The Ben Hope Collection: 6 BOOK SET

by Mariani, Scott

  Leigh saw it all from a distance as she ran through the snow towards the convent. The running figures vaulted the wall into the grounds and circled the buildings, kicking open doors and cocking their weapons. Over the noise of the helicopters she could hear a new sound. The nuns had stopped singing, and now it was their cries of terror and panic that were coming from the chapel’s arched windows. A sound that was cut short by the chattering of suppressed gunfire.

  One of the men bundled Clara roughly under his arm and carried her kicking and thrashing and screaming towards the waiting choppers. Leigh’s heart was hammering furiously. As she watched, one of the nuns burst out of the chapel, her face contorted in horror. She made it halfway across the courtyard before she was cut down by a blast from a gun. She collapsed on her face, the black-and-white habit stained with red. They got her by the ankles and dragged her body towards the chapel, leaving a thick trail of blood on the snow. Through the open chapel door Leigh could see the men throwing dead nuns in a bloody, twisted heap at the foot of the altar.

  She would have done anything to help Clara, but there was nothing she could do except run the other way. She sprinted back to the cottage. Nobody had seen her. She crashed through the door and ran inside. She was shaking violently.

  The shotgun on the rack. She looked up at it for an instant, then grabbed it down. Her hands trembled as she rummaged in the drawer for some cartridges. She thrust a fistful of them into her jacket pocket, opened up the gun’s action the way Ben had shown her, and slipped a round in each barrel.

  She burst out of the cottage.

  Run like hell, Leigh.

  She dashed through the passageway leading to the farm. She let out a cry as a man stepped out pointing a gun at her head.

  His face was hard, his eyes serious as he stared down the twin bores of the shotgun. ‘Drop the weapon,’ he warned, levelling his own.

  Leigh didn’t have time to think. She wrapped her fingers around the two triggers and let off both barrels. Right in his face. The gun kicked violently back, making her stagger.

  The impact of the gun at extreme close range was devastating. The man’s features disintegrated. Blood flew up the wall. She could taste the thick saltiness of it on her lips. She spat and ran on again, jumping over him and away from the convent. As she stumbled through the snow she feverishly reloaded the shotgun the way Ben had shown her.

  Another man saw her and gave chase. She reached the low perimeter wall and vaulted over it, making for the cover of the trees.

  He had orders not to kill her unless necessary. He fired a warning spray at the snow around her feet as she ran. Passing the snowman she’d built with Ben the day before, she turned and let off a barrel. The boom echoed across the valley.

  He felt the sharp bite of stray pellets in his thigh, slapped it and saw blood on his fingers. Angry now, he raised his weapon, this time to bring her down. Orders be damned. He’d seen what the bitch had done to Hans.

  She was zigzagging across his line of fire, feinting left and right to put him off. He squeezed the trigger. The chatter from the weapon churned up the snow and gouged the bark off a tree to her left. Then his magazine was empty. He slung the gun behind his back and drew the combat knife from the sheath on his belt.

  Twigs and branches raked at her clothes and whipped her face as she darted through the dense forest. The long shotgun caught on a branch and was torn from her grip. She started to run back for it, but he was gaining on her. She gasped and staggered on. But where could she run to? The steep drop down to the river was just up ahead. She’d run herself into a trap.

  The man saw the fallen shotgun and picked it up. There was a hammer cocked. One barrel gone, one to go. He smiled to himself. She was just twenty yards away, and the brightly coloured quilted jacket was an easy target against the forest.

  He took aim and fired.

  The shotgun kicked back against his shoulder with a rolling boom. The double barrel jerked upwards with the recoil and through the smoke he saw her go down.

  She staggered and went down on one knee. For a moment she clutched at a sapling, trying to stay upright. Then she pitched headlong into the thicket and tumbled head over heels down the slope, crashing down with a crackle of twigs.

  The man walked coolly up to the edge of the thickly wooded drop. It was a long way down. He could hear the rush of the river below. He looked down at his feet. Where she’d fallen, the snow was stained red.

