Slingshot: A Spycatcher Novel (15 page)

The blow to his rib cage caused him to stagger back, his face screwed up in pain. A big man, identically dressed to the one he’d shot, was rushing toward him. The man swung his fist toward Will’s head. Will sidestepped, slapped him in the throat with sufficient force to cause the man to fall to his knees while clutching his injury, punched him full force on the side of his head, and slammed the heel of his boot into the man’s stomach. Dropping to the ground, Will wrapped an arm around the man’s throat and squeezed until his thrashing legs became motionless.

As Will moved onward, the ground gradually became steeper, the forest more dense. More automatic gunfire came from somewhere behind him, and rounds ripped chunks off the trees around him. He changed angles again, pulling on tree trunks and branches to help him move faster through the thick snow.

A man ran through trees ahead of him. One of the surveillance team. He hadn’t seen Will, but had a handgun held ready to shoot. Will stopped, held his breath, took aim a few inches in front of the man’s moving head, partially exhaled, and fired. The bullet struck the man in the temple, and he fell sideways, dead. As he did so, a boot struck Will’s kneecap, then his hip. Will dropped to the ground, his hand involuntarily releasing his gun. An operative was standing six feet away from him, silent, aiming his pistol at Will’s head, his finger pulling back on the trigger.

Will braced himself, knowing he was about to die.

A German shepherd police dog leapt through the air and landed on the man, forcing him to the ground. The big dog was trying to pin the man down and tear out his throat. Will got to his feet and retrieved his gun. The dog yelped. Holding the dog’s ear and jaw, the hostile had snapped its neck. Staring wide-eyed at Will, he pushed the dog off his body, grabbed his discarded handgun, and swung it toward Will. He dropped the weapon the moment Will’s round struck him in the forehead.

More barking, accompanied by shouts. The cops were gaining on him and clearly knew his approximate location. Will moved, limping at first from the blow to his knee but soon able to jog, then run as the pain abated. He was now on the steep slope, heading out of the valley.

A pistol round sliced alongside one arm, cutting his jacket and his skin. Another struck his backpack. He dived for cover behind a tree, got into a crouch, readied himself, and swung out. In an instant, he saw a surveillance operative twenty yards away, pointing his handgun directly at Will. Will fired a fraction of a second before the man fired. The operative’s bullet hit a part of the trunk two inches from Will’s head. Will’s bullet hit the man in the face. He ran to the prone body and fired two more shots into his head.

Ignoring scratches to his face and hands from the foliage around him, he frantically continued his ascent. His breathing was shallow, his body covered in sweat, but he dared not slow down. The edge of the forest was now visible. Beyond it he needed to cross forty yards of open ground before reaching the summit.

Two police officers rushed toward him from between trees to his left. Ahead of them was an unleashed dog, its teeth bared as it sprinted toward Will. Will spun to face them, in an instant decided the cops were trying to capture him alive, aimed his gun, shot the dog in the chest and the head, dashed toward the cops, who were now trying to raise their submachine guns, got between them, elbowed one in the eye, grabbed the other by the throat and slammed his body against a tree. Both men were writhing in pain on the ground.

Will left them there, turned, and was hit full force in the face by another surveillance operative. Staggering back, he saw a leg kick toward his stomach. He moved, trapped the leg between his forearms, gripped it tight and spun his whole body, causing the operative to flip onto his side. He stepped closer to the prone man, intending to stamp on the man’s groin, but before he could do so the operative used his free leg to kick Will’s chest and push him away.

After scrambling backward, the man got to his feet and charged toward Will. Will dropped low, moved left, and swung his fist upward at full force into the man’s gut. The man crashed to the ground, moaning, and started crawling away from Will. He was badly hurt, but Will couldn’t let him recover and get to a weapon. The two cops were still writhing on the ground, in pain. Will strode over to them and grabbed one of their discarded Vityaz submachine guns. He was about to use it on the surveillance operative, but five more police officers emerged out of the trees heading straight toward him. Will stood still, raised his gun, and sent a burst of fire into the ground in front of their feet. The cops froze. Will stayed still, pointing his weapon at them, then turned and sprinted farther up the slope.

Within seconds, he was out of the forest. Now he was exposed. And while he was sure the police had been trying to capture him alive, he wondered what orders they’d been given if it looked likely he was going to escape. Keeping his movements erratic, he pumped his legs as fast as he could, despite every intake of air causing pain in his lungs, his muscles screaming in agony from his exertions and the blows he’d received.

