Sharp Shot

by Jack Higgins

  “Give it half an hour,” Chance decided. “It may have spotted us and called in support. We don’t want to be caught in the open if it comes back, especially if he’s got company.”

  “Time for the team photo then,” Halford decided. He took out a disposable camera. The camera had come from a supermarket, but Halford had removed the cardboard casing that gave away its origins. It was plain, functional, black plastic.

  “Right,” said Halford, “the challenge is to work out how we take a picture with us all in. There’s no timer.”

  McCain sighed and took the camera. “Why do I always have to be the practical one? I need a small stone about…this big.” He held his thumb and forefinger in a small circle.

  There was no shortage of stones about the right size —just big enough to cover the camera’s shutter button. McCain balanced the camera on a low section of wall that protruded from a higher wall. Then he put heavy stones round the camera to hold it in place. He wedged another on the top, jutting out over the lens, but leaving the shutter button with the small stone on it exposed.

  “Right, assume your positions.”

  “Is that it?” Halford asked, laughing. “Now what?”

  “Yeah,” said Darrow, “what’s the big deal. Someone still needs to press the shutter.”

  “I think that’s the idea,” said Chance. “Right, Ferdy?”

  McCain was grinning. “Exactly right. Get ready. The camera’s lined up with this bit of wall here, so let’s all stand in front of it. Oh, and we’ll need some pebbles. About this big, I should think.” He picked up a stone the size of an egg and weighed it in his hand. “Yes, that should do it. I’ll go first.”

  “What are you going to do?” Darrow asked.

  “Bung rocks at it. Ready?”

  They could see at once what McCain meant when he tossed the egg-sized stone. He lobbed it up on to higher section of wall. The stone rattled down the wall, bouncing on to the stones holding the camera steady.

  “Missed,” said McCain. “Who’s going next?”

  The third pebble did it. Halford arced it into the air above the wall just as first McCain and then Darrow had done. The pebble rattled down, and this time struck the small stone on the shutter button. The weight of the impact was enough to take the picture.

  “Nice one, Ferdy,” said Chance as they all watched him retrieve the camera and wind on the film. “Now then, let’s see what Mark’s got in his backpack, shall we?”

  Reluctantly, Darrow opened his rucksack and lifted out his ‘souvenir’. It was a statue made from a dark brown material, like terracotta, about half a metre tall and maybe fifteen centimetres wide. It was in the shape of a lion standing upright on its back legs, and it was obviously old; the features and details had worn away, the material scuffed and scratched and flaking. Chance remembered that one of the scientists had been carrying it—he must have run into Darrow soon after.

  “Blimey, it’s heavy,” McCain commented, lifting it up to get a better look. “What d’you want this for?”

  “It just took my fancy.” Darrow lifted the statue carefully out of McCain’s hands and pushed it back into his rucksack. “No big deal.”

  “Reckon it’s valuable?” Halford asked.

  “I’ll let you know.”

  Chance was looking grim. “You shouldn’t have taken it,” he said. “We didn’t come here to steal artefacts, whether they’re valuable or not.”

  “Oh come on, John,” said Darrow, suddenly angry. “We were going to blow it up. I found it in the admin block when I was planting the explosives. It just seemed a shame to destroy it. So where’s the harm? I mean, they’re not going to come and ask for it back, are they?”

  “Actually,” said Halford, “I think they might.” He pointed across the mass of broken buildings and collapsed walls.

  Two small black shapes were streaking rapidly towards them across the sky. As they watched, one of the black shapes flashed, as if it had caught the sun.

  “Incoming!” yelled McCain.

  Moments later, a building just thirty metres away exploded in a fireball. Heavy machine gun fire strafed across the sandy ground.

  The four men hurled themselves into the cover of the wall. There was another explosion, even closer. A wall exploded under the impact of the rocket, stone and debris flying through the air. Darrow gave a cry as a lump of rock struck him across the side of the head, hurling him sideways.

  Then as suddenly as it had started, the attack stopped. The two aircraft sped onwards, into the distance.

