Deathlist (10 page)

Beyond the wall, the two ramblers brought up their weapons and loosed off a pair of three-round bursts. The first three bullets struck the wall. The second grouping whizzed over Porter’s head and hit the telephone box, shattering the glass panels and ricocheting off the phone unit in a mad flurry of sparks. Bald waited for another lull in the fire. Then he rolled out of cover to the right of the wall, his weapon drawn in a firm two-handed grip with his support hand resting under the left side of the slider and his left thumb pointing forward to help him line up his target. In the same instant Porter glanced around his section of the wall, giving him a line of sight to the ramblers. He saw Nike on a knee in the middle of the road. The guy had hurried over to the two ramblers. Three gunmen were now focused on Bald and Porter while the other two guys were on mopping-up duty. Nike was slapping a fresh mag into his AK-47. Porter watched him and worked the angles. From the stone wall to the gunmen was a distance of maybe forty-five metres. The Sig had a maximum effective range of fifty metres. Bald was operating right on the threshold.

Nike had almost finished reloading his AK-47. He had the clip fully inserted. He tugged on the charging handle, chambering the first round. Then he shot to his feet, raised the assault rifle so that it was level with his shoulder and peered down the sighting post.

Just in time to see Bald pull the trigger.

The Sig fired twice. Bald’s aim was surgical, the result of thousands of hours he’d spent on the ranges. The first round of 9x19mm Parabellum hit Nike square in the groin. The guy jerked back, howling in agony. Blood splashed across his trousers. The second round thumped into his neck, sending Nike into a tailspin. He dropped like his body was weighed down with lead. His weapon tumbled from his grip, clattering to the ground next to his slack frame, the blood pooling around him and mixing with the hard rain.

One down
, Porter thought.
Four left to kill
.

Tank saw what was happening and swung his AK-47 towards the wall. Bald and Porter ducked behind cover as Tank depressed the trigger. Rounds hammered against the stone pile in a relentless staccato rhythm. Porter counted the shots. One, two, three.

Four, five, six.

There was a break in the rifle reports. From the other side of the road Porter heard voices shouting. He peered over the wall. Saw the Transit eighty metres away. The other two gunmen finished emptying their clips into a couple of wounded students crawling across the car park. They heard the getaway driver shouting at them and then turned and bolted towards the Transit. One of the gunmen made for the back doors while the other guy laid out a line of traffic spikes widthways across the road, five or six metres behind the Transit. If any cop cars tried chasing after the gunmen, the spikes would slash open their tyres and put the brakes on their pursuit.

The first gunman popped the back doors and climbed inside the van. The second gunman finished setting up the spikes and joined him. They started shouting at Tank and Goatee, frantically beckoning them over. The ramblers took the hint. They turned and started making a run for it. Porter reckoned they were forty metres from the Transit, maybe forty-five. With the ramblers’ backs turned Bald now sprang out from behind cover and drew his Sig level with the nearest target. Goatee. He aimed for the torso, the largest centre of mass. At forty metres a hit wasn’t a sure thing. Bald fired twice. The first shot missed, sparking off the tarmac like a matchstick striking against the side of a box. The second round smashed into Goatee’s left leg just above the knee joint, punching through his flesh and shattering his femur. A mist of blood and shattered bone spat out of the wound. Goatee howled in pain and crumpled to the ground.

Tank stopped. Dropped to a knee beside his mucker and put down a quick burst at Bald and Porter. His aim was off. The rounds landed short, slapping into the wet turf and throwing up fists of dirt. Goatee was writhing in agony on the ground beside Tank, squealing like a stuck pig as he tried to staunch the flow of blood from the trauma wound to his leg. There wasn’t a great deal of blood, which meant the bullet hadn’t severed the femoral artery. Bald fired again. Once. Missed.

The getaway driver panicked. He gunned the engine and the tyres screeched as the Transit began pulling away from the Storey Arms. Tank glanced over his shoulder and saw what was happening. He let off another frantic burst at the wall then spun away and raced after the van. But the Transit was too far ahead and picking up speed. In a matter of seconds the van was sledding south on the A470, hurtling into the distance, leaving Tank and Goatee behind in a trail of exhaust fumes. Tank hesitated, his head darting urgently left and right as he searched for another escape route. Then he hurried over to the four-tonners. They were parked up in a line at the far end of the car park. The windows were shattered and the paintwork covered in dust and smoke, but otherwise the four army trucks had survived the bombing.

