The John Milton Series Boxset 4

by Mark Dawson

  Milton retraced his steps back to a doorway and backed into it. He laid the bag on the ground and crouched down next to it. He quietly pulled back the zip, took out the grenades, and attached them to the fabric loops that ran down the sides of his ballistic vest. He took out the HK, checked that the first magazine was properly loaded, and then shoved the second and third mags into the pouches at the bottom of the vest. He took another two magazines for the pistol and put those in his left trouser pocket so that he would be able to exchange them quickly should the gun run dry. He reached down into the bag again and took out the camo paint, daubing it across his face in broad, dark swathes. He collected the NVG monocle and the head mount, adjusting it so that the monocle was positioned over his eye. He switched the unit on and looked back at the sentry: he could see more clearly now and confirmed that he did have an AK. The glow from beneath the closed door was amplified by the monocle, a bloom of greenish-white against the otherwise green-washed building.

  Milton pushed the monocle up, pressed himself back against the door, and took a moment to think. He let the HK hang loose on the strap and closed his eyes, breathing deeply, readying himself. His head was aching and he felt sluggish. He knew he was still suffering from the concussion. He wasn’t even close to being at his best. He felt vulnerable, but he couldn’t wait. If he didn’t go now, the girl was finished.

  He exhaled. He was getting too old for this.

  He took the phone again and opened a message that he had already composed.

  Just one word: NOW.

  He pressed send.

  Part VI

  The Seventh Day

  74

  Paulo had arrived at the warehouse ten minutes earlier. He could see that the office was occupied and, aware that he had never been to see Alícia as late as this before, he found his way to the bathroom and shut himself in an empty stall. He lowered the toilet seat and sat down with his back against the cistern. He was almost rigid with fear. He had seen four different men here since he had arrived; some had left, but that was still more than he had ever seen before. Was it because of Milton and what he had done in the house in Rio Comprido? Garanhão knew that there was a threat moving against him; it looked as if he had responded by beefing up his security.

  He squeezed his eyes tightly shut. What was he going to do? He didn’t want to leave Alícia, but he couldn’t go down to the basement without going through the office, and he was frightened that the men inside would ask him what he was doing there so late.

  Paulo’s phone buzzed. He was almost too scared to look at it.

  NOW.

  He fought back a moment of dizziness. He knew this was a moment that would determine the path his life would take. He could do what Milton had requested and pin his hopes on the fanciful notion that he would—that he could—do what he had promised to do. Or he could ignore him, go out the front door, and go home. But that would leave Alícia in the crawlspace. It would be her death, because Paulo knew that there was no way she was ever going to be allowed to go home. He thought of Eloá and how he would have given anything to make her well. He would have given his own life, without thinking, if his sacrifice meant that she could live a normal and happy life. But the cancer was not so accommodating; it did not make offers like that. Paulo had that choice, though: Eloá was the same age as Alícia, with so much in common save the good fortune of being born into different circumstances. He could do something right now that would offer the girl a chance of returning to her happy life. And, selfishly, it might absolve him of a little of his sin, too.

  He knew that he had no choice. He opened the door of the stall and left the bathroom.

  A teenager, eighteen or nineteen, was smoking a cigarette on the loading dock with his AK propped up against the rail.

  “What you doing?”

  “I’m here for the girl. Garanhão told me to look after her. What are you doing?”

  Paulo’s attitude evidently surprised the young man. He straightened up. “The boss said there might be trouble.”

  “So look like you’re taking it seriously,” Paulo snapped.

  The teenager flicked his cigarette aside and, with a glare in Paulo’s direction, made his way along the dock and into the corridor that serviced the main entrance on the other side of the building.

  Paulo waited until he was gone and then descended the steps. He crossed the bay to the plant room with the equipment that powered the warehouse. He pushed the door and went inside. The room was full of machinery. There were large metal boxes that had been bolted to the concrete floor, with wires leading to and from them. Paulo was already sweating, and the humidity in here made it worse. The room was lit by a malfunctioning strip light overhead; the light buzzed and fizzed, strobing on and off.

  Milton had told him what the box containing the circuit breakers would look like, and he squinted through the intermittent light until he found a metal box on the wall with a hinged cover that opened when Paulo pulled it back. There was a panel inside with six individual breakers and one red master switch to control them all. The switch was pushed up, with ON visible beneath it.

  Paulo reached for it with a damp, trembling hand, rested his index finger on it and, closing his eyes and praying to Jesus, he pulled it down.

  The flickering light went out.

  75

  Milton watched and waited. He shouldered the G36 and aimed it up at the sentry on the roof.

  The light cut out.

  He heard a muffled shout from inside the building.

  Milton pulled the trigger. The rifle kicked, but Milton had anticipated it and sent another two rounds down range. At least one of the rounds found its target; the sniper stumbled forward, toppled over the parapet at the edge of the roof, and plunged to the ground below. His body hit the concrete in front of the roller door, bounced once, then lay still.

