The Contract Man

by A P Bateman

  The Contract Man

  By

  A P Bateman

  Text © Anthony Paul Bateman

  2015

  All rights reserved

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, printing or otherwise, without written permission of the author.

  Author contact: anthonybateman1@gmail.com

  Author website: http://anthonybateman1.wix.com/author-blog

  Also by A P Bateman

  The Ares Virus

  At a US research facility funded by the military and clandestine agencies a super-virus has been created as a first strike military weapon. During its conception the anti-virus has furthered the possibilities of medical research by decades. Such is its potential, treachery has struck from within. If the virus is released, then the anti-virus will be worth billions to the pharmaceutical industry. Isobel Bartlett worked on the project and knows its potential. After the suspicious death of her mentor, and upon hearing part of an audacious plan to make money from the project she flees the facility with the information needed to culture the viruses to seek help from a contact with the FBI. Up against rogue government forces, she is helped by Agent Rob Stone of the Secret Service who has been tasked by the president to investigate a disbanded assassination program after his investigation led him to the bio research facility. The two are hunted mercilessly by an assassin from Washington to the streets of New York. Only when the hunt reaches the wild forests of Vermont can ex-special forces soldier Stone take the fight to the enemy.

  For my family. Crazy, loud and lovely.

  1

  He studied the face of the teenager next to him, noting the scars on his otherwise youthful face. How old was he? Sixteen perhaps even seventeen but surely no older. It was the eyes which deceived. They belonged to someone who had seen and lived a great deal of life at its harshest. More than they should have. They were the eyes of a middle-aged man, perhaps older still.

  The boy’s hands shook momentarily then tightened, forming a firm grip· around the battered wooden stock of the old Russian-made Dragunov sniper rifle. He sighted his right eye an inch or so away from the telescopic sight then gradually closed his left eye allowing his target to come into full view.

  “Keep it steady. The target’s six hundred metres. Wind’s three to four, right to left,” the man paused as he glanced at the youth beside him. “Put the crosshairs a foot above and two to the right.” He swallowed, his teeth grit together in frustration as the youth carried out his orders with slow methodical movements, just as he had _been taught. Only now, weeks after he had first met him, taught him the finer skills of long range marksmanship he wished that it was he who was taking the shot. “Keep the mark on him, then re-sight when he stops walking.”

  The youth grinned, then blinked profusely as a trickle of perspiration contaminated his eye. He moved his head and readjusted his aim. “This is for my people…” he smiled, forcing two decaying teeth over his dried and cracked bottom lip. “This is for Allah…”

  The man tapped the youth on the back of the head. “Quiet,” he said. “Don’t even think it. Think only of the target, the wind and the bullet. When that bullet gets there almost two seconds after you squeeze the trigger, you’ll have time for another shot. You should be ready for a follow up.”

  “But we don’t take more than one shot from a firing point,” the youth said, his eye still on the image in the scope. “Never. That’s the rule.”

  “We do today,” the man kept his eye on the spotting scope. “That man to the target’s left – your right – is Jamil Betesh. I’ve been after him for two years. I’m not leaving here without a shot.”

  “Very well,” the boy said nervously. His hand visibly shook on the weapon’s stock. “Would you not prefer to take the shot?”

  “No, it belongs to you.” The man thought of the boy’s family. Thought of how the man in the sights beheaded them, their hands bound, begging on their knees…

  The boy breathed out a long slow and steady breath and the man knew he was ready. The boy squeezed the hair-trigger then visibly flinched as the heavy rifle recoiled violently against his bony shoulder and discharged a loud, near-deafening ‘crack’.

  The man kept his well trained eye against the rubber eyepiece of the spotting scope, waiting for the bullet to find its mark. It did so a full two seconds later and the man in the lens crumpled to the dusty ground, flailing his arms wildly.

