Jim Eldridge - Jungle Kill

JUNGLE

KILL

JIM ELDRIDGE

EGMONT
We bring Stories to life

Black Ops: Jungle Kill
First published 2010
by Egmont UK Limited
239 Kensington High Street
London W8 6SA

Text copyright 2010 Jim Eldridge

The moral rights of the author have been asserted

ISBN 978 1 4052 4780 1

1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

www.egmont.co.uk

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

Typeset by Avon DataSet Ltd, Bidford on Avon, Warwickshire
Printed and bound in Great Britain by the CPI Group

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher

First e-book edition 2010
ISBN: 978-1-4052-5935-4

For Lynne, without whom this would never have been written.

The pistol in Paul Mitchells hand was an H&K Mark 23. The man Mitchell was pointing it at stood with his hands clasped to the top of his head, sweat and blood running down his face. He looked terrified.

This is the Mark 23, Mitch told the man coolly, one of the finest guns in the world. Right now its fully loaded and fixed with a silencer. No one will hear it if it fires.

The man glanced around agitatedly. He had come at Mitch out of the bushes surrounding the building just a few minutes before, levelling an assault rifle. A Kalashnikov the AK-47. He should have shot Mitch then, and his troubles would have been over. But hed thought Mitch was unarmed. That was his first mistake. His second mistake was to assume that because Mitch looked young he would have no real fighting experience. Mitch was young, but hed served in the army since he was seventeen. And his last year had been with Special Forces.

The mans third mistake was to step towards Mitch and poke him in the chest with the end of the rifle barrel. Never do that to someone whos been Special Forces trained. First rule of pointing a gun at anyone: if they appear unarmed, theres no need to put yourself within reach of them. Mitch had knocked the Kalashnikov to one side then kicked the man in the groin. As he went down Mitch snatched the rifle from him and hit him in the face with the butt.

Mitch had then dumped the Kalashnikov on the ground and pulled out the Mark 23. Im going to throw a mobile phone on to the ground near you, Mitch said calmly, keeping the pistol aimed firmly at the mans head. Youre going to bend down and pick it up. This gun will be aimed at your head the whole time. If you attempt to make a run for it, or use the mobile phone as a weapon or a diversion, I will shoot you. Is that clear? Nod if you understand.

The man nodded slowly. Mitch reached into his pocket, took out a mobile phone and gently tossed it so it landed on the gravel.

You can take your hands off the top of your head, but spread them. Keep them away from your body. Bend down and pick up the phone.

The man hesitated, then did as he had been told. Mitch kept the gun on him, not wavering.

Dial Mr Zakhovskys private number.

I dont have it, the man began, but he shut up abruptly when he saw the expression on Mitchs face.

Believe me, mate, Mitch snapped, if you dont have it then youre no use to me and I might as well kill you right now. So, lets try that again. Dial Mr Zakhovskys private number.

The man began to dial, his hands shaking as he did so. He was obviously scared of what Mr Zakhovsky would do to him. But Mitch was the one holding a gun on him right now.

He finished dialling and held the phone out to Mitch, but Mitch shook his head and gestured for him to put it to his own ear. When the person on the other end of the line answered, he began to stammer out an apology in Russian.

Stop, Mitch ordered. Tell him Paul Mitchell is here.

The man said something more in rapid Russian, then listened, nodding. He held out the mobile to Mitch.

Mr Zakhovsky wants to talk to you.

OK, said Mitch. Put the phone on the ground, put your hands back on your head and then step back six paces. Slowly.

The man complied with the order. Mitch followed, equally slowly, keeping the gun trained on the mans face. When Mitch reached the phone he bent down, picked it up and put it to his ear, still aiming the gun.

Hello! Hello! a voice was saying impatiently.

Mr Zakhovsky, said Mitch. I understand you want to see me.

How did you get into my private residence? the man on the other end of the phone demanded angrily.

Thats my business, answered Mitch. Ill be waiting for you tomorrow at ten a.m. in the lobby of the Excelsior Hotel in Knightsbridge. I think you know it.

Mitch was taking no chances. Zakhovsky owned quite a few hotels in London but the Excelsior Hotel wasnt one of them. Thered be little chance of him rigging an ambush there at such short notice. Zakhovsky would come with his own protection, of course, but Mitch would be prepared.

There was a pause, then, Very well, Zakhovsky snapped tersely, I will see you tomorrow at ten a.m.

Good, said Mitch.

And one more thing, Zakhovsky sneered. The fool you are holding at gunpoint. He has failed me. Kill him.

Oh no, Mr Zakhovsky, replied Mitch, smiling. I dont work for you yet. Well talk about it tomorrow.

As Mitch hung up, he bent down and picked up the Kalashnikov.

You can go now, he told the man. Keep walking away from me for a count of one hundred. Slowly. Keep your hands on your head. Dont look back. If you do, Ill have to shoot you. Understood?

The man nodded. He looked like he was going to collapse with relief.

Go, said Mitch.

The man turned and began walking away, hands still on his head. Mitch gave him a count of ten and then made his exit, back the way hed come.

It had all begun when Zakhovskys private secretary had contacted Mitch a few days earlier and asked him to visit Zakhovsky at his mansion in Regents Park. He had told Mitch that Mr Zakhovsky had some bodyguarding work hed like to talk to him about.

Mitch had agreed to meet Zakhovsky, and had then hit the Internet to find out more about his potential client. He already knew a little because the press liked to document Zakhovskys wheelings and dealings, but he knew hed get more after digging on the web.

Cutting through a lot of rubbish, Mitch had learnt that Leonid Zakhovsky was a Russian whod made millions no, make that billions as the major shareholder of a large energy firm in Russia. When the Russian government began demanding large sums of money from him in taxes, Mr Zakhovsky had moved to Britain, taking most of his money with him.

But none of that explained why Zakhovsky wanted to see Mitch. Zakhovsky lived in a huge mansion in the heart of London, protected by state-of-the-art security equipment and with a bunch of Russian heavies at his disposal. But business was business, and a billionaire with money to throw around was always an attractive proposition, so Mitch decided not to question it further.

Then just as Mitch had been getting ready to call on Zakhovsky hed received a text message. The message had been brief: Danger at Zakhovsky house. Even stranger, the text had been in Igbo, one of the tribal languages of Nigeria. Why? Who knew Mitch well enough to know that he spoke Igbo?

Mitch had gone to Zakhovskys house anyway, but undercover, his curiosity aroused. And so far his curiosity had paid off. But that was yesterday.