Limit of Exploitation (14 page)

She crosses to the kitchen just as it rings off; her hand hovers over the handset but comes to rest on the SIG instead. She runs her right thumb over the safety catch; her forefinger taps the trigger guard. The iPhone flashes, she stares hard at it before finally picking up.

Caller ID just gives her a number, there’s no name, but she knows who this is. Her thumb hovers over the accept or decline buttons on the screen. With her heart thumping she taps green, closes her eyes and brings the phone slowly to her ear.

She listens to the familiar dracula accent coming through the handset.

Its just dawn and the sun is doing its best to break through the grey clouds hanging over idyllic countryside. The dew on Miroslav’s manicured lawns is slowly burning off; it looks like it might be a nice day.

The private woodland overlooking the main house is still dark and cloaked in shadows. The wood is mature and consists of old growth trees with low hanging boughs and thick gnarly trunks. There’s no tree management here so bushes and fern grow wild in amongst the trees thickening up the woodland. It looks like a set from an old Hammer Horror film. The wood may provide good privacy for Miroslav’s estate, but it also provides a good approach route for Billy.

Moving with carefully placed footsteps he keeps to the shadows, slowly moving through the undergrowth and cautiously stepping over fallen branches and other deadfall. The camouflage clothing and Ops vest he wears are already in shit state, grubby and wet from a sleepless night in the woods observing Surreys answer to Southfork. His face and hands are smothered in black and brown camouflage cream, wet fern and leaves stick to his soaking boots and legs.

Held ready in his hands is a Minimi light machine gun. The Minimi is serious firepower and can spit out its 5.56mm rounds up to rate of eleven hundred bullets a minute to really ruin your day. Billy was armed with the FN Para version that had a shortened barrel and telescopic butt. On the top of the weapon was mounted a Trijicon Advanced Combat Optical Gunsight, or ACOG, a telescopic sight which can magnify a target up to six times. On the bottom was attached a dark green plastic ammunition box containing two hundred rounds.

Crouching in his grimy clothing, Billy continues moving carefully through the gloom to the edge of the wood.

A few miles away a gleaming red Ducati 1098 is thundering south on a near empty A3 dual carriageway. The morning traffic pouring out of London hasn’t quite built up yet and the bike makes good progress. Its big V twin engine and double under seat exhaust pipes rip apart the still air.

Phil leans forward over the bikes huge petrol tank and screws back the throttle, in the blink of an eye the digital speedometer flashes seventy-five…eighty-five…one hundred miles an hour. His full-face helmet is forced against his cheekbones. On the back Sam leans with Phil as he weaves through light traffic leaving the city far behind.

Sam taps Phil’s shoulder and using a chopping motion with her hand indicates to the traffic up ahead. The slipstream buffets her arm but Phil gets the message. A couple of hundred metres to their front is the Zemun’s blue X5; it backs Miroslav’s Merc as the two vehicles speed south deep into Surrey. Countryside streaks past as Phil manoeuvres the big Ducati in behind them like a fighter pilot going for the kill.

Further south in the Range Rover, John and Phil sit parked up in a side road watching the traffic stream south on the A3. Ritchie drums his gloved fingers on the leather wheel. With its engine idling the Rangey is parked half concealed next to a high hedgerow that lines the side road. They watch and wait. Laid across their knees are the M4’s, baggy shirts cover their Op’s Vests and Body Armour.

Through their earpieces comes Sam’s muffled call reporting on the Zemun convoy. The faint sound of the bikes slipstream comes screaming though their ears when she presses send.

“I have Charlie one and Charlie two, both four up, towards the H.A, in lane two of two, sierra seven five to eight zero.”

She can see subject car one and subject car two and they both have four people on board. They are driving towards Miroslav’s home address in the outside lane of the dual carriageway at a speed of between seventy-five and eighty-five miles an hour.

John calmly thumbs the PTT crocodile clipped to his vest. “Roger, Charlie one and two, four up, towards.”

Ritchie adjusts his driving position, puts on his seat belt and revs the engine.

John checks the fit of the magazine that’s loaded into his M4 and positions his feet on the dashboard. Pushing backwards he wedges himself tightly into his seat. He adjusts himself into a snug firing position by locking his elbows against the inside of his knees, the weapon’s butt plate is placed firmly in his shoulder. The barrel of the M4 points directly towards the windscreen.

