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‘You, Leo Hamilton. Just stay there cowering away, this doesn’t concern you,’ the gunman said to Leo, who didn’t look up, his head covered by his hands.
‘Hey, dickhead, I’m talking to you. Look at me!’ barked the gunman.
Leo poked his head up, and nodded, his face pale as alabaster, his eyes wide in sheer, unadulterated panic.
‘Right, my other associate is going to cut through the handcuffs. If you try anything, I’ll shoot you in the gut, do you understand?’ he said, lowering the gun to Maxwell’s midriff.
Maxwell nodded rapidly, feeling the acrid rise of bile in his throat.
The gunman nodded, and the third masked attacker approached, bolt cutters in his hand. He efficiently and wordlessly cut through the handcuff link as easily as a knife cutting through butter.
‘Nice one, boys,’ said Davie with a cackle as he massaged his wrist and stepped away from Maxwell, a huge grin on his face. ‘It’s been a pleasure, Len. You fuckers must have been crazy to think I’d actually help the polis, but we needed to keep you all busy, and an old body in the loch will keep everyone out of mischief and distracted enough for this. No hard feelings, pal. I’m happy poor old Beata can get a proper burial, but you’ll never know who put her in there. Now, can we get the fuck out of here?’
‘Get in the car,’ said the lead gunman.
‘Nice knowing you, Lenny.’ Davie’s smile widened into a triumphant leer before his head quite literally exploded in a shower of blood, bone and brain. His body, already utterly dead, dropped to the floor as if his legs had suddenly vanished, every vestige of life gone in the blink of an eye. A microsecond later, there was the boom of a high-calibre rifle. The lead gunman’s mouth opened in shock, his mind not catching up with what was happening.
There was another huge report, and a metallic crash followed bya wet splash, as a bullet struck the van. Maxwell fell to the floor, instinctively, and covered his head with his hands. He looked up quickly and heard the gunman shouting, ‘Sniper! Let’s get the fuck out of here,’ as he sprinted to the BMW, followed by his two colleagues. The doors were slammed shut, and it screeched off, wheels spinning in the dust.
Sniper, thought Maxwell. He had served in the Army many years ago, and he recognised the report he’d heard twice. A big heavy ballistic round.A sniper, here in fucking Kilmarnock!His heart was beating almost hard enough to leave his chest, but deep inside himself, he realised that if the sniper had wanted him, or anyone else other than Hardie or Hamilton dead, then they’d already be minus a head. He tried to control his breathing, which was still escaping him in gasps.Come on, Len, fucking sort yourself out. He was the sergeant; he’d have to see if the others were okay.
‘Guys, are you okay?’ shouted Maxwell, his voice shaking.
There was just silence, beyond the fading noise of the BMW that had disappeared over the crest of a hill.
‘Ann, are you okay? We need to call it in,’ repeated Maxwell, more urgently.
There was no response.
With his heart beating frantically, Maxwell realised he was going to have to move. He lifted his head and glanced behind him, feeling a drip, drip, drip on his wrist. He saw the dark crimson of blood. His heart lurching, he stood up, and looked in the back of the van. Leo Hamilton was slumped in a mix of blood and gore. Well, he assumed that it was Leo, but he couldn’t tell for sure, owing to the fact that the head was almost entirely missing from the utterly lifeless corpse, apart from a sliver of jawbone that held some smashed teeth.
Laithwaite and Clegg were stiff as boards in their seats, faces pale with shock, mouths agape and their clothes and hair all smeared in blood, brain and shards of bone.
‘Ann, we need to call it in,’ said Maxwell, gently.
She closed her mouth, her pale face a total contrast to her gore-encrusted hair and shoulders, and handed the radio to Maxwell.
‘Cleggy?’ he asked the silent driver, who just nodded, his right cheek splattered liberally with the detritus from Leo Hamilton, indicating he’d been turning to face the back of the van when the solicitor had lost his head.
‘Let’s get the fuck out of here, we might be next,’ said Clegg.
‘We’re safe, man.’
‘How … how can you be so sure?’ stammered Laithwaite.
‘Because he shot those two, from God knows where, with a headshot and within about two bloody seconds. He made no effort to take out the bastards that held us up, either. If he’d wanted us dead, we’d be dead already. Let’s call it in.’
The distant wail of sirens growing ever louder suggested that help was already on its way.
25
THE SNIPER SMILEDfrom his position in the lightly wooded copse, four hundred metres up the gentle slope, as he looked through the powerful optic sight at the scenes of utter pandemonium on the small intersection of the road. The first shot had been child’s play. Perfect conditions, just a slight breeze and a slightly sloping landscape. He’d watched with satisfaction as the bullet had slammed into Hardie’s forehead, and had enjoyed seeing the pressure wave, caused by the big .338 Lapua round taking the gangster’s head almost clean off.
Then it was a simple case of working the bolt action, moving the barrel just a few inches to the left and engaging the fat lawyer. He’d originally planned for a centre mass shot, but as the fat bastard was just sitting there, in the van with his mouth open like a goldfish, the head was too tempting a target, and a bullet straight through the gaping orifice was just too much of an opportunity to pass up. All that practice on ranges over the years, followed by the real thing in Afghanistan, Chad and Northern Mali, had made it childishly simple. He literally couldn’t have missed. He chuckled to himself, feeling the familiar elation after a successful shot. ‘The thrill of the red mist’ was a real thing amongst snipers. Once experienced, never forgotten.
It had been almost comical watching the idiots who’d been tasked with rescuing Hardie react to his shots. Their initial ambush had been solidly planned, with the scattering of sharp caltrops on the road to take out the van’s tyres, and then a decent intervention once the vehicle was disabled, but their reaction to his effective fire waslaughable. He could have taken them out just as easily, but he hadn’t been paid for that, so he didn’t bother.
He’d been given word yesterday that Hardie was coming to the loch, and he had planned to engage once he was lochside, but the terrain was challenging, and concealment and egress would have been tricky and risky. When he saw the other team performing a recce, he decided that they were almost the perfect bait. They’d been so bloody obvious about what they were planning. Just three gorillas, in a gangbangers BMW, dressed in designer gear openly scouting the area. He’d been more careful: wear fisherman’s camouflage clothing, hold a rod and tackle bag over his shoulder, whilst sitting on a collapsible chair by the loch. They’d forgotten the golden rule of camouflage. Blend into your environment. Whilst they stomped about, all furtive, tough-looking and threatening, he’d been pretending to fish, remaining in sight but anonymous. Just a fisherman doing what fishermen do.
