Killer Intent

by Tony Kent

  It had been time-consuming. An hour went by before he finally settled on a location. The spot his instinct had first identified. Inevitable, really. But time spent on diligence was never time wasted.

  Next came concealment. A much quicker task. There was abundant foliage. Distinctive ground markings. With these Joshua could disappear completely. Within minutes both he and his Accuracy International sniper rifle had become invisible. So well hidden that even an expert eye would struggle to see him from feet away. It was a skill Joshua had mastered over decades. It required speed and it required confidence. Fear of discovery could not be a consideration. It could not be allowed to distract from the deadly accuracy of his shot.

  Joshua glanced at his concealed wristwatch. Time was short, but there was still more than enough for him to align the rifle’s Schmidt & Bender 3-12 × 50 PM II telescopic sight. Joshua went through a series of delicate adjustments. After two minutes the scope’s calibration and view were perfect, capable of sweeping from target to target with the slightest movement. Ten minutes more – seven separate checks – and even Joshua was satisfied.

  With accuracy assured, Joshua removed the rifle’s magazine from his inside pocket and locked it into place. He removed two more identical leather cases and placed them within easy reach, carefully hidden by the ample fallen foliage. Each case carried five lethal rounds. Fifteen .338 Lapua Magnum calibre bullets in total. It was more than Joshua could expect to need. Enough to bring Stanton’s enterprise to a bloody end.

  Joshua was trained to remain motionless for days at a time, in locations far less hospitable than the wet but moderate Irish climate. It should have made the ninety or so minutes that lay ahead seem like barely a pause. But the thoughts that now raced through Joshua’s mind made that impossible.

  As hard as he tried, Joshua could not stop imagining what his own reaction would be when he first glimpsed Stanton. It was unhelpful. He tried to distract himself by studying the area through his rifle’s sight.

  The clearing at the front of the cabin was between forty and fifty feet below, and perhaps 500 yards ahead. Far enough that no sound quieter than a gunshot would reach from one location to the other, but still close enough that every shot would be both accurate and lethal.

  He took in every detail of what would soon become his killing zone. Scanned from tree to tree. From shrub to shrub. Moving his rifle slowly, he made himself familiar with every object that could be capable of obscuring his view and calculated the clear angles he would need if those objects were used for cover.

  Joshua continued his sweep of the area, preparing for every eventuality. Finally he came to the cabin. He had to determine in advance which window gave which unobstructed angle. To ensure that no spot inside was beyond the reach of his bullet. His selection of shooting spot had already ensured that there were available lines of fire for every eventuality. And one of those lines now gave him a clear view of Sarah Truman, who was conscious and fighting to free herself.

  Joshua watched Sarah as she struggled. Beads of sweat ran down her cheeks and off her jaw as she fought against her restraints. The woman was still trying to break free, over half a day after her capture. Most would have retired in exhaustion by now. But not Sarah.

  Her determination was remarkable.

  It was hardly a surprise, though. He had expected Sarah would fight back before he had even entered the lock-up the previous night. She couldn’t have come this far without that kind of resilience. But still he had been unprepared for the alley-cat assault that had followed.

  The men in the garage had been easily dealt with. Joshua had taken the inner door from its hinges with one well-placed kick. Two head-shots dealt with the first two men. Quick. Efficient. Two bullets in the heart of the third and another two for Mullen should have ended all meaningful resistance.

  They had not.

  Sarah had frozen in the seconds it took Joshua to dispatch Casey’s men. That was natural enough. So she had been rooted to the spot when his gun then turned on her. Then he had lowered his gun and walked towards her. He had put out his hand, intending to take Sarah by the arm. Sure that she would come quietly if it meant that she would live. Looking back, Joshua was amused by how wrong he had been.

  Sarah had followed the best self-defence instruction: go for the eyes and the groin. She struck out with her right foot, though far too slowly to come close to its delicate target. Joshua had reacted with his usual sublime skill, unbalancing her with only the slightest movement of his body. A light push. Sarah had fallen back clumsily and struggled to regain her footing. But the effortless defence had not stopped her. She must have known from the outset that she was outmatched, but she seemed determined to not go down without a fight.

