Second Solace Read online

  Second Solace

  A James Stone Thriller

  Robert Clark

  “Don’t let the buggers grind you down”

  For Ken Clark

  My Granddad

  To the greatest man I ever knew.

  Thank you for everything.

  Prologue

  One Thousand Yards

  The scope of the rifle glistened in the low winter sun. Just a small glimmer in a vast open landscape. Small and unnoticeable to the untrained eye. Stand in the right spot, and the reflection of the sun might turn a head or two, but that was it. Nothing more. Except that if you stood there and saw it, it would likely be the last thing you would ever see.

  Laid prone atop a moss-coloured tarp, with a sheet of camouflaged netting draped over his body, the stationary figure was all but invisible.

  The man with his finger on the trigger was called Lee, although the last time someone had used that name was before he left the army. No, he was Corser, and his heart rate was slow and his breathing controlled. He was a professional, and he had a job to do.

  Over twenty-four hours had passed since the mission had gone live, and most of that had been spent behind the wheel of a beat down Cadillac Brougham the colour of sleepy Autumn sunsets. The ride had been uneventful, with the vehicle eating up the miles like an obedient little beast, and by the time that Corser had arrived at the location, the only thing he had to report was a sore back.

  All his aches and pains had drifted into oblivion as he hiked up the hillside and settled in atop his tarp. The fresh winter breeze kept his senses sharp, and his mind focused. His eye rested against the scope, fixed on a spot far in the distance where a minuscule dirt track snaked out of the trees. Nothing moving. Nothing doing. All was calm for now.

  The cold wind didn’t bother him much. In the four hours since Corser had arrived, his body had acclimatised to the temperature. The initial shivers were long gone, though that had been through mental strength. Mind over matter. His body didn’t need to shake to stay warm. It only took a matter of minutes to overcome the compulsion.

  The view out across the plains was undisturbed and provided a decent scope of the land before him. The land wasn’t too steep, and the soil was still soft enough for his trowel to dig out a small alcove. Given the circumstances, he could hardly have asked for better conditions.

  In the distance, the truck appeared. Just a dot at first. Small and insignificant against the backdrop of giant pine trees, swaying gently in the light wind. Without the magnified scope of the rifle, it would have been invisible to the human eye. Even with it, Corser could only just make it out. A plume of dirt rose high into the cold winter sky as it weaved along the narrow track.

  Corser followed the truck on its trajectory through the scope of the rifle. A Barrett Model Ninety. Bolt-action. The masterpiece of Barrett Firearms Company. Designed in 1990 and produced for five years. A smaller rifle than most that came before, and the magazine could only carry five rounds. Compared to newer models, it was starting to show its age, but even though it was now a product over ten years old, it still held a place in Corser’s heart. Twelve lives were lost to this rifle. Twelve rounds had hit their mark.

  Making a judgement call, Corser decided the truck was travelling at approximately thirty-five miles per hour. That, he assumed, had to be the maximum speed a vehicle of that calibre could achieve on a dirt road. The bumps and drops would make short work of the suspension, and there were more than enough rocks jutting out of the track that could beach a smaller vehicle. Anything over thirty five was reckless, anything under was tedious.

  So thirty-five miles per hour was what he had to work with. Thirty-five miles per hour would put the target right within his sights in just under three minutes. Nine hundred and fourteen metres, or one thousand yards. Accounting for the wind—which at the moment was barely more than a light breeze—his elevation, and the speed of the truck, Corser estimated that a clean shot would suffer at least fifty-six feet of down force, and approximately thirty feet of drift—although with up to eighteen kilojoules of sheer power, the .50 BMG round suffered less drift. That meant that the spot Corser could see through the sights of his scope would not be the same spot the target’s head would travel through.

  Early December in Colorado was not ideal for visibility. Sunrise came around 0900 hours and set seven hours later at 1600. Dusk had already begun to creep across the land, but it could be no later than three in the afternoon. The temperature would drop a further twenty degrees Fahrenheit before midnight. Anything not bred to survive those kinds of temperatures would perish.

