The glass box, p.20
The Glass Box, page 20
He packed the weapons and ammunition in plain wooden crates cushioned with bubble wrap, then covered the crates with a sheet. Also, Kevlar vests, night scopes, hunting knives, other accessories. He set off immediately north to Inverness. He would meet the others there. Three men. One from Manchester, the other two from Glasgow. Men he had fought alongside in the 22nd Regiment. Men who shared esprit de corps through the angst of battle.
Lethal men, adept at killing, lacking compunction. Like himself. Men who killed for money and who, if he were honest, enjoyed doing it.
54
“The power of technology,” said Jacob.
They had brought up an aerial picture of Loch an Eilein on Google Maps, displayed in vivid colour on a laptop screen. With relative ease, they established where the man called John Smith was probably living. The probability was high. A single rooftop in a clearing in the woods, close to the loch with no other accommodation within several miles. The old cabin, as Alison had described it.
Jacob, after his visit with Alison, had driven straight to the meeting place – a warehouse outside Inverness. The building was a shell, derelict and abandoned. But it was isolated and safe. Little chance of prying eyes. A van and three cars were parked in a cracked forecourt. Four deckchairs and a foldaway table had been erected, around which Leo Ruckert and his men sat, scrutinising the laptop.
They were drinking coffee from flasks.
“The man’s a loner,” Ruckert said. He turned to Jacob. “A real rush job. He must have seriously pissed off your boss.” Jacob regarded him. Ruckert wore mountain trek trousers, climbing boots, ski jacket, all neutral colours. Each man was similarly dressed. Ruckert was of medium height, thick in the neck and shoulders, wide at the hip: attributes indicating strength and agility.
Jacob responded with the slightest shrug. “It needs to be done quickly. It’s time sensitive.”
Ruckert gave a dry chuckle. “Things done in haste gives rise to carelessness.”
“Mr Purkis has faith in you. Hence the big pay packet.”
Ruckert flicked his attention back to the screen. “Normally there would be reconnaissance. Time constraints prevent this. Still, his location is favourable. The middle of a forest. No habitation close by. He’ll have the advantage, presumably knowing the lay of the land. But he’ll not be expecting us, so we’ll have the advantage of surprise.” He turned again to Jacob, raised an eyebrow. “I assume he’ll not be expecting us?”
“Not if we move quickly. He said he’d phone me tonight. He wants to play by his rules. We need to change the game, seek him out earlier.”
“Daylight makes it trickier, you understand,” Ruckert responded. “Do we know what his firepower is?”
Jacob shook his head. “Not certain. Possibly nothing.”
“Possibly doesn’t crack it. We’ll assume the worst and wear body armour. It’ll slow us down but maybe save our lives. Is he skilled?”
Jacob thought back to the four dead men at the Crafty Fox. The way it looked, each had been dispatched with ease. ‘Skilled’ was perhaps an understatement.
“Yes,” he said simply.
“And do we have a name?”
“John Smith.”
“Fair enough.” Ruckert gestured to one of his men, who opened a satchel, produced a Landranger survey paper map which he stretched out on the table. Ruckert studied it, comparing it to the Google Map on the screen. He pointed to a blue section. “There’s the loch. The target’s location is approximately there.” He tapped his finger on an area shaded green. “The closest access for vehicles is a single-track road which stops about a mile from the location. But it’s too exposed. Plus, it’s the obvious route for an offensive.” He considered, then ran his finger along the section of main road leading from Aviemore to the foot of the mountains. “We can leave the vehicles on the verge, and make our way through the forest straight from the road. I reckon it’s about six miles, so it’s a hike. Maybe a couple of hours, going cautiously. He’ll not be expecting that.”
“And what if he does?” said Jacob.
Ruckert looked at his men, gave a wolfish grin. “Then we cope.”
“Mr Purkis wants this clean. Kill him. No fuss. Clean.”
Ruckert gave a mirthless chuckle. “Clean? You’ve been watching too many movies, my friend. It’s never clean. Shit happens. You want us to do this thing in daylight. Someone might be out walking their dog. Or going for a stroll in the woods. Or being all romantic and having a fucking shag in the bushes. What then?”
Jacob shrugged. “Then that’s just bad luck. Collateral damage.”
