“Yep. Sure am.”
Rollo released his hold on the SA80’s handgrip and pressed the button on the device clipped to his jacket. Seconds later, a powerful voice boomed out from the loudspeakers dotted along the compound’s defensive walls—the “presents” they’d delivered. It boomed out in Hungarian, the speech powerful and authoritative.
The captain had written the script, and a local had translated it into perfect Hungarian, thinking she was being tested for work with a UK broadcaster. An actor had recorded the speech under the same impression. PeeWee built the hardware specially for the occasion, and Corky designed the software. A truly collaborative process designed with one aim in mind—to wreak havoc, spread fear, and minimise unnecessary loss of life.
Rollo doubted it would work, but he admired the captain’s efforts. Even in his grief over Danny’s passing, he still wanted to offer Viktor Pataki’s hired men the chance to reach tomorrow. Rollo wouldn’t have bothered, and most of the men felt the same way.
The amplified voice boomed out: “You are surrounded by elite members of the Hungarian Defence Force under the Command of Brigade General István Orbán. If you drop your weapons and assemble at the front gates, you will not be harmed. You have sixty seconds to comply.”
Rollo’s target, Curly, reacted as expected. He shouted to his friend, and raised his weapon, but couldn’t find a target. Paddy’s system had been set up not only to amplify the volume, but to focus the sound to a point in the centre of the compound. No one inside would have a clue where the noise actually originated from.
Connor Blake’s quiet laugh bubbled up at Rollo’s side. “My bloke’s wetting hisself. I reckon he’s about ready to fold.”
The loudspeaker voice returned with the countdown, again in Hungarian.
“Huszon … tizenkilenc … tizennyolc …”
“Twenty … nineteen … eighteen …”
Either Curly was made of sterner stuff, or he’d completely lost the plot. He raised his AK-15 and pulled the trigger. The rifle’s reports echoed into the night.
Rollo squeezed his trigger once. Curly stopped firing. The AK-15 fell from his hands, and his body crumpled to the dust.
You asked for it, son.
As the countdown continued, Blake’s weapon coughed.
“There goes another bad guy,” he said, and lined up his sights on a different target. “Shit.”
“What’s wrong?” Rollo asked, trying to locate Blake’s second target.
“The two fuckers over by them rose bushes just dropped their guns and threw up their hands.”
“Too bad. Keep your eye on them. Make sure they head towards the RV point. Where’s the other two?”
“Over by the fountain, last I saw them.”
Rollo swung his weapon to his right and picked up the final pair. They were standing in front of the fountain as Blake said. They’d also dropped their weapons and had their hands raised high above their heads. One looked at the other and said something. A moment later, with the countdown two seconds from zero, they stepped over their abandoned rifles and hurried towards the main gates.
“That were bloody easy,” Blake said, sounding disappointed.
Rollo sniffed. “Either the Giant of Győr doesn’t pay enough to inspire loyalty, or he recruits from the weakest part of the gene pool. Keep your eye on them all.”
The front door to the house opened inwards and two men stepped out, arms raised, hands empty.
“Eyes up, Sergeant.”
“I see them, Colour.”
A bald man appeared behind the first two, his arms held low, keeping his hands hidden by the men in front. Rollo turned his rifle on the man, who seemed to be pressing the others forwards.
Without warning, Baldy’s right arm hitched up, the hand full of Sig 17. He darted to his right and raced for the cover of the garage attached to the side of the house.
“Where the fuck’s he think he’s going?” Blake asked.
Rollo took the shot.
Baldy twisted at the waist and slammed into the granite wall. He left a smear of blood on the stonework as his body slid to the ground.
“Don’t know, don’t care,” Rollo said, and meant it.
“Either he’s the worst gambler in the world, or he don’t want the army getting hold of him. Bet he’s sorry now.”
The two remaining men at the front door stretched their arms up higher and showed empty hands, their eyes on the fallen Baldy.
Rollo let go of the handgrip and took hold of the handheld unit. “Time to see if this thing really works.”