  “Soon as they turn, they’ll be back,” said Halford.

  Chance was beside the prone body of Darrow. “Out cold. He’s losing blood, and I think his collar bone’s broken. We have to get him to the Jeep.”

  “That could be a problem,” said McCain, kneeling beside them. He pointed across to the burning remains of the building that had taken the first rocket hit. “That’s the Jeep. Maybe they saw its heat signature.”

  “Then we have to walk. We’ll take it in turns to carry Mark. We move out as soon as it’s safe.”

  “And when will that be?”

  “The planes aren’t turning,” Halford reported, joining them. “I reckon the Foxbat wasn’t sure he’d seen anything, and they were just making sure, maybe trying to flush us out if we were here. They fired at anything showing up on the infra red and just got lucky.”“And we didn’t,” said Chance. “They might send in ground forces to check. Let’s make sure there’s nothing left of the Jeep, and we bury anything that we don’t take with us. We need to travel light. With luck we can call in an extraction, but if not then it’s still another hundred and fifty kilometres to the border. So the only thing we’re taking with us apart from water and weapons and the first aid kit is Mark, got it?”

  “What about this?” McCain asked, kicking Darrow’s heavy rucksack containing his souvenir statue.

  “You check on the Jeep,” Chance told him. “Dex, you do what you can to help Mark. See if you can stop the bleeding.” He picked up the rucksack—it really was very heavy, and there was no way they could take it with them and carry Darrow. Speed was vital now. “I’ll bury this with the rest of the gear,” he said.

  1

  The present day. Gloucestershire, England.

  Jade Chance was out jogging. The route she took—through the village and back across the hills—was almost exactly six and a half kilometres. She tried to run every day after school, and occasionally she persuaded her brother Rich to go with her.

  But not this afternoon.

  When he was at home, Dad quite often joined her. Jade had expected him to be slow and out of condition. He ate the most appalling rubbish, he smoked—though less than he used to—and as far as Jade could tell he drank only black coffee, beer and champagne. Sometimes together.

  It was November, so it was already dark when Jade got back. She’d left Rich doing his homework, and he was still at it when she returned.

  “Dad phoned,” said Rich, without looking up. He was sitting at the dining table in the main living room of the small cottage the three of them shared on the outskirts of the small Cotswold village.

  “Did he say where he is or what he’s doing?” Jade asked, going straight through to the kitchen.

  “Nope.”

  “Did he say when he’ll be back?” Jade called as she opened the fridge.

  “Nope.”

  “Did he say where he’s put the tin opener?”

  “Nope,” Rich called back. “But I did ask,” he added after a moment.

  “Liar.” Jade started to unload the beer and champagne from the fridge. “So why did he bother to call?”

  “Don’t know. That was something I didn’t ask.” Rich was standing in the doorway, watching Jade empty the fridge. “I hope you’re not going to empty all that down the sink again,” he said.

  “No. But I don’t see why the fridge has to be full of Dad’s booze. One bottle of champagne and two bottles of beer, that’s what he�
��s allowed now. If you’ve finished your homework, you can go online and order some real food and drink.”

  “You mean healthy stuff.” Rich was smiling. “You mean lettuce and carrots and things that only rabbits eat. You mean fruit juice and bottled water.”

  “Among other things.” Jade stood up and surveyed the collection of bottles on the worktop. “That should do it. If we’re left on our own to look after ourselves, we might as well eat healthily and sensibly while we can. He could be gone for weeks. Are you sure he didn’t say when he’ll be back?”

  Rich shrugged. “He’s working for Ardman. He could be anywhere in the world for days or weeks or even months, I guess.”

  “All the more reason to make the most of it.”

  “Yeah,” Rich agreed. “I did an order yesterday, anyway. They’re supposed to deliver it this evening. Don’t worry, I put us down for some health food. Salad and fruit and vegetables. Oh, and I ordered some Coke and burgers too. And we can have pizza tonight.” He grinned at Jade’s horrified expression. “You can put extra pineapple on yours. Then it’ll count as fruit.”

