Manhunter by Chris Ryan (the false prince series .TXT) 📗

Bowman had been given a few details about Vokes, the UKN, during the briefing. Vokes was ex-Special Branch, a retired detective who had worked with Five and Six on several occasions in the past, carrying out basic surveillance duties, setting up weapons caches and scouting escape routes. He had sold up his place in leafy Hertfordshire and now lived in the south of France, although Bowman couldn’t understand why. The climate clearly didn’t agree with him.

Mallet surveyed the car park and said, ‘Where’s your ride?’

‘This way, guys.’

Vokes started towards a Peugeot Traveller parked thirty metres away. His thighs chafed as he waddled along. Vokes periodically daubed his sweat-glazed brow.

‘Hot today,’ he said as they reached the Traveller. ‘I’ll crank the air con up, don’t worry.’

‘It’s sixteen degrees, if that,’ Loader remarked, squinting at the overcast sky.

‘Is it? Feels a lot warmer, if you ask me.’ Vokes turned and nodded at Bowman. ‘I’m not the only one struggling in this heat, by the looks of it.’

Loader gave his colleague a long searching look. ‘What’s wrong with you, pal? You’ve been sweating like an activist in Hong Kong since we landed.’

‘Got a cold,’ Bowman snapped. ‘That’s all. It’s no big deal, mate.’

They piled inside the Traveller. The door thudded shut, and then Vokes backed out of the parking bay.

‘First time in Monaco, is it?’ he asked.

‘Something like that,’ Loader muttered.

‘It’s all right here, I suppose,’ Vokes said, answering a question no one had asked. ‘But me, I prefer somewhere a bit quieter. Too much noise here, too many people. The bars are too busy. Takes forever to get served, and the drinks cost a fortune.’

Vokes was a talker.

‘Is that right,’ Mallet said, feigning interest.

‘That’s why I moved to the Languedoc, see. Cheaper than here. And you can always get a drink. Tell you what, though. I don’t miss England. Not one bit. All that rain.’ He shuddered in horror at the memory. ‘Not for me.’

‘How long to the car park?’ Mallet said.

‘Four minutes,’ Vokes replied.

Mallet met Bowman’s eyes in the rear-view mirror. ‘Get changed. Both of you. Hurry.’

As soon as they had pulled clear of the heliport, Bowman and Webb ripped open their bags and started changing into their courier uniforms, their movements obscured from view through the tinted windows. Casey retrieved a male wig from her rucksack and handed it to Bowman. He pulled the wig down tight over his head, covering his dark hair with a mop of wavy blond locks. He planted the baseball cap on top, slipped his phone and company ID badge into his trouser pockets and shoved his civvies into his bag, along with his passport and wallet.

‘Any word from Six?’ Mallet asked.

Casey swiped and scrolled on her phone. ‘They just pinged Lang’s phone again. Target is still in place.’

‘Let’s hope he doesn’t move in the next twenty minutes,’ Loader said.

They skirted around the football stadium, sheered off the road and rolled down the entry ramp to the underground car park built directly under the pitch. Vokes descended the levels until he found the vehicle he was looking for: a silver Mercedes-Benz E-Class estate parked in the far corner. A big roomy vehicle, with space enough to accommodate five adults and a whole stack of luggage.

Vokes nosed the Traveller into the space next to the E-Class. A scruffy-looking guy in a polo shirt and chinos climbed out of the Merc. One of the other UKNs, Bowman presumed. Another member of the ex-pat community in the south of France. He looked a decade older than Vokes. Early sixties. His face had more lines in it than a Shakespeare play. His hair had been styled into a comb-over in a poor attempt to conceal his balding pate.

The Cell team disgorged themselves from the Traveller, grabbed their luggage and met the guy with the comb-over at the back of the E-Class. He chucked a set of keys at Loader and jerked a thumb at the E-Class’s boot compartment.

‘Hardware’s inside,’ he said.

‘It’s all there?’

‘Everything you asked for. She’s got a full tank.’

‘Paperwork?’

‘In the glovebox.’

Comb-over swung round to the passenger side of the Traveller and hopped into the cabin alongside Vokes. A few moments later, the Traveller skulked off in the direction of the exit. Mallet popped the boot on the E-Class. Grabbed the black sports bag from the otherwise empty compartment, beat a path round to the front passenger side.

‘Get in,’ he ordered. ‘Let’s move.’

The rest of the team dumped their holdalls in the boot and bundled inside the E-Class: Loader behind the wheel, Mallet in the shotgun seat, Casey, Bowman and Webb in the back. Thirty seconds later, daylight flooded the vehicle as they glided out of the car park. As they motored away from the stadium, Mallet passed the sports bag to the guys in the back. Bowman ripped it open with sweat-slicked hands. A pair of Ruger American Compacts lay in the bottom of the bag. Lightweight pistols, easy to carry and conceal, chambered for the 9 mm Luger round. Each one had a two-inch snub silencer attached to the barrel. Bowman handed one of the weapons to Webb and checked the other himself. His hands were shaking as he released the magazine from the underside of the grip. The clip was full. Seventeen rounds of nine-milli brass.

He eased the clip back into the mag well, tucked the Ruger into the pancake holster threaded through his waist belt. The holster sat flush against his skin, close to his side. Beneath his thick outer layer, the pistol wouldn’t be visible to anyone. He fished out four pairs of plasticuffs from the bag, handed two pairs to Webb, shoved the others into his trouser pocket.

‘Here,’ Mallet said. ‘You’ll need this.’

He gave Bowman a document wallet with Lang’s address printed on the front.

‘Four minutes out,’ said Loader, as they emerged from a tunnel. ‘Get ready.’

Bowman gazed out of the window, hiding his dilated pupils from his colleagues as they rounded Port Hercules. They carried