Trigger Point by Andy Maslen

Author:Andy Maslen [Maslen, Andy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781518635434
Google: 9K_OjgEACAAJ
Amazon: 1518635431
Publisher: CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform
Published: 2015-10-19T23:00:00+00:00

As if communicating by telepathy, both men were downstairs, showered, shaved and dressed in jeans and T-shirts, by six the next morning. They brewed coffee, ate and then, nodding, headed back to the field to begin the clean-up operation.

Overnight, scavengers – foxes and crows, Gabriel guessed, maybe owls – had removed all the smaller pieces of flesh. But the ground under and around the corpses of Venter and the Hells Angels was soaked in blood, which had turned the dry, brick-coloured soil into deep, dark, wine-red mud. Gabriel had seen plenty of death in his time – from gunshots, grenades, cluster munitions, knives, bare hands – and the damage the Browning had done to Meeks and his men was in the premier league. The bodies were missing whole areas of anatomy. One man had lost half his chest, another’s head lay three yards from his body. Too heavy for a scavenger to carry off, it lay staring sightlessly up at the sky. Thanks to Maitland’s crazed outburst, Venter looked just as bad. A normal wound from a .22, even into the skull, is a relatively insignificant affair: a neat entrance hole and no exit wound. The Ithaca 37’s round, delivered at point-blank range, had obliterated his head and painted the remains into the sides of a six-inch crater in the soft purplish mud.

“How are we going to do this?” Shaun asked, looking at Gabriel. “I’m not a fan of Maitland’s original plan, are you?”

“What, the pigs?”

“Yes. The pigs. Like I said, if they’re hungry and ornery enough they’ll eat anything, bones included. But I don’t fancy pulling this lot to wherever this shared boundary is, do you?”

“No. I don’t. And supposing they’re not hungry? Some pig farmer’s going to go and inspect his herd and find a pile of Hells Angel body parts in a corner of his field. That could get decidedly interesting for the police round here.”

“So?”

“Maitland mentioned a backhoe, for the bikes. We could bury them.”

“But they’d still, you know, be there. Just underground. Don’t you watch TV in England? People are always digging up bodies. They never really go away. We need something faster. And permanent.”

“Venter was an arms dealer, right?”

“Sure. Damn impressive one as it happens.”

“So maybe he has more toys in those barns. Something we could use to stage an explosion.”

Shaun’s face split into a big grin that changed him from scarred fighting man to plain country boy out to do some trapping or fishing with a friend.

“Let’s go,” he said.

The pair jogged up to the farmyard. There were three big barns in a row, made of the same dull grey corrugated iron. Each was accessible via double doors on rails, which were secured with heavy brass padlocks with steel shackles, just like the one Venter had opened yesterday to let them into the firing range.

“Shit! We need some serious bolt-cutters to get through those,” Shaun said.

“Maybe not. I’ve got an idea.”

Gabriel grasped the padlock of the left-most barn. With his thumb he slid

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