Silent kill, p.7
Silent Kill, page 7
part #1 of Extreme Series
‘You ain’t running nowhere!’ Pete roared after them. ‘Costello’s mates are on their way. They’ll shove it up yer fecking bollocks!’
Bald and Chance ran on. But four metres shy of the Quattro, the agent stumbled and fell to the ground. Bald glanced back along the path. Clocked Pete fifteen metres away, clambering into the John Deere compact tractor standing beside the path. Swinging around and tensing his powerful shoulder muscles, Bald hoisted the agent upright.
‘I know you’re in a lot of pain,’ he said. ‘But we need to get out of here – right the fuck now. That prick will have been on the blower to his Provo muckers before he came charging out of the house. They’ll slaughter us if we’re caught.’
Chance nodded. She struggled on, pushing aside the pain, compartmentalizing it. When they reached the car Bald yanked open the front passenger door and shoved Chance inside. At the same time a low rumble shook the ground and he looked back and saw Pete starting the tractor. Seconds later it was chugging towards the Audi and picking up speed. Bald figured he had three or four seconds to drive off before the tractor bulldozed the car into scrap metal.
He sighted the tractor’s engine down the barrel of the HK53, exhaled and, relaxing his grip slightly on the weapon, fired a three-round burst. The 5.56x45mm NATO bullets glanced hopelessly off the grille of the tractor. Bald may as well have been firing an airsoft rifle. Pete was visible behind the windscreen, shaking his fist angrily at the Blade.
The tractor was now eight metres from Bald’s position. Wheeling away, he dived into the driver’s seat and started the engine. Seven metres. The tractor bounced through a puddle six metres from the Audi. Bald slid the shift into Reverse and hit the pedal. The wheels churned up gravel as the car began pulling away from the tractor, following the track towards the main road. Four metres between the vehicles. That distance had increased to six metres as Bald slid past the gate and swung out onto the road. Through his side window he saw the tractor rampaging towards him, bouncing as it bombed through the gate. The driver’s face was hideously contorted with rage.
Bald nailed the accelerator to the floor.
A moment later the tractor bumped onto the road. Too late. Bald was already arrowing clear of the farm, pushing the Audi hard. In seconds it was tickling 70k per. They were leaving the tractor for dead.
And they were just six kilometres from the border, Bald realized. Six short clicks to freedom. Christ, he’d almost done it. Proved Foulbrood and Manc – Joe Gardner – wrong. He kept his foot to the floor as they raced back along the same narrow country road he’d taken on the way south. After sixty metres the tractor disappeared from view. Finally Chance allowed herself to relax. She breathed out a long sigh of relief, like she’d been saving it up since Bald burst into the barn. They drove on in silence. Bald had put two kilometres between the Audi and the farm when the secure comms unit sparked into life.
‘Two One Zulu, come in. Over.’
Bald recognized the voice. It was Lockie, the watchkeeper he’d chatted with earlier.
‘Two One Zulu reporting. Over,’ Bald said.
‘You’re in trouble, John. Up to your eyeballs.’ The signal was weak, the watchkeeper’s voice flecked with white noise. Bald had to ease back to fifty per so he could understand what the guy was saying. ‘The top brass are spitting.’
Bald chuckled. ‘Fuck ’em. They’ll be putting out the bunting when I get back. Guess what’ – he cocked an eyebrow at Chance – ‘I’ve got the target.’
A pause. And then, ‘She’s alive?’
‘Aye.’
Another crackling pause. ‘What about the Nutting Squad?’
‘Gone south.’ Bald puffed out his chest with pride. ‘They had a bit of an accident in a slurry pit. I’ll RV at Blue Nineteen in ten minutes.’
His plan was stupid simple. He would cross back into County Armagh at Cullaville, arriving back at base to a hero’s welcome from his Regiment muckers for his daring raid across the border. Cheers and backslaps all round. The lads would be buying him pint after pint at the local boozer after this one. Bald smiled inside at the thought of Joe Gardner watching him head up to Holywood with Chance in tow. He couldn’t wait to see the look on his spineless face.
‘Do not head to Blue Nineteen. Over.’
Bald angled his head at the comms unit, at first wondering if he’d misheard the watchkeeper. ‘What the fuck are you talking about?’
