Silent kill, p.8
Silent Kill, page 8
part #1 of Extreme Series
Then the ground lit up, like a million paparazzi cameras flashing at once.
At first Bald thought the gunfire had come from the Provos. He half expected hot lead to rip through his vitals. But then he noticed smoke seeping out of the woodland on the far side of the border, from near the vehicles grouped in the clearing. Unseen figures among the trees were putting down rounds, and they weren’t aiming at Bald. The guttural cries at his four o’clock told him that much. Bald swung his gaze back to the gunmen. Saw the rounds tearing into the fuckers. All four guys expired in a hail of bullets.
Then the shooting stopped abruptly. Bald looked towards the trees ahead and saw four figures emerge. They were on the Northern Ireland side, brandishing L96A1 rifles. Regiment snipers, he thought. He sank to his knees and laughed as the four men scurried across the border as fast as they could. They hauled Bald and Chance to their feet and, carrying the agent, rushed them back to safety. A feeling of sheer joy was swirling inside Bald’s head.
He was saved.
Eleven
0002 hours.
At the clearing, lights and figures greeted Bald and Chance. One of the snipers had held back at the treeline, rifle trained on the dead Provos lying in the field, covering the other four Blades in their rescue operation. Now the sniper lowered his rifle and the shadows melted away from his face. Bald felt the joy in his guts harden into a ball of bitterness as he recognized the guy. He had the kind of face you only ever saw hanging around the local Job Centre, bearded and scraggly, and he was grinning smugly at Bald.
‘Jesus, John, you look like shit,’ Gardner said.
Bald snarled at Manc. Hated to admit it, but Gardner was bang on the money. His chest and legs were caked in wet mud and cow pats. His fingers were smeared with dirt, and dried blood formed a crust on his fingernails. He stank worse than a busload of Chinese peasants.
‘Still looking better than your ugly arse,’ Bald said.
He brushed past Gardner before he could a get word in, and glanced around the RV, looking for Chance. Wanted to make sure she was OK. Two Ford Sierras and four Audi Quattros were arranged in a ragtag line at a gravel parking lot at one end of the clearing, a short distance from the Ballsmill Road stretch of the A29. There was an ambulance to the left of the Sierras. Bald glimpsed Chance laid out on a stretcher, a pair of medical orderlies hauling her into the back of the ambulance. Next to the vehicle was a gleaming silver BMW 7 Series. Bald started for the ambo, hoping to catch a few words with Chance before they took her to the hospital.
‘Wouldn’t kill you to thank me,’ Gardner said at his back. Bald stopped. Simmered. ‘I just saved your bacon, mate. If it hadn’t been for me, those Provos would’ve sent you to the dark side by now.’
Bald turned back to Gardner. Glared at him with barely disguised contempt. ‘Fuck off, Joe. Slotting those Paddy bastards was the least you could do after you bailed out on us at the border.’
Gardner looked hurt. ‘That’s bang out of order, that is. I was just following orders.’
‘Bollocks,’ Bald spat. ‘You were kissing arse.’
‘Kissing what, John?’
The voice belonged to Benson Foulbrood and it came from Bald’s six o’clock. The Scot spun away from Gardner and looked ahead. Saw Foulbrood standing in front of him, his face full of anger. A second figure was marching purposefully from the Beemer towards the small group. The guy wore a pinstripe suit and fancy cufflinks and was clutching a mobile phone the size of a brick.
Bald flicked his gaze back to Foulbrood as he burst out, ‘What the hell were you playing at back there, crossing the border?’ The sergeant was spitting mad. ‘You disobeyed a direct order.’
Gardner smirked and shook his head, drawing a scowl from Bald.
‘I brought Chance back,’ Bald said. ‘I’m a fucking hero.’
Foulbrood choked on a laugh. ‘Don’t test my patience, John. If you’d been caught, we’d have all been in the shit. You’re damn lucky we got our arses down to the RV. Without us, you’d both be dead, and Whitehall would be shitting its collective pants.’
