Matthew Dunn - Slingshot

Joanna rubbed her arthritic hips as she walked into the kitchen. Robert was in there, frying bacon. “Darling, the post will be here in a minute.”

Her husband was wearing a chef’s apron that Joanna had bought for Will’s return home. On it were the words WILLY THE KITCHEN WIZARD. “Right you are, old girl. You want ketchup in your sandwich?”

“No. And I don’t want you putting any in yours, either.”

Robert huffed. “Bloody doctor’s orders are going to see me die early of boredom.”

They heard whistling in the stairwell outside the front door. The postman. Robert turned off the pan, grabbed his pump-action shotgun, and nodded at Joanna.

Two minutes later, Joanna’s hand was shaking as she held the letter and reread it to make sure that her eyes hadn’t deceived her.

Dear Joanna and Robert,

Have you enjoyed your stay at Will Cochrane’s house? I’m sure he’ll be very grateful that you’ve spent so much time unpacking his items and making his home look tasteful. I particularly like how you’ve combined the Louis XV lacquer and ormolu commode with the set of Venetian trespoli and the pair of eighteenth-century Guangzhou imperial dress swords. Like me, Mr. Cochrane has a good eye for antiquities, though his tastes are too eclectic. I commend you for achieving the near-impossible task of arranging his collection within one home.

I’m writing to let you know that you don’t need to remain in his house any longer. This will be the last letter I send. I’d be grateful if you could let him know that Mrs. Rubner has contacted me in what can only be described as a state of hysteria. To my disgust, I learned that British and American men kidnapped her and her daughter in order to try to get to me. I had wondered if Mr. Cochrane had given up chasing me; it appears that has not been the case. There is no excuse for what he did to Mrs. Rubner and her daughter, though I’m grateful he released them unharmed. But I cannot forgive him for killing Mrs. Rubner’s husband, a man who was also a trusted and valuable employee of mine. That action was deplorable.

I’ve been left with no choice other than to address that.

Every morning, you’ve been extremely meticulous with the way you’ve collected mail delivered to Mr. Cochrane’s house. I estimate you’ll be reading these words at 0704 hours.

Exactly four minutes after Will Cochrane’s loved one was shot in the head.

Yours sincerely,

William

Alfie snapped his cell phone shut and ran as fast as he could along the Isle of Wight’s Compton Bay beach. While Betty was preparing sausages and eggs and waiting for Sarah and James to come downstairs, the retiree had been taking an early-morning walk along the empty beach in order to rejoin the coastal road and then watch the holiday home and its surroundings from a distance. But Joanna had called him before he got to that location. It still left the sixty-five-year-old ex-SAS sergeant half a mile of coastline to reach the house.

The same words raced through his mind as he tried to force his aging legs to move faster and his lungs to give him more oxygen.

Bloody hell, no! Bloody hell, no!

He wheezed, his stiff limbs and back throbbed, and his temples ached from the exertion and the icy winter air. Why did he have to be this old, this far away from the house? He could see it now, tiny, at least eight hundred paces away. His heart was pounding. Maybe it would give out on him and he’d die here, just as his old man had done. A pointless death.

Each footfall made his boots sink inches into the wet sand. Bleedin’ sand-loved it as a kid; hated it in the army. All those runs along it carrying a rifle and webbing. But at least he’d been in his twenties then. What was he thinking about sand for? Because he didn’t want to think about anything else, that’s why.

Taste of blood in his mouth. That was normal. Get that regardless of age. Spat out more blood in his time than he could remember. Got plenty more of it inside. Just need to remember that yer body can do five times more than yer mind wants it to do. That’s what got him through the freezing sleet and wind in the final stage of SAS selection: a hellish mountain trek with sixty pounds of gear on his back, while carrying a rifle with no sling. Shit, that was tough, and had come on the back of four weeks of endless marches and runs, most of ’em on your own, just a basic compass for navigation, back breaking from the weight, up and down mountains, shivering all the time, every inch of yer feet pissing gunk from blisters. Long time ago. Since then, he’d gotten old. Running along this small bit of beach was every bit as tough as final selection.

As his legs slowed, he felt his handgun rub against his hip. Probably had taken the skin off by now. Didn’t matter, skin would grow back. Soon he’d take the gun out. Not yet. Had to be close. Must remember the house entry drills. Watch the angles; speed crucial; chest shots first. Christ! Speed? What a joke.

He reached the base of a set of wooden steps leading up the cliff to the road. His breathing was shallow, legs like lead, head gettin’ dizzy. Control that. Get yer mind in shape. Might have shooting to do.

Who you kidding? You’re not in the Regiment’s Special Projects Team now. Just a knackered ol’ codger. Yeah, but you can still shoot, remember? The years ain’t touched that. Bless ’em.

Using one hand on a rail to aid him, he hauled his body up the steps, used the back of his other arm to wipe sweat from his brow. Can’t have that shit in your eyes. He reached the top. House one seven three yards away. Cross the road, follow edge of the open heathland, keep low, gun out when within pistol kill range. Fuck what the passengers of any passing cars thought. Nothing on the road, though-two miles visibility along it to the southeast, one mile northwest.

He walked across the road, wincing as his whole body felt like it was being torn apart. Wish Cochrane was here. Get a grip. He ain’t here, dickhead; you are.

Okay. Small-arms kill range now. Gun out. Two hands. Drop low.

Sixty yards from house. Top windows, east wall-one, two, three, four: all clear. Bottom windows: no sightings. Still leaves four rooms unaccounted for. Front or back entrance? Neither has element of surprise if a professional team’s in there. Reckon front’s best. Gives better angles, plus sight of two more rooms on approach.

Priority: kill bastards, secure target zone.

No bastards?

Hunt bastards down. Kill bastards.

Got to remove emotion. Done it before, remember? Yer pal Geordie’s team in Borneo; knew they were all cut up before you went in to get the bodies and give a bit of payback to their killers. Aden, Northern Ireland, Falklands. More dead mates. Couldn’t think about them while doin’ yer job. Thinking and stuff comes after.

Different now though, ain’t it? You’ve let Cochrane down. Sarah’s dead.

And all you can do now is rescue Betty and James.

Betty. Standing next to her all those years ago. Poky south London church. Him in his cheap but neatly pressed suit and shiny shoes. Confetti in his Brylcreemed hair. Her in the dress her mum and sisters had made for the day. Goodness, his missus looked lovely. Proud day that. Best day. She sorted him right out, she did. Made him grow up and get values. Made him more of a man than all them marches.

Biggest test of yer manhood coming up. Need to be able to step over Sarah’s body, keep your gun high, angles, body shots, room clearance, don’t think, don’t feel. Yet.

He reached the edge of the house.

Movement behind one of the windows.

Then nothing.