  To his right, Corser heard a disturbance. A small, insignificant sound, like a twig snapping or a stone tumbling. A forgettable action to most. Odds were in the favour of an unsuspecting animal, maybe a deer or a hare. But Corser was not a gambling man. A life like his was not built on guesswork. He rested the rifle back down onto the tarp and turned his head slowly towards the point of the disturbance.

  But there was nothing there. No deer. No hare. Nothing. It wasn’t the first time a noise had spooked him. Nor was it the first time he’d expected to see something only to discover that nature was playing games with him. None the less, Corser breathed a sigh of relief. Nothing was always better than something.

  He returned his gaze to the truck. It was a couple hundred yards closer to the target zone. Still travelling at a steady thirty five. The wind was no different. If anything, it was slightly calmer. Corser adjusted his estimated trajectory to accommodate.

  The second noise was a little louder, and a lot closer. His internal radar put the origin of the sound behind him. At his seven o’clock. If the first noise had been outside his comfort zone, the second was firmly deep inside. Any animal that close would have lit up at least a couple of warning lights in his mind. His ears had acclimatised to the serenity. Every rustle in the trees was logged and filed away in his mind. But now something had broke through his defences.

  Corser let go of the rifle once more and reached for the pistol resting beside him on the tarp. A Heckler & Koch USP semi-automatic, with a suppressor attached to the nozzle, and eighteen nine-millimetre rounds packed into the magazine. A precautionary measure, lest a cougar or hiker stumbled across his path.

  The angle of the noise made a simple observation all the more difficult. Corser had to shuffle onto his side to at least have some idea of the direction. If presented with danger, he was in a dire position to confront it.

  The truck was still at least one hundred and fifty seconds away. There was still a margin of wiggle room, and Corser wouldn’t be doing any wiggling if a man had a rifle pointed at the back of his skull.

  Corser moved his feet into position, adopting a horizontal version of a running athlete preparing for a race. Muscles prepped, he pounced forwards. Before the momentum was exhausted, he pushed himself up with his free hand and spun around to face the disruption. Pistol raised and trained on the spot his internal radar had determined to be the cause of the noise.

  A hare pricked his ears up and looked at Corser in horror. The predator had appeared. Before he had so much as a second to comprehend, the creature had darted away in terror. He breathed a sigh of relief.

  The sound of gunfire reached Corser’s ears a split second before the bullet hit the pistol suppressor and ricocheted up into the trees. The force and shock of the assault was enough for the pistol to eject from Corser’s one handed grip and tumble away down the hill.

  Out the corner of his eye, Corser caught sight of a small slender figure dressed in camouflage to his right. The figure was at least twenty feet from his position. His rifle was raised and pointed in Corser’s direction. Either the shot to his pistol was a calculated decision to disarm, or a hasty attempt to kill. Neithe
r scenario played well for Corser, which left him with one option.

  He pounced at an angle, towards the hostile, but behind the cover of a tree. A second shot flew past his head by at least a few inches. A second miss erred towards the theory that the shooter was being hasty. A skilled marksman would know to expect movement from their target. But hasty worked for Corser.

  He didn’t stop behind the tree. No point. It wasn’t wide enough to provide full cover, and it would trap him to stay put. Instead, he swung around and threw his weight in the other direction. The zag to his previous zig. A pair of muffled thumps told him another two rounds had been fired. The first had followed his initial trajectory further down the hill, and the second was another awkward correction. Neither hit their mark.

  Corser had a clearer view of the attacker. He was male and had a thin figure that erred closer to malnourishment than a healthy lifestyle. And he was young too, at least ten years Corser’s junior. His eyes were wide, and full of surprise, just like that of the hare. He held the rifle up at an uncomfortable angle, and with every squeeze of the trigger he staggered back from the recoil. He was a fool of a man, but even fools could slay beasts with the right tools. Underestimating dumb luck would get Corser killed, and he would not allow a jackass like this to be the one to take him down.

