by Tony Kent
Until those screams suddenly stopped.
Michael slowed and then came to a standstill when he realised he could no longer hear the sound.
He knew he must be close now. Close enough that he thought he had been able to make out Jenny Draper’s voice. Or perhaps that had been wishful thinking.
Michael dropped to one knee, taking advantage of the cover of the headstones. It made him a more difficult target, he hoped. More importantly, it gave him the opportunity to get his breath back. He heaved in lungfuls of air, preparing himself for whatever was going to happen next.
Still catching his breath, Michael looked again at his watch. Ten more minutes had passed. The need to recover quickly would test Michael’s fitness.
If they’re close then Hirst’s close, he reasoned. I need to be ready.
Seconds passed. Michael counted them off. Calculating them against his own heart rate. It was falling. Coming back to where it should be. His breathing was doing the same.
He gave himself another minute. Long enough for his legs to feel refreshed. For his head to feel clear. Finally ready, Michael rose to his feet.
‘HIRST!’ Michael’s voice boomed. It echoed off the huge mausoleum he now saw outlined ahead of him. ‘I’M HERE, YOU BASTARD. COME AND FACE ME!’
Michael looked all about him as he called out, spinning on his heel. The attack could come from anywhere. From any direction. Michael would at least try to be ready.
But again, no attack came. Nothing disturbed the eerie stillness of the graveyard.
‘HIRST!’
Michael waited for the sound to reverberate. For his reflected voice to wash over him. Only when the echo had died did he open his mouth to shout again.
A familiar sound stopped him before he could call out. A sound he had heard many times before. It was unmistakable. Here or anywhere else.
A pistol round being chambered.
Michael turned towards the sound and saw a figure emerging from the darkness. A figure from his past, with a pair of pale eyes that he would recognise anywhere.
SEVENTY-THREE
‘You came alone.’
Michael and Hirst had spent hours together in the course of Hirst’s trial. In all that time Michael had never heard humour in Hirst’s voice.
He heard it now. A cold, vindictive mockery.
‘I’m not sure if I’m impressed or disappointed.’
‘Where are they, Karl?’ Michael glanced at the semi-automatic pistol in Hirst’s right hand. ‘Jenny and Tina. Where are they?’
Hirst glanced towards the large mausoleum. Just for a moment. Michael could not tell if it was subconscious or if it was an indication. Either way, it answered the question.
‘Are they both alive?’
Hirst smiled.
‘Wouldn’t you like to know.’
‘I’m entitled to know,’ Michael replied. ‘Me for them. Both of them. That was the deal.’
‘You didn’t expect me to honour that, did you?’ Hirst sneered, a twisted smile on his face. ‘You can’t be that naive.’
‘I don’t suppose I did, no.’
‘And yet you still did as you were told. You still came alone.’
‘I don’t see I had much choice.’
‘You could have just let them die,’ Hirst shrugged.
‘No, I couldn’t. But I don’t expect you to understand that.’
‘Ah yes, the famous Devlin chivalry.’ A smile grew on Hirst’s lips. An unattractive distortion to an already ugly face. It did not extend to his eyes. They remained as pale and as emotionless as ever. ‘How did it go again? “No one else is gonna die for me, Sarah. This is all my fault. They died for something I did.”’
Hirst spoke with a bad Belfast accent as he mocked the words spoken by Michael in Reid’s kitchen.
Michael stared at him, realisation dawning.
‘You bugged the crime scenes. You bugged Derek’s house.’
Hirst’s smile faded into a malicious grin. It better suited his face.
‘And how right I was to do so, eh? Because if I hadn’t, I’d have never known about you.’
Hirst moved closer as he spoke. Out of reach, but close enough for Michael to see him clearly. He raised the pistol as he came forward and aimed it at Michael.
‘And that’s the irony, Michael. Because until I killed your fat friend, I assumed you had nothing to do with what happened. You were just a kid. I didn’t think you even knew.’
‘What?’