Lockie exhaled noisily. ‘That area is a no-go. The Garda and Irish Army Rangers have been alerted to your presence. Checkpoints are being set up along the border. I repeat, you cannot cross at Blue Nineteen.’
‘Bollocks!’ Bald exclaimed, thumping a fist on the wheel.
‘The farmer,’ Chance cut in, her voice stricken with pain. ‘He must have called the cops. After we ran away.’
Bald remembered the incident at Flagstaff Hill that Foulbrood had told him about. And at once he realized he had taken a big risk going into the Republic. He was a target, simple as that. And prizes didn’t get much bigger than an SAS man and an MI5 agent operating on the wrong side of the border. Every copper in Ireland would be on his case within minutes, not to mention the Provo hit squads that would be thirsting for revenge.
‘You need to point a way out for us, Lockie,’ Bald said. ‘We can’t be getting arrested.’
‘There’s an army observation post at Yellow Twenty-Eight.’ The watchkeeper read out a list of coordinates, which Bald committed to memory. ‘Three kilometres to the west of the OP is a clearing surrounded by woodland. It’s dead ground. That’s your RV.’
‘Roger that.’
‘The rescue unit is en route to the RV now. They’ll be waiting to pick you up.’ The watchkeeper paused. White noise fizzed down the line and Bald strained to make out the voice.
‘The RV is for 0000 hours,’ the watchkeeper told him. ‘Don’t be late. Fail to make it on time and you’re on your own.’
Ten
2346 hours.
Bald gunned the Quattro up past ninety as he nailed it along the high-hedged country road. The sound of the engine was matched only by the relentless rush of blood in his ears. He checked in the rear-view mirror that they weren’t being followed, then glanced at his cheap plastic Casio watch. Fourteen minutes to the RV.
Piece of fucking piss.
He clenched his jaws. According to the map book, the army watchtower at Yellow Twenty-Eight was situated near the village of Forkhill, due east of Cullaville. Three kilometres up west and south of the watchtower was the woodland clearing.
Bald took a roundabout route to the RV, passing north through Coolcair in County Monaghan, sticking to the back roads as he necked it around Drumboat and Rassan. He figured he was less likely to run into a Garda patrol that way. He’d calculated the distance from the farmhouse to the RV was nine kilometres. He kept to seventy-five, on the good side of the speed limit, as he swung a left at Hackballs Cross and steered north towards Edenkill, and the border.
Less than three kilometres to the RV now.
Beside him Chance was drifting in and out of consciousness. He’d given her a sip of water from a bottle stashed in his grab bag. Her skin was burning hot, despite the freezing temperature. She needed medical attention – fast. Bald tried to think of some way to keep her from drifting off.
‘Almost there,’ he said. ‘We’ll be at the border in ten minutes.’
Chance moaned something he didn’t understand. She swallowed, bit back on the pain and tried again.
‘If I don’t make it, you have to tell them—’
She was shivering and sweating, her cropped hair wet and clinging to her forehead. Bald flashed a look at her. Got to keep her focused, a voice in the back of his head said. If she closed her eyes, he knew she wouldn’t wake up again. ‘Tell them what?’
Chance closed her eyes for a beat, trying to shut out the pain. ‘About the attack. I’ve been hearing rumours of a major attack for months. Something bad.’
‘Like Kingsmill or Deal Barracks, you mean?’
‘Worse.’
The agent’s eyes closed again and stayed clamped shut. Her lips parted and for a moment Bald thought she was gone. Then she opened her eyes and whispered, ‘Stingers. They’re going to shoot down our helicopters.’
Bald frowned. ‘Where the fuck would they get Stingers from? I thought the Firm had all the smuggling routes on lock. And the Paddies I know couldn’t smuggle shit out of a dog’s arse.’
‘There’s this guy—’ Chance’s voice faded, before returning a little stronger. ‘I was finally getting close to him. Colonel Jim. Now he’s gone.’ Bald saw her brow furrow as she said, ‘You should have let him live.’
He was apoplectic. ‘Costello?’
Chance nodded. ‘He knew where the shipment would be landing tomorrow.’
‘I did what I had to do,’ Bald said flatly, glaring at her. ‘Costello and his crew tortured the crap out of you. I don’t care what int Costello had, he got what he fucking deserved. End of.’
