Stephen Leather - The Hunting

Thomas and the grey-haired man walked over to Van der Sandt. ‘Mr Van der Sandt, this is Colonel Bell,’ said Thomas, by way of introduction.

Van der Sandt offered his right hand, then realised that the other man’s hand had been replaced with a hook. The Colonel grinned at his discomfort. ‘It’s all right, Mr Van der Sandt, we can still shake. It won’t come off.’

Van der Sandt shook the hook. ‘Thank you for this,’ he said. ‘It can’t have been easy.’

‘Actually it went off without a hitch,’ said Bell. ‘We were well briefed with first-class intel, and we met with virtually no resistance.’

‘And you have all eight of the terrorists – excellent.’

‘We do,’ Bell replied. ‘Mr Van der Sandt, if it’s okay with you I’ll wait for you in the hangar.’

‘Of course,’ said Van der Sandt. As the Colonel headed off to join his men, Van der Sandt turned to Thomas. ‘Neil, thank you for everything you’ve done, but I think it best you leave now.’

‘I’m happy to stay, sir.’

‘I know, and I’m grateful for your loyalty. But Colonel Bell and his team should handle everything from now on.’

Thomas smiled tightly. ‘I understand.’

Van der Sandt offered his hand and they shook. ‘I’ll always be grateful to you for your help and support. I’ll call you when this is over.’

Thomas headed to his car. As the men in fatigues took the prisoners into the hangar, Van der Sandt walked back across the lawn and into the hallway of his house. He had left his gun on a Victorian oak table, an antique that Laura had bought at auction in London and shipped over along with another dozen pieces soon after they had bought the house.

Van der Sandt had thought long and hard about which gun to use, and had settled on his Ambush 300 Blackout, a gun that he had last used to hunt feral pigs in Georgia. The irony of using a gun that had killed pigs being used to execute Muslim terrorists was not lost on him. The weapon usually fired 110-grain subsonic bullets, but for the pigs he had used subsonic 220-grain rounds, heavier and deadly up to two hundred metres or more. He would use the same for the jihadists, he’d decided. The Ambush had a camouflage pattern and a threaded sixteen-inch barrel into which he had screwed a bulbous Wave suppressor. The suppressor weighed more than a pound, but if anything it added to the balance of the weapon.

He cradled the gun as he walked along a corridor to the rear of the house and into the kitchen. The kitchen had been Laura’s pride and joy. She had worked with an architect for weeks to get the perfect design, and all the appliances had been imported from Europe. She had flown to Italy to choose the marble worktops and the cabinets were all handmade. The floor tiles were also Italian, and made by hand. Laura loved to cook, and they had eaten most meals on the kitchen table, looking out over the gardens through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Van der Sandt walked out onto the terrace with its BBQ pit – the only cooking he ever did – and across the lawn to the hangar. The Colonel was standing at the massive sliding doors at the entrance to the building. ‘So what happens now, Mr Van der Sandt?’ asked Bell.

‘We’ll use the helicopter to drop the terrorists out in the forest. We’ve identified a clearing just under forty kilometres away. Once they have been dropped the helicopter will return and fly you and your men back to the airport. You can take the jet to wherever you need to go.’

Bell nodded. ‘Sounds like a plan.’

Bell stepped to the side to allow Van der Sandt into the hangar. The eight jihadists were lined up. Their diapers had been removed but they were still hooded, their wrists bound by plastic zipties. Van der Sandt motioned with his gun for the hoods to come off, and one by one they were removed. The men stood blinking, trying to focus their eyes.

‘This is what’s going to happen,’ Van der Sandt said to the men. ‘You’re going to be taken back onto the helicopter and dropped into the woods. Then I’m going to come looking for you.’

‘Fuck that, man,’ said one of the men.

Van der Sandt held up his gun. ‘I’m going to come looking for you, and one by one I’m going to kill you the way you killed my family on the beach. One by one.’

