The American with the call sign Cowboy Bravo watched as the target readied the rifle, and said into his throat mic, ‘Cowboy Bravo. The target has taken up his weapon. This doesn’t look like a drill. I think he’s getting ready to shoot. Over.’
‘Cowboy Daddy. Roger that, Bravo. Can you confirm that Mr VIP is exposed, Gamma? Over.’
‘This is Cowboy Gamma. Hold on, I lost sight of Mr and Mrs VIP to avoid a gorilla. I’m re-establishing a visual. I can hear them talking. Yes, I can see him in the kitchen near the door. He’s approaching it now. Looks like he’s going to step outside. He’s definitely going to step outside the door. Over.’
‘Copy that, Cowboy Bravo,’ Cowboy Daddy’s gravelly voice answered. ‘When he does, you can bet your bottom dollar our boy is going to drop that son of a bitch with one through the cranium. This is it. Be ready. I’m moving into killing range from the south of the target. Do the same from the north, Cowboy Bravo. Out.’
The American rose from his kneeling position and carefully approached the target, moving in a semicircle to come at him from behind. He released the safety on his MP5 and checked the selector was switched to three-round burst.
The silhouette behind Izolda stepped out of the shadows. Vladimir Kasakov was stripped to the waist and wearing long swimming shorts. His huge torso was covered in hair. His wife blocked a good deal of him, but Victor centred the reticule between Kasakov’s eyebrows and breathed slow and steady. His heart rate fell. He concentrated on its rhythm, timing himself, finger poised to squeeze in the pause between beats, ready for when Izolda had moved out of the way.
Victor watched as she took a glass of iced tea from her husband and then stepped backwards and away from the door to allow Kasakov to exit. The big Ukrainian emerged through the doorway.
The birds stopped singing above Victor.
He squeezed the Longbow’s trigger.
CHAPTER 52
Something whizzed past the right side of Kasakov’s head, followed by a loud thunk, as if a nail had been hammered into the wood. He flinched in surprise, but didn’t understand what any of it meant. He put a hand to his ear and turned on the spot, confused.
‘Are you okay?’ Izolda asked.
‘Yes,’ Kasakov replied. ‘I think a wasp flew past me.’ He stared, confused, at a small hole in the doorframe. The edges were frayed. ‘Has this hole always…?’
A sound like thunder rolled over them.
Kasakov and Izolda looked at each other.
‘What was that?’ she asked, sipping some iced tea and looking skyward.
Kasakov looked too. There were a few clouds, but certainly no storm clouds. What caused the thunder?
‘Maybe it was a plane,’ Izolda suggested.
A window shattered to Kasakov’s left and Izolda let out a surprised yelp. She dropped her glass and it shattered on the paving slabs. Shards of glass and ice cubes scattered across the ground. Iced tea spread out in a puddle.
Brickwork exploded. Kasakov flinched as fragments pelted his arm and back.
A second sound like thunder echoed. Concern spread across Kasakov’s face.
‘ What the hell? ’
One of their bodyguards came running around the side of the dacha.
‘ GET DOWN,’ he yelled, gesturing frantically with both hands, ‘ GET DOWN.’
Izolda screamed. Kasakov cursed himself for being slow to understand and charged in his wife’s direction. He threw her to the ground and lay on top to shield her.
Another gunshot filled the air.
So close to the fired rifle, the sound of the gunshots was loud enough to sting the ears of the American with the call sign Cowboy Bravo. He was barely ten feet behind the target, the iron sights of the MP5 lined up to put a triangle of rounds through his spine when the command was given, which should be any second now.
‘Cowboy Gamma, this is Cowboy Daddy,’ a voice spat through his earpiece. ‘Shots have been fired. Gimme me a fuckin’ sitrep. Over. ’
‘He missed,’ Cowboy Gamma replied. ‘Goddamn missed with all three shots. Mr and Mrs VIP have realised what’s happening and are on the ground. Bodyguards are securing them. Over.’
‘ Shit,’ Cowboy Daddy said back. ‘I thought this guy was supposed to be good. Cowboy Bravo, hold your position. Do not shoot, repeat, do not shoot the asshole. We can’t kill our target until he kills his own. Out.’
Victor lost sight of Kasakov and his wife. They both hit the deck soon after the third shot had drilled a hole in the dacha’s brickwork. At least three bodyguards were now on scene, shielding their protectees until it was safe to get them out of the area. They were looking Victor’s way as the hillside was the most logical place for a sniper to be positioned, but he was too far away to be spotted. In return, Victor couldn’t see even a square inch of Kasakov.
He grabbed the MP7 and sprinted forward in the dacha’s direction.
Cowboy Bravo whispered into his throat-mic, ‘This is Cowboy Bravo. The target has ditched the rifle and is on the move towards the mansion with an SMG. Looks like he’s going to do this from up close and personal. Over.’
‘Roger that,’ Cowboy Daddy replied. ‘Follow him and maintain a visual. Out.’
The American rounded the two trees where the target had been lying, and gave chase down the steep front of the highpoint. The target was running fast, heading west down the hillside, maybe fifteen yards ahead, darting through the undergrowth, crushing shrubs and bending and snapping slim branches as he ran.
The hillside was relatively steep with jutting protrusions of rock and jagged steps covered in a thick layer of soil and detritus. Thin-trunked trees rose into the sky all around him. Between them shrubs and other plant life competed for the light filtering through the canopy. Moss spread across tree trunks, fallen branches and rocky areas. Victor sprinted as fast as he could without stumbling, dodging trees, ducking branches, jumping rocks.
He spotted a fallen tree up ahead — saw it was perfect — and manoeuvred towards where it lay. He leaped up and over it, dropped down on the other side, spun around and into a firing position.
As he expected, a shape was running through the trees behind him, sixteen yards out, following Victor’s path, hard to see at first, half-hidden by trees, blending well into the surrounding vegetation due to a ghillie suit, but unmistakably a man with an MP5SD.
The sudden turn took Victor’s pursuer completely by surprise.
Automatic gunfire echoed through the forest.
The man in the ghillie suit danced momentarily as he was struck by a burst of 4.7 mm high-velocity rounds, then fell out of sight, leaving a mist of blood hanging in the air.
Victor’s gaze swept from left to right, knowing there would be more of them. He saw another blur of movement through the undergrowth. Another man in a ghillie suit, twenty yards away at Victor’s ten o’clock. The underbrush was thick and tall around him. Like the first man, the fact he was running gave Victor the chance to distinguish him from the surrounding vegetation. The second man had a half-second extra to react over the other guy and was dropping low as Victor fired, 4.6 mm bullets missing and blowing bark from a nearby tree.
The man shot back. There was virtually no noise or muzzle flash due to the fat integrated suppressor of the MP5SD. Bullets zipped over Victor’s head. He crouched lower, maximising the cover of the fallen tree. He shot back, again missing, but this time hitting close enough to convince the shooter to back off into harder cover.
Victor had his left forearm resting on the horizontal tree trunk, gaze fixed along the MP7’s sights at the area in which the gunman had disappeared. If he backtracked up the hill, Victor would see him, but if he moved laterally, the gunman could stay hidden in the mass of shrubs and tall plants. The trees there were thin but plentiful. Victor’s eyes flicked towards any swaying limb or falling leaf.
He knew he was fortunate to still be alive. If the guy Victor had shot hadn’t disturbed the birds in the trees above the highpoint and stopped them singing, Victor would have put a. 338 Lapua Magnum through Kasakov’s skull as planned, and in return would have been shot where he lay. After noticing the sudden quiet Victor understood he
