Deathlist (11 page)

The man nodded again. Quickly this time. He was reaching for a brick-sized carphone as Porter and Bald turned and hurried on down the road. Help wouldn’t be on the way for a while, Porter knew. They were slap bang in the middle of the Brecons, thirty miles due west of the Regiment HQ and ten miles from the nearest police station. It would take the cops eight or nine minutes to show up. It would take another twenty minutes for the cops to raise the alarm at Hereford and the Regiment CO to get the Red Team guys briefed and deployed. Say, thirty minutes to get mobilised. By that time, the gunman could have gone to ground. In half an hour the van could have motored down to Pontypridd to the south-west, or Neath to the south. In fifty minutes they could reach Cardiff airport or catch the ferry from Swansea to Cork. Only Porter and Bald could stop him now.

They slung round a wide bend in the road and raced south. It was still raining. Drops spit-polished the road and tapped against the barrel of Porter’s AK-47 in a steady dull patter. The mist had started to clear now, and past his right shoulder Porter could see the outline of Fan Fawr as it descended steadily towards the reservoir. Four cars had stopped in the middle of the road. The drivers had stepped out of their motors. Three of them were staring ahead in disbelief, or fear. The fourth driver was reaching frantically for his phone. No one paid any attention to the two SAS operators gripping their assault rifles and hurtling down the side of the road. The civvies were all transfixed by the huge column of smoke and fumes still rising above the Storey Arms.

Past a wooded area to the right Bald and Porter hit the reservoir. The treeline gave way to a wide expanse of water, flat and grey as a sheet of steel. The surface rippled under the constant rain. The reservoir stretched out parallel to the road for five hundred metres. At the far bank Porter could see the water tower marking the reservoir’s edge, separating it from the dam and the spillway on the far side. Porter knew from the days spent running Selection exercises on the Brecons that there was a stone path running past the water tower. That path led from the bottom of Fan Fawr and exited onto the A470 a short distance ahead of a busy lay-by. Porter could see the lay-by up ahead. Dozens of civvies were crowded outside their VW camper vans and caravans, staring in the direction of the Storey Arms. Porter summoned one last effort in his tired muscles. We’re almost there, he told himself. Don’t give up now. Another two hundred metres. Then we’ll cut Tank off from the main road. He’ll have no choice but to retreat back up Fan Fawr. There won’t be anywhere else for him to go then. He’ll be trapped in the mountains.

Then we’ll teach the fucker a lesson he won’t live long enough to forget.

Porter was a hundred and fifty metres from the tower when he spotted Tank.

The gunman surged into view past the water tower and staggered towards the main road, ninety metres away. Even at this distance, Porter could see that the guy was spent. He was moving along in big lumbering strides, like he was negotiating a bunch of car tyres on an obstacle course. The frantic race up and down Pen y Fan, the firefight and his rushed escape, all of it taking its toll on his body.

Tank ran on. Porter was a hundred and twenty metres from Tank now. The guy crashed through the gate at the edge of the footpath and limped into the road. Porter brought his AK-47 to bear and went to loose off a round. Tank caught sight of the two Regiment men charging towards him and let off a quick burst at the civvies in the lay-by. His muzzle flashed six times. Half a dozen rounds zipped past Porter and Bald, smashing into the caravan parked to his immediate right. Bullets shattered the windows and blew the tyres. Air hissed violently out of the punctures. A woman shrieked in terror. Some of the civvies hit the deck. Others scurried for cover behind the camper vans. Several people legged it in the opposite direction of the gunfire, spilling across the road and blocking Porter and Bald’s path.

‘Out of my way!’ Bald roared, shoving aside a screaming woman. ‘Fucking move!’

A hundred metres ahead, Tank turned towards a dark-blue Vauxhall Vectra motoring towards him from the south. He stood in the middle of the road and pointed the AK-47 at the windscreen. As if he was shaping to spray the driver. The Vectra hit the brakes a couple of metres ahead of Tank. He shouted something at the driver. A second later, a dark-haired woman in jeans and a sweater stepped out from behind the wheel. Porter still couldn’t get a clean shot off at the gunman. Tank grabbed the woman roughly by the arm and shoved her aside. Then he flung open the driver’s side door. Glanced up. Saw Bald and Porter finally breaking free of the crowd of panicked civvies and racing towards him. Tank arced his AK-47 slightly to his left. Pointed the barrel in the direction of the terrified bystanders scattered across the lay-by. Pulled the trigger.