‘I thought it was Reid and Blunt and Longman. I thought they were behind it. And the girl. Obviously the girl. But I’d accepted I’d never find her. So after Reid I was done, it was over. And then you came stumbling in to Reid’s house, confessing everything.’
Michael felt a cold fury growing.
‘You piece of—’
‘If only you’d kept your mouth shut,’ Hirst continued, ignoring the interruption. ‘I’d never have known I hadn’t finished the job. That there was still one more bastard to kill. The little bastard who was behind the whole thing.’
‘And Tina.’ Michael was half speaking to himself as he said the name, his rage increasing as the picture came together. ‘I told you how to get to Tina, too.’
‘Yes, you did.’ The ugly smile returned. ‘You signed your own death warrant. And you signed Tina’s, too. Right there in that house. And now you’ve done the same to your little barrister girlfriend, too. And just so you know, it doesn’t stop there.’
Hirst indicated the large mausoleum as he spoke.
‘Because there’s one more thing I want you to know before you die. I want you to know that your bitch Sarah Truman is gonna be right behind you. Consider it your special bonus. Just for being you. For being the fucker who put me away.’
The words hit Michael harder than any physical blow. It brought a series of images flashing through his mind. Derek’s body, brutally mutilated. Eleven-year-old Tina Barker, traumatised and depending on him. Jenny, with her confident poise. And Sarah. The most important person in Michael’s life. His reason for being. Her life threatened by the evil that stood before him.
It was more than Michael could bear.
‘You’ll get nowhere near my family, you sick fuck.’ Michael’s voice was low. Almost a growl. The sound of a cornered animal.
‘There he is.’ The mockery was gone. So was the smile. Only the cruelty remained. ‘There’s the thing I saw in that alley last night.’
Hirst began to circle Michael, who matched him step for step. A cobra and a mongoose. Both ready to strike. Only in this fight, the cobra carried a pistol.
‘I was surprised, Michael,’ Hirst continued.
Michael hardly heard the words. Like Hirst, his sole focus was on the man in front of him. And so neither noticed the distant sound that was beginning to break the silence.
‘I was surprised to see what you’re capable of. Lucky for me, because I was gonna just use this.’
Hirst pulled an eight-inch hunting knife from the back of his waistband and brandished it in his left hand.
‘But when I saw you take those three guys that fast? I thought I’d best bring a little insurance.’
He indicated the pistol. Still held in his right. Still aimed at Michael.
‘You don’t care whether you’re good enough without the gun?’ Michael’s focus was absolute. He inched closer to Hirst as he asked the question.
‘Can’t say I’m not intrigued.’ Hirst’s eyes were fixed. Aware of every move Michael was making. ‘But I think I’ll stick to the easy way.’
Hirst’s words were the perfect signal. They told Michael that Hirst was about to shoot. At this distance he could not miss. And Michael could do nothing to stop him.
But he would at least try.
Hirst must have seen Michael’s movement before it began; the telltale muscle tension was impossible to disguise. But even if he did not, the speed difference between a physical rush and a bullet was just too much to overcome.
For Hirst, everything was going to plan.
Right up until the plan fell apart.
SEVENTY-FOUR
The journey from Joelle Levy’s desk to the MI6 building in Vauxhall had taken seven minutes. Dempsey had called ahead and pulled rank just as he had promised he would. He had arranged for Levy to bypass security, which allowed her to reach the helipad and board the waiting International Security Bureau chopper with no delay.
Twelve minutes in total, between Dempsey’s call and Levy’s take-off.
The chopper was unlike anything Levy had ever seen. Which was unsurprising as the RAH-66 Comanche had officially never gone beyond the prototype stage. Designed at a cost of seven billion dollars to be the world’s foremost stealth helicopter, the cost per unit had proved too much for even the US military and so the project had been scrapped. The six prototypes, however, had not. Three were on display in specialist flight museums around the world. The other three were now the property of the ISB.
The journey to Brookwood would take just twenty-three minutes more. Far quicker than Michael had managed by car. But long enough for Levy to prepare.
