by James Kent
‘So what was the trail you left for her to follow?’
‘Mordor. They’ll think it’s him because I left his markers all over it, like a cat pissing on a fence. So she’ll get the Feds to go hunting for Cricket. Leaving an obvious trail is risky though because not many good hackers do that. They could get suspicious about it. Anyway, it probably means some heads there will roll because they clearly got hacked again just after tightening up their cyber security! Funny!’
‘Yeah, Gifford’s!’ Swann realized that Gifford’s job will be on the line now for having failed to stop the hacking epidemic. He was all talk. ‘But he won’t be laughing!’
‘Yeah I saw his name there. In the chick’s files,’ said Eddie. ‘I changed all the passwords too, by the way, so she won’t be able to get back in for a while, at least not till the IT gurus break back in. But I doubt they’ll find a way to retrieve any data when they do.’
‘Excellent work! Pretty good for a vegan!’ replied Swann with a wry smile. ‘Stay put till I ring you back. I’ve got some tidying up to do here that’ll take the rest of the day. Go get yourself a big greasy beef burger!’ He snapped the phone shut, tossed it aside and picked up the binoculars again.
‘To hell with it!’ he said. He put the binoculars down and stared at the big rifle resting on its bipod.
*
Swann decided to increase the tempo. He was getting bored waiting to pick off random guys as they appeared. It was taking too long and he wanted to have the job all squared away by nightfall. Besides, he was hungry and felt like a large burger and fries himself. He hadn’t eaten much since breakfast. He needed protein. And carbs. And salt. And a beer. But he was also impatient to get back to L.A. so that he could sort out the issue with Lavinia. He restacked the two magazines for the heavy rifle with the custom-made Hornady 750 grain A-Max .50 caliber rounds then he snapped one back into place, settled in behind the big Nikon scope and proceeded to smash up Diablo’s ranch. He fired five armor-piercing rounds through the windows and through the walls, one after the other, then he quickly removed the empty magazine, snapped in the fresh one and started again. He fired and worked the bolt quickly each time, five more rounds, to give the occupants no time to deal with it, no time to regroup, no time to hide.
Heat, dust, noise, chaos and panic came with every crashing bullet. Fragments and splinters and chunks of plaster, wood and concrete went flying. Shards of glass threatened to cut exposed flesh to ribbons.
Swann concentrated on the eastern end of the building and didn’t care who or what he hit in the process. The huge rifle barked and bucked until he had depleted the two magazines. He removed the empty one from the rifle, restacked it with five more API rounds, snapped it back in and repeated the process, working the bolt quickly after each shot. A total of fifteen fifty-caliber high velocity bullets devastated the eastern end of Diablo’s ranch. There was no safe place left for the occupants inside.
The heavy armor-piercing bullets smashed their way through everything. Some passed right through the building’s walls, taking out anything and everything in their path. A bullet that passed clean through the building and out the other side hit Rudolph Knox in the right leg, shattering his shinbone and knee. The bullet had lost some energy by the time it had hit him, but the injury was still horrendous.
Knox had been sheltering on the far side with two other men, planning to make their way over to the old tin shed to the west of the property, then to the ancient rusting Plymouth with its perished tires, then on to the road where they would run as quickly as possible to the nearest group of trees and scrub on the other side. From there they planned to jog quickly to the base of the hill not much further on and then try to outflank Swann. It was possible, they thought, if they moved quickly, zig-zagged and kept low. It was a good plan, but it had just changed. The bodies of the two dead guys who had been shot earlier, one of them Sanchez, were lying nearby, where they had been dragged out of sight and covered up with a large tarpaulin. Their blood pooled on the ground beside their corpses and was congealing, turning almost black.
Knox collapsed to the ground screaming in pain with the remains of his leg at an acute angle, attached only by a few bloody, torn ligaments. And now his blood too was pooling beside him. He lay on his back, his arms flailing in panic as he continued to scream for help. But no one came because no one cared. The other two men who were sheltering with him, stared down at him in horror. They looked at each other, nodded and then ran to the western end of the building. They would have to make their move without Knox. Besides, there was nothing they could do for him.