  Before Jade could protest, her phone beeped. It was warning her it was almost out of power, so she went through to her bedroom to plug it into the charger. By the time she returned, Rich was back at his homework.

  There was something else Jade was determined to do while Dad was away. That was to unpack at least some of the crates and boxes that had been standing unopened in the spare room since they’d arrived several months earlier.

  Dad was used to living out of suitcases and boxes, but since the death of the twins’ mother, Jade hadn’t really felt anywhere was home. If she unpacked Dad’s stuff, if they filled the cottage with things that belonged to them as a family rather than the people they were renting the cottage from, then maybe this would become home.

  It frustrated Jade that Rich didn’t seem to have the same problem. Maybe he was more like their dad. He seemed happy just to unpack things as and when—and if—he needed them. If she left it to the men, Jade knew, they’d never be moved in.

  Another reason for unpacking, though she could barely admit it to herself, was that despite everything Jade was enjoying her new life. Dad could be annoying and irritating, but he’d demonstrated time and again the lengths he’d go to for his children. It was strange to think that less than a year ago John Chance hadn’t even known he had children, and they’d known nothing about him…

  School was OK, and Jade had made some friends. There was a time, a few months back, when she’d expected to be asked to leave. But Dad’s boss Ardman had somehow persuaded the Head and Governors that getting involved in an armed siege during which large sections of the school were blown up, and others demolished by various members of the Chance family —including Dad, who’d driven his BMW right through the main reception block—wasn’t actually an expellable offence.

  Somewhere at the back of Jade’s mind was the thought that if she got everything unpacked, it would be that much more difficult, that much more unlikely, that they would have to move on. The cottage might not seem quite like home yet, but she hoped it soon would.

  “Box time!” she called to Rich as she packed the beer and champagne into a cupboard.

  “What, again?”

  “One a day, remember? We agreed.” She went back through to the living room.

  “We didn’t agree,” Rich told her. “You decided. An agreement requires the consent of both parties.”

  Jade sighed, deciding it wasn’t worth an argument. “You sort out the shopping,” she said. “I’ll do the box after I’ve had a shower. Deal?”

  “I suppose.”

  Jade grinned. Her twin brother drove her every bit as mad as her dad did. But she couldn’t imagine being without him. She went into the bathroom, thinking how lucky she was really to have Dad and Rich. How lucky she was that no one had tried to kill her for months now.

  But that was about to change.

  Rich watched as Jade dragged a large cardboard box in from the spare room. She sat cross-legged on the floor beside it. Her shoulder-length fair hair was still wet, and she’d pulled on a sweat shirt and jogging bottoms.

  “Anything good?” Rich asked.

  “Books, papers, magazines.” Jade pulled out a handful of magazines and spread them on the carpet beside her. “I mean, why does he keep this stuff?”

  “You can always put it away again.”

  She was leafing through the different magazines—National Geographic, The Rifleman, The Economist, History Today, Jane’s Intelligence Review…The books were just as varied. There was a battered hardback copy of Oliver Twist stacked with a book about the Falklands War. Jade pulled out a paperback thriller published in the 1970s. The cover was a photograph of a woman dressed in combat uniform. Or rather, half dressed in it. Jade tossed it to one side.

  “That looks good,” said Rich, kneeling down beside her.

  “No it doesn’t,” she told him. “Leave it where it is. That’s the rubbish pile.”

  “Dad might want to read it again.”

  “You think he got past the front cover the first time?” Jade threw another paperback after it, it landed face down.

  “What was that one?” Rich asked eagerly.

  “You don’t want to know.”

  “You mean you don’t want me to know.”

  Jade had lifted out another stack of books and magazines. There was an old newspaper on the top. The headline read, ‘Government Denies SAS Involvement in Hostage Rescue’. Underneath it was another paper—a lurid tabloid from the same day. Its headline was: ‘Our Boys Give ‘Em Hell’.