  He craned his neck, peering down. He saw her, far below. She was lying tangled in the snowy reeds near the water, one arm outflung, her black hair spread across her face. There was blood on her lips and her exposed throat, and all down the front of her torn jacket. Her eyes were open and staring up at the sky.

  He watched her for ten seconds, fifteen, twenty. She wasn’t moving. No breath. Not a flicker in the eyes. He unzipped a pocket and took out a small Samsung digital camera. He switched it on and zoomed in on the body until it filled the frame. He took three shots of it and then put the camera back in his pocket.

  Something glinted gold in the corner of his eye. He reached out and snatched the little gold locket from where it had snagged on a naked twig. He held it out on his palm. It was spattered with bright blood.

  The convent was burning now, and the screams had been silenced. The first chopper was already rising up into the sky, rotors beating through the black smoke.

  He turned and started walking back.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Vienna

  Wreckage spun across the busy intersection as the massive truck ploughed through the Mercedes and tore it apart. Cars skidded and crashed into one another. The front and rear halves of Kinski’s vehicle spun in opposite directions. The rear half flipped and rolled and came to a rest upside down, while the front half rolled into the kerb with sparks showering from its dragging underside.

  The road was scattered with broken glass, slick with engine coolant. Horns blared. There were screams and yells from the crowds of people that lined the boulevard. Cars were strewn everywhere at crazy angles. The intersection had suddenly transformed from an everyday street-scene into a wild, chaotic sea of vehicles and terrified people all scattering in panic. An icy rain began to fall. In seconds it became a hailstorm.

  Ben shook pieces of smashed safety glass out of his hair. The Mercedes was a mess of twisted, buckled metal, crumpled plastic, shattered windows. Behind the front seats was a gaping hole where the rest of the car should have been. His ears were ringing from the impact and he was disorientated. One of his ammunition boxes had burst open and there were pistol cartridges rolling around everywhere inside the car. He could smell burning. The door next to him was hanging off its hinges.

  To his left, Kinski was groaning, semi-conscious, blood on his face. Ben could hear screaming and mayhem from outside in the street. Hail cannoned off the roof of the Mercedes.

  He twisted groggily round in his seat. The armoured security truck had skidded to a halt fifteen yards from the wrecked car. Now the back doors burst open.

  Five men spilled out. They were wearing black flak-jackets and carrying Heckler & Koch assault rifles. Military weapons, fully automatic, high-capacity magazines filled with high-velocity ammunition that could tear through steel and brick. Their faces were hidden behind black hockey masks. They strode purposefully through the hailstorm, rifle stocks high against their shoulders, barrels trained on the Mercedes. There was the deafening bark of high-powered fire. Bullets punched through the Mercedes door and ripped into the dash inches from Ben. Sparks flew from deep inside the electrics.

  Through a haze, Ben looked down at his hand. It was still clutching the partly loaded pistol magazine. Things seemed to be happening in slow motion. He could see the shooters getting closer, but his senses weren’t reacting.

  Focus. He slammed the mag into the pistol grip of the .45 and hit the slide release. By the time the first round had chambered he’d already found his first target. The man staggered back a step, stayed on
his feet, shouldered his weapon, kept coming. Bulletproof armour.

  The black Audi Quattro swerved through the chaos, bumping cars out of its path. Three men climbed out, ducking down low, drawing pistols. Kinski’s officers. They crouched behind the open doors of their car and fired on the masked rifle shooters. The pistol shots were poppy little things compared to the massive bang of military rifles. Fully automatic fire strafed the Audi. Supersonic rifle bullets chewed effortlessly through steel. One of Kinski’s men sprawled backwards, chest torn open, gun clattering across the road. People ran screaming. There was mass panic on the pavements. Sirens in the distance.

  Ben’s vision was too hazy to see the sights on his gun. He relied on instinct. This time he hit high of the armour. One of the rifle shooters went down, clutching at his throat, slipping on the icy road. A rifle bullet tore through the window-frame of the Mercedes and Ben felt the stunning shockwave ruffle his hair. He fired blind, two more rounds. Supporting fire came from the Audi. The four remaining riflemen fell back. The sirens were getting louder, cutting through the mayhem and the screaming.

