Fortress

51

Tom drove because he had had less to drink. After eighteen hours awake he was relying on the adrenalin to deal with any fatigue.

‘They’re real bad, that’s for sure.’

‘How bad?’

‘Remember Timothy McVeigh, the Oklahoma bomber? That bad. One part Nazi, one part Survivalist, three parts fuck-brain. Their target’s a building downtown.’

‘What is it?’

‘It belongs to some associate of Stutz’s.’

‘Who?’

Kyle shrugged. ‘That’s not for us to know. We just do the job. We don’t get the whole scoop. But we have all their moves from Skip’s surveillance. They’re all ex-National Guard and crazy gun freaks. Jefferson’s the leader, supposedly, but he ain’t too bright. We’ll be paying him a visit at his trailer. He’s OTH — other than honourable discharge from the Marines. He didn’t make the grade. He’s a loner, no personal life, spends a lot of time honing his shooting skills. And he’s the designated asset of a local chapter of neo-Nazis. He’s got no idea we’re coming.’

From the back of the van, he produced a Glock 9mm with a titanium suppressor and an extended twenty-round magazine.

At a set of traffic-lights, Tom racked back the top slide to check the chamber and make sure it was empty. He wouldn’t ask if the rounds in the mag were subsonic. If they weren’t, the suppressor was useless — but of course they would be. He had just got the weapon from Kyle.

‘Keep it, at least while you’re with us. It’ll help you sleep nice and peaceful too.’

He directed them on to the Loop going east, then north on the 45 towards Conroe. Tom needed to find out how prepared he was, without appearing to question his judgement. He kept his eyes on the road.

‘You recced the place?’

‘Yep. It’s pretty secluded, next to the lake. There’s a few other trailers, trees and scrub, plenty of cover. Easy.’

Tom could see Kyle was nervy, pumped. Had he thought this through? ‘You want to be a little more specific?’

‘I’m saying relax, the set-up’s fine. Jefferson’s routine’s pretty standard. This time of day he’ll have had a few beers and some weed so he’ll be nice and mellow. He doesn’t have any reason to believe he’s under threat so shouldn’t be thinking he’s expecting anyone.’

‘How often does this sort of job come up?’

‘When it does.’

Kyle’s answers were getting more cryptic. This had better be worth it.

Twenty minutes later they were bouncing down a pot-holed road. Lights from a few single-storey homes set back in the trees provided the only illumination. While Tom drove, Kyle was bent over an iPad, studying the latest feeds from Lederer’s surveillance.

‘Nothing to suggest he’s with anyone. He’s busy with his phone and laptop. No other signals coming out of that location.’

‘Any dogs?’

Kyle shook his head. ‘Don’t need none. He’s handy with his weapons and this is Texas.’

As soon as the trailers came into view Tom slowed to walking pace. They were spaced quite far apart, some with chain-link fences around them, cars and vans parked nearby. Music and TV sounds spilled out of them and merged together.

‘Which one?’

Kyle pointed. It was painted yellow, an awning on one side under which was parked an ancient pick-up. The fence around it was higher than the others and the gate was shut but not, they hoped, locked. The blinds were down and the door was closed.

‘We’ll go on foot from here.’

Tom turned the van so it was facing the way out. They agreed that since they couldn’t get eyes on Jefferson inside the trailer they would have to lure him out: Kyle up front, Tom covering from the other side of the fence.

Tom rammed the mag into the pistol grip until he heard it clip home, and racked the top slide, letting it return under its own power: it would pick up the top round from the mag and ram it into the chamber. To make sure, he pulled back gently on the top slide until he could see the brass case in the ejection opening. The last thing anyone wanted to hear was the dead man’s click when firing. ‘I’ll take a shot at the wing mirror on the pick-up: that should generate enough of the right kind of sound to bring him out. You hang in that shadow to the left of the door. It’s the hinge side so you should see him before he sees you.’

Kyle nodded. ‘We don’t have to worry about being interrupted. Neighbourhood like this, they hear a gunshot, last thing they’re gonna do is call the cops. They keep their heads down.’

They moved together up to the gate. Tom lifted it silently and moved it enough for Kyle to get through. Tom skirted the fence so he had a clear shot at the pick-up and the trailer door from a shadow under one of the trees. When Kyle was in position, he signalled.

Tom aimed at the mirror and fired. A dull phut from the suppressor was followed by a tinkle of splintering glass.

A light came on inside the trailer, then went off. Thirty seconds passed.

