Akmola Province, Kazakhstan
Butler was on the ground, half out of it, when Logan attacked Paul Evans and jumped into the Land Cruiser. His body was heavy and distant, his vision somewhat blurred. The blows Logan inflicted had taken their toll. But his mind, although not sharp, was still fully aware. He felt a cynical satisfaction as he watched Logan and Grainger speed away in the four-by-four.
The deal that he and Fleming had agreed to hand over Logan and Grainger was the best they could achieve in such a short time, though Butler had felt from the start that they could have held out for more money. Fleming hadn’t been so keen. He saw Logan as a threat and simply wanted rid of him.
Butler had been somewhat disappointed at the prospect of losing such valuable assets so quickly. Giving up Logan meant Butler would never get the chance to personally make him suffer. That bastard had ruined his life. Butler had lived for the army. Lived for the SAS. When he’d been turfed out at the age of just thirty-two because of his gammy arm, his life had headed in a downward spiral. He’d contemplated suicide more than once but had always bottled it. One of the few things that had kept him going was his relationship with Fleming, who’d never lost faith in him.
When Logan had turned up out of the blue, Butler had outwardly been hostile, but inwardly pleased that he might finally get a chance for some payback. The deal that Fleming had struck had seemed to have brought to an end that possibility. But as Butler watched Logan heading off on the run once more, he felt his chance was still there after all.
That short moment of satisfaction didn’t last long, though. The scene in front of Butler quite quickly changed into one of chaos and destruction.
Fleming was kneeling over him, saying something to Butler whose groggy mind was struggling to decipher the words. Fleming had seemed oblivious to what was going on behind him until the revved engine and screeching tyres caught his attention as Logan and Grainger made their getaway.
Evans and Mason lay sprawled on the floor. Evans’s two armed guards were haphazardly firing their weapons into the distance at Logan’s vehicle. Out of Fleming and the crew, it was Ilya who reacted first. He walked right up to Fleming and Butler. He took a handgun – a Sig – from the holster on his hip and, as nonchalantly as you could imagine, raised the gun and pointed it at Fleming’s head.
Butler tried to move. Tried to shout out. He wasn’t sure whether it was the state he was in or the speed of events unfolding that meant he never got the chance.
Fleming was looking over to the compound gates. He began to get to his feet. He reached for his own sidearm. With Butler frozen, it was Vassiliy who called out, who tried to alert Fleming to the fact that one of his own men was pointing a gun at his head.
Fleming half-turned before Ilya pulled the trigger. The bullet tore into the side of Fleming’s face. He stumbled and fell, landing in a heap on top of Butler, whose weak body was pinned down.
All hell broke loose. There was shouting and a cascade of gunfire from all directions. Vassiliy, off to Butler’s side, opened fire with his AK-47. Ilya, completely out-positioned, took at least half a dozen bullets. He collapsed to the ground just inches away from Butler who was still struggling to lift Fleming’s heavy body off him.
Maksat and Bulat were both readying themselves too. Bulat, assault rifle in his hands, opened fire on the two guards at the gates. They had turned their weapons away from Logan’s vehicle and were on the attack. Bulat never suspected the threat from Maksat, standing just two yards from him. As Bulat’s rifle rattled away, Maksat lifted his handgun and pulled the trigger. The bullet sank into Bulat’s head and exited the other side in a cascade of blood and bone and brain matter. A random spray of fire erupted from Bulat’s rifle as he plummeted to the ground.
Maksat, a top marksman from his time in the Republican Guard – probably one of the best marksmen Butler had ever seen – ducked, turned, took a split second to aim and then fired another three shots. The cry of pain followed by a thud off to Butler’s right told him that Vassiliy had been hit and was out for the count now too.
Stunned, Butler looked on as Maksat lowered his weapon and Evans’s two guards moved toward him. The three of them exchanged words in Kazakh. Butler didn’t understand. He didn’t need to. It was clear what had happened. Maksat and Ilya had sold him and Fleming out. Butler was confounded, but then he thought: money talks. There were very few relationships in life that people wouldn’t turn their backs on if enough money was on offer.
Anger was now rattling around inside Butler. He tried to find the strength to move. To fight back. He heaved Fleming’s deadweight body off him and grimaced as he reached out and grabbed the handgun that lay on the ground by his side. He wasn’t sure whose it was – his own, Fleming’s, Ilya’s? Everything was such a blur. He pulled the gun up and pointed the barrel at the treacherous Maksat.
A loud crack rang out. The giant fell to the ground. Butler looked on, stunned. He hadn’t pulled the trigger. He’d still been trying to find the strength. The bullet that had killed Maksat had come from the rifle of one of Evans’s guards.
In the end, Maksat had got exactly what he deserved.
Just a few seconds had elapsed since the first shot had been fired. Fleming and four highly trained men had been felled. The only two men in the complex who were still on their feet had fired just one of the many shots required in the process. Butler had to admit, he was quietly impressed with the deviousness and efficiency of the set-up. So much so that in his weary state he very nearly forgot his own predicament. Only when the guards turned their attention to him, their gaze meeting his, did he snap back to reality.
By that point it was too late. As he clumsily tried to adjust his aim with the handgun, one of the guards let loose with a rifle. Bullets whizzed and ricocheted around Butler. One sank into his leg. Butler screamed. Another grazed his forearm and Butler reflexively let go of his weapon.
He was done, he knew it. He simply didn’t have the strength in his body or the wits in his mind to fight back anymore.
One of the men strode up to him. The other headed over to where Evans was still flat on the ground, his companion, Mason, now hovering over him. Neither had played an active part in the slaughter that had just taken place, but Butler knew full well it was down to them.
The man came right up to Butler and held out his rifle, the barrel coming inches from Butler’s chest. On the ground but with his elbows propping up his torso, Butler stared down the barrel, then up at the man behind it. The man said something to Butler. He recognised the words as Russian. His dazed brain was unable to translate them. He said nothing. Just stared at the man who had nothing but death in his eyes.
In one last desperate act, Butler propelled himself forward, aiming to tackle the man around his legs. But it was too little, too late. The man opened fire. A succession of bullets caught Butler. They tore into his chest. He collapsed back down on top of the fallen Fleming.
Butler was face down. His mouth and nostrils were pressed up against Fleming’s midriff. He tried to move but couldn’t. There was simply nothing left in him. As his life faded away from him, what filled his head were not flashes of his past or his family or thoughts of his many regrets – it was the smell. The smell of blood. The smell of death.
Moments later, he was gone.