  Kinski had come round. He was writhing in pain and clutching his leg. Ben kicked open the Mercedes door and rolled out onto the road, grabbing his bag as he went. He saw the riflemen falling back. They hadn’t expected this much resistance and Kinski’s guys had been a surprise.

  Beyond the ocean of abandoned cars were the flashing lights of the police. The four rifle shooters started to run. One of Kinski’s officers leaned across the perforated bonnet of the Audi and let off a burst of three rounds of 9mm. A shooter staggered and collapsed on his face on the wet road, his rifle spinning out of his grip.

  The other three made it to the pavement and dashed away down a narrow sidestreet. Kinski’s guy raised his badge as armed police burst out of the wailing fleet of cars and sprinted between vehicles to the scene, guns ready.

  Ben looked back at Kinski. The cop’s face was white and twisted in agony. ‘Leg’s bust,’ he grunted. ‘You go. Get after them.’

  Ben knew he couldn’t be discovered with Kinski. Too many questions and complications that wouldn’t be good for either of them. He gave the big German a quick nod that said till next time. Then he ran low between the abandoned cars, moving quickly away from the smashed Mercedes.

  The cops didn’t see him. He reached the pavement, staggering a little, still stunned. He slipped into the alleyway where he’d seen the three escaping shooters disappear seconds ago.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Ben sprinted away down the sidestreet, leaving the sirens and the devastation behind him. The hail had softened to sleet. He leapt over an icy puddle, came down on the edge of it and almost fell. His head was still bursting from the impact of the truck and his breath rasped in his ears.

  He stumbled around a corner and saw a cobbled alleyway to his left, narrow and winding, carving deep into the ancient backstreets of the city. He could see three black running shapes fifty yards ahead, their racing footsteps echoing up the walls of the buildings on either side.

  The men were running to a waiting brown Volvo saloon. Brake lights blazed through the sleet. The engine revved and Ben gave chase. The escaping riflemen piled in, doors slammed and the Volvo took off, skidding away out of sight.

  Ben stood in the middle of the wet road, his heart pounding, the gun hanging limply at his side as he listened to the noise of the car engine fade. But then it changed. There was a screech of tyres. The engine note began to rise.

  The car had U-turned. It was coming back.

  It rounded the corner, heading back up the alleyway towards him, accelerating hard. He could see faces behind the rain-spattered windscreen. Four, perhaps five men inside the car. He raised the Para-Ordnance and fired at the screen.

  His bullet punched a web of cracks in the glass. The Volvo kept coming, faster, aiming to run him down. He brought the pistol back to aim.

  But the gun was empty. He’d only had time to load five rounds into the magazine. Those five rounds were gone. The slide was locked back and the ammunition was still in the Mercedes. Two hundred and forty-five rounds, enough to hold off a small army, and he couldn’t get to a single one of them.

  The Volvo was gaining on him-he could see the grinning faces behind the cracked glass. Ben turned and ran. The engine roared behind him in the narrow alley, drowning out the echoing clap of his footsteps as he half-sprinted, half-staggered over the slippery, glistening cobbles.

  He wasn’t going to make it. The car crash had knocked the energy out of him and he could feel his strength giving out. Then he saw another alleyway entrance to the left. It wound sharply downhill between old walls and uneven houses, its entrance blocked by three old iron bollards. You could barely squeeze a large motorcycle between them, let alone a car.

  Ben raced between them and heard the Volvo slide to a halt behind him. He hurtled down the steep alley, the downward slope giving him more momentum. The Volvo’s doors opened. A shot cracked and a bullet sang off a wall.

  Ben ran on. The alley curved round to the right, taking him out of sight of his pursuers. He could hear their running footsteps coming down the hill. He rounded the lip of a crumbled wall, and suddenly the alley opened up into a little square. There was an old fountain in the middle.

  He leaned against it and paused for breath, stuffing the empty pistol in his belt. He looked around him. From the square, a whole network of tiny streets ran off in different directions. There were six ways he could go. He stole a glance over his shoulder and chose one at random. It was even steeper. He ran as fast and as lightly as he could, to mask the sound of his footsteps. There was nobody following him. They must have gone a different way, but he still had to hurry. They could split up, they knew the city better than him, and he was unarmed.

