Blackout - By Tom Barber Page 0,97

just cleared two bedrooms, one by one, moving inside each, ready to shoot anyone inside, man, woman or child. He knew Cobb's family were here, but he would have no hesitation killing them too.

However, the two bedrooms had been empty. The sheets were disturbed however, recently used, the covers thrown back, the pillow imprinted with someone’s head.

They were here.

Somewhere.

He stalked on. Glancing out of a window to his left, he saw the dark shape of the helicopter on the lawn. There were policemen here somewhere too. No matter. They were used to street arrests and broad daylight. The dark and the night were the Panthers' world. They would be irritations, only. With his night-vision goggles and his silenced MP5, his strength back after all those years in the prison, Spider felt invincible. Many men had tried to kill him before. None had succeeded. And tonight would be no different. English police officers were no match for him and the rest of the Panthers.

The door to the next room was ajar and Spider pushed it back gently with his toe, moving inside, checking left and right.

This room was different from the other two bedrooms. It had been rearranged, a cluster of chairs, stands and a desk gathered in the centre of the room away from the walls. The curtains were drawn but as he slowly checked out the room through his goggles he could see there were white sheets and blankets laid around the place, some cans of paint on the floor beside rollers and brushes, a paint-stained radio resting on a brown desk, plugged into a small generator on the ground. He saw that the room was being redecorated. Beside the paint cans and roller trays, he could make out the metallic sheen of some black floodlights, the reflector behind the dark bulbs silver and covered by long lens caps.

The painters weren’t here. The place was quiet and still, the only sound the constant drumming of raindrops on the shielded windows.

He saw a closed door across the room and stepped forward softly towards it.

Then he heard a click.

Suddenly, the room was filled with blinding light. It seared into his retinas through the goggles, and he fell back, tearing them off, his eyes burning with pain.

Across the room, Chalky took his hand off the generator button for the lights. He moved fast round from behind the desk and shot the big soldier through the head.

The man dropped like a marionette with the strings sliced, his weapon clattering to the floor, blood and bits of skull sprayed all over the floor, splinters flying from the wall as the bullet buried itself in the old wood behind him as it exited the back of his head.

The gunshot echoed around the house, faded and then was gone.

Chalky clicked the switch on the generator, the lights turned off again, and he waited, aiming at the far doorway, willing another of the Panthers to walk inside into his crosshairs.

But no one came.

He moved forward silently, keeping his weapon trained on the doorway, then stepped to the side, pushing the door shut with the softest of clicks. He looked down at the dead soldier at his feet.

Kneeling by the body, Chalky pushed the pressel on his uniform, the only other sound the constant rain hitting the window behind him .

‘This is Chalk,’ he whispered. ‘One down.’

Ripping the night goggles from the man’s head, he quickly wiped off the blood and brains that were on the back leather strap.

Then he pulled them over his own eyes, and raising his weapon, his vision now clear as if it was daylight, he moved on into the dark mansion.

A hundred and sixty yards outside the front of the house, Flea lay motionless on the earth, his Dragunov rifle in his shoulder, his breathing long and slow and smooth.

When they'd arrived, pulling off the main road and parking in the forestry, the rest of the team had headed off to the house whilst Flea moved right, taking up a position facing the giant Hall just beyond the main lawn.

The rain was falling harder now, drenching him, droplets of water flicking onto the scope. But he remained still and focused. He was pissed at himself that he'd snatched at the shot of the cop in the main room, but then again he was unfamiliar with this rifle and the guy had moved just as he fired. He'd only hit the man in the thigh. However, hopefully he may have hit an artery, or