Something hard and unyielding was digging into Rocco’s left knee. He shifted his weight and looked down. A shape too uniform to be natural lay half-buried in the leaves and weeds. He shrank back, his gut going cold as he made out the familiar nose of a large artillery shell. He had no idea of the size, only that it had probably been designed to take out an enemy fortification or bury the occupants of a trench where they stood.
He lifted his knee and backed away, his thigh and back muscles protesting at having to move so slowly and carefully, stepping from one clear spot to another. It was all a gamble, he knew; God alone knew what he was treading on here. Most of the stuff had probably been buried deep, but over the years had risen gradually to the surface as the trees and vegetation grew and the elements flushed through, breaking up the surface soil and allowing the subsoil to yield up its deadly secrets.
The harsh whine of an engine penetrated the wood as it tore up the track at speed. The DS driver was making no attempt at subtlety, and Rocco heard a hollow crump as the Citroen’s soft suspension bottomed in one of the many deep ruts.
He stayed where he was, breathing easily, confident that he couldn’t be seen — at least, not by the gunmen. The thought made him want to spin round and search the immediate area for signs of Didier, but he resisted it. If the men came charging in here, they would be moving from light into shadow, fuelled by adrenalin and the desire to take him out as quickly as possible. Their vision would be slow to adjust and their control diminished, giving him ample time to identify the threat and move away.
As it would Didier.
As if on cue, a crackle came from deep in the wood to his rear. Rocco turned his head slowly, and was immediately rushed back to a time and place where every bush harboured an enemy, where sudden movement was to invite a rattle of automatic fire or a tripwire-linked explosion. He swallowed, his mouth dry, and felt a familiar tremble in his calves. For him, it had always been the legs, he remembered. For some men in the moments immediately before battle, it had been the hands shaking or the eyes flickering uncontrollably. For others it had been dark humour and dry laughter. Each had covered their own minor betrayals by gripping their weapons tighter, by thrusting their hands under their arms or simply by shutting their eyes and mouths and praying. In his case he had waited it out, because sooner or later it had always stopped.
A car door slammed and a voice drifted up from the track. The engine fell silent. Rocco watched the light, aware that somewhere behind him Didier would be doing the same.
Then he saw a flicker of movement and a dark shape appeared. A man with a handgun, head swinging from one side to the other, unaware or simply uncaring of the danger he was in. Another appeared nearby, further down the track. But this one was cooler, perhaps more experienced. One second he was there, the next he had melted to the ground.
Rocco didn’t wait for the third man. If he stayed here, with Didier behind him and others coming at him from the track, he’d be trapped, especially having to take time to study the ground before every step.
He began moving in a monkey crawl, edging back down the slope towards the cemetery. He was counting on Didier having moved higher, where he would feel in control looking down on the newcomers. Rocco instinctively preferred being closer to the cemetery boundary where the going might be easier and where he could track movement against the skyline.
A shot rang out and he dropped to the ground. A sharp voice shouted a query, followed by a brief reply, then silence. Shooting at shadows, he decided. City rats nervous at finding themselves out of their own environment, in an alien world of shifting light.
He took advantage of their confusion to move, this time across the side of the slope. Then he waited, resting and watching the trees where he thought Didier might be hiding.
For the next twenty minutes he followed the progress of the three men from the car as they blundered their way through the trees. Occasionally they would call to each other, checking their positions with a hollow laugh or a brief acknowledgement, their locations pinpointed by the snap of a branch or the scrape of fabric on the thorny underbrush.
Another shot, followed by two more, this time higher up. Two voices were raised in query, one in alarm, and Rocco realised he’d lost track of the third man. He must have penetrated the trees further up the slope, trying to catch Didier unawares.
He crabbed sideways, knowing the two other men were not far away. Then a shape appeared barely ten metres from his own position. The figure was moving fast across the slope with little regard for danger, crashing noisily through the undergrowth. Not Didier, Rocco decided, but one of the gunmen, responding to the shots by circling across the lower slope to move up behind where he thought Didier’s position might be. The man hurdled a tangle of briar, then stepped onto a fallen tree trunk and jumped down the other side.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
The explosion came the moment the man landed. Rocco felt the shockwave brush his cheek, followed by a flash, then a billowing gust of debris burst upwards, shaking the leaves and branches high in the trees and raining down again with a rattle. It was like being caught in a monsoon, the vegetation trembling under the onslaught and drowning out nearly all other sounds.
Except for the man screaming.
It began as a long, high-pitched cry, cutting through the trees and sending shivers down Rocco’s back. Amid the screaming was a gabble of words, distorted and meaningless, and he knew by the choking noises which followed that the man had taken the force of the blast in his belly and legs. He was again taken back to the jungles of South-East Asia and other explosions, other damaged men in similar circumstances.
Then came a single gunshot. The screaming stopped.
Didier. Two to go.
Rocco heard movement to the right of where the man had fallen, and a branch snapped. A sapling swayed, drawing an immediate shot from the left, followed by a shout of triumph. He knew what that signified, too: Didier was play-acting the inept fugitive, waiting for the men to come to him and drawing them across dangerous terrain.
The two remaining followers called out from their respective positions, and Rocco saw one of them move from behind a tree. After the fate of his colleague, the man stepped forward with a new awareness, checking the ground carefully in front of him. Every now and then, he whispered the fallen man’s name. ‘Marc! You OK? Marc!’
For a second, as the man moved steadily closer towards the scene of the explosion, Rocco wanted to tell him not to bother. That his colleague was dead. But he knew it was futile. If Didier was waiting, then he already had the man in his sights and nothing Rocco could do would save him.
Then the last man appeared higher up the slope. He glanced down and located his colleague, signalling his presence with a faint whistle before turning to check the area around him.
Rocco froze, aware that he was out of cover. All the man had to do was look his way and he would certainly see him. Even as the thought occurred, the gunman’s gaze swept across Rocco’s position before moving on. He breathed a sigh of relief.
Then the man’s head snapped back, processing the image he had seen. With startling speed, he turned and opened fire.
Rocco was already sliding sideways into cover, praying he didn’t trigger an explosion. He felt the first shot brush his cheek. Another clipped a branch close to his shoulder, showering him with splinters. He swore and landed in a briar, feeling the thorns slicing his face. Something sharp dug hard into his ribs and he continued rolling, knowing that the man lower down the slope would have seen the movement and would be tracking him.
He couldn’t stay here. He forced himself upright and brought up his gun, counting on the element of surprise. He ignored the stinging in his face and the stabbing pain in his side, and saw the nearest man turning towards him. His colleague was a shadow in the background, also moving round to get his own sighting.
Rocco fired first, triggering shots as fast as he could, then threw himself towards a patch of clear ground behind a tree. As he did so, he heard a scream of pain, and looked up to see the man he’d fired at staring down at his leg. Instead of a bullet wound, however, a sharpened stake was protruding from his thigh and blood was