  The older man quickly turned to the boy who was readjusting his aim on the heavy rifle. “Akhim! The target’s down, but not out!” He forced his eye back against the spotting scope and then took a deep, steadying breath. “The bastard’s moving about all over the deck. It looks like a shoulder wound. He’s not going anywhere, leave him for now and put one in Betesh.”

  The new target was crouched over the wounded man, his assault rifle held loosely in both hands. There was a moment of indecision as he surveyed the mountains and the clump of rocks they were sheltered behind. The boy fired again and the wounded man fell completely still.

  “I said Betesh!”

  The man grabbed the rifle and pushed the boy roughly aside. He checked the breach was closed and that the next round had chambered cleanly and sighted quickly in on the crouching man. Only he wasn’t. He was running and he was making good ground towards the Toyota pickup truck. And the fifty calibre machine gun fixed on top. There would be a moment when he stopped running and mounted the bed of the pickup truck and at two seconds of travel, more likely a second and a half now the barrel was warmed, there was a chance of hitting the man as he slowed. The sides of the vehicle were high, but the rear wheel would provide a step. The man kept the rifle moving in time with the target. He overtook slightly, aimed at a point three feet above the rear of the vehicle and squeezed.

  Jamil Betesh stepped onto the tyre and heaved his weight upwards. The 7.62mm Swedish-made match grade soft-nosed bullet had left the barrel at eight hundred and ninety metres per second but hit Betesh square between the shoulder blades at a little under six hundred. The terrorist fell into the bed of the pickup and wouldn’t be getting up.

  The man squinted through the scope at the first target, which was laying somewhat twisted but perfectly still. He scanned the scope across the ground and already an ISIS fighter was on the big Browning in the back of the truck. He worked the cocking lever and brought the weapon round towards them. The big weapon’s range was twice that of the sniper rifle, with approximately twice the power and was fed by a two hundred round belt coiled in the ammo box that was clipped to the side of the weapon. It didn’t have the accuracy of the sniper rifle, but with tracer rounds staggered every tenth bullet, it would be a case of simply guiding the bullets in with all the skill of a child playing with a hosepipe. The man took a steadying breath, breathed out slowly until he had expelled all the air and squeezed the trigger. The fighter dropped out of view. He took another breath, methodically breathed out once more and fired into the action of the massive machinegun. He saw sparks through the clear image in the scope and hoped it would be enough to buckle the metal and put it out of commission.

  The first rule of sniping had been broken. More than two shots fired from the same location could prove fatal. Ideally, one shot, one location. The Islamic State fighters now knew their exact position. The pair had previously wet the ground with water from a flask to eliminate dust clouds blown by the muzzle when the weapon was fired, and the taping of the barrel vents with duct tape had eliminated muzzle flash, but the weapon was loud and resonated through the mountainous terrain on either side of the valley. They were now as good as pinpointed.

  The man turned to the boy as he dropped the
rifle onto the ground and picked up his dusty pack. The boy was staring tearfully at the ground. He’d avenged his family, but the man knew the numbness, the emptiness of revenge and he could already see that the boy was not feeling the elation he had expected, had spent time dreaming of. He had merely started to grieve properly at last. The man slid off of the rock and into the dried-up gully as gunfire erupted from the valley below. Almost three seconds later, in unison with the echo from the mountainous sides of the valley, bullets pinged and sang around them. Six hundred metres away and firing at an elevated position was pushing it for AK47s but the bullets seemed to be arguing to the contrary and both men ducked their heads as they threw themselves flat onto the hard earth.

  The boy fumbled with the safety on his AK47, but the man shook his head.

  “Too far. Let’s get out of here instead.”

  The boy reached for the sniper rifle. Again the man shook his head.

  “But it will help my people, a rifle like that is like the hand of Allah!”

  “Not part of the plan.” The man turned towards the ridge, then suddenly sensed the closeness of the ensuing volley of gunfire. “Right now we need the feet of your bloody Allah!” He caught hold of the youth’s collar and pulled him as he ran along the dusty gully.

