Defender (2 page)

It would be a tough shot. The night was black as death and Sean Collins had been forced to select a firing position deep within the remains of a derelict house.

Built in the old colonial style, the house had once been a grand home with sweeping views of the surrounding landscape. But that was before it had been consumed by the poverty and wretchedness of the shantytown now gathered around it. For Collins, the firing position was too exposed but he had no choice. To complicate matters, he was operating alone, when snipers ideally operate in pairs – spotter and shooter. There was nothing ideal about this. It was something that had to be done and he was the new boy.

He slid a hand across the coarse bristles of his hair, which he kept cropped almost to the scalp, pushing another wave of sweat clear of his eyes. This job bugged him more than anything he’d had to do before, but he didn’t have the luxury of second-guessing orders. They obviously had their reasons back in London. Whatever those reasons were, they were of no value out here. Two targets. No backup. Talk about exposed. Fuck.

On the plus side, if there was a plus side, the local government’s curfew was having the desired effect. The poorly trained troops of the conscript army patrolled to the rim of the city every night, operating on shoot-to-kill orders. Even out this far in the hills surrounding the city, the general population were staying off the streets. Only the rebels had the balls to surface after 2200.
That was good
, he thought. It meant fewer distractions; less chance of a mistake. With the country already on the verge of collapse, the ramifications of shooting the wrong person were inconceivable.

Collins had selected what once would have been a guest room on the second floor of the southwest wing as his hide. It reduced the risk of his being seen from the street or any of the other neighbouring buildings, and provided the best available line of sight to the enemy compound and the exact 10 square feet of forecourt he had determined to be the killing ground.

This stuff was bread-and-butter for Sean Collins. A former member of the British Special Air Service, Collins was considered a rare find by his superiors in the regiment, quite a compliment considering where it came from. Rising to the rank of sergeant with a Military Medal from Iraq under his belt, it was inevitable that he would be watched and eventually headhunted. But it wasn’t the money offered by private firms that finally enticed him away from Hereford. Collins wasn’t interested in money. He was a queen-and-country soldier. So, when the Secret Intelligence Service, or MI6 as it is more commonly referred to outside the service, eventually tapped him on the shoulder, he was a perfect candidate.

He’d moved in just after nightfall, positioning himself well back in the room, ensuring that he was not silhouetted against any areas susceptible to natural or reflected backlighting, like the doorway, or another window. The collapsed stairway and general wreckage between him and the ground floor meant that he’d at least have some warning if anybody started ferreting around unexpectedly downstairs. The fact that the wooden floor below had rotted away leaving a gaping black hole acted as a safeguard against surprises.

Waiting was a killer in this game. Five feet ten inches tall with a physique like an Olympic-class sprinter, Collins knew he couldn’t afford to allow muscle fatigue to set in. He began a series of controlled stretches to ensure he was ready, starting at his feet and slowly, deliberately, working the well-practiced regimen along the entire length of his body.

Fires, smoke, cooking smells and crackling radio music came from the shacks and houses nearby. The headlights of the rare passing vehicles bounced and flared off every surface. Locals, mostly gangs of displaced and angry young men, the rebel foot soldiers, were moving through the streets. A golden hue shone onto the target area from generator-powered lamps around the edge of the enemy compound, covering almost every square foot – it might just as well have been daylight. Perfect. Or was it? There were suddenly far too many dogs nearby, barking, fighting, sniffing around down in the street below.

Collins glanced along the rifle, following the line of the barrel. It was a Czech-made bolt-action Česka-Zbrojovka, CZ 700, standard NATO 7.62mm ammunition. A blunt instrument. Not ideal, but the caliber was right for the job and it had been readily available at short notice. He looked back along the flank of the weapon until he could see the luminous hands of the watch that he wore, its face on the inside of his left wrist, enabling him to motionlessly check the time through the bindings of the weapons sling. 2230 hours. Not long now.

He returned his attention to the sounds of the dogs. By the noise they were making, it seemed that a pack was forming. Damn! It would only be a matter of time before one of the bastards stumbled onto his scent. Then there’d be more barking, which could draw attention to the old house. If need be, he’d shoot any dog that came too close. He started to regret his choice of firing position and took himself through the stretching routine again to ease the tension. Besides, it was too late for regrets. Reluctantly taking his right hand away from the rifle, he reached for the silenced Browning automatic that lay beside him on the floorboards, drawing it a few inches closer.

He ran through the game plan again, and with his right eye now pressed up hard against the rubber eyepiece of the scope, he traversed the barrel along the expanse of the enemy forecourt. He would make the shot as soon as he acquired the first target, before the man had time to make it to the main entrance of the house. Once that target was down, he’d have to acquire and confirm the second target with no delay. Then he would take the shot while there was still confusion in the compound. His withdrawal would have to be immediate – they’d be all over him within seconds if it wasn’t.

