Last Light Read Free

contact with this kit. Dressed like a technician in a chemical warfare lab, I had prepared, cleaned and wiped everything down so many times it was a wonder there was any Parkerization (protective paint) left on the barrels.
    Jammed into a Gore-Tex bivi bag and dug in amongst the ferns in miserable drizzling rain, I waited for Sniper Two to arrive. I knew that all three would be extremely cautious when they made their approach to lift the DLBs, carrying out their tradecraft to the letter to ensure they weren't followed or walking into a trap. That was why I had to keep my distance: sixty-nine metres to be exact, which in turn had meant choosing a telephoto lens on my Nikon for more photographic evidence of this job, wrapped in a sweatshirt to dampen the rewind noise, and shoved into a bin liner so that just the lens and viewfinder were exposed to the drizzle.
    I waited, throwing Mars bars and water down my neck and just hoping Sniper Two didn't choose to unload it at night.
    In the end it was just over thirty boring and very wet hours before Sniper Two started to move in on the DLB. At least it was daylight. I watched the hooded figure check the immediate area around a collection of old, rusty farm machinery and oil drums.
    It edged forward like a wet and cautious cat. I brought up the telephoto lens.
    Tapered blue jeans, brown cross-trainers, three-quarter-length beige waterproof jacket. The hood had a sewn-in peak, and I could see the label on the left breast pocket: LL Bean I'd never seen one of their shops outside the US.
    What I'd also never seen outside the US was a woman sniper. She was maybe early thirties, slim, average height, with brown hair poking out of the sides of the hood. She was neither attractive nor unattractive, just normal-looking, more like a young mother than a professional killer. She reached the oil drums, and carefully checked inside hers to make sure it wasn't booby-trapped. I couldn't help wondering why a woman would take up this line of work. What did her kids think she did for a living? Work at the cosmetics counter in Sears, and get dragged away a couple of times a year for week-long eyeliner seminars?
    She'd been happy with what she saw inside the drum. Her arms went inside very quickly and lifted out the bag. She turned in my direction, taking the weight of it in both hands, and threw it over her right shoulder. I hit the shutter release and the camera whirred. Within seconds she'd melted once more into the trees and tall ferns; like a cat, she'd probably find a place to hide now and check out the spoils.
    Sniping does not simply mean being a fantastic marksman. Just as important are the field craft skills stalking, judging distance, observation, camouflage and concealment and judging by the way she lifted the DLB and got back into cover, I bet she'd won gold stars in all of those disciplines.
    While in the Army I had spent two years as a sniper, in a Royal
    Green Jacket rifle company. I was as keen as anything: it had something to do with being left alone just to get on with it with your sniper partner. I learnt a lot and was a good shot, but I didn't have the passion required to make it a life's vocation.
    I was still staring at the three bulbs, waiting for One and Three to sign in. A helicopter clattered overhead, following the river-bank on the north side, and I had to look up to satisfy myself that it wasn't looking for me. My paranoia was working overtime. For a moment I thought that it had found the explosive device I'd placed on the roof of the Royal Horseguards Hotel in Whitehall the night before. The hotel was just out of sight, behind the MoD (Ministry of Defence) main building across the river to my half right. Seeing the three service flags fluttering on the roof of the massive light-coloured stone cube prompted me to check something else for the millionth time.
    Keeping the row of torch bulbs in my peripheral vision, I looked down at the river to check the wind indicators.
    In