  Corser feigned a movement forwards, but instead brought his weight down and backwards, spending the momentum in a heartbeat. He watched the gunman follow through with the ruse, and fire off another couple of rounds into the empty space ahead of him. The rifle kicked and got the better of him, and he struggled to keep the weapon down and under his control.

  Before he could reign his rifle back in, Corser had closed the gap, and with one powerful swipe, knocked the weapon from the hostile’s grasp. It cartwheeled aside and tumbled down into the root of a nearby tree. Out of play. No use to anyone.

  Corser didn’t let up. He threw a devastating right hook which hit the kid in the cheekbone. His face crumpled under the force, and he fell backwards into the tree. The blow had stunned him, so Corser kicked him in the shin and brought him to his knees. Before he could recover, Corser danced around behind him, slipped his arm around the hostile’s neck and squeezed.

  It didn’t take long to kill the stranger. Panicked hands grappled against his arms, but it was no use. The boa constrictor had found its prey, and it would never yield. Every ounce of muscle in Corser’s arms contracted and tensed and crushed, until there was nothing left of him. His body relaxed. His arms dropped to his side. His heart stopped.

  Corser dumped the corpse and riffled through the pockets. The number of people who knew Corser’s purpose were minimal. He had never seen this young man in his life. How had this man found him, and why had he decided to shoot on sight? His pockets were empty. A security measure. Whoever had sent him had to factor in the possibility that the mission would be a failure. Wars had been lost on a rogue slip of paper making its way into the wrong pair of hands. Was this the start of a war?

  Corser left the corpse where it lay and returned to his rifle. The mission was still active, and the truck had not slowed to account for the disturbance. He tucked himself back into the alcove and lifted up the rifle once more. His heart was racing. Adrenaline coursed through his body. Now was not the time for it. He needed calm. He needed peace. Everything relied on this very moment. Everything.

  Corser found the truck in his sights. It was so close now. Almost in range. One thousand yards. His heart thumped in his chest. He had never battled with doubt before. He was too good. Too precise. But today, the sense of unease poisoned his mind.

  Breathe in. Breathe out.

  Corser felt oxygen flood into his lungs. He held it there for a moment. Savoured it. Then exhaled, long and slow, until he was depleted. He shut off his mind. Rid it of doubt. Focused solely on the feeling as the cold, pure oxygen flowed in and out of his body.

  Breathe in. Breathe out.

  The truck was ten seconds away.

  Breathe in. Breathe out.

  His heart slowed. His mind relaxed. He listened to his heartbeat. He needed to fire between the beats when his fingers were most still.

  Breathe in. Breathe out.

  The truck soared down the dirt track and passed through into Corser’s world.

  Breathe in. Breathe out.

  He squeezed the trigger.

  The .50 BMG round exploded from the muzzle and cut through the cold December air in a fraction of a second. It cut across the one thousand yards between the rifle and the truck in the time it took for the kick of the rifle to dig into Corser’s arm. But in that incredible display of speed and power, Corser felt like time had slowed to a standstill. Through the scope, he watched the bullet sail through the sky. Watched it drop and drift as it made its way across the land until finally it hit its target.

  The bullet smashed into the ground just shy of the front right tyre and dug into the dirt, lost to the world. The truck driver completely unaware, for a second, at least.

  Corser fired the second of his available five rounds moments later. Adjusting for the change took little to no time, but he knew that it meant the odds of a second failure were higher.

  The second bullet hit the roof of the truck. While Corser was too far away to hear the impact, he knew the driver would be shitting bricks.

  Two bullets down and no progress. Cage was an honest man, but not a forgiving one. If Corser returned with bad news… well, it wasn’t worth thinking what punishment he would enact.

