He’s trapped, stairs the only way down - that or out the window with the chance of breaking a leg. He’s already been wounded, perhaps two or three hits. We’ve got a good chance of nailing this cocksucker tonight. Catch him alive, we might even get him to talk. Bonus.
‘We can trap him if we move right now.’
Blaine nodded, ‘Fuck it, you’re right.’
‘Cover!’ hissed Mike. He headed across the avenue, scooting through the rubbish, whilst Blaine kept his weapon trained on the window. Mike signalled for Blaine to join him against the wall beside the open front door. The man scrambled over quickly and quietly, and presently squatted down beside him.
‘There’s still movement up in that room. He’s up to something in there.’
‘Right, standard room-by-room procedure . . . only we know downstairs is clear. I’ll take point.’
Blaine nodded.
Mike entered first, his pistol and scope aimed up the narrow stairs to the first floor.
These houses are all built the same; small bathroom at the top, landing doubles round, three bedroom doors in a row on the left, boiler cupboard at the far end.
He took the first few steps and then paused, listening for any sound of movement from up above. It was silent, except for the occasional gust of wind coursing through the broken windows of the house, moaning gently. He waved to Blaine, who climbed the stairs quietly, squeezed past Mike and went another half a dozen beyond him - nearly to the top.
They waited to see if they’d been detected, for some sort of reaction. However, it remained silent, except for the rustling of paper and plastic bags being teased gently across the avenue.
Mike overtook his man. Reaching the top of the stairs he whipped his gun one way then the other, staring intently through the scope.
If this was the ghost . . . then he was a very slippery sonofabitch. They knew painfully little about him, except he favoured a long thin knife, and had been described by the few people who had encountered him - and lived - as looking Middle Eastern. He had no name, and a million names; using a new alias on every job. And he was used exclusively by them. Mike knew of three jobs that had his unique signature on them. There was the fireman from Ladder 57 who claimed to have discovered un-detonated demolition charges amidst the rubble at Ground Zero and had died as the result of a supposed street stabbing. The minister in Saddam Hussein’s government who had a world shattering revelation to make, and then was supposed to have slit his own throat. And there was that Russian banker championing the sale of Tengiz oil in euros instead of dollars - all of them victims of a never-recovered, narrow-bladed knife. All of them victims, Mike was certain, of this guy.
He waved Blaine up and pointed to the bathroom at the top of the stairs. The man squeezed past him. And after silently counting to three, he lent deftly in to check the bathroom was clear.
‘It’s clear,’ he whispered.
Mike decided playing quiet was pointless. This man undoubtedly knew they were inside the house with him.
‘We know who you are,’ said Mike. ‘We know your work.’
There was no reply.
‘You’re their man, you only work for them. We’ve been watching you.’
Silence.
‘We will take you, and that will probably mean killing you in the process. If you come out unarmed, then we can at least talk.’
The only sound was the flapping of a curtain coming from a front room.
Damn.
Mike had hoped they could bag this guy alive. He was too dangerous to fuck around with. If they were going to take him, then they’d have to go in hard, and go for a quick kill.
He signalled to Blaine that he would take the next room. Again they counted down, he kicked the door, and stepped in, sweeping his gun frantically one way then the other. It was clear.
Blaine took the next, again nothing.
So by a process of elimination . . . the last room.
‘I’ll take this one,’ whispered Mike. ‘Watch my back, I want you right behind me as we go in.’
The man nodded. ‘Got it, Mike.’
He took a deep breath, counted down from five silently, sticking his hand up so that Blaine, crouched behind him, could see the fingers folding down one after the other.
Three . . . two . . . one . . .
Mike kicked the door, and barged into the front bedroom, rolling to a stop against