He was about to raise his hand in greeting when the two men turned away and walked the few paces to the cottage. One bent to the lock, worked it a moment, then pushed open the door. The other pulled a gun and burst inside.
It was as if a gallows door had opened beneath his feet.
Adrenaline hammered through him. He wavered a moment, then sprinted to the wall and dropped to the ground. A loud bang from inside the cottage amped out through the open door – a gunshot? A door being kicked in? Clay pulled the .45 calibre Glock G21 from under his jacket, cradled it dry in his lap, worked the action. He remembered Crowbar slamming the gun on the table the day he’d left him here. Stay put, his old platoon commander had said. I’ll come get you when things calm. Whatever you do, stay clear of town. With that bounty on your carcass, every poes from here to Cape Town will be hunting you.
Clay swallowed hard then started along the base of the stone wall, keeping low. He reached the cottage, crouched and looked seaward across the courtyard. The door was less than five metres away. It was the only way in or out. He waited, listened, but all he could hear was the pounding of the surf and the wind buffeting the cliffs, and above it all the drowning crash of his own heart.
How the hell had they found him, here of all places? Had someone recognised him in town? He’d been in and out in less than twenty minutes. Who, other than Crowbar, knew about this place? Knew he was here? Questions boiled in his mind.
But he didn’t have time to think them through. The door opened and one of the men stepped out into the rain-swept courtyard. He was short and stocky, powerfully built, and wore a black, thigh-length raincoat and a black baseball cap. He took a few steps towards the wall, shoes crunching on the gravel. They were city shoes; must have been wet through. A pistol with a long silencer hung from his left hand. He stood for a moment looking out to sea. Clay raised the G21, steadied it on the stump of his left arm and aimed for the middle of the man’s chest.
Just then, the second man stepped out into the rain. He was taller, wore a dark jacket and was bareheaded. Slung across his chest was a Heckler and Koch MP5 machine pistol. As Clay shifted his aim to take out the more heavily armed man first, the shorter man reached for his cap and pulled it off his head, slapping it against his thigh as he turned to face his companion.
‘Hy is nie hier,’ he shouted above the wind. ‘N’ volledige opfok.’
Clay’s heart lurched. The sound of his native tongue pierced something inside him. He’s not here, the man had said. A complete fuckup. He’d said it in Afrikaans.
‘Ja, maar hy was hier,’ said the taller man, looking out towards the bluff. But he was here.
The other man nodded. ‘Kan nie ver wees.’ Can’t be far.
Clay knelt behind the wall, the Glock trained on the man with the MP5. His hand was shaking. These were his countrymen, Boers by their accent, men who by their look and demeanour had in all probability fought against the communists in Angola and Southwest Africa, as he had. Their presence here, in the foresight of his gun on an autumn night on the north coast of Cornwall, seemed impossible, the ramifications a nightmare.
Clay knew he had to act quickly. He could run, disappear into the heathland, go west along the coast, give himself a head start. But they’d already managed to get this close. If he ran, they’d follow, just like they’d done with the SWAPO terrorists all those years ago, tracking them like Palaeolithic hunters, wearing them down with calloused feet, pushing them hour by hour towards the quicksand of exhaustion. It made no difference, the instrument: helicopters or spears, stones or high-powered assault rifles. Even, as he’d learned to his horror, back then during the war, the cocktails of muscle relaxants and incapacitating agents that shut down everything but your brain, suffocated you as you fell to the sea from four thousand metres, a silent scream drowning in your throat. Clay shuddered at the memory.
The tall man turned, looked down the track, readjusted the sling of his weapon so its muzzle pointed down, and said something to his companion that Clay could not make out. A gap opened in the clouds. Moonlight flooded the gravel courtyard again, pale as a false spring day. The two figures stood silhouetted against the hammered steel background. Clay breathed in, steadied his aim.
I did not ask you to come here, he said. I did not will this or want it in any way. I know why you are here, and I cannot let you leave. You have given me no choice. No choice.
He exhaled, squeezed the trigger.
