Chris Ryan - Killing for the Company

Luke stared at her. He didn’t want to believe Maya Bloom, but so many things were falling into place.

She was breathing heavily now. ‘Someone needs to stop him, or he’ll try this again. He’s insane,’ she said. ‘ We can stop him. Put the fucking gun down and we can stop him.’

But Luke didn’t move. He remembered her ruthlessness in St Paul’s. He remembered Chet. He reminded himself that Maya Bloom still wanted him dead.

‘This has been a long time coming,’ he said.

She scowled. ‘What do you mean?’

‘You killed my friend. You killed his kid and you killed the boy’s mother. And you did it all for that piece of shit Stratton.’

‘I did nothing for Stratton. Everything I’ve done, I’ve done for my people…’

She jutted out her chin, defying Luke to finish her off.

He didn’t shoot her in the head, or in the chest, but in the stomach. Killing her wasn’t enough. He wanted her to suffer. To bleed. To beg for mercy before he ended it. The retort of the round’s discharge echoed around the alleyway and Maya Bloom, shot from little more than four metres, was thrown violently against the dead-end wall, her knees barely able to support her as she clutched her stomach and looked down with horror at the blood that was seeping between her fingers.

Luke was aware of a whining sound from the stray dog somewhere behind him as he bore down on her. And another sound, further away but growing nearer: sirens.

Maya Bloom coughed, a retching sound. When she had finished she gasped for air. Luke watched as her chin dropped to her chest. It felt right that her life was slipping away. And it felt right that he should tell her something else before she died.

‘I knew your brother,’ he said.

The words were like a shot of adrenaline. Maya Bloom looked up again. Her lips were blue. Her skin grey.

‘I don’t believe you…’

‘His name was Amit. I was with him when he died.’

‘When the Arabs killed him,’ she spat.

Luke shook his head slowly. ‘The Arabs didn’t kill him,’ he whispered. ‘Amit took his own life. I saw him do it. Blew himself up and took a checkpoint full of Iraqis with him.’

Maya Bloom started to tremble. Luke leaned over, closer to her. ‘Amit sacrificed himself for his cause. He was a good man. A soldier. You? You just kill innocent people. That’s not war. That’s murder. If he knew what you were, he’d fucking despise you.’

‘ NO! ’

The woman’s shout was hoarse, but so forceful that Luke was momentarily shocked. She raised her right hand from her bleeding stomach and fumbled in her jacket pocket before pulling out the piece of glass. It was almost pitiful, the way she lifted her weapon. She weakly held up the shard, hatred and agony on her face.

Luke didn’t even bother to shoot. He just whacked the end of the rifle against the side of her head and watched as she collapsed. She coughed again, and this time blood flowed from her mouth and her body started to shake. Luke kneeled down next to her and put the gun to her right temple. It was time to finish it.

But suddenly there was shouting.

Even before he turned his head he could tell there were at least six men. They wore olive drab, Kevlar helmets and chest rigs; they had M4s pressed into their shoulders and were advancing down the alleyway in a V-shaped formation.

Israeli SF. Twenty metres. He couldn’t understand their shouts but he knew what would happen if he didn’t put the gun down. Now.

He looked at the dying woman. Her eyes were halfway gone, her breathing like a fucking bellows. But as Luke slowly lowered his weapon, he heard her speak.

It was just a whisper — slow, agonised, barely audible. But the words were clear enough.

‘Your friend died like a dog. He died limping like the cripple he was. He was pathetic…’

And as she delivered her insult, a defiant smile crossed her death-white face.

A sudden jolt of anger shook Luke, and he squeezed the trigger, pumping a fatal shot into her head.

Two more rounds rang out instantly. One of them missed Luke, passing a couple of inches to the right of his head. The other found its target. It pierced his back just to the right of his spine.

He slammed to the ground.

He tried to breathe, but no air reached his lungs. Two figures loomed over him. He heard them shouting. He tried to move his arms, but he had no strength. Only pain. The shouts of the soldiers dissolved into a blur.

Then there was darkness.

The following day

There was a gentle breeze. It came from the east, but it was not so chill as to make the little crowd of fifteen people standing near Alistair Stratton’s private chapel hurry inside. They appeared quite happy to remain outside, chatting easily. The former prime minister stood on the edge of the group. He had a series of SteriStrips across his broken nose and his right eye was bruised and shiny. He was immaculately dressed, as ever. As his guests, one by one, approached to shake his hand and enquire after his well-being, he smiled brightly at them.

It had long been Stratton’s habit to invite members of the public from the nearby village to join him for the Sunday morning service. The generous benefactor. But they had been the last thing on his mind when he had walked towards the chapel that morning, discreetly flanked by his bodyguards and with Wheatly, his PA, following several metres behind. He had indulged them out of exhaustion. And guests, of course, were always delighted to rub shoulders with a man of such importance. They’d dine out on it, telling their friends of the neatly clipped lawns and topiary and of the serenity of that little chapel.

How different their experience would be if they saw Alistair Stratton’s personal office: the flat-screen television hanging loosely from the wall; the laptop computer smashed on the floor; the canvas of the Hieronymus Bosch torn; the furniture upended and one window broken. But they were never going to see that. Wheatly had locked the door and his boss’s loss of temper of the previous day had not been mentioned by anybody.

A priest in white robes appeared at the entrance to the chapel. He was a kindly old man whose only vice was an excessive love of model railways. He held his hands out in benediction. ‘Shall we, ladies and gentlemen?’

The congregation started to file in, leaving Stratton to stand outside with his PA and his close protection lingering nearby. When he did finally enter the chapel, Wheatly followed but the two close-protection men took up position on either side of the entrance. They rolled their eyes at each other once they knew they were alone. Sunday morning was the bum shift, but at least they didn’t have to sit through the service. The Grosvenor Group paid them well, but almost no money was worth having that religious shit inflicted on you every seven days. Besides, it was a pleasant morning. Peaceful. The birds were singing in the trees and it was good to be outside. As soon as they were alone they lit cigarettes, leaned against the church and started soaking up the early morning sun.

At the Mossad training academy, Ephraim Cohen stared at two images.

They were the stuff of nightmares. Of Cohen’s nightmares, at least. Maya Bloom’s face was barely recognisable. It was no surprise she’d come to a violent end.

The door opened. Ehud Blumenthal walked in. There were no niceties. He stared at Cohen for a moment like he was staring at a turd in the road.

Cohen removed his glasses. ‘Ehud,’ he said mildly. ‘I’m surprised to see you here?’

‘It’s not out of choice, I assure you, Ephraim.’

Blumenthal’s face was drawn. Grey. He looked like he’d aged fifteen years. Perhaps it was Cohen’s imagination, but a little of the arrogance he’d displayed at their last meeting seemed to have left him.