Greed (13 page)

Ahead, Matt could see the back bridge. One light was illuminating the deck, and he could hear the tinny sound of radio music being carried on the wind.

Behind him, Reid landed on the deck, then Cooksley, then Ivan. Matt checked the dinghy was secured to the stern with a rope. All four men then lay flat on the cold, wet metal: blacked-up, out of sight of the bridge.

'There's two up there, I reckon,' Matt whispered. 'Move up to twenty feet, then we'll drop them.'

Matt rose slowly and started walking stealthily across the deck, holding his breath, taking care not to make a sound on the metal surface. Right now, surprise was the best weapon. A single sound and they would lose it. Reid walked two paces behind him, ready to give him covering fire if any shooting started.

When they were twenty paces from the bridge, Ivan and Cooksley moved up ahead to attack from the front. Ivan was following standard operating procedures as if he'd been in the Regiment all his life.

No wonder those bastards were so hard to kill when we crossed the water.

Matt paused until they were in position, and watched as Cooksley glanced through the front windows of the bridge. Cooksley waved two fingers in the air, indicating that there were two targets on the bridge. Matt pointed to the ladder that linked the bridge to the main surface of the boat, then with Reid at his side walked up the metal stairs.

Matt stood by the metal door of the bridge and waited until Ivan and Cooksley were in position by the front windows of the bridge.

'Fire!' Matt barked, putting a thumb up.

Matt heard four shots firing in unison, the tracer fire lightening their faces. He watched as the man on the wheel spun round then collapsed, his body colliding with the deck. The sound echoed down the length of the boat. The second man reeled back on his heels, staggering towards the hold. He was clutching his shoulder, his face clenched in agony. Wounded, Matt judged – but not yet fatally.

'Forward!' he shouted. 'Let's get in there.'

Matt sprinted the last few feet, Reid right behind him. He swung open the door and burst on to the bridge, running forwards, his rifle held out before him. Immediately a hail of bullets filled the tiny metal room. Matt could see the wounded man leaning down towards the hold, blood streaming down the side of his neck. His ear had been shot clean from his face.
'Hajaba!'
he shouted.
'Hajaba!'

Matt didn't know much Arabic, but he knew that word.

The bastard is telling them to hide.

Cooksley and Ivan's initial burst of fire must have been deflected by the strengthened glass. That was the only way the men could have survived the initial attack. The man now held up a pistol. He tried to steady himself but blood was pouring from his ear, dripping over his eyes and obscuring his vision. One shot rang out as he fired. Matt heard the metal somewhere behind him cracking as the bullet hit it. Another shot. This time it seemed to have winged Reid, as his arm dropped in agony.

Matt levelled his Bushmaster to his eye, steadied his arm and pulled the trigger. The shot was true. The bullet exploded between the man's eyes, sending him reeling backwards, his mouth wide open and blood trickling down the side of his face.

Matt rushed forwards, put his rifle to the head of the first man, and fired a double-tap into his skull. He looked dead, but there was no point taking any chances.

'You OK?'

'Just grazed my arm,' said Reid.

'So the rest are in the hold,' said Matt.

They had no way of knowing for sure how many men were on board. MI5 had reckoned six, meaning there could be three below, but it could be more. A metal stairway led down from the bridge into the hold, but it was pitch black. Matt knelt down, level with the stairs, swivelling his eyes through the space. Even with the goggles, he could see nothing.

'Torch!' he shouted.

Reid collected a torch from his belt and shone it down the stairwell. A bullet broke through the silence, striking the wheel and ricocheting into the window of the bridge. It had flown through the three-yard opening to the stairwell, but it was impossible to tell exactly where in the hold it had come from, or who had fired it. The sheet of glass shattered into fragments, tumbling on to the floor. Matt ducked. If they were in the hold, and this was the only entrance, they were well dug in.

This could be a nasty fight.

