"Well, you threw in the stoppage on my third shot!" Morgan smiled. He eyed Rodgers' target, with its three bullet holes grouped neatly in the forehead and two almost superimposed in the centre of the chest where the heart of the target would be. A sixth hole appeared above and slightly left of the heart. "Good shooting. Great session, Tom. Thanks."
"Well, you needed the practice and I know the General's keen to get you back in the field. What'd you think of the flash-bang sim? Thought I'd keep you on your toes."
"Yeah, it worked." Morgan felt that Rodgers had something else to say. "Excellent. Can't beat the real thing, but the boss won't let me throw real grenades down here."
The phone on the wall behind them rang loudly. "Rodgers," he answered. "No worries." He turned to Morgan. "Speak of the devil. Boss wants you."
"I'd better get moving, then."
"Sir, one more thing," Rodgers captured Morgan's gaze. "I know what happened to your mate, Collins, and I can tell by the way you're shooting exactly what's going through your mind."
Morgan remained silent.
"Catch this bastard. Kill him if you can. But do it with a clear head.
Don't get yourself killed because you've got your head full of revenge."
CHAPTER 42
Cape Town, South Africa
Lundt looked upon his target with such heated intensity that Turner should have felt it scorch the flesh of his exposed back.
Feet away, Lundt's hand closed tightly around the haft of a US Marine Corps K-Bar fighting knife. The blade, razor sharp, sat flush inside a well worn leather sheath clipped to his belt. He could barely contain the urge to stride across the plush white carpet and slit the smug bastard's throat in full view of the whores.
His gaze fell upon the girls. He eased his grip on the K-Bar and indulged for a few moments. They were stunning, one blonde, one brunette, barely into their twenties. Poured into tiny outfits two sizes too small, they were playing up to Turner's pathetic role play. They must be well compensated, Lundt thought. As he watched, Turner got rough, forcing them to respond. He tore at their hair and at their skintight lingerie, clawing at their perfect bodies. Their full breasts heaved beneath bursting satin and lace, as Turner hungrily buried his sweaty, fat face into the youthful valleys of flesh.
Secreted behind a long, heavy oak bar, Lundt allowed Turner to continue uninterrupted. The presence of the two girls had not been expected; although it had kept Turner distracted. But now, judging by the growing intensity of Turner's wheezing, there was no time like the present to pull the plug.
"I can't take any more of this shit," Lundt hissed to himself.
He picked up a bottle of Chivas Regal from the shelf at his side and hurled it hard against the slate floor at the far end of the bar. There was a sustained crash. Shards of broken glass landed in angry, threatening prisms amidst lustrous pools of wasted spirit.
"What the bloody hell?" squealed Turner, pushing the girls away in naked panic. The girls screeched in unison and huddled together protectively against the far wall. Shaking, Turner moved tentatively towards the sound to investigate. "Who's there?" He reached the dimly lit corner where the bar jutted into the room, and one bare foot fell heavily upon a large wedge of broken glass, ripping a long gash in his soft flesh. Blood erupted.
"Oh, Christ!" he cried, lunging sideways to take weight on his other leg, stumbling against the bar. He grabbed the aggrieved foot, and cursing, tried without success to pull the jutting shard from the wound. "Shit! Shit! Shit!" Blood was everywhere. The pain was excruciating. Turner winced as he tried to inspect the wound; the piece of glass just visible in the poor light. His glasses were back on the table.
There came a barely audible chuckle from the darkness at the opposite end of the bar. Squinting into the gloom, Turner's beady eyes fell upon the single deadly eye of a .40 calibre Glock 20 levelled directly at his face. Naked and vulnerable, Turner straightened his flabby frame, his pained face sagging into a mask of humiliated surrender. The intruder remained seated on the floor behind the bar, shielded from the view of the girls. He leaned forward just enough for a blade of light to slice his features into Turner's straining focus.
Turner turned grey.
"Say goodnight to the bookends, Turner. You and I need to talk." Victor Lundt gestured with the gun for Turner to get on with it, and moved quietly into a position where he could observe them all without being seen. Turner hesitated for a moment, frozen by the shock of lundt's unexpected appearance. With blood gushing from his foot, pain stabbing at him with every step, he shuffled clumsily to the girls. He looked pathetic, thought Lundt, like some kid who's been told to stop playing and come inside, knowing he was about to be scolded. He staggered, his big white arse hanging out for all to see. Lundt relished each humiliating moment.