He studied those three figures: he guessed they were watching TV. He could make out their forms resting on some kind of seating arranged around the glowing rectangle of what had to be a flat-screen TV.
He wondered what was playing: football; a war movie?
Either way, for them the show was almost over.
He decided to go for head shots. Body shots were easier – there was a bigger target to aim for – but they were less immediately lethal. Jaeger had the principles of sniping ingrained in his brain. The crucial thing was that each shot had to be released and followed through with no disturbance to the aim.
He used to tell Luke the same thing as a joke, when having a wee.
Jaeger smiled grimly. He breathed in deeply and let out a long, level breath. ‘Engaging now.’
There was a faint fuzzt! Without pausing, he swung the weapon a fraction right, fired again, swung back left and squeezed off a third shot.
The entire move had taken barely two seconds.
He had seen each of the figures twitch and jerk as the rounds struck, before slumping into a formless heap. For a second or so he didn’t move his eye from the scope. He just kept watching, silently, like a cat sizing up its prey.
There had been a barely audible tzzsing as the last bullet had cut through the wall. The sparks from the tungsten-tipped round had lit up the centre of Jaeger’s sight a burning white. He figured there had to be some metal – maybe piping or electrics – running through the walls.
The seconds ticked by with no movement from those he’d hit, or any sign that the noise had been heard. The Arab beat pumping out from the boombox had very likely deadened any sound.
Narov’s voice broke the silence. ‘Seven down. Moving from ridge to front of building.’
‘Got it. Moving now.’
In one smooth action Jaeger rose to his feet, his weapon in the shoulder, and began to race across the dark terrain. He had done this countless times before – moving swift and silent on a seek-and-destroy mission. In many ways it was where he felt most at home.
Alone.
In the darkness.
Hunting down his prey.
He rounded the front of the building and vaulted over Narov’s handiwork, kicking aside a chair that barred his route to the entranceway. The boombox still blared out its beat, but none of the seven gunmen were in any shape to do any listening.
As Jaeger went to crash through into the interior, the door swung inwards and a figure was framed in the light that spilled outside. Someone had seemingly heard something suspicious and had come to investigate. The guy was swarthy-looking, powerful and thickset. He had an AK47 held in front of him, but in a relaxed kind of a grip.
Jaeger fired on the run. Fuzzt! Fuzzt! Fuzzt! In rapid succession three 9mm rounds left the Thread Cutter’s barrel, nailing the figure in the chest.
He leapt over the fallen form, hissing an update at Narov. ‘I’m in!’
Two voices were making simultaneous counts in Jaeger’s head now. One had reached six: he was six bullets down from a twenty-round magazine. It was crucial to keep a count, or else the mag might run dry and he would get the fateful ‘dead man’s click’ – when you pulled the trigger and nothing happened.
The other voice was making the body count: eleven down.
He stepped into the dimly lit corridor. Off-white walls, smeared here and there with dirt and unidentifiable scuffmarks. In his mind’s eye Jaeger could see heavy elephant tusks being dragged down this hallway, dried blood and gore smeared along the walls. Hundreds and hundreds of them, like a conveyor belt of mindless death and murder.
The ghosts of so much bloody slaughter seemed to haunt the very shadows.
Jaeger slowed, moving on the balls of his feet with the grace of a ballet dancer but none of their benign intent. Through an open door to his right he heard a fridge door close. The clink of bottles.
A voice called out in what had to be Lebanese Arabic. The only word that Jaeger recognised was the name: Georges.
Konig had given them the name of the Lebanese ivory dealer. It was Georges Hanna. Jaeger figured one of his men was fetching the boss a chilled beer.
A figure stepped through the doorway, beer bottles clutched in his hands. There was barely time for him to register Jaeger’s presence, or for the surprise and terror to flash through his eyes, before the VSS spat again.
Two rounds tore into his left shoulder just above the heart, spinning him around and slamming him into the wall. The bottles fell, the noise of their breaking echoing down the hallway.
A voice called out from a room up ahead. The words sounded mocking. They were followed by laughter. There was still no sign of any evident alarm. The caller had to figure that the guy was drunk and had dropped the bottles accidentally.
A red smear slithered down the wall, tracing the dead man’s trajectory to the floor. He had collapsed slowly, folding in on himself with a hollow, wet whump.
Twelve, the voice in Jaeger’s head breathed. By rights, that should leave only one now – the Lebanese Mr Big. Konig had shown them a photo of the guy and it was seared into Jaeger’s mind.
‘Moving in to take Beirut,’ he whispered.
They’d kept the language for the assault simple-stupid. Their only codeword was for their target, and for that they’d chosen the name of the Lebanese capital city.
‘Thirty seconds out,’ Narov replied, her breath coming in heaving gasps as she sprinted for the entranceway.
For an instant Jaeger was tempted to wait for her. Two brains – two gun barrels – were always better than one. But every second was precious now. Their objective was to wipe out this gang and terminate their operation.
The key thing now was to cut the head off the snake.
56
Jaeger paused for a second, slipping the part-used mag off the sniper rifle and clicking a fresh one into place – just in case.
As he moved forward, he heard the muffled sound of a TV blaring out from his right front. He caught the odd word of commentary in English. Football. A Premier League match. Had to be. In that room would be the three he had shot through the wall. He made a mental note to get Narov to check that they were all dead.
He crept towards the half-open doorway ahead of him, stopping a pace back from it. Muted voices came from inside. A conversation. What sounded like haggling, in English. More than just the Lebanese Mr Big in there, that was for sure. He raised his right leg and booted the door fully open.
In the adrenalin-fuelled, hyped intensity of combat, time seemed to slow to a prehistoric pace, and a second could last a lifetime.
Jaeger’s eyes swept the room, taking in the key aspects in a microsecond.
Four figures, two seated at a table.
One, on his far right, was the Lebanese dealer. His wrist dripped a gold Rolex. His bulging belly oozed a lifetime’s overindulgence. He was dressed in a khaki designer safari suit, though Jaeger doubted it had ever seen much of the real bush.
Opposite him was a black guy in a cheap-looking collared shirt, grey slacks and black business shoes. Jaeger figured he had to be the brains behind the poaching operation.
But standing against the window facing Jaeger was the main threat: two seriously tooled-up, mean-looking individuals. Seasoned poachers – elephant and rhino killers – no doubt.
One had a belt of machine-gun ammo slung around his torso, Rambo style. In his hands he cradled the distinctive form of a PKM – the Russian equivalent of the British general-purpose machine gun. Perfect for cutting down elephants out on the wide-open plains, but not a great choice of weaponry for close-quarters combat.