Free Deathlist by Chris Ryan

operators, I’d be looking to put as much distance between myself and the rest of the SAS as possible, he thought. I sure as fuck wouldn’t leg it down the side of the Fan towards the exact point where the other instructors and students were busy forming up. But now Porter set eyes on the Storey Arms, and he remembered the fleeting movement he’d glimpsed in the first-floor window.
    And right there and then, he instinctively knew that whatever he’d seen in the Storey Arms had something to do with the two ramblers and the shooting on top of the Fan. He didn’t know what it was. But his guts told him that if he didn’t hurry up Vowden and Skimm wouldn’t be the only casualties that day.
    Porter took a deep breath and charged down the track.

TWELVE
    0717 hours.
    Three minutes to go.
    The six-man team made their final preparations. Weapons were checked. Clips were inserted into mag receivers. Rounds were chambered, charging handles pulled, body armour strapped on and spare clips stashed in pockets where they could be easily accessed. They put on black three-holed ski masks to hide their faces. Each man also pocketed his fake passport, driver’s licence and credit cards, and straps of cash. The IDs had been sourced from a professional art forger called Schmidtt who ran a side business in faked documents. They were the best on the market. Even a seasoned border official wouldn’t be able to tell the difference.
    The men kept their chatter to a minimum. There was no reason to speak now. Everyone knew their job. There was just the sharp mechanical click and clatter of six men preparing to go to war.
    At 0718 hours, Stankovic left the five others and exited the building through the rear door. He stepped out into the camping area immediately behind the Storey Arms, screened from view of the main road and the soldiers resting in the car park. In his right hand Stankovic carried a juice bottle filled with half liquid soap flakes and half petrol. In his left hand, he carried a large gym bag filled with half a dozen pairs of trousers and shirts and shoes. The clean clothes were for changing into once they’d bugged out of the Brecons and reached the RV at Merthyr Tydfil. The juice bottle was for torching the van, their old clothes and weapons, erasing any trace of the six men.
    Stankovic paced round the back of the Storey Arms and made a beeline for the small parking area to the side of the building, fifty metres to the east. Several wheelie bins were racked up like bowling pins across the back of the blacktop, next to a Transit van. The Transit was one of the new models with the 2.5-litre diesel engine and the curved-box design. It had been paid for in cash and the plates were clean. Stankovic swung around to the back of the van. He popped open the back doors, dumped the gym bag and the juice bottle in the back. Closed the doors, paced around to the driver’s side door and climbed behind the wheel. Shoved the key in the ignition, gripped the wheel, and waited.
    At 0719 hours, Bill Deeds and the other four guys made their way to the front door. Even Kavlak started to feel nervous now. He could sense the invisible rope tightening around his chest, the sweat leaking out of his palms. The men formed up either side of the door. Kavlak and Petrovich to the right, Markovic, Dragan and Deeds to the left. In addition to his AK-47 and Glock-17, Kavlak carried a set of portable traffic spikes to lay across the road and delay the cops. He set down the spikes and checked his watch.
    Twenty seconds to go.
    Petrovich was anxious. The assault rifle was shaking in his grip. It was time for his nephew to man the fuck up, Kavlak decided. Time to stop pretending to kill people in video games, and do it for real. To show that he was worthy of being in the gang. He dug out the remote-controlled detonator from his pocket and offered it to Petrovich. The kid froze, not comprehending.
    The dumb fuck.
    ‘Uncle?’
    ‘Here,’ said Kavlak. ‘You do