Mason scowled. Creeping along the side of the building, he peered around the corner.
A man lay flat behind a raised bed of flowers. A second man in black body armor lay nearby, face down as if he’d been asked to imitate the dead Ukrainian Mason had left on the river bank.
“Hey,” called Mason.
The man tucked behind the bed stretched his neck to look behind him.
“Hullo there,” he said. “You’ll be wanting to stay put. Sniper.”
“Got it. I assume you’re one of ours?”
“Gardener,” he called back. “Trimmer.”
Mason wondered why the man called himself a trimmer. Gardener really covered everything gardeners did.
As if he could read Mason’s mind, the gardener continued. “Last bit’s my name. Trimmer.”
Ah.
“You okay?” Mason scanned the trees across the water calculating his chances of successfully retrieving the fallen gardener. It was too dark to see much of anything. Sniper probably had a night scope. The odds weren’t on his side.
“Took one in the leg. Not cricket, having a chap over there.”
Mason motioned to the still body in black. “That guy’s dead?”
“Have a look—you’ll see he’s got my shears sticking out of his neck.”
So that’s a yes.
Mason sighed. The sniper had Trimmer pinned. To run over and drag him to safety would be suicide. Probably end with both of them dead.
“You have a gun?” he asked.
“No. You?”
“Couple. How bad are you bleeding?”
“I tied it off. Ruined a perfectly good shirt doing it.”
Gunfire blasted just inside the hotel.
Mason frowned. “Look, Trimmer, I gotta get inside. I’m going to toss you a rifle. You sit tight.”
Trimmer’s head nodded. “Cracking idea.”
Mason rose from his crouched position long enough to toss the rifle. It landed two feet from Trimmer, who rolled to grab it before spinning back to his position against the raised bed. “I’d like to go in the back here,” added Mason.
Trimmer waved once. “Cheers. I’ll keep our friend across the water busy.” He pointed the rifle over the bed and let off a shot.
Mason ran toward the back porch as more gunfire exploded inside. He rolled aside as two men burst onto the porch.
Men in black.
He fired, clipping one in the arm. The merc fell down the stairs and tumbled out of Mason’s line of sight.
From his spot behind the plant bed, Trimmer twisted and sprayed the porch with bullets.
A second merc spilled out of the kitchen and fell directly on his back, a hole in the center of his forehead.
Bracco appeared in the doorway.
“Sniper!” warned Mason from his crouched position in the darkness behind the porch railings.
Too late.
The gun echoed. Mason heard Bracco’s wind escape and the thud as the big man hit the ground.
“Bracco?”
Bracco grunted.
“Hold on, buddy. I gotta take care of some things.” Mason turned his attention to Trimmer, who shot a staccato string of bullets toward the opposite end of the porch.
He must have missed that soldier. Now the merc sat in the perfect position to pick the Brit off.
Mason wanted to stay low and creep to the end of the porch but he feared his leg wouldn’t let him move like he wanted. He tucked his gun away.
Here goes nothing.
He tucked and rolled sideways past the open stairs. The sniper fired, the bullet striking the building.
Mason threw himself to his stomach and aimed. Alerted by the sniper’s shot, the merc hiding on the side of the house popped up his head, looking for him between the spindles of the porch railing.
Mason fired.
The solder dropped.
“Cheers,” called Trimmer from his hiding spot.
Mason belly-crawled to the end of the porch and peered over the edge. The body of the merc lay on the ground below. He flipped himself over the railing to join him to the sound of another gunshot. He saw the muzzle flash in the darkness as he fell.
Mason grit his teeth.
I hate snipers.
He scanned the opposite shore. He’d never get a clean shot at the sniper in the dark. His gaze dropped to what looked like a body on the ground an arm’s length away. He stretched out to poke it.
Soft.
What is that?
Mason reached out and pulled the object toward him to find it was a giant doll made of straw, pinned to a long stick.
Hm.
He poked his head around the side of the house.
“Hey, Trimmer.”
“At your service.”
“How you doing?”
“Brilliant.”
“I’ve got some kind of straw doll here I’m going to throw to you.”
Trimmer twisted to look. “Guy Fawkes? He’s my scarecrow.”
“Whatever. Heads up.”
Mason popped up long enough to fling the doll at Trimmer, dropping back to his hands and knees as the sniper took another shot.
Mason saw the flash on the opposite shore again. He had a general idea of where the sniper lay.
“I’m coming next,” he said as Trimmer pulled the scarecrow to him.
Mason spun like a rolling pin down the hill toward Trimmer, crawling at the last second to join the gardener behind the raised bed.
Mason slithered up beside him.
“How do you do?” said Trimmer.
“Give me the rifle. I need you to lift the doll when—”
“Scarecrow.”
“Whatever. Lift it on my mark. Give me a second to set up.”
Mason scrooched around until he found a comfortable position and pointed the rifle toward the spot on the opposite shore where he’d seen the flash.
“Up!”
From his supine position, Trimmer lifted the scarecrow. The sniper fired two quick shots and Mason let a flurry of bullets go where he saw the muzzle flash.
He stopped and ducked back down, waiting.
“Try it again,” he said.
Trimmer waved the scarecrow.
No shots.
“I think I got him,” said Mason.
“Might be a trick,” said Trimmer.
