Ultimate Weapon (10 page)

Nothing. He scanned the field that lay directly in front of the cottage, and where he had seen the movement last night, but it was completely still. The rain and the darkness made it hard to get an accurate picture, but two men even lying flat under a green sheet should be visible from here. He started to inch closer. Maybe I just need to get nearer, he thought.

Nick advanced ten, then twenty yards. Somewhere to the left he felt certain he heard a noise. He paused, listening harder. A creak. He glanced nervously in the direction the sound had come from. A tree was starting to sway as the wind and the rain battered against it. Nick pressed forward. He was seventy yards from the front of the house now, in the centre of the field looking down on it. No sign of them. Maybe the buggers decided to knock off for the night. Maybe they don’t like getting their hair wet.

He started to move to the left, heading towards the next field. He squatted down close to the hedge and came to a gap. The ground was chewed up by the cattle that sometimes grazed there, and the rain had filled it with puddles that mixed the mud with cow dung to create a foul-smelling pond. Nick held his breath, and crawled through the gap. The dung was soaking into his body. Too risky to stand up, he warned himself. If they’re here, they’ll see me.

A gust of wind whipped up through the field. Fifty or sixty yards in front of him, Nick felt certain he saw something. It was just a shape. The field was rough, sloping down towards the side of the cottage, but the hump was a distinct mark. It rose up out of the ground by a foot or so, and it was looking straight down at the cottage. Nick crawled forward. He was forty yards from the lump now. And the conviction was growing within him: he’d found them.

He steered himself further along the field, then looked straight down. He was twenty yards back from their position. Nick sometimes wished he’d kept a gun in the house, but with his reputation for drinking, the local police would never have given him a licence. Instead, he’d armed himself with a thick, two-foot length of lead pipe, and a sharp, six-inch steel kitchen knife. That should be enough, he told himself. You don’t need guns to take vengeance on a man.
Just muscles, determination and the will to fight.

Suddenly, he heard a voice: it was just a whisper, but carried on the wind it managed to travel to where Nick
was squatting as vividly as if the man was lying right next to him. ‘Shit, this rain.’

You’ve got worse things to worry about than the rain, pal, Nick thought grimly.

Nick pulled himself forward. He could feel his body rustling in the long grass, but in the wind and rain the noise of his approach was smothered. His skin was soaked already, and the mud made progress slow. He could smell the cow dung reeking off his body. Ten yards. He hesitated, and took a closer look. The sheet measured six foot by five, and was spread flat over the ground so it blended into the ground. Nick could just about see the soles of four boots sticking out of it. Two men. Lying flat on their stomachs, with binoculars trained on the house. They probably did shifts of four or five hours, so there must be some backup not far away. I’ll have to deal with them fast, before the help arrives.

He took two more lunges forward. The mud was spitting up into his eyes and his face. Five yards. He took the kitchen knife from his pocket, and held it tight in the fist of his right hand. He could see the boots wriggle as the rain lashed into them, and he could hear one of the men speaking.

‘I think the old bugger’s fallen asleep in front of the telly again,’ the man said, in what sounded like an Irish accent.

‘Looks like another cold, boring night,’ replied his mate, in what sounded to Nick like a German accent.

Nick plunged the knife into the first foot he could see before him. The thin blade sliced though the leather
then cut through the sock and into the skin below. A blood-curdling scream howled up from the man’s lips. Nick swiftly withdrew the blade: he’d have liked to have searched around for a vein to cut, but the edge of his blade risked getting caught in the leather of the boot. He stood up swiftly, holding on to his lead pipe, swinging it forward. Both men were scrambling to their feet. The metal collided with the jaw of one of them, smashing into the bone and breaking the skin, so that a small trickle of blood started to dribble on to his neck.

Nick stood straight up. He had the pipe in one hand, the knife in the other. Even through the murky darkness, he could make out the faces of the two men. The guy with the Irish accent was the taller of the two. He had longish brown hair, and a short, close-cropped beard, and eyes that seemed to sparkle in the rain. He had taken a bad blow to the side of his face from the pipe: it looked as if at least one tooth had been knocked out, and there was blood on his tongue. The smaller man, with the German accent, had dirty blond hair, cropped, and a thick, bull-like face that was pitted with spots. He’d taken a nasty slice to his foot, but was standing firm on the ground. He knows how to take a cut, Nick thought.
And he probably knows how to deliver one as well.

