Conspiracy Thriller 4 E-Book Bundle. Scott Mariani
lighting up the church. But within the next second, Ben would have delivered the lethal blow to Gant’s throat or the base of the nose with the edge of his hand.
Once he’d seized control of the MP5, he’d have to neutralise the knifeman without touching Jude. Difficult. Not impossible. Ben had spent countless hours of his past in the killing house at Hereford training with the MP5 for exactly such contingencies.
The two pistol shooters would have time to fire in the exchange. Ben would take at least two bullets before he could cut them down. He was realistic about that – but at this point, he was past caring about his own skin. Only Jude’s mattered.
Gant gave a curt shake of the head, and Ben’s plan fell apart in an instant. ‘Do it properly and I won’t shoot. Thumb and forefinger. Nice and slow. Slide the map out and toss it on the ground.’
Ben did as he’d been told. Very cautiously and deliberately, he opened the left side of his jacket, reached to the inside pocket and slipped out the local map he’d bought on the way to Saint-Christophe. He dangled it between thumb and forefinger, then skimmed it across the floor towards the tall man.
It fell short. Exactly as Ben had intended it to.
Gant tutted reprovingly. ‘Bad throw.’
‘Sorry about that,’ Ben replied.
Gant moved forward a step. Then another. His eyes flicked down towards the floor, and he began to stoop to pick up the map. He was within range now, just.
This was it. Ben had played his last and only card, and once Gant got a close-up look at the map and realised what it was, it would be over. Jude would die. Ben would too, if he was lucky. Otherwise, they might just take him away to be tortured and then dump his ravaged body in a ditch somewhere.
Ben’s body tensed as he watched Gant bend to pick up the map. It would have to be a frenzied assault, several moves blurred seamlessly into one, the fastest he’d ever moved in his life. Faster than razor-honed carbon steel could slash through human flesh, faster than fingers could twitch against triggers.
Ben realised he was trembling in fear. Not for himself, but for Jude.
He’s your son.
Gant’s sharp eyes were off him and he was too intent on the map to see the attack coming.
Ben lashed out. Felt the toe of his shoe connect against Gant’s face. Heard the grunt of pain as the man’s head snapped back and sideways. Ben launched himself at the MP5.
And the inside of the church exploded in a flurry of gunfire.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
It was in moments like these that the principles of physics fell away, milliseconds suddenly became like hours and you really did have time to review your entire life in the time it took for a bullet to cross the space between a gun muzzle and your brain. In stop-frame slow-motion, Ben saw Gant’s face split open and the blood fly from the impact of the kick. Felt his knee connect with his enemy’s ribs and the cold steel of the submachine gun in his hands as he wrestled it violently from the man’s grip. He heard the report of the first silenced pistol shot and the searing whistle of the bullet pass his ear. And heard Jude’s scream from somewhere a million miles beyond his reach at the other side of the church.
Gant kicked and struggled. Ben ripped the gun from his hands and rolled across the floor. Whumph. Whumph. The silenced pistols letting fly.
In a semi-instant snatched in his peripheral vision Ben thought he saw a figure standing in the church archway. Then through the mayhem sounded a percussive, ear-shattering boom. A flash of white-orange flame and a rolling mushroom of smoke. Then another, crashing through Ben’s eardrums like a clap of thunder.
Ben didn’t know what was happening. He only knew that he had control of the MP5 now. He could virtually feel the dreaded knife blade cutting into Jude’s flesh, as though it were his own. Driving another pitiless blow into Gant’s bloody face he raised the submachine gun and took instinctive aim at the big guy with the knife. In the semi-darkness, disorientated by the explosions and the flashes, he couldn’t even see the sights. He felt the trigger break under the pressure of his finger and the weapon gave a judder in his hand as it spat a three-round burst of 9mm shells in less than a fifth of a second.
Jude fell to one side, the knifeman to the other. Jude hit the floor with his shoulder and rolled. The knifeman hit the floor flat on his back and didn’t move.
Ben whipped around to see one of the two pistol shooters lying twisted on the ground. The other squeezed off a shot that ricocheted off the stone wall. Ben realised he was shooting at the figure who’d appeared in the archway and was half-hidden in swirling white smoke.
A third crashing fiery blast filled the church. The pistol shooter was lifted off his feet and sprawled backwards in the dirt.
By then, Ben had was already running over to Jude, calling his name. He saw the blood soaking Jude’s clothes – then realised that almost all of it was spatter from the dead knifeman. The cut on Jude’s neck was superficial. Ben dropped the MP5 and helped him to his feet.
As quickly as it had kicked off, the fight was over. Three men lay dead on the floor of the church. One killed by Ben, two by the mysterious new arrival, who was still standing near the archway, holding a large revolver. White smoke trickled from its barrel and floated up to join the pall that drifted in the air. It smelled pungently of rotten eggs. Old-fashioned gunpowder, the stench that had filled a million battlefields of days gone by.
Gant, the leader of the men, was on his knees and elbows groaning and bleeding liberally from his smashed nose and teeth. Injured and groggy, but still a threat. Seeing one of the fallen pistols nearby he made a sudden and surprisingly fast lunge for it.
‘Ah, non, non. Pas si vite,’ said the figure in the archway, raising the smoky revolver and deftly cocking the hammer with his thumb. Flame burst from its barrel. The gunshot flattened Gant into the dirt like a crushed beetle.
Ben left Jude standing propped against a stone wall and turned to face the new arrival. ‘Thanks, but I might have wanted to talk to him,’ he said sternly, pointing at Gant’s bleeding body.
The man shrugged. ‘That is no way to greet someone who has just saved your life,’ he said gruffly in French.
Ben peered at him. Where had he seen him before? He was about Ben’s height, ten or a dozen years older, bearded and dark and wearing a chequered work shirt. Then Ben remembered: he’d been one of the group standing at the bar in Saint-Christophe that evening. The guy who’d been doing some kind of business with Moustache and left counting his money.
‘Who are you?’ Ben asked.
‘My name is Jacques Rabier. I knew Fabrice Lalique, and like you, I would like to discover the truth about what happened to him.’ He kicked one of the corpses as if it were a sack of grain. ‘It seems I was not the only person interested in talking to you tonight.’
‘Was it you who called me?’
Rabier shook his head. ‘I think perhaps it was one of your friends here, no? You have walked into a trap, mon vieux.’
‘How did you find us?’
‘This is a small village. I knew where you and your son were staying.’
‘He’s not my son,’ Ben replied with a total lack of conviction.
Rabier raised an eyebrow. ‘He looks like you.’
‘What’s he saying?’ Jude groaned in the background, nursing his cut neck. He looked pale and shaky.
‘Nothing,’ Ben told him. ‘Keep talking,’ he said to Rabier in French.
‘I was coming to speak with you when I saw you leaving the hotel in a hurry, and I followed you here. I thought this was a strange place for you to come, so I watched to see what you were doing. Then these