The second figure held an RPG7 – the archetypal Russian-made rocket launcher. Great for blowing up vehicles, or blasting a helicopter out of the sky. Not good for stopping Will Jaeger in the close confines of a cramped room.
Part of the reason for the lack of space in here was the ivory piled in one corner. Dozens of massive tusks, each ending in a jagged, bloodied rosette where the poachers had hacked them off the animals they had slaughtered.
Fuzzt! Fuzzt!
Jaeger nailed the tooled-up poachers with head shots, right between the eyes. As they fell, he riddled them with six further rounds, three to each torso – the shots driven as much by rage as by any desire to ensure they were dead.
He caught a flash of movement as the big Lebanese went for a gun. Fuzzt!
A scream rent the room as Jaeger pumped a bullet into the fat man’s gun hand, blowing a jagged hole through his palm. Then he pirouetted and nailed the African in his sights, putting a bullet through his hand too, at close to point-blank range.
That hand had been scrabbling about on the table, trying to gather up and hide a pile of US dollar notes, which were now getting soaked with his blood.
‘Have Beirut. Repeat: have Beirut,’ Jaeger reported to Narov. ‘All hostiles down, but check room second on right with TV. Three hostiles – check dead.’
‘Got it. Moving into corridor now.’
‘Once you’re done, secure building’s entryway. In case we missed any or they called for reinforcements.’
Jaeger stared down his gun barrel at two faces wide-eyed with shock and fear. Keeping his trigger finger at the ready and holding the Thread Cutter one-handed, he reached behind him with the other and grabbed his pistol, bringing it forward. He let the Thread Cutter drop on to his front, suspended on its sling, then brought the P228 into the aim. He needed one hand free for what was coming.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a tiny black rectangular device. It was a Spy Chest Pro Minicam – a tiny, ultra-compact, idiot-proof video recording device. He placed it on the table, making a show of switching it on. Like most Lebanese businessmen, the dealer was sure to speak reasonable English.
Jaeger smiled, but his features remained indecipherable behind the stocking mask. ‘Show time, gentlemen. You answer all my questions, you might just get to live. And keep your hands on the table, where I can see them bleed.’
The fat Lebanese shook his head disbelievingly. His eyes were awash with pain, plus the glazed look of distress. But still Jaeger could tell that his spirit of resistance – his arrogant belief in the unassailability of his own position – wasn’t completely broken.
‘What in the name of God?’ He gasped out the question through teeth clenched in pain. His accent was thick, his English broken, but it was still quite intelligible. ‘Who in hell are you?’
‘Who am I?’ Jaeger snarled. ‘I’m your worst nightmare. I’m your judge, jury and probably your executioner too. You see, Mr Georges Hanna, I decide if you live or if you die.’
In part Jaeger was playing an act here – one designed to strike utter fear into his adversaries. Yet at the same time he was consumed by a burning fury at what these people had done; at the carnage they had wrought.
‘You know my name?’ The Lebanese dealer’s eyes bulged. ‘But are you insane? My men. My guards. You think they will let you leave this place alive?’
‘Corpses don’t tend to put up much resistance. So start talking, unless you want to join them.’
The dealer’s face contorted into a snarl. ‘You know something – screw you.’
Jaeger didn’t exactly relish what he was about to do now, but he needed to force this bastard to talk, and quickly. He had to break his spirit of resistance, and there was only one way to do so.
He twitched the P228’s barrel down and to the right a fraction, and shot the dealer in the kneecap. Blood and shattered bone spattered across the safari suit as the dealer tumbled off his chair.
Jaeger strode around, leant down and smashed the butt of the P228 into the big man’s nose. There was a sharp crack of breaking bone, and a stream of blood spurted down the front of his white shirt.
Jaeger dragged him to his feet by his hair, and thrust him back into his chair. Then he drew his Gerber knife and slammed it point down into the guy’s remaining good hand, nailing it to the table.
He swivelled his gaze across to the local poacher chief, his eyes blazing murder from behind the distorted veil of the mask.
‘You watching?’ he hissed. ‘’Cause you mess around, you’ll get some of the same.’
The poacher was frozen with terror. Jaeger could see where he had pissed himself. He figured he had these guys exactly where he wanted them now.
He raised the gun until the dark maw of the barrel was levelled at the dealer’s forehead. ‘You want to live – start talking.’
Jaeger fired off a series of questions, delving further and further into the details of the ivory-smuggling business. Answers spilled forth: routes out of the country; destinations and buyers overseas; names of the corrupt officials facilitating the smuggling at every level – airports, customs, the police, a handful of government ministers, even. And finally, the all-important bank account details.
When he had milked the Lebanese man for all he could, he reached forward, switched off the SpyChest camera and pocketed it.
Then he turned around and shot Mr Georges Hanna twice between the eyes.
The big Lebanese keeled over, but his hand was still nailed to the table. His weight pulled it with him, overturning it, his body ending up crumpled beneath it and slumped against the heap of plundered ivory.
Jaeger turned. The local poacher leader was suffering from a full-on adrenal freeze now. All energy had drained from his system, and his mind had little control over his body any more. The fear had shut his brain down completely.
Jaeger bent until his face was spitting-distance close. ‘You’ve seen the fate of your buddy there. Like I said – I’m your worst nightmare. And you know what I’m going to do with you? I’m going to let you live. A privilege you never afforded any rhino or elephant.’
He smashed the butt of the pistol across the man’s face, twice. An expert at Krav Maga – a self-defence system developed by the Israeli military – Jaeger knew only too well how a blow delivered by your own hands could end up hurting you almost as much as your opponent.
Think teeth embedded in knuckles, or broken toes resulting from kicking a hard, unyielding part of your adversary, like his skull. It was always better to use a weapon, one that shielded your body from the blow. Hence his use now of the pistol butt.
‘Listen carefully,’ he announced, his voice laced with a sinister quiet. ‘I am going to let you live so that you can go give your pals a warning. You tell them from me.’ He jerked a thumb in the direction of the Lebanese man’s corpse. ‘That is what will happen to you – all of you – if one more elephant dies.’
Jaeger ordered the man to his feet and marched him down the corridor, to where Narov was standing guard at the entranceway.
He shoved the sorry figure at her. ‘This is the guy who has orchestrated the slaughter of several hundred of God’s most beautiful creatures.’
Narov turned her cold eyes on him. ‘He is the elephant killer? This man?’
Jaeger nodded. ‘He is. And we’re taking him with us, at least for part of the way.’
Narov drew her knife. ‘One breath out of place – the slightest excuse – and I will carve your guts out.’
Jaeger stepped back inside and made for the building’s kitchen. There was a stove of sorts: a burner ring attached to a gas bottle. He reached down and turned the gas to the ‘on’ position. It hissed reassuringly. Then he stepped outside, grabbed the lighted storm lantern and placed it midway along the building’s hallway.