“Not so clean,” Ruckert said.
“Just get it done. Call me when he’s dead.”
55
Four men. Each armed with a Remington 700 bolt-action rifle. A sniper’s weapon. Able to kill at 300 yards. If slightly off target, capable of removing limbs. Concealed in a heavy rifle bag with shoulder straps. At first glance, easily mistaken for a slim rucksack.
Each man also had a Desert Eagle. Semi-automatic with a magazine of nine rounds. Powerful enough to remove a man’s head from his shoulders. Strapped into leather holsters buckled to their belts beneath their ski jackets. Bulky but effective.
And each carried a fixed blade MTech hunter’s knife, favoured by the US Marines. Consistent with his philosophy, Ruckert opted for too much rather than too little.
They went in one car, compliments of Chadwick Purkis. Later, it would be left somewhere remote, burnt and abandoned. They parked in a lay-by under the shade of packed pine trees. Ruckert had a map and compass. Two hours, he’d reckoned. Probably less. The day was bright with a slight breeze. In the forest, however, under the canopy of branches, the light would reduce, the breeze would disappear to stillness. Which was an advantage.
Cars passed. To a casual observer they were four guys going for a hike. Nothing more sinister. They slipped into the gloom of the trees, four shadows intent on destruction.
Some of his guests had arrived and were doubtless enjoying his hospitality. Purkis didn’t know exactly where they were. His house was considerably larger than the average. Probably the jacuzzi, sipping champagne at £200 a bottle. At the present moment, he couldn’t have cared less. There were places he knew they wouldn’t be. His conservatory, where he was sitting. And the lower level. Where tomorrow the fun and games took place. Where the Glass Box was situated.
But such matters were not foremost in his mind. It was mid-afternoon. Since the update he’d received from Jacob earlier, he hadn’t stirred from the room. His thoughts were preoccupied with the events taking place over a hundred miles away, somewhere in the Cairngorm mountains. His analysis of the situation had proved accurate. Jacob had come to the same conclusion. Find out about the boy, his background, his circumstances. The information was easy to acquire. His mother was a widow. No other relatives. She was the obvious target. And Jacob being Jacob had quickly established the relevant information. The name of their enemy – John Smith. And his location.
He stood by the open French doors, gazing out at the garden he’d spent over two million on, and wondered if he should build tennis courts. The notion had never occurred to him until this precise moment. And maybe a pavilion, constructed of blue marble and dark glass. With the money he would make from tomorrow’s show he could build a hundred tennis courts, a hundred pavilions, and barely notice.
Then there was the hotel. Burnt to the ground. In due course – a respectful period of time – he would erase its existence forever and replace it with luxury houses. More money. And money was God.
But his thoughts veered back to a forest in the Cairngorms. Where Leo Ruckert and his small team of assassins were hunting. Ruckert was dependable. A man skilled in resolving awkward situations. When diplomacy had failed. Though diplomacy had never played a major part in the rise of Purkis’s success.
And if Ruckert failed? The thought had occurred to both him and Jacob, and both had arrived at the same conclusion. There was a contingency plan. A final card, so to speak.
Another place in his Camelot castle where his American friends were not allowed. A hidden place, windowless, with a locked door. Where his brand-new guest waited.
56
Ruckert and his men kept a distance of approximately fifteen feet apart from each other, single formation, a simple habit instilled from their patrol days. They moved quickly and carefully, not speaking. Ruckert stopped every twenty minutes, to check the map, check the compass. But he knew his bearings, having an instinctive ability for knowing where he was and where to go.
The forest was silent, save the chirp of birds and the murmur of a stream somewhere. They were well away from any trodden paths or trails, the route chosen obscure and uninviting. To Ruckert’s mind, tactically, the least expected way in and a further advantage.
After an hour the trees thinned a little, the sunlight became stronger. They made their way through long grass and bracken. They kept going for a further half hour, increasing their pace. Ruckert stopped. A sound drifted towards them. The others stopped with him. He gestured with his hand. A signal they understood. In unison, they shrugged off their rifle bags, removed their rifles, folded the bags, tucked them into jacket pockets. They advanced forward. Ten minutes passed. The sound became more distinct. They slowed, stealthy as cats. Music. Specifically, ‘Welcome to the Jungle’. Guns N’ Roses. He glanced round. Their perplexed expressions mirrored his own. They crept forward for another five minutes. There! Ahead, maybe a hundred yards, a clearing. And a flat-roofed cabin, walls constructed of logs. No bigger than a large car.
