the other two guys abruptly picked up the pace as well. Dudley was surging a few paces ahead of the team leader, full of aggressive intent. Eyes pinned to the water bottle and the fabric hanging from the bush a few metres ahead of him.
Two metres from the tripwire now.
Behind him, Hulk was looking closely around him. Taking in the bigger picture. He looked down at the ground. Looked at the trees at his twelve o’clock and the flat area of jungle to his right. Then he glanced up at the high ground to his left.
Stopped.
There was a flash of panic in his eyes as he caught sight of Bald lying flat on the ground six metres away.
‘Wait!’ he cried to Dudley. ‘Stop right there!’
In the next instant, the redneck’s boot came down on the tripwire.
There was a light metallic ping as the wire tugged on the two grenade pins. Like a cord being plucked. A sound that every soldier instantly recognised. Dudley froze. He had time to realise that he was fucked.
Then the grenades detonated.
The blasts ripped across the trail, two booms thundering in rapid succession as the first grenade went off a microsecond before the second one, five metres to the rear. Dudley was two feet ahead of the grenade nearest to the water bottle. The blast punched him in the back and knocked him to the ground, fragments shredding his legs and back. Hulk was six or seven feet behind the redneck. He took the brunt of the explosive force, caught between the grenade to his front and the one to his rear. He disappeared in a flurry of smoke and hot dirt and metal shards. The second grenade fragged the two guys behind Hulk, putting Shades and Freak Show on their arses as shrapnel tore through the surrounding vegetation, smashing into tree trunks and slicing through branches.
Dudley rolled onto his back, screaming in pain at his injuries.
In the next moment, Bald levelled his sights with the redneck and opened fire. Two aimed shots thumped into Dudley’s chest. Bald gave him another double-tap to the head just for good measure, finishing him off. At the same time he spied Shades lying on the ground, five metres away to the right, his rifle slanted upwards as he aimed at the high ground in a futile attempt to return fire on the shooter. Bald eased out a breath as he calmly lined up the muzzle with the ex-SEAL and put two quick rounds into the target. One round winged Shades on the jaw, shattering his teeth and jawbone. The second bullet punched a hole through his sunglasses and bored through into his skull, mashing his brains. He joined Dudley in whatever afterlife he believed in.
Half a second later, Bald spied a swift motion to his right. Four metres away. He caught sight of Freak Show staggering away from the trail. The rearmost guy in the formation, several paces behind the others. Therefore the one who had been furthest from the grenades when they had blown up. His legs were smeared with blood but otherwise he had got off lightly. A combination of the thick vegetation and the guys in front of him absorbing most of the fragmentation. He had taken a beating, but he was still in the fight.
Now he was limping up the slope towards the hollow. Bringing up his rifle as he charged at the ambushers. Following the standard drill for anyone caught in a linear ambush.
Don’t run.
Don’t try to escape the kill zone.
Head directly for the attackers and engage.
The guy was halfway up the slope when Bald heard two sharp cracks at his right.
He saw Freak Show tumbling away, an avalanche of flesh and muscle mass back-sliding down the slope. Blood arcing out of a hole in his head. He came to a rest at the side of the trail, a ragged lifeless heap.
Bald glanced over at his right. Saw Fuller standing there with the Browning Hi-Power raised. Gave her a nod. Good work.
Four seconds after Dudley had tripped the wire, Bald sprang forward and scrambled down the slope, weapon raised. Ready to nail anyone still drawing breath.
Through the acrid wisps of smoke he could see that the trail was slicked with blood and viscera and splintered bits of wood and tiny metal fragments. Carnage.
These guys might have been hardened ex-SEALs.
But I’m the fucking SAS.
Freak Show and Shades were both utterly still. No signs of life. Dudley was slumped on his back, riddled with fragments and bullets, his mouth agape. Bald gave him a solid kick, partly to check he was dead and partly just because it felt fucking good. Then he moved down the trail towards Hulk.
The guy was all kinds of messed up. His hands, face and neck were stippled with bits of metal. The blast had slashed open his groin. His guts were hanging out in a glistening coil, slopping onto the dirt beside him. A mortal wound. Bald wasn’t a doctor, but he could tell from looking at the guy that he didn’t have very long to live. A few minutes, maybe. He kicked away Hulk’s rifle and knelt down beside him. The American looked up at him with dimming eyes.
‘Jesus,’ Hulk croaked. ‘Jesus . . .’
He groaned in pain. His lank hair was plastered to his scalp. His breathing was shallow and erratic.
