The Becket Approval by Falconer Duncan (interesting books to read TXT) 📕

swiftly emerging as a problem for him. He really couldn’t sit back and do nothing as these clowns walked off with what might well be a serious WMD. The main reason he couldn’t do nothing was because he was the only person who could. If the device left this location, it could end up anywhere. It could kill a lot of people.

‘Shit!’ he muttered softly. He had to make an effort at least. It wasn’t worth dying for since there might not be a device. But he couldn’t take the risk there was.

Four to one. If he was going to have any chance at all he needed them all together. It would have to be a surprise. An ambush. Swift and decisive. No chance for them to retaliate.

First thing first, he needed to get to the road and ahead of them. But which direction should he go? Would they head east towards Kazakhstan or west back into Russia? The Toyotas were shot to bits and would have to be moved for the Ford to get past. Very unlikely. And since the attackers came from within Russia the chances were they’d be returning.

West it was.

He scrambled over the rocks, keeping low as he hurried along, confident the men were too busy to watch the countryside. He soon came to the road. The vehicles were out of sight around a slight bend. But a couple of steps onto the sand and he could see the back of the Ford. It hadn’t moved.

He quickly crossed over and stepped into a rocky outcrop. It was a good position, feet from the road with cover from view and fire. He reminded his hands where everything was – pistol in side trouser pocket, spare rifle mags in left jacket pocket, spare pistol mags in right. This was crazy. He was going to do it. He knew himself well enough. Once he was in the right position he would go for it. He knew he would. Shit!

An engine revved! He craned to get a look. The Ford was moving back and forth, turning around in the narrow road. Shit! They were coming his way. This was it. He was going to do it. The adrenaline started to shoot through him.

As the Ford moved off towards him he brought the scope up to his eye. Two men in the front. The back was in darkness. The other two had to be there. Where else would they be?

The vehicle gradually accelerated towards him. Going through the gears. His finger rested on the trigger. There was an optimum moment. Not too far away. Not too close. He had to have time to get everyone.

When the Ford was twenty metres away Gunnymede squeezed the trigger releasing a long, sustained burst. He aimed for the driver first, holding the barrel on him for several bullets then moved it left, right, left, easing it from side to side, keeping all the rounds in the vehicle. The magazine emptied. He moved his fingers as fast as he could. Ejected the empty mag, dug another out of his pocket and shoved it in, hit the breech mechanism and the spring slammed it forward. By the time he’d changed mags the Ford was level with him. He fired into its side, raking back and forth between the front and rear seats. He ran out of bullets again as it rolled on past him, left the road, bumped into a mound of rocks and stalled. Gunnymede replaced the magazine and moved in. The vehicle was motionless apart from steam hissing from the ruptured engine. There was no other movement. Every window was shattered. The doors were heavily punctured. He could see all four men inside, the two in the back clearly dead, their heads ripped open, brains spilled out. The driver was the same. It had been overkill. A blitz. But he’d got the job done without a shot being returned which was the plan.

To his surprise, the front passenger, however, was not dead. He had somehow miraculously survived. The man turned his bloody face to look at Gunnymede through one good eye and stared, unblinking, his breathing laboured, as if waiting for an answer to a question. Gunnymede couldn’t let the man survive. There were too many reasons to kill him and not one to let him live. Gunnymede drew his pistol and aimed. The man didn’t flinch. He’d just executed the survivors of his own ambush and knew what was coming. He understood.

Gunnymede fired a single shot into the man’s head which flew back against the door frame. And that was that.

He went to the back of the vehicle and opened it. Several shoe-sized boxes fell out. The entire back was crammed full with more of the same. He opened one. It was tightly packed with brown paper packages.

There was a sudden roaring scream and two jet fighters shot low overhead. Gunnymede dropped to cover as his eyes shot skyward and his heart leapt into his throat. He watched as they disappeared beyond the horizon. It was time to go. He speeded up and unwrapped one of the packages. The paper was stiff and coated in a thick brown wax. Inside was a firm, lightly tanned, rectangular doughy lump. He knew what it was before he picked at a corner and it crumbled into sugary granules. Afghan heroin. He removed the lids of several of the boxes. They all contained the same packages. There must’ve been a couple hundred kilos of the stuff. He looked back towards the Toyotas. The attackers appeared to only want the heroin. There was nothing else in the back.

The sound of jet fighter engines suggested they were circling far away. He soon found them. Seems like the dead bird didn’t fool the radar operators for too long. Gunnymede was confident he had a little time. This was a remote location to get any response to