The Noble Path: A relentless standalone thriller from the #1 bestseller by Peter May (electronic book reader .TXT) 📗

to his left, then waved them forward again, gesturing that they should keep low. They approached with great care to finally draw level and find themselves looking down on a collection of huts, some raised on stilts, around a small compound. Half a dozen oxen stirred restlessly in a pen beside a large hut raised only two or three feet from the ground. A few metres away was a second, smaller hut, raised to the same level. Facing them across the compound, about a dozen long huts stood high on stilts that rose two or three metres above piles of refuse, sturdy bamboo ladders climbing to small open doorways. The roofs were thatched with dry palm fronds. To the far right, looking out over the fields, and with a view of the compound and the approaching road, stood a rickety watchtower. They could see the silhouette of a guard leaning on the rail smoking.

Elliot checked the layout against the rough map he had drawn based on the refugee accounts Ang had acquired. ‘This is it,’ he whispered. ‘The big hut houses the cadres. There are about half a dozen of them. The one next to it is the guard hut. The civilians are in those long huts across the compound. According to my information there are ten or twelve armed guards at any given time. As well as the one in the watchtower, there are usually another two on perimeter patrol.’

Slattery whistled softly. ‘That’s a lot of bodies, chief.’

Elliot said, ‘We have an advantage over them. Their function is to keep people in, not out.’ He checked his watch. Nearly 0200 hours. There was no sign of life from the cadres’ hut, but a thin line of light marked the door of the guard hut, and through the silence came the faint sound of voices. Elliot turned to McCue. ‘Check out the perimeter, numbers and positions of guards, and report back.’ McCue nodded, took off his backpack, laid it carefully down with the mortar and slipped off through the trees.

‘What’s the plan, chief?’

Elliot was thoughtful for a moment. ‘We can’t afford to get involved in a firefight with ten or more guards. We’d be heavily outnumbered, wouldn’t stand a chance. We’ll have to remove the perimeter guards one at a time and then take out the guard hut in a oner.’

‘Mortar?’

Elliot shook his head. ‘Can’t be sure of a direct hit. And if we miss, we lose the advantage of surprise. It’ll have to be grenades.’

Slattery grinned. ‘That’s for me, chief. No troubles.’

Elliot thought for a moment. Then he said, ‘Alright. As soon as you’ve put them out of commission I’ll let off at the cadres’ hut with the mortar. I’ve got four shots at it.’ He smiled. ‘Bound to get it with one of them.’

They waited nearly fifteen minutes before McCue crept back through the trees. ‘Two guards, plus the one in the tower.’

‘Can you take them?’ Elliot asked.

McCue nodded. ‘The guy in the tower’s going to be tricky. But, yeah, I can take them.’

‘Okay. We’ll not move till we see you up there, and you can cover us when we move in.’

They spent another ten minutes going over it all, twice, in detail, then Elliot checked his watch. ‘Alright, go.’ And McCue slid away into the night, still clad in black pyjamas and chequered scarf.

The murmur of voices from the guard hut drifted across the compound on the warm night air as McCue slipped through the trees and into the shadow of the civilian huts. He ran softly among the stilts, making his way to the east side of the compound where he had seen one of the guards sitting on a woodpile, his AK-47 laid carelessly among the logs beside him. He was still there, striking a match to light a cigarette, and McCue saw his face flicker briefly in the light. The guard drew deeply on his cigarette and sighed, contemplating without enthusiasm the long hours of night watch ahead. He heard the faintest sound, like a whisper in the wind, and a chill ran through him as the long, lethal blade of McCue’s hunting knife slid into his heart.

McCue pulled him backwards over the logpile and laid him out in the shadows. He lifted his AK-47, checked that the magazine was fully loaded, and left his own M16 beside the body. Then he crouched for several moments, listening and watching. There was no indication from the tower that the guard there had seen or heard anything.

Bent almost double, McCue took long, loping strides back into the shadow of the huts, and started to work his way round the edge of the compound to the west side where the second guard was posted. He was in his element, high on adrenalin, a born killer working in the dark as he always had in the tunnels. One on one. Always, until just seconds before the kill, he would be almost rigid with tension, and then in those last seconds every muscle relaxed and he felt warm and good, like that moment of letting go when you make love to a woman.

He circled the stinking pile of refuse behind the guard hut, and drifted back into the shade of the trees, moving freely round to the west flank. But the guard was gone. McCue froze, then dropped to his haunches, searching for any sign of movement among the shadows. Nothing. Where had he gone? He heard a twig snap underfoot and turned to find the guard almost on top of him. The man had his rifle slung across his back and was preoccupied with retying the cord of his trousers. The thought flashed through McCue’s mind that all these guys seemed to do was piss. The guard did not see him until the last second, would almost certainly have walked into him if McCue had not risen from the ground like a black ghost. The Cambodian had no time to draw breath before McCue’s blade slid up through