were going to die, that was like the world’s best high. It made him horny.
The driver of the Mondeo answered on the third buzz.
Stankovic said, ‘We’re ready. Targets all in place.’
There was nothing to commemorate the moment. No big statement, no one saying, ‘Well, this is it, now,’ or any other crap, like they did in all the big Hollywood movies Stankovic used to watch in his apartment in Belgrade.
Kavlak simply said, ‘Okay.’
Stankovic said, ‘Park in the south-west corner. As close as you can get to the students. Just make sure you steer clear of the trucks.’ He hesitated, anticipating the other man’s concern. ‘It’s going to attract attention, parking that close. But it’s our best point of attack.’
‘Don’t worry. I’ll find a way.’
Stankovic killed the call. Then he checked the time.
0706 hours.
Fourteen minutes to go.
Twenty seconds later, Kavlak fired up the Mondeo and steered out of the lay-by. He headed south on the A470 towards the Storey Arms. He kept his eyes on the road and kept the Mondeo purring along at forty per, well below the speed limit. He was Zen calm.
This was it. There was no going back. After six months of planning, poring over maps and figuring out routes and possible scenarios, they were moving forward now. The ball was finally rolling.
It felt good.
Petrovich sat up straight in the front passenger seat. His knees were bouncing twice as fast now. The speed in his bloodstream mixing with the adrenaline and the anxiety he was feeling. Kavlak ignored his jumpy nephew and focused on the road. The rain was drumming its fingers against the windscreen. They passed a few cars heading in the opposite direction. They passed a lorry parked in a lay-by on the other side of the road next to a greasy mobile food van. They passed trees and hills the colour of granite.
Three minutes later, the Storey Arms slid into view.
Kavlak slowed the Mondeo down to fifteen per and hung a right into the car park. It wasn’t hard to spot the students. They were sat in a big group ten metres or so from the entrance next to the two Land Rovers. The four Bedford army trucks and three Range Rovers were parked up in a line twenty metres or so further along from the students. They sat mostly in silence, some sipping at their brews from their metal mugs. They were soaked to the bone and looked thoroughly miserable. Kavlak smiled to himself. A few minutes now, the rain was going to be the least of their worries.
He pulled up as close as he dared to the students, eight metres from the group. He angled the Mondeo so that the front end was facing away from the students and facing out across the Fan Fawr mountain to the west. He glanced up at the rear-view, checking that the car boot was pointing directly at the students. Eight metres. Close enough to wipe out most of the students, and a good number of the instructors too. He shunted the Mondeo into Park and killed the engine.
Almost there.
He was about to climb out when he saw the instructor marching over. Kavlak clocked him in the rear-view. A short, stumpy Brit with a large birth-mark on one side of his face and tiny black eyes that gleamed menacingly, like the points of a couple of sharpened knives. The instructor beat a path around to the driver’s side of the Mondeo and rapped his knuckles on the window. Kavlak thumbed the automatic slider and lowered the glass halfway. He looked up and smiled. The instructor glared at him. His facial muscles were twitching. He looked pissed off.
‘You can’t park here,’ the instructor said, pointing to the students. ‘This is an army training exercise. Got it? Go a couple of miles down the road. There’s another car park there. You can use that one.’
Kavlak stared blankly at the instructor and shrugged as if to say, No speak English . The instructor gritted his teeth. He leaned through the window, and glared at Kavlak.
‘Are you deaf? I said, move your fucking vehicle.’
Kavlak kept
The driver of the Mondeo answered on the third buzz.
Stankovic said, ‘We’re ready. Targets all in place.’
There was nothing to commemorate the moment. No big statement, no one saying, ‘Well, this is it, now,’ or any other crap, like they did in all the big Hollywood movies Stankovic used to watch in his apartment in Belgrade.
Kavlak simply said, ‘Okay.’
Stankovic said, ‘Park in the south-west corner. As close as you can get to the students. Just make sure you steer clear of the trucks.’ He hesitated, anticipating the other man’s concern. ‘It’s going to attract attention, parking that close. But it’s our best point of attack.’
‘Don’t worry. I’ll find a way.’
Stankovic killed the call. Then he checked the time.
0706 hours.
Fourteen minutes to go.
Twenty seconds later, Kavlak fired up the Mondeo and steered out of the lay-by. He headed south on the A470 towards the Storey Arms. He kept his eyes on the road and kept the Mondeo purring along at forty per, well below the speed limit. He was Zen calm.
This was it. There was no going back. After six months of planning, poring over maps and figuring out routes and possible scenarios, they were moving forward now. The ball was finally rolling.
It felt good.
Petrovich sat up straight in the front passenger seat. His knees were bouncing twice as fast now. The speed in his bloodstream mixing with the adrenaline and the anxiety he was feeling. Kavlak ignored his jumpy nephew and focused on the road. The rain was drumming its fingers against the windscreen. They passed a few cars heading in the opposite direction. They passed a lorry parked in a lay-by on the other side of the road next to a greasy mobile food van. They passed trees and hills the colour of granite.
Three minutes later, the Storey Arms slid into view.
Kavlak slowed the Mondeo down to fifteen per and hung a right into the car park. It wasn’t hard to spot the students. They were sat in a big group ten metres or so from the entrance next to the two Land Rovers. The four Bedford army trucks and three Range Rovers were parked up in a line twenty metres or so further along from the students. They sat mostly in silence, some sipping at their brews from their metal mugs. They were soaked to the bone and looked thoroughly miserable. Kavlak smiled to himself. A few minutes now, the rain was going to be the least of their worries.
He pulled up as close as he dared to the students, eight metres from the group. He angled the Mondeo so that the front end was facing away from the students and facing out across the Fan Fawr mountain to the west. He glanced up at the rear-view, checking that the car boot was pointing directly at the students. Eight metres. Close enough to wipe out most of the students, and a good number of the instructors too. He shunted the Mondeo into Park and killed the engine.
Almost there.
He was about to climb out when he saw the instructor marching over. Kavlak clocked him in the rear-view. A short, stumpy Brit with a large birth-mark on one side of his face and tiny black eyes that gleamed menacingly, like the points of a couple of sharpened knives. The instructor beat a path around to the driver’s side of the Mondeo and rapped his knuckles on the window. Kavlak thumbed the automatic slider and lowered the glass halfway. He looked up and smiled. The instructor glared at him. His facial muscles were twitching. He looked pissed off.
‘You can’t park here,’ the instructor said, pointing to the students. ‘This is an army training exercise. Got it? Go a couple of miles down the road. There’s another car park there. You can use that one.’
Kavlak stared blankly at the instructor and shrugged as if to say, No speak English . The instructor gritted his teeth. He leaned through the window, and glared at Kavlak.
‘Are you deaf? I said, move your fucking vehicle.’
Kavlak kept
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