‘Move it!’ Bald shouted. ‘NOW!’

He leapt over the wall. Porter followed hard on his heels. The two Blades surged across the road. Ahead of them Goatee had struggled to his feet. He was limping towards the four-tonners. Hobbling after Tank. His trouser leg glistening with blood. Porter dropped down beside Nike’s limp body and grabbed the AK-47. The weapon felt good, and heavy. Porter knew the AK-47 was fully loaded. He’d seen Nike seat a fresh mag in the rifle right before Bald sent him over to the dark side. There were thirty rounds of 7.62x39mm brass in an AK-47 mag. Throw in the nine rounds Bald had in the Sig, and they had enough firepower to take down the two gunmen. They had the two ramblers trapped in the car park, with nowhere left to run.

Now we’re in fucking business. 

A huge cloud of smoke was still pouring across the car park. The air was thick with the stench of cordite and burnt plastic, fusing with the hot stink of blood. Porter could hardly breathe. His eyes watered. His throat burned. Everywhere he looked he could see body parts and splashes of blood. Some of the dead students were on fire. Others had been ripped apart by the sheer force of the explosion. Arms had been torn from their sockets. Faces sucked inwards. Bowels slashed open by pieces of shrapnel. In the corner of his eye Porter noticed Kinsella sprawled like a rag doll on the tarmac. His torso had been severed at the waist. His intestines were slopping out of the ruptured stump where his legs had once been.

Up ahead Goatee glanced over his shoulder. Saw Bald and Porter tearing towards him, and hesitated. He glanced back at the trucks. Like he was measuring the distances. Weighing up whether his best bet was to make a run for it, or stand and fight. Goatee chose the second option.

Bad call.

Goatee trained his AK-47 at the onrushing Blades and let rip. Flames spat out of the rifle snout. Hot lead spattered the ground inches from Bald and Porter. They scrambled for cover behind the Range Rovers parked fifteen metres further back, closer to the main road. They ducked behind the front and rear wheels as a volley of bullets hammered against the bodywork. Like a thousand hammers banging against a lead pipe. Then the shooting stopped. Porter looked up. Spied Goatee kneeling by the front of the army truck, gritting his teeth through the pain as he shunted a new clip into the AK-47. Porter shrank back from view as he put down a furious burst of gunfire at the Range Rover. There was a deafening clatter as bullets punched through the vehicle, shattering the glass and pinballing through the chassis.

There was no sign of Tank. Porter figured the guy was still hunched down behind the truck. Probably reloading his weapon. Probably waiting for Goatee to catch up with him.

‘They’ve got us pinned down!’ Bald shouted above the clamour.

Porter thought for a beat. ‘Give me some covering fire. I’ll hook around the truck and give this prick the good news.’

Bald nodded. They did a three-count. Then Bald sprang up from behind cover and started putting down suppressive fire at the four-tonner in a controlled rhythm. The bullets struck the front end of the truck in a close grouping, keeping Goatee pinned down. In the same movement Porter broke to the left, kicking aside the spent brass as he moved to swing around the side of the four-tonner. He had the AK-47 raised, the metal stock tucked tight against his shoulder and his index finger resting on the trigger. His booze-soaked heart was beating so fast it felt like it might burst out of his chest at any moment.

Porter was twelve metres to the left of the Range Rover when Bald reached the end of his clip. Porter heard the dreaded
click-click
. The Jock dropped down to his haunches behind the vehicle. Then Goatee sprang out from behind the four-tonner. He didn’t see Porter. His focus was purely on the shooter behind the Range Rover. Porter lined up Goatee down the AK-47’s metal sights. He didn’t panic. He’d fired thousands of rounds before, on the ranges and in combat. Shooting a bad guy came as easily to him as brushing his teeth. He tightened his core, relaxed his shoulder. Exhaled.