  Milton moved. He led with the G36, staying in the shadows at the side of the road and descending the ramp to the small side door to the left of the roller door and the sentry’s twisted body. He reached the door and paused there; he could hear the sound of raised voices from inside. He reached down with his left hand and tried the handle; the door was locked.

  Milton heard the sound of a key being turned, and the door opened. Paulo stood in the doorway and saw the sprawled-out body of the sentry.

  “Cristo,” he mumbled.

  “How many inside?”

  “Um… um…” He was panicking.

  “How many?”

  “Two in the office and one in the loading bay. He went to the front of the building, but he would have heard the shots. Those are just the ones that I saw—there might be others.”

  “Armed?”

  “Yes.”

  “With what?”

  “The man in the bay has an AK-47. The ones in the office—I don’t know.”

  Milton gave a single sharp nod of understanding. “You know where you’re going?”

  Paulo nodded.

  “Take this.”

  Milton held out the SIG. He would have preferred to keep it, but he didn’t like the idea of sending Paulo onto the street without a means of defending himself. There was a good chance it was going to get busy.

  “I can’t—”

  “It’s ready to fire. Just point and squeeze. I—”

  Milton didn’t finish. He shouldered Paulo out of the way and raised the compact assault rifle. He fired a short burst, and the man with the AK who had appeared in the doorway behind Paulo fell back. The noise of the weapon was impossibly loud, rattling around the corridor. Paulo swivelled. The man toppled over, fell to the floor, and lay still. Blowback was splattered all over the bare concrete blocks.

  Milton grabbed Paulo and turned him around.

  “Fuck,” Paulo said, his eyes wide with fear.

  “Go,” Milton said. “Don’t stop. I’ll see you at the bottom.”

  76

  Milton shouldered the rifle and aimed it ahead of him as he made his way inside. He step
ped over the body of the man he had just shot. The man had seen him, and Milton had had no choice but to put him down before he could fire on them, but it had spent all of his most precious capital: the element of surprise. Milton would manage with his other advantages. He was well equipped, and this kind of closed-building assault was something that he had trained for so often it was like muscle memory. And he had the darkness. The monocle amplified the faint light that leaked in from the outside. He would be able to see the bad guys; they would struggle to see him.

  How many left? Paulo had said there were three, but he wasn’t convincing. Milton would anticipate more.

  He followed Paulo’s instructions, exiting the side corridor and coming out into the main warehouse space. He paused to check that it was empty, climbed the steps to the dock, and then crossed it to the door that Paulo had indicated.

  The door was ajar; Milton nudged it with his left hand, pushing it open just a little. He saw a flash of movement through the gap between the door and the jamb and hopped to the side a fraction of a moment before he heard the rattle of an automatic. Chunks of the door were torn out and spat into the loading bay, the bullets passing through the space that Milton had just vacated.

  He let the HK hang loose on its strap, reached for a flashbang, yanked out the pin, and tossed it through the gap in the door and into the room beyond. The fuse was set on a three-second delay, and when it detonated, it lit the flash powder in the central cartridge. Milton looked down as it exploded, the flash pouring out between the gap and briefly casting his shadow behind him. The boom was deafening.

  Milton had a short window of opportunity. He raised the HK and booted the door. The flash had subsided enough so that all that was left was just a faint wash on the monocle. Milton scanned the room: a table, two chairs, one of which had been overturned. He saw the shape of a man on the floor. Milton aimed and squeezed off a three-round burst. He knew he had hit his target; he didn’t need to check, and he didn’t have the time for it. He turned his head and saw the shape of a second man against the wall. This man was holding the rifle that had most likely been used to shoot through the door. Milton aimed into the middle of the man’s torso and unloaded three more rounds.

  He moved into the room, checked that the targets were down, and made sure with two further close-range shots to the head. He turned through three hundred and sixty degrees to confirm that the room was clear and found the door just as he had seen it on the video. Paulo had said there were two men in the office, and they were both accounted for, but Milton was not prepared to sacrifice caution for speed, even though he knew that he had to move quickly. He took another flashbang, opened the door and pushed it back, pulled the pin and tossed the grenade inside.

  The grenade detonated, the boom rolling up from the basement and the light flaring brightly.

  Milton took the stairs, reached the bottom, and entered the room. This, too, was just as he had seen it; he saw the small door in the wall and went over to it. Milton took the key that Paulo had given him and was about to unlock the door when he remembered that he was still wearing the monocle. The girl would already have heard the sounds of gunfire, and then the boom of the flashbang at close range. She would be terrified already; he didn’t want to scare her any more. He flipped the device up and away from his face and lowered the gun to his side. He took out a penlight and switched it on, turned the key in the lock, gripped the handle, and opened the door.

  The space was pitch black; the glow of the penlight revealed a single bulb, but it was dead without the power. The girl had moved as far away from the door as possible, folding her body as tightly as she could and then pressing herself into a tiny space where the wall met the downward sloping ceiling. She was too far away from Milton for him to be able to reach in and grab her, and he didn’t want to compromise his movement by going in after her.