The summit was fifteen yards away. He changed direction again just before a burst of gunfire raced through the air where he’d been a split second before. Clearly, the cops were not going to risk him escaping and were now shooting to kill.

Spinning around, he saw three officers running out of the tree line. Using the Vityaz’s telescopic sight, he took aim and put two rounds into one of the cop’s legs. The man crumpled to the ground, screaming; his colleagues looked panicked and dived for cover. Will turned, ran, reached the summit, changed direction, and started moving along it faster. The ground was flat here and the snow much thinner and more compacted. He looked into the valley. One of the trucks was moving along the distant track in the same direction he was headed; those cops and dogs that he could see in the forest were also paralleling his route. Moving out of sight of the valley, his only thought now was to cover the two miles to his bike quicker than the men pursuing him.

One hundred yards ahead of him, two dogs clambered onto the summit, their breath steaming in the icy air as they looked around, trying to find their quarry. One of them barked; both locked eyes on Will and raced toward him. He barely slowed as he raised his gun and put four-round bursts into each of them. Within seconds, he was jumping over their dead bodies.

More snow started to fall, and the light was beginning to fade. Will knew the police would do everything they could to capture him before nightfall—he hadn’t seen any of them carrying night-vision equipment, and German shepherd dogs were poor trackers in the dark.

He covered one mile, felt exhausted, and could feel that he was starting to slow down, though he thought that he was probably still moving more quickly than the cops in the valley basin. But the truck worried him. No doubt it was already at the end of the valley, stationary, waiting to receive updates on Will’s location.

Deciding he had to risk another glance into the valley, he moved left while maintaining his speed. Now he was visible to anyone in the valley who was looking in his direction. At least three people were, because sustained bursts of gunfire came from three different locations in the valley below. Will darted right and out of sight. The rounds had been wide of their mark; he was beyond the submachine guns’ accurate range. But he knew that he had to fight every physical instinct to further slow down, as his brief look into the valley had shown him that the police were still moving in force through the forest and that the truck was waiting ahead of him at the end of the track on the opposite side of the valley.

His head throbbing, he started counting each pace, reckoning that he’d reach his bike at the approximate count of fifteen hundred. Strong winds began to drive the snowfall toward him. He narrowed his eyes to try to avoid becoming disoriented by the white specks and had to work even harder to maintain his pace.

He reached a count of five hundred.

The taste of blood was in his mouth.

One thousand.

Every muscle in his body felt like it was being torn apart.

Twelve hundred.

He could see his bike on the high ground at the head of the valley.

Thirteen hundred.

He stumbled, nearly fell, knew that at any moment his legs would simply stop functioning.

Fourteen hundred.

He couldn’t count anymore. Or run. His breathing loud, his hair matted with sweat and snow, his face screwed up in pain, he staggered forward until he was standing by the bike. Two hundred yards away, on lower ground and moving closer to him, was the truck. No doubt it was full of cops. In the forest, some of the police on foot had switched on the tactical flashlights attached to their submachine guns. Light was fading, but they were getting nearer. Tossing his gun away, he tried to lift the heavy bike. He got it off the ground a few inches before his oxygen-starved muscles gave up and the machine crashed back to the ground. Dogs barked. Someone in the forest shouted orders. Will knew that the police could see him; in a matter of seconds they would be in range to shoot him. He sucked in air, ignored the fact that his heart was pumping so fast he thought it could fail, gripped the handlebars, and moaned loudly as he tried again to haul the bike upright.

At least two dogs were now continuously barking and seemed to be drawing closer; no doubt they’d been unleashed. He leaned back, his teeth gritted, trying to use his body weight to raise the machine. The bike lifted a few more inches. His back was in agony, felt like it was burning. Gunfire. Most were off target, but one round struck the bike’s seat and ricocheted through the air close to his head. He knew that if he dropped the bike now he’d have no chance of escape, so he screamed, pulled back with every remaining bit of strength, thought that he was going to lose consciousness, got the bike upright, immediately swung a leg over it, and sat on the machine, his breathing rapid. More shouting; the dogs had to be very close now.

He tried to kick-start the bike. Nothing happened.

He tried again; the engine still didn’t engage.

Bullets struck the ground inches from the bike’s front tire.

He raised his body, then thrust down to add weight to the kick-start.

Still nothing.

The truck stopped, just one hundred yards away. Men jumped out of the back.

