In the Evil Day

83

…WALES…

Niemand heard the sound.

A small sound, a tap.

Close behind him, on the path, a foot had touched something. Perhaps knocked one solid pine cone into another, the path was littered with fallen cones.

Silence.

Niemand rose against the broad tree trunk, inch by inch, not touching it, breathed as shallowly as possible, regularly, just enough oxygen to sustain life.

A breath, a quiet expulsion of air, a hiss.

Someone was almost close enough to touch him. He didn’t move his head, kept it back, didn’t look sideways. The yellow night glasses might glint, catch some light from a star a trillion miles away and betray him.

The figure was beside him, an arm’s length away. He held his breath.

Passing him, moving slowly.

A figure as black as he was, bent forward.

Let him be alone.

Niemand didn’t breath, bent a little at the knees.

He pushed off, swung the Kevlar knife in his right hand. Around and down.

There was an instant when the man’s head was turning, disturbed, then the narrow blade entered the side of his throat above the collarbone, penetrated downwards.

The man made a hawking noise, not loud, and Niemand pulled him to earth, dropped him softly, held the knife in him, moved it.

Waited until he was sure.

Then he took the man’s weapon out of his left hand, ran his fingers over it. Heckler amp; Koch machine pistol, MP5K, three-round burst trigger group, he knew the weapon. He wouldn’t be needing the old.303. He ran his hands over the man’s clothing, felt his footwear.

How many would there be?

Not too many. This man was a soldier. By his weapon and his clothing and his ankle-holster and his knife and his silky night-fighting boots. That was good. Trained to kill, he had been killed. No hard feelings. Soldiers took their chances with death.

How many? Soldiers, trained killers, perhaps four or five, no more. Two from the back, two from the sides, the doorkeeper at the front. One front door, one doorkeeper.

Niemand moved forward, the dead man’s black-bladed knife in his mouth, machine pistol in hand. They would not be able to pick him from the dead man. Just a black figure carrying a weapon coming from where they expected someone to come.

He waited at the forest’s dark edge, looking back and forth. A wind from the north now, not much, just enough to disturb the scrubby trees on the slope.

There.

A shadow moved. On his right.

Again.

Keeping low, hugging the shadow of the conifers, not too concerned about being seen from the house, the big barn blocking the line of sight.

Niemand looked to his left. Another one should come from there, around the corner of the trees.

He didn’t. He came around the stock pen, near the rough path they had taken on their walk. Just his shoulder and his head in view. He had come up from the stream, crawled up, lots of cover, dead ground.

That was three. Three and the doorkeeper. They were confident, they knew they were good. Just two to take out and one of them a woman.

He waited. He couldn’t move first.

The other men weren’t moving, frozen. Were they waiting for him?

Did I kill the leader? Am I the leader now? Are they waiting for my signal?

Shit.

No. The man on his left came out from behind the stock pen and ran for the side of the barn.

The shadow on the right was moving too, coming down the slope, heading fast for the other side of the barn.

Niemand stepped out of the trees, moved down the slope in a crouch, reached the wall. The man on the right was around the corner. He would be waiting for him now.

He put the H amp;K in his left hand, took the knife out of his teeth.

He went around the corner fast, bent low.

The man was waiting at the corner, back to the wall, machine pistol up, at head height.

He turned his head, looked past his upraised arm at Niemand.

He was wearing sleek night-vision goggles.

Oh Jesus, he can see me, he can see a man in a black leather jacket.

The man’s weapon was coming down.

Niemand fired the pistol one-handed, fired two bursts at the middle of the body, bullets hit the brick wall, screeched, the man’s knees went, he sat down, he didn’t get off a shot.

Niemand ran past him, didn’t stop at the corner, went around it, got halfway along the barn, at the doors.

The other one appeared, night-vision goggles too, Niemand was running straight for him, the man hesitated for a moment, uncertain, he would have recognised the sound of the H amp;K.

Niemand shot him at point-blank range, in the chest, a three-round burst, gave him the double tap, the man went backwards and sideways, not dramatically, met the barn and slid.

Two bangs in the house, an instant apart.

The shotgun tripwire.

Someone in the house, the doorkeeper had left his position, come through the front door, into the sitting room.

Four down, that would be it.

Make sure. If I come from the back, he’ll think I’m one of them.

Niemand ran for the back door, wrenched it open, ran through the room, through the sitting room door in a crouch, the dim lamplight, a figure on the floor… Little pops of flame, he didn’t hear the sound, he was punched in the chest, more than once, it was hard to tell, so quick, he stopped in his tracks.

Niemand emptied the magazine into the man on the floor, firing bursts as he went to his knees.

Silence.

No pain.

Not gut-shot anyway, the BB. Good thing I found that in the car. And the knife. That’s something positive.

He fell over sideways, felt his head hit the stone floor. As if it belonged to someone else.

Breathing was a problem. Something stuck in his throat.

Funny place to die. Up here in English mountains. Hated the English, the old man. Dumb to take on four of them. Still. Know they’ve been in a fight. Jess. So lovely. So good.