Jesus, thought Ruckert. Fucking Davy Crockett. Another signal. His men fanned out, formed a loose semicircle. Their approach was masked by waist-high wild grass and sporadic clumps of bush and shrub.
Another two minutes. Visuals became clearer. On a window ledge, a portable CD player, facing outward, blasting noise. The door to the cabin was closed. Ruckert hunkered down, considered. Impossible to know if the guy was in. The music drowned out any noise of activity. Guns N’ Roses dwindled to silence, then Led Zeppelin boomed across the forest – ‘Rock and Roll’.
Ruckert assumed the guy was close by. What was the music about? To draw them in? To distract? Jacob wanted a quick kill. The tactical response, under the circumstances, would be to wait. To sit it out. Patience, until the target moved. Then kill. But there was a hundred-and-twenty-five-thousand-pound bounty to be collected per man. Jacob said the guy was skilled. Ruckert debated. How skilled could a man be against four trained and armed assailants?
The music drowned out all peripheral noise. Ruckert took a chance. He waved his hand, drew his men in towards him.
He lowered his voice to a whisper, though given the volume of the noise, it hardly mattered.
“I’m going to the front door,” he said. “For a reaction.” He nodded at the man closest to him. “Follow me, thirty paces behind. Keep your guard.” He switched to the two others. “Spread out. Stay focused on the door. I’ll knock, then stand to one side. If it opens, we shoot. Okay?”
They understood. Ruckert, with care, placed his rifle on the ground, opened his ski jacket, unclipped his pistol, tucked it under the belt of his trousers. He kept his jacket open, the pistol hidden.
He stood, made his way towards the cabin, his pace leisurely. A man out walking in the mountains for a little Scottish air. “Hello there!” Nothing. The door remained closed. The music played. If the guy was in, he probably wouldn’t hear. Ruckert quickened his stride. He glanced behind. As instructed one of his men followed, wary of any peripheral activity. Ruckert got to a small, weathered porch, two steps up. On it, a single chair. He stopped. “Anyone in?” No response. He took a breath, took the two steps. The porch creaked under his weight. Another glance behind. Nothing untoward. There was only one window, which was smashed. On the windowsill, the CD player. He switched it off. Now, the only sound was his own breathing. He looked inside. The interior seemed neat. And empty. He went to the door, knocked, stepped to the side. He waited five seconds. Silence. Nothing to suggest human activity. He knocked on the door again, swept open the front of his jacket, pulled out the Desert Eagle, held it with a classic two-handed grip.
Still nothing. Slowly, holding the pistol with his right hand, he pressed his back flat against the wood beside the door, reached, and with his other hand tried the handle, pushed. The door opened.
He resumed his two-handed grip, waited. Counted to five, crouched, swivelled round, weapon pointing into the cabin.
The place was empty. He gave it a cursory examination. There was nothing to suggest any recent activity. No hot coffee, no plate of half-finished food. The place was clean and spartan.
Lives like a fucking monk, he thought. But someone had switched the CD player on.
He turned, got out onto the porch. Suddenly, in the daylight he felt exposed. He gestured to the man standing thirty paces away – back to the forest.
The man acknowledged with a nod. Too late. A sound – one Ruckert was well acquainted with – split the silence, sharp and clear. Like a whipcrack. Then a second. Ruckert stared as his fellow soldier’s head exploded. A sudden violent eruption of brain and blood.
The shock lasted all of one second. Ruckert reacted. Instinct took over. He ducked, turned on his heel, dashed for the cabin entrance, thoughts tumbling in his head – the guy was armed. Either he always had a gun, or he took it from one of his men. Ruckert prayed it wasn’t the latter. But his prayer ended abruptly. His legs folded. A quick searing pain. He fell on his stomach, unable to move. He tried to crawl but the effort was too great. With difficulty he craned his neck round. His right leg was gone.
Someone was approaching.
