Free Angel of Death by Jack Higgins Page B

by the second week.”
    “Philistine,” she said and turned to Lang. “What now — , Bridge?”
    “Actually, I have a shooting range in the barn. I thought you might like to try your hand.”
    For a moment, she stared at him and then she smiled. “Why not.”
     
     
    When Lang switched on the lights in the barn they disclosed a very professional shooting range with a wall of sandbags at the rear fronted by six-foot cardboard replicas of charging soldiers. An assortment of weaponry was laid out on several trestle tables, hand guns, machine pistols, and rifles.
    Curry lit a cigarette and stood watching. Lang picked the first pistol up. “Recognize this, our old friend the Beretta? This is how you load it.” He picked up an ammunition clip and rammed it in the butt. “Would you like to try?”
    “Why not.”
    He ejected the clip and handed her the Beretta. She loaded it for herself. “Good, now pull the slider and you’re in business, but don’t fire. Let me give you some ear muffs.” He adjusted them. “Good. Take aim, both eyes open, then squeeze gently.”
    She did as she was told, hitting the target she aimed at in the shoulder, firing one round after the other, a widely dispersed pattern. He showed her how to discharge the magazine.
    “Not bad. At least you hit him.”
    She was suddenly angry. “Could you do better?”
    Rupert slammed another magazine in the butt of the Beretta, pulled the slider, and his hand swung up. He fired three times very rapidly, shooting out the target’s eyes and putting the third in between. “My God!” she said.
    “He’s got nothing to do with it. I’ve got a selection for you here. Walther PPK, Browning, both similar to the Beretta, and a Smith & Wesson revolver.”
    She moved to the other table. “And this lot?”
    “Stun grenade, standard-type hand grenade. The rifles are an Armalite, AK-47, both with sonic noise suppressor — silencer to you. The big job is a Barret Light Fifty Rifle with a laser guide night sight. Fifty-round, that thing fires, guaranteed to penetrate a Kevlar at two thousand yards.”
    “A Kevlar?”
    “Flak jacket like the army wears in Ireland. Actually, I’ve got a neater job here, rather like a waistcoat. Titanium and nylon. Should suit you down to the ground.”
    She examined it. “You were sure of me, weren’t you? Do I get to try the rifles?”
    “Plenty of time, we have all week, but why not.”
    He reached for the AK-47, unfolded the butt, and Curry came forward. “Just one thing before you two start having fun.” He picked up the Walther, slammed in the magazine, and said to Grace, “Come on.”
    He walked down the range and paused about five feet from the targets. “You want to make sure? I’ll show you how.”
    He walked to the center target, held the gun to it, and pulled the trigger. “See what a brilliant marksman I am?”
    He came back to her. “But if that isn’t possible, never further away than five or six feet.”
    He raised the Walther and emptied it into the target.
    Grace said, “I get your point.”
    Curry turned, walked to the table, and put down the Walther. “She’s all yours, old lad,” he said and walked out.
     
FIVE
     
    It was a bright, clear morning, although rain threatened, and Grace Browning was enjoying herself on a track high up above the forest. She wore black biker’s leathers which Lang had provided and a rather sinister black helmet. Lang was riding behind her, wearing jeans and a bomber jacket but no helmet. Danger ran alongside them. After his initial instruction, it was fun to find how well she could handle the bike. He pulled in beside her, lit two cigarettes, and passed one to her.
    “You’ve got flair. Typical actor, I suppose. Chameleon-like ability to take on anything at short notice.”
    “Nothing typical about me, darling,” she said. “But I like physical things and this is fun.”
    “Good. You’ve mastered the rudiments. We’ll take a twenty-mile run round the moor