  He slid the third round into the chamber and corrected again. The driver had upped the speed. Panicked by the ambush. The plume of dust jettisoning into the air behind the truck intensified, and it bounced higher on the track. A greater speed meant for a greater change in the trajectory. Corser ran the calculations in his mind and came to a conclusion.

  He aimed the rifle and fired.

  The third bullet smashed into the windscreen and hit the driver in the throat. As he watched through the magnified scope, blood splattered across the shattered screen, and hid the driver behind a wall of his own creation. The truck hooked right and flipped onto its side. It tumbled from the road, and came to a halt several yards down the verge, trapped between two rocks.

  Hastened by victory, Corser packed up his rifle and stuffed the canvas into his rucksack. He took the hike back to the Cadillac at close to a sprint. The terrain was rough, but nothing he wasn’t used to. He reached the car, climbed inside and fired up the engine, and traced the route back to the main dirt track.

  From there, it was a furtive dash down to the ruined truck. The driver had to be dead by now. No one survived a round to the throat. Not out here, where the chances of another vehicle rolling up were minimal. Even if someone did, it would be hours before emergency services arrived. Not that someone would get a cell phone reception out here. By the time the first responder appeared, Corser would be long gone. But even the possibility of someone arriving sent thoughts of panic through the soldier’s mind. He couldn’t rule it out.

  The truck was in a state. Shards of glass had spread far, as had tufts of dirt and shredded rubber. The vehicle itself had come to a halt when the roof had dug deep into the ground. The rear doors remained shut. The internal locking mechanics were capable of surviving worse than a crash. This Corser had expected, and prepared for in advance. From the trunk of the Cadillac, Corser retrieved a cordless circular saw.

  The saw was a devastating beast, capable of up to 3700 revolutions per minute, it would make easy work of the bolts. He fired it up and listened to the faint whir of the spinning circular blade. He allowed the saw a moment to get up to speed, and then he pushed it into the slit between the two closed doors.

  The shrill screech echoed across the land. Sparks jettisoned from the point where steel met steel. The bolt would ruin the blade eventually, but it didn’t matter. The saw would be destroyed in due course. Evidence always was. Corser forced the saw deeper into the vehicle. It resisted at first, but he didn’t let up.
He had six more identical blades in the trunk. He would burn through them all if needed. Every contingency had been planned for.

  In total, it took three blades to eat through the lock. The teeth of each worn down from a razor-blade to little more than a table knife. With every change, Corser discarded the scolding metal into the trunk, and replaced it in a matter of seconds. But as he neared the end of the third blade, he began to wonder whether they would be enough. A small breaching charge would do the trick, but Cage had insisted the contents remain intact. And what Cage wanted, Cage got.

  And of course Cage had been right. He always was. As the lock split in two, Corser dropped the saw, retrieved the Heckler & Koch from his holster and raised it up. He couldn’t count on the crash being enough to disable any guards hiding in the back. With one hand on the pistol, and one on the door handle, Corser swung it open and pointed the pistol inside.

  There was no guard inside. No pistol or rifle pointed defensively at him. But the truck wasn’t empty. Hanging by his arms at the far end of the truck was a man. His hands were shackled with handcuffs to a thick bolt in the floor, but in the chaos he had tumbled free. Now standing in a state of reluctant surrender, he looked wearily up at me.

  ‘You must be the cavalry,’ he groaned. His accent was strange. ‘You took your time.’

  Corser ignored him and scanned the rest of the truck. The man did not match the description they had been provided with. This had to be a bluff, or worse, a trap. He darted back out of the truck and scanned the surroundings. Was there someone out there, watching, waiting, ready to pounce? The surprise attack and incorrect information had to be connected. The sour taste of unease putrified in his stomach.

  ‘If you wouldn’t mind,’ the prisoner called out, ‘I’ve got an itch on my nose. Either come scratch it or cut me loose.’

  Corser stormed back inside the truck and thrust the Heckler & Koch into his throat.