Howard Linskey: The Drop

I took a step and felt a loosening of the pressure around my waist. Before I could do anything about it, the gun I was carrying there started to slip from my belt. Panicked, I snatched at it, desperate to prevent it from hitting the gravel where it would have made enough noise on impact for everyone in the farmhouse to hear, even if it didn’t go off in the process. How to describe something so terrible, so heart-wrenching, that happens to you in a millisecond? My right palm went instinctively across to snatch at the gun but it didn’t get there in time. Instead it flailed at the metal, caught it a glancing blow and deflected it to the left. Terrified, I grabbed at it desperately with my other hand but only proceeded to do the same thing, half-catching the gun as it fell but unable to prevent it from slipping through my grasp like a wet cricket ball. Palmer spun round in time to see the Glock drop from my hand and head in a downward trajectory towards the gravel, certain to give away our presence as soon as it hit the ground.

I don’t know how I did it and I don’t really want to think about how close we came to disaster but, at the last available second, I stuck my foot out. It was an entirely instinctive gesture but I managed to get the top of my foot under the gun just before it crashed to the ground. The effect was a bit like trapping a football, much of the speed was taken out of the falling gun as it bounced off the top of my foot and with a nerve shredding bump it fell off my toes and onto the gravel.

The sound was audible, but not half as bad as it would have been if I hadn’t interrupted the Glock’s fall with my shoe. I froze, my foot still hanging pointlessly in the air. Palmer raised his SLR and pointed it at the door, ready to drop anyone who burst through it.

We gave it a second then another.

Nothing. No sound from inside. Jesus Christ, we were off the hook.

Palmer nodded for me to pick up the gun. I wasted no time in obeying him and we both edged slowly to the far wall of the building then disappeared around it. We went down on our haunches and kept back in the shadows. I could just about see his face and I gave him a look that I hoped would appear apologetic. He just nodded like he understood but he looked like a ghost. It seemed I had managed to shit him up almost as badly as I had myself.

We weren’t about to go bursting in on them. We didn’t know what Vitaly and his mates were doing right now, how alert they were and how much weaponry they had nearby. To take men like these on we’d have to do it on our own terms.

All we could do now was wait until it got light. That’s when it would happen. I looked at the dark sky around me and wondered how many of us would still be alive when night came around once more.

We’d been waiting for hours, crouched down, in silence, freezing our bollocks off, trying not to think about what would happen if it all went wrong

It was just after eight in the morning when the Russians finally got their act together. We heard the latch on the door snap back and started, immediately going on the alert. Both Palmer and I had our guns ready. We listened intently as the door swung open, squeaking on its hinges, and low muffled voices reached us as they trudged out of the farmhouse. We were out of sight but knew we’d be able to see their backs in a moment as they walked across the farm yard towards their car. I was praying the others were as wide awake and alert as we were.

Seeing nothing amiss, they ambled towards the blacked-out Porsche Cayenne that was parked some way from their front door. It must have made a lot of sense to them to have somewhere isolated to lie low after hitting our organisation, but being this far from the city had its disadvantages, as they were about to find out. We knew they’d all be armed but we didn’t want to give them time to reach for weapons.

We’d worked out the crossfire in advance, thanks to Palmer’s recce the night before. We waited till they had almost reached the car then I shouted. That was the signal. What happened next was a blur. I saw the Russians spin round towards us in surprise, then Kinane and his sons stepped out from behind a skip with their shotguns raised. They didn’t hang about, they just let them have it. At the same time, my brother opened up from behind the hedge. Palmer and me, we were behind their backs, blind-siding them as we stepped out from the side of the farmhouse.

We’d been waiting a long time in the cold but it was worth it to see the looks of comprehension on their dumb faces. They had just enough time to work out what was going to happen to them before we let loose but no time to react to it. The noise was incredible. Where all had been deathly quiet, there was a sudden explosion of gunfire and shouting. They were shouting because they were dying. We were shouting because we were killing them. The bodies twitched and were thrown about as they took the shotgun blasts from Kinane and his sons, the rifle bullets my brother was letting loose at a hell of a rate and all the rounds from the automatic pistol and the SLR Palmer and I were pumping into them. The glass from the nearby car’s windows popped and burst, the metal of the bodywork sang as the bullets bounced through it and the tyres sagged, making the Porsche Cayenne sink into the mud, as if the car itself was dying along with them.

When we’d finished hitting them they were a mess. There was blood everywhere. A fly couldn’t have escaped the carnage. When the boys stopped firing, I walked up to the Russians, who were lying where they’d stood a moment ago, and put a round into each of their heads, just to make sure. I didn’t really need to do it but I wanted to. It made me feel better after what they’d done to me. The last man to take one of my bullets was Vitaly. He didn’t look so cocky now though. I did it for Cartwright, who’d been executed without mercy on a cold factory floor, I did it for Finney who’d been taken without a shot being fired then tortured to death while the Russian guys laughed at him. I did it for Bobby and, of course, Sarah. Most of all, I did it for me.

‘You’re a long way from home,’ I told Vitaly’s shocked and open, lifeless eyes, before I put a round right between them.

After I shot him, I put my gloved hand into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out his mobile phone, then I walked away from his body. Above me, panicked crows cawed manically as they flew out of the trees all around us.

I checked Vitaly’s sent messages – and there was nothing recent. I then went into his video files and found the footage I was looking for. I made sure nobody else was next to me when I watched it. It was indistinct, the light in the warehouse insufficient to show us up clearly. All I could make out was a grey, grainy image of a man, who may or may not have been me, standing there with a gun in his hand and another pointed at his head. At least, if anybody did see it, they’d realise I was being forced into it. I watched as I raised the gun and fired. The camera angle moved and a large, grey haired man, who may or may not have been Bobby Mahoney, but could just as easily have been Santa Claus, slumped in the chair. The film halted. It all looked fuzzy and confused, like a bad dream. I didn’t feel as sick as I thought I would. I deleted the file.

Palmer came out of the house carrying a holdall. He unzipped it, peered inside and walked up to me, angling the bag so I could see what it contained.

‘This what you’ve been looking for?’ he asked me.

The bag contained a large amount of money. There was no time to stand and count it but I was willing to bet that most of it was still there. Gladwell must have been using this as a down-payment for Vitaly’s services. We’d finally found the Drop.