Tatiana pulled back a little, her stare meeting Dillon’s. “No,” she said, shaking her head.
“Yes,” said Dillon. “The world as we know it is about to be torn apart, Tats. The British Government will not know how to combat this threat when it breaks, and with Scorpion HQ destroyed, we have to assume that there are no operational units left either, except for Alix and Lola. Ezra used to be the one who Kirill went to for inspiration and advice. If anybody knows what Ramus and Kirill are up to and where they are, then it is Ezra. If we can find them, then we can find the server location of the Chimera programme and destroy it. At least that will even the odds up - and if we can take out Ramus and Kirill on the way, then so be it. Ezra is going to point the way to Chimera, and the bastards who want to abuse the trust and power that has been given to them.”
“Dillon. We simply can’t go to Ezra,” said Tatiana.
“But he’s the only one who knows!” hissed Dillon.
“Yes, but he’s also a suspect, he could even be involved with Kirill and Ramus, which is why he is under twenty-four hour surveillance by the security services. To meet with him - would mean our death.”
Dillon stood up. He withdrew the 9mm Glock, checked the magazine, and rammed it back home as he looked up and took a deep breath. “If Ezra is batting for the other side, the only death will be his own,” said Dillon with grim finality.
Dillon had cleaned and re-dressed Tatiana’s wounds. Her face was incredibly pale and Dillon helped her to dress, wincing with her in her pain as she struggled into fresh clothes.
“Tell me what you know of these Assassins that will be sent?”
Tatiana shrugged. “All I know, Jake, is that Ramus has them and that they have the same extreme skill and ruthlessness as their ancient predecessors - some say that they derive these abilities from a drug induced hypnosis. Which is ironic as the term assassin is derived from the Arabic and translates literally as hashish-eater, or one addicted to hashish. There is one Assassin who is supposed to be the teacher, or master of all others - no one knows who it is, because they all dress in the same black skin-hugging outfits that are hooded. Even the eyes are concealed behind dark lenses that must act as image intensifiers and night vision. But this one took out an entire Scorpion squad.”
“Alone?”
“Oh yes, alone.”
“Without any help whatsoever?”
Tatiana nodded. “That’s what the MI6 encrypted files stated, when I read them prior to driving all the way up to this dissolute dump of a place to warn you, and to ask for your help. This thing is escalating and is totally out of control.”
“The last time you asked for my help, Tats, I almost got myself killed. I’ll go and get the hardware, check the surveillance monitors and arm the perimeter weapon systems. That’ll just leave time to throw a few things into a holdall, and then we can get the hell out of here. Anything you need?”
“Just my overnight bag, thanks.”
Dillon smiled. “Okay, I’ll go grab it out of what’s left of your Merc.” He turned his back on Tatiana and walked out of the room, across the great hall and to his study beyond and the estate’s monitoring system. He could sense her gaze boring into his back.
“Dillon?”
He stopped midway through the great hall. Turned.
“I still love you.”
“Really?”
Tatiana nodded. “Really.”
Dillon smiled warmly. “Get your ass in gear. We leave in five minutes.”
Dillon stared with a heavy frown at the row of computer monitor screens.
Something was amiss.
Badly amiss.
Something was happening.
There was silence in the castle, apart from the distant ticking of a clock. Dillon watched the screens. A light started to flash, blinking with a proximity warning. By the north shore of the loch. Dillon activated the digital video cameras; fresh snow greeted him. And then he felt it… …a ripple of a shockwave from the explosive device. Dillon felt a cold trickle of sweat run down his spine as the PCs instantly shut down... followed a second later by the lights to the whole castle. Everything was plunged into a murky half-light, long shadows being cast by a fine Scottish dawn. The computer cooling fans whirred to a halt.
“Bollocks.” Dillon shot across the great hall at a sprint.
“What’s happened?” Asked Tatiana.
“The main power has gone. And the back-up generators haven’t cut in automatically as they should have.”
“Give me a gun,” said Tatiana.
Dillon unzipped the holdall and pulled out a Walther PPK from his personal armoury, and tossed her the black automatic. He drew a narrow knife from a hidden sheaf sewn into the lining in his jacket, then slid it carefully back. It always felt good to know he had this old friend as a back-up. Dillon moved to the window, and staying out of sight, scanned the area outside for any movement.
“What now, Jake?” Asked Tatiana
“We get as far away from this place as we can. It’s too dangerous to stay here.”
“You believe me now?’’
Dillon picked up the Landrover keys from a side table, and put them into his jacket pocket. “All I know is that it takes a hell of a lot of tech-knowledge and know-how to knock out the type of sophisticated monitoring set-up and the three-stage back-up generators that I have here. And at the same time remain virtually undetected.”