  Regaining her balance, she had launched herself at Joshua. He allowed her right hand to sail past his own, knowing she would miss his eye by inches and that the momentum would make her unsteady. But those inches could be misinterpreted, and the illusion of success had seemed to encourage Sarah. It made her fight harder, trying to scratch and tear at Joshua’s skin. It was as much as Joshua had been prepared to accept, and so he had pushed Sarah’s flailing arms aside, lifted her from the floor and threw her across the garage.

  Sarah had landed heavily on the hard floor, hurt, but adrenaline had forced her to her feet. And instinct had told her what to do. Taking a lesson from Michael, Sarah had grabbed the nearest thing she could use as a weapon. A four-pointed, cast-iron wheel brace. Metal in hand, she had rushed at Joshua, just moments after she had been tossed aside. It was so fast that Joshua had not yet wiped the fresh blood from his eye. But it was still not fast enough.

  Sarah’s gender had made Joshua underestimate her. But only at first. By this point he wanted their struggle over, and there was one way to do that without killing her. So Joshua had subtly moved his feet – planting them shoulder-width apart – and waited for Sarah to rush in with the wheel brace raised above her head.

  The blow that Sarah ran on to was devastating. Joshua had positioned himself perfectly. His timing was impeccable. A right cross had slammed onto Sarah’s jaw as she came within reach. It sent her crashing to the ground. And it kept her there.

  Blood had run free from Sarah’s mouth while her entire body shook; her nervous system coming alive just as her mind shut down.

  Joshua had not even needed to look. Experience had told him that it would be a long time before Sarah regained consciousness. And he wasted none of it. He had immediately bound her hands and feet, picked up the deadweight of her unconscious body and thrown her over his shoulder. He had then stalked out of the lock-up without looking back, leaving nothing but death and destruction in his wake.

  As he watched Sarah now – hours later and through the dehumanising distance of his rifle’s sight – he could see a blackening bruise covered the entire left-hand side of her face. The result of the punch she had run into. But it meant nothing to Joshua. He had harmed many women in his career. It was no different to hurting a man. To him, anyway.

  A sudden intrusion of sound brought Joshua’s focus back to the moment. All distractions were immediately wiped from his mind. With the smallest movement he turned his sight away from the cabin and into the clearing.

  A small motorcade emerged from the darkness of the tree-lined road. Joshua moved his scope from car to car. He watched as three identical off-road vehicles came to a halt in the open area ahead of the cabin.

  Joshua moved his eye away from his rifle sight and relied instead on his own un-enhanced vision. It gave him a full view of the scene ahead of him, too far for real detail but close enough to follow the full movement of the vehicles that was denied to him by the limited focus of his sight.

  The vehicles’ occupants were climbing out of various doors. Joshua watched their inept attempt to secure the area. He counted eleven men in total and he presumed that all were heavily armed.

  Enough to start a graveyard.

  Joshua became conscious of his breathing as he watched
. It was now an effort. He knew what it meant: that his anticipation was heightening.

  Stanton was in one of those cars, Joshua knew that. He knew that Stanton was waiting for the all-clear from his team before he would climb out.

  It amused Joshua that Stanton would trust these amateurs. A smile itched the corner of his mouth. Because none of these men could protect Stanton from the greatest threat that night: Joshua’s murderous intent towards the bastard who had threatened his family.

  But it was a threat that Joshua could not carry out. Not yet. Not until he knew that his family were safe and that Stanton did not have measures in place to ensure their deaths in the event of his own. Stanton must have known this when he answered to the assessment of ‘all-clear’.

  Joshua was too distant to hear what words followed. So he moved the scope back to his eye, to observe the response to the ‘all-clear’.

