Red Notice

54

Crouched on the track now, but still under the train, Tom drew back into the shadows, hidden behind one of the giant wheels of the locomotive. A few moments later, he heard a scuffling sound and saw a man clamber down and begin to inch his way along the darkened track towards the front of the engine.

The man knelt down, lit his torch and leaned forward, squinting at the undercarriage in the bluish light of its beam. He spotted something — a glint of metal, perhaps — at the end of a dangling cable. He reached towards it.

Tom seized the outstretched arm and wrenched it so vigorously that the South Ossetian’s forehead cracked against the steel box housing the radio gear. Tom grabbed his neck before he had time to recover and pounded his skull into the steel railway line.

Now crouched above him, Tom straightened his arms to maximize the pressure around his opponent’s throat and squeezed. He felt no emotion. The equation was simple: ‘Him or me.’ The quicker Tom killed him, the quicker the threat would be removed.

The man died without making a sound.

Tom took hold of the body and dragged it towards him until it was completely hidden beneath the train. He’d just finished when he heard more footsteps — and the unmistakable clink of belt-linked ammunition dangling from the top cover of a machine-gun.

The bodies split into two groups. One headed to the rear of the train, towards the UK, the other towards France, and Tom.

He had no choice but to stay as still as the dead man beside him. He held his breath and tensed every muscle in his body as the two sets of legs made their way up the side of the train towards him.

The link continued to swing back and forth against the Russian-made PKM general-purpose machine-gun as the legs drew level. His eyes swivelled as they passed where he lay and moved on towards the front of the train. That link wasn’t 9mm ceramic, designed to minimize the ricochet risk. It was heavy 7.62mm ball ammo: lumps of lead encased in brass, designed to rip humans apart in vast numbers, as well as any vehicles or cover they might be trying to hide behind.

Tom inched forward, flattening himself against the track bed, and peered out from under the engine. The two insurgents were now in the gloom and out of sight, but he could hear what they were doing. The faint metallic sound of ammunition boxes being opened and link being laid out ready to load told him everything he needed to know.

They were setting up the gun position to cover approach routes to the train from this end of the southbound track and the entrance to the service tunnel. They’d hold up any attack, and give Laszlo enough warning and opportunity to kill a serious number of the assault team before they reached the train. If Tom had been in Laszlo’s shoes, he’d have done the same. Except that Tom wasn’t in the martyrdom game, and he had a feeling that Laszlo might almost be welcoming it. Which made him a very dangerous enemy indeed.

He was about to move back when he heard the side window of the driver’s cabin slide open above him, then voices speaking Russian.

‘This place still stinks…’

He edged towards the sound and flattened himself against the side of the train, straining to hear what was being said.

‘Both guns are now operational.’

‘Good. Get the engineers to work.’

He heard a flurry of movement, then silence, followed by a shout: ‘And what’s happening with the radio?’

Shit. Tom quickly retreated to where the dead man lay and took his suppressed sub-machine-gun. As he started towards the rear of the train, two figures with heavy packs on their backs clambered down the steps and moved towards the door to the service tunnel.