Jungle Kill
Authors: Jim Eldridge
JUNGLE
KILL
JIM ELDRIDGE
EGMONT
We bring Stories to life
Black Ops: Jungle Kill
First published 2010
by Egmont UK Limited
239 Kensington High Street
London W8 6SA
Text copyright © 2010 Jim Eldridge
The moral rights of the author have been asserted
ISBN 978 1 4052 4780 1
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library
Typeset by Avon DataSet Ltd, Bidford on Avon, Warwickshire
Printed and bound in Great Britain by the CPI Group
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher
First e-book edition 2010
ISBN: 978-1-4052-5935-4
For Lynne, without whom this would never have been written.
The pistol in Paul Mitchell’s hand was an H&K Mark 23. The man Mitchell was pointing it at stood with his hands clasped to the top of his head, sweat and blood running down his face. He looked terrified.
‘This is the Mark 23,’ Mitch told the man coolly, ‘one of the finest guns in the world. Right now it’s fully loaded and fixed with a silencer. No one will hear it if it fires.’
The man glanced around agitatedly. He had come at Mitch out of the bushes surrounding the building just a few minutes before, levelling an assault rifle. A Kalashnikov – the AK-47. He should have shot Mitch then, and his troubles would have been over. But he’d thought Mitch was unarmed.
That was his first mistake. His second mistake was to assume that because Mitch looked young he would have no real fighting experience. Mitch
was
young, but he’d served in the army since he was seventeen. And his last year had been with Special Forces.
The man’s third mistake was to step towards Mitch and poke him in the chest with the end of the rifle barrel. Never do that to someone who’s been Special Forces trained. First rule of pointing a gun at anyone: if they appear unarmed, there’s no need to put yourself within reach of them. Mitch had knocked the Kalashnikov to one side then kicked the man in the groin. As he went down Mitch snatched the rifle from him and hit him in the face with the butt.
Mitch had then dumped the Kalashnikov on the ground and pulled out the Mark 23. ‘I’m going to throw a mobile phone on to the ground near you,’ Mitch said calmly, keeping the pistol aimed firmly at the man’s head. ‘You’re going to bend down and
pick it up. This gun will be aimed at your head the whole time. If you attempt to make a run for it, or use the mobile phone as a weapon or a diversion, I will shoot you. Is that clear? Nod if you understand.’
The man nodded slowly. Mitch reached into his pocket, took out a mobile phone and gently tossed it so it landed on the gravel.
‘You can take your hands off the top of your head, but spread them. Keep them away from your body. Bend down and pick up the phone.’
The man hesitated, then did as he had been told. Mitch kept the gun on him, not wavering.
‘Dial Mr Zakhovsky’s private number.’
‘I don’t have it,’ the man began, but he shut up abruptly when he saw the expression on Mitch’s face.
‘Believe me, mate,’ Mitch snapped, ‘if you don’t have it then you’re no use to me and I might as well kill you right now. So, let’s try that again. Dial Mr Zakhovsky’s private number.’
The man began to dial, his hands shaking as he did so. He was obviously scared of what Mr Zakhovsky would do to him. But Mitch was the one holding a gun on him right now.
He finished dialling and held the phone out to Mitch, but Mitch shook his head and gestured for him to put it to his own ear. When the person on the other end of the line answered, he began to stammer out an apology in Russian.
‘Stop,’ Mitch ordered. ‘Tell him Paul Mitchell is here.’
The man said something more in rapid Russian, then listened, nodding. He held out the mobile to Mitch.
‘Mr Zakhovsky wants to talk to you.’
‘OK,’ said Mitch. ‘Put the phone on the ground, put your hands back on your head and then step back six paces. Slowly.’
The man complied with the order. Mitch followed, equally slowly, keeping the gun trained on the man’s face. When Mitch reached the phone
he bent down, picked it up and put it to his ear, still aiming the gun.
‘Hello! Hello!’ a voice was saying impatiently.
‘Mr Zakhovsky,’ said Mitch. ‘I understand you want to see me.’
‘How did you get into my private residence?’ the man on the other end of the phone demanded angrily.
‘That’s my business,’ answered Mitch. ‘I’ll be waiting for you tomorrow at ten a.m.
in the lobby of the Excelsior Hotel in Knightsbridge. I think you know it.’
Mitch was taking no chances. Zakhovsky owned quite a few hotels in London but the Excelsior Hotel wasn’t one of them. There’d be little chance of him rigging an ambush there at such short notice. Zakhovsky would come with his own protection, of course, but Mitch would be prepared.
