exchange might not yet have realized what was going on.
But Danny knew that the Honda guy more than likely had comms: every passing second was a widening of their window of opportunity to call in and raise the alarm.
‘Danny?’
He heard Spartak’s voice in his earbead. The big guy must have heard him panting and known something was awry. He ignored him. Spartak was too far away to help him now.
Movement. Due south. Danny was staring through the slit beneath the corroded bottom of the car he was lying beside and the ground. Two cars further away, almost merging into blackness beside a flattened tyre, a new shape had just emerged into the grain of the driving rain.
This time his eyesight was clear. He scoped in until he could see the thin black line of the lace pulled tight to the eye of the boot.
‘Sleep tight.’ His lips framed the word silently as he squeezed the trigger.
The round fired from his AK-9 smashed through his target’s ankle at such a velocity that it ripped his leg from under him and sent him crashing hard to the ground.
Danny waited. He watched. The man didn’t move.
It was possible, he supposed, that the velocity and the round’s impact alone had been enough to send his target into shock, or even kill him outright by inducing a heart attack. But while Danny wanted him alive to question, the risk of his victim being alive enough to send comms to anyone inside the exchange was just too big to take.
His target’s body bucked twice in the mud as he loosed off two more rounds. One to the chest and one to the head.
‘Danny?’ Spartak’s voice came again.
Still no movement from the fallen target.
‘Hold your positions,’ Danny whispered into his mike, in Ukrainian, eyes still locked on the stationary body. ‘I’ve got one hostile down. I think he’s alone.’
Silence, except for the drumming of the rain and the wail of the wind. Danny rolled right and came up slowly, snapping his goggles back up from where they’d been hanging by their strap around his neck. He wiped the mud from the lenses and checked the front of the exchange.
It was lifeless as the grave.
He nudged the body with the toe of his boot as he reached it, ready to shoot. He clocked the bloodied hole in the side of the Honda guy’s hood and knelt. The dead man’s finger was trapped in the trigger guard of his APS. Danny eased it free, inspecting the weapon.
The APS was old, but clean. A favoured weapon, then. This guy had been a pro and it might just as easily have been Danny lying face down in the mud.
He rolled the body over, his hands shaking now, as another burst of adrenalin rushed through him. Not from the kick of the kill, or from how close he’d come to winding up dead himself, but from who this dead man might be.
The body was too skinny for the Kid and too broad for the blonde. But how about Glinka? The exact right size for him, Danny reckoned. He peeled back the hood to reveal . . .
Someone else. A dark-skinned guy in his late thirties, whose face meant nothing to him.
Disappointment flooded him. But then came relief. Because the plain fact was that, no matter how much he might want Glinka dead, he still needed him alive to confess to what he’d done in London. To prove Danny’s innocence of the crime.
He checked the dead guy’s pockets for ID, his neck for military tags, but got nothing.
The Honda’s door was still open when he reached it. No one else was inside. But he saw the dead guy’s screw-up. His comms were lying on the dash beside the smouldering joint he’d been smoking when Danny’s shape had first loomed in his vision from out of the dark.
There was nothing to identify the man either. The glove compartment and door pockets were empty. The same went for the boot.
Danny switched off the car’s searchlight and took the keys. He ground the joint out in the mud. Then he radioed in the specs of the dead man’s weapon and comms to the rest of his team.
‘Status,’ Danny
But Danny knew that the Honda guy more than likely had comms: every passing second was a widening of their window of opportunity to call in and raise the alarm.
‘Danny?’
He heard Spartak’s voice in his earbead. The big guy must have heard him panting and known something was awry. He ignored him. Spartak was too far away to help him now.
Movement. Due south. Danny was staring through the slit beneath the corroded bottom of the car he was lying beside and the ground. Two cars further away, almost merging into blackness beside a flattened tyre, a new shape had just emerged into the grain of the driving rain.
This time his eyesight was clear. He scoped in until he could see the thin black line of the lace pulled tight to the eye of the boot.
‘Sleep tight.’ His lips framed the word silently as he squeezed the trigger.
The round fired from his AK-9 smashed through his target’s ankle at such a velocity that it ripped his leg from under him and sent him crashing hard to the ground.
Danny waited. He watched. The man didn’t move.
It was possible, he supposed, that the velocity and the round’s impact alone had been enough to send his target into shock, or even kill him outright by inducing a heart attack. But while Danny wanted him alive to question, the risk of his victim being alive enough to send comms to anyone inside the exchange was just too big to take.
His target’s body bucked twice in the mud as he loosed off two more rounds. One to the chest and one to the head.
‘Danny?’ Spartak’s voice came again.
Still no movement from the fallen target.
‘Hold your positions,’ Danny whispered into his mike, in Ukrainian, eyes still locked on the stationary body. ‘I’ve got one hostile down. I think he’s alone.’
Silence, except for the drumming of the rain and the wail of the wind. Danny rolled right and came up slowly, snapping his goggles back up from where they’d been hanging by their strap around his neck. He wiped the mud from the lenses and checked the front of the exchange.
It was lifeless as the grave.
He nudged the body with the toe of his boot as he reached it, ready to shoot. He clocked the bloodied hole in the side of the Honda guy’s hood and knelt. The dead man’s finger was trapped in the trigger guard of his APS. Danny eased it free, inspecting the weapon.
The APS was old, but clean. A favoured weapon, then. This guy had been a pro and it might just as easily have been Danny lying face down in the mud.
He rolled the body over, his hands shaking now, as another burst of adrenalin rushed through him. Not from the kick of the kill, or from how close he’d come to winding up dead himself, but from who this dead man might be.
The body was too skinny for the Kid and too broad for the blonde. But how about Glinka? The exact right size for him, Danny reckoned. He peeled back the hood to reveal . . .
Someone else. A dark-skinned guy in his late thirties, whose face meant nothing to him.
Disappointment flooded him. But then came relief. Because the plain fact was that, no matter how much he might want Glinka dead, he still needed him alive to confess to what he’d done in London. To prove Danny’s innocence of the crime.
He checked the dead guy’s pockets for ID, his neck for military tags, but got nothing.
The Honda’s door was still open when he reached it. No one else was inside. But he saw the dead guy’s screw-up. His comms were lying on the dash beside the smouldering joint he’d been smoking when Danny’s shape had first loomed in his vision from out of the dark.
There was nothing to identify the man either. The glove compartment and door pockets were empty. The same went for the boot.
Danny switched off the car’s searchlight and took the keys. He ground the joint out in the mud. Then he radioed in the specs of the dead man’s weapon and comms to the rest of his team.
‘Status,’ Danny
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