Singapore Sling Shot (29 page)

37

We'd crossed the Mekong in the small hours of the morning three nights before. Now we were in the jungle, staked out on a small ridge. The window we'd cut in the canopy allowed us a view across a narrow valley containing rice fields and gardens. There was a compound on the far side. Tall bamboo fences, earthworks and guard towers contained men with all manner of guns. It was a place where the uninvited were definitely not welcome. We most certainly were not on the invitation list.

“Good to be back in the bush again, Daniel?”

“Fuck off!”

Sami Somsak laughed at my childish response. Jo Ankar, who was ten feet above us, sitting in the crotch of a tree, chuckled. The three of us had played this game before, many times. I used my bandana to wipe away the sweat from my brow and retied it around my head. I did love the bush, it just didn't do to show it. I was more at home here than on the streets of any city.

The jungle, or as we call it “the bush”, is pretty much the same in Cambodia as it is on the other side of the river. Same trees. Same bugs. Same snakes and the same stifling heat accompanied by the same unrelenting humidity. It's like living in a sauna stocked with all manner of biting pests. Oh, how I wanted to be riding along in the air-conditioned comfort of the Range Rover I was holding in the sights of the .50 calibre Barrett I was lying behind.

The magnification on the varipower scope was set at x9. It could go up to x20, but long experience had shown me that all the higher magnification did was magnify the motion of my breathing and the slightest movement of my hands. Even the beating of my heart produced a constant repeated quiver at the higher magnification. So I kept the setting under the double digits.

The Range Rover was stationary, sitting in the open gate of the compound. The distance was 700 metres. I knew this for a fact because one of our friendly overhead satellites had measured it most precisely. The centre of the broad but shallow stream that divided the valley was 300 metres away.

“Here he comes.” Jo was using a pair of high magnification binoculars. He'd picked out our target as he exited the compound and climbed into the Range Rover. “He appears to have someone with him. I can't make them out. Going in the back seat.”

Through the scope, the rear door hid my view. Jo was able to see far more from his vantage point.

“That's unfortunate for someone,” I responded, rolling out from behind the huge rifle and standing. We were in no danger of being seen here. Deep under the forest canopy, we were invisible. I stretched and took a few pre-game deep breaths. When the action came down, it would be short, sharp and very brutal.

The Barrett, a semi-automatic heavy hitter, was the ultimate sniper weapon. It fired a big 750-grain phosphorous bronze projectile or any one of half a dozen specialised rounds. These ranged from armour piercing rounds to those with explosive tips. The weapon could wreak havoc on any soft-skinned target. The Range Rover was soft-skinned. As, of course, were the people in it. There was no known body armour capable of stopping the enormous round.

“He's moving,” Jo called and that was my cue to get down to business. I pulled off my gloves to push squishy earplugs into my ears. The other two did likewise. We all pulled our gloves back on. They were essential. We weren't leaving anything behind on this job but spent brass.

The earplugs were a necessity because we knew there would soon be a lot of noise. Effectively, Jo was to be my spotter. I had a mixture of projectiles in the eleven-round magazine already in the gun. The rounds included a tracer. A tracer fired into a petrol tank had a very good chance of creating a fireball, and that was most desirable. Sami had a fully loaded spare magazine beside him. There was a round in the breech of the rifle and with two magazines of eleven each; simple math said I had twenty-three rounds to play with to do the job. When they were gone, we would move out fast.

Behind the scope again, I settled and eased the crosshair onto the advancing vehicle. The Range Rover was driving straight towards us. The point where the river and the dirt track bisected was ground zero for me. The scope was calibrated to absolute zero at three hundred metres.

The bugs buzzed and the sweat droplets formed and streaked their way down my cheeks, but I was locked in the zone. My concentration on the job in hand was total.

At four hundred metres, I could plainly see him at the wheel. Dimitri Chekov was his name. He was a Russian bear and he was as big and as mean as one. Chekov was known as “the Headhunter”. This former KGB colonel was one of the most vicious killers in the dirty game we all played. Following his KGB and intertwining military career, he turned his talents to crime, big crime. Chekov had been based in Asia for the past five years with a hard-core Russian mafia made up of mostly former Spetsnaz troops and a few local thugs.

