Blackout (Sam Archer 3) (23 page)

'Oh Jesus Christ,' Fox said, moving forward.

King's eyes were still open, staring at the ground, his head lolled to the side, a trickle of blood coming from the entry wound in his forehead.

'We were too late. Shit.'

Chalky pointed at the passport, jutting halfway out of the holdall on top of some clothes.

'Looks like he knew they were coming.'

'Call Nikki, Chalk,' Porter said. 'Let her know. We need a clean-up crew and a body-bag team from the morgue.'

As Chalky nodded and pulled the mobile phone from his tac vest, Porter noticed that Archer had a concentrated look on his face, not listening to the other men.

'What?' Porter asked, noticing his demeanour.

Archer looked over at him.

'You seen anyone else in the building since we walked in?'

'Only the guy we passed at the front door.'

They held each other's gaze.

They sprinted to the stairwell, pulling open the door, taking the stairs three at a time. Archer was the first back down to the lobby and he rushed past a surprised couple towards the entrance. He burst through the front doors, looking left and right down Holloway Road either side of him, but he was too late. All he saw were pedestrians, passing cars, the constantly
moving maze of midday London. The tall dark-haired man with the harsh face was long gone.

Behind him, the other three had arrived. Chalky was already calling in the murder on his phone as he and Fox jumped back into the car. Porter climbed into the front seat, firing the engine and called out of the window to Archer.

'Arch, let's go! We need to get McCarthy!'

Archer took one last despairing look at the street. He cursed himself. He’d looked the killer right in the eyes. He’d even made physical contact with him when they knocked shoulders. Swearing, he turned and ran over to the car, jumping inside, the vehicle already speeding off as he pulled his door shut.

A hundred yards across the street from Fraser's office in the centre of Washington DC, the dark-haired man who had taken the shot that killed Fraser was already moving down the stairwell of the building across the block.

He had left the rifle in position on the roof, like a calling card. It had been bought illegally and was untraceable, along with the ammunition, and he had only ever handled the ammunition and rifle with gloved hands to protect against DNA and fingerprinting. His cheek had touched the stock, so there would probably be something for the Americans to work with, but even if they managed to find anything, he'd be out of the country long before anything could be done with the information. No one knew his real name, or who he was. He was truly anonymous, which was the best thing in the world for a sniper to be.

Arriving on the ground floor, he turned left and moved down the corridor to the fire exit, pushing it open and stepping outside onto the street. Closing the door behind him, he peeled off the two layers of latex gloves on his hands, stuffed them into his pocket and raised his hand as traffic moved past. Moments later a yellow cab pulled up. He stepped inside, shutting the door behind him, and within ten seconds he was speeding away from the scene, camouflaged amongst all the other vehicles and headed straight to Dulles International Airport and his soon-to-depart flight to London.

Across the Atlantic in London, the leader of the Panthers was preparing to take out McCarthy. This was a job that he had previously delegated to Crow and Grub, but with both men dead he would have to do it himself. It was an inconvenience, but this change of plan often happened in the field, an operational setback, but one that he would rectify soon enough. Besides, the old mantra definitely held water here. If you wanted to get something done, get it done yourself.

Rising from his seat at the centre of the command post, the man shot the cuff on his fatigues and checked his watch. He’d just miss Bug and Spider, who were on their way here. They might even pass each other on the road. Bird was already on his way back and Flea would be here by nightfall, once he killed Fraser and got to Dulles for his flight. Keeping both televisions on but muted, the big soldier walked over to the wall and the line of weapons laid neatly across the carpet. He scooped up a Kalashnikov rifle, pulling back the cocking handle and checking the mechanism inside the chamber. He had cleaned and oiled all the weapons the day before, and for street-bought guns they were in surprisingly good condition. He picked up a double-taped magazine and slapped it into the weapon, pulling back the handle and loading it, then picked up a black weapon case. Inside, there was a bazooka and a single rocket-propelled grenade that would insert inside the launcher with a
click
. That was it. Once that was done, it was ready to fire. Turning, he looked around, making sure everything was in order. As he did so, he caught another
Breaking News
report on the CNN screen.

Man killed by suspected sniper inside office in central DC,
the screen said.

The big man allowed a faint smile to creep across his mouth.

Fraser was down.

Then he pulled open the door to
the
corridor of the empty building and walked out, closing it behind him and making his way downstairs to the car.

The building had a parking lot in the basement, protecting the men and whatever they were carrying from any prying eyes on the street, and as the lift dinged open the commander saw one of his men, Worm, sitting in the front seat of a silver Fiat, the engine running.

He moved forward and tossed the weapons on the back seat, covering them with a blanket. He slammed the door, then climbed into the front passenger seat, pulling the door shut.

'King is dead, sir,' Worm said, in Albanian. 'Shot him in the face. I made it just before the police showed up.'

'Good,' his commanding officer said, adjusting the seat in the car to accommodate his large frame. 'Let's go. We need to get to McCarthy before they do.'

Without another word, Worm nodded. He put his foot down, and the t
y
res squealed as the car took off towards the exit and the street outside. As they moved up the ramp and into the afternoon sunlight, the commander ticked off both
Fraser
and
King
from the checklist in his head.

Eight down.

Just three to go.

TWENTY

Unlike King, the reason that McCarthy wasn’t picking up his phone wasn't out of fear or apprehension. He simply hadn't been at home.

He
'd
just got back from his girlfriend’s place from across town, the time on the clock ticking to 2:30 pm. He had been asleep all morning after a heavy drinking session last night and hadn’t seen or heard anything on the news. He had a half-day today, working the afternoon shift from 3:00
'
til closing, and wanted to freshen up and drink some water before he made his way over to the warehouse, his head pounding from the hangover.

