The Increment Page 2

  The village was dirt poor. A single street, with three mud tracks running down from it, the water collecting in big, thick, muddy puddles. In total, there were about twenty houses, three of them still half built, and another two bomb-damaged. A group of small boys were playing football at the end of the street, two old car seats propped up to make the goal posts. One of them looked up at the men tramping down the street, but showed no interest. One of his mates shouted at him to get back in goal.

  The kids around here are used to seeing men with guns. It's just like growing up in south London.

  Jamakovic's house was at the end of the mud track. Maybe ten years old, it was built in the worker's paradise style of the old Yugoslav regime: a flat two-storey box, made from cheap concrete breeze blocks that had badly stained in the harsh weather. There was a big Toyota SUV on the drive, and a ten-metre satellite dish in the garden.

  'Ready?' whispered Matram a step away from the entrance.

  Harton and Unsworth both nodded.

  'Then go.'

  The door gave way easily enough. Two clean shots shattered the locks, and one high kick sent the door flying open. Harton and Unsworth swept through the hallway, their guns primed and ready to fire. Abram, Matt and Matram moved in behind them. Upstairs, they could hear shouting, and the sound of a woman screaming. The three men started running upstairs.

  'In here,' shouted Matram, pointing through the first door off the hallway.

  Matt held the Smith & Wesson tight in his right hand, and turned into the sitting room. A television, two DVDs on the floor – cheap-looking pirated copies of The Mummy Returns and Die Another Day, the titles written in German – and a couple of empty wine bottles. Otherwise empty. He walked through to the kitchen. Empty. The bathroom, the same.

  The sound of gunfire echoed through the house: the explosions were muffled by the ceiling, but Matt could still make out the screams as the bullets tore into their victims. He started walking cautiously up the stairs, holding his gun in front of him. A single light bulb was swinging on the landing, but the curtains were closed, and the rooms were shrouded in darkness.

  Jamakovic was lying on the bed, his mouth open and his hair matted with blood. One eye has been shot out, and another three bullet holes had punctured his lungs, sending blood spilling out across the black sheets. His girlfriend was lying next to him, clinging on to a pillow, as if it were a shield. She had green eyes, a thin, pale body, and streaked blonde hair: there was a tattoo of a Ferrari just above her belly button, Matt noticed. She was trying to say something, but the terror had paralysed her and the words stuck in her throat: small gasps of air were all she could struggle up to her lips.

  'You've done a nice job,' said Matram, smiling towards Harton. 'You can finish her if you like.'

  'You want this one quick, sir,' said Harton, 'or should she bleed to death as well?'

  Matram shrugged. 'Don't care. She's yours.'

  Harton moved towards the girl. He was a short, stocky man, just five foot five, but built like a dog: his muscles bulged from his clothes, and every bone seemed thick and heavy. He yanked the girl by the hair, tugging her neck backwards.

  'You look nice,' he whispered. 'We'll make it quick.'

  Slowly, he put his Smith & Wesson to her right ear. She struggled, trying to break free, but Harton's thick, meaty palms were already pressing down hard on her shoulders making movement impossible. He squeezed the trigger gently, sending the bullet straight through her brain. A small cloud of dust splattered downwards on to the sheets, as the bullet shattered through her skull and hit the wall behind.

  That's not soldiering, thought Matt.

  Matram walked across the room, checked she was dead, then looked back at the men. 'Right then, who wants to get clipped?'

  'Someone's getting clipped?' asked Matt.

  Matram looked across at him. 'I trust you know what the word means, Browning,' he said, 'or have you only ever played toy soldiers before?'

  Clipped, thought Matt, repeating the word to himself. That means one of us has to take a bullet.

  'I know what it means, sir, I just don't know why it's necessary.'

  'Christ, man, this is Bosnia, the place is under UN control and it's bloody crawling with social workers, international inspectors, CNN film crews, and half the do-gooders in Europe,' Matram snapped. 'The reason somebody gets clipped is because if none of us gets wounded, it won't look like there was a proper fight.' He raised an eyebrow. 'Somebody might think we had just assassinated the bastard.'

  All five of them were standing in the room, four of them looking straight at Matram. He took a coin from his pocket, tossing it into the air. 'Heads, Harton and Unsworth. Tails, Abram and Browning.' The coin landed on the back of his palm, and Matram glanced down. 'Tails.' He tossed the coin back into the air, watching as it spun upwards. 'Heads, Abram. Tails, Browning.'

  The coin landed on his palm. Matram looked down at it, his eyes sparkling with amusement. He looked back up towards Matt. 'My my, tails,' he said slowly. 'Looks like you're the lucky winner. Roll up your trousers, we'll make it a nice easy flesh wound in the calf. After all, we don't want to hurt you.'