Drugs and arms were Chekov's currency. He had become a major player and a major problem for both my people and the Americans, both of whom wanted Chekov taken out with all due prejudice. That was why I was lying there sweating my bollocks off in the godforsaken Cambodian jungle.

“Three hundred and fifty,” Jo called from above. I settled my breathing. The first shot would be aimed at Chekov sitting behind the wheel. Sun rays were falling on the windscreen and flaring back at me. I cursed. It didn't matter. Sun flare or not, I knew where the driver was seated. That was where I was aiming.

The Range Rover arrived at the ford and slowly started across. The 300-metre mark was dead centre in the stream.

“Now!” I whispered. I took the trigger pressure and the big rifle kicked and thundered. The Barrett has a real bellow, but the kick and muzzle-rise are negated by a lot of trick modifications, including an enormous muzzle brake. The flame of the first shot was away. A crimson streak sliced through the thick air and terminated in the front left of the vehicle's windscreen. The sun flare vanished, as did the windscreen. I fired the second round to the same spot and then shortened my aim, settling on the front of the vehicle.

The tracer and incendiary rounds that followed all hit home. With an engine that no longer functioned and with flames bursting from under the ruined bonnet, the Range Rover slewed side on and ground to a stop in the middle of the stream. Sami was handing me the full magazine. I changed and went after the fuel tank. Had I got Chekov? I had to believe so.

When the second incendiary from the fresh magazine hit its target, the Rover's fuel tank exploded. In seconds, the vehicle became a complete fireball. I hammered the remainder of the magazine into the driver's compartment. The Barrett wasn't going back across the river with us and when the ammunition was finished, that was it.

“No sign of life,” Jo called from above as I stood. It was done. The Range Rover was a gutting mass of flame. Burning fuel was flowing downstream. Reeds and grasses at the water's edge were catching fire. We were out of here.

I pulled out my earplugs and pushed them into my pocket. Long tubes of shiny brass covered the ground around the Barrett. The cartridges had been wiped clean of any fingerprints and had been loaded into the magazines by gloved hands. We were leaving behind a big who-dunnit!

I picked up the rifle and slung it across my shoulder. Jo dropped down out of the tree and the three of us started back the way we had come. Would there be a pursuit? We had to factor that into the equation, but without their leader, would Chekov's mob attempt it? Either way, we had a lot of ground to cover. The principle we always operated on was based on the SAS model: hit hard with overwhelming firepower and get out fast, outrun the opposing force and get far beyond any of the roadblocks they had set up.

I disassembled the Barrett on the run, pieces of it going into streams and simply being tossed away into the jungle as I went. It was a waste in some ways, but the equipment was expendable and we weren't. With the thirty-five-pound weight of rifle gone, I became a hell of a lot lighter on my feet.

Down off the ridge, we hit a dirt road. In the bushes beside the road was the means of our rapid getaway. The battered little Honda motorcycle with the square sidecar attached was probably the number one form of transport throughout much of rural Asia. Sami and Jo, being Thai, were going to play at being locals. Because I was a white guy, I got the sidecar and the wide conical straw hat. With the hat pulled low over my head and by making myself as small as possible, I became the little woman.

We hauled the bike out of the bushes. I got in the sidecar while Jo and Sami debated who was going to drive. Jo ended up at the front. The bike kicked into life and we were away in a cloud of blue smoke. I have no idea what the bike was running on. Probably it was coconut oil. Whatever it was, it went and we started putting kilometres between the kill zone and us.

“Fuck!” Sami shouted and pointed. Above and ahead of us was a helicopter. Not just any helicopter, it was a huge, dust-coloured Russian Hinde. This was the flying version of a damn tank.

The giant bird of prey was nose down and coming at us straight down the road. It was fully armed. There were rocket pods bristling and a heavy machinegun was starting to chatter.

A long line of fountaining dirt swept towards us. Jo was hit. The bike swerved as the first rocket impacted on the road just yards in front of us. The blast lifted the bike and hurled it into the air. I twisted one way, Sami the other, while Jo's body, torn in half by the machinegun fire, was buried by the falling motorcycle.

