Agent of the State Read Online Free Page B

time he reached the stronghold he hadn’t spilt a drop. Pause for a final memory check of the layout. At the communal front door he knocked, stood back a pace and waited, a quartet of rifles sizing up his back. Shouting in English drifted through the front-room bay window to Kerr’s right and he guessed they were giving Number Two a hard time.
    Then there was yelling in Turkish. Kerr was expecting an order to leave the tray and retreat, which would make things more difficult, but the door opened. The hallway to the right was narrow and dark, and one of the hostage-takers had the double-barrelled shotgun ready to fire. Perhaps the Turk was seeing a second prisoner, an easy civilian target, a lightweight with breakfast in his hands and ‘HOSTAGE’ stamped across his forehead. He looked comfortable with his weapon, moving it like an extension of his body.
    At times of uncontrollable anger or crisis, people talk about a red mist descending. For John Kerr, who had faced more extreme situations than most, it was different. Such scenes were always stark white, a big chill in which every object was frozen.
    In a single photograph Kerr saw the finger curled round the trigger. He calculated his odds against the shaven-headed, overweight thug, unprotected in soiled vest and jockey shorts. In a second frame he sensed the half-open door into the front room two paces to his right and tracked the unseen second target’s voice, placing him with the phone by the window. The door opened inwards and he could see Melanie’s combat boots and untied lower legs. They stretched from an armchair in the corner to the left of the doorway, the rest of her body just out of sight. From the hallway he could reach her in three strides. Less than a second. The second thug would be distracted by the phone. ‘Breakfast?’ enquired Kerr, the solicitous waiter. His target jerked the barrel, drawing Kerr forward. ‘Shall I leave it just here?’
    ‘Inside.’ The guy beckoned.
    Kerr stepped over the threshold into the hallway, using his foot to shut the door. The shotgun lowered as his target took a careful step back through the entrance to the stronghold, then leant forward to check the food. He looked at the forbidden meat and swore.
    ‘Yeah, sorry about that.’ Kerr thrust the tray up and over him, three cups of coffee cascading over his shaven head, face, neck and shoulders. He yanked and twisted the shotgun barrel away from him as his victim bellowed in pain and rage, dropping forward to meet Kerr’s knee jerking into his face and snapping his teeth. Then Kerr knocked the shotgun aside, took a step back and kicked him hard in the crotch. In two swift movements Kerr unholstered the Glock and pistol-whipped him. He fell silently.
    Through the internal door, Melanie’s legs had disappeared. Stepping over the shooter, Kerr charged into the front room, raising the Glock to fire as he came face to face with his second target. With the phone in one hand the Turk was raising the handgun with the other, but leaning back on a dining chair. Kerr instantly recognised the weapon. It was a long-barrel Smith & Wesson medium-frame .38-calibre revolver, and it was pointing right at him. Kerr’s finger closed on the trigger for a rapid pair of shots. Then, in that split second, he realised why the target was leaning back. Face deathly pale, hair scraped back, Melanie was kneeling behind him. He recognised the faded denim jacket she sometimes used for surveillance, then saw that her wrists were bound with tape but looped tightly around the Turk’s neck, yanking his head back.
    Before the thug could break free Kerr launched himself into the air, catching him square in the face with both heels. There was another crack, nose, teeth or cheekbone, as the chair tipped backwards, sending all three of them into a sprawling heap against the wall, Kerr’s Glock spinning away from him. Kerr snatched the Turk’s revolver and grabbed the man by the throat to keep his head