“After the incident in Cornwall, he has now been traced.”
“Tell me.”
“He killed many of our Assassins; very nearly killed you.”
“He’s far better than I thought - much better. Could almost be a fucking Assassin himself!”
There was laughter; cold laughter; it contained little or no humour.
“Another unit of Assassins has been sent to remove him.”
Kirill nodded. The street-brawler returned and Kirill lit his cigar.
“Tell me, Mendoza. My niece, Zhenya Tarasova: I am right in thinking that she is dead?”
“I’m afraid that she is, sir. Nobody is sure what happened in that room... we were waiting for you to wake. The surviving Assassins got you out of there just ahead of the explosion designed to eliminate the majority of the Chimera development team along with a whole netfull of MOD top brass and mask your disappearance, but Zhenya... well, the bullet had nicked a main artery - she bled to death. There was nothing that they could do for her and didn’t have any time to make a snap decision... you were obviously the main priority.”
“Priority?” Kirill said coldly, a dark intelligent glint in his eyes.
“Yes, I suppose I am.”
“One other thing, sir.”
“Yes?” His eyes sparkled.
“It appears that Scorpion had set up a special unit to search and destroy our operation.”
“And?”
“Scorpion HQ and the special unit have both been successfully dealt with, sir. Scorpion HQ no longer exists, and many of this unit along with a large majority of the other operatives and networks are now dead.”
“Exemplary, Mendoza.” Kirill smiled nastily in satisfaction, and closed his dark eyes and allowed the pain to wash over him and take him away to a calmer place.
* * * Tatiana lay, broken and torn on the frozen ground. “No!” hissed Dillon. His own Glock started to kick in his hand as he ran out from behind his cover, both hands clasping the weapon. The man who had shot Tatiana was lifted off his feet and slammed backwards, bullets boring into his flesh, blood exploded from his mouth, staining his chin and nose in a crimson shower. Dillon landed, rolling across the ice crusted drive, grunting, his Glock magazine empty and his body sliding out of control against the twisted buckled Range Rover Sport with a dull thud. He changed magazines in an instant - checked inside the 4X4.
Two men were still standing, retreating towards the woods: two were dead inside of the vehicle from Dillon’s sniper rounds; another had been shot by Tatiana, and one lay dead, face down, in the snow with his face blown away, Dillon’s bullet in his brain.
Dillon popped his head around the car’s protective shell; bullets screamed past from the edge of the woods, slamming into the stone and metal behind him with showers of dust. Dillon dropped down onto his belly and slid along to the edge of the Mercedes which ticked and hissed with the sigh of cooling metal.
A shoulder and arm exposed from behind the tree.
Dillon squeezed off three rounds in quick succession, heard screams, and saw blood erupt from the shoulder, the arm fall away onto the ground.
One last assailant left .
Dillon looked to the right and left of the man he’d just shot but could not see the Assassin. Where was he? He had been crouching by a tree to the right, just back from the tree line, down near the low drystone wall that needed serious repair work which Dillon kept putting off until the long awaited summer...
Heavy boots thudded on the Mercedes roof and Dillon looked up - too late - as the man leaped forward on top of him with a growl. Dillon caught a glimpse of tanned Middle Eastern features and jet black cropped hair and three or four day’s stubble growth on his chin. He smelled the stale body odour before he was grabbed, his Glock knocked easily aside. He brought up his knee, but missed - the large attacker rained down heavy blows on Dillon’s head and face and he was momentarily stunned, blinded by the multiple impacts.
The weight lifted. Dillon lay on his back, on the snow, tasting the metallic tinge of his own blood. He glanced up, into a boot. His vision blurred and he was smashed backwards against the Mercedes, grunting, blood flowing freely down his chin, his nose broken. He might have even whimpered, he couldn’t be sure - as he tried to push himself up off of the snow.
“Now, you’re going to die,” came the heavily accented voice.
Dillon’s eyes flickered open - everything seemed to reach his brain in slow motion, and then something deep within his subconscious came to the surface and he knew what he had to do. The excitement rising, adrenalin started to pump through his veins to every part of his body - “Drop this bastard like a stone,” came the whisper.