  “It’s okay, Alícia,” he said, trying to make his voice sound as calm and normal as possible. “I’m a friend. Do you remember me?”

  The girl had drawn her knees up and folded her arms across them; he saw the flash of her eyes as she risked a glimpse over the top of her forearms. Still nothing.

  “I came to the recital. I’m John—remember?”

  She gave a hesitant nod.

  “I’ve come to get you out.”

  “Paulo?” she said in a quiet voice.

  “He told me where you are. I’ll take you to him now.”

  Milton didn’t think that she would respond, but, just as he had resigned himself to the fact that he was going to have to shuffle into the space to grab her, she unfolded her arms, got down on her hands and knees, and started to crawl toward him.

  “Good girl,” he said, backing away from the door so that she would be able to exit without feeling cramped or overwhelmed. He took a step to the side so that she wouldn’t see the gun until the last moment. He couldn’t afford to spook her now. He would need her to be cooperative if he was going to get her—and himself—out of the building in one piece.

  She emerged from the doorway, reaching out as she stepped into the darkness. Milton crouched down, holding the HK down and reaching for her with his left hand. She didn’t resist and allowed herself to be drawn closer to him.

  “I’ll go first,” he said, speaking slowly and holding up his finger and then pointing first at himself and then the stairs. “You follow me. Okay?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  He smiled at her, trying to be reassuring, and then made his way to the stairs. He paused at the bottom, listening intently for signs of movement in the rooms above. He thought he heard a shout, but it wasn’t close at hand.

  He couldn’t wait to be sure. Milton killed the penlight and started slowly up the stairs, and the girl followed after him.

  77

  Paulo heard the sounds of the gunshots and had to fight the urge to run. He knew that the streets up here at the top of the Hill would be swarming with Garanhão’s men, and he dared not bring attention to himself. The shooting had sounded loud, but the door had been open and he was close to the building. He had no idea how far the sound would carry into the nearby streets. He supposed that it might have been mistaken for fireworks. Perhaps no one would notice?

  He came to the top of the slope just as a car raced around the corner. He raised his arm to shield his eyes from the glare of the headlights. The driver hit the brakes, and the car slid to a sudden stop. The car was ahead of him, blocking the way out of the narrow passage that descended to the doors of the building. There was just barely enough space for the driver and passenger to open their doors and get out; there certainly wasn’t enough space for Paulo to go around the car.

  He was trapped.

  The lights blazed out, and Paulo couldn’t make out the features of the two men who approached him.

  “Hands above your head!” one of them yelled out.

  Paulo put his hands up, realising, as he did, that he still had Milton’s pistol in his hand.

  The man who had been in the passenger seat reached him first. He had a rifle, and it was aimed right at him.

  “What are you doing?”

  Paulo started to feel breathless. He recognised the man; it was the man who had given him the thirty thousand. Paulo took a step away from him.

  “Don’t fucking move,” the man said, advancing after him. “Answer the question.”

  “I work for the boss,” Paulo said. “I’ve been watching the kid.”

  “What’s that?” He nodded at the gun in Paulo’s hand. The weapon suddenly felt searingly hot in his clammy palm.

  Paulo tried to speak, but his mouth was too dry, and the words caught there.

  “Put it on the ground,” he said.

  Paulo’s gut shifted unpleasantly; he felt his bowels loosen as he crouched and laid the pistol on the ground.

  The second man stooped down to collect the gun, then went around him and hurried toward the open door. His AK-47 was raised, and his eyes bulged with mad intensity.

&nb
sp; “The lights are off,” the second man called back.

  “The circuit box is down the corridor,” the first man told him. “Check it.”

  Paulo backed away a little more.

  “Turn around.”

  “I didn’t—” Paulo started to say, the words scraping against his dry throat.

  The man didn’t give him a chance to finish. He jammed the butt of the rifle against Paulo’s head, a sharp and painful blow that sent him stumbling against the wall.

  “Turn the fuck around,” he repeated, grabbing him with his left hand and yanking him so that he was facing back down to the roller door. Paulo’s head stung from the blow, and he could feel a warm trickle as blood ran down his scalp. The man shoved him between the shoulder blades. “Move,” he spat at him.

  “Where do you want me to go?”

  “Inside.”

  Paulo went back down the slope.

  “The breaker’s off,” the second man called back.

  “Then switch it back on.”

  Paulo was wired with fear. He glanced back over his shoulder; the first man was close, and he knew he would have no chance of even trying to overpower him before he fired his pistol. He couldn’t miss, not from there.

  “I…” Paulo didn’t know what to say. “I didn’t do anything.”

  “Turn around and look at me.”

  Paulo did as he was told and saw that he was looking straight down the barrel of the man’s gun.

  “Maybe I ought to do you right now. What do you think?”