Беар Гриллс - The Hunt [=The Devil's Sanctuary]

Jaeger reckoned he had one advantage. He was certain that Ustanov had hit the deck without unslinging his weapon. When he moved to do so, Jaeger could take his chance.

He steeled himself to take the shot, knowing he’d probably only get the one opportunity, for once he fired, his position would be revealed.

He waited.

An eerie silence settled over the freezing mountainside that had already claimed several lives.

The cold seeped into Jaeger’s underside, but he knew that the slightest movement could spell death. He kept his hands firm on his pistol, his aim on where his adversary had gone to ground unwavering. As he kept scanning the terrain, he could just make out what he figured was the shadow of the man’s torso.

At last he saw Ustanov make his move. He rolled slowly in the snow, sliding the machine gun around on its sling until he was lying on his back with the weapon resting on his stomach. He rolled over once more, back onto his front, and now he had the Type 79 held firmly in his hands.

Slick. The guy sure was a smooth operator.

Jaeger waited for his chance. It came in the two seconds it took for Ustanov to raise himself onto his elbows to swing the Type 79 into the aim. Before he could squeeze off any rounds, Jaeger fired.

The 3.9 inch barrel of the P228 was scored with six rifling grooves, forming a spiral that spun the bullet as it left the weapon, the action lending it accuracy. The pistol barely gave a kick as Jaeger let rip.

He kept his eyes glued to his sights. The hollow-point bullet ripped into the metal of Ustanov’s machine gun, throwing off shards of shrapnel, the power of the impact tearing the weapon out of his hands.

Jaeger heard the man scream and instantly broke cover. He would have a matter of seconds at most.

Surprise. Aggression. Speed.

Jaeger sprinted forward, urging his tired legs to power across the hard snow. He could see Ustanov scrabbling about to get his hands on his weapon. He found it and brought it to his shoulder, and for an instant Jaeger could see the bloodied mess of his adversary’s face.

But he couldn’t close the distance in time.

As Ustanov steadied his aim, Jaeger could taste bile in his mouth.

He knew that he was about to die.

Ustanov pulled the trigger to unleash the killer burst. All he got from the sub-machine gun was a dead man’s click. Either his weapon had misfired, or it wasn’t functioning properly; more likely the latter, after being hit by Jaeger’s round.

For a few seconds he fought to get his weapon operational, before throwing it to one side and reaching behind him, groping for the pistol that he would have holstered in the small of his back.

But Jaeger was closing the range fast. He thundered on, and from somewhere in the pit of his stomach came a scream of primeval range as he bore down on his adversary.

This was the man who’d thrown several of Jaeger’s friends from a helicopter’s open doorway, during their Amazon expedition, in an effort to get him to surrender. The man who had bound, beaten and abused Leticia Santos and tortured Jaeger with images of her suffering.

As Ustanov whipped his pistol around to his front, Jaeger dropped to one knee with the P228 in the aim. From thirty feet he opened fire, pumping seven rounds into the target in under three seconds.

Ustanov slumped forward and lay still, the pistol still gripped in his hands.

Jaeger closed the final yards, keeping the figure covered. He came to a halt. From close range it was clear that it was indeed Ustanov, but also that he was very, very dead. The man was a mess. No one could have survived the kind of barrage that Jaeger had unleashed.

He reached down and prised the pistol from his grip. It was a Chinese QSZ-92 – the ‘Type 92 Handgun’ used by the People’s Liberation Army. Fitted with a dual-stack magazine, it carried fifteen standard 9mm rounds, or twenty of the smaller armour-piercing variant. In short, it was a good weapon that packed more bullets than Jaeger’s Sig, with its thirteen rounds.

Jaeger was glad this hadn’t turned into a prolonged pistol duel.

He felt an outburst of raw emotion. It washed over him, taking him by surprise. An explosion of power and energy surged through him: hatred, relief, adrenalin and, strangely, pleasure.

Soldiers did experience such emotions in combat. Jaeger had seen it enough times to know it was simply a part of human instinct. A sudden release of endorphins that flooded through the system, resulting in a feeling of euphoria that was clearly at odds with the brutality of killing.

But he’d also witnessed the ensuing guilt that soldiers sometimes experienced. Killing wasn’t meant to feel good. Soldiering was a job, and this was just the sharp end of what could be a very brutal profession.

Jaeger didn’t try and fight the emotions. Up here, in the midst of this wilderness, alone, alive, he let it pour out of him. ‘Screw you, Ustanov and screw you, Kammler,’ he yelled. ‘I’m coming for you. I am coming for you all.’

His body was shaking with adrenalin. He tried to compose himself and focus. Deep breaths. In and out. He closed his eyes. Slow it down, buddy. Slow it down.

With Kammler’s hunter force eliminated, he needed to focus on the task in hand – getting back to the OP and finishing the job they’d come here for.

He checked the magazine of the QSZ-92. It was full. He tucked it into the rear of his waistband. Always good to have a backup backup weapon. He ran a practised eye over the dead man’s machine gun. The mechanism was ruined, bent and buckled where Jaeger’s shot had ploughed into it.

Then he turned back to the bloodied corpse and began to search it.

Tucked into an inner breast pocket, he discovered an Iridium satphone. It was a top-of-the-range Extreme 9575 – a compact, reliable and durable piece of kit. The only country that couldn’t get an Iridium signal was North Korea, due to US trade sanctions. Across China there was blanket coverage.

On the spur of the moment, Jaeger powered it up. After a few seconds, a message icon popped onto the screen. There was no ping, so Ustanov must have it set to silent mode.

Jaeger opened the message: SITREP please. And it better be positive. K.

He paused for a moment, his mind and heart whirring.

K.

Hank Kammler.

Jaeger sensed the advantage swinging his way.

He took a deep breath, then typed a reply: Two eliminated. Closing in on others. We have casualties. Will return to base when mission complete.

He read it over a few times, checking it had the right ring to it, before pressing send. As he waited for some kind of response, he rifled the dead man’s daysack. He discarded everything but the spare magazines of ammo for the pistol, and the twenty-four-hour ration pack.

That he ripped open so he could feast on the dead man’s food.

As he wolfed down slabs of chocolate and energy bars, he kept one eye on the Iridium’s screen. A message icon appeared.

Leave wounded. First priority to eliminate enemy.

He typed a one-word confirmation, and was about to power down the satphone when he thought of something else. He checked his watch and then typed out a short message for Raff.

Kammler hunter force eliminated. One turned back, presumably heading your way. Intercept him. My ETA your position 0800. Three pink elephants. Out.

That last line was a part of the team’s agreed comms-under-duress procedure. It was devised in the form of a question and answer. If any of their number were feared captured and forced to make contact, they would be asked the prearranged question ‘Who did you meet at Piccadilly Circus?’