Ritchie webs his fingers together like a master pianist, pushing his Nomex Pilots gloves tighter onto his hands. He looks across at John.

“Seat belt tough guy, remember, no air bags.”

Back up the dual carriageway the X5’s Serb driver spots the Ducati coming up fast in his rear view mirror. He watches as the bike leans left and comes up alongside his vehicle, growing larger and larger in his wing mirror.

The remaining Zemun heavies are now aware of Phil and Sam and gaze over at the bike. Nice bike. From the pillion seat Sam motions to the Zemun in the rear of the X5, she indicates for them to wind down the window.

Back in Miroslav’s private wood Phil now has a grandstand view of the house and grounds, its driveway and the front gates. He carefully crawls on his belly into an observation position and extends the bipod legs of the Minimi. Through the ACOG sight he follows the outline of the house, tracking the crosshair reticule along its side aspect and out onto the lawn. Two men are slowly walking the grounds, he studies them. They are the crew cuts from Bishopsgate, all Slavic features and bulky overcoats. These guys aren’t out for a morning stroll.

Phil adjusts his point of aim and tracks to the front of the house. His crosshairs play over the large double doors and stone portico. He follows the gravel drive along to the tall decorative wrought iron gates with its small security post. The post is the box shaped Portakabin type that’s been painted over in magnolia and tarted up to blend in with the rest of the estate. Three crew cuts in bulky jackets loom large in his sight picture, they stand around smoking and gobbing off. Phil can see the CIA curly wurly type earpieces that they wear.

He carefully adjusts his body position behind the Minimi and tracks the ACOG’s crosshairs to the left, along the perimeter wall. Another pair of crew cuts prowls the grounds. They are aware, they are eyes about.

On the dual carriageway the X5’s driver is getting agitated, he takes a quick look over his left shoulder into his blind spot and speaks to the Zemun heavies in the back.

“What the fuck are these idiots doing? Stevan, tell those bikers to fuck off.”

Stevan powers his window down and gives Sam and Phil the finger. The other Zemun laugh.

Out in front Belic is at the wheel of the silver Merc. In his rear view mirror he watches the X5 side by side with the Ducati. His eyes narrow.

Through her helmet visor Sam watches as Stevan flips his middle finger at her. She doesn’t give a fuck, what’s important to her is that his window is now down, this is her chance. She reaches into her jacket pocket and feels a cold metallic object inside. Stevan takes his eyes off Sam to speak to the driver, as he does so she pulls the object from her pocket. It’s no bigger than a jam jar, is dull green in colour and has a safety pin and fly off lever attached to it.

Phil see’s her actions in his small wing mirror and edges the big Ducati to within a meter of the X5. Sam swiftly pulls the pin on the phosphorous grenade and tosses it through the back window. It strikes Stevan on the shoulder and bounces into the foot well.

As he’s trying to process what just happened Phil right hand screws back on the throttle, sending the Ducati’s speedo into a frenzy of spinning digits as the big V twin roars. Stevan bends forward and picks up the object that just struck him. His face registers recognition, terror and disbelief. It’s too late; the Phos Grenade detonates in his hand.

White phosphorus is a chemical substance that ignites and burns on contact with oxygen, generating impenetrable white smoke. When it comes into contact with people or objects, it creates a persistent burn so intense that it cannot be extinguished other than by closing off the oxygen supply.

In a blinding flash, a million sun bright embers burning at three thousand degrees erupt in an instantaneous cloud of dense white smoke. The smoke engulfs the X5, punching out and melting its windows. The vehicle is now a careering fireball hurtling out of control. It violently swerves as it trails belching smoke along the dual carriageway,

Speeding towards the hard shoulder it smashes through the Armco barrier into space. Like a meteor smashing to earth, the vehicle cart wheels into a ploughed field below the road, spreading burning debris and flame. Traffic screeches and skids to avoid the carnage unfolding in front of them. Vehicles rear-end each other as they hit the anchors.

In the Merc Belic also reacts. His usually impassive granite face registers the devastation taking place in his rear view mirror. His jaw drops and he breaks into a burst of Serbo-Croat.

“Jesus fucking Christ!”