“Did your system pick up anything before it went down?”
“North shore of the loch.”
“Don’t trust your sensors - trust your instincts. The Assassin is out there, and is most likely much closer...”
Dillon shivered, and flicked the safety off the Glock. He moved back out into the great hall and positioned himself in the shadows... a good place to defend, he thought. He knew the building intimately - but to cut and run now? To use the half-light of dawn?
Dangerous and extremely foolhardy. He had no idea who was outside, or how many of them there were. Most importantly - he had no idea where they were.
We should have left hours ago, under the cover of darkness, he thought.
These lost hours could be the death of us.
He calmed his breathing. He forced his heart rate to slow. He blinked a number of times and licked his lips, then walked back into the living room and moved to the side of the window and peered outside and into the snow covered landscape.
Nothing.
Entry point? he mused.
The front door - unless the Assassin was high up on the roof?
Dillon’s instincts told him that the Assassin was already inside the castle walls - every nerve ending in his body tingled with anticipation, and then he felt the breeze wash across his soul, like a ghost seeping deep into his bones. His head snapped around. The shadow moved quickly at the head of the wide staircase.
As his arm cameup, he slid the safety off the Glock, and squeezed of three rounds in rapid succession. Bullets screamed, smashing into the landing wall and spitting sparks from the metal shields mounted on the granite. Dillon moved quickly, keeping low as he rolled across the open doorway to the other side of the living room, he dropped to one knee and glanced sideways.
“Tut tut, Mr Dillon. That was an erratic move, at best,” came an emotionless voice. The tone was curiously flat and Dillon blinked sweat from his eyes and tried to pinpoint the voice. He moved slowly sideways, the Glock a close extension of his body - until he was crouched beside Tatiana, who was laying on her belly behind one of the large leather antique sofas - an automatic reaction, to get out of sight, and to minimise being hit by the gunfire.
With the gun still outstretched, he reached down with his free hand and handed her the keys to the Landrover. He pressed them deep against her palm and she nodded an acknowledgement.
They moved together, out into the great hall, keeping low and using the shadows for concealment. Towards a secret door in the oak panelling, that would lead them through a narrow passageway out into the sn
ow.
A movement.
Dillon opened fire.
Bullets howled across the magnificent open space, slamming into the door on the other side, and wood splintering in all directions, the Glock kicking in Dillon’s hand with each round fired, right up to the point when the only sound was that of an empty magazine and the dead-man’s click...
The black clad figure sprang at him from out of the shadows and he instinctively ducked sideways, twisting to the right; the figure landed lightly and - without time to re-load a new mag Dillon thrust the Glock in its holster, and at the same time was close enough to reach under a long oak table and rip-off the masking-tape securing a Beretta from its hiding position under the top.
A kick came from behind, smashed into his back with such force that he was thrust violently forward, toppling over the back of a chair and landing in a heap, unable to breath, eyes wide, pain searing through his torso.
The figure leaped again with incredible speed and agility.
Dillon spun, was on his feet, leaping to meet the Assassin head on; they collided and Dillon’s hands grasped spandex clothing and his head smashed forward, connecting with flesh and bone. They both hit the ground and Dillon threw a heavy punch to the figure’s kidneys, then another and another - there was a deep grunt, they rolled twice into the middle of the great hall, and then the figure was - gone!
Dillon scrambled up as the soft leather of a boot slammed into his ribs, but his hands found their mark around the Assassin’s foot and he twisted hard, flipping the figure over. Instead of landing heavily, the Assassin spun like a gymnast and grabbed Dillon with both arms. They were both thrust backwards and ended up against the heavy front door in a tangle of limbs. Dillon kicked the figure hard behind the knee, sprang up and wrenched open the door with both hands.
Outside, Dillon started down the front steps, and was instantly flung forward into the snow, tasting blood.
The Assassin rolled, coming up in a rigid poised crouch.
A cold wind blew off the loch, ruffling hair, cooling skin.
Dillon blocked, and backed away, shaking his head to clear the fuzziness. Blood was running freely down over his cheek. He grimaced, realising that he had a long gash over his right eye. He felt his bones crunching, age was creeping up on him, but he was careful to show no reaction, no indication of injury.
The black clad figure circled.
Dillon caught the shocked face of Tatiana to the left. Get in the fucking Landrover, his brain screamed, why don’t you get in the damned car, just get in the car? He watched her level the gun and fire off two shots, but even at that distance he could see her hand shaking...
Powder snow kicked up and bullets whined.
