Free Back Track by Jason Dean Page B

Panning upwards, Bishop saw he was leaning against the wall about ten feet away, close to the corner so he had a clear view of both corridors. He had close-cropped hair and was doing something on his cell phone that required both hands. Probably playing a game. He was also wearing lightly tinted aviator sunglasses, which made Bishop happy. There was no reason at all to wear sunglasses in here, so the guy clearly just wanted to look cool. Excellent. Still, Bishop wasn’t about to underestimate him. That’s how mistakes got made.
    Bishop got up, put the scope back in the case and took out a roll of duct tape and the cheap, disposable Samsung cell phone he’d picked up earlier. He placed the phone on the floor a few feet from the door, picked up the case and climbed the stairs to the next turn. He peered back and estimated the distance to the door was about twenty-five feet. Should be okay.
    He pulled his own cell from his jacket pocket and pressed a single key. Almost immediately the Pink Panther theme tune echoed through the stairwell from the Samsung down below. Bishop crouched down on a step out of sight and took the gun from his waistband. Checked it once more.
    And waited.

SIXTEEN
    After one hundred and seventeen seconds, Bishop heard the sound of the door opening.
    Bishop just stayed where he was and kept counting as the ringtone started up again. He gave the guy two seconds to cover the immediate area as he looked for the phone’s owner. He gave him another to realize one of the tenants must have dropped it on their way up or down. Bishop waited a further two seconds, then emerged from his place on the next landing, gun pointed downwards.
    The guard was in the act of picking up the cell phone with his left hand. He had an automatic in his right. The moment he stood up, Bishop aimed the M26 and fired.
    The compressed nitrogen in the Taser cartridge immediately propelled two darts at a speed of one hundred and eighty feet per second dead centre into the man’s chest, along with thirty-five feet of insulated wire and fifty thousand volts of electricity.
    The guard’s hands snapped open into claws and both gun and phone fell to the floor. Bishop sprinted down the stairs as the man landed on his back like a sack of wet towels, convulsing violently as the voltage surged through his nervous system. Bishop quickly wrapped the roll of duct tape around the man’s wrists four times and tore it off. Then the same with the ankles. All the while, the man’s eyes remained locked on his every move.
    Bishop calculated five or six seconds had passed since he’d fired. That was the average time for a person to stay incapacitated after being hit with one of these things. Sure enough, the man’s convulsions suddenly stopped on the six second mark.
    ‘Son of a
bitch
,’ he said, and kicked out at Bishop with his feet.
    Bishop sidestepped neatly and stamped his own heel into the man’s stomach. The guard let out a whoosh of air and curled up onto his side. Bishop knelt down, tore off another length of tape and pasted it over his mouth. He still needed to ask this guy some questions, but he’d have to make do with yes or no answers. He couldn’t risk him calling out for reinforcements.
    ‘Don’t move,’ Bishop said.
    The guy finally stopped struggling, but kept glaring at Bishop.
    Bishop pulled out his cell phone and ended the call. The stairwell went quiet again. He was already sick of that song. He pocketed the other cell and checked the guard’s gun. It looked like a Colt M1911 except the magazine extended out from the handle by about two inches. It was an OTs-33 Pernach, a lightweight Russian 9mm machine pistol he’d heard about back in his close protection days. Illegal as hell. He checked the 27-round magazine and saw it was full, with one in the chamber.
    In his wallet, he found a driver’s licence made out to an Anthony Holland. He also found a compact Motorola two-way radio clipped to his belt, which he attached to