Swann rested the rifle with its smoking barrel and picked up the binoculars again. Even if no one inside the building had been hit directly, he figured, the violence and the noise alone would be enough to cause panic and chaos. But he realized the chances were reasonably high that someone would have copped a load of lead or shrapnel because everyone was now down that end of the ranch, away from the devastated western end where the gas cylinders had exploded. Or around the back out of sight. He looked through the binoculars and inspected the damage. All the windows were broken and there were numerous large holes in the walls. The damage inside would be worse because of the flying glass and the fact that bullets tend to start tumbling once they’ve hit something. A large-caliber tumbling bullet, travelling at high velocity, is like a shredding machine. Injuries are horrendous and usually fatal.
Swann preferred not to kill Cricket if possible, for Eddie’s sake, but the risk of that was taken by Cricket when he signed up with a known terrorist and his terrorist henchmen. He took his chances when he made that initial decision. Dance with wolves and you sometimes get bit! he thought. So, Swann left the decision in the lap of the gods.
Then he caught a glimpse of two men running towards the old shed and the dilapidated Plymouth. Debris from the gas-tank explosion lay scattered everywhere, causing them to jump and skip over it. One of them tripped on a piece of piping. He stumbled and fell forwards onto his stomach, dropping his weapon in the process. The guy had obviously hurt himself because Swann could see him struggling to get up again. He held his left elbow and hobbled over to grab his rifle which lay a few feet away, then he continued hobbling and limping towards his buddy who was now sheltering behind the old Plymouth. Swann put the binoculars down and reached for the sniper rifle.
He knew exactly where the two guys were, so he decided to plug the Plymouth with a few rounds, low down and around the center of the car, and see what happened. Even from this distance, the smaller .338 Lapua Magnum bullets would cut clean through the thin, rusty steel of the old hulk like a hot knife through butter. It was no kind of protection. And even if they were lucky and escaped being hit, they would be forced to move again, but this time there was no cover unless they ran back to the old shed, exposed all the way. A lose, lose.
He put the scope’s reticle on the center of the wreck, just to the left of the main strut. The vehicle was angled slightly away, its bonnet facing north of west. He breathed out slowly and squeezed the trigger. Two seconds later, the high velocity bullet punched a neat hole through the thin steel. Swann quickly chambered a second round, brought the scope to bear upon the driver’s door. He fired and punched another perfect hole in the old vehicle’s side. He had three rounds left in the magazine. Enough to finish off. If the two guys survived, those three rounds would be enough to let them know they weren’t safe. They both got the hint and took off back towards the tin shed, but now both men were limping; at least one had been hit. The other guy might still be hurting from his fall a few minutes earlier.
As they limped and hobbled towards the old shed, Swann shot them both in the legs. It took only two bullets; one each. They fell amongst the debris, dropping their weapons in the process. They started squirming and crawling, trying desperately to find some cover. Swann’s scruples however prevented him from killing the two wounded men as they struggled on the ground, so instead he destroyed their weapons. He fired the last rou
nd and hit one of the rifles that lay just within reach. Pieces blew off it as the bullet impacted. He opened the bolt and quickly slipped another round into the chamber, taking the bullet from the spares attached to the side of the rifle’s stock. He fired again and destroyed the other rifle that one of the guys was reaching out to grab.
He put the weapon aside and picked up the binoculars to take another close-up look. He saw no more movement near the tin shed. Then he scanned to the other end of the main ranch. No movement there either.
‘That must leave four,’ he said to himself. ‘Diablo, Decker, Knox and Cricket.’
It was time to move. He packed everything away as quickly as possible, picked up all the spent brass - making sure he had the same number as the total shots fired. Then he made his way down the hill towards the Raptor.
43
Diablo’s ranch.
Swann got back to the Raptor at the bottom of the hill in short order. He was in a hurry to get to Diablo’s ranch before anyone escaped into the desert. He also wanted to finish the job and tidy up as quickly as possible; preferring of course that Cricket had survived the barrage unscathed because of what Eddie had done. But that was pure chance. Any others who had been badly wounded would be left for the Feds to deal with; their fate depended on how much fight was still in them. Even a wounded guy was fair game if he had a weapon in his hand. Except Diablo whose fate was sealed. There were no chances left for him.
