‘Copy that. Over,’ Victor said back.
‘Haul your ass back over that wall and try to get eyes on Mr VIP. If you see him, you take him out. Kill ’em all, if you got to. I’ll get behind our boy’s rifle, see if I can shoot better than him. We’ve gotta be fast if we’re gonna fix this. Out.’
Victor waited for a ten count and crept north twenty yards before heading east and up the hill for thirty more. He approached his hide slowly, still cautious despite the instructions, but relaxing when he spotted the muzzle of his rifle tracking from left to right.
He moved around in a semicircle until he was behind the gunman and could see his legs poking out from under the protective sheeting. Ten careful steps brought Victor within five feet of the gunman’s boots.
’This is Cowboy Daddy,’ the guy with the rifle said. ‘I can’t see shit from up here. No wonder the prick missed. Cowboy Gamma, get there as fast as you can and take that fucker down. How far out are you? Over.’
Victor was too close to risk even whispering a response, so he stayed silent as he crept closer.
‘Cowboy Gamma, this is Cowboy Daddy. Confirm your position. Over.’
Victor crept forward until he was inches from the man’s feet. He nudged the sole of one boot and darted around the tree to the right, out of sight. He was on the other side of the tree, and behind the gunman, by the time the guy had scrambled to his feet to investigate what had just happened. Sometimes the simplest tricks were the best.
Victor smashed the butt of the MP5 into the back of the man’s head where the spine met the skull. He collapsed forward, limbs limp, and was still.
CHAPTER 54
Victor threw some water over his captive’s face. The American awoke suddenly, eyes snapping open, grimacing through the pain in the back of his head but evaluating the situation at the same time. He was sitting with his back against a mossy tree, arms stretched backwards around the trunk, wrists tied together on the other side. He pulled against the restraints.
‘Don’t bother,’ Victor said. ‘I used to be a Boy Scout.’
The guy stopped struggling. He’d been stripped of his headset, weapons and tactical harness. Victor had found nothing useful except some hard candy. He’d taken the green ones and left everything else. The American seemed groggy but without lasting damage, which was good because the brainstem was the most vulnerable part of the skull and a four-pound gun smashing against it wasn’t conducive to coherency.
Victor squatted down and sat on his haunches. His captive looked at him with contempt, but Victor could sense the fear that lay just beyond the bravado. The guy looked to be around the forty mark, brown hair and eyes, muscular and athletic. His hair was very short, his face tanned, crow’s feet etched deeply into his skin. He hadn’t shaved or washed for a few days. He smelled pretty bad, but Victor guessed he smelled no better himself.
The air was hot even in the shade. Victor poured some water over his face and head. The water was lukewarm but still refreshing. He said, ‘I’m sure I don’t have to tell you there is an easy way to do this and a hard way.’
The American glared at him.
‘I can see you’re a tough guy,’ Victor said. ‘You’re well trained. The tattoo on your arm says De oppresso liber: “To liberate the oppressed”.’ Victor sipped some water. ‘That’s the motto of the United States Army Special Forces.’
The American didn’t respond.
‘No point trying to deny it. It doesn’t matter either way. I’ll bet if I looked I’d find similar tats on the other two. They’re both dead, by the way.’
The American was silent.
Victor said, ‘I’m guessing you were all part of the same A-team back in SF. Must have been a real tight group to be doing this now. I can tell by the lines around your eyes you’ve spent a lot of time squinting in the sun. So you’re an Iraq and Afghanistan veteran. Haven’t long been out, maybe two or three years tops. Likely did some work as a private security contractor back in Baghdad or Kabul. Paid a lot better than it did in SF, but your talents were wasted guarding diplomats and news crews. It’s frustrating to feel the skills you spent a lifetime honing being eroded through disuse, isn’t it?’
The American didn’t answer.
‘But then someone you knew from the Army,’ Victor continued, ‘who got out before you did, offers you a different kind of private-sector job. Kind of like what you used to do for Uncle Sam, only it paid better than even babysitting reporters. Given its nature, you were hesitant, maybe even said no to start with, but your friend convinced you this was a bad guy so you would actually be doing some good. And it worked out great. So great, you ended up doing another, and another, and before long that’s all you’re doing. Each time the money goes up and the voice in the back of your head gets quieter and quieter until you can’t even remember what it used to say.’ Victor paused. ‘Before you know it, you’re a contract killer.’
The guy stared at him, confused and more than a little uneasy. ‘What’s your point?’
‘Bet you still think of yourself as a merc, though,’ Victor added. ‘Take it from me, another year and you wouldn’t have bothered trying to lie to yourself. And, to answer your question, my point is that now your teammates are dead, I know you better than anyone. Because I used to be you. And I also know it’s only your job to be my enemy. There’s nothing personal between us.’
The American’s eyes hardened. ‘Except you killed my two buddies.’
Victor nodded. ‘In self-defence. You’ve lost guys before. You got over it. This is no different. You’ll get over it. But I can’t wait that long. You need to decide right now if I’m just a job to you or if I’m your enemy.’
‘Why?’
Victor stared at him. ‘You know why.’
The American’s head dropped forward and he took a heavy breath. When he looked back up he said, ‘It’s how you just put it. This is a job. Nothing more. If things were reversed, I’d have done the same as you. No hard feelings.’
Victor motioned to the water bottle and the American nodded. Victor held the bottle so the American could use the straw. He took several swallows. Victor placed the bottle down.
‘Who you are working for?’
The American frowned. ‘Come on, man, you know I can’t tell you that.’
Victor gave an understanding nod and took the combat knife from his tactical harness. ‘I’m not a fan of torture,’ he explained. ‘Which isn’t because I’m squeamish. You know as well as I do, the more blood you see, the less of an effect it has.’ He touched a finger to the sharp point. ‘The problem I have with torture is that I’m usually a very clean person and it can be such a messy business. I don’t like making a mess, but sometimes it’s simply unavoidable.’
The American’s gaze was locked on the knife. ‘We don’t have to go there.’
‘Then try again at answering my original question.’
The American shook his head. ‘I don’t know exactly.’
‘That’s not good enough.’
‘Wait, Shane always dealt with the clients. No one else did. It was his job. I’m just a shooter. He was the boss.’
Victor raised an eyebrow. ‘Your call sign was Cowboy Daddy.’
‘Okay,’ the guy said after a pause, ‘okay.’
‘You ran things, on and off the op. How did you do it? Dead drops, phone calls, online?’
‘Did everything on computer. Safest that way. Different email account for each job. Half the money up front, other half after the job was done. How I always do it. Less chance of clients fucking with you like that.’
Victor nodded. ‘Which is why I do it the same way.’
He took a smartphone from his tactical harness and powered it on. He opened up a browser. The reception was perfect. Sochi’s elite demanded it.
‘Give me the details for the operational email account.’
‘Won’t work,’ the American said. ‘Can only access the job spec from my computer back home.’
‘How would your buddies get paid the second half of the fee if you got killed?’