NINETEEN
Back in London, Archer and Chalky moved fast up the stairs of the apartment building, their MP5s tight to their shoulders and in the aim, scaling the steps quickly and silently. They arrived on 8, and Chalky grabbed the door handle. He looked at Archer, who nodded, and he pulled the door open.
Archer was the first into the corridor, looking straight down through the aimed MP5's hair-trigger.
And he saw King.
The man was slumped against the wall in front of the lift doors, a smeared red stain behind him from where he had been shot in the head and his body had slid down the wall. He had a carry-on bag next to him on the ground, the bag half-unzipped, clothes spilling to the floor. Archer and Chalky ran down the corridor, coming to a halt by the dead man. Just then, the elevator arrived and the doors parted, Porter and Fox seeing for themselves what had happened.
'Oh Jesus Christ,' Fox said, moving forward.
King's eyes were still open, staring at the ground, his head lolled to the side, a trickle of blood coming from the entry wound in his forehead.
'We were too late. Shit.'
Chalky pointed at the passport, jutting halfway out of the holdall on top of some clothes.
'Looks like he knew they were coming.'
'Call Nikki, Chalk,' Porter said. 'Let her know. We need a clean-up crew and a body-bag team from the morgue.'
As Chalky nodded and pulled the mobile phone from his tac vest, Porter noticed that Archer had a concentrated look on his face, not listening to the other men.
'What?' Porter asked, noticing his demeanour.
Archer looked over at him.
'You seen anyone else in the building since we walked in?'
'Only the guy we passed at the front door.'
They held each other's gaze.
They sprinted to the stairwell, pulling open the door, taking the stairs three at a time. Archer was the first back down to the lobby and he rushed past a surprised couple towards the entrance. He burst through the front doors, looking left and right down Holloway Road either side of him, but he was too late. All he saw were pedestrians, passing cars, the constantly moving maze of midday London. The tall dark-haired man with the harsh face was long gone.
Behind him, the other three had arrived. Chalky was already calling in the murder on his phone as he and Fox jumped back into the car. Porter climbed into the front seat, firing the engine and called out of the window to Archer.
'Arch, let's go! We need to get McCarthy!'
Archer took one last despairing look at the street. He cursed himself. He’d looked the killer right in the eyes. He’d even made physical contact with him when they knocked shoulders. Swearing, he turned and ran over to the car, jumping inside, the vehicle already speeding off as he pulled his door shut.
A hundred yards across the street from Fraser's office in the centre of Washington DC, the dark-haired man who had taken the shot that killed Fraser was already moving down the stairwell of the building across the block.
He had left the rifle in position on the roof, like a calling card. It had been bought illegally and was untraceable, along with the ammunition, and he had only ever handled the ammunition and rifle with gloved hands to protect against DNA and fingerprinting. His cheek had touched the stock, so there would probably be something for the Americans to work with, but even if they managed to find anything, he'd be out of the country long before anything could be done with the information. No one knew his real name, or who he was. He was truly anonymous, which was the best thing in the world for a sniper to be.
Arriving on the ground floor, he turned left and moved down the corridor to the fire exit, pushing it open and stepping outside onto the street. Closing the door behind him, he peeled off the two layers of latex gloves on his hands, stuffed them into his pocket and raised his hand as traffic moved past. Moments later a yellow cab pulled up. He stepped inside, shutting the door behind him, and within ten seconds he was speeding away from the scene, camouflaged amongst all the other vehicles and headed straight to Dulles International Airport and his soon-to-depart flight to London.
Across the Atlantic in London, the leader of the Panthers was preparing to take out McCarthy. This was a job that he had previously delegated to Crow and Grub, but with both men dead he would have to do it himself. It was an inconvenience, but this change of plan often happened in the field, an operational setback, but one that he would rectify soon enough. Besides, the old mantra definitely held water here. If you wanted to get something done, get it done yourself.
Rising from his seat at the centre of the command post, the man shot the cuff on his fatigues and checked his watch. He’d just miss Bug and Spider, who were on their way here. They might even pass each other on the road. Bird was already on his way back and Flea would be here by nightfall, once he killed Fraser and got to Dulles for his flight. Keeping both televisions on but muted, the big soldier walked over to the wall and the line of weapons laid neatly across the carpet. He scooped up a Kalashnikov rifle, pulling back the cocking handle and checking the mechanism inside the chamber. He had cleaned and oiled all the weapons the day before, and for street-bought guns they were in surprisingly good condition. He picked up a double-taped magazine and slapped it into the weapon, pulling back the handle and loading it, then picked up a black weapon case. Inside, there was a bazooka and a single rocket-propelled grenade that would insert inside the launcher with a click. That was it. Once that was done, it was ready to fire. Turning, he looked around, making sure everything was in order. As he did so, he caught another Breaking News report on the CNN screen.
Man killed by suspected sniper inside office in central DC, the screen said.
The big man allowed a faint smile to creep across his mouth.
Fraser was down.
Then he pulled open the door to the corridor of the empty building and walked out, closing it behind him and making his way downstairs to the car.
The building had a parking lot in the basement, protecting the men and whatever they were carrying from any prying eyes on the street, and as the lift dinged open the commander saw one of his men, Worm, sitting in the front seat of a silver Fiat, the engine running.
He moved forward and tossed the weapons on the back seat, covering them with a blanket. He slammed the door, then climbed into the front passenger seat, pulling the door shut.
'King is dead, sir,' Worm said, in Albanian. 'Shot him in the face. I made it just before the police showed up.'
'Good,' his commanding officer said, adjusting the seat in the car to accommodate his large frame. 'Let's go. We need to get to McCarthy before they do.'
Without another word, Worm nodded. He put his foot down, and the tyres squealed as the car took off towards the exit and the street outside. As they moved up the ramp and into the afternoon sunlight, the commander ticked off both Fraser and King from the checklist in his head.
Eight down.
Just three to go.