Andy McNab - Exit wound

The plane screamed in. The moment it had taxied to a halt, the landing-strip lights were doused. We bounced onto the tarmac. Spag was supposed to be waiting on the link road between the single track and the perimeter fence.

I kept the window up.

‘Sherry?’

I got a muffled ‘Yes.’

‘Stay low. Don’t move, no matter what. Help us by keeping out of the way and you could be free in a couple of hours.’

The brake-lights ahead glowed red. I kept a distance of thirty metres, headlights on full beam. The Taurus was under my right thigh. My lights picked out what looked like a white version of Postman Pat’s van at the junction with the metalled track. Spag was in the driver’s seat.

Red Ken jumped down from the Tata and Spag wriggled out of the Nissan Cube. They waffled for a while. Red Ken waved me up to them and Dex also got out. By the time I’d joined them, Spag was going ballistic about the missing crate.

Red Ken was calm. ‘You’re lucky we got that many out before we got compromised. You could have lost the lot.’

Spag spun on his heel. ‘Jee-sus Christ!’

Red Ken put up an arm. ‘You’re Mr Fucking Sirloin. You sort it, or go and get it yourself.’

Spag turned back, pointing up at Red Ken’s chin. ‘If I find you’ve screwed the deal over-’

‘You’ll what ? Listen, crap-hat – if we’d wanted to play silly buggers we’d have taken the lot and wouldn’t be here. So let’s crack on and get the job done.’

It was Red Ken’s turn to do the pointing. ‘OK, this is what’s going to happen. You’re going to stay with me all the way through. If we get stitched up, you’ll be the first to get the good news. Dex?’

Dex drew down his weapon.

Spag’s finger shook like a battery-operated vibrator. ‘We agreed – no weapons!’

Red Ken wanted to move on. ‘How many on the aircraft?’

‘Two pilots and two or three guys to load up. That’s it.’

‘OK. I go with you in your car. We load, and then we come back here and we all go our different ways. Until then, you’re mine.’ He was already heading for the right-hand seat of the Cube. Dex climbed back into the Tata. Seconds later, all three vehicles were paralleling the black strip of tarmac, lights killed.

The aircraft was ahead. A dim glow came from the open cargo door at the rear. It got brighter as we got closer. Soon I could make out four bodies and a long conveyor-belt sloping from the tarmac to the plane’s interior.

I held back as the Tata and the Cube pulled up alongside it. The flatbed became a blur of activity.

I got out of the Yukon to the whine of idling jets. These boys were going to turn around as quickly as they could and fuck off again. The markings on the fuselage told me it was a French-made Dassault Falcon business jet. It had three engines at the back. Its registration mark was on the centre engine covering that made up part of the tail. It looked big enough to cross from Europe to the USA without a refuel, so its destination could have been pretty much anywhere. I’d never seen the RF designation before. I hadn’t a clue what country it belonged to.

All four crew were in the pool of light spilling from the cargo door. They were all white. The pilots wore crisp white shirts and black ties. The two loadies were in jeans and short-sleeved shirts. Both had short back and sides. The smaller had sideburns that ended below his ears. The larger had a tattoo on the back of his neck, a phoenix surrounded by flames that seemed to rear from his collar. His arms were almost solid black with designs.

The pilots walked back through the cabin and into the cockpit.

There was a whine as the crane began doing its stuff. Dex stood on the ground with the control box. He manoeuvred the hook towards the two in jeans, who were attaching straps in readiness.

I could make out Red Ken’s head the other side of the cab. Spag’s bobbed into view now and again.

I kept my eyes beyond the activity, checking the periphery for movement, light or sound.

The final crate was about to hit the rollers. I watched from just beyond the light. Dex stood on the Tata’s flatbed with the control box. Spag and Red Ken were the other side of the cab, just out of sight.

A movement caught my eye from inside the aircraft. A body crossed the front cabin window. My eyes flicked to the cockpit. I could only see part of it, but the pilots were both mincing about with the controls.

Spag had said two or three, plus crew. The body crossed the next window, heading to the rear of the aircraft. It wasn’t running.

The last crate disappeared into the hold and the two loadies jumped down to dismantle the conveyor. Dex brought the crane back into the idle.

The face that appeared at the cabin door was Middle Eastern – with a nose like a Roman emperor. The body was tall and angular. He surveyed the scene. He wasn’t in uniform or jeans. He wore a tan windcheater and trousers. His eyes scanned the pool of light, like an ageing rock star looking out at his audience. His eyes were hooded, but unforgettable.

As quickly as he’d appeared, he jerked back inside the cabin and the two loadies drew down.

‘Gun!’

The first rounds kicked off.

My pistol was out but Dex was already falling. He hit the edge of the flatbed and cartwheeled onto the runway, drilled by Tattoo’s semi-automatic.

I broke into a run.

At this range, it was going to be difficult to take them down. I closed in. I could now see the second loadie. His muzzle flashes bounced around in the darkness. He was firing into the other two down on the tarmac.

Dex lay very still in a pool of his blood. His face was in lumps.

The other two were covered with blood. It looked like Spag had tried to make a run for it. He was lying a short distance from Red Ken.

Tattoo must have detected movement.

He dropped to his knee in Dex’s blood and his head swivelled like a reptile’s. His eyes homed in on me. As he pushed the mag-release catch with his thumb, his left hand went behind him. The mag fell onto what was left of Dex’s head. Tattoo’s left hand returned, clutching a new mag.

I didn’t have time to go stable to take my shot. But even ten metres was too far for a revolver on the move. He didn’t flinch as I fired. The top slide was back on his weapon, ready to receive the new mag. He was calm and controlled.

I made more ground, weapon up.

I fired the Taurus twice more. Tattoo had a whole magazine – twelve, thirteen, maybe twenty rounds if it had an extension. I had just three left, and then the speed loader. I hoped he might turn away or fumble the mag change to give me time for a decent close-range shot, but this boy was too good. In almost the same movement he pushed in the fresh mag and released the top slide with his thumb. It flew forward and picked up a round as he brought it up.

The guy behind him went down on his knee and reloaded.

Tattoo had both eyes open as I ran into his sight picture.

I jinked left.

He fired.

I jinked again, and this time I turned. I ran hard, focused on the Yukon, blanking out the gunshots behind me. No evasive action, none of that shit now. I just kept going. The three of them were dead. There was nothing I could do for them.

The firing behind me was more distant. Only a lucky shot would take me down. All he could do was pump out the rounds and hope.

Just metres to the car.

The tiniest movement of the barrel translates into an enormous diversion of the round.

Head down, almost at the door.

No shouts behind me, no confusion, just more shots.

I grabbed the door handle, jumped into the seat and saw both of them running forward, dumping magazines and throwing in new ones.