‘Who the fuck are you?’ shouted Nick.

His face was red with fury. Rainwater was pouring down the side of his blackened face, and the blood was still dripping from the lead pipe in his hand. ‘Who the fuck sent you to watch me?’

He was standing three yards from both men. The
shorter man was inching towards him. He had no weapons in his hand, but Nick could see he didn’t need them. He held the knife out in front of him. ‘Where the fuck is my daughter?’

The man swung a fist. Nick slashed at him with the knife, but missed. He was just cutting the air. A blow landed on the side of his face. Instinctively, Nick thrust his arm up to parry it. He could feel the bone stinging where the fist had landed. A kick landed on his shins, briefly destabilising him, but he managed to hold his balance. He swung the pipe round, hitting the German in the stomach. ‘Fuck you,’ spat the German. ‘Fucking bastard.’

‘Leave it the fuck alone, Kurt,’ shouted the Irishman. ‘We’re not here to fight.’

Nick slipped as Kurt had raised his fist, and Nick could see that it was about to crash into his skull. ‘Who in the name of hell are you?’ Nick shouted again, louder this time.

The German’s fist was about to crash into him, when his mate rushed forward and got hold of him, pulling him back. Nick reached out, grabbing at the Irishman’s hair, but he ripped himself away, leaving just a few strands in Nick’s fist. ‘We’ve no reason to fight, old man,’ snarled the Irishman. ‘And we certainly don’t want you dead, you’re no use to us like that.’

The German broke free. He smashed another blow into Nick’s stomach, doubling him up in pain. The pipe dropped from his hand. The German picked it up, and crashed it into Nick’s ribcage. He could feel at least one
bone quiver, then snap. The pain was shooting up through his spine and exploding inside his head. Still bent over double, he smashed his head into the man’s groin, but his muscle was like rock, and Nick could feel a bruise on his skull start to swell.

‘Leave him alone, you bloody idiot,’ shouted the Irishman.

‘I can finish him,’ shrieked the German, his voice turning ugly.

‘We’re not meant to kill the old fucker.’

The German wasn’t listening. He lunged forward with the pipe in his hand. Swinging around, he smashed it towards Nick’s chest, aiming for the broken rib. Nick swerved. Next, the man was flinging a punch with his left fist. It collided with the side of Nick’s jaw, impacting against his skin with the force of a mallet. A dull ache started to spread down his neck into his spine. He thrust the knife towards the man’s stomach, but he saw it coming, and put his arm out to deflect the weapon. The knife ripped into the waxed surface of his jacket, tearing the cloth. As it snagged in the material, Nick lost his grip on the blade and, within a second, the German had whipped it free. He pointed it towards Nick, then thrust the blade at him. Nick jumped backwards. The German advanced, oblivious to the wound in his foot. The knife was stabbing in the air. It slashed into Nick’s arm, cutting the fabric of his sweatshirt. Nick slammed his fist into the side of the man’s arm, planning to knock the blade out of his fist. The German’s grip flinched as the blow struck him, but his muscles
were like iron, and the knife stayed steady in his hand. He flicked it upwards, this time cutting into Nick’s skin. He could feel its cold blade slicing into his flesh, and a cry of pain erupted from his lips. Another strike. This time the blade sunk deep into his arm. He screamed, louder this time. Blood was starting to flow from the wound, mixing with the rain that was lashing into his side, and running down into a muddy, crimson pool beside him. He steadied himself, but the German was advancing towards him once again. There was a look in his eye that Nick recognised from the battlefields he’d fought on: a steely mask of concentration that descended on a man’s face in the moment before he was about to kill someone.

‘Leave it, you fucking idiot,’ shouted the Irishman.

He rushed forward, holding tight on to the German. At first the man shrugged him aside, using all the strength in his shoulders to break himself free. Then the anger within him started to subside. Grabbing the German, the Irishman started to run down the hillside towards the path. Nick was running after them, but they were younger and fitter than he was, and even with the wounds they had taken, they were more agile across the muddy ground. Nick pushed himself forward, running through the field. The rain was beating into him. He tripped, falling face down in to the mud. He could feel the wind wrapping around him, and the flow of blood was starting to increase from the wounds on his arm. His head was splitting from the blow he had taken. He could feel the strength start to drain out of him. Ahead
he could see the two men running on to the path, disappearing into the darkness.