The large-calibre slug hit the tall one between the shoulder blades, severing his spine. His legs collapsed under him and he sandbagged forward, inert, hands limp at his sides. Before the dead man’s face hit the gravel, Clay shifted left, aimed for the other target and fired again. This time to wound, to incapacitate, not to kill. The man spun right, fell to the ground. But then he was up, scrambling towards the cliffs, his feet flailing and slipping in the gravel. Clay was about to fire again when the lights went out, the moon suddenly obscured by a thick bank of cloud. The target was gone, black on black. Clay could hear the man scrabbling on the crushed stone. He aimed low along the wall of the cottage, fired blind once, twice, aiming at the sound: deflection shooting. Slowly his night vision returned. The tall one was where he’d fallen, face down, the rain pelting his back. Otherwise, the courtyard was empty.
2
2.7 Seconds of Nothing
Clay scanned the open ground beyond the wall. Nothing. Had he hit the other guy? The way he’d spun and fallen, Clay guessed yes. But he couldn’t be sure. Unarmed, the guy would try to run, if he could. But did he have a backup weapon? He might be hiding on the cliff side of the cottage, hurt, bleeding, waiting for Clay to come to him; or perhaps he was moving around the building now, trying to flank him.
The clouds had thickened, and the world was every shade of black, liquid and heavy, screaming out its anger at these desecrations, this waste. Clay leaned into the wind, almost blind, soaked. The cliff edge was a pace away. Waves exploded against the rock below sending chutes of sea spray hurtling up towards him, the foam black like the sky, the salt coating his lips, stinging his eyes. He turned and crouched, tried to cover his eyes, peered along the cliff edge. Nothing. Just the dark outline of the cambered roof, the low front wall built into the cliffside. Clay knew he had to move fast. By daylight, his chances of getting clear would fall away rapidly. Any hope he might have had of getting some information out of his would-be assassins was gone. At this point it was about one thing: survival.
Clay sprinted back to the courtyard and knelt beside the corpse. The rain had washed the bullet wound clean, sluiced the blood away over the gravel. He pushed the Glock into his waistband, flipped the MP5’s strap over the dead man’s head and pushed him over onto his back. The man’s eyes were open but his nose and teeth were smashed. Pieces of gravel pushed into the skin, the mouth, pierced through the bottom lip. It would have hurt like hell if he’d been able to feel anything when he hit the ground.
Clay grabbed the machine pistol, checked the action and flipped off the safety. The other man’s handgun was there in the gravel too. Clay picked it up, thrust it into his jacket pocket and sprinted towards the back of the cottage. Rounding the corner at a crouch, he moved along the landward wall. Here he was in the lee of the wind, shielded from the rain. At the far corner he paused, took a deep breath, raised the MP5 and rested the forestock on his stump. This was the fourth side of the building, the only place he hadn’t checked. If the guy was still close, this is where he’d be. Clay breathed out and pivoted around the corner, swinging the MP5 around and down the line of the wall, into the full fury of the wind.
No one. Just the slate and the dark grass grown up around the stone foundations, and beyond, the dark, godless anger of the storm. Clay looked out across the rain-swept gorseland. If the man had fled out there, Clay would never find him. He moved along the wall towards the cliff and peered over the edge. It was forty metres straight down (d), with only a narrow, slippery ledge of slate and an involuntary seconds of nothing
but gravity (g) and empty space to the shingle below.
The man had disappeared. Perhaps he’d fallen off the cliff and been dragged out to sea, taken by the storm. Or, with his friend down, he’d panicked and run. If so, he was probably making his way back to wherever they’d left the car. The nearest paved road was about three kilometres inland, paralleling the coast. Either way, Clay could be sure of one thing: word would be out fast, and they’d be closing in.
It was time to go, time to get back to Rania, find her and disappear for good. Keep that promise he’d made to her, to himself. Maybe change the trajectory of his life, find some of those things he’d been looking for, atone for the wrongs, one more just done.
Clay let the MP5 hang on its strap, turned back and made his way to the courtyard. He’d grab a few things from inside then sprint to the road. If he could find the car, he’d take that. If he couldn’t, he’d go overland on foot.
The men had left the cottage door open and the swirling wind had carried rain and dead leaves across the old slate floor tiles. Clay slipped as he came in, caught himself, started towards the fireplace. He’d taken three steps when a flash of movement caught the furthest edge of his vision.