‘A trap . . . should have known.’ He attempted a blood-stained smile. ‘Almost had you there. Brother.’
‘I know.’
He coughed up blood. ‘I’m sorry. About your buddy. Ain’t nothing personal.’
‘You had your orders. I’d have done the same thing. How it is.’
‘He had family?’
‘A daughter.’
Hulk nodded, as if this meant something. Bald looked at the dying American. ‘It didn’t have to come to this.’
‘No.’ He groaned again. ‘Glad . . . it was you. Losing to a warrior. No shame in that.’
Hulk convulsed as a wave of pain racked his body. ‘Shit . . . so cold.’
He offered up a trembling hand.
Bald held it for a couple of seconds. One soldier respecting the spirited efforts of his vanquished opponent. A ritual that stretched back into the mists of time.
Hulk’s breathing became shallower and more erratic. His body shook again, and he said something that Bald couldn’t understand. Then his grip relaxed. The light faded from his eyes.
Bald closed his eyes. Rose to his feet. Took one last look at the dead former SEAL. Then signalled that it was safe for Fuller to move forward. She scaled down the slope, glancing around at the bodies littering the trail. A dazed look on her face. She gazed at the bodies as Bald moved up and down the track, grabbing various bits of kit. He took Freak Show’s Glock as a backup weapon, along with a pair of spare clips of 9x19 Parabellum from his vest pouches. Stashed the pistol in his holster, then set off with Fuller back down the trail. Retracing the earlier route they had taken through the forest.
Seven minutes later, they were back at the threshold of the airstrip.
They paused again at the fringes of the jungle while Bald crouched in the gloom and observed the vehicles from a distance through his binoculars. Making sure that ex-SEALs hadn’t left someone behind to guard them. Once he was sure that the coast was clear, he gave the order to Fuller and they broke across the open ground to the wagons. In their rush to pursue their targets the Americans had left both the Explorer and the Expedition unlocked, with the keys in the console trays. Bald checked the boots and found an emergency medical pack in the back of the Expedition, along with fresh bottles of water and a pair of jerry cans. He unscrewed the cap on one of the cans and gave it a sniff to check whether it was diesel or fuel. Then he hurried over to the secluded area off the airstrip, climbed behind the wheel of the Land Cruiser and drove it down the trac
k and north, pulling up next to the two Fords. He transferred the medical kit and the jerry cans to the Land Cruiser, snagged a pair of sunglasses left on the dash of the Expedition and a baseball cap from the back seat of the Explorer. He also lifted a laptop he found in the rear of the Expedition. Six might want it, Fuller had said. There might be something useful on the hard drive.
He shoved the laptop into a leather holdall he found in the back of the Expedition and dumped it in the rear of the Land Cruiser. Fired up the engine while Fuller climbed into the front passenger seat.
‘What now?’ she asked.
‘RV is burned,’ Bald said. ‘We can’t stay here. The Yanks know about it, and the place will be crawling with locals and helpers soon enough, once they see that the Herc has gone down. Not as if they can send us another plane, either. Have to find another way out.’
Fuller thought for a beat. ‘We’ll have to find somewhere to lie low. It’ll take Madeleine a while to sort out an escape plan.’
‘We can’t wait that long. Security forces will be out looking for the assassins by now.’
‘What else can we do? Not as if we can risk going to any of the big fishing towns or ports. They’ll be looking for us.’
‘I’ve got an idea.’
Bald tapped the satnav icon on the tablet-sized display and typed in the name of a small town two hundred miles to the east. He remembered the name of the place Freddy Vargas had told him about.
Suarez.
Fuller frowned at the screen. ‘Where are we going?’
‘The coast,’ Bald said. ‘A place where they hunt the white lobster.’
He explained his plan. They would head to the town, recce the beach and steal one of the fishing boats. The place was on the north-eastern tip of the country, on the Gulf of Paria, ten miles from the coast of Trinidad. A small settlement far removed from any of the big towns or cities, in an area of the country dominated by the cartels and hence a no-go area for the police. But with a lot of fishermen who made extra money from selling the cocaine they captured. Who would therefore have reliable fishing boats with two-hundred-horsepower motors, capable of ferrying them across the Gulf. They could make the crossing to Port of Spain in a couple of hours, Bald said. Then hand themselves in to the British High Commission. There were regular flights to the other islands in the Caribbean: Barbados, Saint Lucia, Antigua. From there, they could catch a plane back to London.