Tidal Rage by David Evans (bill gates books to read txt) 📕

“I do not know what you’re talking about, mister. Please do not hurt me!” a very scared Imran replied.

Cutler did not need to react, as Bruno crashed the walking stick down onto Imran’s hand, breaking several fingers.

“This customer represents the American government, my clients, Imran. This is a customer you don’t piss off; it only ends one way. If my friend here says you set him up, then you did. If you want to walk away from this, I will advise you to stop the lies and tell him the truth. If your fingers hurt, wait to feel the pain from your new arsehole when I relocate it,” Bruno wheezed and growled; forcing the walking stick down onto Imran’s broken fingers, as he screamed in agony.

“The gang that brought me to the UK placed me here with you, Bruno. They give me orders sometimes!” Imran cried out in pain.

“A picture was circulated yesterday, and I was told to contact them if he turned up. It was the picture this man sent through. I had to tell them, or they would kill me!”

“Clean your mess up, Bruno. I want any closed-circuit television or still pictures destroyed. If any of them get out, you will be getting a visit from one of the CIA clean-up squads. Do I make myself clear?” Cutler lied.

“Don’t you worry, sir, no pictures will be getting out. And this mess will be cleared by tonight. I am very sorry; this is the first time I have had a client compromised this way,” Bruno swore.

***

Hoagie had circumnavigated the Sage. It was clear the observer would not be inside, as there was a Schubert rendition underway in the centre and it thronged with business.

At the far side of the building, there was a grassy knoll that was hidden from view, and it was where Hoagie would have set up an observation post. He crept silently behind the mound, keeping close to the ground. He scanned the area with his infrared binoculars. He picked up a heat signal some fifty yards down and twenty yards to the left. Hoagie studied the area carefully, although he could not see anyone, he could see the end of a rifle and scope jutting out what seemed from the hill itself.

It was obvious to Hoagie that the object of his attention was much more than an observer; he was an assassin. The sniper had gouged out a hide and was wearing camouflage; it was only the slight heat trace that had given him away.

Hoagie had only the flick knife as a weapon. Cutler had insisted that they should not have any arms, as it was a mandatory five-year sentence in the UK for carrying weapons without a license. And since Cutler had left the Secret Service, he would have no one to turn to should they be stopped by the local police.

The rifle made the sniper’s intention clear. While the picture the first assailant had taken of Cutler did not display his face in sufficient clarity, it did display his approximate height and clothing. It also had their original location as Gateshead. Hoagie was not willing to take a chance that even if Cutler changed his clothes he would not be picked out as he tried to cross either the Millennium or swing bridge by foot.

Two yards away from the sniper’s hide, Hoagie was startled. This sniper was experienced. He was astute, and he had laid a trap in a hundred-eighty-degree semi-circle around his lair. Falco Jager, aka the Owl, had taken Heineken beer bottles and broken them into small pieces. The green colours of the bottles matched into the surrounding grass and were almost indiscernible in the night. Even Hoagie’s night vision glasses could not pick out the shards. The crunch of the glass under Hoagie’s foot was lost in the sound of the wind that always blew around the Tyne, but loud enough to alert the sniper.

Hoagie had used this basic type of motion sensor himself, and he scolded himself for not being more cautious. Cutler had mentioned an observer, not a sniper. If he had known what he was dealing with, he would have taken extra precautions.

The Owl swung around deftly and fired a single shot from the ArmaLite he had bought from one of Werner’s English contacts in London. His beloved Swiss bolt-action SSG 2000 was in his gun safe back in Germany as Werner had ordered. It was much safer to buy weapons in a country than to transport them across the borders of Europe, especially into the UK.

Hoagie owed his life to his swiftness of feet and to the fact that the Owl had not had the time to find an isolated area where he could have tested and honed the rifle to his requirements.

Hoagie twisted to his left as the rifle targeted him. The bullet passed the fleshy part of his right forearm, missing the vital brachial artery, but tearing away the flesh in larger amounts from the exit wound. Hoagie landed heavily on the glass-strewn area and was glad the injury was to his right arm, as his left gripped the flick knife he had been holding onto since the observer morphed into a sniper.

Glass shards embedded themselves into Hoagie’s left side; large enough to cut, small enough to not cause any serious injuries. In a fluid motion, he used the strength in his back and legs to jump from a prone position to an upright stance. His timing was perfect, as a second bullet from the ArmaLite passed between his legs where his head had been a millisecond before.

Adrenalin surged through Hoagie’s veins. Gone was the pain in his arm; gone were the nuisance cuts from the glass. It was fight or flight time, and Hoagie had never fled in his life.

Falco Jager, aka ‘the