‘Get down!’ Porter shouted at the civvies. ‘NOW!’

Tank emptied his clip at the lay-by. He wasn’t even aiming at anything. Just praying and spraying. He just wanted to cause as much chaos as possible. Round after furious round struck the camper vans. A podgy middle-aged guy jerked as he took a bullet to the nape of his neck. He skidded to the ground like he’d slipped on ice. A nearby woman screamed hysterically. Her cries were drowned out by a throated grunt as another man was shot in the guts. Several people rushed over to the guy, screaming for help as he bled out on the rain-spattered tarmac. Everyone else scrambled for cover, rushing past Porter and Bald and slowing them down.

Porter shoved aside a guy in jogging gear. For a split second he had a clear line of sight to Tank. He brought his AK-47 to bear. Zeroed in on the gunman. Tank was fifty metres away. He’d slotted the driver. She was lying in a bloodied heap on the ground a few steps away from the Vectra, pawing at her gunshot wound. Porter returned his focus to Tank. The guy was folding himself behind the wheel, preparing to take off. Porter took aim and fired twice. The bullets starred the windscreen.
Chink-chink
. Both rounds missed. Tank ducked out of sight below the dash and gunned the Vectra engine.

Two rounds fired, plus two back at the car park. I’m down four bullets, Porter told himself. Twenty-six left in the clip.

He threaded his way past the crowd, trying to get another clear shot. Bald was at his three o’clock, shouting and desperately elbowing aside anyone who got in his way. Forty-five metres to the Vectra now. The engine roared as Tank started to reverse back down the A470. Away from the lay-by. Away from Bald and Porter. There was a sudden loud crunch as the back of the Vectra slammed into the front bumper of the car to the rear. The Vectra ground to a temporary halt. Porter broke free of the crowd and saw Tank through the spiderwebbed windscreen.

Now’s my chance
, thought Porter.
Nail this prick
.

There was no time to fuck about with the sights. He had to rely on pure instinct. Porter closed his mind to the outside world and narrowed his eye at Tank. The AK-47 felt like an extension of his arm. He took a shallow draw of breath and depressed the trigger.

The shot cracked through the windscreen. A split second later, Tank’s shoulder exploded in a gout of blood and bone. Before Porter could adjust his aim the gunman shunted the wheel hard to the right and hit the accelerator. The tyres were spinning madly, snorting out streams of white smoke as the Vectra made a sharp U-turn in the middle of the road. The front end of the Vectra cut across the grass verge next to the road before it straightened out and faced south. Then Tank put his foot to the floor. Porter let off three more rounds, hoping to blow the tyres. But his aim was off. The rounds struck high, glancing off the boot and shattering the right brake light. The Vectra shrieked as it rocketed south.

Porter kept on running after the Vectra, even as it shrank into the distance. A moment later the car disappeared behind a sharp bend in the road, and Porter finally stopped running. The growl of the engine faded behind the treeline. He was too late.

Tank was gone.

SEVENTEEN

0751 hours.

It took Deeds fifteen minutes to hit the abandoned ironworks outside Merthyr. He’d hammered it down the A470, mashing the pedal. The pain clawing at his skull, twisting like a knife point inside his rag-order shoulder. Those two fucking Regiment operators. They’d nearly ruined the entire plan. Only Deeds’s quick thinking had saved him. He’d remembered the route up Fan Fawr, the trail winding down to the Beacons reservoir to the south. That’s why he was still breathing, and Markovic was lying dead in the Storey Arms car park.

I should have killed them when I had the chance, Deeds thought. When we were bombing down the side of Pen y Fan.
I should have dug out my Glock and popped both those fucking Blades.

He wasn’t sure what had stopped him back then. He replayed the scene in his mind as he raced south in the stolen Vectra. Markovic had stumbled and fallen over a rock. Deeds had stopped to help his companion to his feet. Then he’d looked up and seen the two Regiment men tabbing up the Fan. And hesitated.

