Osama (51 page)

He pulled the trigger.

She was eating a sandwich one second and clutching her guts the next.

The subsonic .22 long-rifle rimfire round tore a hole in her stomach big enough to accommodate your middle finger.

And he went for the stomach with the next seven targets too. Unlike head shots, gut shots didn’t kill people, and Hauser had been specifically told not to kill. Only maim. He kicked out the rounds in quick succession. Two seconds between each. With each shot the muzzle
phtt-ed
and the barrel jerked.

The bodies dropped.

The crowd was confused by the first two shots. The built-in suppressor guaranteed that the shots didn’t sound like the thunderous
ca-rack
of a bullet. But when the third target fell they all knew something terrifying was happening. Panic spread and everyone ran for cover.

Twenty-four seconds. That’s how long it had taken Hauser to leave eight civilians sprawled on the pavement soaked in their own blood and pawing at their wounds. The victims were strangely silent. No one else dared approach them. Any sane person would wait for a clear sign that the shooting had stopped.

Hauser stepped back from the window. He was confident no one had seen him. The suppressor had phased out more than 90 per cent of the sound, making it difficult for anyone to clearly understand that they were gunshots, let alone pinpoint their origin. A breeze kicked up. The tarp fluttered. Hauser quickly folded up the weapon and stashed it in the toolbox. He removed the overalls and stuffed them into the toolbox. The overalls he would dispose of shortly, in a nearby public toilet, courtesy of a lit match and some wetted toilet paper to cover and disable the smoke detector. He left the room.

Police sirens in the distance. And now screams from the crowd, as if the sirens had given them permission.

Two

Hereford, UK. The next day. 2233 hours.

He downed it in three long gulps that had the barmaid shaking her head and the three gnarled alcoholics at the other end of the bar nodding welcome to the newest member of their club. Joe Gardner polished off his London Pride and tipped the foamy glass at the barmaid.

‘Another,’ he said.

The barmaid snatched his empty glass and stood it under the pump. Golden beer flowed out of the nozzle and settled into a dark-bronze column. She cut him a thick head and dumped the glass in front of him.

‘Cheers, Kate.’ Gardner raised his glass in a toast but she had already turned her back. ‘But you’re forgetting one thing.’

Kate sighed. ‘What’s that?’

‘Your phone number.’

‘The only thing you’ll get from me is a slap.’ A disgusted expression was plastered over the right side of the girl’s face. Gardner doubted her left side was any more pleasant. ‘That’s your last pint till you settle your tab.’

‘Give us a break,’ Gardner grunted, rooting around in his jeans pocket for imaginary change.

Then a voice to his left said, ‘This one’s on me.’

At the edge of his vision Gardner glimpsed a red-knuckled hand slipping the barmaid a pair of crisp twenty-quid notes. She eyed the queen’s head suspiciously before accepting it.

‘Thanks. This’ll about cover it.’

‘My pleasure,’ the voice said. ‘After all, we’ve got to look after our own.’

The voice was hoarse and the man’s breath wafted across Gardner’s face and violated his nostrils. It was the smoky, medicinal smell of cheap whisky.

‘Didn’t I see you on the telly once?’

Gardner didn’t turn around.

‘Yeah,’ the voice went on. ‘You’re that bloke from the Regiment. The one who was at Parliament Square. You were the big hero of the day.’

The voice swigged his whisky. Ice clinked against the glass.

‘You look like a bag of bollocks, mate,’ said the voice. ‘What the fuck happened?’

Gardner took a sip of his pint. Said nothing.

‘No, wait. I can guess what happened. I mean, fucking look at you. You’re a joke. You’re a right fucking cunt.’

Gardner stood his beer on the bar. Kate was nowhere to be seen. Then he slowly turned to face his new best friend.

‘That’s right. A complete and utter cunt.’

He looked as ugly as he sounded. Red cheeks hung like sandbags beneath a pair of drill-hole eyes set in a head topped off with a buzzcut. He was a couple of hundred pounds or thereabouts, half of it muscle and the rest fat that had been muscle in a previous life. The glass in front of him was half-full of whisky and ice. The glazed expression in his eyes told Gardner the drink had not been the guy’s first of the night, or even his tenth.

