“You in position, Flint?” said the gruff Yorkshire accent in his ear.
“In position — all systems synchronised and itching to go, Gordie.” Flint said smiling, picturing the small wiry man who had the fiercest looking crop of red hair he’d ever seen. He shifted his weight, sighting on a distant skyscraper and a rooftop position that he knew Gordie had secured for himself. He raised a thumbs-up, and he returned the signal. “Is Jacko synchronised?”
Jacko only spoke over his comm-link when he had to. From his position on board a motor launch belonging to the Argentine Navy, which was conveniently moored directly opposite the Ministry of Defence building, his reply was self-evident as he stuck up two fingers in the V sign. Flint’s comment was a derisory blow below the belt.
Flint moved his own sniper sight back to focus on the Ministry of Defence building. Jacko was there, all in black, ready and steady. He had opted for the most dangerous position out of the three, on the water itself, and despite being well concealed Flint still shivered involuntarily. But then, he thought, Jacko was a wild fucker, untamed. Some said he was mentally unstable; Flint decided that you had to be to do the job and that Jacko probably was more than most.
“Game on, boys.”
The words came from the ground support soldiers, Argentinean Anti-Terrorist Special Forces led by a swarthy captain named Santiago, who were waiting in the wings as the scene unfolded. They were monitoring the suspected terrorist vehicles from vantage points around the Puerto Madero area. The Scorpion 3 Unit was positioned as sniper support.
“Three target vehicles on route: Range Rovers, three occupants. ETA zero three minutes. Over.”
Flint waited. Every few seconds he glanced at the army issue chrono watch strapped to his wrist.
Jacko spent the limited time going through his drill, checking his weapon, scope focus, Matrix G8 synchronisation. “Fucking heat,” he muttered as he wiped away the sweat from his forehead, and shifted his weight slightly to ease the cramping in his muscles. The boat was gently rocking with the swell from a passing craft, this meant that he would have to rely on his expertise and experience when aiming.
Gordie swept the area with his scope. Through the audio link he was listening intently to the ground soldiers tailing the suspect vehicles.
The tip-off had come from an extremely reliable source: an ex CIA agent turned international techno-weapons dealer who was in the process of negotiating his way out of a firing squad for crimes against the Argentine regime. He had given them masses of information about terrorist funding activity in South America — he had contacts all over the planet and was well positioned to know about such things. So far everything had checked out fine and the Argentine Government was feeling confident about the outcome of this latest outrage. Eight terrorists of South American origin had taken over the building and taken hostage a senior computer systems analyst and his personal staff of four assistants who had been working for the Argentine Government on a top secret project. They appeared to have got hold of a full set of blueprint plans of the entire building and, had known exactly where and when to plant the bombs for maximum damage. At least one hundred people had been instantly killed by the first explosion which had torn out three entire floors and another seventy when the second and third charges had detonated, taking out another three floors and completely destroying them. Shortly after the explosions, the terrorist leader had come on-line and had made his demand. Three Range Rovers to be left outside of the main entrance to the building, each to be loaded with twenty-million US dollars in gold bullion. There was to be no negotiation and if the demand was not met, they would blow up the rest of the building and kill the hostages, one by one, live on the Internet for the entire world to witness.
“Fucking terrorists,” snorted Gordie, and swept the area with his scope one more time.
No Range Rovers approaching.
Come to think of it, no ground support soldiers, either.
“GS leader, confirm status. Over!” Gordie was using the standard issue radio comm-link to raise, Santiago.
No response.
“GS leader, come in. Over!”
Again, no reply.
“You there, Flint?” This time he spoke into the G8.
“Yeah, I’m here.”
“You see anything?”
“Not even a fly having a shit.”
“Something’s very wrong,” came the quiet West Country accent that was Jacko’s rarely heard voice; both Flint and Gordie felt the tiny hairs on the back of their necks stand up and a shiver run down their spines. And yet their G8s were still picking up the chatter of the pursuit vehicle that was following the three Range Rovers. “Heading south towards the harbour area, down La Rabida Norte, heading towards-”Gordie scanned the area once more through the rifle scope. He sensed rather than felt a movement of air beside him, a mere fanning of the intense heat — and then the garrote was around his throat before he knew what was happening. His gloved hand, instinctively and with a lightening quickness, came up under the cheese-cutter wire as his eyes suddenly widened and searing pain sliced into both sides of his neck, he felt blood flowing freely down under the collar of his fatigue jacket and body armour as his rifle clattered noisily onto the concrete rooftop.
Gordie was heisted into the air, his legs kicking. He slammed his head backwards, once, twice, three times, hearing a crunch each time. The grip slackened but did not let go. “Flint!” he managed to shout into the G8 Bluetooth earpiece, then rammed his elbow back into the solar plexus of his assailant with all of his remaining strength. The garrotte loosened and Gordie stumbled to his knees, coughing, scrabbling at the fine wire that was biting viscously into his flesh.
Flint sighted his rifle on the rooftop of the building that he was positioned on, could see Gordie struggling, but his attacker was far too close for a clear shot and the heat haze was fuzzing the whole scene and obscuring his aim. Then Gordie struck back. The assailant stumbled backwards and Flint squeezed off a shot, and then two more in quick succession. He grinned nastily just as the silenced machine pistol touched the back of his head and blew his brains and most of his face over the rooftop.
Gordie heard the hiss of the bullets as they flew past him. He spun round, crouching low as he drew his Glock 9mm automatic pistol. The black-clad figure moved forward towards him with lightning speed, kicking the gun out of his grip and out over the edge of the skyscraper. Dazed and confused about what was happening
— he heard three dull thuds, knew that Flint’s bullets had hit their mark. Kevlar?The question flashed through his mind as reflexes took over. Punch, left kick, right kick, punch — he blocked each with his arms, then smashed a straight left that the figure dodged with ease as it moved around him. Gordie came close up and personal with his assailant — the eyes were ocean blue, focused, sharp — and he brought his knee up hard into the crotch of the Assassin. The figure twisted, went down onto the concrete and immediately spun round to take out Gordie’s legs from under him. He hit the concrete with sudden shock, the back of his head cracking against the edge of the rooftop. The whirling blackness of semi unconsciousness flooded his vision — he struck out wildly, but hit nothing. He realised with horror that he was being manhandled closer to the edge. “No!” he yelled his arms and legs scrabbling for some sort of hold on the concrete rooftop. But wind rushed up past him as his eyes widened in terror and despair. The sound of his scream remained silent. Then he hit the ground and it was over.