He’d thought about reaching for his rucksack and digging out the Glock. Emptying his clip into the two SAS operators. Sweet Jesus, that would have felt good. But the mist was lifting and the slopes were starting to fill with ramblers. A gunshot might have raised the alarm down at the Storey Arms, jeopardising the mission. Then Deeds had spotted the pistol grip jutting out of the leg holster of the second Blade. That made up his mind. The guy might have put the drop on Deeds and Markovic before they’d retrieved their pistols. So he took the decision to leave the two Regiment men and focus on the core mission.

That had been a mistake.

Now Markovic and Dragan were dead
. And I nearly fucking joined them.

Deeds was a hundred metres short of the ironworks when he saw the flames. Bright orange fists, spewing out of the charred skeleton of what had unmistakably been a Ford Transit. Both Vauxhall Astras were gone. Deeds hit the brakes and punched the wheel in frustration. The bastards. Stankovic, Petrovich and Kavlak had driven off without him. It took Deeds a few moments to calm down and coldly assess his situation. He decided it could have been much worse. He still had his forged passport and driving licence. He still had his Visa card, the three grand in cash and the AerLingus ticket.

Okay, think.

He reversed out of the ironworks and sped back towards Merthyr. He’d noticed an old Ford Escort parked near a huge council estate on the drive up, a mile or so east of the ironworks. One of those battered old motors with ninety thousand miles on the clock and a handwritten ‘FOR SALE’ sign tacked to the windscreen. Which meant no one would notice the car gone. At least not for a while. Deeds retraced his steps and parked up next to the Escort. He glanced around to make sure no one was watching him. Smashed open the side window of the Escort with the butt of his AK-47. Cleared away the fragments with the rifle barrel. Dumped the weapon on the front passenger seat and slid behind the wheel. In less than two minutes Deeds had the ancient Escort hotwired and the engine purring.

He raced west. Mapping out the plan in his head. He’d stop at a pharmacy in Neath. Buy himself a pack of painkillers, a roll of stretch dressing and adhesive tape. Clean out the wound and seal the fucker up. The pills would only dampen the pain in his shoulder, but it didn’t matter. A few hours of hurt was nothing. He could handle it. He could be on the ferry at Fishguard in less than two hours. On a plane out of Dublin in less than seven. With luck he’d land at his destination at around eight o’clock this evening. There was a croak, a veterinary surgeon he knew who could patch him up, for the right price.

And an old friend who could help him out.

08.29 hours.

The sirens wailed their mechanical screams.

Sixty-nine minutes after the attack happened, Porter and Bald stood at the side of the road and looked on as another ambulance shuttled south, taking the wounded towards Prince Charles Hospital in Merthyr Tydfil. The ambos had been arriving and leaving in an almost continual flow since the emergency services had first arrived on the scene forty minutes ago. Officers from the National Crime Squad had been quick to secure the site of the attack, establishing a cordon either side of the Storey Arms. White tents had been erected. Neon blue lights cracked and popped in the light rain as dozens of scene-of-crime officers dressed in white overalls sifted through the thousands of pieces of evidence. Every shard of debris, every spent bullet jacket and shred of fabric, had to be collected, zip-locked, tagged and logged. It was a painfully slow process to watch, but any scrap of evidence might provide the clue that could ultimately help identify the perpetrators.

Choppers circled the grey skies overhead. The Regiment had deployed its two Augusta helicopters as soon as word reached the head shed of the bombing. They were joined by a Eurocopter 145 in blue-and-yellow police livery. For the past thirty minutes the three birds had been scouring the Brecons by air, searching for any sign of the escaped gunmen. It was a pointless exercise, Porter knew. You don’t just plan an attack that sophisticated without also having a watertight escape plan. By now the gunmen were probably long gone.

‘Training Wing’s being stood down,’ the Regimental Major, Pete Maston, said. ‘With immediate effect. Whatever’s left of it.’

Bald sniffed and looked away. Porter said nothing. He just stared out across the carnage. The rest of Sabre Squadron had rocked up a few minutes earlier. The other guys were helping out in any way they could. Some were sorting out food and temporary shelter to treat the wounded. Others were assisting in the recovery of the bodies. Or bits of bodies, Porter reminded himself grimly. With the Regiment CO having to brief the Prime Minister, Maston had been detailed to sort out the mess in the Brecons.