  “Wonder why he’s kept these?” said Rich.

  “Like we can’t guess.”

  “Shall I put them with the photos?”

  Jade nodded. “Good idea.”

  There was a small desk in the corner of the room, by the French doors. These opened on to a small patio overlooking the back garden. The desk had a sloping front that folded down to become a writing area. Behind it was a rack of pigeon holes and compartments. Jade had found a stack of old photos in one of Dad’s boxes, and put them inside the desk. Since then they had found several more to add to the collection.

  The newspapers were too big to go with the photos, so Rich put them in an empty drawer in the bottom part of the desk. Jade seemed busy unpacking the box, so Rich opened the lid of the desk and took out the bundle of photographs.

  There were maybe twenty or so, taken at different times in different places. Most of them showed John Chance—in army dress uniform, in a dinner suit, on an assault course covered in mud, but grinning. There was a crumpled picture of Rich and Jade’s mother. It was a small, creased, passport-sized shot, and it looked like it had been kept in a wallet or a pocket for years.

  But the picture that intrigued Rich was a faded snapshot taken in the desert. At least, it looked like the desert—there was lots of sand, but the four men in it were standing in front of a low wall. All four were dressed in khaki army uniforms. One of them was a younger John Chance, another Rich and Jade knew was Dex Halford, who’d been in the SAS with their dad. They both looked so young—in their mid-twenties, Rich guessed.

  One of the other two men was slightly shorter and stocky with a thin, dark moustache. He was standing beside John Chance, looking slightly wary. The fourth man was wiry and had a shock of hair the same colour as the sand. He was grinning and pointing at the camera with one hand, while his other hand was resting on Dex Halford’s shoulder.

  On the back of the photo was written in biro: Iraq —November 1990. JC, DH, Mark and Ferdy.

  “What’s that noise?” Jade asked suddenly.

  Rich pushed the photos back inside the desk, dropped the newspapers in front of them, and closed the lid. “I didn’t hear anything.”

  “Sounded like thunder.”

  Rich pulled out his mobile phone. “I’ll check the forecast.” He started up the web browser. It drained the battery, but he enjoyed using it.<
br />
  “Gadget man,” said Jade. “Why don’t you just look outside?”

  “It’s dark,” Rich protested as he waited for the webpage to load.

  “You can still tell if it’s raining. Rain—you know, that wet stuff that drops from the sky.”

  “Nothing forecast,” Rich told her.

  He pushed his phone back into his pocket and opened the French doors. The evening was quite warm for late autumn. There was a half moon and the sky looked clear. Rich stepped out on to the patio. The security light on the wall above came on at once, detecting Rich’s movement as he walked.

  The small garden ended with a wooden fence made of thin panels. There was a gate that led out to the small wooded area beyond. Behind that were fields and a small stream snaking through the hills. To Rich, brought up in an American city before the twins’ mother brought them home to Britain, it seemed very isolated and quiet.

  Now the quiet was shattered by the sound Jade had mistaken for thunder. Standing outside, Rich could hear it much more clearly. It was coming from the woods behind the house.

  It was gunfire.

  Rich stepped quickly back inside and locked the French doors.

  Outside, the security light went off. The doors were reflective panels of black. Rich found himself looking at his own reflection, Jade standing beside him.

  “Fireworks, do you think?” said Jade.

  “No. Guns.”

  Typical, thought Jade. Just when it seemed like we could finally settle down…

  “Might just be hunters,” she said, hopefully.

  “At night?”

  Jade sighed. “OK, we’d better take cover. And call the police.”

  At that moment the security light came on again, bathing the patio in harsh white light.

  Rich and Jade took a step backwards, as a dark shape approached the cottage. It crashed into the doors, bursting them open. A man staggered into the room, his eyes wide and staring. His face was caked in blood and his clothes were tattered and dirty.

  Rich stared open mouthed. He knew the man. He’d been looking at his picture just now. He might be twenty years older, his sandy hair going grey, but it was obviously one of the men from the photograph taken in Iraq.