Again the job’s shortcomings hit him. Two targets. Christ! What the hell were they thinking back at SIS headquarters?

Headlights appeared in the distance, reflecting off the walls of buildings and lampposts as a vehicle, a Land Rover, neared the bend in the road. It slowed as it approached the rebel compound. Guards appeared from nowhere. Two men with rifles slung over their shoulders ran in unison across the compound under the glow of the lights. They dragged the large cyclone mesh gates open. The sniper’s pulse quickened immediately. A grimace split his menacing features – a tightly closed left eye, rugby-flattened nose, exposed teeth – and the contorted flesh of his right cheek rolled up hard against the laminated butt of the 700.

Control your breathing
, he ordered himself.

There was a sound. Very close by. Not the dogs. Not the vehicle slowing down as it approached the compound. He sensed movement nearby and froze.

The unmistakable shriek of floorboards creaking under boots was deafening in the silence of the old house. It came from the ground floor, approaching from the back of the house where earlier he’d crept through a rut beneath the floorboards. Collins lay dead still, mouth and eyes wide open. Outside, the target’s car was at the gates, entering the killing ground of the rebel compound. Whatever was happening below him could not interfere with his mission. He could not fail.

But he couldn’t forget the immediate threat below. Was it one or two pairs of boots? Voices. Mumbling. Two men. Two guns. The skin of his face became taut. Again, he fought to control his breathing, impossible given the rapid thump of his heart resounding like a timpani in his ears. The voices were getting louder, deep, sonorous tones. His hand instinctively left the rifle and again crept toward the Browning. Self-preservation was irresistible. No! Contact now would blow everything. He had his orders. The targets, both of them, had to die tonight. Collins returned his hand to the rifle and his attention to the rebel compound. Back out on the road, the engine noise had dropped to almost nothing as the car was crunched into low gear, preparing to enter the compound. The dogs were going crazy. He had maybe a minute before the vehicle reached the entrance and the targets emerged.

The two men downstairs came into view only a few feet below. Collins could make out the pitch-black silhouettes of their heads and shoulders through the large hole in the floor. He could hear one of them fumbling through webbing pouches. What was going on? What was the man searching for? On impulse, Collins again slipped his right hand from the rifle as slowly and silently as he dared and crept his fingers toward the Browning.

Then came the rattle, scratch and flash of a match being extracted then flicked with practiced precision across the red phosphorous strike surface on the side of a box. In the total darkness, the blaze of the match as it was raised to a cigarette lit the entire area as though a distress flare had been fired. His eyes captured everything in the snapshot flash of the match’s short life. He was close enough to smell the sulfur ignite, and see every detail of their faces. The men bore the unmistakable profiles of rebel soldiers, carrying Soviet-surplus weapons and wearing camouflage fatigues. Then it was black again. Collins closed his eyes tight and counted to three to regain his night vision. His hand closed around the silenced automatic. He held his breath. His eyes darted back and forth between the immediate threat just feet below him, and the killing zone across the street.

Bathed in the orange glow of the lamps, the target Land Rover pulled to a stop. Half-a-dozen men sprang from within the rebel headquarters and surrounded the vehicle in a defensive ring of outward-facing gun barrels.

Six feet below Collins, the two men stopped moving.

Collins’s mind raced. He could kill these two first and still take out the targets; if he didn’t, the moment he engaged the targets across the road he’d surely be killed by the two downstairs.

His heart was pounding.

The Land Rover’s engine shut off. A handbrake wrenched across well-worn metal teeth. The compound gates were closing. Sweat was pouring from his brow. He had to engage the targets or there would never be another chance. Car doors were opening. To hell with it! The mission was more important than his own life. His hand returned to the CZ 700, and his eye returned to the scope. A man emerged from the front passenger seat; definitely the first target. A clear shot. Steady. Calm the breathing. He eased the pressure out through clenched teeth with a slow hiss, laid the sights on the target’s head and squeezed the trigger.

"Nice night for it," came a polished tone inches away.

Sean Collins’s heart leapt in his ribcage. Automatically, his finger snapped tight on the trigger. The hammer fell just as it should and struck the base of the firing pin. But there was nothing but the hollow ring of a dead shot. No explosion, recoil, muzzle flash. A broken firing pin? Dud ammo? He spun toward the voice, his body rigid with tension and shock.

"Fuck!" he rasped, turning back to the silhouette, momentarily relieved, then belatedly, alive to his mistake.

"You should have been more sure about where that weapon came from, sonny," said the voice in the darkness. "Can’t be too careful these days."

"But …" Collins’s eyes darted between the useless weapon in his hands and the face, half in shadow, less than a foot away. Recognition. Confusion. Disbelief. "What the hell are you doing here?"

He grabbed for the Browning, but he was too late.

The last thing the sniper heard was a whoosh as a metal pipe came crashing down on his skull.

