guessed. Still dense and solid to the touch. Dust rimmed its dark frame, but there were no corresponding build-ups of dust on the floor directly below, which suggested that the door had not been recently opened. Might not have been opened for decades, he supposed.
He used a hand-held metal detector to scan the door frame, searching for signs of sensors. Then he pressed the small plastic amplifier, with which Spartak had provided each of them, against the door. Its needle barely moved above its tenth percentile. What fluctuations it did make, Danny attributed to the storm outside.
He squeezed himself tight to the wall and waved his hand across the door’s dark keyhole. He did it again, half expecting a sudden gunshot to punch a zigzag of splinters into the corridor.
But no shot came. Danny pushed himself slowly off the wall and brought his head level with the keyhole. When he peered through, he saw only darkness. He stood upright and tried the handle. It didn’t budge. Meaning the door was locked or corroded, most likely both.
He dug into his zipped jacket sleeve pocket. The one item of high spec equipment he’d brought with him from England was the lock-buster. A gift last year from an old Company friend who now consulted for a European security-accoutrements firm.
A shiver chased down his spine. The green world seen through his goggles had just darkened, the change of light implying nearby movement. Danny swivelled round, instinctively bringing up his AK-9 as he did so.
Then he lowered it. Spartak had either grown bored of waiting outside, or sick of the weather. His hulking silhouette ballooned as he continued to squeeze himself between the door and the wall, then moved along the corridor towards where Danny stood.
Danny twisted the lock-buster’s nozzle into the keyhole and pressed himself tight to the wall. If someone was there and awake or waiting on the other side, then there was no way they wouldn’t hear what was coming next, and chances were they’d react by pumping a few hundred rounds through that MDF into the corridor.
If someone was asleep, he might get lucky. Maybe they’d put down to the storm the noise he was about to make. Luckiest of all, no one would be there.
He glanced back over his shoulder, but Spartak didn’t need any telling. He was already on the floor, his weapon trained on the door, doing a pretty good job for an elephant of making himself as small a target as possible by wedging himself against the wall.
Danny pulled the lock-buster’s trigger, wincing as its gears whirred and ground. It took two seconds, but it felt like ten, before a single note of snapping metal rang out.
No shot came this time either. No splinters of wood or eruptions of shouting from the other side of the door. He used the handheld plastic amplifier again to check. Its needle remained low. The loudest thing he could hear was his own heartbeat thumping a whole lot faster than he’d have liked.
He turned to see Spartak grinning at him, now crouched, his weapon still trained on the door, ready,
wanting,
to move in.
Danny, too, felt the urge for it all to kick off. He pictured Glinka on the other side. Glinka and the Kid.
Please, God, let them be there.
The two of them drunk on whisky, their weapons out of reach, easy pickings. The scenario stretched out in his mind. He pictured them later, too, cuffed, trussed up in the back of a van, just as they’d trussed up Lexie. He pictured them being hauled out into the glare of a searchlight to the snarling of dogs and barked orders from whichever security service he chose to hand them over to, once they’d confessed to what they’d done.
Get a grip.
Who was he kidding? This would never be as easy as that. He needed to get real, bite back his desire for vengeance. The need for closure too. All that could come later. Vengeance for the dead civilians they’d left scattered across that London street and the grieving families. Closure because they’d murdered his
He used a hand-held metal detector to scan the door frame, searching for signs of sensors. Then he pressed the small plastic amplifier, with which Spartak had provided each of them, against the door. Its needle barely moved above its tenth percentile. What fluctuations it did make, Danny attributed to the storm outside.
He squeezed himself tight to the wall and waved his hand across the door’s dark keyhole. He did it again, half expecting a sudden gunshot to punch a zigzag of splinters into the corridor.
But no shot came. Danny pushed himself slowly off the wall and brought his head level with the keyhole. When he peered through, he saw only darkness. He stood upright and tried the handle. It didn’t budge. Meaning the door was locked or corroded, most likely both.
He dug into his zipped jacket sleeve pocket. The one item of high spec equipment he’d brought with him from England was the lock-buster. A gift last year from an old Company friend who now consulted for a European security-accoutrements firm.
A shiver chased down his spine. The green world seen through his goggles had just darkened, the change of light implying nearby movement. Danny swivelled round, instinctively bringing up his AK-9 as he did so.
Then he lowered it. Spartak had either grown bored of waiting outside, or sick of the weather. His hulking silhouette ballooned as he continued to squeeze himself between the door and the wall, then moved along the corridor towards where Danny stood.
Danny twisted the lock-buster’s nozzle into the keyhole and pressed himself tight to the wall. If someone was there and awake or waiting on the other side, then there was no way they wouldn’t hear what was coming next, and chances were they’d react by pumping a few hundred rounds through that MDF into the corridor.
If someone was asleep, he might get lucky. Maybe they’d put down to the storm the noise he was about to make. Luckiest of all, no one would be there.
He glanced back over his shoulder, but Spartak didn’t need any telling. He was already on the floor, his weapon trained on the door, doing a pretty good job for an elephant of making himself as small a target as possible by wedging himself against the wall.
Danny pulled the lock-buster’s trigger, wincing as its gears whirred and ground. It took two seconds, but it felt like ten, before a single note of snapping metal rang out.
No shot came this time either. No splinters of wood or eruptions of shouting from the other side of the door. He used the handheld plastic amplifier again to check. Its needle remained low. The loudest thing he could hear was his own heartbeat thumping a whole lot faster than he’d have liked.
He turned to see Spartak grinning at him, now crouched, his weapon still trained on the door, ready,
wanting,
to move in.
Danny, too, felt the urge for it all to kick off. He pictured Glinka on the other side. Glinka and the Kid.
Please, God, let them be there.
The two of them drunk on whisky, their weapons out of reach, easy pickings. The scenario stretched out in his mind. He pictured them later, too, cuffed, trussed up in the back of a van, just as they’d trussed up Lexie. He pictured them being hauled out into the glare of a searchlight to the snarling of dogs and barked orders from whichever security service he chose to hand them over to, once they’d confessed to what they’d done.
Get a grip.
Who was he kidding? This would never be as easy as that. He needed to get real, bite back his desire for vengeance. The need for closure too. All that could come later. Vengeance for the dead civilians they’d left scattered across that London street and the grieving families. Closure because they’d murdered his
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