There was a pause, then, ‘Very well,’ Zakhovsky snapped tersely, ‘I will see you tomorrow at ten a.m.’
‘Good,’ said Mitch.
‘And one more thing,’ Zakhovsky sneered. ‘The fool you are holding at gunpoint. He has failed me. Kill him.’
‘Oh no, Mr Zakhovsky,’ replied Mitch, smiling. ‘I don’t work for you yet. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.’
As Mitch hung up, he bent down and picked up the Kalashnikov.
‘You can go now,’ he told the man. ‘Keep walking away from me for a count of one hundred. Slowly. Keep your hands on your head. Don’t look back. If you do, I’ll have to shoot you. Understood?’
The man nodded. He looked like he was going to collapse with relief.
‘Go,’ said Mitch.
The man turned and began walking away, hands still on his head. Mitch gave him a count of ten and then made his exit, back the way he’d come.
It had all begun when Zakhovsky’s private secretary had contacted Mitch a few days earlier and asked him to visit Zakhovsky at his mansion in Regents Park. He had told Mitch that Mr Zakhovsky had some bodyguarding work he’d like to talk to him about.
Mitch had agreed to meet Zakhovsky, and had then hit the Internet to find out more about his potential client. He already knew a little because the press liked to document Zakhovsky’s wheelings and dealings, but he knew he’d get more after digging on the web.
Cutting through a lot of rubbish, Mitch had learnt that Leonid Zakhovsky was a Russian who’d made millions – no, make that
billions –
as the major
shareholder of a large energy firm in Russia. When the Russian government began demanding large sums of money from him in taxes, Mr Zakhovsky had moved to Britain, taking most of his money with him.
But none of that explained why Zakhovsky wanted to see Mitch. Zakhovsky lived in a huge mansion in the heart of London, protected by state-of-the-art security equipment and with a bunch of Russian heavies at his disposal. But business was business, and a billionaire with money to throw around was always an attractive proposition, so Mitch decided not to question it further.
Then just as Mitch had been getting ready to call on Zakhovsky he’d received a text message. The message had been brief: ‘Danger at Zakhovsky house.’ Even stranger, the text had been in Igbo, one of the tribal languages of Nigeria. Why? Who knew Mitch well enough to know that he spoke Igbo?
Mitch had gone to Zakhovsky’s house anyway, but undercover, his curiosity aroused. And so far
his curiosity had paid off. But that was yesterday.
At the Excelsior, Mitch waited as arranged. It was one of those old-fashioned-looking hotels: wood panels, tubs of flowers, cushioned armchairs and settees in the lobby. But behind the scenes the Excelsior was one of the most hi-tech hotels in London, especially when it came to its security and surveillance system– which was one of the reasons Mitch had chosen it for his meeting with Zakhovsky. Still, he made sure that he kept to the basic rules for his own protection, drilled into him during his time in the SAS.
Rule Number One: never sit with your back to the door.
Rule Number Two: never sit near a window, especially a large one. The view may be great but if a bomb goes off outside the flying glass will kill you if the force of the explosion doesn’t.
Rule Number Three: choose a place where you can see the whole room without having to swivel your head from side to side. If you can, pick a corner
where two solid walls meet. Brick and concrete. Bullets will tear through stud walls and plasterboard as if they are made of paper.
Mitch chose an armchair in a corner of the room, not low and comfortable, but high-seated enough that he could dive out of it if necessary.
A waitress came over to him, so he ordered a still mineral water, with ice and lemon. He had no intention of drinking it. For all he knew, Zakhovsky had someone in the kitchen on his payroll, ready to slip a little something into anything he ordered, but he knew you can’t sit in the lobby of a place like the Excelsior with no drink in front of you without drawing attention to yourself. The perfect cover was to blend into the surroundings. Be invisible.
Mitch checked his watch. One minute before ten. No sign of Zakhovsky. Mitch wondered if the billionaire would come on his own. He doubted it. Very rich people rarely went anywhere on their own. They always had to have a few bodyguards. Plus a lawyer or two. And someone to carry their money.
The waitress returned with his mineral water and the bill. She gave Mitch a smile, putting them on the small table beside him.
Mitch returned her smile then watched her walk away, all the time wondering if someone was going to use her arrival by his chair as a distraction. But no one seemed to be doing anything unusual. No hands went into inside pockets, no one ducked behind one of the ornate columns. Everything seemed normal and safe. But Mitch knew that there was no such thing in his line of work.