‘I’m not looking for trouble,’ Gardner said quietly.

‘But you found it anyway. You know, there’s nothing more tragic than a washed-up old Blade.’ The man pulled a face at the prismatic bottom of the tumbler. ‘Know what? Someone should just put you out of your fucking misery now.’

Gardner attempted to focus on the guy and saw two of him. Sixteen pints of Pride and a few shots off the top shelf will do that to a man. Rain lightly drum-tapped on the pub windows. The guy leaned in close to Gardner and whispered into his left ear.

‘Me, I’m from 3 Para. Real fucking soldier. Real fucking man.’ He winked at the barmaid. ‘Ain’t that right, Kate?’ She smiled back flirtatiously. Then the guy turned back to Gardner. ‘Now do me a favour and fuck off.’

A shit-eating grin was his parting gift.

Gardner swiftly drank up. Made for the door.

Outside in the deserted car park the rain was lashing down in slanted ice sheets. Gardner zipped up his nylon windcheater to insulate himself against the cold and wet. The Rose in June pub was set on the outskirts of Hereford and the low rent was probably the only reason it hadn’t shut down. Gardner made his way down the backstreets, snaking towards the Regiment’s headquarters. He navigated round the housing estate that used to be the site of the old Regiment camp on Stirling Lane. Now it was all council-owned. The rain picked up, spattering the empty street that edged the estate. Gardner couldn’t see more than two or three metres in front of him. A ruthless wind whipped through the street and pricked his skin. Gardner closed his eyes. He heard voices, subdued beneath the bass line of the rain.

When he opened his eyes a fist was colliding with his face.

Three

2301 hours.

The fist struck Gardner hard and sudden, like a jet engine backfiring. He fell backwards, banging his head against the kerb. A sharp pain speared the base of his skull and it took a moment to wrench himself together. You’re lying on your back. Your cheek is on fire from a fucking punch. And Para is towering over you.

Para’s hands were at his side and curled into kettlebells. He hocked up phlegm and spat at Gardner. The gob arced through the rain like a discus and landed with a plop on his neck.

‘Get up, prick.’ Para’s voice was barely audible above the hammering rain.

Gardner wiped away the spittle with the back of his hand.

‘I said, get the fuck up.’

Gardner noticed two guys with Para, one at either shoulder. The guy on the left was shaven-headed with dull black eyes and the kind of hulking frame that you only get from injecting dodgy Bulgarian ’roids. He wore a grey hoodie and dark combats. Gardner noticed he was clutching a battery-operated planer. The guy on Para’s right stood six-five. A reflective yellow jacket hung like a tent from his scrawny frame. He smiled and revealed a line of coffee-brown teeth. He was holding a sledgehammer. Raindrops were cascading off the tip of its black head.

‘Call yourself a Blade,’ Para said. ‘You’re just a washed-up cunt.’

Hoodie and Black Teeth laughed like Para was Ricky Gervais back when he was funny.

Gardner began scraping himself off the pavement. The rain hissed. The guys were crowding around him now. He swayed uneasily on his feet.

Black Teeth was gripping the sledgehammer with both hands. He stood with his feet apart in a golf-swing posture and raised the hammer above his right shoulder. Gardner knew he should be ducking out of the way but the booze had made him woozy. Dumbly he watched as the hammer swung down at him.

Straight into his solar plexus. Thud!

A million different pains fired in the wall of his chest. He heard something snap in there. Heard it, then felt it. His ribcage screamed. He dropped to his knees and sucked in air. The valley of his chest exploded. He looked up and saw Black Teeth standing triumphantly over him.

‘What a joke,’ he said.

Black Teeth went to swipe again but Hoodie came between them, wanted a piece of the action for himself. He’d fired up the planer and was aiming it at Gardner’s temple. Gardner managed to climb to his knees. He didn’t have the energy to stand on two feet, but he wasn’t going to lie down and leave himself defenceless. First rule of combat, he reminded himself: always try to stay on your toes. The planer buzzed angrily. Gardner was alert now, his body flooded with endorphins and adrenalin. In a blur he quickly sidestepped to the left and out of the path of the planer. Momentum carried Hoodie forwards, his forearm brushing Gardner’s face, the planer chopping the air.