An uncomfortable silence followed.
Chance pursed her lips as the pain clawed at her again. It felt like someone was peeling off the skin around her crotch with a razor blade. The pain served as a brutal reminder. If the Scottish SAS operator hadn’t risked his life to save her, she’d be dead by now. Or maybe not. Maybe Costello and the rest of the Nutting Squad would have kept her alive as long as possible, prolonging her suffering to the bitter end. She wasn’t sure what was worse. Then another thought occurred to her and she glanced across at Bald.
‘You must have taken a big risk,’ she rasped, her lips and throat parched again. ‘Crossing the border . . . to rescue me.’
Bald shrugged. They were now one click from the RV. Touching distance to the border. He could see the distant shimmer of lights in Silverbridge, like Chinese lanterns strung across a tar pit. Moments later he spotted several lights up ahead. Perhaps four hundred metres away. A dozen of them. Neon-blue lights pulsing in the gloom. Garda. He hit the brakes hard. Chance jolted forward as the car screeched to a halt.
‘Checkpoint,’ Bald said, killing his lights. He turned the Audi round and backed up a few metres so that they were facing away from the police cars’ lights. ‘We’ll have to leg it across the border,’ he said. ‘First I’ll burn the car – stop the Provos from getting their mitts on the comms kit.’
‘Won’t that reveal our position?’
Bald grinned. ‘Not if I use it to create a distraction.’
Chance grimaced, then stared ahead at the lights of Silverbridge. ‘How far to the RV?’
‘Four hundred metres, give or take.’
Chance shook her head. ‘I can’t walk that far.’
‘We don’t have a choice. It’s this or we get nabbed by the Garda.’
The agent stepped out of the Audi, pain throbbing through her temples. Bald left the engine running and quickly joined her, slinging the grab bag over his shoulder.
‘This way. Let’s go,’ he said.
Bald supported Chance firmly against his left side as they headed away from the road and the checkpoint, pushed through a low hedge and started across a muddy field empty of crops. They moved as fast as her ragged condition allowed, which was not much faster than a crawl. The RV was four hundred metres away and it seemed to take for ever to cross the field. Bald counted their steps, measuring their pace in ten-metre increments. At this rate they were taking twenty seconds to clear ten metres. After a hundred and forty metres, Bald let Chance rest. Then he turned back and trained the HK53 above the hedge at the Audi, centred his sights on the fuel cap and fired a three-round burst. A roar boomed across the land as the bullets penetrated the fuel tank and the Audi burst into flames, sending tongues of fire licking at the sky. In less than a minute Bald could hear sirens bursting into a wailing chorus as Garda cars raced towards the blaze. The explosion would draw every cop in the area, freeing him and Chance up for a clear run on foot to the border.
They pushed on. There was a full moon and Bald had been operating in the dark for several minutes now, long enough for his eyes to make out the watchtower of the RV straight ahead, to the north. It was a rickety scaffold structure with a platform on top. But there was still about 250 metres of field to cross, and it was uphill.
With the HK53 in his right hand, Bald trudged on, guiding Chance towards the RV. The agent found the going hard. To add to her troubles, the trousers were a thirty-two-inch waist and very loose on her size-eight figure. She had to fasten her right hand around the waistband to stop them dropping to her ankles. Her movements were faltering.
The sky looked like it had been scraped out. Just a flat blackness broken here and there by a tuft of cloud. Bald marched up the slope with renewed energy. Closing in on the border. Visions of the celebrations at Palace Barracks flashed in front of him now. He was looking forward to shoving Gardner’s words down his throat.
I’ll show that prick what a real Blade is made of.
By his side, Chance was gasping for breath. Sweat slicked down her face and misted in the chill air. The ground was like mulch. With every step Bald could feel his feet sinking into it. At the top of the rise Chance fell to her knees and puked up water. When there was nothing left to throw up she spat out bile. Bald dropped to a knee beside her and grabbed her by the shoulder.
‘We have to keep going, love. Almost there.’
He looked ahead and saw how close they were. The RV was a hundred and fifty metres away now. White pills of light flashed from the clearing. Bald counted six pairs of them, all in a line. The rescue unit’s headlights.
Three minutes to the RV.
Christ, but they were going to make it.