  Ahead of him, the downhill alleyway opened up onto what looked like a bigger street. Thirty yards, twenty. As he approached the bottom, he looked over his shoulder to check if they were following. He couldn’t see-

  Brakes screeched. He couldn’t stop in time. He ran straight out in front of the red Peugeot.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  The car knocked the wind out of him. He flew across the bonnet, cracked his head on the windscreen and tumbled to the ground.

  The driver’s door burst open and a young woman got out with a look of horror on her face. She rushed over to where Ben was slowly picking himself off the ground. She spoke in a flurry of German, apologizing profusely.

  Ben staggered to his feet and rested against the side of the car. His head was spinning badly. He tried to focus his vision up the alleyway. They would be here any second. ‘It’s OK,’ he muttered. ‘It wasn’t your fault.’

  Her eyes widened. ‘You’re American?’ she said in English.

  ‘British.’ He tried to formulate his thoughts. ‘I was mugged back there.’

  She looked confused.

  ‘Robbed,’ he explained.

  She nodded. ‘Bastards. I’ll call the police,’ she said, taking out her phone. ‘You get in the car. Setzen sie hier. You must rest.’

  ‘Nein. No. Keine Polizei. There’s no need for the police. Just get me out of here, please. Quickly.’ He picked up his fallen haversack and slumped in the passenger seat. The alleyway was still empty, but his pursuers couldn’t be far away.

  ‘Then I have to take you to the Arzt— to the doctor. To the hospital. You’re hurt.’ She looked at his bleeding head with concern, biting her lip as she started the car and pulled away over the cobbles. ‘I’m so sorry. I’ve never done anything like this before. I—’

  ‘It’s not your fault,’ he repeated. ‘Look, I don’t need a doctor. I’ll be all right. I need to rest a bit somewhere. If you can drive me to a cheap hotel, that’ll be fine.’

  She looked perplexed, then nodded hesitantly. ‘Whatever you want,’ she said. She drove out into the main street and filtered into the traffic. Ben struggled to twist round in his seat. There was no sign of anyone following. He hoped Kinski
was OK.

  She drove in silence, looking uncomfortable and distressed, then shook her head. ‘Listen, my flat is just half a kilometre from here. I have some stuff I can put on that graze, and you can rest there. Please, it’s the least I can do.’

  Ben’s head was throbbing. Maybe it wasn’t a bad suggestion. Staggering into a hotel with a bleeding head was a little too public. ‘All right.’

  ‘I’m Ingrid,’ she said. ‘Ingrid Becker.’

  ‘Ben,’ he said. ‘Jesus, my head.’

  Ingrid’s phone rang. ‘Ja? Hello Leonie. Yes…I can’t talk now, I’m with a friend…maybe see you later, OK? Tchüss.’ She switched off the phone. ‘Sorry about that,’ she smiled. ‘My cousin. Here we are.’ She flipped on her indicator and turned the Peugeot into a basement car park.

  Ingrid helped Ben into the lift and pressed the button for the second floor. He slumped against the lift wall and watched her. She was in her mid-twenties or so. Her hair was short and dark with a few reddish highlights. She was dressed in jeans and combat boots, an Afghan coat over a check shirt, but for all that she still managed to look strikingly attractive.

  The lift opened and she carefully took his arm to walk him to her door. ‘You OK?’

  ‘I’ll be fine.’

  Ingrid’s flat was small but comfortable. She directed him to a two-seater sofa in the main room. It was warm in there, and he took off his leather jacket and laid it on the arm of the sofa. He sat down and reclined into the sofa as she hurried to the bathroom to fetch cotton wool and disinfectant. ‘This will sting a little,’ she said. She leaned over him and dabbed his head with a ball of moist cotton.

  ‘Ouch.’

  ‘Sorry I feel so terrible about this. Can I get you something to drink?’

  Ben took out his flask. ‘You have some as well,’ he said. ‘I think you need it more than me.’