2016 - Takedown
Page 28
Harper crept over the grass to the main building. The lights were on downstairs, and in the two smaller buildings closer to the entrance. From where he was crouched, he could see the silhouettes of three big men looking towards the gate. Another had approached it and was shouting through the bars. He made out four Thais in green tunics and faded jeans stalking back and forth, shouting and waving their arms. One threw a bottle, which smashed against the gate. The three silhouettes moved closer to it, all shouting now.
He worked his way along the wall to the back entrance and inside. The house was in darkness. He pulled the silenced gun from its holster under his arm and crept towards the main sitting area. He heard a Russian voice, and the crackle of a transceiver. Two men were looking out over the swimming pool and the bay beyond. From where they were standing they could hear the shouts at the front gate but not see what was going on. One had a transceiver to his ear and was barking into it in Russian. Harper recognised one word: khuyesos. ‘Cocksucker’.
He wasn’t thrilled at the idea of shooting two men from behind but he knew that, given the chance, they’d have no qualms about doing that to him. He waited until the man on the transceiver had paused for breath, then shot him in the back of the head. Blood and brain matter sprayed over the window and the body began to fall, seemingly in slow motion, to the floor.
The other man began to turn but Harper had already taken aim and the second shot was also to the head, sending a virtually identical spray across the window. He followed the first to the floor, the only sound being the thud as he hit it.
Harper stood for a while, listening. Both shots had seemed louder than they had in Mickey Moore’s compound, probably because the sound echoed off the walls of the villa, but he doubted that anyone outside would have heard anything. He turned and went back into the hallway and along to a closed door. He was pretty sure it led to the bedrooms. He reached out for the handle and said a silent prayer that Valentin was alone. If there was a doctor or a nurse with him, things could get complicated. While Harper was perfectly happy to shoot armed Russian bodyguards, unarmed civilians were a different matter.
He twisted the handle and the door opened into a corridor. He realised he had been holding his breath and exhaled, then took a long, slow breath, and exhaled again. To his right there was a door with a slatted panel at the bottom, which he guessed led to a laundry room. The shouting at the gate faded as he padded along the marble floor. He was in a corridor with Thai silk panels hanging from polished teak rods. He passed a teak and glass cabinet full of opium paraphernalia, including dried poppy heads, scrapers and cutters for extracting the drug, and pipes of various shapes and sizes. At the end of the corridor there was another set of double doors, ornately carved with matching dragons. There were two handles and he pulled them towards him, slowly at first, then with more force when he found they weren’t locked.
He saw movement to his left and went down into a crouch as he brought the gun up. A man in a tracksuit was pushing himself up out of a winged chair and reaching for a gun on a side table. Getting up had been a big mistake, Harper thought. Putting the gun on a side table had also been a mistake. Combining the two meant that the confrontation could end in only one way. Harper fired and hit the man square in the chest. His eyes opened wide in surprise and he slumped back in his chair. There was a sucking sound from the wound, which frothed with red bubbles. More blood trickled from between the victim’s lips. He wasn’t dead, not yet, but he was no longer a threat.
The sound of the shot woke Valentin. He was lying in a king-size bed, propped up on two pillows. An intravenous drip was connected to his left arm. He began to grunt and thrash like a stranded fish, his eyes wide and panicking. Harper walked towards him, the gun aimed at the centre of his chest. There was no need to say anything. Valentin knew what was happening and why. And so did Harper. Snappy one-liners were only for the movies. He pulled the trigger and shot Valentin in the face, then turned away. The bodyguard in the chair was dead now: his eyes were closed and his chest had stopped moving. Harper put the silenced PB into the man’s right hand and picked up the bodyguard’s gun, a Glock, shoving it into his underarm holster. If nothing else, the silenced weapon in the bodyguard’s hand would make muddy waters even muddier.
He slipped out through the kitchen and ran across the compound, bent double. There were angry Russian shouts from the main entrance but the Thais clearly weren’t backing down and were giving as good as they got.
He put the ladder against the wall, climbed over and dropped to the ground. The Thais stopped shouting and shortly afterwards he heard the motorcycle engines start up.
He reached the pick-up truck as the motorbikes were driving down the hill. ‘How did it go?’ asked Mickey, as Harper climbed in and pulled off his ski mask.
‘All good,’ he said.
‘Where’s my fucking ladder?’
‘I left it there,’ said Harper.
‘Well, go back and fucking get it,’ snarled Mickey. His face broke into a grin. ‘Only messing with you,’ he said. He switched on the engine but kept the lights off as he drove away from the villa. ‘All’s well that ends well, huh?’
‘I hope so,’ said Harper.
‘It’s over, mate. These Russian gangsters, they don’t give a shit about each other. There’s no honour among Russian thieves. They’ll pick over what’s left of Lukin’s business and move on. They won’t care about you.’
‘Good to know,’ said Harper. ‘And thanks. For everything.’
‘No need,’ said Mickey. ‘We’re mates and mates take care of each other.’
‘All for one and one for all,’ said Mark, punching the air. ‘Can we go and get drunk now? I need a beer.’
‘Amen to that,’ said Harper. ‘And I’m paying.’ The phone in his hip-pack buzzed and he pulled it out. It was a text message. Just three words: YOU’VE GOT MAIL.
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Stephen Leather is one of the UK’s most successful thriller writers, an eBook and Sunday Times bestseller and author of the critically acclaimed Dan “Spider” Shepherd series and the Jack Nightingale supernatural detective novels. You can find out more from his website www.stephenleather.com
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81