‘Come on,’ Bald said, blood pounding in his veins.
Chance rose groggily to her feet. She stumbled on, moaning lightly. Giving it one last push.
They were a hundred and twenty-five metres from the border when it happened.
A staccato crackle ripped through the air. A shaved second later tongues of flame lashed out from the treeline on the edge of the field to the east of Bald’s position, ninety metres away. Bullets flew across the field like solid streaks and slapped into the ground eight inches ahead of his feet. Acting on instinct, he dropped to his belly, throwing Chance to the ground, making them both smaller targets for whoever was doing the shooting. He pivoted towards his three o’clock and could make out smoke rising in front of the trees, marking the spot where the rifle shots had come from.
Now Bald sighted them. Half a dozen figures. Denison smocks and jeans and balaclavas. Bursting out from the treeline and armed with AK-47 assault rifles.
‘What’s going on?’ Chance said, looking frantically to right and left.
‘Costello’s muckers,’ Bald growled as he reached for his HK53. ‘They’re trying to cut us down before we can leg it across the border.’
Chance went to reply. Another burst of fire erupted, rounds zipping into the ground six inches from her and Bald – nine of them in quick succession. Bald glanced up. In two banks of three, the Provos were rushing towards his position. He quickly worked the angles. The AK-47 had a maximum effective range of four hundred metres on semi-auto. In reduced visibility, around half that. But at eighty metres they’d soon put the drop on him. The second burst had landed closer to him than the first. They were zeroing in. He had to act – now.
Put rounds down on the fuckers, he decided. Give us time to race across the border.
Tensing his muscles, Bald brought his weapon to bear on the advancing gunmen. They were seventy-five metres away as he quickly calculated how many rounds he had left in the clip. Nine rounds expended when he’d ambushed the Nutting Squad at the farm. Three rounds on the farmer, three on his brother in the tractor. And the burst he’d used to blow up the Audi. Eighteen rounds in total. That meant he had twelve rounds left in the thirty-round clip.
He thumbed the fire selector on the left side of the grip assembly. Changed it from the lowest setting, ‘F’, for burst of fire mode, to the middle setting, ‘S’, for single fire. Then he lined up the nearest gunman with the lowest notch on the iron sights. Seventy metres. The HK53 felt good in his grip. He depressed the trigger. Loosed off two singles. Nailed the fucker. The guy jerked wildly, as if someone had struck him on the back with a hammer. He did a little dance as the two bullets ripped through his torso. Blood sprayed out of his chest in a bright red spurt, like champagne streaming out of a bottle.
Ten rounds left.
Now Bald swung the assault rifle across his chest in a smooth arc and trained his sights on the gunman two metres to the right of his dead mucker. A quick tug on the trigger and Bald dropped the second guy. Struck him in the throat. The gunman dropped his rifle, blood spurting from his ruptured neck. He stumbled on a couple of paces before his legs gave way. Nine rounds left now. Bald conserved them. The other four gunmen stopped in their tracks and hit the deck, seeking cover before he could take them out too. He’d halted their advance.
‘Go! Go! Go!’ he yelled at Chance as he sprang upright.
But Chance was out of it. Getting up the muddy slope had taken it out of her. She was slipping away. Bald could sense it. He pressed his finger to her neck and felt for a pulse. It was faint, erratic, but she was alive. Breathing hard, he scooped her off the ground, cradled her in his arms and started towards the RV. He had to get to the rescue unit before the gunmen had scraped themselves off the ground and put more rounds down on him. Less than a hundred metres to go, he heard voices yelling at his four o’clock. Glanced past his shoulder and saw the four gunmen getting to their feet. Zeroing their weapons on him.
He looked ahead. Ninety metres from the borders. Sixty seconds.
Keep going!
A clatter of gunfire broke through the sky. Rounds zipped and sliced through the air and whacked into the ground around Bald. Nine bullets throwing up fists of hot dirt, landing so close that he could smell the burnt gunpowder particles flooding his nostrils, taste the hot lead on his tongue. He blinked dirt out of his eyes and looked back at the Provos. They had moved ahead of their two dead mates. Sixty metres from Bald now, AKs raised. He knew it then. They were going to slot him. He wouldn’t make it. He would die here, with Chance, seventy metres short of the RV.
