Ghosts

Like shooting fish in a barrel.

Chapter Forty-Two

Milton put the noise of the firefight behind him as he started clearing up the stairs. There were no lights and it was suspiciously devoid of activity. He took a right turn and made his way slowly up. The stairs were tiled, and a little slippery, and he moved with exaggerated care. Each stair was set at a ninety degree angle to the landing and half-landing above with the result that it would have been very simple to prepare an ambush; anyone with an automatic weapon would be able to unleash a volley as soon as he made the landing, holding him and anyone else behind him in place. And they could not afford delay.

He reached the first floor. No lights had been lit. There were three bedrooms, including the ones in which Milton and A

There was a long rattle of gunfire below.

“One, Group. Report.”

“Three down,” Spenser said. “Two, maybe three left. They’re dug in.”

“Copy that. First floor clear. Ascending to second.”

Milton turned the corner onto the second floor landing. There was a narrow hallway, featureless and spare, with a darkened archway at the end that should, if his understanding of the drone intel was correct, open onto a terrace ru

He moved towards the stairs.

He heard footsteps.

He saw a flash of movement just above and fired, his suppressed M4 a

“Shots fired,” Milton reported. “Tango down.”

Another one. Was that it?

The troop net buzzed with Blake’s voice. “Six, Group. We’re outside the main gate. We’ve got activity.”

“Two, Six. How bad?”

“Maybe a dozen coming our way. Lights on in a few houses.”

“Keep them back,” Spenser said. “Two, one. Update, please.”

Milton spoke, whispering into his mike: “Going to third floor. Proceeding now.”

There couldn’t be much further to climb. The stairwell was dark, no lights anywhere, but Milton’s goggles gave him a good enough view. It had grown narrow, especially for a man wearing thirty pounds of kit, and he moved carefully and diligently, taking no chances. He looked and listened for signs of movement, the sound of a round being chambered, anything; he got nothing. He was put in mind of the countless times he had been through the Killing House during SAS Selection all those years ago: a twenty mile run so that they were exhausted and then a smoke-filled series of rooms, cut out terrorists popping out from cover, live rounds fired into the cut outs, and do it all again. That had been hard, and Milton had often resented it, but not now.

He climbed, reached the top of the stairs and turned the corner, onto the landing. His palms and fingers were slicked with sweat and he wiped his right against his combat pants so that he had a better feel of the trigger. The landing was short, a waist high balustrade looking down onto the final flight of stairs, leading into a constricted hallway. There was a door at the end that led onto the balcony; he could see a narrow sliver of midnight sky through the narrow slit of window, a sprinkling of stars, a quarter of moon.

The shooting downstairs had stopped.

“Two, Group. Seven tangos down. Ground floor clear.”

Halfway along the corridor were two doors, one on each side.

Milton proceeded slowly down the corridor, his gun up.

A switch was flicked and light crashed into Milton’s night vision, blinding him, and then he was grabbed by the lapels and hauled into one of the rooms, the M4 pressed impotently up against his chest. He was still blind as someone yanked him around and slammed him hard against the wall, forcing the rifle from his grip and sending it clattering to the floor. He was punched in the gut once and then twice and then a third time, and then a fourth blow dinged him on the point of his chin and the room dimmed for a moment. He was bounced off the wall again and, when he stumbled back in the other direction, a garrote looped over his head and it was only instinct that saw him stab his right hand inside the noose to stop it closing around his throat. His assailant grunted as he yanked the wire tight; Milton staggered back into his body and felt slabs of muscle. The wire bit into the soft flesh of his hand as he stamped down with the heel of his boot, raking the shin of the man behind him. The man’s grip did not falter and so Milton brought both legs up and kicked off the wall, sending both of them stumbling across the room like drunks. They hit a bed, bouncing off the mattress onto the floor beyond.

He swept his arm upwards, knocking the goggles from his face. The big soldier who had surprised him was already up. He had short cropped hair, hate filled eyes, his shoulders and arms heavy with muscle. Milton recognised him: it was Vladimir, the driver of the car that had brought him to Plyos with A

There was blood on his wrist from where the wire had cut into his flesh.

Vladimir shone a smile that was full of bad intentions at him, reaching down and unsheathing a knife from the scabbard on his belt. He brought it up, the bright light shivering down the serrated edge, and passed it between both hands as he prowled towards Milton. Milton had no time to go for his pistol as Vladimir swung the knife into his ribs; Milton swept his right arm around to block the swipe, their wrists clashing. He jabbed and Milton swung to the side, then he slashed down and the blade sliced through the fabric of his shirt and opened up a six-inch gash on his forearm.

Jags of pain scorched up from the wound.

The Russian changed tactics and charged him, driving him backwards again. Milton tripped on the edge of a rug and they fell, Milton underneath him, pressed down by the bigger man’s weight. He smelt the sharp tang of vodka and sweat. Vladimir pinioned Milton’s left hand with his right and, the knife in his left hand, pushed down. The knife started above his nose, close enough for him to see his own eye reflected in the steel, and then it jerked downwards, the point catching on the skin above his jawline and scratching a bloody furrow as it tracked down towards his throat.

Milton had his weaker left hand around Vladimir’s wrist, but all he could do was slow the progress.

“Blyadischa,” Vladimir growled through his grunts of exertion.

The point of the knife drew blood as it pressed down on his throat, the first few milimeters sinking into his flesh.

Milton worked his right leg free and drove his knee into the Russian’s crotch. His mouth gaped open and he released Milton’s right hand and he seized his chance, flashing down to the scabbard on his thigh and tearing out his own knife. He drew back his wrist so that the tip pointed upwards and punched it into Vladimir’s chest. The strength drained out of him immediately. Milton locked his hand around the hilt of the Benchmade, twisted it and thrust it up into his heart.

He pushed the big man off him.

He saw movement in the doorway.