Swann sorted out his gear and packed away the rifle cases in the back of the vehicle. He reached into the cab and plugged in his cell phone to charge, and changed the battery of the satellite phone, inserting a fresh one. He clipped on his fighting knife and the belt holster for the SIG Sauer nine-millimeter pistol, making sure that the weapon had a full clip. He hung three flashbangs off hoops on his armored vest, then he grabbed a bunch of nylon cuffs – fat cable ties – and hooped them on too. He drove back out to the main road, heading north. A few minutes later, he turned into the long driveway leading up to Diablo’s property. The fat tires of the Raptor kicked up clouds of dust. He pulled to a stop near the old rusty Plymouth, making sure that it and the tin shed were in between him and the ranch. There were two guys lying there in the rubble and debris, both were close to the shed where they were trying to crawl for safety; both were dragging an injured leg, but one guy seemed to be struggling from other bullet wounds. His jacket looked slick from blood. He had a Glock in his hand which was hindering his progress as he crawled.
Swann put on his tactical gloves as he scanned the area then he climbed out of the vehicle and closed the driver’s door quietly. He pulled the nine-mil out and approached the more injured guy, keeping the pistol on him all the way. The guy stopped and looked back at him. He looked distressed and was sweating profusely. He turned his pistol to point at Swann, but before he could pull the trigger, Swann shot him in the upper arm, making him drop the gun. The guy squealed and dropped his head into the dirt, then he started moaning loudly from the pain. Swann walked over to him and kicked the gun away, but said nothing to him. Then he walked on to the other guy who was watching him. He too was sweating and distressed. His eyes were wide like saucers.
‘What’s your name, pal?’ Swann asked him.
‘Luke. Lucas.’
‘Where’s your Glock at, Luke? Any other weapons on you?’ Swann kept his weapon pointing at the guy.
‘No. I lost it over there somewhere,’ he said, pointing towards the old Plymouth. ‘I panicked and ran when them bullets started comin’ through . . . dropped it somewhere goddamit.’ The guy screwed up his face in pain. ‘Couldn’t risk going back for it. And I aint got no other weapons on me.’
Swann nodded. ‘How’d you get mixed up with these other assholes?’ he asked, waving his arm towards the ranch, and then nodding towards the other guy who still lay there in the rubble and debris; he wasn’t moving much anymore, just made the occasional groan from his wounds.
‘I was just lookin’ for a job, man, that’s all,’ he winced at the pain in his leg where he’d been shot. He tried to sit up to lean on his elbow, but Swann pushed him back down again with his boot on his shoulder and kept the gun pointing at his head. The guy continued talking, ‘I aint killed no one like these other muthers have. Yeah I done some shit . . . but I aint no killer. I just needed a job after gettin’ outta the slammer . . . ‘an I heard about this Diablo dude what was lookin’ for security guys is all . . . heard about it on the grapevine like, cos I known couple other guys here. But I’m just a security guy man! That’s all.’ He lay there looking defeated and angry and fed up. He reminded Swann of Randall; another bad guy with a blackened soul who needed to atone, but not as bad as some others he’d come across. Maybe he’d let him live.
‘Maybe you should get another job. Because you suck at this one!’
The guy nodded, but said nothing.
‘Who else is in there?’ asked Swann, pointing back with his thumb at the ranch.
The guy winced again as he lay there, looking up at Swann; the sun was in his eyes making him squint. ‘Just the Boss and Decker, and the wee guy called “Cricket” . . . does all the computer stuff.’
‘There should be four, by my count. Where’s the other one?’
‘Rudy . . . I mean Knox got it in the leg, round the back of the place, but he’s still alive I think, just busted up is all . . . you got him good man! Bullet musta gone clean through the place! That was crazy shit!’
‘Good to know!’ replied Swann. He told the guy to remove his pants belt and tie it around his leg to staunch the blood loss, and that he should use his shirt as a pressure pad if he needs it; ‘. . . just roll it into a snake and tie it around, to keep pressure on the wound, and the dirt out’. Lucas nodded, said nothing. The wound looked worse than it was, but Swann didn’t want the guy dying for no good reason. Well not yet anyway. Then he told him he would ring the Feds after he had cleaned up inside; maybe he would get lucky and make it, spend the rest of his life in a federal prison with Randall. Or not. Luck of the draw. Lap of the gods. Fall of the dice. Who cares? thought Swann. Not his problem.
The guy did as he was told, wincing with pain as he tied his belt tightly around his thigh. His hands and arms trembled from the strain as he did so. Sweat dripped into his eyes. He lay back again and looked up at Swann who pulled two white nylon cuffs from his vest and tossed them down to him, just like he had done with Randall. ‘You know the drill,’ he said. The guy slipped one of them around his wrists and pulled it tight with his teeth. Swann squatted down beside him to check. He pulled it tighter, as far as it would go before cutting into the guy’s flesh, then he added the other cuff next to it, pulling it just as tight.
