Silent kill, p.24
Silent Kill, page 24
part #1 of Extreme Series
‘Pity you won’t be joining us, John,’ he said. He kept the Beretta 92 semi-automatic trained on Bald. ‘But then that’s what you get for trying to stab me in the back. Now get up. It’s time for you to die.’
‘Fuck you,’ said Bald.
A smile flickered across Pretorius’s face. ‘You’ve got that the wrong way round. You, in fact, are the one who’s fucked. There are street hookers in Thailand less fucked than you.’
A hot rage swept through Bald’s veins and he tensed his fists, turning his knuckles white. Much as he hated to admit it, Pretorius was right. Two hours ago everything had been looking rosy. The Scot and his partner on the op, Jamie Priest, had been ordered by the Firm to infiltrate Pretorius’s militia under assumed identities. Their mission: kill Pretorius, to prevent him wreaking havoc in Somalia and turning the country into a terrorist safe haven. Instead Bald had joined forces with Pretorius and signed up to his plan to stage a coup in the Comoros, tempted by the thought of being richer than Bernie Madoff before the cops moved in. Everything had been going smoothly – until Priest decided to spill his guts. Sold him down the river. Now Pretorius knew that Bald was working for the Firm. He was truly shafted.
A series of mechanical whirrs and clanks echoed through the cargo compartment as the rear loading ramp lowered. Light seeped through the crack, colouring in Pretorius’s face: his lips thin as a knife slash, the knot of flesh where his right ear had been severed, the deep grooves carved into his weathered complexion. Bald remembered the promise Pretorius had made to him shortly after they’d boarded the Herc back in Somalia.
‘The minute we step off the plane, you’re a dead man.’
The ramp hit the ground with a dense thud. Pretorius shouted an order to his men in French and one by one they leapt up from their seats and marched down the ramp. The last soldier to bounce out of the Herc dragged a dishevelled blonde woman with him. She wore a black shawl and a colourful hijab – and on her face a look of sheer terror. Bald had almost forgotten about Imogen after having a gun pulled him on during the flight. But seeing her now got him thinking. Pretorius had several wives – his name for the group of white women he kidnapped and kept prisoner at his camp in Somalia, using them as his sexual playthings – but he’d only brought Imogen to the Comoros. Why?
But Bald had no time to worry about this. The soldier yanked Imogen off the ramp and fanned out across the ground with the rest of his mates. Now only Bald and Pretorius were left in the plane.
‘We could have made quite a team,’ Pretorius said. ‘You, a hero of the SAS. Me, a living legend of the Circuit. Fighting side by side, ruling these islands together – all the money we’d ever need – the natives at our beck and call. Now you won’t get to enjoy any of that. Pity.’
‘Bag of bollocks,’ said Bald, trying it on. ‘I’m not working for the Firm.’
Pretorius laughed as he gave a sad shake of his head. ‘You’re a great soldier. One of the best even. But you can’t lie for shit. Do you really think I’d take two strangers onto my team without properly vetting them? I knew that my enemies would try to kill me again, once they realized the drone strike had failed. They needed me out of the picture. So they sent you.’
Bald clenched his jaw. ‘Priest is lying, for fuck’s sake. Trying to set me up.’
‘Save your breath. I know the truth, John. He already told me chapter and verse. About how you roped him into your plan to impersonate a couple of guys looking to join my team. You planned to work your way into my inner circle, didn’t you? And when nobody was looking, you were going to take me down. Pow.’ He formed his hand into a pistol and made a shooting motion at Bald. He half-smiled. ‘Got a pair of brass balls on you, I’ll give you that. Now on your feet.’
Bald trudged down the loading ramp. There was a heavy feeling in his legs, as if someone had strapped lead weights to his ankles. His mouth was dry. His clothes were soaked through with sweat. Mice scampered about in his stomach. Bald wasn’t scared of dying. He’d seen enough men go south in the field to have become hardened to it. No, what pissed him off was the fact that his mucker had sold him out He’d survived gun battles with the Pakistani Taliban, shootouts in Brazilian favelas, the Russian mafia. It wasn’t supposed to end like this – fucked over by an overweight ex-cop on the MI6 payroll. The indignity of it burned a hole in his chest.
‘Hurry up,’ Pretorius snapped at his back. ‘I’ve got a country to take over.’