‘You cannot do that, we have rights,’ said the oldest member of the group. He was wearing a baggy shirt and loose trousers and had a black-and-white scarf around his neck.

Van der Sandt walked over to him and stared into his watery brown eyes. ‘You’re the Bangladeshi, right? The leader of the group? Faaz Mahmud.’

‘I am just a servant of Allah,’ said Faaz, staring back at him. ‘And I am a citizen of Finland. I insist that I be allowed to speak to my embassy.’

‘That’s not going to happen,’ said Van der Sandt.

‘You need to hand us over to the police,’ said Faaz.

Van der Sandt took a step back, pointed his gun at Faaz’s bare left foot and pulled the trigger. The foot burst open and Faaz screamed in pain. He hopped back and then fell to the concrete floor. The rest of the men stared in horror as Faaz writhed in agony. ‘There’s been a small change of plan,’ Van der Sandt said to the terrorists. ‘Mr Mahmud can stay here. Once I’ve dealt with him, I’ll be coming after you. You’re going to have about as much chance as you gave my family and the others you killed that day.’ He took casual aim at Faaz’s right knee and shot him again. Faaz screamed and then began to sob as blood pooled on the floor.

One of the men raised his hands. ‘Sir, there’s been a mistake. I’m a doctor, I shouldn’t be here.’ He was in his early thirties, his beard neatly trimmed, but all Van der Sandt saw was a murdering bastard who was going to get what was coming to him. ‘I was in the camp taking care of casualties,’ said the man. ‘I’m not a terrorist.’

‘Me neither!’ shouted another of the men. ‘I work for an NGO, I was helping people, I’m not a terrorist.’

‘Yeah, I’m with an NGO too!’ yelled another of the men. ‘Save the Children. I was helping kids, this is all a mistake.’

Then all the men started shouting and yelling, proclaiming their innocence. Van der Sandt fired a shot into the ceiling and they fell silent. He swung his gun around, his finger on the trigger. ‘If you want, you can die here like this piece of shit. Or you can go outside where you’ll have a chance. Not much of a chance, but then you didn’t give my family much of a chance. So it’s your call. Anyone who wants a bullet now, just raise your hand and I’ll oblige.’

He glared at the men one by one and they all looked down, avoiding his stare, except for the one who was claiming to be a doctor. The man stood with his head up as if he wasn’t fazed by the gun. ‘I am not a terrorist,’ said the man. ‘I don’t know what the fuck is going on here, but I’m not with them. They were holding me …’ One of the guards walked up behind the man and slammed the stock of his carbine against his head. The man slumped to the ground. ‘Anyone else have anything to say?’ asked Van der Sandt.

One of the men looked up. It was the only white guy in the group. ‘I didn’t kill your family,’ he said. ‘I was there but I swear that I didn’t harm your family. I didn’t shoot any kids.’

Van der Sandt walked over to him, his steps echoing around the hangar. He stopped in front of the man. ‘You’re white – what are you doing with these animals?’

‘I’m a Muslim,’ said the man. ‘I’m fighting for my religion. But I swear I did not harm your family.’

‘So you’re a convert? You became a Muslim? By choice?’

The man nodded cautiously.

‘What are you, fucking retarded? Do you actually believe that there’s a god who doesn’t want you to eat bacon? Who thinks that paedophilia is okay and that gays should be thrown off roofs? You had the choice and that’s the religion you chose?’ The man opened his mouth to reply but Van der Sandt silenced him with a shake of his head. ‘You think I care who actually pulled the trigger?’ said Van der Sandt. ‘You’re all scum and you all deserve what’s coming to you. But you, my little white friend, you I am going to take particular pleasure in killing. You weren’t born into this savagery, you chose it; you embraced it. You’ve got nobody to blame but yourself.’ He turned to Bell. ‘Colonel, if you would be so good as to put them on the helicopter and take them to the drop zone.’