Matthew Dunn - Slingshot

That scream had stayed in his head ever since.

As Will watched the former tank commander open a can of instant coffee and spoon granules into cups, he wondered, not for the first time, if the real reason Arman had refused to have the shrapnel removed was because he was praying for it to reach his heart.

Arman pushed a mug toward Will. “I know it’ll taste like piss.” He smiled. “Good job you don’t come here for my cuisine.”

Will took a sip of his drink and tried not to wince. “Did you get everything I asked for?”

Arman nodded, opened a cupboard, and placed a Makarov handgun on the table.

Will stripped it down. Though old, the weapon was in immaculate condition, and there was not a speck of dust within its workings. “Perfect.”

“Shame I can’t keep my dishes as clean, eh?”

“One of the advantages of being bachelors is that we don’t have to.”

“You still unmarried?”

Will nodded.

Arman looked confused. “I’ve got every excuse for being single because I look like the wrong end of an artillery strike. You don’t.”

Will shrugged. “I’ve not met anyone who’ll have me.”

Arman looked mischievous. “You have problems in the man department? If so I can get you some pills, much better than Viagra.”

“That’s very kind of you, Arman, but I’m fine in that department .” He thought about having another sip of coffee but decided not to. “Being unmarried suits me.”

“You sure?”

“No.”

“Thought not.” Arman took a gulp of his drink, grimaced in pain as he stood, and said, “The other stuff you need’s on the bed. I’ve got to prepare the vehicle. Help yourself to more coffee.”

After he’d left, Will removed his business attire, carefully placing his shirt, suit, and overcoat onto a hanger, and dressed in the clothes that Arman had gotten him. Within minutes he was wearing a white Windbreaker jacket, waterproof trousers, and boots. He looked inside the small knapsack that Arman had prepared for him: a crowbar, mallet, pair of binoculars, set of screwdrivers, military knife, lockpick set, and two spare magazines for the pistol. After putting the bag on his back, he walked out of the trailer.

Arman was on the other side of a clearing, standing next to a large off-road motorcycle, revving its engine while listening to the noise it was making. He took his hand off the throttle as Will approached him. “It looks like a heap of crap, but I’ve checked it thoroughly and have given it a tune-up. You’ll have no problems.”

Will sat on the bike. “I should be three hours. Much longer than that means something’s gone wrong.” He smiled while looking at his rental car. “And that means you can do whatever you like to the Mercedes.”

Will brought the bike to a halt on a deserted country lane and checked his map. He was four miles away from Yevtushenko’s cottage. Deciding that he could get to within two miles of the property before leaving the bike, he revved the throttle, kept control of the machine as its back wheel slid on ice, and drove off the lane onto open farmland. The land around him was featureless and frozen under a few inches of snow. No doubt in the warmer months the land would be plowed and crops would be planted in it, but now it looked inhospitable and lifeless.

He increased the revs as he drove the bike uphill, gripping it firmly as it shuddered due to the uneven ground. Within ten minutes, he reached the crest of the hill, stopped, turned off the engine, lowered the bike to the ground, and looked around. He was on a large area of flatland; beyond it was a valley. Moving to the edge of the hilltop, he removed his sack, lay down, and extracted the binoculars. Based upon his careful study of maps prior to entering Russia, he knew the valley before him was five miles long and four hundred yards wide. Most of it was covered with forest, though a single-lane track was easily visible and stretched along the entire right-hand side of the valley. That would be the route that Yevtushenko would take when traveling to and from his cottage. The house was not visible, obscured by trees, though Will knew its approximate location. On either side of the valley were slopes that were three-quarters covered with trees and rose to the elevation where he stood.

After adjusting the binoculars, he examined the track and saw that there were vehicle markings in the snow-given that it had snowed heavily earlier in the day, they had to be only a few hours old.

Lowering his binoculars, he stared at the large valley. If the FSB or SVR had a long-range surveillance team hidden somewhere in there, watching Yevtushenko’s house, it would take him up to a day to find them, and even then he’d only do so if he was lucky and the team was amateur. He’d never find a professional team. But he thought it highly unlikely that Russian intelligence would dedicate such resources. Yevtushenko’s house was low priority now that the Russian was out of the country and would never return.

He placed his sack onto his back and began moving along the ridge along one side of the valley.

Fifteen minutes later, he stopped, lowered himself to the ground, and crawled to the edge of the slope. Using his binoculars, he looked into the valley. The track was five hundred yards below him, and beyond it he could now see Yevtushenko’s cottage. Directly in front of the property was a police squad car; standing next to it were three uniformed young police officers, smoking, chatting to each other, stamping their feet to try to stay warm. Based on their location and disposition, it was clear the police were there simply to deter an opportunistic criminal from entering the empty house and stealing anything of value.

He moved back from the slope and ran along the ridge. After eight minutes he stopped and looked into the valley again. He was now three miles away from his bike and one mile from the house; below him he could see nothing but forest. Running fast, he moved down the valley slope and soon was traversing its base. All the time, he kept moving his head, searching for signs of life. But he saw no one and kept moving quickly as he started ascending the slope on the other side of the valley. When he reached its crest, he kept running until he was out of sight of the valley, then briefly stopped and bent forward with his hands on his knees to try to catch his breath. After throwing himself to the ground, he withdrew his pistol, crawled back to the top of the slope, and used his binoculars to examine the route he’d just taken. If there’d been police officers hidden in the forest, he hoped that the action he’d just taken would have flushed them out and sent them racing up the hill after him.

But he saw nothing.

He looked toward Yevtushenko’s house. It was once again hidden from view behind trees, but he knew that the rear of the house was five hundred yards away.

He spent twenty minutes examining the land in front of and either side of the cottage, put the binoculars away, ensured that his pack was tight on his back, and moved cautiously down the slope toward the cottage, his gun in both hands.

Reaching the valley base, he kept his gun at eye level, twitching it left and right. Snow was deeper within the forest; with each footfall his boots sank to ankle height, and lumps of it were falling from the trees around him. He tried to keep his breathing calm so that he could turn and accurately shoot anything that made a sound louder than the impact of snow on snow.

He heard noise. Distant, distorted, artificial. It grew louder as he moved forward, and soon he recognized the sound as a man’s voice speaking on a radio. The police. He wondered if they were patrolling around the house or whether the noise was coming from inside the property. Perhaps there were more cops guarding the place.