Behind him, Ivan and Cooksley had entered the bridge. The boat was rocking from side to side as it steamed forwards with nobody at the wheel. 'See if you can shut this bloody thing down, Ivan,' Matt snapped. He looked towards Cooksley. 'See if there's another way down,' he said.

Cooksley ran down the length of the boat, inspecting the cranes, the lifeboat and the engine hatch. 'Just the engines,' he said, returning to the bridge. 'We can get down to that, but I don't know if it leads anywhere.'

Reid shook his head. 'Unlikely,' he said. 'The engine room is usually sealed off from the rest of the boat. Even if it's not, any man going down there will get fucked.'

'We got some stuff to blow away the bastards in the hold?' said Matt.

'We have Semtex,' said Ivan.

'Reckon you can make a small bomb that's not going to sink the ship?' said Matt.

Another bullet rattled out of the stairwell, followed by three more. All four men instinctively moved out of range. 'Give me two minutes,' answered Ivan.

Matt, Reid and Cooksley approached the edge of the stairwell, pointing their rifles down, loosening off a few rounds of ammunition: if there was anyone down there waiting for them, they needed to clear them out of the way. The sound of gunfire echoed through the hold. Matt could hear the metal bullets hitting metal walls and listened out for the familiar sound of bullet ripping into flesh, the cry of a wounded man. But he could hear nothing. This was useless, he decided. They were just shooting into thin air. The men down there had taken cover and were just waiting for them to come down the stairs.

Then they'll pick us off one by one.

It was almost two o'clock, Matt realised, glancing at his watch.

If we hang about, they'll radio someone for help. We need to get this finished off now.

Ivan returned holding a small round ball of Semtex wrapped up with black tape, no bigger than his fist. A detonator cap was fitted to it, with two long pieces of wire stretching out. 'This thing scares the crap out of me,' he said. 'So I hate to think what it will do to them.'

Despite himself, Matt smiled back. The wind was starting to pick up, and the waves were smashing into the side of the vessel.

Ivan motioned to Matt to stand well back. Reid and Cooksley followed, and the three men stood at the back of the bridge, moving out of range of the blast. Ivan joined the two wires together, then dropped the bomb down the length of the stairwell. He turned swiftly on his heels, running to the back of the bridge, and placed the wires on to the battery pack.

The explosion rocked through the vessel. Matt could feel its steel frame shuddering under the force, the bolts and rivets shaking loose. A pale cloud of smoke started to emerge from the hold.

'Nice fireworks,' said Cooksley.

'It's still early days,' said Ivan grimly.

'Let's get down there.' Matt stepped towards the hold. 'Reid, Cooksley, you cover me.'

He held the Bushmaster in his right hand, approaching the edge of the hold. He scanned the stairs, but could still see nothing. Cooksley and Reid stood behind him, their rifles raised to their shoulders ready to fire. Matt lowered his foot on to the first rung.

If one of them gets me, at least he'll go down in a hail of bullets.

He jumped the three feet on to the floor in one swift movement, his knees breaking the fall. The last two rungs had been mashed up by the explosion. He rolled over, using his goggles to scan the room. The smell of the explosion and of melting steel was thick in the air, and smoke still filled the room. He could make out a shape that looked like a man. Correct that, he told himself. Three shapes that each looked like a third of a man.

He walked on through the hold. About ten yards from the staircase lay the head of a man. A couple of yards away, his torso, and on the other side of the room his legs. Blood, guts and intestines had spewed from him, spilling out on to the metal floor.

'That's one,' said Reid suddenly, standing behind Matt. 'Where's the rest of the buggers?'

'Over there, I reckon,' said Matt.

The hold was narrow and dark. At the side there was a small kitchen area and a stock of food. A TV and DVD player was on a chest, but the screen was now blown out. At the back there were six bunk beds and a few travel bags.

'Seven beds,' said Ivan. 'I count four bodies – three upstairs including the lookout, and one down here. That means there are three men left.'