Dillon rolled away to his right as the military style boot struck where - a split second before - his face had been. Dillon’s fist smashed a heavy curling blow into the man’s testicles and then the man screamed like a girl!
Dillon dragged himself to his feet, his senses heightened to a higher level, every nerve ending tingling in anticipation of what to come; the man on the ground was still wreathing around on the snow in excruciating pain.
Dillon staggered against the Mercedes. He gave a quick glance across to Tatiana - she was down and completely out of the game. He looked around for the Glock but could not see the weapon in the powdery snow. He felt a warm stream of blood running down over his cheek from an open gash above his right eye and he wiped it away with the sleeve of his jacket.
He moved forward and kicked the man in the head several times, until he was sure that the killer was unconscious. Then he knelt, and slammed his fist into the man’s nose, breaking it in a return favour and making doubly sure that he wouldn’t get up.
Covered in blood, Dillon skidded across to where Tatiana was laying. Gently, he eased her over onto her back. Remarkably, she was breathing, raggedly, her eyes rolled open, her jacket soaked in blood. “Can you feel your fingers and toes?” he asked.
“You look like a fucking mess,” she smiled, her voice hoarse.
“You’re not so beautiful yourself.”
“I can’t move...”
Dillon gently lifted Tatiana into his arms and staggered despite her lack of weight. His head was spinning, pounding after the blows from the big man. She was still as light as he remembered... from better, happier times...
Dillon lurched towards the front door of his home.
Tatiana’s eyes rolled back into their sockets and her fingers clawed at his arm.
Dillon cursed, and dropped to his knees in the snow, droplets of blood turning the ground pink. Tatiana was in deep shock, the colour had drained from her face, and beads of sweat had formed across her forehead.
Her eyes blinked, and then closed again. She did not speak.
Dillon lifted her, limp now in his arms, and climbed wearily over the wreckage of the Mercedes which was partly blocking the entrance to his home. He went up the steps and kicked open the front door. He was suddenly weary as he went inside, suddenly aware of the pain he was feeling through his battered and bruised body. Stars danced in front of his eyes and he had to pause for a moment, leaning, heaving and panting against the wall. He moved into the living room, and felt elation when he saw the fire he had lit earlier was still burning.
He gently lowered Tatiana on to one of the large leather sofas, pushed it nearer to the fire, and threw a few logs onto the smouldering coals, the flames flaring reassuringly. Tatiana’s clothing was soaked in blood, seeping through the fabric.
There was a repetitive blipping coming from a remote control unit on the low coffee table: perimeter-sensor alerts triggered by the Assassins. Dillon reached over and picked the small device up, resetting the alarms with the push of a button and welcomed the silence.
Dillon threw a few more logs on the glowing fire, and then moved into the ground floor wet-room. He removed his jacket, groaning, and then his hoody. Cuts and bruises appeared across his body and shoulders, across his face and when he glanced into the mirror, an aging, ba
ttered shell gazed back. It grinned through blood stained teeth.
Dillon went through to the kitchen, and ran off a bowl of hot water, grabbed a knife from the teak block and returned to the living room. He knelt, and carefully started to cut away Tatiana’s clothing, her blood soaked silk blouse and bra. Her flesh was pale and cool to his appraising touch. He realised that she had, thankfully, taken only a single bullet but he still cursed, leaning over her to take a closer look at the wound. It had entered high through her shoulder - tearing flesh, just missing bone and exiting in a tight hole from the back of the muscle. An inch lower and it would have caused serious damage... the wound was angry looking and inflamed with fluid.
“Bollocks.”
Dillon went through to his study and grabbed a medical box; he returned to Tatiana and pulled out a syringe, injecting her intravenously with a morphine based sedative. He checked her pulse and blood-pressure, using a small hand-held monitor. Then he pulled free a sterile solution and cleaned the wound’s entry point and then, rolling her over onto her belly, the exit hole, using a scalpel to cut away any alien particles of metal and clothing. Using sterile wire, he finally stitched the fresh sliced skin together.
