Fit For Purpose Julian Parrott (best ebook reader for chromebook TXT) 📖

“I’m going on foot,” he shouted to his two agents. “Stay here.”

He jumped off the purple narrowboat and began to run down the towpath towards the Periwinkle. He darted into the woods on the side of the towpath and used the trees for cover. He stopped when he felt he was in shooting distance of the Periwinkle. Kamenev was a good shot and he was confident of bringing anyone down who stepped out on to the stern deck.

Inside the Periwinkle’s cabin, Tom knelt in front of the little Morso stove and opened an almost invisible hatch in the oak planked floor. He retrieved a small fire safe and unlocked its combination in a fluid movement. Nia moved closer and peeped over his shoulder. She saw passports, some legal looking papers, cash and, troublingly, a heavy semi-automatic pistol with an extra ammunition clip.

Tom picked up the pistol, a Browning Hi-power. Expertly, automatically, he cleared the breach, released the magazine that nestled in the pistol’s handle, checked it, slid the magazine back, chambered a round, and clicked the safety catch to off. He turned to Nia. She stared into his eyes and noticed that his eyes had almost turned flint black. Tom’s pupils had dilated almost across his entire irises, his jaw was set, and he clenched his teeth. It was as if his face had become one of chiselled granite. His look of grim determination momentarily scared her.

“Stay here,” he commanded. “Call the police. Tell them they’ll need an armed response unit and they should contact the security services.” He attempted a smile, “I’ll be back.”

Nia nodded but reached out her hand and touched him on the shoulder. “Tom,” she said. “Don’t kill anyone, I couldn’t stand it if you did.”

Tom paused momentarily. “I can’t promise that Nia. These are different people. Not London street thugs. They’re a Russian hit squad. I think it’s, literally, us or them.” He pushed past her and moved swiftly through the narrowboat. He turned momentarily to look back at Nia. “I’m sorry,” he said then moved quickly up the stern steps and was gone.

Kamenev observed the Periwinkle from the thick undergrowth at the canal’s side. He watched as Tom jumped off the stern and ran towards the Russian narrowboat down the towpath. Kamenev brought the Makarov up took quick aim at the running Tom, but then lowered the ugly pistol. He let Tom run past. The Russian grinned with a new tactic. He’d go after the woman.

Tom ran holding the Browning down by his side. The Russian’s boat had been poorly moored. Tom jumped up and on to the bow on the run. He kicked open the cabin’s front doors. They gave easily, wood splintered and glass smashed. The SVR agent, the driver, was in the cabin and registered surprise but was well trained enough to swing the Skorpian machine pistol into a firing position. He was a breath too slow as Tom fired twice. Both bullets caught the Russian around the heart, and he was thrown back onto one of the cabin’s bench seats. Tom was down on the cabin floor and fired five times through the thin plywood bulkhead that separated the lounge and kitchen from the bathroom and bedroom at the boat’s rear. Tom had fired knowing his nine-millimetre bullets would move through the thin cabin wall into the bathroom and on into the rear cabin with ease. He heard a grunt and the sound of a man folding in on himself. Tom changed his magazine and chambered a fresh round. He worked his way quickly through the narrow passageway and saw the crumpled Russian, the watcher, Tom recognised him from the White Swan, in the bathroom doorway. Tom squatted and checked the Russian’s pulse. Ropey, but he’d survive if he received medical attention. Tom picked up the man’s Makarov pistol and went up the stern steps. Kamenev wasn’t there, he wasn’t on the boat at all. Tom threw the Makarov into the dark canal.

“Fuck,” he thought. He jumped down to the towpath and sprinted back towards the Periwinkle. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” He knew that Kamenev had outflanked him.

The Periwinkle was moving at walking pace and had entered the narrow channel of the aqueduct. There wasn’t anyone at the tiller and the boat gently bounced into the canal’s sides but kept its slow forward momentum. Kamenev stepped out from the undergrowth and made his way to the Periwinkle. He kept his gun hand close by his side. As Kamenev approached the Periwinkle, Jack bounded off the narrowboat’s stern and, sensing the Russian’s evil intent, leapt up at him. She grabbed his left arm between her powerful jaws and bit down hard. The Russian shouted in pain and brought the butt of the heavy Makarov down on her skull. Jack bit deeper before Kamenev brought the butt down again. The terrier fell on to the towpath. The Russian thought about shooting the dog but instead kicked her with a curse. He made his way up on the stern and into the cabin. Nia emerged from the front cabin, she saw Kamenev and her face went white with fear. Kamenev took a quick step towards her and kicked her viciously in her stomach. Nia collapsed in shock and pain. She felt immediately sick as the pain burned and radiated through her body. Kamenev knelt down with one knee on her back and grabbed her by her thick hair pulling her head back painfully. Nia gasped for breath with a fresh trauma that was devastatingly familiar.

***

Cottage Hospital, West Coast of Scotland, Eighteen Years Previously

The pain was unbearable. Nia felt her insides stretch to a breaking point. She gasped for breath as an elderly nurse placed an oxygen mask over her nose and mouth. The strong plastic smell of the mask made her want to throw up. Then her insides