Free The John Milton Series: Books 1-3 by Mark Dawson

sport, shooting fish in a barrel.

Chapter Eighteen
    SOMEONE HAD overturned the table with the urns of coffee and tea. Milton watched through the scope as his fifth and final target sheltered behind it. He fired. An inch of plywood was like a skin of tissue to a fifty-calibre bullet travelling at 27,000 feet per second. Another huge bloom of blood splashed out onto the beige-coloured wall.
    Milton stopped shooting.
    His ears were ringing.
    “Is it done?” Su-Yung said.
    The next sound he heard, unmistakeably, even at this distance, was the muffled sound of screaming.
    “It’s done.”
    The unfinished room was full of the smell of burnt powder. Milton pushed himself backward on his toes and his forearms, moving away from the window. He swept the six spent shell cases into a pile. He scooped them into his hands and dropped them into his pocket. They were hot to the touch.
    “How many?”
    “Five,” Milton said.
    “But you only shot six times. You hit five?”
    Milton nodded.
    “Extraordinary.”
    Milton indicated the rifle. “I just point and shoot.”
    “That is a painful lesson for them to learn. And in their own building.”
    Milton said nothing.
    “We must go,” Su-Yung said. “They will close down the area. We must not be here when that happens. Your cover will not stand up to scrutiny.”
    Milton came to his knees and stood up. He closed the plastic sheeting again, feeding the ties through the corresponding eyelets and tightening them. There was no sign that he had ever even been here. He wrapped the rifle in the blanket again, and they made their way back down the stairwell. The garage was still deserted, gloomy and silent, although the sound of sirens was audible from outside. Su-Yung went to the van, but when she turned back to Milton, she looked concerned.
    “What is it?”
    “Kun was supposed to meet us here. He was going to drive you out of the city.”
    “He’s been delayed?”
    “No, he would not allow that to happen. My brother is a very dependable man. I am afraid that he must have been arrested.” She frowned, composing herself, and then set her face with a stern expression. “It is no matter. I know where you need to go. I will drive you.” She opened the door and pulled herself inside. “Quickly. We cannot wait.”
    Milton tossed the rifle inside and got in after it, sliding the side door closed. Su-Yung reversed and, driving with particular care, drove them up the ramp and out onto the street. Milton risked a glance out of the window: the crowd from the square was beginning to disperse, hundreds of people choking the pavements, some of them walking in the road. There was no sign that anything was amiss. The noise of his six shots would have been absorbed by the clamour of the parade. Milton doubted that these people would ever know what had just taken place three hundred feet above their heads; the regime would suppress the news, replacement generals would be promoted to fill the spots vacated by the dead, and little would change. But those men would know, now, that they were not safe, not even in the redoubt of their own capital.
    Milton sat quietly in the back, shielded from observation. He knew that if they were stopped, it would be almost certain that he would be seen, and if that happened, there would be more bloodshed. He laid down the sniper rifle and collected the M-4 instead. He popped the magazine free and checked the load. He slid it back into the port and punched it home with the heel of his hand. Then, he took the tracking device from his pocket. It was small, about half the size of a smartphone, and would transmit his location and receive the location of his destination via the American military’s GPS satellite network. It was accurate to a metre, and the battery was good for a week. That ought to be long enough. He thumbed the switch, and a red light glowed to signify that the unit was active.
    Su-Yung drove on.

Chapter Nineteen
    MILTON KILLED the engine of the boat