Going Dark

by Neil Lancaster

  ‘You don’t have to do this, Boris. Kill me but leave them alone, they’re innocents,’ Tom said in Serb as they came to the front of the house.

  Boris didn’t take his eyes from Tom’s, keeping the MP7 pointed at him, a cruel smile splitting his face. ‘Shut the fuck up. There is nothing for you to say right now. Just know that, if you try anything, then your family will suffer. Cooperate and you will all die quickly and cleanly.’

  Tom took a strange comfort from the sunlight warming his back as it rose above the horizon behind him. He had spent so much time in deadly situations in foul weather, so he found it oddly pleasing that he would die with the sun warming his body. He took in the vast expanse of forest, the huge Scots pines swaying in the now gentle breeze. If he looked left, he could see the jutting peak of Bynack More. The air was sharp and clear with the usual distinct smell of pine in the air and he breathed in deeply, drinking it in like a fine wine. There are worse places to die, he thought.

  ‘We will all walk into the clearing. If you don’t cooperate you all die where you stand,’ Boris said, still fixing Tom with his blank-eyed stare. Tom could detect no doubt or nerves, just utter conviction from the Serb.

  He heard a muffled sob from Shona and a muted growl from Cameron as they all shuffled across the track and through the gap in the fence into the cleared forest.

  As Tom crossed the boundary, a flash of reflection flickered from the woodpile he’d hidden behind just a few hours ago, a slight but definitely visible blink. Tom felt a glimmer of hope rise in his chest. Only one thing could have caused that, and he thought of the radio transmitter sitting in the kitchen of the farmhouse.

  They carried on stumbling over the rough terrain for about twenty metres before Boris said, ‘Stop there.’ He began to circle clockwise around the three of them, the weapon never leaving Tom.

  ‘Your father wants to watch this. Luka, get your phone and videocall him. All three of you kneel, now. If you don’t, I shoot the bitch in the gut and you watch her die.’

  Shona’s sobbing intensified but Cameron just glowered, tears running down his granite cheeks and spilling over the duct tape that still secured his mouth. Tom looked at them both in turn, nodded and gave a slight wink and a smile. ‘Do it, guys. Just do it,’ he said, something in his voice making Cameron’s eyebrows rise just a little.

  Tom turned his head to the right to look at Boris, then turned to look left at Luka, who stood with a smartphone in his outstretched hand, clearly recording them. He could hear rustling behind him: about five metres away he estimated, mentally noting the position where Aleks stood.

  He heard the distinctive sound of a handgun being cocked behind him and smiled before he said, ‘You know, Boris, old boy, this isn’t the first time I’ve had a gun pointed at me. Not the first time at all. I wasn’t scared then and I’m not scared now. Would you like to know why?’ His voice was measured, low, and even.

  He saw the merest flicker of doubt and puzzlement cross Boris’s face as the large-calibre bullet from a sniper rifle smashed into the back of the grey-haired man’s head, causing it to explode in a violent shower of blood, skull, and brain matter.

  ‘Shona, DOWN!’ he screamed, as the rifle’s report roared and cracked. Tom realised that he was obstructing the sniper’s view of Aleks, who was bringing the Glock to bear on him, and threw himself to the left, clearing the way for their unseen saviour. He rolled into a tyre rut and raised his head just enough to hear the second explosion from the rifle. Aleks was thrown backwards as the next shot hit him centre-mass, hurling him back with the terrible force of a large-calibre impact.

  Two down, one to go, thought Tom as he began to move, striding with force across the uneven ground to the spot he’d marked Luka as last occupying. Shona was screaming on the ground, with Cameron laying protectively over her, as Tom lunged past them towards Luka.

  Tom figured no more than three seconds had passed since the last shot and he bolted towards Luka, who was squatting on the ground, the phone falling from his grip as he reached for the pistol secured in the front of his trousers. There was a look of utter confusion, panic, and horror on his face. Tom’s reactions were far too quick for him and it seemed as if Luka was wading through treacle, his body yet to catch up with what his eyes had just witnessed.