His eyes flick back to the road as he battles to control the swerving Merc. A junction with a side road is coming up.

On the roaring Ducati Sam doesn’t need to look back, she knows what a phos grenade can do in a confined space. She squeezes her PTT and over the bikes slipstream sends an update.

“Charlie two is down, Charlie two is down. Charlie one is two hundred short of you.”

John is straight in her earpiece; his attention now on Belic and the Zemun heading towards him in the Merc. “Roger. Charlie one, two hundred short.”

From their position in the Range Rover John and Ritchie can see the column of white smoke a few hundred meters up the dual carriageway billowing in the wind.

Over the hedgerow, John and Ritchie watch the gleaming silver Mercedes slowing to pull over. Its indicator flashes on, they are intending to take the junction. Sam jumps on the net.

“That’s Charlie one at the junction with a left intention.”

Click clunk, click clunk. As John thumbs his PTT the red Ducati thunders past at warp speed. High above in the cloudless sky a Police Helicopter hovers over the area.

Ritchie adjusts his driving position one more time, nods at the approaching Merc and states the obvious.

“Here they come.” He slips the Rangey into drive.

In the Merc the Zemun are going ballistic. Disbelief is turning to arguing and shouting. Belic pulls up side on to the junction, he reaches for his mobile.

“SHUT THE FUCK UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP!” he turns to the Serb in the passenger seat. “ Viktor, stand by to head back, maybe someone made it out.” He quickly thumbs numbers on his mobile.

Ritchie watches as the Merc cruise’s to halt a couple of hundred meters to their front, its four ways now flashing. John flexes the fingers of his right hand to improve his position and hold on the M4’s pistol grip. Out of habit, he checks the fit of the magazine again as his thumb pushes the weapons safety all the way round to full automatic.

“GO!”

Ritchie stamps his timberland down hard on the Range Rovers accelerator.

The vehicle leaps forward as the powerful V8 engine kicks in. He doesn’t let up and keeps the peddle pushed against carpet, barrelling towards the Merc. Belic’s attention is elsewhere as he gobs off to Miroslav down his Mobile.

“What? NO! It wasn’t a fucking accident! They were taken out!”

Unseen on the passenger side, the Range Rover is closing in at speed, looming larger and larger in the side window. Suddenly there’s frantic shouting from the rear seats, the Zemun in the back spot the Rangey bearing down on them like a green missile with black bull bars. In terror and blind panic they pound on Belic’s shoulder, pull at the door handles and gob off in Serbo-Croat.

Ritchie locks his arms and aims for the Merc’s passenger doors just as Belic turns his head.

In an explosion of glass and metal, the Range Rovers heavy bull bars smash hard into the centre of the Mercedes. Kinetic energy pile-drives the Merc back out onto the dual carriageway in a protest of screeching rubber and smoke as the big Range Rover grunts in.

As the vehicles shudder to a halt John pours automatic fire through the Range Rovers windscreen. High velocity rounds easily penetrate into soft metal, soft flesh, the remains of shattered windows and inflated airbags. Empty cases fly around the interior of the Rangey at insane speeds as John empties the entire magazine into the Merc’s passenger areas.

Ritchie is already out the driver’s door. As he leaps out he pulls his SIG from his Op’s Vest and sprints to the rear of the shattered and smoking Merc.

John shouts over. “MAGAZINE! MAGAZINE! MAGAZINE!”

As he presses the weapons magazine release catch, the empty mag dropping out the M4 is quickly replaced by a fresh one of thirty rounds.

Ritchie grips his SIG with his right hand and supports it with his left in a classic weaver stance. He aims through what’s left of the rear windscreen, and see’s two Zemun motionless on the back seat; it’s an easy shoot.

Point of aim left head, crack, crack. He rotates his body at the waist, point of aim right head, crack, crack. He side steps to his right aiming down the side of the Merc towards the driver’s door that hangs open.

Tangled up in his seat belt and airbag, Belic falls to the tarmac. He’s covered in broken glass and blood, his mobile phone in his hand. He’s badly shaken and disorientated but see’s Ritchie bearing down on him and tries to reach for the pistol in his waistband. No chance

Ritchie stamps Belic’s reaching hand onto his stomach. Belic, his face a picture of anger and confusion looks up. He pauses, then recognises Ritchie from the underground.