But before Nick had a chance to respond, Maksim had already bounced across the bonnet of the truck, landing on the tarmac with a thump, with one of the dead soldier’s AK-47’s clamped to his right fist.
And he was running towards the President’s car.
‘Jesus, what’s that mad bastard doing now?’ shouted Steve. Leaping out of the truck, he grabbed Maksim by the shoulder, yanking him backwards. ‘Get the fuck back on the truck!’ he yelled.
Maksim turned around. Blood was still dripping from his soaked T-shirt, and there was dirt across his face. ‘I’ve come too far and seen too much to go home without getting paid,’ he snarled.
He gestured towards Kapembwa’s car. ‘So long as he’s dead, the money gets released into our bank accounts, remember?’
He grinned wildly. ‘I’m going to finish the fucker.’
‘You’ll get sodding killed.’
Maksim turned around, ignoring the warning, and walked straight into the thick plumes of black smoke. ‘At least I won’t be the only one,’ he shouted back, his tone hardening. ‘There will be a whole graveyard filled up before this morning’s work is finished.’
Forty-One
MAKSIM WAS MARCHING STEADILY TOWARDS the Presidential motorcade.
The long, black limousine had been ringed by a cordon of eight soldiers, all of them wearing the distinctive purple and gold berets of the Sixth Brigade. The soldiers had closed into a circle, still unsure of the nature of the threat they were facing. With the HPES still blasting out its signal, the car was unable to move forwards, and the sophistication of the jamming equipment had led their Commander to assume they were facing a full-blown Special Forces assault, possibly by the SAS, possibly by the American Delta Force. In time, if they couldn’t get the car started again, they’d bring a helicopter in to lift the President out. But it was still only minutes since the attack had started.
A pair of civilians had already been shot when they strayed too close to the vehicle. Anyone else who did so was clearly going to meet the same fate.
‘What’s the bastard doing?’ shouted Steve up to Ollie.
Ollie just shrugged, wiping the blood out of his face. ‘What the Spetsnaz always do. Walking straight into the face of death.’
‘Then give him some covering fire,’ snapped Steve. ‘If he wants to die, that’s up to him, but he’ll have some back-up.’
This unit’s got some scores to settle, he thought grimly.
And they’ll be settled in blood.
On top of the truck, Ollie, Dan, Ganju and David had grabbed hold of the AK-47s carried by their dead captors. Each one had a full clip in its mag, giving them a total of 120 rounds between them. The four men lined themselves up, trying to get a fix on the car, watching and waiting as Maksim walked forwards. The moment to shoot would be when they troops guarding it noticed him - thereby taking advantage of the split second between observation and reaction.
Ten yards.
Maksim had another ten to cover before he was on top of the vehicle.
‘Wait, lads . . . hold it,’ Ollie told them.
Down below, both Steve and Ian had lined up their Uzi machine pistols.
Eight yards. Seven . . .
Maksim was walking steadily, without a trace of fear in his step and, not for the first time, Steve found himself admiring the suicidal valour of the man.
Just then, one of the soldiers spun around. A shout started to rise to his lips, and he made ready to aim.
‘Fire!’ shouted Ollie.
The sound of four AK-47s being fired in unison is a harsh one: a rapid series of deafening blows, like a hammer smashing into a steel plate. The spent shell casings spat out of the guns as the men laid down round after round in a blistering volley that put lethal quantities of hot metal straight into their opponents.
And still Maksim marched steadily forwards, emerging out of the black smoke like an immortal demon.
The first volley of fire had cut a scythe through the troops surrounding the vehicle. Three of the eight men had been killed in an instant, the bullets slicing into their heads, sending them sprawling to the ground. Two more had been hit in the body armour covering their chests: the punch of the bullets had sent them reeling backwards, and although no real harm had been done, it would take them a minute at least to steady themselves, and get themselves back into the fight.
More than enough time to kill them, decided Maksim.
Dropping his AK-47 to his hip, he slammed his finger into the trigger, and unleashed a blast into the two men staggering backwards. One was hit twice in the legs, and fell straight to the ground, using his hands to try and staunch the bleeding. Another was hit, first in the helmet, the bullet glancing harmlessly away, then in the shoulder, just above where his body armour was protecting his chest. He doubled up in pain, trying to plug the wound where the bullet had smashed through his muscle and chewed up the bone underneath.