Retribution

TWENTY

Sergeant Carl Pendry had eased his way with care into a clump of juniper, and was waiting for the first of his sniper class to arrive. The morning was fresh with the smell of damp earth, a touch of pine and closer to, the sharp, rich aroma of crushed grass. High in the trees a squirrel scratched away, oblivious to the man below. It was one of the things Pendry loved about this job and always impressed on his trainees: snipers were in a dangerous profession, out on their own or with a spotter for hours, even days at a time. But that didn’t mean a man couldn’t appreciate his surroundings.

Pendry was dressed in regulation camouflage smock and pants, his head covered by a green woollen net cap dotted with foliage. His face was a blend of wavy green camo paint to break up the darkness of his skin against the background, and in his hand he held an M16 assault rifle. He had been in the same position for forty minutes and was beginning to feel the first pangs of hunger. His mouth was dry from the effects of the drinks with Harry the previous evening, and he wished he’d brought some water. A glance at his watch told him it was just coming up to 6 a.m.

There were five men in the class, all of them better than good. Their task was simple: to approach and ‘take out’ Pendry without being detected. But it had to be within a thirty-yard kill zone. Anyone spotted before that was in danger of flunking the course or being back-marked. And none of them was keen to go through another six weeks of initiative tests, psychological assessments, assault courses and daily runs considered among the most demanding in the US military.

Their covert skills were still a little rough around the edges, and Pendry had decided to introduce an element of realism to the scenario. Earlier that morning he’d armed himself with a few flash-bangs — giant fireworks which could blow a metal pail several feet. In the words of the quartermaster-armourer, they were harmless to humans unless swallowed or, he’d added drily, if they landed right next to a trainee who was dreaming of his girl back home. The noise alone would blow the shit clean out of his bowels.

A faint scuffle a few yards away and the squirrel ceased its scratching. Pendry half-closed his eyes, concentrating on locating the source of the noise. He was guessing it would be Lloyd; he was the best of the bunch and unbelievably quick. Twenty-one years old and thin as a whippet, the farm boy from the Smokey Mountains could slide through the undergrowth like a snake.

Pendry pulled out one of the flash-bangs. Give it twenty seconds and if Mr Lloyd was sitting in the same spot, his ears would be ringing for a week. If that didn’t scare the crap out of him, and some idea of realism into him, Pendry had live rounds in his M16 to warm up the atmosphere around the boy’s head a little.

A small bird looped urgently out of a bush thirty feet away. It was near the source of the earlier sound, and Pendry heard a faint rasp of clothing. He grinned. Lloyd had snagged himself on a root. Now he was trying to free himself. This was going to be easy.

Then came a muffled drumming, followed by the sound of someone running through the bushes. He frowned. If that was Lloyd, he was going the wrong way!

Pendry exploded out of his hide, his M16 held across his body and the flash-bang spinning away into the grass. Either his star recruit had gone nuts or someone had intruded on the exercise. Damned civilians — they were way out of place this far into the training grounds! Now he had to make sure the stupid fucker didn’t get shot by one of the trainees.

He pounded after the intruder, brushing aside the hanging branches and catching a glimpse of a camouflage jacket disappearing into a thicket fifty yards ahead.

‘Hey! Hold up there!’ he roared, and scrabbled for his cellphone. The man was running like an Olympic sprinter and Pendry knew he’d never catch him. But at least he could keep him in sight and alert security to get the stupid sonofabitch picked up before he got himself killed.

Then he caught a glimpse of a figure lying prone in deep cover, his rifle pointing straight at him. It was Lloyd.

Damn! That clever fuckin’ kid had set this up to deceive-

Pendry skidded to a stop. Something wasn’t right. He stared down at the trainee, a chill gripping his gut. The farm boy wasn’t moving. Lloyd was lying with his face down in the earth, a widening pool of blood spreading beneath him.

His throat had been cut from ear to ear.

An hour later the training area was swarming with security patrols and military police with dogs. Overhead a Bell AH-1Z attack helicopter cross-quartered the sky in a search pattern of the ground below, while a larger version thudded away after dropping off a fully armed search team. All training had been suspended and a military investigation team was on its way in. The whole area was in lockdown.

Harry Tate was studying the layout where the killing had happened, standing within an area marked by white tape. Lloyd’s body lay beneath a military groundsheet, the grass around him bright with splashes of blood.

