ground.
There was no pain in my leg now, no feeling anywhere as I prepared myself mentally, visualizing the target coming from the front door, heading for either the rear or front of the Lexus.
Condensation formed on the lens.
I kept the weapon in the aim and, with both eyes on the killing ground, rubbed it clear with my right thumb and T- shirt cuff. All the time, taking slow, deep, controlled breaths, I was hoping it was going to kick off, and at the same time hoping that it wouldn't until I was in a better position.
The old guy made his way conscientiously along the wagon with his chamois. Then the two huge doors at the front of the house opened and I was aiming into a body, the chandelier back lighting him perfectly. The post sight was in the middle of a white, short-sleeved shirt-and-tie, one of the BG, either Robert or Ross, whichever had gone out for the drinks. He was standing in the door frame, talking on his Nokia and checking progress with the wagon.
My heart-rate soared, then training kicked back in: I controlled my breathing and my pulse started to drop; I blocked out everything around me, closing down into my own little world. Nothing else existed, apart from what I could see through the optic.
The BG disappeared back into the house but the front door was still open. I waited in the aim, hearing feeling the pulse in my neck, taking controlled breaths, oxygenating my body. If I felt any emotion, it was only relief that it might soon be over and done with.
There he was. Michael stepped outside, green on blue, carrying a day sack smiling, talking with Robert and Ross either side of him. I got the post on him, centre of the trunk, got it on his sternum, took first pressure.
Shit... A white shirt moved between us.
Keeping the pressure, I followed the group. I got part of his face, still smiling, chatting animatedly. Not good enough, too small a target.
Then someone else, a dark grey suit, blocked my view completely. This wasn't going to work too late, too many bodies blocking.
They were at the wagon. Shit, shit, shit... I released first pressure, ducked back behind the wall, and ran for the gate while applying Safe. No time to think, just to do. Inside my head I was going ape shit Opportunity target! Opportunity target!
Fuck the off-route mine now, I just wanted an explosion. Still screaming silently at myself, I grabbed the tub.
There was a strange, empty feeling in my stomach, the sort I used to have as a kid running scared from something, wishing my legs could go as fast as my head wanted them to.
Gasping for air, I reached the gate and dropped the tub against the wall, the blue rope still attached, the rest trailing behind.
Opportunity target, opportunity target!
The engine note of the Lexus changed as the wagon started down the drive towards me. It got louder as I picked up the bergen and sprinted along the edge of the trees by the road.
It was time to hide. I launched myself into the foliage at a point about thirty metres from the gate.
Fuck, too near to the device ... I got into a fire position in the mud, using the bergen just like the mound, my breathing all over the place.
The electric whine of the motor opening the gates drowned out the noise of the Lexus as it came nearer and then stopped.
I was too low, I had no muzzle clearance.
I jumped up in a semi-squat, grabbing air, legs apart to steady myself, butt of the rifle in my shoulder as I pulled and twisted to get the fucking stupid safety off.
I could see the wraparounds of the two white-shirts in front as we all waited for the gates to open, and knew I was exposed to them. I kept as low as I could, my chest heaving up and down as the Lexus finally started to roll forward.
Just twenty feet to go.
The wagon stopped so suddenly the rear bucked up on its suspension.
Shit! I stopped breathing and fixed both eyes on the tub. I brought the weapon up to refocus into the optic, and took first pressure.
The engine went high-pitched into reverse and I saw the blurry whiteness of the tub and the post clear and sharp in the middle of it then fired.
I dropped the weapon as I hit the floor, screaming to myself as the shock-wave surged over me. It felt like I'd been free falling at 100 mph. and was suddenly stopped by a giant hand in mid-air, but my insides kept going.
Grabbing the rifle, I reloaded and got to my feet, checking the battle sight.
There was no time to watch out for the debris falling from the sky: I had to confirm he was dead.
The wagon had been pushed back six or seven metres on the tarmac. I started towards the dust cloud as shattered masonry and bits of jungle fell back to earth, butt in the shoulder, ears ringing, vision blurred, my whole body shaking. Rubble and twisted ironwork lay where part of the right-hand wall and gates had once stood.
I closed in on the mangled wreck, running in a semi-stoop, and took up a position by the remains of the wall just forward of a smouldering, man-sized crater. Chunks of brick rained down on the wagon. The once immaculate Lexus now looked like a stock car, smashed, beaten, its side windows missing, the windscreen safety glass shattered and buckled.
I took aim with the battle sights through the driver's window. The first round thudded into the bloodstained white-shirt who was slumped but recovering over the steering wheel.
Two!'
Maintaining the weapon in the shoulder and supported by my left hand, I reloaded and took another shot into the second slumped, bloodstained white-shirt on the passenger side.
Three!'
With only four I had to remember my rounds fired; I was crap at it and counting out loud was the only way for me.
Only smaller fragments of leaf and tree floated from the sky now, landing on the vehicle and tarmac all around me as I moved in, weapon up, towards the rear door. The angle changed: I saw two slumped bodies covered in shattered glass:
one the green T-shirt and blue jeans, the other the dark grey suit. I closed in.
The suit was Charlie. I hoped he was alive.
THIRTY
The target was more or less collapsed in the foot well with his dad down on the seat draped over him. Both were badly shaken, but alive. There was some coughing from Charlie and I could see the target moving.
Mustn't hit Charlie ... I took another couple of steps to get me right up against the door and rammed the weapon inside with my face through the window gap. The muzzle was no more than two inches from the target's bloody, glass-covered and confused head.
Bizarrely, the air-conditioner was still blowing, and a Spanish voice jabbered on the radio as the target moaned and groaned, pushing his father off him. His eyes were closed; I could see fragments of glass trapped in his eyebrows.
I felt the second pressure on my finger pad, but it was refusing to squeeze further. Something was holding me back.
Fuck, get on with it!
The muzzle followed his head as it moved about, turning over on to his side. It was now virtually in his ear. I moved it up a little, to the tip.
It wasn't happening, my finger wouldn't move. What the fuck was the matter with me?
COME ON, DO IT! DO IT!
I couldn't, and in that instant I knew why. A stab of fear ripped through my body.
My brain filtered out almost everything, but it let in the shouts; I turned to see partly dressed men starting to pour from the house, carrying weapons.
I withdrew the rifle, reached in the front, and pulled the Nokia off the BG's belt. Then I wrenched open the buckled metal and seized a fistful of suit. I dragged a fucked-up Charlie on to the tarmac, virtually running with him
