Tracers

holding a large knife with a serrated edge.

Rik stopped and felt his gut shrink. He was too far away to intercept the man; as quick as he was, there was no way he could cover the distance in time. He hesitated, aware of the people and surroundings, and wondered what Harry would do. Then he dropped to one knee, dragging the gun from under his jacket. A part of his brain knew that this was lunacy, that Harry would probably throw a fit. The danger of carrying a handgun in this area was beyond imagining. But there was no other option. If he didn’t do this, Rafa’i was dead meat and the fall-out would be disastrous.

Cupping the butt of the semi-automatic in his hand, he centred on the chest of the soldier with the knife.

‘Stand still or I fire!’

Cries of alarm came as people scattered among the trees, a few quick-witted individuals dragging others out of the way or pushing them down out of harm’s way. A woman screamed and in the distance, a siren began whooping, the sound muffled by the buildings.

The soldier ignored Rik’s shout and continued to bear down on Rafa’i.

Rik checked his line of fire, remembering the lessons on the range and the live firing course, Harry shadowing his every move with calm advice. Back then it had been fun, a flood of adrenalin hitting him as he learned new skills. Now he felt sick. The area was clear of onlookers and there was nobody behind the soldier. A few windows, maybe, but mostly trees and, beyond them, the thick, grey walls of government buildings.

He had a clear shot.

‘Wait!’ It was Joanne’s voice, dragging his eyes away from his target. She was facing him from thirty feet away, the barrel of her handgun pointing right at him.

He ignored her, no longer surprised, and turned back to the soldier. He imagined himself facing the familiar target cut-outs, computing the strength and direction of the breeze and other prevailing conditions that might affect his aim. He could even hear the range-master’s steady, monotonous voice in his head: Focus on the target and ignore all other distractions. Focus. Breathe. Squeeze.

Jesus. Rik tried not to dwell on the image of Joanne’s gun or the way his hands were trembling. Some distraction, this. If he lived through it, he was going to get shit- faced.

If the soldier had heard Rik’s first warning shout, he gave no indication. He probably wasn’t expecting any opposition and was here to perform a quick, silent job, then make his escape through the park.

Rik repeated his warning shout. He’d still got a clear line of fire and the man was now within a dozen paces of Rafa’i. He had three seconds at most to make a decision. The soldier or Joanne? When it was clear the soldier had no intention of stopping, Rik took a deep breath and squeezed the trigger twice in quick succession.

The bangs were frighteningly loud. A volley of pigeons and other birds burst into the air, and several people screamed. With the unique view of the marksman, Rik saw the target — the soldier’s tunic — jump with the impact of both shots.

The man looked shocked and lurched to one side. His legs went out from under him and he flipped on to his face and lay still.

Harry swore loudly as Rik opened fire, and saw the soldier fall. But he was less concerned by Rik’s action than Joanne’s. She had dropped into a crouch, casting off her rucksack and aiming her weapon at Rik. Her face was cold and pale, her expression focussed. Rik was a target to be dealt with. No more, no less.

Harry pulled out his own gun and shouted, although he wasn’t sure what he said: the words were lost in the noise of her gun as she opened fire. Once, twice, three times, she pulled the trigger in quick succession, the shots blending into a roll that echoed back and forth across the park.

Then Rik was no longer upright, but was flung across the grass on his back, where he lay still.

‘No!’ Harry roared. The sirens were growing in volume and proximity. Any second now he could be lined up in a marksman’s sights and they wouldn’t know in the confusion who was who. Anyone carrying a weapon would be seen as a threat and therefore a legitimate target.

He dismissed the thought, caught in the moment. He didn’t want to do this. He didn’t want to be responsible for what was unfolding. Surely she wouldn’t force him-

Then matters were taken out of his hands. He heard a rush of movement and was hit broadside. It was the other soldier, running interference. They both grunted with the impact and rolled in a tangle across the grass, dead leaves showering around them.

Harry scrambled to recover. A flash of light curved inwards and he saw the shape of a blade scything in towards him. Behind it was the snarling expression of the other man, his mouth flecked with spit.

Harry scrabbled away, instinctively crossing his wrists in front of him in an effort to block the knife thrusts. Cuts to the hands were bad, but preferable to a stab to the body. If that happened, it was all over.

He desperately tried to thumb off the safety catch, but his fingers were suddenly slick with his own sweat and moisture, and the gun slipped from his grasp and span away.

The soldier came in again, kicking desperately against the ground to gain momentum. He was so close Harry could see specks of dirt and grass on his uniform and that one button was missing. He rolled away, feeling something grind hard into his back. He grunted with pain, thinking his attacker had managed to cut him after all. Then he realized what it was.

His gun.

The soldier saw it, too, and made another lunge, the knife raised high.

Harry was quicker. Scooping up the gun, he thumbed off the safety and fired all in one movement.

The man flopped to the ground and gave a long sigh.

Harry struggled to his feet, eyes on the dead man’s face. A stranger. Never seen him before. He felt nauseous and winded. Then he looked up and saw Joanne, and realized that what had happened had taken just milliseconds.

It had felt like minutes.

He saw her glance to where Rafa’i was standing, half hidden by a tree, his mouth open in shock. She turned to face Harry and shook her head, the gun lining up on his chest. Whatever she was thinking was hidden behind a mask, unrecognizable from the face he had come to know. She backed away towards Rafa’i, and Harry realized she was putting herself within certain killing range. As she moved, the people around the Iraqi seemed to sense that he was the focus of her attention and scattered, leaving him isolated.

She stopped, the gun still pointing at Harry. Her legs bent fractionally and her finger curled around the trigger. The body language of the shooter. He wasn’t going to have time to bring up his own weapon, and he felt annoyed at not being more prepared for this outcome.

Then a piercing whistle cut through the air, carrying across the park and the open parade ground. It was shrill enough to stop everyone and make heads turn; close enough to drag Joanne’s attention momentarily away from Harry.

Rik was sitting up, elbows resting on his knees, gun cradled in his hands. There was blood on his shirt and a red smear across one cheek. He was gritting his teeth, no doubt fighting against the shock of his wounds.

‘Don’t do it, Jo,’ he croaked, imploring her. ‘Please. You can’t win- ’

But Joanne wasn’t listening. She hesitated, then screamed in fury and spun round, firing twice. It was probably her over-reaction that saved Rik’s life. The first round ripped a chunk of bark off a tree just behind his head; the second gouged into the ground by his foot, kicking up fragments of grass and dirt.

Harry wanted to close his eyes, but couldn’t. She was now sideways on to him. He knew Rik’s ability with a handgun, knew what was about to unfold. And there was nothing he could do to stop it.

With a feeling of infinite sadness, and before Joanne could fire again, he brought up his gun and squeezed the trigger.

Rik did the same, their shots merging into one.

FIFTY-SEVEN