The Gates of Hell

CHAPTER FOUR

The man from Hereford watched carefully. From his vantage point atop a grassy knoll to the right of a dense thicket of trees, he could use the telescopic scope mounted on his rifle to accurately pinpoint the members of Ben Blake’s family. The military-grade scope included reticle illumination—an option that allowed for extensive use under adverse light conditions and included BDC — Bullet Drop Compensation.

Truth be told, the rifle was equipped to the hilt with every high-tech sniper aid imaginable, but the man behind the sights certainly didn’t need them. He was trained to the highest level. He watched now as Ben Blake’s father stepped up to the television and turned it on. With the slightest adjustment he saw Ben Blake’s mother gesticulate at the father with a small remote. The crosshairs of his sights wavered not a millimeter.

With a practiced motion, he swept the scope across the grounds surrounding the house. It was set back from the road, hidden by trees and a high wall, and the man from Hereford proceeded to silently count the guards hiding amongst the shrubbery.

One-two-three. All accounted for. He knew there were another four inside the house and two more completely hidden. For all their sins, the CIA were doing a bang up job of protecting the Blakes.

The man’s brow furrowed. He detected movement. A darkness blacker than night was creeping along the base of the high wall. Too big to be an animal. Too stealthy to be an innocent.

Had the Blood King’s men found the Blakes? And, if so, how good were they?

A slight breeze blew in from the left, straight off the English Channel, carrying with it the salty tang of the sea. The man from Hereford compensated mentally for the revised bullet trajectory and zoomed in a bit closer.

The man wore all black, but the gear was clearly homemade. This guy was no professional, just a mercenary.

Bullet fodder.

The man’s finger tightened briefly and then released. Of course, the real question was — how many had he brought with him?

Without releasing the target from his crosshairs, he quickly appraised the house and its environs. A second later he was sure. The vicinity was clear. This black-clad man was acting alone, the man from Hereford was confident.

A mercenary for hire, killing for pay.

Hardly worth a bullet.

He squeezed the trigger gently and absorbed the kick-back. The sound of the bullet leaving the barrel barely registered. He saw the mercenary go down without any fuss, collapsing among the overgrown bushes.

The Blake family guards never noticed. In a few minutes, he would make a surreptitious call to the CIA, informing them their new safe house had been compromised.

The man from Hereford, Matt Drake’s old SAS pal, continued to guard the guards.