  Matt held his ground.

  He had been shot three times before: an arm wound in the Gulf, then a stomach wound in Bosnia and leg wound in the Philippines. He'd listened to old soldiers in the mess bar back in Hereford boasting about how bullet wounds didn't hurt so much once you got used to them. Good to get a couple under your belt just so you weren't scared of them any more, they would say as they downed the pints. Makes a soldier of you. Matt joined in the laughter, but he knew it was all just mess-room bravado. A bullet was a terrible shot of pain, like nothing you would ever experience again: the metal thudded into your skin, ripping it open, then burnt its way through your flesh, smashing open your veins and nerves. As soon as it hit, a faint, sickly smell of charred, butchered flesh started to rise up to your nostrils, and the sudden loss of blood sent your head spinning, shutting down your vision and clouding your brain.

  He didn't mind getting shot at if he had to, if it was in the line of battle. But this was just public relations.

  'Nobody needs to get clipped, sir.'

  Matram walked a pace forward, standing a yard from Matt's face. 'Are you afraid, Browning?'

  Matt stood rock steady. 'I just don't think it's necessary, sir. It's not soldiering. We shouldn't be ashamed of what we do.'

  Matram stepped another pace forward, his eyes bearing down on Matt. 'You don't know how to deliver a bullet, and you don't know how to take one either,' he said, his tone cold. 'You're not Increment material. Not now, never will be. You're a bloody coward.'

  'If you are failing me, you're the bloody coward.'

  'You should watch who you level that accusation at.'

  'A coward, sir, because you don't want anyone in your unit who might question your judgement.'

  Matt could see Matram's muscles flexing: his skin was flushed with anger, and his eyes were full of rage. 'I'll meet you again, on a different battlefield, Browning,' he snarled. 'And then I'll teach you some bloody manners.'

  Matt turned round, and walked from the room. He stepped downstairs, and strode out along the muddy dirt track that led away from the village. The wind was blowing harder now, and the rain had started to fall: a fierce, cold sleet that caught up in the air and crashed straight into your face.

  He knew he would never be part of the Increment now. That didn't matter, he didn't want to be. If he wanted to, he could stay in the army: he'd just have to ask for a different unit.

  But somewhere inside Matt knew that his options were closing down. A decision that had been building up for a year or more was suddenly hardening within him. There was no getting away from it. He couldn't be an ordinary soldier for ever, and yet he couldn't turn himself into a Rupert either.

  It doesn't matter what happens. My time in the regiment is coming to a close. The moment to start thinking about the rest of my life has arrived.


  ONE

  Jack Matram ran his eyes across the two men sitting behind him in the car. Simon Clipper was the taller of the pair: six foot three, with short blond hair, green eyes, and a gentle, sloping smile. In his George jeans from Asda, and a blue cotton T-shirt, he blended in naturally with the neat rows of suburban houses stretching into the background. Frank Trench was shorter: about five foot eight, with jet-black hair, blue eyes, a crooked smile.

  They had a rugged, easy charm about them. In civilian clothes, the pair of them looked just like any two men on their way down to the pub. Perfect, decided Matram.

  Twelve months into their two-year tour of duty with the Increment, Matram knew he could rely on them. Clipper had eleven assassinations under his belt, Trench eight. All of them had been textbook. Lie in wait, move in quickly, dispatch the target, and come back to base without even breaking into a sweat.

  They would do what they were told. Killers didn't come any better trained than these two.

  'Barry Legg,' said Matram softly. 'That's the name of tomorrow's target.'

  Clipper and Trench looked down at the photo Matram had just handed each of them. Maybe thirty-five, with brown hair and a round face, he looked as unremarkable as the modern housing estate on the outskirts of Swindon where he was now living. Both men folded the picture in half, tucked it into the breast pockets of their shirts, then looked silently back up at Marram.

  'On Wednesday, his son Billy has after-school football practice,' said Matram. 'It's about a mile across open fields from this estate to the training ground. The practice finishes at seven, but Legg likes to watch the boys kicking a ball about so he's usually there a bit early. He should be passing this precise spot sometime around six tomorrow evening.'

  He paused, pointing out towards the fields. 'You'll be waiting here for him. Follow him into the field, then kill him. He shouldn't give you any trouble.'

  Clipper nodded. 'Will he be alone?'

  'Almost certainly,' answered Matram. 'If he isn't, you may have to take out whoever is with him as well. But I'll be watching from a distance. If I don't like the look of anything, you'll hear from me.'

  'Guns OK?' said Trench. 'Or knives?'

  'Guns,' said Matram. 'I want this done fast, and I want it done clean.'

  He glanced down at his watch. It was just before seven, and the evening light was already starting to fade. In the distance, he could see a pair of young mothers lugging their buggies home. Past them, two guys were walking towards the pub for an early-evening drink. Another quiet night in the Swindon suburbs.