Clay’s instinctive turn towards danger was less than one-eighth complete when the blow caught him high on the left shoulder, knocking him off his feet. He crashed to the floor, the MP5 flailing about his neck. A dull ache spread through his arm, replaced almost immediately by that acute precision of screaming nerves, hot and wet. He turned to see his assailant slam down hard onto the slate, forearms breaking the fall with a crack, a bloodied blade in his left fist. It was the gunman, the Boer from outside. He’d slipped as he lunged in attack, and now he grunted in pain, scrambled to his knees and dived at Clay, the blade flashing. Clay rolled left and whipped his arm across his body and down onto the man’s forearm, deflecting the blade and sending his attacker twisting to the floor. Clay followed through, driving the man’s knife hand down hard onto the slate flag. The knife spun across the floor. Clay groped for the MP5’s pistol grip. His finger found the trigger. He was about to raise the weapon for a shot when the Boer lunged. A burst roared out in the enclosed space. Rounds clattered off stone, splintered wood. The Boer hit him with a full body tackle, punching the air from his lungs. He came down hard on the slate. The Boer’s full weight was on him now. The pistol grip was gone from his hand. The Boer grabbed for the MP5’s forestock, wrenched it hard, jerking Clay’s head forward. They were face to face, inches apart, the smoking weapon wedged between their bodies. The Boer was trying to pivot the MP5’s muzzle down into Clay’s chest. Clay could feel the thing digging into his ribs. He twisted his torso and drove his hand into the space between their bodies and grabbed the weapon. As he did, the Boer bared his teeth like an enraged hyena, snapped his head forward. Clay turned his head just as the Boer’s jaw cracked shut, an enamel snap and the kiss of lips against his cheek. A kiss that would have taken away half his nose. Clay’s hand was on the pistol grip now. He found the trigger guard, prised away a finger, crushed it against the curved metal of the guard. The man screamed in pain. Then the shallow-grave rip of the MP5, its detonations muffled and drummed up through two chest cavities. Bullets shredded the kitchen cabinetry. Cordite stung his nostrils. For a fraction of a second they stared at each other, realising that somehow neither had been hit. Clay had his thumb wedged into the pull space behind the trigger now and jerked back hard on the pistol grip, hammering his knee into the man’s body. The Boer grunted, clamped down hard on the MP5. The guy was strong. Clay was winning the battle for the trigger but losing the fight for the gun. He tried to roll out, but the Boer outweighed him. He could feel the bastard’s breath on his face, smell the cigarettes and crap coffee. The gun’s barrel was coming down onto Clay’s throat, touching now, as the Boer levered his weight, still trying to pry Clay’s fingers from the trigger. Clay gasped for breath, pushed back with all his strength. He could feel the barrel crushing his windpipe. Pain seared through his brain, began its too-quick metamorphosis into panic. The Glock was there in his belt, he could reach it with his stump. If he still had two hands this would be over. But he didn’t, and it wasn’t. The Boer shifted his balance forward, putting all his weight into the MP5, trying to choke Clay to death, going for the kill.
There are moments in any struggle, any battle, when outcomes hinge on the thinnest line, a fraction of a degree. Now, Crowbar used to call it back then, during the war. The moment when winning or losing, living or dying, depended on what you did right now. Whatever Crowbar was, he was no fatalist. Nou, seuns, he’d yell, charging forward, R4 dispensing single-shot judgement on any who chose to stand and die. Now.
Clay raised his knees and pushed up hard against the floor, a powerful hip thrust that over-balanced his attacker, momentarily releasing the pressure on his neck. Clay arched his back, lined up the man’s head, and with every joule of energy he could summon, whipped his neck forward.
Clay’s forehead made contact with the man’s nose. The cartilage collapsed as if it were raw cauliflower. He could hear the crunch. Clay rolled away, twisting the MP5 on its strap and sending his attacker crashing to the floor. Clay gasped for air, fumbled for the MP5’s grip. By now the Boer was up, blood streaming black over his lips and chin. He stood a moment, frozen. A stab of moonlight flicked across the room. The man was fair-haired, with big, pale eyes set in anxious sockets and a heavy, farm jaw, a goddamned voortrekker if he’d ever seen one. Clay raised the MP5. The Boer’s eyes widened.
‘Wat julle gestuur het?’ said Clay. Who sent you?
The Boer blinked twice. ‘Fok jou.’
‘Who sent you, damn it?’
The Boer glanced towards the open door, the gale howling outside. Then he looked back at Clay and smiled through the blood. ‘Mandela het my gestuur,’ he slurred. Mandela sent me.