He raised the device to his lips, spoke slowly, and let the Corky-generated app translate his words directly into perfect Hungarian. At least that’s what Corky claimed it would do.
“You two by the front door! Keep your hands raised and make your way towards the rendezvous point at the front gates. Walk slowly.”
Without hesitation, the two men started walking.
Rollo lowered the translator.
“Well bugger me,” Blake said. “Bloody thing actually works.”
“Always knew it would, Alpha Three. Corky hasn’t let us down yet.”
“We really gonna to let them go, Colour?”
Rollo nodded. “After taking their mugshots and their fingerprints and making sure they’re unarmed. Yes, we are.”
“Seems a real shame to let them walk.”
“Won’t be for long, Sergeant. We’ll bring Interpol into the loop the moment we’re done here. None of these bozos will be free for long.” Rollo held out the translator. “Here, take this thing. Drive them all to the gates and hold them there until we’re ready to tag and bag them. I’ll check in with the others.”
Blake took the black box and showed great restraint in not using it although his cheeky grin showed just how much he wanted to.
Rollo stepped away, but kept one eye on the movement in the compound. “Alpha Two to all, report please. Over.”
“Delta One here, Alpha Two. All clear our end. Two bogeys down. Sending one survivor your way. Over.”
“Bravo One here, Alpha Two. Another two on their way to you, Alpha Two. Over.”
Ten seconds passed without a further response. Ten seconds that dragged out into minutes.
C’mon Larry. Where the hell are you?
“Charlie One, this is Alpha Two. Report please. Over.”
“Charlie Two here,” Slim responded, breaking protocol. “Over.”
Damn it.
Rollo cast his eyes towards the eastern edge of the compound, wondering whether it would be safe to leave Blake in sole charge of so many captives.
“Report in, Charlie Two. What’s wrong? Over.”
“One bogey down permanently. Sending the survivor your way. Over.”
“Where’s Charlie One? Over.”
“Flat on his arse, Alpha Two. Over.” Slim spoke through a chuckle.
His happy response turned Rollo’s growing worry into instant relief. Fat Larry and Slim Simms had a decades-old friendship that had been forged in war. For Slim to be so relaxed meant that Fat Larry was okay. The only thing hurt would be his pride.
“Care to explain, Charlie Two? Over.”
“He, er … took a little tumble and lost his earpiece. Idiot’s looking for it now, Alpha Two. Over.”
“That’s valuable proprietary equipment, Charlie Two. It can’t fall into enemy hands. Don’t come home until you’ve found it. Over.”
“Understood, Alpha Two. I’ll get Control to ping it for us in a minute, but wanted Charlie One to try finding it on his own first. You should see him on his hands and knees scrabbling in the dirt. A real hoot. Over.”
“Behave yourself, Charlie Two. This is an active operation. Alpha One is still inside the hot zone. Keep your wits about you. Over.”
“Roger that, Alpha Two. Over.”
Rollo smiled at the imagined picture of Fat Larry and Slim in action. “The instant translation app seems to be working a treat, Charlie Two. Use Charlie One’s unit to instr
uct the survivor. Assuming he hasn’t lost that, too. Make your way to the RV point when you have the earpiece and not before. Alpha Two, out.”
Connor Blake chuckled. “Fat Larry ain’t gonna be living that down in a hurry, eh?”
“Keep your eyes on those men, Sergeant.”
No time for any more banter. The captain was still inside and might call for assistance at any moment.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Thursday 11th May – Viktor Pataki
Pataki Compound, Outside Győr, Hungary
Viktor quivered. His bowels loosened, as did his bladder. It took all his massive willpower not to soil the carpet.
The Makarov.
Oh God!
Where did he put his Makarov?
Light, brilliant white light, exploded into his eyes—the light from a powerful flashlight. Momentarily blinded, Viktor squeezed his lids tight shut. Afterimages burned into his retina—the orange outline of a man carrying a handgun and a flashlight. Unable to stop himself, Viktor opened his eyes. The afterimages faded slowly, but Őrült remained.
Blessed Mother, save me!
