Matthew Dunn - Slingshot

He has been a trusted client of Gerlache for eight years and we can thoroughly vouch for his credentials and integrity. He will call you, outside of business hours, at some point during the next few days.

It has been a pleasure doing business with you and we are in no doubt that you will have a profitable relationship with our client.

His name is Simon Rubner.

Yours faithfully,

Francois Gilliams

Managing Partner

Will put the letter back into the envelope and placed it in a pocket. He wondered if there was anything else of interest within the room, or elsewhere in the house, but he knew that he had to get out of there. After turning off the light, he climbed the stairs, entered the hallway, and stopped.

Vehicle noise, different from the sound of the idling police car.

He ran to the kitchen, looked through the windows, saw no one, and opened the rear door. The vehicle noise was getting louder. Moving to the edge of the house, he glanced toward the track, and his stomach wrenched.

A truck was pulling up next to the house. Two hundred yards behind it, another had stopped; at least a dozen police with submachine guns and attack dogs were jumping out of it and heading into the forest. Will ran to the other rear corner of the house. A third truck was stationary, and more armed cops and dogs were moving toward the trees. Both ends of the valley were blocked off. Within minutes the property would be surrounded. His heart started racing as he realized that his only possible escape route was via the slope beyond the rear of the cottage and then along high ground to reach his bike.

He sprinted, knowing that he’d been wrong: the SVR or FSB must have put a team into the valley to watch the property. It was probable they were armed, and quite possible that he was running blindly toward them. But it made no sense that they were here.

In the distance, he heard dogs barking. Dodging trees, he tried to move faster, though the thick snow impeded his efforts.

A volley of automatic gunfire came from somewhere to his right, and bullets pounded the snow three feet in front of him. He dived left, a moment before a pistol shot sounded from somewhere ahead. Standing, he saw rapid movement ahead. A glimpse of a man in white arctic clothing. Then the man was gone. Will ran onward, zigzagging to try to make his body a difficult target, leaping over mounds of snow, racing between trees, his gun held high. More movement-the man in white. Will twisted and slammed his body against a tree as the man raised his pistol and fired. The bullet missed him by inches.

Will fired two shots in rapid succession. Both hit the man in the chest, and he fell limp to the ground. Glancing over his shoulder, Will saw brief flashes of the cops’ reflective jackets. They were about seventy yards behind him, moving through the forest. He looked ahead. The base of the valley slope was fifty yards away. He had to get to that higher ground.

The blow to his rib cage caused him to stagger back, his face screwed up in pain. A big man, identically dressed to the one he’d shot, was rushing toward him. The man swung his fist toward Will’s head. Will sidestepped, slapped him in the throat with sufficient force to cause the man to fall to his knees while clutching his injury, punched him full force on the side of his head, and slammed the heel of his boot into the man’s stomach. Dropping to the ground, Will wrapped an arm around the man’s throat and squeezed until his thrashing legs became motionless.

As Will moved onward, the ground gradually became steeper, the forest more dense. More automatic gunfire came from somewhere behind him, and rounds ripped chunks off the trees around him. He changed angles again, pulling on tree trunks and branches to help him move faster through the thick snow.

A man ran through trees ahead of him. One of the surveillance team. He hadn’t seen Will, but had a handgun held ready to shoot. Will stopped, held his breath, took aim a few inches in front of the man’s moving head, partially exhaled, and fired. The bullet struck the man in the temple, and he fell sideways, dead. As he did so, a boot struck Will’s kneecap, then his hip. Will dropped to the ground, his hand involuntarily releasing his gun. An operative was standing six feet away from him, silent, aiming his pistol at Will’s head, his finger pulling back on the trigger.

Will braced himself, knowing he was about to die.

A German shepherd police dog leapt through the air and landed on the man, forcing him to the ground. The big dog was trying to pin the man down and tear out his throat. Will got to his feet and retrieved his gun. The dog yelped. Holding the dog’s ear and jaw, the hostile had snapped its neck. Staring wide-eyed at Will, he pushed the dog off his body, grabbed his discarded handgun, and swung it toward Will. He dropped the weapon the moment Will’s round struck him in the forehead.

More barking, accompanied by shouts. The cops were gaining on him and clearly knew his approximate location. Will moved, limping at first from the blow to his knee but soon able to jog, then run as the pain abated. He was now on the steep slope, heading out of the valley.

A pistol round sliced alongside one arm, cutting his jacket and his skin. Another struck his backpack. He dived for cover behind a tree, got into a crouch, readied himself, and swung out. In an instant, he saw a surveillance operative twenty yards away, pointing his handgun directly at Will. Will fired a fraction of a second before the man fired. The operative’s bullet hit a part of the trunk two inches from Will’s head. Will’s bullet hit the man in the face. He ran to the prone body and fired two more shots into his head.

Ignoring scratches to his face and hands from the foliage around him, he frantically continued his ascent. His breathing was shallow, his body covered in sweat, but he dared not slow down. The edge of the forest was now visible. Beyond it he needed to cross forty yards of open ground before reaching the summit.

Two police officers rushed toward him from between trees to his left. Ahead of them was an unleashed dog, its teeth bared as it sprinted toward Will. Will spun to face them, in an instant decided the cops were trying to capture him alive, aimed his gun, shot the dog in the chest and the head, dashed toward the cops, who were now trying to raise their submachine guns, got between them, elbowed one in the eye, grabbed the other by the throat and slammed his body against a tree. Both men were writhing in pain on the ground.

Will left them there, turned, and was hit full force in the face by another surveillance operative. Staggering back, he saw a leg kick toward his stomach. He moved, trapped the leg between his forearms, gripped it tight and spun his whole body, causing the operative to flip onto his side. He stepped closer to the prone man, intending to stamp on the man’s groin, but before he could do so the operative used his free leg to kick Will’s chest and push him away.

After scrambling backward, the man got to his feet and charged toward Will. Will dropped low, moved left, and swung his fist upward at full force into the man’s gut. The man crashed to the ground, moaning, and started crawling away from Will. He was badly hurt, but Will couldn’t let him recover and get to a weapon. The two cops were still writhing on the ground, in pain. Will strode over to them and grabbed one of their discarded Vityaz submachine guns. He was about to use it on the surveillance operative, but five more police officers emerged out of the trees heading straight toward him. Will stood still, raised his gun, and sent a burst of fire into the ground in front of their feet. The cops froze. Will stayed still, pointing his weapon at them, then turned and sprinted farther up the slope.