  The two men bolted from the temporary cover of the gully and out into the open vulnerability of the plateau. Again, a volley of gunfire erupted some way behind them, ever closer, but this time the drone of engines at full stress was clearly audible.

  The ground was rocky, almost a moonscape, making progress difficult as they set out across the plateau which would take them to the brow of the hill and the relative safety of the tarmacked road several hundred feet below.

  The engine noises seemed ever closer, gaining on them rapidly. The man could tell that they were quad bikes. He hadn’t seen them in the recce and there had been no mention of them in the intelligence report. But he knew they were a game changer.

  Another volley erupted violently behind them, but this time a mass of dust and fragments of rock exploded just a few metres to their right.

  “Down!” The man grabbed at the youth’s shoulder and pulled him towards the rugged outcrop of jagged rocks. It acted as precious cover, but in a firefight if you’re taking cover you’re taking fire. So the man pulled the boy to his feet and he half guided, half hauled him towards the next pile of rocks. “Akhim!” he shouted. “We have to fight. We’re not going to make the extraction point. As soon as we take cover aim and take steady single shots. Reload and keep heading for the extraction point.”

  Both men got down behind the rocks and took up firing positions. The man raised the Heckler and Koch G3 rifle and sighted on one of two ISIS fighters. Both were at two hundred metres and he dropped one with one shot and the other straight after. The rifle was old and battered but well maintained and he always used Swedish match quality ammunition when he could. By contrast Akhim was firing long bursts of fully automatic fire and doing nothing more than eroding the rock formations ten thousand years prematurely. The man knew the Kurd would use the weapon like that. You just couldn’t train some people. The man got to one knee, aimed over the boy’s back and fired three successive shots at a fighter who was taking aim from a crouched position one hundred and fifty metres distant. The fighter went down. He grabbed at the boy again and the two were running hard once more.

  The next burst of gunfire sounded closer, raining bullets around their pounding feet and throwing pieces of debris into their faces. Above the dense sound of the impacting fragments and ricocheting bullets, a soft ‘thud’ was clearly audible.

  The boy went limp, dropped his assault rifle with a clatter. He was a dead weight in the man’s hand. He pulled hard and thrust the youth behind the welcome cover of rocks just in time for the next salvo of bullets.

  The sound of more quad bikes filled the air. They were closer now, so close he could smell the poor petrol mix and burning oil. He shook the boy’s limp arm. The boy was unconscious and there was a lot of blood on the ground. The man turned around and checked the ground behind. There were many fighters now. It was reaching a critical point where saturation was about to happen. He needed to thin them out. He aimed the big rifle and fired well aimed single shots. He had both a power and accuracy advantage over the ISIS fighters with their AK47s but they had numbers. They were also close, at the ideal operating distance for their weapons. He thought momentarily of the 9mm Makarov pistol in his shoulder holster and made a mental note of the single 9mm bullet he had earlier put in his shirt pocket. MI6 didn’t go in for cyanide capsules anymore, but there was no way he was going to be the star of another ISIS beheading film on the internet. It was a strange notion, because as he fought on yet another battlefield in a fifteen year career, for the first time he could remember, he genuinely wasn’t scared. His resolute decision was actually liberating in the extreme. Now, he was fighting extremists on their terms. He stood again, took careful aim and dropped another two ISIS fighters. He turned back to the boy and checked him over. The 7.62x39 mm bullet from the AK 47 assault rifle had penetrated the youth’s shoulder, tumbled after losing velocity and had exited through his elbow, taking most of the flesh clean off the bone. The boy was coming round and stared up at the man, his eyes wide, his lips quivering as the sudden bout of shock started to set in. The man knew he was going to lose consciousness again before long.

  “Akhim!” he shouted. There was no response, so he slapped the youth across his cheek, snapping him back.