The trawler was secure. The security team was covering the boat’s crew, and the sweep team had gone below decks in search of the crates that had been transferred across from the
Marengo
.

Morgan stood steadfast on deck. Something wasn’t quite right; it all looked too much like a textbook boarding. The fishing boat’s crew were undeniably gloomy, most likely simple fishermen caught up in the big game. Their livelihoods were at stake, along with the real possibility of receiving a long stretch in an Australian jail. They were scared and compliant, but the surreptitious glances they exchanged were unsettling Morgan; a dozen pairs of black eyes, darting nervously. The fishermen were all mumbling from the sides of their mouths but it was impossible to discern anything above the cry of the storm. They were expecting something. Trouble? But if it was, it seemed to be trouble they wanted no part of.

Morgan’s sixth sense for danger went into overdrive. His eyes scanned and processed the entire scene, taking in the fishermen and the clearance divers of the security team. High swells of gray water rose and fell constantly and he noticed empty beer bottles rolling around on the deck among the crates and nets. Allowing your crew to get on the piss in these conditions was madness. Morgan kicked a bottle away from his feet.
Idiots
, he thought. The RHIB was still sitting off to starboard, clear of the fishing boat. The
Albany
was in the distance, its big guns, a 25mm Typhoon automated cannon, and two 12.7mm machine guns, trained protectively on them from across the expanse of crashing waves. The XO, Randle – where was he? Morgan recalibrated his search. The wheelhouse. With Maddy Lambert. They were looking over the captain’s log, while the captain stood nearby.

Realisation hit Morgan like a jolt of electricity.

Randle and Lambert were on the bridge and had moved the captain to one side as they began poring over the boat’s log and papers. But now, the captain, probably thinking he was beyond the view of the other sailors and with a fool’s disregard for the consequences of his actions, panicked and clumsily withdrew a revolver from the folds of his loose-fitting clothes, raising it to fire into the backs of the two Australian sailors. Randle and Lambert had made a fatal mistake. With their backs to the captain they were oblivious to the threat. They would be dead in seconds.

Morgan dropped to a crouch, wrenched the Browning from his leg holster in one fluid, practiced movement, and braced himself between two crates to counter the erratic sway of the boat. The sea suddenly tossed the boat hard to port and everybody aboard staggered or fell. The captain stumbled as he attempted to steady himself, and his finger tightened on the trigger. A single gunshot exploded across the decks.

With both hands clasped around the Browning, Morgan fired a succession of rounds that struck the captain in the chest and continued up to his head until he sank from sight.

"Cover these bastards!" Morgan yelled to the security team. Then he sprinted across the deck and catapulted his powerful frame up a rickety wooden ladder that led to the wheelhouse. Stunned, the XO and his translator had finally reacted. They’d dived to opposite sides of the wheelhouse, clear of Morgan’s firing line, and were now huddled over the captain’s torn and twisted body.

"You two OK?"

"Yeah and thanks," Randle answered. "Couple of inches to the left and he would have had me." He gestured to a shattered portion of a beam.

"Is he dead?" asked Lambert, her voice shaky.

"Yep. He’s dead," Morgan replied, kicking the captain’s gun away and casting a professional eye over the body at his feet. "Next time," he added, "don’t turn your back on anybody who’s not wearing the same uniform as you. Now let’s see what they’re carrying and get off this heap of shit before the bloody storm sinks us."

"XO!" came a yell from the sweep team below decks. "You should get down here."

Seconds later, Morgan and the XO were leaning over a large crate, inspecting its contents.

"Bugger me!" exclaimed Randle.

Deep within the ice, buried beneath layers of sharks’ fins, were weapons. They were mostly ex-Soviet Bloc: Kalashnikov AKMs and RPKs. Two of the sweep team sailors were holding up a couple of the assault rifles for Morgan to see, while another continued to scrape aside more ice and fins.

"Aren’t they Russian, sir?" It was Lambert. She was standing very close to Morgan, having decided it was the safest place to be.

"That’s right," Morgan replied. "We’re obviously going to find a lot more in the rest of these crates. Great work guys, but tread carefully. We don’t want any—"

"Ah … boss? You may want to check this out," called one of the clearance divers. Turning around, Morgan saw that the ordnance expert had stopped his elbow-deep exploration of one of the crates packed well forward in the darkest recesses of the cargo hold.

Morgan joined him and, carefully brushing aside more ice, saw that the crate contained an indeterminate number of 85mm High Explosive Anti-Tank projectiles of the type fired from an RPG-7 grenade launcher. The munitions were stacked haphazardly, like toys in a toy box, wrapped in nothing more than greaseproof paper.

"Christ!" Morgan hissed, straightening his shoulders. "OK, Mr. Randle, I suggest that we get everyone off this vessel and back onboard the
Albany
immediately."

"Aye, sir!"

"And can someone hand me a radio?" asked Morgan. "I need to talk to your skipper."