Shit, he muttered to himself. If I die here tonight, I don’t much care. But who will help Sarah?

Without me, she had no one.

Jed knelt down in the mud. The rain was lashing into him, and the wind blowing hard down off the side of the mountains. The night was still pitch black. Pure luck, thought Jed. If my torch hadn’t chanced to shine in this direction I wouldn’t have noticed you.
On a night like this, you might have died.

Nick’s eyes had closed, and there was a thick pool of blood at his side. Jed tore a strip from Nick’s sweatshirt, and ripped it into a long thin bandage. Taking it between his hands, he twisted it around the top of Nick’s arm, putting all his strength into tying the knot. That should staunch the bleeding, he told himself. Until I get the old bugger to a doctor.

He put his arms around his waist and hoisted Nick into the air. He must have weighed just over two hundred pounds, and the load was a heavy one even for a strong, fit man. He’d parked the Ford Probe he’d borrowed from one of the other guys in the Regiment at the bottom of the drive, where it hit the road. Another five hundred yards, he reckoned. He needs some medical treatment as soon as possible.

He pushed on to the bottom of the field, then used
one hand to lever open the gate while holding Nick on his back. The weight was crushing. What the hell happened to him? Jed wondered. How did he get to be lying unconscious in a field?

First Sarah vanishes. Then this.
Nothing makes any sense right now.

He walked as swiftly as he could to the car, then flung open the door, bundling Nick on to the back seat. Suddenly his eyes flashed open. He lay still for a moment, then groaned loudly and looked up.

‘What the fuck are you doing here?’ said Nick, looking straight at Jed.

‘Saving your bloody skin,’ snapped Jed.

He could see the damage in Nick’s eyes. They were bloodshot, and beaten: the eyes of a man who’d stumbled into a fight, and hadn’t been able to handle it.

‘What happened to you?’ said Jed.

‘I … I …’

Nick was struggling for the words. His breath was short, and his body lacked the strength even to sit up. Jed got into the front seat, and turned the key in the ignition. The sooner he got the old guy to a doctor the better. He’d lost more blood than he probably realised: at least a couple of pints judging by the pool next to him, and after losing that amount of juice, a man usually didn’t even know his own name any more.

‘Hey, Nick,’ said Jed, trying to smile. ‘Try not to bleed all over the bloody car, will you? I borrowed it from a mate.’

He looked round, as the car’s headlamps cut a beam
of light through the darkness of the narrow country lane, but Nick had already lost consciousness again.

Jed pushed aside the thin curtain, and looked down at the man lying stretched out on the grey, functional army bed. ‘I would have got you some flowers,’ he said. ‘But I wasn’t sure if you preferred carnations or lilies.’

Nick looked back up at him, without a hint of amusement on his face. ‘I’m OK,’ he said sullenly. ‘I’ll be on my way in a day or two.’

‘You don’t look OK,’ said Jed.

‘I’ll be fine,’ said Nick fiercely.

They were in Jed’s room at the base. Every guy in the Regiment got his own room, even if he lived off base with his wife. It was nothing more than a ten-foot by six-foot box, with a metal bed, a desk, a basin and a place to stash your kit. When Jed had arrived back at the base late last night, he carried Nick straight through to his room. The Regiment kept medical staff on call twenty-four hours a day, and he begged one of the doctors to come and take a look as a personal favour. He’d been chippy at first, complaining that this was the army, not the NHS: there was an A&E department in Hereford for dealing with the public. Sod that, Jed had told him angrily, the guy is ex-Regiment, and he’s hurt, so you can treat him now. The doctor – a young guy called Ed Merrill – had agreed, but warned Jed he was going to take a bollocking if anyone found out. Nick had taken a series of bad cuts to the arm and a nasty blow to the head, and had lost enough blood for him
to pass out. They popped another pint into him – the Regiment always had plenty in stock, since it seemed to be remarkably careless with the stuff, the doctor had joked – and patched up his wounds. He’ll be OK in twenty-four hours, the doctor had said. We’ll keep him here until then, and let him get some rest.