Dillon sighted smoothly. The auto-focus gave the Range Rover instant clarity. The six occupants became pin-sharp images inside the luxury 4x4. He could see them clearly - large men in dark clothing, some were wearing dark glasses. One window was down, allowing snow to blow into the vehicle - an automatic weapon appeared and began firing.
The cracks echoed up the hillside a moment later.
Dillon trained the Nemesis on the driver; the Range Rover slowed, immediately slewing to the left and then right, under heavy footed braking as it negotiated a large snowdrift and Dillon cursed, the figures inside the vehicle being thrown around, unsteady targets...
He closed his eyes, opened them and breathed out slowly. Squeezed the trigger gently - once - reloaded and squeezed again.
The rapport would have been deafening, had he not been wearing ear protectors, the stock punched his shoulder with a sharp kick, and he saw the windscreen shatter and disappear into a billion tiny pieces; the first round had missed the driver and hit the shooter, hanging out of the rear window with the automatic, in the neck, severing the main artery and spraying blood across the interior. The second shot, had slammed into the forehead of the man sitting next to him, blood, brain matter and fragments of skull turned the rear windscreen a bright crimson. With a scream of gears and engine, the Range Rover swerved left, smashing into the embankment and then violently righting itself; the rear bumper was hanging off, split and dragging noisily along the ground.
The lane, and Dillon’s advantage, was fast running out.
“Bollocks,” Dillon said out loud.
He repositioned the Nemesis and squeezed off a round. The bullet slapped into the front wing bursting the tyre, the heavy 4x4 veered, Dillon reloaded round after round, and bullets continued to slam into the door panels.
As the last round was fired, Dillon left the rifle in the snow and sprinted down the hillside for the castle and the cover it would afford him - if he could make it in time. Every muscle in his body felt alive as he powered forward down the hill, he heard the Range Rover’s engine pitch change as it spun into the private lane that led up to his property, and then pass by him far below. More gunshots ricocheting as the 4x4 flashed from view and Dillon pushed on, arms pumping as he pushed on through the snow, the Glock automatic in his left hand, a cold sweat covering his body, stinging his eyes.
More gunshots rang out from up ahead.
Dillon came over the ridge at a full sprint and the world opened up before him, his home in the foreground with the stunning mountain range as a backdrop on the far side of the loch, snow falling in an idyllic postcard scene. Punctuated with the harsh full stop of; savagery and destruction.
Tatiana had swung the Mercedes around in the turning circle to form a barricade behind which she was crouched, gun in hand and resting on the edge of the bonnet.
As Dillon appeared, the Range Rover howled straight for the Mercedes, Tatiana darted out of the way as the heavy 4x4 ploughed into the sports car amidst the devastating noises of screaming crunching metal; the Mercedes was shunted into the front of Dillon’s home, buckled and twisted, the windscreen exploded under the pressure and the Merc’s boot popped open as the vehicle was pushed into the main steps. The Range Rover’s doors were opening even as the collision took place and men tumbled from the 4x4, automatics and sub-machine pistols drawn.
Tatiana had taken cover behind Dillon’s Landrover, at the right moment she came out, firing - in seconds bullets smashed across space. One of the men was spun sideways with a bullet to the shoulder, ripping apart clothing and flesh, and dropping him spinning to the ground in a flurry of snow and a spattering of blood.
The sound of automatic gun-fire echoed around the valley, as a fusillade of bullets scythed across the clearing. Four bullets smacked into the large oak tree behind Tatiana in quick succession, their impact making dull thuds in the bark.
The fifth bullet found its mark, catching Tatiana, puncturing her flesh and knocking her backwards off her feet, legs and arms flaying wildly as she went down hard onto snow covered gravel. She landed awkwardly in a heap, wedged against the trunk of the oak tree, face to the ground, legs twisted in a macabre abstract.
“No!” shouted Dillon.
Chapter 7
Ministry of Defence - Whitehall London. The highest level military headquarters in the UK, providing political control of all British military operations around the planet. The central staff is made up of integrated service and civilian personnel who are responsible for, amongst other things, planning strategy for the three principle services - and now the Scorpion units. They control the monetary budgets and financial deals, from buying and selling land, weapons and military hardware to the masterminding of stock market economics. Battles have been won, and some lost from within the inner sanctums of this austere Whitehall building...
Those who knew of Scorpion, or who worked for them, would often wonder about finance: how had this clandestine organisation, part of the British military war machine against terror, become so important? And how did it fund such impressive worldwide schemes and plans?
There were no simple answers. But Ferran & Cardini International was never very far away and always on hand to guide and advise the top-brass at Scorpion. They now had fingers in many pies - Scorpion held the controlling shares in some of the largest PLC companies and financial institutions, owned a myriad of businesses from matchstick making factories to oil corporations, worldwide. If there was money to be made - big money - then Scorpion would in some way be involved. And sitting in their eyrie, high-up in the atrium of their Docklands’ headquarters. The partners of Ferran & Cardini stroked their egos and congratulated themselves for being such clever chaps...