  Stanton’s men responded by returning to the first and third vehicles. Two bound and gagged captives were dragged from each. A man, two women and a child, all marched into the cabin and seated next to Sarah.

  Joshua’s scope swept then swept back to the middle vehicle and he felt his heart miss a beat as Stanton stepped into view.

  SEVENTY-NINE

  ‘No. Fucking. Way.’

  Joshua was trained to maintain silence when concealed and awaiting his shot. But this time – for the first time – he could not keep the words inside.

  The sight of Anthony Haversume was one of the greatest shocks of Joshua’s life. He had prepared himself to discover Stanton’s identity. Had steeled himself for any eventuality. Or so he had thought. But Anthony Haversume? The scourge of Northern Irish terrorism? It had not even crossed his mind.

  Now he wondered why, because it made perfect sense. The death of Neil Matthewson would clear Haversume’s path to high office; Matthewson was the only politician with approval ratings anywhere near Haversume’s. But to be behind that assassination and to make it look like a terrorist attack? That was a new level of wrong.

  The shock did not last long. Joshua would not be where he was if he could not shake off the unexpected. But the feeling of betrayal was not so easily ignored. Joshua may have abandoned the army years ago, but he still had military sympathies. He shared the military’s distaste over the government’s treatment of its soldiers. Hated how they were sent into battle under-funded and ill-equipped. And he despised the way William Davies had struck political deals with terrorists. He had believed that Haversume was the answer. That he was the man to lead his country from the mire. He had put what faith he had in the man.

  And now he knew it was a lie.

  That feeling – that bitterness – clouded Joshua’s judgement. He despised Stanton and had vowed a terrible revenge once this was over. A vow to make Stanton pay for the threats he had made. But Joshua had also determined that it would not happen today. It would not be until his family were safe. Joshua would wait, and he would enjoy his revenge cold.

  Except now he was not so sure.

  Joshua watched as Haversume strode about the clearing, barking instructions. An occasional glance into the hills was the bastard’s only acknowledgement of Joshua’s presence. Haversume was obviously unconcerned that his gunman now knew his identity. He had no fear of the man he had repeatedly threatened. It was a dismissive complacency that only angered Joshua more.

  That fury grew as Joshua continued to watch. It badgered him. He contemplated ending Stanton – Haversume – with a single bullet. But he could not win. Nothing would override Joshua’s duty to his family. He had already calculated the odds the moment he realised that Stanton would show up. And while he enjoyed the thought of taking Stanton’s life at this secluded spot, he knew that he could not.

  It was Haversume’s ability to consider every possibility that protected him. A torrent of bad blood had passed between Joshua and ‘Stanton’ during their short relationship. Threat after unacceptable threat. It went without saying that Joshua would want his tormentor dead. Which meant that Haversume knew the risk of putting himself in Joshua’s sights.

  It was this fact that held Joshua back. Haversume would not have placed his life in Joshua’s hands without arrangements in place for his own protection. Without the ‘bargaining chip’ of Joshua’s family. Both men knew that they were still under threat, and that the threat would only pass if Haversume came away unscathed. It was the ultimate insurance policy. The ultimate incentive.

  It was what kept the smile on Haversume’s face, and a bullet out of Haversume’s brain.

  Dempsey looked through his own hand-held telescopic sight. It gave him just the barest glimpse of a face he had not seen in seven years.

  James Turner was concealed beneath a duvet of mud, dirt and arranged shrubs. Dug into the hill. The man would have been impossible to find, if Dempsey had not watched him arrive.

  Dempsey had travelled alone after briefing the brothers. A police helicopter, arranged by Henley at Dempsey’s request, had covered the miles between Ulster and Wicklow at a speed unmanageable by land. It had allowed him to arrive in Avoca hours before Turner. He had then completed the journey with the same fast-paced trek up the hillside that Turner would later take.

  All of which had allowed him to reach the McGale cabin by 3 p.m.