“Move, and I end you right now, Giant of Győr!” Őrült said, his words confident and mocking, his voice quiet.
The child on the bed whimpered. Useless little bitch.
The light lowered. Viktor blinked and his eyes cleared enough to let him see the green dot of a laser target drilled into his chest. It held steady. Impossibly so. As though clamped to a tripod stand. A single trigger squeeze would deliver a bullet into his heart. Instant death.
“Englishman?”
“Yep,” he said, still calm and strong—fearless. “I’m the one you called a lunatic.”
Again, the child on the bed whimpered.
An instant later, the bedroom lights flicked back on, blinding. Power had returned to the house, but the outside compound stayed dark, the floodlights remained extinguished. Őrült switched off his torch and slid it into a jacket pocket. The hand rose again, this time to reinforce his hold on the weapon. He stood before Viktor, legs apart, gun held in a two-handed grip, rock-steady.
Squealing, the girl crawled to the head of the bed and pulled up a sheet to cover her nakedness.
“Tell her to leave,” Őrült said quietly. “Tell her she is safe. Unlike you, I don’t make war on children.”
“Tell her yourself.”
The gun Őrült held so steadily fired. Viktor screamed. Pain, indescribable pain, mind-numbing agony, hammered into his left knee. He collapsed to the carpet, writhing. The woollen fibres burned his bare arse.
“A térdem! My knee!”
“You have another,” Őrült said, as cold and heartless as any killer Viktor had ever seen. “Tell her what I said!”
Viktor flinched, breathed deep. His left leg twitched. Bone ground against bone. The bullet had shattered his kneecap, smashed through sinew and cartilage, doing untold damage. Blood flowed onto the carpet. He grabbed his knee with both hands, squeezed tight, trying to hold it together. Agony. Tears flowed. Blinding, stinging tears.
“Go!” he screamed to the girl in Hungarian. “Tell the men to save me. Save their Óriás. Five hundred thousand forints to every man who comes to my aid.”
Again, the gun barked. This time the bullet grazed his right wrist and drilled a hole into the carpet between his legs. It missed his balls by no more than a centimetre. The flesh wound burning his wrist was nothing in comparison to the fire raging in his destroyed knee, but it bled like a stuck pig. Sweat poured out of him. Cold sweat. The sweat of fear.
“Half a million forints?” Őrült scoffed. “Is that all you think you’re worth? That’s not even fifteen hundred euros. Pathetic!”
“Y-You understand Hungarian?”
Őrült, dressed head-to-toe in black, face hidden behind a black ski mask, removed one hand from his pistol, a semi-automatic of some kind with smoke rising from its barrel. He tapped his ear through the mask.
“Universal translator, courtesy of a friend of mine. There’s a slight delay, but it’s pretty damned good. Like something out of Star Trek.”
The eyes of the girl stood out like onions, but she did not move.
“Tell her to go. She can tell anyone anything she likes. It won’t do you any good.”
Viktor released a bloody hand from his shattered knee and wiped his eyes with his knuckles.
“Go, girl. The man wants you to leave. He will not shoot. Tell the men what I said! Tell them to come to me.”
Viktor braced himself ahead of the next shot, but the weapon stayed silent.
Őrült turned his head towards her and nodded. He also waved her to the door. Still crying, she bounced from the bed and ran across the room, her feet barely touching the carpet. At the door, the bitch stopped long enough to say, “Thank you”, in faltering English before opening it and stumbling away. Őrült kicked the door closed behind her. The lock clicked and Viktor was alone again. Alone with an őrült intent on his destruction.
Would the child tell the men? Would she act to save the life of her főnök?
His knee pounded. Fresh pain throbbed through it with every beat of his speeding heart. The agony made his head swim and his vision grey. He needed to vomit, but could not allow that to happen.
While keeping his gun steady and aimed at the heart of its target, Őrült moved to the side of the room and lowered himself into the chair that stood against the wall. The chair usually held the fresh meat as they awaited the attention of their főnök, but this time, it held what? Death?
His mouth dried. Viktor could not swallow.
