Read Online Deathlist by Chris Ryan - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Chris Ryan
Tags: thriller
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on playing the dumb foreigner, it was a good act. The instructor snorted through his flared nostrils and eventually turned away from the Mondeo. ‘Fucking foreigners,’ he muttered under his breath.
Kavlak watched the instructor as he trooped back over to the students. He looked to Petrovich. The guy had stopped bouncing his knees. He was quiet now as the enormity of what they were about to do finally hit home.
‘Do you remember the plan?’ Kavlak asked.
‘Yes, uncle,’ Petrovich said. ‘Stay calm, act normal and don’t do anything to make the target suspicious.’
‘Good. You’re learning.’ Petrovich smiled warmly at his uncle’s approval. There was hope for him yet. ‘Let’s go.’
They stepped out of the Mondeo into the driving rain. The cold hit Kavlak like a fist. He swung open the rear passenger door and grabbed one of a pair of dark-blue Montane rucksacks stowed in the back seat. Petrovich took the other one. The two Serbs shouldered their rucksacks and strode across the car park towards the main road. Kavlak forced himself to move at a casual pace, ignoring the frantic thumping of his heart. He needn’t have worried. The rucksacks and the walking gear worked perfectly, just as they’d predicted. No one gave the Serbs so much as a second glance. As far as the soldiers were concerned, Kavlak and Petrovich were just another pair of walkers about to begin their early morning pilgrimage up Pen y Fan.
They crossed the road. The wind close to the start of the trail was deafening. Like being in the path of a Boeing 767 cleared for take-off. Once past the red telephone box they moved through the gate and started pounding up the sandstone trail. Kavlak didn’t look back. He forced himself to stare dead. He counted his paces and steadied his breathing. Don’t do anything to drawn attention to yourself.
The trail snaked up a steady incline and dissolved into the mist beyond the wooded area. From the telephone box to the edge of the forest was a distance of roughly a hundred metres. To the right of the track there was a jagged line of conifer trees screening a camping area to the rear of the Storey Arms, some forty metres away.
The two Serbs paced up for sixty metres until they reached a slight curve in the track. Kavlak glanced over his shoulder, checking they were shielded from view of the car park by the treeline. Then he broke off the track and slipped through the treeline and hooked around towards the camping ground. Petrovich followed close behind, the rain spattering against their jackets as they quick-walked past the empty site and the outdoor toilets and approached a door at the rear of the Storey Arms, fifteen metres due south of the wooded area. As they arrived at the door Kavlak paused and glanced back at the track to check no one was watching them. Then he turned and stepped inside.
They entered an unheated room with bare walls and a wrinkled linoleum floor. The air was choked with dust and there was a rank smell of sweat and mould. Petrovich and Stankovic were inside the room, running checks on the various guns laid out on a table in the far corner. Next to the weapons there were six sets of fake passports and matching drivers’ licences, plus six stacks of cash amounting to three thousand pounds each, and Visa credit cards issued to the same names as the fake IDs with £5,000 credit limits. Also, pre-paid Nokia mobile phones plus six AerLingus plane tickets for various flights out of Dublin.
Sixty seconds later, Deeds and Markovic, aka Tank and Goatee, swept through the door.
The pair of them were red-faced and soaked through with sweat from their blistering sprint down the mountain. Deeds unloaded his daysack and threw off his beanie hat. Then he took in a long draw of breath and looked at each of the five Serbs in turn. A smile crawled out of the corner of his mouth. His eyes burned bright with excitement.
‘Okay,’ said Deeds. ‘Let’s fucking do this.’
0715 hours.
Five
Kavlak watched the instructor as he trooped back over to the students. He looked to Petrovich. The guy had stopped bouncing his knees. He was quiet now as the enormity of what they were about to do finally hit home.
‘Do you remember the plan?’ Kavlak asked.
‘Yes, uncle,’ Petrovich said. ‘Stay calm, act normal and don’t do anything to make the target suspicious.’
‘Good. You’re learning.’ Petrovich smiled warmly at his uncle’s approval. There was hope for him yet. ‘Let’s go.’
They stepped out of the Mondeo into the driving rain. The cold hit Kavlak like a fist. He swung open the rear passenger door and grabbed one of a pair of dark-blue Montane rucksacks stowed in the back seat. Petrovich took the other one. The two Serbs shouldered their rucksacks and strode across the car park towards the main road. Kavlak forced himself to move at a casual pace, ignoring the frantic thumping of his heart. He needn’t have worried. The rucksacks and the walking gear worked perfectly, just as they’d predicted. No one gave the Serbs so much as a second glance. As far as the soldiers were concerned, Kavlak and Petrovich were just another pair of walkers about to begin their early morning pilgrimage up Pen y Fan.
They crossed the road. The wind close to the start of the trail was deafening. Like being in the path of a Boeing 767 cleared for take-off. Once past the red telephone box they moved through the gate and started pounding up the sandstone trail. Kavlak didn’t look back. He forced himself to stare dead. He counted his paces and steadied his breathing. Don’t do anything to drawn attention to yourself.
The trail snaked up a steady incline and dissolved into the mist beyond the wooded area. From the telephone box to the edge of the forest was a distance of roughly a hundred metres. To the right of the track there was a jagged line of conifer trees screening a camping area to the rear of the Storey Arms, some forty metres away.
The two Serbs paced up for sixty metres until they reached a slight curve in the track. Kavlak glanced over his shoulder, checking they were shielded from view of the car park by the treeline. Then he broke off the track and slipped through the treeline and hooked around towards the camping ground. Petrovich followed close behind, the rain spattering against their jackets as they quick-walked past the empty site and the outdoor toilets and approached a door at the rear of the Storey Arms, fifteen metres due south of the wooded area. As they arrived at the door Kavlak paused and glanced back at the track to check no one was watching them. Then he turned and stepped inside.
They entered an unheated room with bare walls and a wrinkled linoleum floor. The air was choked with dust and there was a rank smell of sweat and mould. Petrovich and Stankovic were inside the room, running checks on the various guns laid out on a table in the far corner. Next to the weapons there were six sets of fake passports and matching drivers’ licences, plus six stacks of cash amounting to three thousand pounds each, and Visa credit cards issued to the same names as the fake IDs with £5,000 credit limits. Also, pre-paid Nokia mobile phones plus six AerLingus plane tickets for various flights out of Dublin.
Sixty seconds later, Deeds and Markovic, aka Tank and Goatee, swept through the door.
The pair of them were red-faced and soaked through with sweat from their blistering sprint down the mountain. Deeds unloaded his daysack and threw off his beanie hat. Then he took in a long draw of breath and looked at each of the five Serbs in turn. A smile crawled out of the corner of his mouth. His eyes burned bright with excitement.
‘Okay,’ said Deeds. ‘Let’s fucking do this.’
0715 hours.
Five
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