57
Four contestants. Two men against each other in the box. The winners of each bout then fought. The winner of the third bout got the money promised. In Cornwall Pritchard’s case it was £200,000, which was a sweet sum. Plus a trophy. Not in the conventional sense. For Pritchard, trophy meant a section of his opponent’s anatomy.
He’d had lunch, comprising fresh linguini with roasted fennel and a side dish of two baked potatoes. For dinner he would have chicken salad and some fruit yoghurt. For supper, some toast and peanut butter. Then early in the morning, before the fights, a bowl of porridge and a helping of dried fruit. Pritchard knew about nutrition. The trick was to keep the glycogen store refuelled. But not too much – it was easy to spike the blood glucose. If that happened the body would experience lethargy and sluggishness, proving fatal.
Pritchard reclined on the bed in his hotel room, dressed in a white courtesy robe. It was 4pm. He had been for a sauna and felt good. He would order room service shortly. His room was spacious, with a white marble en suite complete with hot tub. All paid for by Jacob’s employer. Cost was an irrelevance. Rather like the last meal of the condemned man. The irony wasn’t lost on Pritchard. But Pritchard hadn’t lost a fight yet, and he had no intention of losing tomorrow.
On the bed beside him was an open laptop. Each contestant had been sent details of their opponents. Pritchard studied the screen. Two from America, one from Iceland. Who he faced in the first fight was a lottery. The guy from Iceland was big. As big as Pritchard. Long honey-gold hair, a trimmed beard, eyes blue as agate. His stats were reasonable. Some success in professional wrestling, black belt in aikido, a knowledge of sword play. He’d been a little overzealous in his last wrestling match, snapping his opponent’s spine, rendering him paralysed from the waist down. He was lucky to have escaped prison, but his wrestling days were over. To Pritchard, he looked soft. Too fastidious about his appearance. Still, looks could fool.
Another was from Detroit. He looked the part. Scarred face, twisted nub of a nose, a boxer’s brow. A foot shorter than Pritchard but wide and solid. Low centre of gravity. Someone difficult to knock down. A heavyweight boxer turned cage fighter, appearing in contests up and down the East Coast. He’d killed someone during a fight. Broke the guy’s neck.
The third was from New York. Muscular to the point of ungainly, only an inch shorter than Pritchard. A face of chiselled bone, thin lips, head shaved to the skull. Expressionless. Eyes like obsidian beads. Neck of corded muscle. Champion boxer in the US Marines. Dishonourable discharge after alleged abuse of prisoners in Afghanistan. Expert in judo.
Three men who were desperate. Who needed the money because their livelihoods had dried up. Such were those who were tempted to the Glass Box. Which set him apart. Money, though important, was of little consequence to Pritchard. He went to satisfy a much more fundamental need.
He wondered what the others would make of his stats and photos. Easy meat, probably. He was big, heavily muscled. Looked ungainly. Clumsy, almost. Beyond that there was little else. He had never boxed professionally, wasn’t experienced in martial arts. His history was a blank sheet. But Pritchard had fought and won many times in the Glass Box. He was gifted in the process. Gifted. He liked that word. Dispensing death came easy to him. He was Titan. He was invincible. He was a fucking god.
58
They would come from the main road, through the heaviest forest. This had been Smith’s assumption. His reasoning was simple. It was probably the most difficult route, with no discernable trails, the trees packed close together, uphill terrain, and therefore the least expected. Plus, it was what he would do if roles were reversed. The fact they came in the afternoon, however, came as a shock. He hadn’t yet contacted the man called Jacob with his location, but they knew where he was, which suggested they had been given this information by a third party, raising a grim possibility. Suddenly the game had altered.
He had been lucky. He had made his way towards the main road, merely to convince himself that the route was tough enough to justify his theory. He’d spotted a man studying a map. Then others, waiting, maybe fifteen feet apart, classic formation. They didn’t look right. This was not a group of hill walkers out for a leisurely afternoon trek. Their demeanour was rigid, focused. Committed. Plus, the satchels slung across their backs had all the hallmarks of rifle bags. Four men out for a little mayhem. There may have been others, spread wider, but Smith didn’t think so. A four-man team was a good number. Enough to move quickly, not enough to cause suspicion.
