Read The Double Tap (Stephen Leather Thrillers) for Free Online Page B

enough. The gun was sticking into the small of his back so he took it out and placed it on his lap. The Belgian-made Browning with its thirteen cartridges in the clip was a good weapon to have in a fire-fight against multiple opponents. As a rule, Cramer would never get himself into a position where he’d have to fire at more than two targets, but he knew that the situation he was heading for was the exception that proved the rule. A one-off. He field-stripped the gun and checked the firing mechanism, then reassembled it with well-practised movements before draining his mug. Another reason for choosing the Browning was its rugged reliability and the fact that it rarely jammed. In all his years in the SAS he’d never had one fail on him. He stood up, wincing as he did.
            The shoulder holster was hanging on the back of the front door, its supple leather glistening in the sun which filtered through the grimy windows. He eased it on, holstered the Browning, and slipped on his reefer jacket. He had a strong premonition that today was the day. The waiting was over.
           
           
           
           
    From his vantage point amid the ruins of St Mary’s Abbey, Paulie Quinn watched Cramer walk slowly down the road to the harbour, his hands in his pockets. Cramer kept his head bent down as if deep in thought. Paulie wondered what was going through the Sass-man’s mind, whether he knew that today would be his last day on earth. Paulie put his walkie-talkie next to his mouth. ‘He’s on his way,’ he said.
            ‘I see him,’ said Lynch who was sitting with Pat O’Riordan, parked in the yacht club car park.
            Paulie put the walkie-talkie back in his pocket and pressed the binoculars to his eyes. He didn’t want to miss a second. His only regret was that he wouldn’t be closer to the action. He’d much rather have been down on the road with his brother, but Lynch had said someone had to be up on the high ground, and he was the youngest. One day, thought Paulie with a tinge of bitterness, one day he wouldn’t be the youngest any more. He’d show them.
           
           
           
           
    Cramer noticed the glint out of the corner of his eye, a flash of light from the old church. His heart began to race and he took several deep breaths. He fought the urge to turn his head and to look up the hill as he walked around the bend in the road and saw the harbour stretched out before him.
            Two fishing boats were sailing away from the west pier leaving plumes of dirty grey smoke in their wake. Down on the beach two dark-haired men were throwing a stick for a black Labrador. They were walking slowly along the strip of sand, towards the marina. The dog raced back and forth, its bark whipped away in the wind before it could reach Cramer’s ears. Cramer recognised the dog, but not the men. There were several cars parked next to the yacht club building. Two men sat in one of the cars, not moving. Cramer rolled his head around, trying to loosen the muscles in his neck. He was tensing up, and this wasn’t the time to go stiff.
           
           
           
           
    ‘Right, let’s get the bastard,’ said Lynch, shoving his walkie-talkie into the glove compartment. He opened the door and went around to the boot. Leaning over his navy blue holdall, he slipped out the Kalashnikov while O’Riordan stood behind him, shielding him from the road. Lynch was wearing a long raincoat, open at the front, and he held the assault rifle inside, pressing it close to his body. ‘Okay,’ he said, stepping away from the car while O’Riordan pulled a handgun from the holdall and slid it into the pocket of his leather bomber jacket.
            They walked across the car park, the wind pulling at their hair and whipping up ripples in the puddles at their feet. Ahead of them, Cramer had stepped onto the sea wall and was walking out to the lighthouse.