Rolling her onto her back again mumbling, he stitched the entry wound, Dillon checked Tatiana’s pulse and blood-pressure once more, then applied a dressing to her tightly stitched flesh and also to the cut above her right eye. Then he pressed tiny monitor pads onto her chest, which checked on heart rate and blood saturation levels. He pulled down her trousers, checking for any other wounds he might have missed.
Content with his work so far, Dillon considered wrapping her in more blankets, but used the fur throw-over instead. He piled on more logs, and gave her a final shot of antibiotics and another dose of sedative before limping to the wet-room himself.
He removed the remainder of his torn, blood soaked clothing, turned on the shower and stepped into the steam, wincing as the hot water lashed his battered and bruised skin like a bull-whip. Slowly, he felt the tension start to leave him as he lathered his body, washing free the dirt, sweat and congealed blood - his own and that of others.
His mind and body hurt - hurt bad, his mind a whirlpool of confusion.
There were far too many unanswered questions, and a broken nose did nothing to rationalise his thoughts.
He stepped out and towelled himself gently, his movements slow and laboured as the adrenalin left him. He looked at himself in the mirror and cursed. Heavy bruising, cuts, and abrasions. His nose was a mess, twisted bone and split skin. He dragged the medical box over and, with some difficulty, injected himself with a strong morphia based painkiller and waited for its numbing soothing effect to take hold. He went up to his bedroom and pulled on tracksuit bottoms and a T-shirt, feeling a little light headed as the drugs got a hold of his system.
He went back downstairs to the wet-room and stood in front of the mirror. Then, without preamble, he placed his two thumbheels either side of his nose, counted to three and wrenched bone and cartilage back into some semblance of order. Everything went black and he yelped with the pain, despite the painkiller. He threw-up in the sink and stood leaning over the bowl, drooling and feeling decidedly fragile.
Dillon looked up.
His nose was still a little crooked but almost straight once more, like it had been hit with a cricket bat but not by a lorry! He smiled weakly at his reflection, brushed his teeth gently and swilled with mouth wash - to remove the sourness of the vomit, and splashed cold water on his face to carry away his pain-filled sweat.
He went through to the living room and checked on Tatiana who was still out for the count, her breathing was now regular and the sweating had subsided a little. He gently placed his hand on her forehead, her skin soft to his touch, the colour having returned to her face. He pulled on a heavy coat and thermal gloves, and a pair of boots unstained by blood, and went outside and down the front steps.
Dillon stood in the middle of the drive, looking at the carnage, feeling even more light-headed as the cold air hit him.
He stepped through the snow. Flakes were falling, much heavier now, from a dark brooding grey sky that cast silver shadows across the landscape. The world was silent, a watercolour of stillness and serenity; which had been broken briefly by the unwelcome intrusion of the assassins sent to kill him.
Dillon searched the area for his 9mm Glock, located it, checked the magazine and condition of the weapon, and used a rag to wipe it free of blood and dirt. He checked the unconscious man, and then moved around the battered vehicles that were now littering his drive and up towards the edge of the woods. There was deep red blood spatters and staining on the ground where the man whose arm had been shot-off had been standing. The blood led away and Dillon followed for a hundred or so metres until he found the man face down on the ground, dead. Dillon checked him and then went through his pockets, before dragging him deeper into the woods and rolling him over a steep slope down into the dark waters of the loch.
The effort was almost too much as he worked methodically, but slowly. He pulled one of the corpses out of the Range Rover, and gathered the other bodies, dragging them all into the woods and laying them to rest in a line, like a macabre scene from a TV police drama. He wiped the blood from his hands and returned to the only surviving man, who was making low moaning sounds. Dillon rolled him over onto his belly and pulled garden wire from his jacket pocket, binding the man’s hands and feet so tightly that the wire cut into the exposed flesh. Then he dragged the tanned man to the tree where he had found Tatiana, propped him against the thick trunk and, taking his coat off, placed it over him.
“There, we don’t want you dying of exposure now, do we?” He muttered.
Night was closing in and the snow falling fast, the heavy flakes tumbling through the darkness like leaves in winter. Dillon moved to the cars and stood, hands deep in pockets. Deep in thought about his next move.