He undid and removed the guy’s boot laces and pocketed them. Boot laces are useful for tying someone’s thumbs behind their back, sometimes better than a nylon tie around the wrists, so they might come in handy. He pulled off the guy’s boots and socks and tossed them out of reach, up onto the roof of the tin shed. The boots clunked noisily on the old iron as they landed. ‘Jeez man!’ the guy said in frustration, ‘You didn’t have to do that! I ‘aint goin nowhere.’ He shook his head. Swann ignored him. He didn’t want the guy getting up and hobbling back out to the main road for help. It was unlikely of course, considering the distance and the guy’s leg wound and the fact that he had no belt to hold his trousers up, but it wasn’t inconceivable. It had been known to happen. Having bare feet, on the other hand, was an extra disincentive.
‘Who the hell are you man?’ the guy asked, panting and blinking from the sting of sweat in his eyes, and from the bright sun. ‘They said you shot up Pedro and Randall too! Who are you?’ he asked again.
‘What difference does it make?’
The guy called Luke said nothing in reply. He looked back at Swann for a long moment, then he asked, ‘What about him?’ He nodded over towards the other guy who was lying there quietly, still moaning occasionally. He was hardly moving except for his eyes which were opening and closi
ng slowly. His mouth too was opening and closing in unison like a landed fish gulping air. Maybe he was trying to say something, or maybe he was thirsty or just exhausted.
‘Who cares?’ replied Swann. ‘He took his chances, like you did.’
Luke looked away and said nothing more.
Swann said, ‘Don’t go anywhere Luke!’ Just like he’d said to Randall the day before. Then he walked over to the old shed. He crouched and moved along the southern side to the far corner where he could get a bead on the ranch before moving across the open ground.
Luke watched him go as the shadows began to lengthen. And then it was quiet again.
44
Wilshire Federal Building, Sawtelle, LA.
‘What the hell is wrong with your cyber security?’ asked Pearman. ‘Why am I locked out?’
Lavinia Pearman had stormed into Simms’s office without knocking and without waiting for Sally to warn Simms that she was on her way in. ‘Don’t bother!’ Pearman had said as she passed Sally who tried to intercept her.
Pearman was livid. She had just discovered that none of her online passwords worked anymore, which meant she no longer had direct access to the local or off-site federal servers where all her reports and emails were filed and stored. It was like she had suddenly been blinded. She couldn’t understand it and she suspected that Simms was directing his IT guys to frustrate her investigation.
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about!’ replied Simms in his severe voice like a wintry blizzard. ‘But by all means, please come in and make yourself at home,’ he added sarcastically as he tidied his three pens into a neat row, with the green one in the middle. He studied them again and made another tiny adjustment with his pinky, then he straightened the pile of papers he had been reading through, arranging them to be square-on with the edge of the desk. Satisfied, he looked up at Pearman and said with a wry smile, ‘Coffee?’. His pure white teeth gleamed. He tweaked his bright red bow tie and leant back in his chair with his fingers steepled, his chin resting on the tips. He looked pleased with himself. He had reason to be, considering the speed of Swann’s operation against Diablo so far. “Operation Grim Reaper” was going well, and as planned. After he had received the message that a cleanup crew was urgently needed outside some sleazy bar near Kingman, Arizona for a couple of dudes – one dead, one tied to a tree – he had issued the order immediately. The one tied to the tree was now in custody, shackled to a hospital bed and spilling his guts to the Feds; the agents not “in-the-know” about the secret operation involving Swann believed an anonymous tip-off had alerted them to the guy’s whereabouts. Some random phone call apparently. And the guy himself wasn’t very helpful either. All he could remember was that some huge dude in black fatigues had appeared silently out of the dark, had smacked him around and killed his buddy. And then he’d vanished back into the night like a ghost. Both victims were wanted felons, so who the hell would care how he had ended up tied to a tree with his left knee shot to bits? Sounds like gang warfare. Or maybe he’d just made the whole thing up and there never was some huge phantom guy at all, is what the cops would think. But Pearman was the last person Simms wanted to know about any of that, and what was really going on. And yet it had all happened right under her nose!