  Tom did not give him a chance to recover, kicking him with a brutal Muay Thai right-footed front-kick that caught the still-rising Luka square on the cheekbone. Flesh split and bones cracked. Luka was stunned and bleeding, but he was strong. He swayed but did not fall, just slumped to his knees.

  Tom had no intention of leaving it there, not while he was still cuffed. Luka had signed his own death warrant when he had pointed a gun at his family. Tom stepped over the kneeling Luka so that the man’s head and neck were between his thighs. He picked his right leg up, secured his foot behind his left calf, and fell to the ground onto his back. He tightened the triangle chokehold on Luka’s neck and squeezed as tight as he could. Luka began to buck and thrash, but Tom tightened the choke even more and sharply bucked his hips, jerking his leg upwards. There was a muffled click from Luka’s neck and he died immediately, his neck snapped.

  Tom raised himself onto his haunches and reached into his boot top to retrieve the folding knife that had remained there during his captivity. He’d not been able to come up with a feasible way of deploying it until that moment. He opened the blade behind his back and the keen edge bit through the restraints, quickly freeing his wrists.

  He looked at Luka, his eyes open but dead and lifeless. A faint tinny voice came from the dropped smartphone, close to the body,

  Tom picked up the phone and looked at the screen, which was filled with the ugly face of Zjelko Branko. The man was shouting, ‘Luka, Luka! What is happening?’

  Tom operated the icon on the screen to reverse the camera so it focused on his own face, still smeared in camouflage cream. The shock at the sight of Tom’s cam-cream-smeared image was clear on Branko’s face. ‘Novak!’

  Tom spoke, his voice even, deadpan and emotionless. ‘Branko, you don’t need to say anything. There is nothing you can say. Your sons are dead. All your people are dead. I would advise that you try and enjoy the rest of your life, Branko. Live every day as it is your last, knowing that wherever you go, wherever you try and hide, I am coming for you.’ Tom finished the call and dropped the phone onto Luka’s corpse.

  He ran over to Cameron and Shona, cut their restraints and removed the duct tape as gently as he could from their mouths.

  ‘It’s over,’ he said and the three of them sat and hugged each other on the damp earth in the dawn sunshine, Shona sobbing quietly.

  *

  They sat there for a few minutes, just gathering their thoughts and letting the horror of what had happened sink in, before Cameron said, ‘You got some friends helping you then, boy?’ The relief was evident on his face.

  ‘It would seem so,’ he said, looking in the direction of the sniper.

  Almost on cue the bark of the quad bike’s engine jumped out from the direction Tom had left it. The noise increased, and it could be heard coming along the forest track five-hundred metres away. Tom was grateful for the departed high winds that had masked his arrival on the quad bike the night before.

  Cameron broke the silence once again. ‘Come on, love, let’s get you in the house and get the kettle on,’ he said, standing and offering his hand to Shona. He pulled her upright and she looked directly at Tom. Her eyes were full of terror and tears rolled down her cheeks. She was deathly pale and looked older than her years.

  ‘I knew you’d come, darling. I knew it,’ she smiled with tears in her eyes.

  ‘Both of you go inside while I see who’s coming. Cameron, take a look at Shona’s finger. We will need to get her to the hospital as soon as we can, but we really don’t want cops up here right now.’ said Tom. There was some clearing up to do; it suddenly struck him that they had six dead bodies to deal with.

  The quad’s engine gr
ew louder as it approached the cottage, having traversed the forest track, eventually reaching the main road which led to the farmhouse access track.

  Tom turned to watch as the Yamaha appeared around the bend, a ghillie-suit clad sniper at the controls with a long-barrelled rifle slung over his shoulder. Tom recognised the rifle as an Accuracy International 338. It was a little overkill for the job bearing in mind he had only shot from about two-hundred metres away. Tom recalled that, in 2009 in Helmand, a sniper from the Life Guards had killed a Taliban fighter at a range of over 2,400 metres with that weapon; still, he had no complaints about this sniper’s weapon systems choice.

  He pulled up alongside Tom and shut off the engine. ‘Mr Brogan sends his regards, sir. He would like to speak with you.’ He handed a satellite phone over to Tom but remained on the quad; he was a small, wiry, black man in his early forties and had the look of a seasoned veteran. He was dressed in a fully-camouflaged sniper suit while he cradled the rifle reverentially, staring at Tom with a half-smile.

