Read Online Killer Elite (previously published as the Feather Men) by Ranulph Fiennes - Free Book Online Page B

the Wolf’s Ear was redundant since they were inches from Symins and his men.
    Sounds of a violent struggle ended with the noise of hammering. There were no screams, merely muted laughter. One by one the points of four eight-inch nails appeared through the door frame.
    Hallett’s hamlike fists clenched and the veins swelled in his neck. “Bastards,” he hissed. “They’re crucifying him.”
    Mason laid a restraining hand on his back. “Calm yourself, Darrell. There’s worse to come. We don’t want you bursting in there like a raging bull. They will have guns. We do not.”
    They heard the unmistakable hum of a portable generator and, just distinguishable, the whine of a Bosch power drill. Although they could neither see nor hear what followed, each man felt nausea at the inhumanity of Symins and his thugs.
    Mason had spent twelve months in Northern Ireland some years earlier and had, for a month, been a frequent visitor to the Vascular Unit of the Royal Victoria Hospital in Belfast. One of his friends was being treated there for a spinal bullet injury, and David had often chatted to the RAMC surgeons. Over a twelve-year period the surgeons at the hospital had become specialists in treating the hideous damage caused by kneecapping. Bullets often missed the patella altogether but still caused severe vascular trauma. Many victims were men in the prime of life whose futures were marred through osteoporosis or, where gas gangrene set in, amputation. At least, Masonthought, the poor devil in the lockup was to be knee-capped with an electric drill, about the ultimate in low-velocity weapons. When flesh and bone is penetrated by foreign matter, the higher the velocity of the projectile the greater the damage done. Nevertheless, the long-term benefits of a masonry drill over a bullet would not at that moment mean very much to the tormented Jason. Mason felt pressure on his shoulder. Jo was tapping his watch. They left by the way they had come.
    Symins addressed Jason’s lolling head, uncertain whether or not he was conscious. “We will phone the fire service in twelve hours, matey. Then us taxpayers will pay for your recovery.” He flashed his very white teeth at the others, who responded with guffaws. “In the meanwhile you’d better talk yourself into being a good boy. When you come out of the Krankenhaus, we’ll see if you’re still on the payroll.”
    Symins drove off in his Jaguar Mark Ten and the others followed in a stretch Ford Granada. In convoy they headed northwest for the Downs, over the open grasslands and along Lady’s Mile to a prominent water tower. Here they forked left to Julian Road, home of the police forensic headquarters. An open field known as the Plateau fell away to the south, ending abruptly at the cliff-top of the Avon Gorge. The heart of Stoke Bishop, Mariners Drive is a place of secluded houses set back from the road and screened by the shrubbery of their well-tended gardens. Only the Anglican church stands out, and not far past this landmark of piety, the Jaguar turned into Symins’s drive. When the electronic gates snapped shut behind the boss, the heavies in the Granada swung away, their work done for the day.
    Symins had sunk a good deal of his drug profits into this house and its comprehensive security arrangements. Apart from his driver and domestic staff there was a live-in gardener who doubled as in-house heavy.
    Symins enjoyed a double brandy in front of a log fire while Diana, naked to the waist, massaged his shoulders and neck. Looking into the flames he again felt a surge of adrenaline as he remembered Jason’s bulging eyeballs. The drill had slowly penetrated skin and bone, and the man’s limbs, though nailed to the door, had jerked out in ginglymus rhythm. A weird smell had emanated from the drill bit which, making heavy weather of the patella itself, had heated up inside the wound. Yes, he had been right to punish Jason. Even if the man was innocent of squealing, it did no