The Comanche came well stocked. All the weaponry Levy could ask for. Certainly more than she would be issued by Scotland Yard.
Levy considered the armoury and selected the L129A1 7.62mm semiautomatic assault rifle. The standard-issue sharpshooter rifle for the British Army’s front-line operational units, and the closest to those Levy had used in both the Israel Defense Forces and, later, Shin Bet.
Next Levy selected the weapon’s sight. The Trijicon ACOG 6×48 telescope. Again standard-issue. Again, closest to the equipment Levy had used before. She clamped the sight in place before turning to the final piece of essential equipment: the MilSight S135 Magnum Universal Night Sight. Essential if the weapon was to be of any use in the dark of the night.
Levy assembled the weaponry in under a minute. An impressive achievement with an unfamiliar gun. Doubly so in the darkness of a moving chopper. The next five minutes of the journey were spent inspecting the mechanics. Ensuring that nothing would go wrong when the shooting started.
Satisfied, Levy clicked the twenty-round magazine into place and settled back into her seat.
‘Two kilometres to the target, ma’am.’
Levy opened her eyes and looked at her watch. Fifteen minutes had passed since she had finished preparing the rifle. She had used that time to make herself as ready as her weapon. Levy had learned the breathing exercises that lowered the heart rate while in Israel. A skill that was essential for a sharpshooter, it was not one she had expected to need again.
‘Will they hear us yet?’
‘No, ma’am,’ the pilot replied. ‘We’re as close to silent running as these things get. This time of night they’ll hear a little something at maybe a kilometre out. But we’ll be as close as six hundred metres before we’re unmistakable.’
‘OK,’ Levy replied. ‘In that case cover the kilometre, then get us steady.’
Levy returned her attention to her weapon. One last inspection. Just to be sure.
Satisfied, she reached out and slid open the Comanche’s side door. Unfastening her safety belt, she replaced it with the side harness. A different kind of body restraint and one which allowed her to safely lean outside of the moving helicopter.
‘One kilometre, ma’am.’
The pilot’s voice came through Levy’s headpiece.
‘I know,’ Levy replied. ‘I can see the cemetery.’
Levy lifted the scope to her right eye. A few inches back, to account for recoil. Then she closed her left, to get the full effect of the night sight.
Levy had used night-vision equipment before, back in Israel. It had been state of the art for the time – the best Shin Bet could obtain – but the technology had moved on. The MilSight S135 was like nothing Levy had ever seen. Its effectiveness was almost distracting, as night had suddenly become day.
Adjusting to it quickly, Levy spotted two lone figures in the middle of the cemetery up ahead. Perhaps a kilometre and a half away from the chopper, they were not in the Comanche’s direction of travel.
‘Your two o’clock.’
The pilot understood and immediately altered his course, careful to ensure their new flight path would keep them in Levy’s line of sight.
Levy’s eye returned to the scope. Closer. A better view. But still a kilometre away. Maybe more.
And maybe too late, Levy thought.
The turn of the chopper had changed Levy’s angle of vision. In doing so it had revealed the pistol in Karl Hirst’s hand. A pistol pointed directly at Michael Devlin.
Shit.
Hirst was ruthless. A killer. He would not hesitate to put a bullet into Michael. Levy knew that. And she knew it could happen any second.
The L129A1 has a kill range of around eight hundred metres. Maybe more with a perfectly placed hit. So Levy had two problems: she was still about a kilometre out, so barely in range. And the likelihood of a hit of any kind – a kill or otherwise – from a distant moving chopper was slim to none.
Problems they might have been, but Levy was out of options. Either she took the shot or she watched Michael Devlin die.
She took the shot.
SEVENTY-FIVE
Michael heard two shots ring out, an instant before he felt a bullet tear into his own bicep. As he fell, he saw Hirst spun sideways. A second bullet from somewhere had also found its target. And it was the only reason Hirst’s had not hit Michael in the chest.