Matt moved further forwards. At the front of the hold there were two thick steel doors. The steel bolts on the outside were open, but the doors were firmly shut. 'They're in here,' he said. 'They've locked themselves into the walk-in safes – the gold and the diamonds will be in there as well.'

Ivan thumped his fist against the door. 'Christ, about eight to nine inches thick,' he said. 'Solid steel. Reinforced. That's not what we planned for.'

'I don't give a fuck what it's made of,' snapped Matt. 'Can you blow it or not?'

Ivan ran his hands across the door, his finger running over its steel skin as if he were giving it a massage. He paused, focusing on the joint where the open outside lock was. 'This is the weakest part,' he said. 'I reckon a strip of Semtex will create enough force to crack this thing open. But it could blow a hole in the hull.'

'What are the odds?' said Matt.

'I'm not a fucking bookmaker.'

'Just give us the bloody answer,' said Cooksley.

'About sixty–forty in our favour,' said Ivan. 'Position the Semtex in the right way, and most of the force of the explosion travels on a horizontal axis. It goes into the door and punches a hole in it. But you can't stop some of the energy the blast releases from travelling downwards as well. And that could put the loot at the bottom of the sea. And us with it, if we don't get out damned sharpish.'

Matt looked towards Reid and Cooksley. 'Shall we take a vote?'

'What are the options?' said Reid.

Matt shrugged. 'They can't have much to eat or drink in there. At some point, they're going to come out, take a chance on whether we shoot them or let them go.'

'They'll call for help,' said Reid. 'They could easily have a radio or a satellite phone in there.'

'And they are fanatics,' added Ivan. 'They might just decide to die in there rather than let us nick their stuff.'

'I say we blow them now,' said Reid.

'Me too,' said Cooksley.

'Go to work,' said Matt, looking towards Ivan.

'I'll need a couple of minutes.'

Matt climbed back on to the deck, followed by Cooksley and Reid. Ivan had explained that when the blast went up, the over-pressures created by the explosion would kill anything within twenty yards. They needed to be out of range. Matt switched on his radio, patching through a connection to Damien. 'Start sailing to meet us,' he said. 'There are four men down here. Ivan's about to blow them, but there's a chance he might sink the ship. So I want you nearby.'

Matt tucked the radio back into its holder and leant over the side of the ship. The waves were beating against the hull and the wind seemed to have gathered yet more strength, sending the clouds swirling through the sky. Inside his wet-suit it was suddenly starting to feel very cold. It had been more than two years since he had killed a man: the last mission before he left the Regiment had been the hostage rescue in Chechnya, and two men had gone down. Over his career, he calculated there had been twenty-eight to thirty-six kills, depending on which bullet had hit whom. He remembered each one of them, and would carry the memories to his grave.

Ivan was back on the deck now, alongside Cooksley and Reid. 'The charger is ready,' he said. 'Take cover.'

Matt turned his back to the bridge, leaning on the railing at the stern. He crouched down, preparing for the impact of the explosion.

If the Irishman hasn't got it right, Cooksley and Reid will

be sending him to the bottom of the sea to get our stuff.

The blast shook through the vessel. It felt as if the explosion heaved the boat several feet above the water. The hull shook furiously as the boat caught a wave and started to lurch to the left. Water started to splash across the deck, washing over each of them. Matt could hear the sound of creaking metal, the noise of joints and girders being wrenched out of position. The smell of charred and melting steel drifted through the air.

Matt walked unsteadily back towards the stairway. The boat was rocking still, tossed around by the waves. As he looked down, he could see the stairs had collapsed. He slung his rifle aside and took out his pistol. Using his arms, he levered himself down into the hold. The smoke was intense, making him choke as soon as the fumes hit his lungs. Matt released the safety catch on the pistol, looking into the darkness. The door had collapsed inwards, a hole punched clean through the metal. Matt levelled his pistol and fired six shots in quick succession.