Adrian Magson - Deception

As he worked on trying to save her, she watched him, her eyes unnaturally bright. If there was a message in there, he failed to see it. But then she whispered something and it was simple, desperate.

‘Help me. .’ Then she passed out.

Harry took out his phone and rang Ballatyne’s office.

‘One woman with a gunshot wound,’ he told the man who answered, and gave him his location. ‘She needs urgent medical attention. Ground access is rubbish — a chopper would be quicker. Tell them to look for a railway cutting near a bridge. Landing area is good.’

‘Understood, sir. Air ambulance on the way. I’ll tell Mr Ballatyne. Any opposition likely?’

‘There was — they’re both dead.’

‘Very good, sir.’ The man cut the connection and Harry switched off his phone, not sure if his final words had been an acknowledgement or a congratulation.

Rik. He had to find Rik. Must be under the bridge if Zubac had been telling the truth. As he scooped up his gun and stood up, Harry glanced back along the track, eyes drifting towards the grit bin where he had shot Ganic.

But Ganic was no longer there.

Harry jogged across to the bin, staying low. The skin on his neck was prickling with anticipation, expecting the slam of a gunshot. But nothing came. He scanned the area, hoping for some signs showing where the Bosnian had gone. How the hell had the man survived the two shots? He must have the constitution of an elephant.

But he wasn’t bulletproof. There were blood spots on the ground. More on the remains of the bin’s wooden doors and the grass leading towards the slope. It didn’t look as if he was bleeding profusely, but still more than enough to have slowed down or stopped most men in their tracks.

And no sign of his gun.

A tangle of bushes littered the slope, some at head height and covered with greenery. Too dense to see anything clearly until you were right on it, by which time it was too late. If Ganic was up there waiting, it would be suicidal going up after him. He’d have done this kind of fighting before. All the Bosnian had to do was wait and Harry would walk right on to his gun.

He turned towards the bridge. He had to find Rik, or Ganic would have a bargaining tool and they’d be back to square one. And somehow he doubted Ganic would be as patient or as talkative as Zubac.

He stopped before going in, trying to see inside the shadowed structure. It was probably forty feet wide, the ground clear as far as he could see. But there were bushes and weeds growing along the base of the walls, ideal cover for a man to lie in wait. If Ganic had worked his way round and was already in there. . Harry shook his head. Pointless worrying. After all, what else was he going to do — turn round and walk away? This had to bloody end some time.

He stepped forward, braced for a movement, a sound. According to the close quarter combat instructors many years ago, it was more a feeling you had to look for, a shift in the atmosphere that gave a hint of the threat to come. If the opposition was good enough, they’d make no sound, have no need to move until they were ready. But the air around them would shift, and that was what they had to look out for. The good students used their instincts and tuned in immediately, picking up the signals. The bad ones ended up dead. At the time, Harry had thought it was instructor mumbo-jumbo, thrown in to make them try harder. But he’d soon learned different.

He heard a groan, then a scrape of sound, like fabric rubbing on something. It was coming from the far side of the bridge, behind the wall.

Was it Ganic, wounded and desperate, but willing Harry on so he could kill him?

It was Rik, arms tied behind his back and ankles held by a wrap-around of rope. Just enough to hold a man still. He looked groggy, his body limp, but he jumped when Harry bent over him. Then recognition flooded his face and he relaxed.

‘Took your bloody time, didn’t you?’ he moaned, shaking off the ropes when Harry loosened the knots. ‘I thought I was going to have to fight them off all by myself. Jesus, I’ve got a headache. That bastard Zubac. .’ He rubbed his eyes. ‘Sorry. They came knocking not long after you left. I thought it was you and opened the door. Next thing I knew I was having the shit kicked out of me. I don’t remember much after that.’ He looked up with a start. ‘Where are they? I heard shots.’

‘Zubac’s dead. Ganic’s free and roaming but wounded. Lie still — you might have concussion. There’s a chopper on the way. We need to get back to Clare.’ He put a hand under Rik’s arm and helped him up.

‘Clare? You mean slice-and-dice Clare, the MI6 sushi chef? What’s that crazy bitch doing here?’

‘Saving our bacon, mostly, so stop moaning, you little tick — you owe her. She took a bullet.’

Rik made a sound, stumbling on shaky legs. ‘Long as I don’t have to be bessy mates with her. She gives me the creeps.’

They emerged from the bridge and crossed to where Clare was lying. Her breathing was uneven, but she was hanging on.

‘Christ, that looks bad,’ said Rik. He looked shocked, dropping the antagonism in an instant. ‘Is she going to make it?’

‘Only if they’re quick.’ Harry stood and listened, wondering where the chopper would come from. For Clare the seconds were ticking away.

Rik found Zubac’s gun. He checked the load, cleaned off some dirt, then sat down on the ground and looked up at Harry.

‘This was a fuck-up, wasn’t it? All of it. Was it necessary?’

Harry shrugged. He didn’t know any more. They hadn’t found the Protectory or Paulton, and one of their tame orcs was out there somewhere with a gun. He took out his mobile and called Ballatyne. This time the man himself answered.

‘You on another killing spree, Harry?’ he said drily. ‘I’m not going to have to send you back overseas, am I? The ambulance should be there any minute, by the way. What’s the damage?’

‘Clare Jardine’s badly wounded, Rik’s bashed up but moaning and one of the Bosnians was playing possum. He’s out there somewhere, bleeding, but armed and mobile.’

‘Don’t worry, there’s a police chopper somewhere above you now. Got a camera on board so good he can spot the freckles on a rabbit’s arse. Moment they see Ganic they’ll have him picked up by a Special Forces team.’

‘No,’ said Harry quickly. That was the worst thing they could do. ‘Let Ganic run.’

‘Say again?’

‘They have a car waiting ready to go. They were trying to get back across the Channel. Ganic wasn’t the brains of the outfit; that was Zubac’s role. Ganic’s a soldier. All he knows is they had to get out of the country — he won’t be thinking about why. With Zubac dead he’ll concentrate on getting back to Deakin. . and Paulton.’

‘Can’t do that, Harry. The man’s a cop killer.’ Ballatyne sounded adamant. ‘We let him get among the public with a gun and we’ll all end up in Parkhurst. There could be a bloodbath.’

‘Then get me to him before he can go anywhere.’

‘To do what? You’re not the executioner here, Harry.’

‘He’ll tell me where Deakin is hiding. Pinpoint his location and get me close behind, and I’ll follow him in before he gets anywhere public — but you have to be quick.’

‘Then what?’

‘Then it’s over.’

Ten minutes later, Harry was seated in the body of a British Chinook fitted out with medical equipment. He could do nothing but watch while the crew of army medics got on with their job, evaluating the extent of Clare’s injury and keeping her alive before they took to the air. She was still losing blood from the bullet wound in her side, and her skin was a frightening shade of grey. The chief medic was on the radio feeding through the details of her wound and current state ready for their arrival and Clare’s transfer to an emergency unit, while his colleagues busied themselves monitoring her condition and keeping her as still as possible against the build-up of vibration as the aircraft got ready to lift off.