  ‘I never let a favour go unreturned, my friend,’ Mike said down the phone.

  ‘Well, all I can say is thank you, Mike. I thought that was the end for all of us.’

  ‘My man is disappointed that he got so close. He likened it to shooting fish in a barrel. He probably won’t want to talk very much, he’s a slightly shy freelancer,’ Mike said. ‘What do we have to deal with there, man? There’s a clear-up team en route.’

  ‘Six bodies, unfortunately,’ said Tom. ‘Three in the clearing, plus another two in the bush by the house, and one inside. I didn’t have much choice, sorry.’

  ‘No problems. The clear-up team will be there soon. Your folks okay?’

  ‘They will be. Cameron has seen it all before, but Shona has had the tip of her finger removed,’ Tom said.

  ‘There’s a medic with the clear-up team. Get him to have a look at it, but you will have to come up with a reasonable story to explain how it happened. We really can’t have cops there any time soon until we have cleared up. We have very little time; I had to call in some favours to pull this off and I want to get it all cleared up as soon as we can. Also, we’ll need to get our tactical kit back. I’d rather it didn’t fall into the wrong hands and I guess you don’t want to look after it.’

  ‘The three corpses in the clearing have the weapons. The comms kit and spare ammo is in the house, and the case is up at the bothy,’ Tom said.

  ‘That’s cool. My guys can retrieve at the clear-up. Is there much of a mess inside?’

  ‘None, really: just a broken table and maybe a bit of blood from a busted nose. We just need to get rid of the cars,’ Tom said.

  ‘No problems. If you could get the BMW back down to London and lose it somewhere, one of my guys will get rid of the Merc. We’ll take care of the stiffs and we’re good to go. I think the crows will take care of the detritus the sniper rifle caused,’ he said in an amused tone. Tom realised that, despite the pristine good manners, Mike was a ruthless operator who had obviously organised clear-ups after similar incidents over the years.

  A faint thump-thump of helicopter blades became audible from the north.

  ‘Okay, the clear-up team will be with you in minutes. They may be a little shy: they are all freelancers as well. I’ll call you back once things get sorted your end,’ Mike said, and he ended the call. Tom handed the satellite phone back to the sniper, who nodded his thanks.

  Within a few minutes, a Sikorsky UH60 Black Hawk, painted in plain, dark green, tore into view over the treeline, its rotor-wash sending the branches into a fury as it came in low and fast.

  Tom noted that the engine tone was identical to his coastguard taxi earlier, which meant it wouldn’t attract too much comment at that early hour; he wondered if that was a deliberate strategy.

  The helicopter landed in the clearing and a civilian-clad man with a flat-top haircut and a pistol on his hip exited and jogged up to Tom. ‘Good morning, sir. I understand you have a casualty. We have a medic who can assist.’

  ‘Yes. My mother has had the tip of her finger removed.’ Tom said.

  The man returned to the helicopter and a similarly dressed individual exited and jogged over, holding a compact rucksack.

  ‘Is your mom in the house? I will be able to help.’

  ‘Yes. Thanks, she’ll be in the kitchen.’ Tom said, watching as the man jogged off towards the house.

  The other man spoke. ‘Can you direct us to where the items for removal are located?’

  Tom explained the location of all the corpses and weaponry to the man, who nodded his understanding and turned to jog back to the helicopter, where hand signals summoned some unseen occupants. He was joined by three other men, all similarly dressed, one of whom was carrying several black bodybags. The whole appearance of the new arrivals was one of complete efficiency and practised unity of purpose. Tom wondered how many times similar things had happened in the UK.

  Tom looked at the still-silent sniper and simply said, ‘Thanks, man.’ There was real gratitude in his voice.

  The man just smiled widely, turned on his heels, and jogged to the helicopter, his job done.

  The rotors eased to a stop and silence once more enveloped them. The first man approached Tom and said, ‘Why don’t you go and join your folks while my guys sort this situation out, sir? They’ve done it before and probably wouldn’t appreciate extra and unnecessary witnesses. Make them a cup of tea. That’s what you English do, right?’ He showed white teeth in a pleasant smile.

