I Am Pilgrim(249)

I saw the reflection of Nikolaides and the other two as they entered, and I forced myself to wait for the moment snipers called ‘maximum kill’. Four seconds … three …

The sun shifted slightly on its axis and a shaft of direct light pierced the shattered roof. It hit the cool-box top and the sharp glint called the three men’s attention straight to it.

Nikolaides was no fool – he realized that the steel lid had been moved. He squinted hard and saw me watching them. He screamed a warning to the Albanians, hurled himself aside and drew his pistol.

I dropped to my shoulder and started rolling into a firing position. Cumali opened up with the Beretta, but wasn’t good enough to hit anything, let alone the sprinting bull.

I rolled over and over through the mud and dirt, crying out as the pain from my battered foot and injured chest shot through me, drawing aim on Muscleman. He was wheeling with his machine pistol, about to blast the crap out of the water trough and anything nearby, including me.

The Saracen, unarmed, was in mid-air, attempting to scramble to safety behind the rubble.

Upside down, on my back, I had my finger on the trigger, but it was swollen so badly I could barely feel a thing. In desperation, I fired a burst of three at Muscleman, working hard to spread them. Normally, my first shot would have at least hit the target, but this was anything but normal and the first two missed completely.

The third got him in the groin, nowhere near deadly, but the range was so close it hurled him backwards. He dropped the Skorpion and clutched at what was left of his genitals.

Cumali, spraying bullets as she tracked with the fast-moving Nikolaides, didn’t have a clue about what else was happening on the field. She missed the old bull by a mile but shot the Helper through the throat. He collapsed immediately.

She kept firing, chasing Nikolaides even though he was fast approaching the water trough. Bullets splattered in the mud all around me.

Jesus! I would have yelled a warning, but nobody would have heard it over the screams of Muscleman trying to stem the blood pouring from his crotch. I tried to roll to safety but got slammed backwards. A rush of pain erupted in the soft flesh of my shoulder and I knew one of her wild shots had hit me.

I managed to get to one knee, aiming the SIG fast at the blurred shape of the unwounded Nikolaides. I cursed my damn finger which could barely pull the trigger and saw that my left hand, supporting the barrel, was shaking like a mother.

I squeezed off four, very fast, but all I could do was hit the old bull in the legs, knocking him to the ground, sending his pistol flying. I wheeled fast, knowing I had to finish it quickly or I wouldn’t have the strength. I saw the dickless Muscleman lunging for his machine pistol.

I shot on the turn – for the first time actually rising to the occasion – putting two in his chest, which was nothing fancy but good enough to kill him.

Nikolaides – bleeding, unarmed – saw Muscleman crumple. Sprawled in the dirt, he looked up at me, hatred and confusion in his eyes. I guess he had thought it was going to be simple, an easy morning’s work, but somehow I had survived waterboarding, turned my captors against him and still shot well enough to put two of them down.

‘Who the fuck are you?’ he snarled.

I saw his eyes register his pistol lying almost within reach. I couldn’t help remembering how he had smiled when he smashed my knee with his steel-toed boot, and the force of the hammer blows on my foot.

‘They used to call me the Rider of the Blue,’ I said. ‘I was the person who ordered the killing of Christos in Santorini.’

Nikolaides’ face twisted – he was this close to revenge only to fail? He howled, and a massive burst of energy coursed through him like a death rattle. He hurled himself at the pistol. I fired twice and, at that range, his head pretty much exploded.

I turned away – there wasn’t any pleasure in taking a life, even that of a man like him. The day I felt there was I knew it would be time to leave the battle for ever. I levelled the SIG at Cumali – she was drenched in sweat, the adrenaline pumping so hard I don’t think she really comprehended what had happened – and told her to remove the clip from the Beretta.

‘Now keep hold of the gun, point it at the ground and fire three times,’ I said, making sure there wasn’t a round still left in the chamber.

‘Now drop the weapon,’ I said and, once it was in the dirt, I told her to follow the same procedure with the two machine pistols and Nikolaides’ pistol.

‘Now bring all the clips to me.’

She picked them up, handed them over and I put them in my pocket. With all the weapons separated from their ammunition, I pointed at the handcuffs, which were lying on the ground where she had dropped them, the key still in the lock.