Bald stepped off the ramp. The air was moist and heavy: a sponge dunked in water. They had landed on a dirt road in a clearing amid dense forest. Long brown grass rustled, buffeted by the cool morning breeze picking up on the ocean. Six VW Amarok pickup trucks were parked in a row alongside the runway. To the north loomed Mount Karthala, its volcanic cap hidden under a cobwebbed morning mist. Pockets of stunted trees and scrub bushes were scattered along its slopes, interspersed with patches of hardened magma. South of the volcano, scattered along the coastline, Bald could see small towns with their mix of colonial buildings and mosques. Nine or ten kilometres distant, he guessed. The dirt road continued for a hundred metres east of the Herc, where it merged with a bigger, potholed road that snaked towards the coast.
Pretorius narrowed his eyes to scan the clearing.
‘Where the fuck is the second detachment?’ he said to nobody. ‘Our brothers should be here by now. They were due to land on the south coast an hour ago.’ Then he shook his head, glanced at Bald. Grinned. ‘No matter. In a few hours I’ll be ruling this country and you’ll be maggot feed.’
Bald bit on his anger. Kept his mouth shut.
‘You know what happened to the last man who betrayed me?’ The way Pretorius said it sounded less like a question and more like a threat. ‘I had his hands and feet chopped off. Then I had his feet sewn to his arms, his hands surgically attached to his legs.’ He smiled faintly at the memory. ‘The sepsis claimed him – eventually. If I told you how long the man lasted, you wouldn’t believe me.’
Bald knew it then. Nothing I can say will change his mind. He’s going to slot me and there’s not a fucking thing I can do about it.
Pretorius glanced across his shoulder at the two men exiting the Herc’s cockpit. One guy was pale as milk. The other had skin dark as the mouth of a cave.
‘You two,’ Pretorius called out. ‘Over here. Give me a hand.’
The white guy, Priest, exchanged a look with the black guy, Deet – Pretorius’s personal bodyguard. The pair of them marched down the dirt road towards Bald, moving with the exaggerated gait of bodybuilders, their torsos twisting at the hips as their weight shifted with each stride, arms dangling out at the sides like wrecking balls hanging from a couple of cranes. Pretorius forced Bald down onto his knees.
This is it, the Scot thought.
This is where I die.
‘I’ll make it quick,’ Pretorius said. ‘A double-tap to the head. One last favour, from one warrior to another. What do you say?’
Bald said nothing. He looked at Priest with obvious hate. Then Pretorius spun away from Bald and thrust the Beretta at his partner, eyes beaming. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘Do the honours.’
Priest looked surprised. His tiny eyes flickered with uncertainty as he stared at the pistol and for a moment Bald allowed himself to think that he wouldn’t go through with it. That he didn’t have the guts to slot one of his own tribe. But then Priest reached out and wrapped his fingers around the stippled grip, and Bald felt an intense pressure building in his chest. He was going to do it, then.
‘I’m sorry, boss.’
‘Fuck you.’
Bald swung his gaze back to Pretorius. ‘Let this prick kill me and you’ll be making an enemy of every lad who used to be in the Regiment. Blades look out for their own. They’ll hunt you down.’
Pretorius raised an eyebrow. ‘You really expect me to believe that? You’re John Bald. Nah, no one’s going to shed a tear over you. In fact, I’d put good money on the boys in Hereford having a piss-up to celebrate when they hear you’ve copped it.’
The leaden mass in Bald’s chest now plunged into his guts. In desperation he scanned the horizon, as if an escape route would present itself. None did. He was out of options. Out of time. Out of everything. For a moment he wondered if they’d bury him in a shallow grave, or perhaps leave him by the side of the road for feral dogs to feast on and children to poke with sticks. Ultimately, it didn’t matter. He’d still be dead, and Priest and Pretorius would be as rich as fuck.
Priest drew the Beretta level with Bald. ‘No hard feelings, boss.’
‘Get it over with.’
Fear knotted his bowels. Nausea lodged like a ball in his throat. He forced the fear down to the pit of his guts and waited to die.
Thirty-one
0708 hours.
He kept waiting. A moment passed. Then two. He closed his eyes and waited for the bark of the Beretta. Its sudden jerk. The white-hot flash of the muzzle. The brief spasm of pain he’d feel as the cartridge bored through his cranium. And then the blackness of forever.