Michael did not need to see the wound to know he had been shot. It was a feeling unique to that experience, and it was not Michael’s first time.
The simultaneous impacts threw both men to the floor. Neither stayed down.
Hirst was up first. Michael – slowed just slightly by his now useless right arm – a moment behind him.
The first thing Michael noticed as he got to his feet was the absence of Hirst’s pistol. The second was that Hirst knew exactly where it had fallen.
Michael followed his pale eyes as they locked onto the lethal weapon. A weapon Michael could not let him retrieve.
Hirst scrambled towards the gun. An ordinarily simple task, but less so with a bullet lodged in his shoulder. The injury restricted Hirst’s movement. Slowed him.
It is a rare occasion when previous bullet wounds can be called an advantage, but this was one of those times. Hirst seemed surprised by the debilitating effect of the shot. By just how much damage it had done.
Michael was not. He had been shot before.
Of the two men, Michael alone knew his sudden limitations. And he knew Hirst’s.
He roared as he ran towards Hirst. A roar of pain. Of anger. Of desperation. It distracted Hirst for no more than an instant, but that instant was enough.
The impact of Michael’s left shoulder into Hirst’s torso was agony for both men. Powerful enough to lift Hirst from the floor and send him crashing into a headstone six feet away. Wild enough to send Michael in the same direction.
Michael lay motionless where he fell, his head thumping from the inside. The pain and effort of his shoulder charge had torn into his energy reserves. Little remained. He could only hope that Hirst had suffered more.
To know for sure, Michael needed to stand.
One glance towards Hirst and the question was answered. He was slowly climbing to his feet. Mirroring Michael’s own movement. Sharing Michael’s suffering.
They were just feet apart. Each moving with the same exhausted effort. If the bullets they had taken had changed the game, the collision that had followed had assured its imminent end.
Only one question remained. Who wanted it more?
Hirst moved first. A wild lunge towards Michael. Too slow. Too weak.
Michael saw the movement. And he reacted. What was left of his adrenaline surged through his veins. Energised him.
Michael gave no thought to his own wounds as he stepped inside Hirst’s blow and slammed his right shoulder into Hirst’
s nose. Hirst was already unsteady on his feet. Already weak at the knees. And so the force sent him careering backwards. Into the same headstone he had hit just moments before.
The blow sent shockwaves down Michael’s right arm. They tore into his bicep, damaging it further and increasing his blood loss. But it did not slow him for a moment. Driven by the knowledge of what Hirst had done – of what he still planned to do – Michael leapt forward.
The balance and coordination Michael had enjoyed when fighting Patrick O’Driscoll was absent, sapped by his injury. But Michael did not care.
This was not a street fight. This was a fight to the death.
He thought of nothing but the need to damage as he rammed his head into Hirst’s face. The gaping wound that the blow left in Michael’s own scalp was meaningless. All that mattered was Hirst, his face a shattered mask of blood.
The headstone at the base of Hirst’s spine was the only thing now keeping him upright. Michael neither knew nor cared. His primal rage was all there was left. Directed at the man who had threatened his life. The man who had taken his best friend. The man who would be a danger to Sarah for as long as he still drew breath.
It drove Michael further. Powered him as he delivered blow after blow with his left fist. Four punches. Five. Six. Seven. Michael rained them into Hirst’s defenceless head. Striking his face. His neck. His skull. Anywhere.
Michael’s hand had broken by the fifth punch. He did not notice.
It was the eighth blow that caught Hirst clean. It slammed into his temple, sending him sideways. The sheer force dislodged him from the supporting headstone. With nothing now holding him up, Hirst slumped to the floor.
And Michael could finally stop.
Hirst was beaten.
No longer a threat.
To Michael.
To Sarah.
To anyone.
Michael stumbled backwards. His eyes fixed on Hirst’s slumped, battered body. Suddenly he could feel the cost of his efforts. With no battle left to fight, every step became more difficult than the last. Every second blurred his vision more.