Scorpion HQ was not visible from the air; it was hidden deep underground, deeper than even the London tube lines, a massive self-contained complex linked by hundreds of metres of labyrinthine tunnels leading to rooms housing an array of hi-tech surveillance equipment, canteens, satellite interface terminals and the main servers that linked the worldwide Scorpion G8 network. Along with two hundred highly trained Government men and women. Above Scorpion HQ was a busy London high street; all normal and oblivious to what lay beneath the pedestrian walk-ways, the bustling shoppers and camera-toting tourists. Below the heavily guarded London Underground... Scorpion HQ existed...
Deep down; an underground base, an underground world. The entrances were disguised; hidden from the casual passer-by; only the elite few knew of these access points, and where they were located. One of them was located within the reception area of a travel agent’s building. On this particular afternoon, the automatic sliding door opened silently to reveal a stunning looking young woman. She was smiling as she emerged outside, her expensive designer suit looking sharp and business-like, and her company name badge concealing a high-tech security access device to allow her to enter Scorpion’s underground HQ.
She gazed up at the tumultuous clouds rolling overhead, watched by a small group of workmen across the busy road, their eyes and wolf-whistles admiring her long legs and immaculately groomed mane of auburn hair.
Her gaze shifted, and a moment later she raised her hand to hail a nearby taxi.
And then she was gone and replaced by a raging ball of gas and flame that roared up from hundreds of feet below ground, like a rocket racing up to the heavens screaming so loud it was beyond anything natural. Buildings were vaporised in an instant. Concrete, glass and steel disintegrated. Rooms and furniture and everything in them were pulped and pulverised along with the occupants of the buildings, and below ground levelthe heart of Scorpion, its central nerve centre, all were vaporised within seconds as the WMD explosive device was detonated - and the entire landscape of that part of London was changed forever...
First came the booming concussion as the device detonated, followed by the invisible but devastating shock-wave and in the wake came dust, billowing up in a huge cloud that mushroomed above the city, all generated by the small but high-tech nuclear device
...
The explosion could be heard ten miles away.
With the aftermath came - silence.
Soon after, the screams and pitiful sounds of brutally injured men, women and children could be heard.
And this all went on for an eternity.
* * * Kirill laid semi-conscious, dark waves of pain washing over him. In fact, he was sure that he could hear the ocean; struggling, he forced his head to the left and could see what he was convinced were crests of gleaming white on the rolling surf, crashing and foaming to a natural death on a beach of pure white sand. Kirill groaned, his whole body shuddering. It took every ounce of energy that he could muster to lift his head, gazed down at himself. He was completely naked - an angry looking wound, marked the bullets entry low down in his belly.
What happened? He thought sombrely.
And then the voices, the words; the words drifted to him as if they were a very long way away, tiny sounds in his brain, merging with the sounds of the sea, hissing and rolling, surging and retreating across the sand.
“He must be in great pain...”
“We have removed the bullet, but there are still many fragments of shattered bone lodged inside; the hollow-point bullet caused immense internal damage. This man should be dead; I am amazed we’re looking down at him in a bed and not a coffin...”
Kirill groaned. He closed his eyes.
A cool breeze blew in from the Indian blue ocean.
He was aware that he was in a bad way, but also knew that by some freak of fate, he was still alive and that his body was repairing itself as he lay there. He could feel his blood racing through his veins, along with the sedatives and other drugs to take away his pain.
He thought back, Kirill thought back across the long span of his life - those long hard years.
Searing pain lanced him.
He concentrated on the wound; he could feel the drugs being fed into his body, racing through his bloodstream, making him stronger; could feel his body repairing the damage wrought by the bullet.
He drifted off for a while, the pain coming in wave after agonising wave.
He listened to the ocean.
Voices.
“Give him another ten mils of morphine; there, that should ease the pain for a while; or at least keep him going for another day or two. How the hell did he survive? Has he spoken?”
“Yes, he called out in his sleep”
“What did he say?”
“He called out for Zhenya. Who is Zhenya?”
“The young woman who was found dead at his country residence in Cornwall; she was his niece and only living relative. They brought in her charred corpse - what a mess she was in. She’s in one of the chillers down in the morgue awaiting an autopsy, although I’m really sure what part of her they intend to use... Because there’s not much left.”
“Were they close?”
“I believe that she lived with him and accompanied him on every trip he made. He apparently treated her like a daughter.”
Kirill felt the anger and rage well within him.
He remembered: remembered Dillon - remembered the bullet... and he remembered the gun, cold steel pointing at Zhenya, blowing her backwards against the tall stainless steel kitchen cabinet. Her small Russian pistol clattering on the floor, her skull cracking against the stone, a pool of blood forming around her...
Zhenya; my beautiful Zhenya.
He remembered a time, from years earlier: sitting outside at the long oak table. The sun gleaming, shimmering through the leafy canopy of a one hundred year old oak tree, casting strips of bright light across the table top. He could smell the lavender and the trees from the apple orchard. Zhenya had only been young then; nine, maybe ten. The two of them sitting next to each other eating freshly picked strawberries and a generous helping of double cream - both laughing at the moustache of cream across Kirill’s top lip. Zhenya’s eyes wide and gleaming and beautiful, her face a picture of delight.
