Viper - Michael Morley [158]
Maybe a forestry workers’ tool shed.
Maybe a bolt-hole for a killer.
Sal heard them long before he saw them. Heard the squish of their soldier boots as they squelched through spongy turf. Heard the crack of twigs and rub of rocks beneath their heels. Heard their hot breath snorting in the cold night air.
It wasn’t until they were up close, almost breath-on-his-face close, that he saw them.
Full combat gear – one, two, three of them with rifles, a fourth with a pistol. They were GIS, he could tell, even in the thin moonlight. The rifles were MP5s. Serious fucking business. Twenty-five rounds in a blink of an eye. Not that he intended blinking.
They buzzed round the forestry outhouse, shaking locks, sweeping their NVDs up and down, arcing their weapons left, right and centre. But for all their technology, they couldn’t see him there – right there – right among them.
Sal lay motionless, his breath so shallow it took him twenty seconds to exhale and another twenty to breathe in again. The Glocks felt warm in his hands. Their sturdy stocks nestled against his palms and itched for action. But he’d got his caution back. There’d be no hasty mistakes. Not with those MP5s around. One of the GIS men – a tall one to the far right – waved a hand. He curled his fingers and beckoned someone over. Sal watched as two men lined up behind each other and two spread wide. They were going to storm the building. The forestry building rudely erected right next to the grave of his first victim. Not Luigi Finelli. His mother. Strangled with a length of chain, long before he’d learned to shoot a gun. Her body dumped in the parkland grave and then burned to cinders. Burned for her sins.
Sal sould have buried the others next to her, if he’d had the chance. Only they’d moved in with their shovels and their concrete and iron, and they’d built right alongside her. That’s what had driven him further into the park. Still, tonight his mother would be getting company.
Sal moved his index fingers inside the trigger guards. With one movement he could be in position to make two good head shots. But that wouldn’t be enough. The sub-machine gun was still unaccounted for. And just one spray of that MP5 would cut him in half. He couldn’t risk it. Not yet.
Brown let off a burst of gunfire. The rough plank door splintered and its heavy steel padlock fell away. He and two GIS men were through the gap in a split second. Jack hung back. Adrenaline juiced him up and he swallowed hard. A helmet light burst on inside the hut. Even outside, the sudden intensity of white made him look away.
‘Clear!’ shouted a voice. The light was snuffed and the men shuffled out.
The four huddled close. ‘Nothing,’ said Brown, his voice muffled by the balaclava. ‘We checked the floor for trapdoors, floor pits. It’s clean.’
‘Then let’s regroup and go on,’ urged the tall one.
They waited for Jack’s okay. He wasn’t sure. Giacomo plainly wasn’t here. But given the closeness of the gunfire he couldn’t be far away. The fog had lifted a little again and the moon partially reasserted itself. Jack wondered whether to spread the team further apart – maybe thirty metres between each man – and slow the pace to a walking stride.
Brown took the initiative. ‘Let’s do the outside of this place once more. You stay centre and we’ll make a slow sweep in three circles twenty metres apart. Then we’ll move on. Right?’
Jack nodded and they were on the move before he could reproach himself for not taking command.
Sal heard them fan out. Saw the tall one take a starting position barely three metres in front of him and begin his lap. By the time he completed it they would be face to face.
How long did he have? Twenty seconds? Maybe a minute? Certainly no more.
He looked up. The fog was clearing. Soon he’d be exposed.
When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie…
Blam!
The Glock in his right hand kicked. The GIS man dropped dead in his tracks.
Sal rolled out of the overgrown stone well. Blam! Blam! He missed. Missed his second