‘You lot were going to leave her to get butchered by Costello and his mates,’ Bald hit back, nodding at the ambulance. ‘You should be putting me in line for a promotion, not slagging me off.’
‘Idiot,’ Foulbrood muttered. Then he saw the fury creasing the Scot’s features and froze on the spot.
Something inside him snapping, Bald stepped into the sergeant’s face. He’d taken enough crap from him and Manc. Risked life and limb crossing the border to rescue Chance. He badly wanted to wipe the smirks off their faces.
‘If I’m an idiot, how come I stopped an arms smuggling deal from going down?’
Foulbrood frowned. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’
‘Costello was trying to import Stingers from some guy goes by the name of Colonel Jim. I turned the bastard into soup. The Provos won’t be getting their hands on a bunch of Stingers. Thanks to me, our Chinooks won’t be getting blown out of the sky.’
Foulbrood swapped a look with Gardner.
‘So you’re the one who killed Costello?’
The voice came from his back. Bald spun round and found himself face to face with the man in the pinstriped suit. He was maybe five years older than Bald and at least sixty pounds heavier, sporting a slight paunch and a double chin. A desk jockey, Bald figured from his receding hairline and the harassed look on his face.
‘Who the fuck are you?’ he said.
‘Charles Grealish,’ the man said. He spoke in that way all posh people speak: self-important, polite and in a tone laced with mild outrage. ‘I was Avery’s partner. Now I’m her boss. I came down as soon as I was informed about your reckless behaviour.’
Grealish shook his head, his smooth, sagging cheeks rippling like someone beating dust out of a rug. He glanced at Foulbrood and Gardner in turn.
‘Leave us, if you will.’
He watched the two of them fuck off. Then he glowered at Bald.
‘You’re finished,’ he said. ‘I’m going to recommend that you’re RTU’d at once.’
Bald looked incandescent. ‘For killing Costello and stopping an arms smuggling op? Explain that one to the top brass. Chance will back up my story. She told me about Colonel Jim and the Stinger deal.’
‘She told you the bare bones. There’s more going on here than that small brain of yours could possibly process.’
‘I know with Costello out of the picture, the deal isn’t going down. You can’t RTU me for saving lives.’
Grealish exploded. ‘I can do what I fucking like – especially since Costello was working for us.’
Bald felt something like a knife move inside him. Grealish quickly composed his face, but it was too late. The look in his eyes betrayed him, told Bald that the MI5 director had said too much and he knew it. But instead of shutting up, Grealish pressed on, seemingly determined to put the Scot in his place.
‘The security services have been aware of Colonel Jim for several months. He’s planning a coup d’état against Mobutu’s regime in Zaire. Some hare-brained scheme to seize power, install a puppet regime and then milk the billions of dollars Mobutu has extorted.’
‘So what the fuck has this got to do with Costello?’
Grealish fought back his rage and continued. ‘The Colonel needed money for this enterprise, so hit upon the idea of selling leftover, unregulated stock from the Angolan Civil War to the highest bidder. In this case, the Provisional IRA. Costello was our route to Colonel Jim.’
‘Costello was a double agent?’ Bald asked, prompting a pitying chuckle from Grealish.
‘Don’t be so thick, man. Costello was an IRA man through and through. We had him bang to rights on selling cocaine in Belfast. Freelancing in the IRA is an offence punishable by death, a fact Costello was well aware of. He agreed to push through the sale with Colonel Jim and lead us to the shipment. Then we’d detain this Colonel Jim character on terrorism charges and take him to Lisburn for questioning. Then you blundered in with your stupid idealism and scuppered the deal. As I said, you can expect to be RTU’d at the earliest possible convenience.’
Bald felt the blood sink from his head to his toes. He saw it all now. The Brits needing to prop up Mobutu and his anti-communist regime in Zaire. Colonel Jim threatening the balance of power. The security services luring Jim into a trap. And now he had blown it wide apart.
‘We can forget about capturing Colonel Jim now,’ Grealish added bitterly. ‘He won’t dare risk selling the Stingers to the Provos once he learns that his one trusted contact, Costello, has been compromised.’