Kirill closed the door of the memory.
The bitterness instantly returning to his mind, a cold and clinical hold taking over.
He knew; knew he should feel something amazing for Zhenya; he knew that his emotions should flow fast and furious, and there was anger there and a hatred for Dillon so intense that it held the promise of many long hours of torture to come. And he warmed to this thought, because he would be able to indulge his passion for the ancient art of Shackra torture... but he knew he should be weeping at her death. His intelligence told him he should be.
But something strange had happened.
Kirill could not bring himself to cry.
His face turned to a grimace now; the bullet wound to his gut was healing, his flesh knitting together; in this drug induced dream state it all seemed to be happening so quickly, almost instantaneously, strands of skin and muscle joining together, cells repairing and replicating in the blink of an eye.
It burned. It hurt real bad.
Kirill remembered his brother. It had been a shame, but the order had come from the highest level to kill him. To murder his own brother, to murder a man he loved, knowing that he would leave an orphaned child.
But he had carried out the order, with a single shot to the head.
And he had cried afterwards; Zhenya had not been there when Kirill had carried out the execution, but when she had returned, had come to him, asking why he was so sad. She had hugged him and sat with him, and Kirill had wept long and hard and had vowed then, that he would look after her forever.
Things had changed since then, he realised.
And then, bitterly; I have changed.
Now there were no tears. And he understood why - he understood that he had become as emotionless as those he served. He had thought that he could be immune from such changes; after all he had always had a philanthropic view about life. He thought that he would be able to make sacrifices for the good of the future; for the good of all things.
I am doing the right thing, he told himself.
The sacrifice will be worth it in the end.
The ocean crashed against the white sand shore; and Kirill realised that the surf, the rolling crashing waves and the hiss of the foaming spray were nothing more than voices once more, distant voices drifting in from the infinite darkness of the horizon.
“He appears to be stable and his temperature is almost normal again... Hey, who are you, you can’t just barge in here, you’ve got no…”
“Shut-up. My security clearance gives me the right to be here. Now take this... And make sure you inject it straight into the wound.”
“Good; now tell your men to put their guns away.”
* * * Kirill awoke suddenly. His eyes were still shut, and he waited for a while, listening to his own rhythmic breathing. His senses were all on high alert, though; he could hear breathing from at least another two people in the room with him. He could smell sweat, a hint of cheap stale aftershave, whisky, and somebody’s odorous feet. Kirill inwardly checked his own body: it felt weak, the muscles stiff, taut with cramps, ravaged by fatigue. And his stomach: it was nothing more than a dull throb where the wound was still healing.
He slowly opened his eyes, sticky and crusted from days of sleep. He could see a white suspended ceiling. Clinical, harsh white light, made him flinch. The room was quite new; a private ward perhaps?
Kirill’s hand moved down his body; he felt the fresh scar where the hollow-point bullet had recently smashed into him; he probed it gently but there was no pain. He smiled to himself, then attempted to prop himself up on one elbow.
There were three men; they were all watching him intently. Two were obviously bodyguard types, large street-brawlers, carrying miniUzi submachine guns concealed badly within their jackets; they were unshaven and looked weary. The third was a small frail looking man, somewhere in his late fifties, with a gaunt face and long crooked nose. What little hair he had, was smarmed, his hands small almost effeminate. He wore the long white coat of a hospital doctor and a stethoscope drape
d around his neck. A small aluminium attaché case was by his side and Kirill knew exactly what items were in it.
“It’s very good to see you, Mendoza. How long have I been out?” he asked.
“Five days, sir. A little longer than we anticipated, but you were very nearly dead when we got to you. And you must appreciate that the bullet that Dillon shot you with, was designed to cause maximum amounts of damage on entry.”
Kirill nodded. “I would like a cup of strong black Colombian ground coffee and one of my finest Cuban cigars. I feel like I’ve been unconscious forever!”
“That is a side effect of the serum, sir.”
Mendoza waved away one of the bodyguards to fetch Kirill’s coffee and cigar, who slid from the room. Outside the automatic sliding door Kirill caught a glimpse of a white sterile corridor, with several trolleys and more stark white lights.
“Does Ramus know that I’m okay?”
“He does, sir.”
“Is this a private facility?”
“Yes. As you can appreciate; you were losing blood and your body had gone into shock, but with a slight boost of the new regenerative serum, we were able to stabilise you just long enough to get you to this private hospital. The drug will stay active in your system for another three or four days.”
“Any side effects?”
“Mostly fatigue, sir. In some cases, it has been known to cause short-term depression and severe paranoia.”
“Fatigue - paranoia!”
“But we also have drugs to combat these.” Mendoza added quickly.
“Good.”
Kirill sat up. “There are still bits of metal inside me.”
“Yes, we ran thescans and determined that attempting to remove the fragments still inside your body, would have been too dangerous with the limited facilities that they have here. Also, Ramus said speed of recovery was of the utmost importance because of the critical state of the Chimera Programme. He said to tell you that we have had developments regarding the whereabouts of the stolen blueprints.”
“And...” A pause. “Dillon?”
Chimera Code (Jake Dillon Adventure Thriller Series) Page 12