He walked through the arch to the inner courtyard and the garage block, and pulled open the first double set of wooden doors. Jumped into his Landrover and drove it out into the drive. The wire was attached to the rear tow hook of the Mercedes. He selected the lowest gear ratio and then gently started to pull the wreckage away from the front steps of his home. Dillon shivered at the icy breeze and flakes of snow peppering through the open side window. He eased back on the accelerator, the twisted, buckled metal of the Mercedes groaned as he dragged it over the frozen ground and then he stopped suddenly.
Dillon got out and unhitched the tow-wire, reversed around the Mercedes and shunted it into the mouth of the lane and exiting Dillon’s own private domain. The front of the Merc was smashed to oblivion; no headlights, no grille, only an exposed engine bay and a badly leaking radiator. Dillon went back to the Range Rover, eyes scanning the battered and hole riddled bodywork. The windscreen and driver’s side window had been smashed, a headlight shattered and bullet holes had peppered the bodywork. The rear of the vehicle was okay, and Dillon climbed in and started the engine. The powerful turbo diesel kicked into life, fumes pluming from the exhaust pipe. Dillon eased it into drive - then drove away from the castle and out onto the snowbound road. The 4x4 ran reasonably well, only the excessive wind noise from the open windows betraying its recent abuse. Dillon turned the vehicle off the road and into the entrance of a field, turned, and drove straight back to the castle, revelling in the power of the damaged luxury motor.
Satisfied that the Range Rover would be able bodied to use if the need arose, he parked the 4x4 out of sight. The central locking system was inoperative - probably a stray bullet. He pocketed the keys and walked back to the Land Rover, he shunted the Merc further into the lane, completely blocking the only visible access to Dillon’s property. He drove the Land Rover back through the arch and parked it inside the garage, locked the doors, and limped back to the large beech tree. Staring down at the would-be Assassin; he saw properly for the first time, just how big he was, much bigger than Dillon and quite fearsomelooking. He
was dark-skinned, almost Arabic in appearance. He had a thick black moustache, and was looking up at him in immense pain
- Dillon gazed down at the man - not compassionately - not with any feeling or emotion at all. His nose was well and truly broken and the wires that Dillon had tied around his wrists and ankles were biting deep into his flesh. Dillon crouched down. “Who are you?”
The man’s eyes narrowed, the gaze hardened.
“Were you sent here to kill Tatiana, or me?”
Silence. He continued to stare blankly at Dillon.
Dillon’s fist slammed into the man’s already broken nose, and he screamed, saliva and blood drooling from his mouth. His head fell forward, and then lifted slowly to stare at Dillon. He spat into Dillon’s face and grinned nastily, deep red staining his teeth.
“If that’s the way you want it old son.” Dillon whispered, wiping blood from his face.
Dillon grabbed the collar of the man’s jacket and dragged him across the frozen lawn and down towards the loch, wailing and attempting to kick out. He had to stop halfway to get his breath back, but moved on a moment later and dragged the man the final distance to the water’s edge. He took another length of wire from his pocket and tied it around a sturdy looking tree trunk, then attached the other end to the man’s ankles with the same over-zealousness as before. He crouched down and said, “Now you listen and you listen good, you piece of scum. By the morning you will be frozen dead. But, I’m not unreasonable. I’ll be back in a while, so I hope that the time you’re going to spend by this magnificent lake will enable you to reflect on the error of your ways.”
Dillon limped back to the warmth of the castle’s interior and Tatiana. He slumped down by her side. Her breathing was deep, her colour had returned to normal. He threw a few more logs onto the fire, and armed the house security defences with the wireless remote control, and then went and slumped in one of the leather easy chairs opposite Tatiana. His head suddenly felt heavy and every bone in his body ached from the recent beating, he wearily flicked on the TV. Keeping the sound low, he watched without interest as images danced in front of him. Dillon hated the TV; it was brain numbing. But he acknowledged that it had its uses as he flicked through the news channels, eyes searching, brain working overtime even though he was almost falling asleep.
Chimera Code (Jake Dillon Adventure Thriller Series) Page 13