‘But I kept the Stingers out of circulation,’ Bald protested, feeling the situation spiralling out of control.
‘For the immediate future, perhaps. However, the Stingers are still on the market. God only knows where they’ll end up. And we’ll have to explain this to our American cousins too, who’ll no doubt be staggered by our ineptitude. Heads will roll for this one.’
‘Starting with yours,’ Bald didn’t need to add. A thought scratched at him. ‘But Costello was going to kill Chance. I saw it with my own eyes. The guy blowtorched her fucking snatch.’
Grealish flashed a curious grin at the operator. ‘Costello was the chief of the Nutting Squad. He can’t simply change his ways and start going easy on his victims. The Provo leadership would immediately get suspicious.’
Bald looked horrified. ‘You were willing to let her die?’
The MI5 director shrugged casually. ‘For the ultimate good of the operation. We had to make a call, and we took the same one as we always take. The mission comes first. Other agents have been sacrificed in the national interest. Avery wasn’t as stupid as you. She knew the score.’
Bald was speechless.
‘Now get out of my sight,’ Grealish said.
Bald stood rooted to the spot for a couple of beats, fighting a powerful urge to slog Grealish in the face. Then he brushed past the director. Blood thumping behind his eyeballs, he made for the ambo. Wanting to check up on Chance, hoping she would pull through, that some good would come from this clusterfuck of an op. He found her lying on a trolley. A drip was hooked up to her left arm and an oxygen mask covered her face. Her hair was still sticky with sweat. She saw Bald crouching beside her and pulled off the oxygen mask, her movements slow and heavy as the medication took effect.
‘I wanted to say thank you,’ she said softly.
Bald waved this away. ‘Put a word in with your boss. He’s a grade-A cunt.’
Chance rustled up a pained smile, clearly agreeing with him. ‘Can I ask you a question?’
Bald nodded. Chance shifted upright, winced.
‘Do you have any enemies in the Regiment?’ she said.
The question stumped Bald. He thought about Joe Gardner and Benson Foulbrood. The Regiment wasn’t short of guys that he had no respect for. Guys who were in it for themselves, didn’t give a shit about duty. Guys he didn’t trust further than he could piss. But enemies? He didn’t think so.
‘No,’ he said at last. ‘Why?’
Chance swallowed hard. ‘I was thinking about the gunmen who ambushed us near the RV.’
‘What about them?’
Several car doors thudded around the clearing. Bald looked outside. The rescue unit was packing up. Operators and guys from Special Branch folding themselves into the assembled Fords and Audis. Bald glimpsed the two medical orderlies heading back to the ambo.
He looked back to Chance.
‘Apart from you and me,’ she said, fighting to make herself ahead above the commotion, Bald leaning close to her lips to catch her words, ‘the only people who knew about the RV were on the rescue team. And you spoke in code on the comms unit.’
Bald nodded impatiently.
Chance went on. ‘So how did the IRA know where we were going to cross the border?’
Twelve
Legnica, Poland. The present day. 1551 hours.
A brutal wind blasted across the training compound, buffeting the dozen trainees assembled in a ragged line at the firing range. The silver-haired course instructor looked at them, narrowing his eyes as they fired their AK-47 assault rifles at a bunch of targets downrange, at the other end of a stretch of worn grass. Some of the rounds hit their targets. Most missed. Rage simmered in the instructor’s guts with every shot that landed wide of the mark. The indignity of having to train wannabe fighters for PMCs, and military fantasists, gnawed at him. February in rural Poland, grey and cold as a meat locker, a world away from Hereford, and John Bald had hit a new low.
He had been working as an instructor on the Hostile Environment Course for six months. It felt like a long six months. Each week followed the same mind-numbing routine: ferrying candidates from Legnica train station to the compound six kilometres south of town, at the start of a seven-day course teaching basic weapon handling and safety to a collection of retired coppers, security guards and club doormen who needed to get their course certificate before shipping out to the Circuit, where they would earn the big bucks. It should be me on the Circuit, Bald was thinking. I should be the one raking it in – not these pricks. But he had burned his bridges with the Firm, with the Regiment – with his past. Which is why Bald, an ex-SAS legend, had been reduced to asking around Hereford for a job, knocking on doors like some lefty graduate with a shitty 2:2 arts degree from one of those online universities. He’d only got the instructor gig when a former rupert who was a director at Talisman International, a global security company, had taken pity on him.