  Just like Turner, Dempsey had taken time to identify the spot with the best lines of sight. The result was the same; Dempsey had settled on the spot his former sergeant now occupied. And then he had moved away, to a spot with the clearest view of Turner’s likely location.

  It was in this second spot that Dempsey had then concealed himself. Just as effectively as Turner would later manage. The two men had the same training. The same techniques. The same natural talent. For the next ninety minutes Dempsey had lain motionless.

  Invisible.

  Waiting.

  That ninety minutes had ended with Turner’s arrival, driving into the clearing in his newest hire car. Sunlight had broken through the gaps in the overhanging foliage, tracing a path from the vehicle’s front wheels to the cabin door.

  The tall, brown-clad figure had stepped out of the driver’s door. It was the first time Dempsey had seen his old friend since Colombia. The years seemed to have hardly touched the man. Turner was as slim and as fit as ever. His pale face carried none of the scars that Dempsey had picked up in the years between. The eyes were as alert as ever.

  Dempsey had watched as Turner moved to the car’s rear passenger door. Saw him pull a struggling figure from the back seat. Dempsey recognised the heavily bruised face of Sarah Truman.

  With Sarah secure in the cabin Turner had climbed back into his car and driven away. But there was no doubt in Dempsey’s mind that he would be back.

  Dempsey had calculated that it would take Turner a minimum of thirty minutes to return on foot, which would be his inevitable means of covering the distance; parking his car anywhere but in the town at the foot of the hills would risk giving his presence away.

  Which would defeat the point of having him here, Dempsey had thought.

  That thirty minutes had given Dempsey time, and he had used it wisely. By the time of Turner’s return Dempsey’s weapons were primed and ready for use. And they remained that way for the next few hours. Just as Dempsey had remained motionless and hidden, watching as his former friend selected the perfect spot for his particular task.

  Turner’s ability to blend into his surroundings had not been dulled by the years. Dempsey had seen that for himself. After perhaps an hour of careful scrutiny, the older man had concealed himself exactly where Dempsey had known he would. He had done so with a skill that Dempsey shared but rarely witnessed, becoming all but invisible.

  Dempsey had observed intently throughout, genuinely fearful that he would not find Turner again if he did otherwise.

  Once Turner was settled, Dempsey had used a particular branch – part of Turner’s coverage – to mark the spot in his mind before forcing himself to look away.

  He had not
allowed himself to obsess about Turner. To do so would only heighten his anticipation and release long-buried emotions, both of which were a waste of valuable energy.

  Instead he had used the time to survey the distance and terrain that separated them. What mattered today was how he could best protect Devlin, Casey and their men. And for that Dempsey needed to calculate how long it would take him to reach Turner without being detected.

  Usually it wouldn’t be necessary to deal with Turner face to face. A bullet would make the journey in an instant. But that was not an option today. Dempsey had already determined that it was too much of a risk.

  He could not have fired before Haversume’s arrival, while it had just been the two of them. Dempsey had no way of knowing what contact Turner had with Haversume, and so he could not have risked taking Turner out in case it had alerted Haversume. And he couldn’t fire now either, with the brothers yet to arrive. Not with Sarah Truman and the Lawrence family surrounded by armed men; they would surely die before Dempsey could finish Haversume’s full group. Even once Devlin and Casey did arrive, an immediate bullet would be too dangerous; the sound of gunfire, even a single muzzled shot, would almost certainly start a firefight in the clearing below, perhaps before Liam, Michael and their men were ready for the fight that would follow.

  The situation had left him no choice. Turner – the most dangerous man Dempsey had ever met – had to be taken up close. Which meant that Dempsey had to reach him.

  Keeping his body flat to the mud and the undergrowth, he began the long, slow crawl that would do just that.

  EIGHTY

  The road to the McGale cabin was narrow. Tree-lined. It wound around the hill, so closely that in some places its edge was a sheer drop. Surrounded to the sides and above by the wild foliage, shafts of light occasionally broke through the overhanging canopy. In those spots the sun would temporarily blind any driver, a shift from darkness to daylight.