Still nothing happened.
His stomach muscles were clenched so tight they could’ve cracked walnuts. Then a sound reached his ears. The familiar click of the hammer against the firing pin of an unloaded weapon. Again. Click. A soldier in the field dreaded that sound. It meant you were out of ammo, that there would be a lull in your gunfire that the enemy could fatally exploit. But to Bald, on his knees and facing the business end of a pistol, it was the sweetest noise in the world.
Click-click.
‘What the fuck . . . ?’ Priest began.
Bald opened his eyes. He saw Priest fumbling with the Beretta with his paddle-like hands, pointlessly pulling the trigger and getting the same result. Pretorius stood to one side of the guy and looked like he was about to explode with laughter. His lips were pressed tight but they trembled at the corners and he swapped a knowing look with Deet. As if the two men were sharing a private joke. Bald stayed where he was, knees anchored to the dirt road, a tingling sensation drumming like fingertips on his temples. What the fuck was going on?
‘Bastard’s empty,’ Priest muttered. He pulled back the slider and offered the pistol to Pretorius as if to prove that it hadn’t misfired because of laughable incompetence. Bald craned his neck for a better look. There was a hollow black groove where a round should have been chambered.
‘Here,’ Pretorius said. ‘Allow me.’
He snatched the Beretta from Priest and thumbed the magazine release button on the right side of the grip. He caught the empty mag as it slid out of the feed on the underside of the grip and tossed it aside. Priest looked on as Pretorius produced a fresh clip from the waistband of his trousers. This one was fully loaded: a round of 9x19mm Parabellum brass gleamed at the brim. He inserted it and pulled back the slider all the way. Then he released it. There was a ker-crack as the slider crashed forward and shunted the top bullet from the mag into the chamber.
Then Pretorius did a funny thing. He didn’t hand the weapon back. Instead he manually cocked the hammer. Priest blinked at the loaded gun in his hand.
‘A word of advice, Jamie.’
Priest frowned. ‘What’s that?’
‘Next time you try to frame someone, think up a better cover story.’
Pretorius raised the loaded Beretta to Priest’s forehead. The guy had just enough time to register a look of dumb surprise. Then Pretorius pulled the trigger.
There was a sound like a carburettor backfiring as a bullet spewed out of the muzzle and struck Priest between his eyes. His head tilted back. There was no look on his face now. Mostly because he didn’t have a face left. Brain matter went everywhere. Blood spurted out of the back of his head in hot arcs. His arms went limp at his sides. Then he dropped. Like a sack of oats someone had chucked out of a tenth-floor window.
For a long beat nobody spoke. There was only the steady pump of blood out of Priest, the distant squawks of birds frightened by the gunshot. Bald wiped the blood from his eyes. Priest’s blood, he reminded himself. Warm drops of it traced veins down his cheeks. He felt relieved, confused. Then Pretorius laughed. Deet joined in. Canned laughter in a blood-soaked nightmare. After a few seconds Pretorius quietened down and wiped away the tears with the blackened palm of his gun hand.
‘Did you see the look on that idiot’s face?’ he said with a snigger. ‘Fucking priceless, that.’
Bald clenched his fists. He was getting tired of Pretorius and his mind games. Tired of people messing with his head. He watched the blood spill out of his partner and seep into the earth.
‘You understand why I had to do that, John? I had to be sure you weren’t working for MI6.’
Raw anger coursed through Bald. ‘Wait a minute. You mean, you knew Priest was with the Firm all along?’
Pretorius smiled at Bald but offered no reply. Instead he nodded at Deet. ‘Show him.’
Nodding dutifully, Deet dropped to one knee beside Priest, careful to avoid the blood rapidly pooling around the dead operator’s hefty frame. Then he reached down to the bottom of Priest’s right trouser leg and pulled it up to the knee. Bald’s blood froze as he stared at the bracelet clamped around his mucker’s ankle. It was a steel band half an inch wide with some kind of transmitting device strapped to it. Bald looked at Pretorius, as if seeking an explanation.
‘What you’re looking at is a GPS bracelet,’ Pretorius said. ‘It allows a person to be traced anywhere in the world to an accuracy of roughly eight metres. I’ve seen a few of them. High-value targets occasionally wear them in the field in Somalia. To protect against K&R attempts.’