Then Gardner unclenched his left hand and thrust the open palm into Hoodie’s chest. Winded the cunt. Hoodie yelped as he dropped to the ground. The planer flew out of his hands and Gardner reached for it, but Black Teeth was on top of him and bringing the sledgehammer in a downward arc again. Gardner feinted, dropping his shoulder and leaving Black Teeth swiping at nothing. Out of the corner of his eye Gardner spied Para fishing something out of his jacket. Gardner folded his fingers in tightly and jabbed his knuckles at Black Teeth’s throat. He could feel the bone denting the soft cartilage rings of the guy’s trachea. The sledgehammer rang as it hit the deck.

Para had a knife in his hands now. Gardner recognized the distinctive fine tip of a Gerber Compact.

‘Fuck it, you cunt,’ said Para. ‘Come on then.’

Para lunged at Gardner, angling the Gerber at his neck. Gardner shunted his right hand across and jerked his head in the same direction, pushing the blade away. Then he launched an uppercut at Para’s face. His face was a stew of blood and bone.

Gardner moved in for the kill. He grabbed the planer and lamped it against the side of Para’s face. Para groaned as he fumbled blindly for the Gerber.

Too late.

Gardner yanked Para’s right arm. He pinned his right knee against the guy’s elbow, trapping his forearm in place. Then he depressed the button to start the planer. The tool whirred above the incessant rain as he slid it along the surface of Para’s forearm. The blade tore off strips of flesh. A pinkish-red slush spewed out of the side of the device. Gardner drove the planer further up Para’s arm. His scream turned into something animal. The skin below was totally shredded, a gooey mess of veins coiled around whitish bone. It didn’t look like an arm any longer. More like something a pack of Staffies had feasted on.

Pleased with his work, Gardner eased off the button and ditched the planer. It clattered to the ground, sputtered, whined and died.

The rain was now a murmur.

‘My arm,’ Para said. ‘My fucking arm!’

‘I see you again, next time it’s your face.’ Gardner’s voice was as sharp as cut glass. ‘Are we fucking clear?’

Gardner didn’t wait for an answer. He gave his back to the three fucked-up pricks and walked down the road, past the construction site. He had reached a crossroads in his life. Lately he’d been getting into a lot of scraps. And deep down he was afraid of admitting to himself that fighting was all he was good for. The problem was, he was no longer an operator. His injury had reduced him to cleaning rifles and hauling HESCO blocks around Hereford, and the suit did not fit a fucking inch.

He was a couple of hundred metres from the site when his mobile sparked up. A shitty old Nokia. Gardner could afford an iPhone 4, but only in his dreams. The number on the screen wasn’t one he recognized. An 0207 number. London. He tapped the answer key.

‘Is that Mr Joseph Gardner?’

The voice was female and corporate. The kind of tone that belonged in airport announcements. Pressing the phone closer to his ear, Gardner said, ‘Who’s this?’

‘Nancy Rayner here. I’m calling from Talisman International.’

Gardner rubbed his temples, trying to clear the fog of booze behind his eyeballs. The name sounded vaguely familiar.

‘The security consultancy?’ the woman went on. ‘You submitted a job application . . . let me see . . .’ Gardner heard the shuffle of papers ‘. . . two weeks ago.’

Her words jolted his mind. Fucking yes. He did recall applying for a job. He also recalled thinking he had next to no hope of getting it. Talisman were one of the new boys on the security circuit. He’d not heard anything, and figured it was the same better-luck-elsewhere story.

‘We’d like to invite you for an interview.’

Gardner fell silent.

‘Mr Gardner?’

‘Yes?’

‘How does tomorrow sound? One o’clock at our offices?’

It sounded better than good. It was fucking great.

He said simply, ‘OK.’

‘Excellent. So we’ll see you tomorrow at one.’