He stood again. The act sent bolts of pain through his legs and arms. He breathed in and thrust down.

The engine engaged. He immediately revved the throttle, lurched forward as the bike’s gears engaged, and pulled the throttle fully back. From the forest and the truck came multiple sustained bursts of gunfire.

But he was out of the cops’ line of sight, speeding over rough ground away from the valley. He gripped the machine tightly as he drove it over mounds, jumped through air, thudded to the ground, and maintained its traction on the snow.

There was no more gunfire. The police would be running back to the truck to pursue him in the vehicle. And they’d be summoning quicker patrol cars to the area to block his escape. But he wouldn’t be using the roads. For sixty minutes, he drove across farmland, along tracks and open fields, through woods and larger forests, only turning on his lights when he needed to.

He pulled into Arman’s junkyard, turned off the ignition, and lowered the bike’s stand. The trailer’s interior was illuminated. Arman emerged holding a flashlight. Will got off the bike and staggered over to the Russian, then his knees buckled.

Arman grabbed him and held him upright. “Are you injured?”

Will couldn’t answer. Couldn’t think. Fatigue had overwhelmed him.

The former tank commander gripped him tightly, limping as he guided Will toward his home.

Eighteen

J
oanna lifted the instrument case out of the large packing box, placed it on Will’s dining table, and called out, “Be a darling and put the kettle on.”

“Right you are, my dear.” Robert was in the kitchen, washing breakfast dishes. Next to him, leaning against a cupboard, was his shotgun.

Joanna opened the case. Inside was an old German lute. She whispered, “Beautiful,” as she ran a finger along its strings. “Can’t have you hidden away.” She looked around, trying to decide where to put it, and settled on placing it on a shelf next to a framed photograph of a teenage Will playing viola in his school orchestra.

“Bloody rain’s set in for the day.” The former SAS captain poured boiling water into a teapot.

“Yes.” Joanna was not really listening to her husband. Instead she was now staring at another framed photograph that she’d just removed from wrapping paper. It was of a young boy, unmistakably Will at approximately four or five years old; standing next to him was a tall man, wearing a suit. “Must be his father,” she said to herself as she placed it on a mantelpiece. She moved to another packing case and withdrew a box. Inside it was a pristine
képi blanc,
the French Foreign Legion cap awarded to recruits upon completion of their arduous training. Underneath it was a worn baseball cap that would not have fit a child much older than ten years old. Joanna frowned and wondered, why did he hide one with the other?

Robert entered the living room holding two cups of tea with one hand and his Remington in the other. “How about lunchtime I leg it to the chippy and get some cod and chips?”

Joanna smiled. “That would be nice. Plenty of vinegar, but not too much salt. You know what the doctor told you.”

Robert huffed. “Load of nonsense.” Placing the mugs down, he asked, “You think you should buy Will some houseplants? All this boys’ stuff isn’t exactly going to charm the ladies.”

“Which ladies?”

“How about some artificial plants?” Robert laughed. “At least they’d give the
impression
that there’s life in here.”

Joanna nodded, then turned sharply as she heard a noise in the hallway. Withdrawing her handgun from her belt, she said quietly, “Post’s arrived. Usual drill.”

They moved silently into the hallway. Robert got on one knee and pointed his shotgun at the center of the front door. Joanna walked down one side of the corridor, reached the entrance, glanced at her husband, who gave the tiniest of nods, swooped up the mail, and stepped back so she was flush against the wall.

Nothing happened.

Robert stayed in position as she carefully made her way back along the hallway. She leafed through the mail—junk, a couple of utility bills, a local council voter registration card, and a letter that was handwritten and addressed to Will Cochrane.

She opened the letter, read its contents, and said urgently, “We need to call Betty, then Will.”

Dear Mr. Cochrane,

I wonder if you’ve heeded my advice to stay away from me and my business. I hope so, because matters are soon to be concluded and it would be a nuisance for me to have to deal with any interference. As it is, you’ve inconvenienced me enough to the extent that I’ve had to divert some valuable resources to the United Kingdom.

Those resources are dedicated to watching a person you care about. They will not back down unless I tell them to do so or I instruct them to kill the person. The decision I make will be based on the choice you make. I hope for your sake it is one that prioritizes the welfare of the person you care about over your desire to gain applause from your masters.

Are you a protector of the weak, Mr. Cochrane? If so, the decision you need to make is clear.

Time will tell.

And I will be there to listen.

Yours,

William