Blackout - By Tom Barber Page 0,67

Christ,' Fox said, moving forward.

King's eyes were still open, staring at the ground, his head lolled to the side, a trickle of blood coming from the entry wound in his forehead.

'We were too late. Shit.'

Chalky pointed at the passport, jutting halfway out of the holdall on top of some clothes.

'Looks like he knew they were coming.'

'Call Nikki, Chalk,' Porter said. 'Let her know. We need a clean-up crew and a body-bag team from the morgue.'

As Chalky nodded and pulled the mobile phone from his tac vest, Porter noticed that Archer had a concentrated look on his face, not listening to the other men.

'What?' Porter asked, noticing his demeanour.

Archer looked over at him.

'You seen anyone else in the building since we walked in?'

'Only the guy we passed at the front door.'

They held each other's gaze.

They sprinted to the stairwell, pulling open the door, taking the stairs three at a time. Archer was the first back down to the lobby and he rushed past a surprised couple towards the entrance. He burst through the front doors, looking left and right down Holloway Road either side of him, but he was too late. All he saw were pedestrians, passing cars, the constantly moving maze of midday London. The tall dark-haired man with the harsh face was long gone.

Behind him, the other three had arrived. Chalky was already calling in the murder on his phone as he and Fox jumped back into the car. Porter climbed into the front seat, firing the engine and called out of the window to Archer.

'Arch, let's go! We need to get McCarthy!'

Archer took one last despairing look at the street. He cursed himself. He’d looked the killer right in the eyes. He’d even made physical contact with him when they knocked shoulders. Swearing, he turned and ran over to the car, jumping inside, the vehicle already speeding off as he pulled his door shut.

A hundred yards across the street from Fraser's office in the centre of Washington DC, the dark-haired man who had taken the shot that killed Fraser was already moving down the stairwell of the building across the block.

He had left the rifle in position on the roof, like a calling card. It had been bought illegally and was untraceable, along with the ammunition, and he had only ever handled the ammunition and rifle with gloved hands to protect against DNA and fingerprinting. His cheek had touched the stock, so there would probably be something for the Americans to work with, but even if they managed to find anything, he'd be out of the country long before anything could be done with the information. No one knew his real name, or who he was. He was truly anonymous, which was the best thing in the world for a sniper to be.

Arriving on the ground floor, he turned left and moved down the corridor to the fire exit, pushing it open and stepping outside onto the street. Closing the door behind him, he peeled off the two layers of latex gloves on his hands, stuffed them into his pocket and raised his hand as traffic moved past. Moments later a yellow cab pulled up. He stepped inside, shutting the door behind him, and within ten seconds he was speeding away from the scene, camouflaged amongst all the other vehicles and headed straight to Dulles International Airport and his soon-to-depart flight to London.

Across the Atlantic in London, the leader of the Panthers was preparing to take out McCarthy. This was a job that he had previously delegated to Crow and Grub, but with both men dead he would have to do it himself. It was an inconvenience, but this change of plan often happened in the field, an operational setback, but one that he would rectify soon enough. Besides, the old mantra definitely held water here. If you wanted to get something done, get it done yourself.

Rising from his seat at the centre of the command post, the man shot the cuff on his fatigues and checked his watch. He’d just miss Bug and Spider, who were on their way here. They might even pass each other on the road. Bird was already on his way back and Flea would be here by nightfall, once he killed Fraser and got to Dulles for his flight. Keeping both televisions on but muted, the big soldier walked over to the wall and the line of weapons laid neatly across the carpet. He scooped up a Kalashnikov rifle, pulling back the