At first the job didn’t seem so bad. But after six months Bald was spitting mad.
Two grand a month, poxy digs at the training compound, crap weather and a job training Walter Mittys in the art of fire-and-manoeuvre. The shame of it flared up in his chest and burned at the back of his throat. Worst of all, Bald had no choice but to suck it up. He’d turned his back on the Firm to work for a Russian oligarch, expecting to get millions in return. But the oligarch had cut him loose and Bald had hung around Corsica for a while, working odd jobs and going out on the piss until his cash ran out and he had been left with no choice but to return to the grim reality of England, broke, disavowed, and a wanted man. Now he was just a figure of fun. The course director took the piss out of him, had him doing the menial tasks like cleaning out the shitter. The candidates mocked him, openly bragging about how much wonga they were going to be earning on the Circuit while Bald remained trapped in a Polish backwater, scrabbling around to make a living, even scrubbing filthy toilets. In short, a laughing stock.
Now he’d had enough.
Anger coursed through his veins as he observed the nearest guy putting down rounds on the targets. This one happened to be the worst on the course, by a fucking mile. Bald could feel his blood boiling as he watched the guy clumsily grip his AK-47. He looked like a teenager groping a pair of tits for the first time. And he had a crap haircut – a cropped Mohican perched atop his round face. Bald watched Mohican fire off several wild rounds at the target, missing with every single one. After the eighth shot missed, Bald exploded.
‘That’s enough!’ he barked, to make himself heard above the crackling reports of the other rifles. ‘Lower your weapons, the lot of you!’ The gunfire immediately cut out. The trainees lowered their AKs. Bald glared at Mohican. ‘There’s a beer for anyone who can tell me how many things this cunt is doing wrong.’
Silence across the firing range. Mohican eyeballed the Scot. With his bottom lip sticking out from his round face he looked like an emoticon for a sad face. Bald had figured Mohican for a faker from the moment the guy had arrived at the compound six days ago. Mohican had an overly muscular upper body, the product of years of hammering his system with steroids, his shoulder muscles pumped up like the extended wings of a bat. Bald knew the type well. He was the kind of guy who liked to picture himself a hero but was more concerned with shaping his pecs than saving the world.
Bald pointed out Mohican to the other trainees and said, ‘This guy is a classic example of someone who thinks they know how to fire a gun because they’ve seen Jason Statham do it in the films.’
‘That’s bang out of order, that is.’ Mohican spoke in a Geordie accent so thick it needed subtitles. ‘I’m doing it exactly how you showed us, man.’
‘Then you must be deaf as well as dumb,’ Bald hit back, smiling meanly at Mohican, drawing a chuckle from the others that caused the Geordie to flush red with humiliation. ‘Try again, sunshine. And this time try to hit something other than the fucking greenery.’
‘Cunt,’ Mohican muttered under his breath as he adopted his firing stance again.
Bald folded his arms across his chest and studied the Geordie carefully. The wind picked up now, a scalding cold cutting and thrusting across the compound. Burning the Scot’s cheeks, like cold water against raw, peeling skin. Mohican was about to depress the trigger when Bald reached out and stopped him.
‘Your firing stance is all wrong,’ he said above the buffeting wind. ‘For a start, the stock should be tucked firmly into the pocket of your firing shoulder. Gives you a solid firing platform. And you should be forming a V with your thumb and forefinger on the trigger grip.’
‘As long as I hit the target, what the fuck does it matter?’
Bald smirked. ‘Gripping your weapon like that, you couldn’t hit a raghead at a flag-burning contest. I reckon you’re the worst trainee I’ve had on this course. Here, give me that.’
Blood pounding in his veins, Bald snatched the rifle from Mohican.
‘What the fuck, man,’ the Geordie protested.