  Teardrops trickled down the youth’s face and he struggled to speak through the excruciating pain. “Am I to see paradise, Mister English?” he rasped, his throat suddenly dry.

  The man slipped the pack off his shoulders and hastily unfastened the straps. He shook his head, as he attempted to comfort the boy. “No Akhim, just the doctor, when I can get you there.” He tugged at the medical pack and quickly pulled out a pair of surgical scissors and a large dressing. He worked quickly and expertly, first cutting one of the webbing straps off the pack to use as a tourniquet, then binding the atrocious wound with a gauze and bandage. He jabbed a morphine ampoule into the youth’s other shoulder hoping it would reach his heart faster.

  A sudden clatter of gunfire erupted to his right, sending a thick cloud of dust and rock fragments high into the air. The man rolled for cover, picked up the G3 and aimed it quickly towards the edge of the rocky outcrop.

  An ISIS fighter had moved forward, reaching the rocks as the man had tended to his wounded colleague and without taking careful aim had snatched a random burst of gunfire. He was now backed up against the rocks awaiting another opportunity.

  The Englishman only needed one opportunity. He was close, was used to his weapon and the peep sight was working well up to two hundred metres so far. He slipped onto his stomach and quietly edged his way to where the soldier had played his hand. He held his breath, waiting for a sound, something that would give him the advantage. When it came it was slight enough, but nonetheless, a definite sign to the well trained ear. A light metallic sound, the sound of an AK47’s sling clip rattling as the soldier moved. The true professional has no need for a canvass strap attached to his weapon, he carries it at all times. The fighter had unwittingly thrown in his hand. The Englishman eased himself forwards, then sensing the other man’s presence and guessing at the distance, he swung out of the shadows and into the bright desert light. The ISIS fighter held his weapon firmly, close to his chest, the barrel pointing upwards. He was sweating profusely and his lips were mouthing silent prayers towards the clear blue sky. He was young and clearly frightened. The Englishman needed nothing more. He brought the rifle up to aim, catching the man’s surprise clearly in the weapon’s sights. A single shot and prayer time was brought to an abrupt close.

  He flung himself back into the welcoming shadows just as a volley of gunfire erupted from the outcrop of rocks near two abandoned quad bikes. He felt the displaced air from the bullet near his face and ducked his head in
voluntarily in reflex. Too close by far… When the volley was over he swung back, dropped to one knee and fired seven or eight shots at each quad bike and rider. Bullets tore through the wheels and into the engines. The riders scattered, firing wildly. One fell and lay still. As the next volley of gunfire sounded he was back behind cover and changing the weapon’s magazine. It was his last one. Twenty rounds left.

  He turned his attention back to his companion. Akhim seemed to be high, as if he were tripping on acid. His eyes were large and glazed over and his lips were pursed into a pathetic grin as the effects of the opiate started to kick in.

  “You got them?”

  “Just one,” the man replied quietly. He bent down and caught the youth by the lapels of his tattered jacket then hoisted him cleanly to his feet and positioned him over his right shoulder.

  The clatter of assault rifles sounded off some way behind him and then the sudden engulfing explosion of a grenade detonating just a few metres from their rocky sanctuary made the man take flight. He struggled momentarily then shifted the weight further up his back. With the casualty firmly in place he began his frantic retreat down the steep rocky gradient towards the road, as the four remaining pursuers suddenly enjoyed a surge of bravado and maintained their vicious onslaught.

  Ahead of him the battered Land Rover pickup pulled off the road and two men leapt out and down to the dry and dusty ground. Both carried AK47 assault rifles with collapsible shoulder stocks. They opened fire, releasing a salvo of copper-coated lead above their heads.

  “Akmed! Four, I think, directly behind us!” The Englishman stumbled over a small boulder, dropping the rifle in a bid to break his fall. He landed heavily, but instantly forced himself back to his tired feet. Ignoring the weapon he regained composure and headed towards the two men. “Shameel! Get back into the bloody vehicle and get us moving!”