‘Go over it again,’ Harry told the instructor, who was still stunned by what had happened. Fortunately, after calling security, Pendry had had the presence of mind to ring Harry at the hotel before he left. Harry had phoned Rik on the internal line and advised him to keep his head down and to continue trawling for information on the members of the CP team and any news about murdered girls in Kosovo in 1999.

Getting on to the training area had been surprisingly simple. It was the first time he’d used his UN pass, and although he’d had to resort to a phone call to New York, it had worked with surprising efficiency. Even so, he had been escorted to the scene of the killing by two armed troopers, who were still posted nearby.

‘I heard a noise,’ Pendry repeated. ‘Like he’d got hisself snagged. . you know how it is when you’re crawling. Then there was this thumpin’ noise, like someone was beating the ground. Next thing this guy took off through the trees. I started after him. I mean, I thought it was a civilian. . we get ’em comin’ through here from time to time, even though it’s off-limits. They get off on being near the action.’

‘Did you see the killer?’

‘Tall — about five ten — and wearin’ plain camo jacket and pants. Stuff you can buy from any surplus store.’

‘Hair? Skin?’

‘Dark hair. . couldn’t see any skin. Pale, I think. He could sure run, though — like a jackrabbit.’

A Ranger colonel appeared along the taped trail leading out of the area. A young lieutenant scurried along in his wake like a tug chasing a liner. The senior officer, lean, compact and grey-haired, scanned the area with cool blue eyes, then looked at Harry with flinty hostility. He evidently knew who Harry represented, but all he saw was a stranger — and a foreigner — with no US military credentials. His thoughts were obvious: the UN had no remit on Ranger turf and Harry should be kicked off as soon as he got word from HQ.

‘What have we got?’ he asked. He clearly knew enough about the workings of officialdom to preserve a sense of courtesy. He also needed to know what Harry had found out while he’d been here, to help his own investigations about this business. Then he could kick the Brit’s ass off the area with a clear conscience.

Harry told him in simple and polite terms. ‘Your man Lloyd was lying up right here. The killer must have approached from the rear and killed him where he lay.’

The colonel was sceptical. ‘You saying he didn’t hear the killer coming? I find that hard to believe; he was a highly trained soldier.’

‘I’m sure he was,’ Harry agreed. ‘But he would have been concentrating on his forward area. If he was as good as you and Sergeant Pendry say, he probably knew where Pendry was anyway, so why look anywhere else?’

‘Have you ever been in a live situation, mister?’ the young lieutenant demanded. He was as rigid as a tent-pole and looked tough and fit. But his eyes flickered too easily towards the colonel. Harry recognized the type: he was aiming at higher things, a future staffer in the making.

‘Several times, actually, Lieutenant,’ Harry replied. ‘Northern Ireland, Bosnia, Colombia, Africa and Kosovo. I’ve also been on a Special Forces sniper course, so I know what it’s like for a young trooper trying to score against the best there is.’

‘Thank you, Lieutenant,’ the colonel muttered briskly. ‘I think we can take it Mr Tate knows what he’s at.’ He said to Harry, ‘If you’ll excuse me, I have to get back and meet our public relations boys.’

‘The press have heard already?’

The colonel nodded, his expression sour. ‘Unfortunately, there are people with nothing better to do than to spend their time monitoring military and police communication channels. Someone on the base mentioned the manner of Lloyd’s death and the world at large now knows we’ve lost a fine young soldier with his throat cut. No way can this be explained as a training accident.’ He began to turn away then paused. ‘I’ll be in my office if you want to share any ideas you might have.’

‘Ideas?’

The blue eyes settled on him. ‘Yes. How and why can a tough, fit young Ranger in the middle of a US Army training ground get his throat cut without fighting back?’

‘He didn’t fight because he couldn’t.’ Harry pointed at twin depressions each side of the body. ‘The killer jumped on his back, pinning him face down. Caught in that position, Lloyd didn’t stand a chance.’

The colonel flinched at such a stark summary, but didn’t argue. ‘But why him? And why does your presence here make the back of my neck itch?’

Harry wanted to tell him, but couldn’t. He wouldn’t understand; the worlds of elite fighting troops like the Rangers and the murkier one in which Harry moved were too far apart. ‘All I can say is,’ he said finally, ‘I believe it was a case of mistaken identity.’

The officer nodded curtly and walked away through the trees, closely followed by the lieutenant and the two escorts.