Then he depressed the trigger.

The AK-47 jerked. The muzzle flashed. Two rounds spat out of the snout in quick succession and thumped into Goatee. The guy spasmed. Like someone had struck him in the back with a sledgehammer. Blood spayed across the front end of the truck. He dropped like a sigh, the AK-47 clattering to the ground next to him. Porter and Bald sprinted towards him. Porter got there first, kicking away the rifle. He raced past the wounded gunman and headed for the other side of the truck, the blood pounding savagely in his veins.

One rambler down. One to go.

He was surprised that Tank hadn’t put down any covering fire for his companion. Maybe the guy had suffered a stoppage, Porter thought. Or maybe he was out of ammo. He moved cautiously around the front end of the truck. Weapon raised, eyes peering down the sights. Finger tense on the trigger. Tank had to be hiding on the other side of the four-tonners. Porter’s heart skipped a beat. Got him now.

Got the bastard right where I want him.

Then he swept around to the other side of the truck and froze.

Tank wasn’t there.

Porter stood rooted to the spot for a long moment. He kept his weapon raised as he glanced frantically around the trucks. Bald joined him a moment later, a puzzled expression etched across his face. Porter looked out beyond the car park. Thinking,
Where the fuck is this guy?
He was right under our noses, and now he’s gone.

Then he spotted something in the middle distance. A smudge of colour faintly visible beyond the billowing smoke. The smoke cleared, revealing a heavyset figure in a brightly-coloured jacket four hundred metres away, charging up the ridgeline at Fan Fawr. A cold dread sank through Porter as he watched the figure legging it towards the mist-wreathed peak.

Shit.

Tank was getting away.

SIXTEEN

0724 hours.

Bald turned to race up the slope. Porter didn’t move. He could see Tank pounding towards the ridgeline. Another couple of seconds and the guy would be out of sight behind the ridge. He was too far away to try and drop with a couple of rounds. Anything over four hundred metres, the AK-47 was about as accurate as a Chinese fortune cookie.

Bald stopped and looked back to Porter, clenching his brow.

‘The fuck are we waiting for?’

Porter shook his head and said, ‘I know where he’s going.’

‘Where?’

‘That trail leads one way.’ Porter pointed to the ridgeline along Fan Fawr. By now Tank had disappeared from view behind the ridge. ‘It drops down the other side of that ridge and brings you out to the Beacons reservoir. That’s where he’s headed. He’s gonna double back on himself and hit the road to the south of here.’

‘Maybe,’ said Bald. He chewed on the thought like it was gum. ‘Or maybe he’s pissing off in another direction. There’s no way of knowing.’

Porter shook his head again. ‘There’s fuck-all to the west of that ridge. The only way he’s getting off that mountain is by going south and hitting the main road. Trust me, mate. He’s headed for the reservoir. If we head south on the main road we can cut him off at the other end before he legs it.’ He tipped his head in the direction of the main road then looked back to Bald. ‘He won’t be expecting that.’

A broad grin played out on Bald’s mug again. ‘We’ll give the fucker a nasty surprise.’

They turned and hurried past the trucks. Bald stopped beside Goatee and grabbed his AK-47, plus a spare clip from his jacket pocket. There was blood all over him, oozing out of the two exit wounds on his back and forming a slippery puddle of blood. Porter stepped around the body and sprinted towards the main road, Bald hurrying after him. They passed the debris and the dead soldiers and the spent brass. Ahead of them a Ford Escort had stopped in the middle of the road. Porter flagged down the driver, a civvy in a windbreaker. The guy sat frozen in horror behind the wheel, staring at the carnage in front of him. It took him a couple of seconds to peel his eyes away from the body parts strewn across the asphalt. He cranked open his door as Porter rushed over. His eyes were wide with terror.

‘Got a phone?’ Porter yelled.

The man nodded slowly.

‘Get on the blower to the police. Tell them there’s a fucking emergency at the Storey Arms. There’s been an attack on 22 SAS. Multiple dead. Armed gunmen spotted leaving the scene in a white Ford Transit. We need everyone down here, five fucking minutes ago. Got all that?’