Tom felt his pulse move up a gear. He had the Glock in his hand, with a nasty feeling that that was just where he was going to need it. Then Kyle took a step towards the door just as it burst open, slamming back against the trailer’s side. But the doorway was a black void. Jefferson must have been hovering a few feet inside, in shadow. Kyle stepped away from the trailer so he had a better angle but, in doing so, showed himself to Jefferson. Any element of surprise was gone.

The shot came from inside the trailer. Kyle’s legs buckled under him, but he still had his Glock raised and fired wide. Now Jefferson appeared in the doorway. Tom aimed centre mass of the dark doorway and rapid-fired until the door slammed. It was pointless putting subsonic rounds into the trailer hoping to hit the target; it’d just waste ammo. Tom sprinted over to Kyle, who waved him away.

‘Deal with him first. Get over there and get it done.’

Tom ignored him and started tearing at his T-shirt to get a look at the wound but Kyle pushed him away. ‘Finish it.’

The choice was made for him. The trailer door opened again: a shotgun muzzle pointed straight at Tom. He fired again and the weapon fell limp before hitting the metal steps up to the doorway. He ran forward and wrenched the door open, then lunged at Jefferson, who was struggling to pull himself up.

‘Back in there — now!’

Tom thrust the muzzle of the suppressor into Jefferson’s neck, grabbed him by the belt and dragged him deeper into the trailer. Jefferson lashed out with a foot. Tom managed to keep his balance and smashed down on his face with his boot.

Jefferson started to roar. Tom bore down on him, ramming the Glock’s fat suppressor into his mouth. He kept his voice low. He didn’t want Kyle hearing this. ‘Any noise and you’re gone, okay? You will die.’

Jefferson got the message and calmed down, his breathing heavy and noisy as he tried to exhale through his nose now that his mouth was blocked.

Tom reached up and hit a lamp switch that dangled from the unit above them. He quickly took in the features and general state of the place: a small hob with a filthy pan on it, a screened-off toilet and shower and an unmade sofa-bed, with a half-smoked joint in a saucer on the pillow. Hanging on one wall was a Confederate flag — nothing unusual about that in this part of the world but, above it, a poster of a swastika left no doubt as to his political affiliations.

The man below him was mid-thirties, shaved head, steroidal frame.

Tom stared down into his eyes. ‘You want to live?’ Jefferson nodded and the weapon slowly moved with his head.

‘Right. The other guy was here to kill you. I’m not. You get that? I’m going to deal with that wound, and you’re gonna tell me why he was here to kill you. Answering will save your life. Understand?’

He took the Glock out of his mouth and pressed it against his head.

‘I got no fuckin’ idea, man.’

‘Don’t fucking waste my time. Who’s your enemy? Who’s your target?’

Jefferson still looked blank, but he wasn’t about to give it up.

‘Give me a name.’

He stared back into Tom’s eyes, cold and clear. Okay, thought Tom, have it your way. He took a step back so as not to get blood spattered over him, raised his weapon and took aim.

‘Zuabi.’

‘Zuabi? What’s that?’

‘Mullah Zuabi.’

‘Where?’

‘The fucking mosque. You—’

‘What mosque? Where?’

‘You fucking white traitors… brainwashed… destroying our—’

Jefferson lashed out with his good hand, only this time there was a knife in it. In the semi-darkness of the unlit interior, Tom had missed it. He sprang back but there was nowhere to go, and he smashed into a closet, breaking off the door — just as the blade sliced through the arm of his jacket. Every instinct said, Fire, but he resisted. He had come this far, he had to get more out of him. He wasn’t done.

He smashed the knife hand with the Glock repeatedly until the weapon fell to the floor.

But in a mammoth display of brute strength Jefferson reared up and lunged. Tom slipped in the pool of blood growing on the floor and lost his balance, his head slamming back onto the wall cabinets in the cramped kitchen area. He felt himself sinking, the Glock slipping from his grip as Jefferson prised it away and turned it on him.

But he didn’t fire. The muzzle shook wildly and Jefferson started to convulse, his tongue thrust out in a bloody mass as his teeth chewed into it, his eyes wide, swivelling uncontrollably as if loose in their sockets. The Glock dropped to the floor and Jefferson’s whole body flexed in a mad manic dance until he crumpled in a heap.

Tom struggled up and started to get his breath back. As he reached for the Glock he saw he wasn’t alone.

‘Easy now.’

Kyle was at the door, his weapon pointed straight at him.