Had Őrült risked his own life just to kill him? Surely it could not be that simple? One thing in his favour was the ski mask. Why hide his identity if his intention was simply to assassinate Viktor?
What did the madman want? Money perhaps. Money to replace the ransom he burned at the warehouse. Yes, there might yet be a way out of this horror.
Őrült leaned forwards in the chair and rested his elbows on his knees, the weapon still held in both hands, and still pointed at its target. The dark, lifeless eyes behind the mask stared at Viktor. They carried no emotion, not even hate.
Do not remove the mask! Please, do not remove the mask!
As long as the ski mask kept his face hidden, Viktor had hopes of survival. He could negotiate.
Money. How much will it take?
“Well now,” Őrült said, “we finally meet in person. Can’t say I’m impressed. I expected a big man, huge like one of those incompetent fools I killed at the warehouse. What was his name? Balint, right?”
Viktor blinked, trying to clear the tears and the stinging sweat from his eyes. The agony dulled his senses, made thinking difficult.
How much money will it take?
“Yes … yes, Balint. What you want?”
Where were the men? They should have arrived already. He forced himself not to look at the door. He needed to keep Őrült occupied. He needed to buy time.
“You want money, yes?”
Do not look at the door!
He glanced to his right, unable to do otherwise.
Őrült removed a gloved left hand from the gun and moved it up to his chin.
Not the mask. No, not the mask.
He hooked his thumb under the hem of the ski mask and yanked it up and off his head. He revealed his face! Hope died. Viktor was a dead man. As though he could read the thoughts, Őrült nodded. His lips stretched into a humourless smile.
“Yes, Giant of Győr,” he said, speaking quietly in that soft and arrogant English voice of his, “you are going to die tonight, but not before I tell you why.”
Strangely, the pain in his knee faded. Viktor released his handhold and used his good leg to help him squirm backwards, towards the nearest wall. All the time, he expected the final shot, the one to end him, but it did not come.
Once at the wall, he leaned back and allowed his powerful shoulders to slump.
“Kill me, Őrült. I not play yo
ur games. End this now.”
The gun in the steady hand of the Englishman lowered, its aim now levelled at Viktor’s belly. Was his intention to shoot Viktor in the guts? Allow him to die slowly with the torment of blood poisoning?
Briefly, the multiple pops of semi-automatic rifles raised his spirits. The men were coming! But no, the shots came from far away. Outside in the grounds and beyond. Inside the house, it remained quiet. Quiet and ominous.
Where are they? Where are my men?
“Don’t get your hopes up, Viktor. That’s just my people mopping up the ones who refuse to lay down their arms.”
“Your people?
Again, Őrült smiled. Again it contained all the humour of death.
“Didn’t think I’d come alone, did you? Me, facing fifteen heavily armed thugs, alone? And that doesn’t include the seven guards inside the house. Not likely, old chap. Too much of a risk even against your bungling fools.” He breathed in deeply and released the breath as a sigh.
Fifteen men outside, he said. How could he know how many guarded the compound? Őrült must have had help. Briefly, anger overtook the pain pulsing through his knee.
“No,” Őrült continued in his taunting manner, “I needed help. My friends are dealing with the riffraff. By now, the ones outside who didn’t surrender are dead. And don’t expect help from the ones on this floor—your Praetorian Guard. They’re dead, too.” Őrült sighed again. “Didn’t put up much of a fight, I’m afraid. Good help is so hard to find when you’re a tinpot little dictator. Don’t you think?”
“My men, dead? H-How?”
Őrült reached down to his right calf and pulled a dagger from its sheath. Although the double-edged blade shone under the lights, dark stains near the hilt told of its recent use.
“Giving men weapons and assuming they know what they’re doing is a mistake, Viktor. Poorly trained men don’t put up much of a fight. I killed all four before entering this room.”
“Dead?” Viktor gasped. “All four?”
Őrült nodded slowly. “The non-combatants, the unarmed servants will be okay, though. The girls and women in the cellars, too.”
“You … you know of the girls?”
On the Hunt Page 29
