Six feet below Collins, the two men stopped moving.
Collins’s mind raced. He could kill these two first and still take out the targets; if he didn’t, the moment he engaged the targets across the road he’d surely be killed by the two downstairs.
His heart was pounding.
The Land Rover’s engine shut off. A handbrake wrenched across well-worn metal teeth. The compound gates were closing. Sweat was pouring from his brow. He had to engage the targets or there would never be another chance. Car doors were opening. To hell with it! The mission was more important than his own life. His hand returned to the CZ 700, and his eye returned to the scope. A man emerged from the front passenger seat; definitely the first target. A clear shot. Steady. Calm the breathing. He eased the pressure out through clenched teeth with a slow hiss, laid the sights on the target’s head and squeezed the trigger.
"Nice night for it," came a polished tone inches away.
Sean Collins’s heart leapt in his ribcage. Automatically, his finger snapped tight on the trigger. The hammer fell just as it should and struck the base of the firing pin. But there was nothing but the hollow ring of a dead shot. No explosion, recoil, muzzle flash. A broken firing pin? Dud ammo? He spun toward the voice, his body rigid with tension and shock.
"Fuck!" he rasped, turning back to the silhouette, momentarily relieved, then belatedly, alive to his mistake.
"You should have been more sure about where that weapon came from, sonny," said the voice in the darkness. "Can’t be too careful these days."
"But …" Collins’s eyes darted between the useless weapon in his hands and the face, half in shadow, less than a foot away. Recognition. Confusion. Disbelief. "What the hell are you doing here?"
He grabbed for the Browning, but he was too late.
The last thing the sniper heard was a whoosh as a metal pipe came crashing down on his skull.
CHAPTER 3
AUSTRALIA’S ECONOMIC EXCLUSION ZONE
COCOS ISLANDS, INDIAN OCEAN
The trawler was secure. The security team was covering the boat’s crew, and the sweep team had gone below decks in search of the crates that had been transferred across from the Marengo.
Morgan stood steadfast on deck. Something wasn’t quite right; it all looked too much like a textbook boarding. The fishing boat’s crew were undeniably gloomy, most likely simple fishermen caught up in the big game. Their livelihoods were at stake, along with the real possibility of receiving a long stretch in an Australian jail. They were scared and compliant, but the surreptitious glances they exchanged were unsettling Morgan; a dozen pairs of black eyes, darting nervously. The fishermen were all mumbling from the sides of their mouths but it was impossible to discern anything above the cry of the storm. They were expecting something. Trouble? But if it was, it seemed to be trouble they wanted no part of.
Morgan’s sixth sense for danger went into overdrive. His eyes scanned and processed the entire scene, taking in the fishermen and the clearance divers of the security team. High swells of gray water rose and fell constantly and he noticed empty beer bottles rolling around on the deck among the crates and nets. Allowing your crew to get on the piss in these conditions was madness. Morgan kicked a bottle away from his feet.Idiots, he thought. The RHIB was still sitting off to starboard, clear of the fishing boat. The Albany was in the distance, its big guns, a 25mm Typhoon automated cannon, and two 12.7mm machine guns, trained protectively on them from across the expanse of crashing waves. The XO, Randle – where was he? Morgan recalibrated his search. The wheelhouse. With Maddy Lambert. They were looking over the captain’s log, while the captain stood nearby.
Realisation hit Morgan like a jolt of electricity.
Randle and Lambert were on the bridge and had moved the captain to one side as they began poring over the boat’s log and papers. But now, the captain, probably thinking he was beyond the view of the other sailors and with a fool’s disregard for the consequences of his actions, panicked and clumsily withdrew a revolver from the folds of his loose-fitting clothes, raising it to fire into the backs of the two Australian sailors. Randle and Lambert had made a fatal mistake. With their backs to the captain they were oblivious to the threat. They would be dead in seconds.
Morgan dropped to a crouch, wrenched the Browning from his leg holster in one fluid, practiced movement, and braced himself between two crates to counter the erratic sway of the boat. The sea suddenly tossed the boat hard to port and everybody aboard staggered or fell. The captain stumbled as he attempted to steady himself, and his finger tightened on the trigger. A single gunshot exploded across the decks.