  ‘I’m not English,’ Tom said, returning his smile.

  *

  The clear-up team worked with predictable efficiency, transferring all six corpses to the Black Hawk on a stretcher once they’d been body-bagged. The only trace that anything untoward had occurred in the farmhouse was the damaged coffee table. The medic was extremely efficient, if taciturn. He cleaned and thoroughly dressed the severed digit, which fortunately had been cut at the point of the nailbed so had not caused any tendon damage. He also gave Shona a shot of antibiotics but advised that she would need to seek medical attention in due course.

  Tom took a moment to assess his reaction to personally killing four people over the past hour. In essence, he felt the same as the twenty-eight times he’d snuffed out lives before, when employed as a sniper in the Middle East.

  Nothing.

  He had no demons, no dark thoughts, no guilt, and he knew he wouldn’t dwell on it. They had to die, they deserved to die: they chose to imprison his family with intent to kill them, so Tom felt nothing other than relief that Cameron and Shona were safe. He wasn’t malicious and he didn’t enjoy killing, but neither did he feel bad about it.

  Tom turned to his foster parents, feeling a tug of affection towards them. It made him feel a little more human and possibly normal, having such emotions that he rarely felt otherwise.

  ‘Are you guys going to be okay?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ll be honest, Tom: my finger hurts like fuck,’ Shona said. Tom was amazed to see that there was a touch of humour in her voice, despite the events of the past few hours. Once again, he was amazed by the inner strength of this tough, Highland woman.

  ‘I’m sorry that I brought this to your door, guys,’ Tom said.

  ‘Shut up, boy.’ Cameron spoke forcefully. ‘You brought nothing to our door. Those individuals being loaded on the helicopter brought this to our door. You did what you had to do and risked everything for us. Just promise me one thing.’

  ‘I’m listening,’ Tom said, feeling emotion rising in his chest.

  ‘Make sure that every one of the bastards who did this, organised it or allowed it to happen pays an appropriate price. Remember what I always said to you when you were growing up? Whatever you do, always do right!’ Tears coursed down the cheeks of the rough, tough ex-Bootneck, and his eyes glistened with anger.

  Once again, all three of them hugged.

  Within forty minutes, all the bodies were on board the helicopter, together with Mik
e’s clear-up team and the sniper. Tom had not exchanged so much as a word with any of them and it was clear by their actions and body language that they wanted no interaction at all. He imagined that staying as invisible as possible was essential in their line of business.

  Tom sat in the kitchen with Cameron and Shona, all of them clutching mugs of tea but no one speaking. A mixture of exhaustion and the stress of the previous hours were clearly taking their toll and Tom wondered what effects this would have on them. Cameron was an old campaigner who had seen his own share of violence and combat, but he was not getting any younger. Shona was tougher than she looked, but no one needed to see and experience the things she’d had forced upon her by evil men with evil intents. Her quiet, Highland life had been shattered, albeit temporarily, and Tom hoped she’d get over it in time.

  The satellite phone buzzed in Tom’s pocket.

  ‘You guys okay?’ Mike said.

  ‘We’ll be grand, Mike. I want to thank you for everything. We’d all be dead if it wasn’t for you,’ Tom said.

  ‘You know something. You once did the biggest favour a man can do many years ago, so me being here right now is all thanks to you.’

  ‘I think we can call it even now,’ Tom said.

  ‘My friend, I now have twin daughters and a beautiful wife, and we live in a vineyard in Southern California. None of that would have happened if it wasn’t for what you did in Basra when you risked your hide to save mine. I’ll never repay the favour as far as I’m concerned.’ Mike paused and there was a brief silence before he continued.

  ‘My guys have left the keys in the BMW, if you can deal with that. The Brankos drove up from London in it so it’s your ride back down. It’s on false plates. You may want to leave them on and avoid all the cameras you can. Maybe you could park it up near Heathrow somewhere. We will lay a trail of computer breadcrumbs suggesting they’ve all gone back to Serbia, so it should kill off any missing person enquiries. One of my guys is doing the same with Arken’s Mercedes and he’s on his way to Glasgow with it now. The only trace of anything untoward here will be gone once the crows have finished their meals.’