Extreme Hard Target Mission 3 - Die Trying by Chris Ryan

Author:Chris Ryan
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Coronet
Published: 2011-02-17T00:00:00+00:00

12

1152 hours.

The Shogun arrived bang on time. Gardner knew Bald would hit the meeting point a few minutes early. He figured that he had probably scouted out this area two or three times ahead of the meeting, assessing threat scenarios. Like the highly trained operator he was. Or once was, he thought.

The two men debussed. Bald scanned the horizon, Valon fighting to light a cigarette, the breeze blowing out the flame like a candle on a birthday cake. To Gardner’s eyes, Bald seemed tetchy. Gardner adjusted his shoulder muscles, and hoped that Valon had kept his fucking piehole shut.

A few minutes later the Italians rocked up.

Valon managed to light his cigarette as the Italians pulled up behind the Shogun at the rest stop. The amber end of his fag oozed smoke.

The ’Ndrangheta fronted in style, three ants disgorging from a silver Bentley Continental Flying Spur. Gardner pressed his eye to the TRG-22 optics and the ants became guys in black trim-cut suits and police shades. A fourth figure took a while longer to emerge. His flaccid cheeks, rotund belly and white hair told Gardner that the guy was the wrong side of seventy. He recalled the photograph Macca had shown him. There was no doubt in his mind that he was looking at the Pallbearer, Gianni Petruzzi.

The capo crimini embraced Bald. Brief handshake with Valon. His three goons scoped out the area. One of them was shaven-headed and his shades sat below the steep hill of his temple. He seemed to be in command of the other two men. Gardner caught his breath in his throat as the goon ran his eyes over the petrol station. Gardner was sure he wasn’t visible, but the human eye is prone to spot sudden or sharp movements, and the slightest twitch of an elbow, he knew, might alert the guy to his presence.

Finally the goon turned away.

Gardner parted his lips, exhaled.

Petruzzi nodded to the Bentley. The shaven-headed guy paced round to the rear doors, motioned for someone to come out. A figure emerged. Unsteady on his feet, his hands bound behind his back, his face badly fucked up.

At first Gardner didn’t recognize the figure staggering towards Bald. His features were swollen and bulged black and blue. His mouth was split open, the right side of his bottom lip sagging and bloody.

Something about his rickety gait buzzed Gardner’s memory.

Maston.

I’m looking at my old fucking Regiment Major.

The shaven-headed picciotto d’onore swung his boot at Maston. The ex-Blade stumbled and sank to his knees at the shadow of the horse chestnut. The tree suffered from bleeding cankers, its leaves prematurely shedding, the bark peeling away like orange skin. The spruce trees shivered like mourners at a funeral.

Gardner watched with a grim feeling in his guts. What the fuck are the Italians doing with Maston? He guessed he was just about to find out.

Maston maintained a look of defiance. He stared ahead and past his captors as Bald pointed an accusing finger at the ’Ndrangheta men. For a split second Gardner sympathized with his old mucker.

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