Pulling the front door of the house shut behind him, he dropped his keys on a table by the door then walked upstairs, taking off his shirt as he went. Moving into the bathroom, he twisted on the tap for the shower, pulling off the rest of his clothes. He showered fast, peering out from behind the curtain to check the time on the clock across the room on the bedside dresser. It had just gone 2:10 p.m.

He didn’t mind the job at the depot. He was a manager and the pay was surprisingly good, enough to put food on the table and put his nine year old son through a local school. He had left the army in 2009 as a Sergeant, and had bagged the job at the warehouse immediately after he left. Staying in the army hadn't been an option for him. His views and the way he saw things had changed. He didn’t agree with the war in Afghanistan and he sure as hell wasn’t willing to put his life on the line for it. A lot of his friends were out there at the moment, and he knew it was likely at least some of them would never be coming back.

Turning off the water, he stepped out of the shower and dried off quickly, then brushed his teeth and towelled his hair, taking a few moments to drink as much water as he could from the tap to give his body a hand as it processed all the alcohol from the night before. Once he'd changed into his uniform, he moved downstairs, grabbing a blueberry muffin from a cupboard in his kitchen and heading to the front door. He took a coat from a hook and pulled it on, then stepped outside and locked the door behind him, taking a deep breath of fresh air, feeling his headache start to ease off.

The street was relatively quiet, only a few people about, just another midweek morning in a London suburb. He saw a postman doing his rounds, going from door to door, and a couple of guys carrying out maintenance on the road to his right. He'd lived in Notting Hill since 2004, managing to buy a small property with money he’d inherited from his parents. He’d timed it just right. Given the recession and the increase in house prices, he wouldn’t even be able to rent a place here now. He remembered just after he moved here how hectic the street was on a daily basis. Back then, tourists were still visiting the area
to see where they
'd
filmed the Hugh Grant movie several years earlier. Most of that interest had died
down
now, but at the weekends and on Fridays the place was as busy as it ever was.

He walked along the pavement to his car parked on the street and sliding the key in the lock, he opened the door and climbed inside. He put the key in the ignition, firing it, and pulled on his seatbelt as he took a bite of the muffin. Putting the car in gear, he checked over his shoulder for any traffic, then released the handbrake and pulled away from the kerb.

Suddenly, a black 4x4 Ford pulled into view from a side street up to his left, moving fast. It stopped midway across the road abruptly, blocking it from both directions, just as McCarthy was pulling out into the street. He slammed on the brakes, jerking him forward. The Ford was directly in his path. Angry, he jammed on the handbrake, pulled off his seatbelt and opened his door, climbing half-way out of the vehicle and glaring angrily at the black car.

‘What the hell?
’ he shouted at the driver up the street. ‘Get out of the road!’

He watched as the doors opened and four men quickly stepped out of the vehicle, all dressed in police gear, MP5 sub-machine guns in their hands. He froze.

The lead officer started approaching him quickly.

‘Are you Lee McCarthy? Formerly British Army?
’ he shouted as he moved towards him.

‘Yeah. That’s me,’ McCarthy called back, frowning. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Sir, I need you to come-’

He never had a chance to finish the sentence.

During the exchange, McCarthy had sensed some kind of movement down the street to the left, about sixty yards away. Someone had stepped out of a silver car, a big figure dressed in black.

Distracted, he turned his attention from the cop, and saw the man was wearing a balaclava.

And he had a long weapon on his shoulder.

Aimed straight at him.

The bazooka suddenly whooshed and gave a flash.

McCarthy didn’t even have time to blink.

The rocket-propelled grenade hit the fender of the car. The explosion reacted with the fuel in McCarthy’s car instantaneously and the entire vehicle exploded in a huge fireball, killing McCarthy instant
ly
. Porter was only just out of the blast radius which saved his life, but the force of it threw him back hard into the ARU’s car, making him shout in pain as he slammed into the vehicle. Behind him, Archer, Fox and Chalky were all knocked off their feet from the explosion, the fireball billowing out ahead of them. Car alarms on other vehicles on the street were set off as dogs in houses and gardens nearby started barking, adding to the cacophony of sound.

Staggering to his feet, his ears ringing, Archer was the first to react. As the blackened shell of McCarthy's car was engulfed in flames, Archer moved around Cobb's car and saw a man drop a bazooka to the ground. The guy was huge, dressed in black fatigues and had a balaclava shielding his face.
One of the Panthers.
He was next to a silver car, another man in black and a balaclava behind the wheel, and the guy on the street started to run around the car towards the passenger seat.

‘Hey!’
Archer shouted, raising his MP5.

Hearing him, the huge man paused, reached inside the back of his car and pulled out an AK-47 Kalashnikov rifle. Without a moment's hesitation, he snapped the weapon into his shoulder and started firing as Archer dove for cover, falling to the hard concrete and scraping the skin on his palms as a volley of bullets smashed into the car where he'd been standing. He heard people further down the street who’d been drawn by the explosion, screaming as they ducked for cover, the brutal echoes of the gunfire echoing off the buildings, the front lights on the car smashing and the glass tinkling to the ground. The man kept up the rate of fire, Archer pinned down behind the vehicle, Fox and Chalky joining him having dragged Porter out of the line of fire and behind the car.

When there was a break in the assault, Archer peered round the back of the vehicle and saw the man jumping back into the silver getaway car. Archer aimed the hair-trigger of the MP5 and fired back, controlled single shots. The bullets smashed into the side window and front-shield of the car, both the men in balaclavas ducking as the bullets skimmed past them. The driver pulled a U-turn in the road, and the wheels squealed as the vehicle took off down the street, heading the opposite way from Archer.