Read Online Deathlist by Chris Ryan - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Chris Ryan
Tags: thriller
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minutes to go.
ELEVEN
0716 hours.
Porter hurried up the slope. Bald raced after him. They were setting a crazy pace, massacring their legs as they pounded up the trail. They’d cleared the stream at Blaen Taf Fawr six or seven minutes earlier. Now they were tearing up the gradient towards the crest overlooking the Storey Arms. They were a hundred metres from the crest. Porter could hear the blood rushing in his ears above the furious cut and thrust of the wind and rain. A painful stitch was making itself felt down his right side and he could feel his heart beating frantically inside his chest. Porter shoved aside the pain. He thought only of stopping the ramblers.
Ten years ago he’d failed to protect his muckers. Steve, Keith and Mike had died that day. Porter had been paying the price ever since. Ten years of living with the nightmares and the visions. Ten years of feeling the eyes of the dead men boring holes in his back. He wasn’t about to let it happen again.
Not this time. No fucking way.
He upped the pace, surging towards the crest, the stitch feeling like a set of knives twisting inside his obliques. The rain was slicking the ground and making the trail slippery underfoot. Twice Porter almost stacked it as he hurried along. His mind was racing ahead of him. They’d passed the ramblers five or six minutes before they’d discovered Vowden. Which meant the ramblers had a five-minute head start on them. Which meant they might already be too late, Porter realised grimly. They might have already reached the Storey Arms by now. There was nothing for it but to go hell for leather and hope they weren’t out of time.
Fifty metres to the crest. Now forty.
Porter ran on. Questions scratched at the base of his skull. Who the fuck were the shooters, and why had they brassed up Vowden and Skimm in the first place? His first instinct had been that the ramblers were a couple of nutters with a grudge against the Regiment. That had been the big fear of some of the instructors when it came to running Selection exercises in the Brecons. But he dismissed the idea almost as quickly as it entered his mind. The attack had been too well planned. This wasn’t the work of a couple of random crazies listening to the voices inside their heads. The ramblers had been armed. They’d tabbed up that mountain knowing that Vowden and Skimm would be up there setting up the RV.
So the ramblers must have known that the Fan Dance was happening today, Porter thought to himself. But the only people who knew about the specifics of Selection were the instructors on the Training Wing and the other guys at Hereford. And the students, of course. So where had these ramblers managed to get their int?
Only one way to find out.
He chopped his stride up the last steep section of the incline. He looked over his shoulder. Bald was breathing hard, gasping with the strain. The two Blades had hardly said a word to each other since they’d set off after the ramblers.
‘So much for clearing my fucking head,’ Bald rasped.
‘Hurry it up, Jock. If we catch these bastards, first round’s on me.’
Bald smiled grimly. ‘Now you’re talking my language, mate.’
Porter hit the crest a few strides ahead of his mucker. He willed himself forward, the blood pounding in his veins as they closed in on the final stretch of the trail. Beyond the crest the track dropped down for a kilometre, all the way to the telephone box next to the Storey Arms. The mist had started to clear lower down the slope and Porter could see the land rolling out in front of him. Six hundred metres away Porter spotted the dense wooded area they’d passed on the way up. Beyond the forest, he glimpsed the Storey Arms. A thought flashed up in front of him, and he felt his stomach muscles tighten into a vicious knot.
God, no.
The whole way down Porter had been asking himself why the ramblers had been heading in this direction. If that was me, having just brassed up a couple of
ELEVEN
0716 hours.
Porter hurried up the slope. Bald raced after him. They were setting a crazy pace, massacring their legs as they pounded up the trail. They’d cleared the stream at Blaen Taf Fawr six or seven minutes earlier. Now they were tearing up the gradient towards the crest overlooking the Storey Arms. They were a hundred metres from the crest. Porter could hear the blood rushing in his ears above the furious cut and thrust of the wind and rain. A painful stitch was making itself felt down his right side and he could feel his heart beating frantically inside his chest. Porter shoved aside the pain. He thought only of stopping the ramblers.
Ten years ago he’d failed to protect his muckers. Steve, Keith and Mike had died that day. Porter had been paying the price ever since. Ten years of living with the nightmares and the visions. Ten years of feeling the eyes of the dead men boring holes in his back. He wasn’t about to let it happen again.
Not this time. No fucking way.
He upped the pace, surging towards the crest, the stitch feeling like a set of knives twisting inside his obliques. The rain was slicking the ground and making the trail slippery underfoot. Twice Porter almost stacked it as he hurried along. His mind was racing ahead of him. They’d passed the ramblers five or six minutes before they’d discovered Vowden. Which meant the ramblers had a five-minute head start on them. Which meant they might already be too late, Porter realised grimly. They might have already reached the Storey Arms by now. There was nothing for it but to go hell for leather and hope they weren’t out of time.
Fifty metres to the crest. Now forty.
Porter ran on. Questions scratched at the base of his skull. Who the fuck were the shooters, and why had they brassed up Vowden and Skimm in the first place? His first instinct had been that the ramblers were a couple of nutters with a grudge against the Regiment. That had been the big fear of some of the instructors when it came to running Selection exercises in the Brecons. But he dismissed the idea almost as quickly as it entered his mind. The attack had been too well planned. This wasn’t the work of a couple of random crazies listening to the voices inside their heads. The ramblers had been armed. They’d tabbed up that mountain knowing that Vowden and Skimm would be up there setting up the RV.
So the ramblers must have known that the Fan Dance was happening today, Porter thought to himself. But the only people who knew about the specifics of Selection were the instructors on the Training Wing and the other guys at Hereford. And the students, of course. So where had these ramblers managed to get their int?
Only one way to find out.
He chopped his stride up the last steep section of the incline. He looked over his shoulder. Bald was breathing hard, gasping with the strain. The two Blades had hardly said a word to each other since they’d set off after the ramblers.
‘So much for clearing my fucking head,’ Bald rasped.
‘Hurry it up, Jock. If we catch these bastards, first round’s on me.’
Bald smiled grimly. ‘Now you’re talking my language, mate.’
Porter hit the crest a few strides ahead of his mucker. He willed himself forward, the blood pounding in his veins as they closed in on the final stretch of the trail. Beyond the crest the track dropped down for a kilometre, all the way to the telephone box next to the Storey Arms. The mist had started to clear lower down the slope and Porter could see the land rolling out in front of him. Six hundred metres away Porter spotted the dense wooded area they’d passed on the way up. Beyond the forest, he glimpsed the Storey Arms. A thought flashed up in front of him, and he felt his stomach muscles tighten into a vicious knot.
God, no.
The whole way down Porter had been asking himself why the ramblers had been heading in this direction. If that was me, having just brassed up a couple of
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