Bald nodded dimly. His brain rewound three hours, to the assault on the airport outside Mogadishu, when they had nicked the Herc in order to smuggle men and kit across the Indian Ocean and RV with the second detachment landing by boat to the south. Things hadn’t gone to plan. Big surprise.
‘The Yanks were tracking this sack of shit every step of the way,’ Pretorius said, tapping Priest with his foot the way a driver might kick a dog he’s just hit. ‘That’s how they were able to ambush us at the airfield.’
Bald realized something else. The Firm had lied to him. His handler had mentioned nothing about Priest wearing a tracker. ‘That fat prick,’ he muttered. ‘He fucking played me . . .’
‘You and me both.’
Bald pulled a face. A thought prodded him. Like a finger jabbing him repeatedly in the chest. ‘But if you knew Priest was spying for the Firm, why did you pull the gun on me?’
‘You understand why I had to do that, John? Why I had to kill Priest? He was an asset. Working for MI6. After all, you and Priest did come as a team. And you lied to me about your name. But, I must admit, I had my doubts.’ He kind of smiled. ‘No offence, but the chiefs in Whitehall would never employ an old bastard like you.’
‘None taken,’ Bald replied, masking the relief flushing through his body. Thinking to himself, I’m off the hook.
‘Besides,’ Pretorius continued, ‘if you really were working for Six, you’d have spilled your guts when your friend had a gun to your head. But you didn’t fess up. You got down on your knees and prepared to face your death and you didn’t break.’ He punched Bald lightly on the shoulder. ‘You’re one of us now.’
Bald rustled up an uneasy smile. Still, he wondered about Priest wearing that GPS tracker. Why hadn’t Avery Chance given him the heads-up? He weighed it up some more and decided that he didn’t give a shit. He was alive, Priest was out of the equation. Cut past the crap, that was all that mattered.
His anger slowly drained from his head to his feet, until all that was left was a pang of bitterness. Not at Pretorius, but at the Firm. Four days ago Avery Chance had sat him down and fed him a load of crap about clean slates and transparency – a brave new era for MI6. But she’d kept him in the dark about Priest. Fuck knows what else she had been lying to him about. It was the same old rules at Vauxhall, Bald realized. The same old deceits.
Pretorius noticed his sour mood and pounced on it. ‘I need to know that you’re still with us.’ His voice was charged like a current. ‘Because if you’re not, then we have a problem.’
Bald hesitated. Earlier, siding with Pretorius had seemed like the ultimate no-brainer. Take over a country, get rich, get your end away with an endless supply of beautiful women. Suddenly he wasn’t so sure. Normally that kind of offer appealed to Bald – to his instincts. But the way Pretorius had fucked with him gave him pause for thought. If I go along, maybe he’ll pull a gun on me again. Maybe next time there’ll be a bullet in it. Second-guessing Pretorius was a dangerous business. The guy gave nothing away. So you never knew quite where you stood with him. Or where his loyalties really lay.
You have no choice, countered the voice in Bald’s head. Time to face facts. Priest is dead. You’re out of contact with the Firm. Turn your back on Pretorius now, you’re a dead man. You’ve got to go along with him.
‘You want to be rich, don’t you?’ Pretorius smiled at Bald. His lips twitched with excitement. ‘This is our moment. Let’s seize it.’
Bald was waiting for the inevitable second voice to spring up. The one that would argue he had a duty to stick to the mission. That he couldn’t cut out the Firm now. Not this time, not having been given the chance of a fresh start and a job for life with them. That, somehow, he owed Avery. He waited for the voice but it never came. There was only the murmur of a migraine brewing inside his skull. Meanwhile the blood flowing out of the back of his partner’s skull had reduced to a faint trickle.
And yeah, he did want to be rich. Seventeen years in the Regiment, getting maimed and shot at for peanuts – he figured the world owed him. Big time. The truth was, being poor didn’t suit Bald as a lifestyle choice. He liked his whisky triple-distilled, he preferred high-class hookers and he liked his cars to have ‘super’ tagged on the front. That’s why he’d ended up despising his best friend from the SAS, Joe Gardner. Joe was too humble, too grateful for the things he had, never realized he was being fed crumbs. The way Bald saw it, life was one big fucking landgrab. You took what you wanted, and if you had to elbow a few people out of the way to get what you wanted, tough shit.
