Read Online Silencer by Andy McNab - Free Book Online
Authors: Andy McNab
Tags: thriller, Suspense, Literature & Fiction, Thrillers, Action & Adventure, Crime, Military, Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, Thrillers & Suspense, Thriller & Suspense
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would tell anyone in the know where he’d been imprisoned and why. There was one of the Kremlin and what looked like a goblin or a dwarf holding a wand and putting a spell on the place. I couldn’t interpret them in any detail, but they were obviously the story of his life. The only chapter missing was the one explaining what he and his mate had been up to with Katya.
She hadn’t just got home when I arrived. She’d had time to take her coat off, and there was warm coffee by the answerphone. Two of the messages I’d left had been played, but not the third. Eye infection? Maybe they’d hit her, or she’d been crying. Whatever, she had a fuck of a lot of explaining to do.
I sat on the floor beside the leather jacket and punched numbers into my mobile. As ever, Katya wasn’t responding. I punched in another set as I headed for the bedroom.
‘Have you found everything, Nicholas?’
‘More than I bargained for.’ I pulled T-shirts and nighties out of her top drawer, then swept her toiletries into a sports bag, like a burglar working against the clock. ‘You at the clinic yet?’
‘Sure. He’s stable and in a unit and they’re carrying out some more tests. I’m with him.’
‘Katya?’
‘No. She took a call. As soon as we got here she had to leave.She’ll be back later.’ She hesitated. ‘Are you staying here as well?’
‘You want me to?’ A panic alarm was ringing in my head. ‘I’ll see you both soon.’
I felt behind the bedside cabinet for my Heckler & Koch .45 Compact. The Russians loved German kit. Maybe that was why Angela’s mob had overtaken us as the third biggest arms dealers on the planet – and its third biggest exporter after China and the USA.
This thing was a snubby semi-automatic .45 close-protection weapon with an eight-round magazine. The frame was polymer the same colour as the leather jacket next door; the top-slide was black steel. It had been cheap, and easy to get hold of. Maybe the dealer had stuck it together from write-offs, like he did with the dodgy motors in his saleroom. I didn’t care much. It worked, and that was all that mattered.
The Compact had a single action, once it was made ready and the hammer was fully back, but I hit the lever on its left-hand side to release it and ensure that the trigger needed a hard squeeze, like a revolver.
With a full mag and one in the chamber I had nine rounds to kick off with, and two spare mags. If I needed any more than that I really was in the shit. I shoved it into my waistband. No need to check the safety: there wasn’t one.
I picked up all the bags and took the lift down to my battered navy blue VW Golf in the basement.
17
The old guy on the desk had done his usual vanishing trick and the main door was still ajar. Rain had soaked the rough cork matting he’d laid out to protect the tiles, or what was left of them.
I took the stairs two and three at a time. Before I reached the landing, I pulled out the HK and checked the chamber, pushing back on the top-slide with the palm of my hand until I could see the glint of a .45 case in the ejection opening. Instinct made me check that the spare mags were still in the left pocket of my jeans, with the business end of the rounds facing away from my bollocks. Nothing to do with protecting the family jewels: I wanted to be able to ram it straight into the pistol grip housing, not have to twist it around or turn it upside-down.
I took a couple of deep breaths and did a final shake to get the rain off my hair and my face, and turned into the corridor.
I lay down just short of Katya’s entrance, the side of my face flat against the carpet. No light spilled through the crack beneath the door. No sound, either. On my feet again, I stepped back and shoulder-barged it above the handle. The frame splintered without much complaint and I jinked right into the darkness, crouching low to present a smaller target. My HK was up at forty-five degrees, ready to react.
I kept still. I
She hadn’t just got home when I arrived. She’d had time to take her coat off, and there was warm coffee by the answerphone. Two of the messages I’d left had been played, but not the third. Eye infection? Maybe they’d hit her, or she’d been crying. Whatever, she had a fuck of a lot of explaining to do.
I sat on the floor beside the leather jacket and punched numbers into my mobile. As ever, Katya wasn’t responding. I punched in another set as I headed for the bedroom.
‘Have you found everything, Nicholas?’
‘More than I bargained for.’ I pulled T-shirts and nighties out of her top drawer, then swept her toiletries into a sports bag, like a burglar working against the clock. ‘You at the clinic yet?’
‘Sure. He’s stable and in a unit and they’re carrying out some more tests. I’m with him.’
‘Katya?’
‘No. She took a call. As soon as we got here she had to leave.She’ll be back later.’ She hesitated. ‘Are you staying here as well?’
‘You want me to?’ A panic alarm was ringing in my head. ‘I’ll see you both soon.’
I felt behind the bedside cabinet for my Heckler & Koch .45 Compact. The Russians loved German kit. Maybe that was why Angela’s mob had overtaken us as the third biggest arms dealers on the planet – and its third biggest exporter after China and the USA.
This thing was a snubby semi-automatic .45 close-protection weapon with an eight-round magazine. The frame was polymer the same colour as the leather jacket next door; the top-slide was black steel. It had been cheap, and easy to get hold of. Maybe the dealer had stuck it together from write-offs, like he did with the dodgy motors in his saleroom. I didn’t care much. It worked, and that was all that mattered.
The Compact had a single action, once it was made ready and the hammer was fully back, but I hit the lever on its left-hand side to release it and ensure that the trigger needed a hard squeeze, like a revolver.
With a full mag and one in the chamber I had nine rounds to kick off with, and two spare mags. If I needed any more than that I really was in the shit. I shoved it into my waistband. No need to check the safety: there wasn’t one.
I picked up all the bags and took the lift down to my battered navy blue VW Golf in the basement.
17
The old guy on the desk had done his usual vanishing trick and the main door was still ajar. Rain had soaked the rough cork matting he’d laid out to protect the tiles, or what was left of them.
I took the stairs two and three at a time. Before I reached the landing, I pulled out the HK and checked the chamber, pushing back on the top-slide with the palm of my hand until I could see the glint of a .45 case in the ejection opening. Instinct made me check that the spare mags were still in the left pocket of my jeans, with the business end of the rounds facing away from my bollocks. Nothing to do with protecting the family jewels: I wanted to be able to ram it straight into the pistol grip housing, not have to twist it around or turn it upside-down.
I took a couple of deep breaths and did a final shake to get the rain off my hair and my face, and turned into the corridor.
I lay down just short of Katya’s entrance, the side of my face flat against the carpet. No light spilled through the crack beneath the door. No sound, either. On my feet again, I stepped back and shoulder-barged it above the handle. The frame splintered without much complaint and I jinked right into the darkness, crouching low to present a smaller target. My HK was up at forty-five degrees, ready to react.
I kept still. I
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