car park. I’m down four bullets, Porter told himself. Twenty-six left in the clip.
He threaded his way past the crowd, trying to get another clear shot. Bald was at his three o’clock, shouting and desperately elbowing aside anyone who got in his way. Forty-five metres to the Vectra now. The engine roared as Tank started to reverse back down the A470. Away from the lay-by. Away from Bald and Porter. There was a sudden loud crunch as the back of the Vectra slammed into the front bumper of the car to the rear. The Vectra ground to a temporary halt. Porter broke free of the crowd and saw Tank through the spiderwebbed windscreen.
Now’s my chance , thought Porter. Nail this prick .
There was no time to fuck about with the sights. He had to rely on pure instinct. Porter closed his mind to the outside world and narrowed his eye at Tank. The AK-47 felt like an extension of his arm. He took a shallow draw of breath and depressed the trigger.
The shot cracked through the windscreen. A split second later, Tank’s shoulder exploded in a gout of blood and bone. Before Porter could adjust his aim the gunman shunted the wheel hard to the right and hit the accelerator. The tyres were spinning madly, snorting out streams of white smoke as the Vectra made a sharp U-turn in the middle of the road. The front end of the Vectra cut across the grass verge next to the road before it straightened out and faced south. Then Tank put his foot to the floor. Porter let off three more rounds, hoping to blow the tyres. But his aim was off. The rounds struck high, glancing off the boot and shattering the right brake light. The Vectra shrieked as it rocketed south.
Porter kept on running after the Vectra, even as it shrank into the distance. A moment later the car disappeared behind a sharp bend in the road, and Porter finally stopped running. The growl of the engine faded behind the treeline. He was too late.
Tank was gone.
SEVENTEEN
0751 hours.
It took Deeds fifteen minutes to hit the abandoned ironworks outside Merthyr. He’d hammered it down the A470, mashing the pedal. The pain clawing at his skull, twisting like a knife point inside his rag-order shoulder. Those two fucking Regiment operators. They’d nearly ruined the entire plan. Only Deeds’s quick thinking had saved him. He’d remembered the route up Fan Fawr, the trail winding down to the Beacons reservoir to the south. That’s why he was still breathing, and Markovic was lying dead in the Storey Arms car park.
I should have killed them when I had the chance, Deeds thought. When we were bombing down the side of Pen y Fan. I should have dug out my Glock and popped both those fucking Blades.
He wasn’t sure what had stopped him back then. He replayed the scene in his mind as he raced south in the stolen Vectra. Markovic had stumbled and fallen over a rock. Deeds had stopped to help his companion to his feet. Then he’d looked up and seen the two Regiment men tabbing up the Fan. And hesitated.
He’d thought about reaching for his rucksack and digging out the Glock. Emptying his clip into the two SAS operators. Sweet Jesus, that would have felt good. But the mist was lifting and the slopes were starting to fill with ramblers. A gunshot might have raised the alarm down at the Storey Arms, jeopardising the mission. Then Deeds had spotted the pistol grip jutting out of the leg holster of the second Blade. That made up his mind. The guy might have put the drop on Deeds and Markovic before they’d retrieved their pistols. So he took the decision to leave the two Regiment men and focus on the core mission.
That had been a mistake.
Now Markovic and Dragan were dead . And I nearly fucking joined them.
Deeds was a hundred metres short of the ironworks when he saw the flames. Bright orange fists, spewing out of the charred skeleton of what had unmistakably been a Ford Transit. Both Vauxhall Astras were gone. Deeds hit the brakes and punched the wheel in frustration. The bastards.
He threaded his way past the crowd, trying to get another clear shot. Bald was at his three o’clock, shouting and desperately elbowing aside anyone who got in his way. Forty-five metres to the Vectra now. The engine roared as Tank started to reverse back down the A470. Away from the lay-by. Away from Bald and Porter. There was a sudden loud crunch as the back of the Vectra slammed into the front bumper of the car to the rear. The Vectra ground to a temporary halt. Porter broke free of the crowd and saw Tank through the spiderwebbed windscreen.
Now’s my chance , thought Porter. Nail this prick .
There was no time to fuck about with the sights. He had to rely on pure instinct. Porter closed his mind to the outside world and narrowed his eye at Tank. The AK-47 felt like an extension of his arm. He took a shallow draw of breath and depressed the trigger.
The shot cracked through the windscreen. A split second later, Tank’s shoulder exploded in a gout of blood and bone. Before Porter could adjust his aim the gunman shunted the wheel hard to the right and hit the accelerator. The tyres were spinning madly, snorting out streams of white smoke as the Vectra made a sharp U-turn in the middle of the road. The front end of the Vectra cut across the grass verge next to the road before it straightened out and faced south. Then Tank put his foot to the floor. Porter let off three more rounds, hoping to blow the tyres. But his aim was off. The rounds struck high, glancing off the boot and shattering the right brake light. The Vectra shrieked as it rocketed south.
Porter kept on running after the Vectra, even as it shrank into the distance. A moment later the car disappeared behind a sharp bend in the road, and Porter finally stopped running. The growl of the engine faded behind the treeline. He was too late.
Tank was gone.
SEVENTEEN
0751 hours.
It took Deeds fifteen minutes to hit the abandoned ironworks outside Merthyr. He’d hammered it down the A470, mashing the pedal. The pain clawing at his skull, twisting like a knife point inside his rag-order shoulder. Those two fucking Regiment operators. They’d nearly ruined the entire plan. Only Deeds’s quick thinking had saved him. He’d remembered the route up Fan Fawr, the trail winding down to the Beacons reservoir to the south. That’s why he was still breathing, and Markovic was lying dead in the Storey Arms car park.
I should have killed them when I had the chance, Deeds thought. When we were bombing down the side of Pen y Fan. I should have dug out my Glock and popped both those fucking Blades.
He wasn’t sure what had stopped him back then. He replayed the scene in his mind as he raced south in the stolen Vectra. Markovic had stumbled and fallen over a rock. Deeds had stopped to help his companion to his feet. Then he’d looked up and seen the two Regiment men tabbing up the Fan. And hesitated.
He’d thought about reaching for his rucksack and digging out the Glock. Emptying his clip into the two SAS operators. Sweet Jesus, that would have felt good. But the mist was lifting and the slopes were starting to fill with ramblers. A gunshot might have raised the alarm down at the Storey Arms, jeopardising the mission. Then Deeds had spotted the pistol grip jutting out of the leg holster of the second Blade. That made up his mind. The guy might have put the drop on Deeds and Markovic before they’d retrieved their pistols. So he took the decision to leave the two Regiment men and focus on the core mission.
That had been a mistake.
Now Markovic and Dragan were dead . And I nearly fucking joined them.
Deeds was a hundred metres short of the ironworks when he saw the flames. Bright orange fists, spewing out of the charred skeleton of what had unmistakably been a Ford Transit. Both Vauxhall Astras were gone. Deeds hit the brakes and punched the wheel in frustration. The bastards.
Similar Books
