‘Handy’ was one word for the weapon lying across the rear bunk. Another way to describe its qualities might have been ‘state-of-the-art lethal efficiency’. The bolt-action Remington was an ultra-modern, battlefield-ready military sniper’s rig with a folding stock, ten-round magazine, fitted bipod, Titan sound suppressor and high-magnification scope. In the hands of a proficient shooter, the thing was a surgical instrument of death, capable of nailing any chosen part of the enemy’s anatomy from ranges of over fifteen hundred yards. And Tuesday Fletcher, more than any other member of the Le Val team, was a trained marksman of supreme skill. In Afghanistan he’d retired a key Taliban leader with a clean headshot at a verified 2,474 metres, one metre short of the world record for the longest kill.

Tuesday shook his head in wonder at the sight of the rifle. The gun alone was worth the cost of a good used Mercedes, with a few thousand on top for the scope. He’d rarely handled hardware this exclusive since his days as a British Army sniper. ‘Mind if I take a look?’

‘Be my guest,’ Reaper said.

Tuesday picked up the rifle. It weighed seventeen pounds, fully kitted up. The takedown version, for quick and easy disassembly. He clicked out the magazine and examined the shiny bottle-necked cartridges nestling inside. ‘.338 Lapua Magnum. Are these the heavy three-hundred-grain Sierra hollow point Match Kings? What you lose in velocity, you gain in extra wallop.’

‘Got another hundred rounds in a bag under the seat,’ Reaper said. ‘You seem to know your stuff, son.’

‘He’s the best,’ Jeff said.

‘Yeah, well, just make sure I get it back in one piece,’ Reaper grunted. ‘That goes for the fuckin’ van, too.’

Jeff clapped him on the back. ‘Thanks, Reaper. You’re a pal. I don’t care what they say about you.’

After saying goodbye to Reaper, Jeff and Tuesday piled into the Transit and sped north. The van wasn’t fast but Jeff was determined to whittle the seven-hour drive down to six. ETA in Grace Kirk’s neck of the Scottish Highlands: sometime around 7.15 p.m.

Tuesday had broken the rifle down into its modular parts and stashed them out of sight in a bag under the rear bunk. As they drove, he glanced back to double-check it was well hidden.

‘I don’t know what we’re going to find up there, but let’s hope we’re not going to need to use this thing.’

‘If we do,’ Jeff said, ‘then someone’ll be dead meat before they know what hit ’em.’

Chapter 26