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

more gold in it than a Swiss bank. The toilet seat was gold-plated; so were the taps and the toilet roll holder. Bowman locked the door, propped his rifle against the tiled wall, tipped two pills into the palm of his hand and ground them up in the crusher. He figured it would take Loader several minutes to work his way through the mansion. He’d want to scope out the first floor, the rest of the ground floor rooms, the basement. The guy would be checking for entry and exit points, looking at the security of the doors and windows, the proximity to likely firing positions.

I’ve got time. A minute to get my head right, before things go noisy. That’s all I need.

He snorted up the finely ground opiate dust and felt a sharp searing pain in his nostrils, as if he’d inhaled broken glass. In another few minutes he’d get the electric buzz, the warm fuzzy feeling would flood through his body and the pain would fade away. For a brief while, at least. That was why he’d first got hooked on the pills. People assumed you took drugs to get high, but that wasn’t the point, not really. Bowman wasn’t looking for euphoria. He wasn’t looking to feel anything at all. The opioids gave him that. They took him to a place beyond pain. A place where he didn’t care about anything. Where the grief couldn’t hurt him.

Bowman tucked the pill container back into his trouser pocket. He ran the cold tap and splashed freezing water on his face, shocking himself out of his lethargy.

Then he heard a woman scream.

The echoing boom of gunfire.

Bowman snatched up his Colt rifle, flung open the door and sprinted back down the hallway to the bar. He heard two more gunshots, a chorus of demented cries, muffled by the sound of the blood rushing in his ears, the hammering of his heart against his breastbone. The fatigue melted away as he charged into the bar, weapon raised, and then his eyes locked on the rebel.

The man stood a couple of paces inside the room from the terrace. A stick-thin guy with an assortment of good luck charms draped over a threadbare Elvis Presley T-shirt. His AK-47 was trained on the terrified figures scrambling for cover across the room. Bowman saw the president’s brother lying in a pool of blood, a triangle of bullet holes in his chest. His wife, the president’s sister-in-law, shielded the two boys with one arm, her other wrapped around the wailing hysterical form of one of the twin girls. Seguma’s wife was curled up in a tight ball, hugging her screaming baby tight to her chest. As if she could protect the boy from the stopping power of a 7.62 × 39 mm bullet.

Then Bowman saw the other girl.

Marie.

She lay limp on the floor, blood oozing out of her belly and head. Her dead hands clutching her blood-splashed toy bear.

In the same frozen moment, Elvis spotted Bowman crashing into the room. He turned towards the new threat and fired. The AK-47 barked. Bowman tucked into a roll and shifted to the right as the rebel let off a three-round burst, shooting from the hip. The rounds thudded into the wall six or seven inches above Bowman, putting holes in the president’s personal photo collection. Bowman came up from the roll in a rapid blur, then angled his weapon at the rebel. No time to properly aim. He just centred the barrel on Elvis’s mass and pulled the trigger twice.

The rounds smacked into Elvis in a quick one-two. The first nailed him in the crotch, shredding his balls. The second bullet plugged him in the chest. His vital plumbing. The rebel let out a pained grunt as he toppled backwards. He crashed against the door and landed on his back, his weapon clattering to the floor beside him.

Bowman stood rooted to the spot, unable to move, staring helplessly at the girl. He heard voices in the corridor.

A moment later, Loader charged into the room ahead of Mallet. Casey, Webb, Gregory and Lubowa ran in after them, weapons drawn. They caught sight of the two bodies and froze. The president’s sister-in-law ran over to her dead daughter, howling in grief and anguish. The two boys hugged their mother, tears streaming down their terror-stricken faces. The other girl screamed for her dead father.

Loader dropped down beside the bodies and checked them for pulses. Shook his head slowly.

‘What the fuck happened?’ he demanded.

‘Bastard snuck in from the terrace,’ Bowman said. He felt sick, had to force the words out. ‘There was nothing I could do . . . ’

‘Just the one?’

Bowman nodded.

‘Must have been a lone raider,’ Webb said.

‘Or a scout for the Machete Boys,’ said Mallet. ‘Sent here by his mates to see if the place was worth looting. He would have spotted the lights.’

‘How the fuck did he get in?’ Loader said.

‘This place is surrounded by a chain-link fence,’ said Gregory. ‘It’s not in the best condition. There are gaps in it. He must have snuck through one of them.’

‘He left us!’ the sister-in-law shouted between her pained sobs. She pointed an accusatory finger at Bowman. ‘He wasn’t here! He should have stopped that man!’

Mallet stared at him, the blood draining from his face. ‘Where the fuck were you, Josh?’

‘The bathroom,’ Bowman replied falteringly. ‘I . . . I was gone for a minute. Not even that.’

‘I don’t give a fuck if it was ten seconds. You shouldn’t have left them alone.’

‘I didn’t know . . . ’ Bowman choked up. ‘I thought it was safe.’

‘You thought fucking wrong.’

‘I thought you men are supposed to be professional,’ Lubowa said.

‘We are,’ Mallet snapped back. He glowered at Bowman. ‘Most of us.’

Bowman gripped the rifle so hard he thought it might break apart in his hands. A father and his young daughter had been killed. His own fault. He’d fucked up once before, fifteen years ago. Back then, his mistake had cost the lives of his own family.