Clay pulled the trigger. Nothing. A jam. Or out of ammunition. He dropped the MP5, reached for the Glock in his waistband. And then the light was gone, and so was the Boer.
Clay scrambled to his feet, Glock out, the MP5 flapping about his neck, and staggered to the door. The man was already across the courtyard. Clay raised the G21, took aim through the slanting rain. The Boer hurdled the low wall and stumbled into the gorse just as Clay fired. Clay ran across the courtyard to the wall. A dark shape was lurching towards the cliff edge, about thirty metres away now, barely silhouetted against the sea. Clay steadied himself, raised his weapon. The Boer stopped, turned. He was right there, the abyss before him. Clay fired. The Boer pitched back and was gone.
3
A Talisman of Sorts
Clay walked back across the courtyard, the pain in his arm rising now as the endorphins and adrenaline burned away. The rain had relented and the cloud cover thinned. Moonlight sent shadows twitching across the landscape. He knelt once more beside the dead man and went through his pockets, extracting a wallet, three extra magazines for the MP5, a set of keys with a BMW ring, and a mobile phone, its standby light blinking red. Clay flipped open the phone and thumbed the scroll button. Nothing. The phone was password protected. He pulled out the SIM card and threw the phone over the cliff.
Back inside the cottage, he lit a lamp and inspected his arm. The knife, still lying on the floor, had sliced through the sleeve of his leather jacket and into his deltoid. He walked to the bathroom and opened the big cupboard. Crowbar’s idea of a medical kit resembled a military field hospital. There were giving sets, IV kits, every size and shape of bandage and compress, sutures, tape, morphine, coagulants, antibiotics by the carton, splints and slings. Clay took off the jacket, winced as he pulled the grey hooded sweatshirt over his head and pulled off his shirt. It was a clean slice across the arm, about three inches long, at least a couple of centimetres deep. Not too bad. He’d been lucky.
He stood and watched the blood ooze from the wound. As he’d lunged for Clay, the Boer had slipped on the wet floor and missed his target. Those new city shoes he’d been wearing, the shiny
wet leather soles, had probably saved Clay’s life.
Which shoes you put on in the morning.
The side of the helicopter you got out of.
Where you decided to step. Here, or here.
These were the things that determined if you lived or died, whether you ended up in a coma for the rest of your life, lost your legs just above the knees, went home in one piece, physically at least. The brute physics of it – in retrospect always so pure and clear, something you could calculate, but in the causation so utterly unpredictable and, in the end, so spectacularly unfair. And for so long it had been for him the ultimate argument against the existence of God, and since he’d met Rania the ultimate argument for Him. For without His arbitrage, what possible explanation? What meaning?
One thing was certain. Allah, if he was out there, had a warped conception of justice, but a hell of a sense of humour.
Clay washed and dried the wound, snapped open a vial of disinfectant and doused the upper part of his arm, letting the sting nudge away this pointless philosophy. Soon he had the wound passably sutured and bandaged. He was getting good at working one-handed, much better than the bumbling frustration of the first weeks. He grabbed a box of painkillers, extra sutures, gauze and compresses, more disinfectant, a box of morphine, two clean towels and a box of surgical gloves, carried them into the kitchen and put them on the table.
Time was running. Clay threaded on a clean shirt, a dry hoodie, and hunched into the wet leather jacket. He opened up his bag, stuffed in the extra medical supplies. Then he grabbed the MP5 from the table, cleared the chamber, pulled out the magazine, and slid weapon and ammunition in with the supplies. From the drawer under the sink he fished out a box of .45 shells for the Glock and dropped them in with the other stuff. He walked to the fireplace, opened the flue, reached up and worked loose the blackened brick just above the baffle, pulled out a metal tin and extracted a fold of cash, sterling and euros, and two passports: Marcus Edward, Canadian, from Vancouver; and David Jackson, a Brit born in Shepton Mallet, Somerset. Both documents contained the same photograph of Clay, taken two and half months ago, the day after the killings in London, the eyes narrow, the mouth drawn, the hair chopped back. He looked like someone else, someone older. Clay stashed the money and passports in the inside breast pocket of his jacket. He glanced at his watch. Just gone seven. Maybe ten and a half hours of good darkness left. He pulled a rain poncho from a hook near the door and pulled it over his head.
Evolution of Fear Page 2
