The Evolution of Fear (Claymore Straker #2) - Paul E. Hardisty Page 0,88

more. Clay raised the Beretta, steadied it on his stump, took aim.

It was Zdravko Todorov.

‘Where is Rania, asshole?’ Clay shouted.

Zdravko smiled, flipped open the rifle’s bipod, lowered it to the ground. ‘Dead, motherfucker. Just like you gonna be.’

The words hit Clay like a spray of shrapnel, all that they meant flooding his brain at once, an overload of pain. He started walking towards Zdravko. His heart banged like a cannon.

‘You lie’ he screamed, framing the target in the handgun’s sight. It was a tough shot. He was still too far away.

Zdravko looked back over his shoulder to the berm, no more than a few paces away. Clay knew the only way Zdravko could fire the Dragunov one-handed was from the prone position. The rifle was there at his feet, ready to go.

‘Your friend too, motherfucker,’ screamed Zdravko. ‘I paint message for you, on wall. Did you get?’

Clay staggered, kept walking towards Zdravko, gun raised.

Zdravko raised his good arm. ‘Did you a favour, Straker,’ he called in his thick, Slavic accent. ‘You should be thanking me. For his parents so sad, yes? Now they don’t worry.’

There it was, so clear now. Zdravko had known since Yemen about Eben. As head of security for Petro-Tex, where Clay had worked as a contractor, Zdravko had undoubtedly been going through his letters, hacking into his computer. He’d murdered Eben in his hospital bed, killed his parents too. And now Rania. No, Clay refused to believe it. A wave of grief poured through him, regret, a roaring cascade that filled his head, drowning out Zdravko’s words. Clay bent double, vision blurring. He could feel the turn coming on, could already see the red periphery closing in, the nausea rising inside him like a five-day fever. He swayed, tried to breathe, stumbled to the ground. Shit no. Not now.

The Dragunov barked; something tickled the back of his neck, an insect crawling there. Clay raised the Beretta towards the sound, fired once, twice, again. Cordite stung the air. He blinked hard, wiped his eyes with his stump, looked up through the dust. Zdravko was up now, running towards the berm, carrying the Dragunov by its handle. Clay pushed himself up onto one knee, raised his weapon and took aim. Zdravko was no more than a blur, wavering, fragmenting. Clay took two deep breaths. Slowly, his vision cleared. The screaming in his ears dulled. Zdravko was at the top of the berm now, his dark shape silhouetted against the tin shed beyond. Clay fired. Zdravko disappeared.

Clay scrambled to his feet, steadied himself, started running. He was almost at the berm when he heard a car engine start, rev. Then the sound of tyres spinning in gravel, stone pelting metal. He reached the top of the berm just as Zdravko’s car sped away in a cloud of road dust.

By the time he reached the ridge-top it was almost dark.

Crowbar was where he’d left him. As Clay approached he scowled. ‘I heard shooting,’ he said, his voice weak. ‘Did you get the asshole?’

Clay shook his head. ‘It was Todorov. He said Rania was dead.’

Crowbar closed his eyes, exhaled. ‘Bullshit, seun. He’s fucking with you.’ He was pale, shivering.

‘Let me look at you, oom.’ Clay knelt beside him, pulling back the blood-soaked compress. The wound had opened up, bloomed like a flower. There was a lot of blood. Clay gave him water, pulled his fleece shell jacket from his pack and put it over his commander’s chest and shoulders. ‘You’re not going to make it all the way back to the car like this,’ he said. ‘I’m going to sew you, run you an IV.’

Koevoet’s eyes fluttered, opened. He nodded. ‘Fokken stupid salt-dick,’ he grunted. ‘You never even asked me why I slugged you at the turtle doctor’s place.’

Clay fumbled in his pack and pulled out his headlamp, strapped it over his head, switched it on and opened the medical kit. ‘I know why you did it. Besides, I deserved it.’

Crowbar shook his head, grunted. ‘You are one screwed-up individual, Straker.’

Clay ignored this, closed his mind and focused on what he had to do. He washed his hands in antiseptic, doused the wound, found the suture kit, threaded the needle. ‘Lie back, oom,’ he said. ‘You need to stretch out.’

Crowbar didn’t even flinch as the needle pierced his skin. Clay sewed, big ugly stitches, twelve in all, one for every year of silence. After the sewing he covered the whole thing with an adhesive suture, applied a clean compress and wrapped