Collusion by Stuart Neville Read Free Book Online Page B

or some kind of mastiff, rather than a smart guardian like a German shepherd or a Dobermann.
    The braying grew louder and the Traveller heard heavy paws crunching on gravel. Then a gallop, the jangle of chain, and a yelp as it snapped taut. That was all he needed to know.
    He reached into his pocket and took out the Vater earplugs. Drummers used them to protect their hearing. The little beehive-shaped pieces of rubber blocked out the dangerous frequencies but let through the detail of the environment. They blocked out the worst of a gunshot, but you could still hear a mouse fart. He pressed the two earpieces, joined by a twelve-inch plastic string, into place. He worked his jaw open and closed, swallowed, and walked.
    There it was, some sort of mastiff cross. A low wall surrounded the cottage. The dog stood just inside the open gate. It stopped its barking and watched the Traveller approach. There was enough light yet to see the glow of its eyes. He pulled back the Eagle’s slide to chamber a round and thumbed the safety off. The dog’s legs quivered and its chest rumbled.
    The Traveller raised the Eagle in a two-handed grip, his wrists firm so his shoulders would take the brunt of the recoil, and squeezed the trigger until he felt resistance. Sometimes he forgot which was his right hand, and which was his left. Something else that came out of his brain along with that piece of Kevlar. Not that it mattered much; he had trained one hand to be about as strong as the other.
    He lined the sights between the dog’s eyes. It lunged. He blew its skull apart.
    The boom rolled across the hills. The Traveller watched the house for movement. No surprises now, just get in and do it. He marched to the old wooden door and booted it below the handle. He kicked it again, and it swung inward. He went in gun first, ready to take down anything that moved.
    The tiny open-plan kitchen and living room was empty. Old bottles and beer cans crowded around the sink. The remains of a Chinese takeaway littered the dining table. The place reeked of stale cigarettes and alcohol, damp and rotten food. Only two doors led from this room. One of them stood open, revealing a dirty bathtub and toilet. He went to the other, the Eagle at shoulder level.
    The Traveller threw it open, and the door frame exploded around him. He fired blind into the room three times, the recoil throwing him backwards against the table. His wrist shrieked; splinters and plaster dust stung his face.
    ‘Bastard,’ he said. He wiped his sleeve across his eyes. Hot pain seared the right. He shook his head, tried to dislodge whatever burned there.
    ‘Jesus,’ he said. He rubbed the heel of his left hand against the eye. It came away wet and red. ‘Dirty fucker.’
    He calmed his breathing and listened. Moaning and sobbing came from the room. The Traveller crossed to it, both hands supporting the Eagle.
    Kevin Malloy lay on the floor between the bed and an open wardrobe, his legs tangled in sheets, a shotgun by his side. A ragged hole was torn in his shoulder.
    The Traveller lifted the shotgun and admired the polished wooden stock and steel barrel. ‘Fuck, that’s a beauty,’ he said, putting it on the bed. He recognised the stag’s head logo. ‘Browning. Very nice. Think I’ll have that. You got more shells?’
    Malloy lay there shaking. His blood soaked the carpet. It squelched under the Traveller’s feet. He kicked Malloy’s shoulder. Malloy screamed.
    ‘I asked you a question,’ the Traveller said. ‘You got more shells for that?’
    Malloy turned his head. ‘In… in there.’
    The Traveller stepped over him and found three boxes of 20-gauge cartridges in the bottom of the wardrobe. He threw them on the bed beside the Browning.
    ‘Anyone else here?’ he asked.
    Malloy shook his head.
    ‘Where’s your missus?’
    Malloy cried.
    The Traveller kicked him again. When Malloy’s screaming died down, the Traveller said, ‘Where is she?’
    ‘In town,’ Malloy said.