I hit the ground and tried to get up, but I couldn't. I had no legs and no arms. I was just a torso with a head attached. I screamed, but no sound came. Sami was on his feet. He was staggering and the Hinde was coming towards him, flying lower and lower, its nose almost on the ground. That brought the giant rotors to within centimetres of the road.

Suddenly, Sami was no more. He was lost in a haze of bloody pulp. His upper body was gone. His torso remained standing for a moment as the Hinde settled down to land, and then it fell into the blood-soaked dirt.

The helicopter settled. The cargo door opened and out stepped Dimitri Chekov. He was untouched by bullet or fire. He was laughing. More than laughing, he was bellowing. His eyes were on me.

“Mr Swann, so pleased to see you again. I have a friend or two of yours here. You could say this is a reunion of sorts. Chekov reached back into the cargo hold and lifted something out. It was a head, a human head. It was the beautiful Babs. She was smiling at me.

“Hi, Dan. Remember me? We had so much fun together.”

“Go to your lover. Give him a kiss,” Chekov teased. He tossed the head of beautiful Barbara from Bristol into the dirt beside me. She was still smiling at me, her green eyes dancing.

“And another of your friends, Mr Swann.” Chekov was holding Geezer's head out to me. Geezer was grimacing. Against the putrid blue-green colour of his flesh, his milky-white eyes found me.

“Dan, you've got to pick your friends better. You've been the death of me.”

Chekov tossed Geezer's head towards me. It rolled to stop beside that of Babs.

Death of me. Geezer was right, of course, I had been the death of him, and of Babs and of so many others. The others followed as Chekov lobbed head after head towards me. There was Kim, Sami's beautiful daughter. Her head rolled to join the chorus. Soon the heads of all my dead surrounded me. They formed a circle that was many rows deep. So many dead from my life and they were all talking to me. Talking at me. Some were berating me. Others were laughing and making jokes. Chekov had been right. This was a reunion.

Some of the faces I didn't know, but most I did. I'd killed so many people in my life and so many had died because of me. Was this my hell?

Then I saw Simone and knew it truly was. She was stepping out of the rear of the Hinde. She was wearing a wedding gown, a beautiful creation of flowing silk. There was a long train and two young people followed, tending to it. They were her children. There were flowers in her hands. White roses.

Chekov was no longer wearing the sweaty fatigues of just moments before. He was dressed in a morning suit. With Simone on his arm, he came to where I lay in the blood-drenched dirt.

“Mr Swann, I want to introduce you to my wife. The beautiful woman you killed when you tried to kill me. You are dead and she is mine forever!”

Now I found a voice and the screaming started.

“Daniel, Daniel. It's all right. Everything is all right, my darling.”

I opened my eyes. Simone was beside me, holding my hands in hers. I was lying on soft grass. Her hands were warm. There was no ice in them or on the lips that brushed my cheek. She was alive and her smile enveloped me as I lay there dazed, looking up at her. The grey sky was blue and the grass under me was as soft as cloud. This was not the coarse carpet of the cemetery in which I had died.

Simone was wearing the gown she was to have been buried in. It glowed with an inner light, purer than fresh snow. The little gold crucifix that had been entwined in her cold fingers while she lay in her coffin was now around her neck. It sparkled in the sunlight.

“Come with me, my darling.” Simone rose to her feet, drawing me effortlessly to mine. We weren't in the cemetery. We were standing in a garden. Hedges defined a pathway that stretched into the distance. Trees towered above us. Flowers filled the air with their sweet perfume. Was this heaven? Had a sinner like me gone to heaven? It must be heaven for Simone to be here with me.

We started walking, she gently leading me after her. It was as if she had walked this way before. Along the avenue of trees we moved, following the pathway to only she and her God knew where.

Then I knew it wasn't heaven. Simone was gone in an instant. Voices were calling a name. It wasn't my name, but I knew it. I had heard it before, somewhere.

A bright light was on my face, my eyelids were being pried open. I fought against it, but failed. There was a face above me. Not one but several and a voice was calling that name again.