  The sound of glasses being clicked together and of chicken and steaks frying on the grill greeted Matt as he stepped into the back room of the Last Trumpet. He pulled the sweat-stained T-shirt off his back, chucking it towards the pile of dirty clothes stacked up in the washroom..

  A shower, and then a beer, he decided. Looks like a fine evening ahead.

  The run had done him good. It had been a hot start to the summer along the southern Spanish coast. Now it was June, the temperatures were hitting the early forties. A five-mile jog along the beach had left him drained and dehydrated but also sharpened up his mind. That was what Matt liked about running. As you pushed your muscles, you also pushed your mind.

  In truth, there wasn't much to worry about, Matt had reflected as his feet pounded against sand that had baked bone dry in the midday sun. There was money in the bank from what he had promised Gill was absolutely the last job he would ever go on. Their debts on the Last Trumpet were all paid off, and although the bar and restaurant only ticked over financially during the winter and spring months, it should start making some real cash over the summer. The hard core of regulars, mostly Londoners who had decamped to the Costa del Sol for a few years, meant it could always break even: the tourists who tumbled off the easyJet flights into Malaga through July and August, their pockets bulging with euros, provided the profits for the year. It was a solid, dependable business, one that could be relied upon to make a good enough living to support a family. And the house they were building half a mile down the coastline was almost finished. True, Jose and his gang of Moroccans who actually seemed to do all the building work for him had slipped a bit on their deadlines. But a Deptford boy like Matt wasn't going to get worked up about a few cowboy builders. Everyone has to make a living, he told himself. And right now, he could afford a few extra expenses.

  I've hit the good groove. All I have to do now is hold that note.

  He stepped out of the shower. The water was dripping off his shoulders as he wrapped the towel around himself, and started searching around for a clean pair of chinos. Matt paused, as he felt a pair of warm lips brush against the back of his neck. He remained still, letting her tongue tickle the back of his ear. Slowly, his hands moved backwards, pulling her groin closer towards him.

  'Let me guess,' he said, still not turning round. 'It's that slapper from Reading I saw at the back of the bar. Fresh off the Luton flight, too many cocktails, not enough sun cream, and now completely off her face even though it's not even sunset. We'll have to make it a quick one, babe. My fiancée's knocking about the place somewhere.'

  Gill gripped him tighter, her arms circling around his chest. 'And what would this fiancee of yours say,' she whispered, 'if she caught you with another girl?'

  Matt chuckled. 'Chop us both into little pieces. Got a bit of a temper.'

  Matt turned round, kissing Gill on the lips. Her fingers ran along his chest, slipping into the towel he had wrapped around his waist. The flimsy white cotton dress she was wearing flapped in the light breeze blowing in from the sea, and as Matt ran his fingers along her back, he could feel her skin softening beneath his touch. He buried his face into her neck, pulling her body tight in close to his. Her hair fell across his face, stroking his skin.

  No matter how many times we make love, she is always fresh and different each time. Maybe that's why I'm marrying her.

  With one swift movement of his hand, the strap holding the dress broke away. It dropped to the floor, and Gill stood naked before him.

  The bar was livelier than Matt had expected. A Tuesday night, you didn't always get that many people. The English along the coast got hammered at the weekend, then slowly nursed themselves back into shape. It wasn't until Wednesday they started drifting back into the bars and restaurants, and it was Friday before they were ready for a long session. They might be a thousand miles from home, but their drinking habits, along with their accents, never changed.

  He recognised several of the faces. Bob, an ex-army guy who worked as a security consultant for some of the Russian tycoons who had houses along the coast. Sharing a pint with him was Keith, an old London lawyer who'd spent the first half of his working life as a prosecutor trying to extradite some of the villains who lived out in Spain, and was now spending the second half defending them from getting shipped back home. There were men growing comfortably old while Keith spun out appeal after appeal, and some of them were regulars here as well.

  We ask no questions, Matt had decided when he first opened the bar. Any man who can settle his bill is welcome at the Last Trumpet.

  At one of the tables looking out on to the sea, Matt could see Penelope and Suzie. The more times Suzie dropped the phrase 'late thirties' into her conversation, the more you knew she was never going to blow out that number of candles on her birthday cake again. Both women had been divorced in the last two years, and they were sharing a bottle of Chilean white. Matt didn't need to listen to know what they were talking about. They were complaining about their ex-husbands, and gossiping about any new available men who might get snapped up.

  Many of the villains along the Spanish coast traded in their wives every time a fresh job hauled in a new lump of cash. These two were like a pair of late-model Ford Sierras: still useful for getting around in, but there wasn't much demand now their men had all upgraded to Mondeos.