Dillon calmed his breathing. The Beretta was still in his pocket, and he now had to focus.
The Assassin approached. The figure was of slim build, tall, clad entirely in black and wearing a black balaclava. Tight black boots were on the Assassin’s feet.
Dillon could see no visible weapons.
The Assassin launched forward - Dillon blocked a series of four punches, dropped low and delivered a powerful left hook to the Assassin’s jaw; he stepped in close, and was kicked hard in the chest, sending him scrabbling backwards gasping for breath, hands and arms held in front of him defensively.
Dillon’s mind was racing, thinking of his next move, all the time aware that the a Assassin was much faster and more agile than he was.
The attacker leaped; instantly Dillon twisted and rolled to his right, hooking his left foot in a wide arc, and as the Assassin landed, knocking him or her off its feet. The figure landed heavily on its back, instantly sprang back into a standing position, and charged.
Blows were exchanged left and right. Dillon blocked, received another kick to the chest and a series of rapid punches that sent him spinning into the snow. He tasted blood and looked down at the frozen ground, which was suddenly cool and soothing to the bruised and battered flesh of his face. It would be so easy, so easy to lay there and never get up again...
Dillon tried to get up, but his body screamed at him. A rainbow of colours flashed before his eyes.
He pushed, heaved, but finally fell back onto the snow exhausted.
Behind, he heard the Assassin approach, soft crunching footsteps on the snow, but he did not have the strength, could not move, could not bring himself to turn, to roll over.
Was this it, the end…?
He could do nothing... his body was not responding...
“Fight, Dillon, fight. Don’t let this fucker kill you like this...”Dillon’s subconscious screamed from the dark recess of his mind.
But Dillon was unable to move.
Chapter 9
The small chapel at the university stood some fifty metres from the west wing, half obscured by a circle of speckle leafed bushes. Its early history and the date of when it was built were unrecorded but it was certainly older than the university, a single plain rectangular cell with a stone alter under the eastern window. There was no means of lighting except by candles and a wooden box of these was on a chair to the right of the door, together with an assortment of candlesticks, many wooden, which looked like discards from ancient kitchens. Since no matches were provided, the casual improvident visitor had to make his or her devotions, if any, without the benefit of their light. The cross on the alter was of carved oak, perhaps by a local carpenter either in obedience to orders or under some private compulsion of piety or religious affirmation. Except for the cross, the alter was bare. The chapel was a cold place. The polished limestone floors were buffed to an age old shine by decades of worship. The walls were of a simple white-washed plaster, the roof an elaborate show of exposed oak rafters and cross beams. Rows of pews that were steeped in antiquity and worn by the presence of praying worshippers, were arranged traditionally one behind another.
Outside the early morning sunshine spilled light through the stained-glass window directly behind the pulpit. A cool breeze drifted down the aisles, between the pews, between those worshippers who attended when they felt the need for the company of God. They were gathered in silent prayer in the small chapel, while the university’s church was undergoing extensive restoration.
The Priest kneltby the alter, his hands clasped together in prayer. He was a tall man; some would say skinny, beneath thick curly ginger hair, wearing casual clothes and a tweed jacket that had leather patches on each elbow. His eyes were tightly closed in this act of prayer. His face calm, almost serene, bathed in the coloured light filtering in through the stained glass window. By his side, sat his Bible, the Priest’s most prized possession, it was a small leather-bound edition with wafer-thin pages that were edged in gold. And, this man would willingly die for this little book.
The Priest was fully aware of the people around him and he felt privileged to be a part of their faith and to worship alongside them. They were all there to commune with the Lord and to receive his blessing. The Priest sighed; this was as close to contentment as it could get.
Footsteps. Something stirred inside him; something ate at the Priest’s karma like carrion pulling-over a rotting carcass.
The footsteps approached slowly, calculated, with care. The sound struck a discordant note in the Priest’s soul.
The Priest continued to pray, keeping his head bowed; he heard the sound of the other worshippers hurriedly leaving the small university chapel and he knew that this intruder was not friendly even before any words had been spoken or actions taken. He knew that this was the enemy.
“Lord, protect me against the dark forces of evil,” said the Priest suddenly, his voice loud with the clarity of polished glass, booming around the near-empty chapel. “For I am your obedient servant, Lord. Amen.”
The Priest climbed slowly to his feet. His hand reached down, closed over the small leather bound Bible, and placed the book in the pocket of his jacket. It was then, that he raised his eyes and looked straight at the intruder who now stood in front of him.
; The man was tall, had a lean physique with a full beard and cropped black hair, wearing a black suit; his eyes were of the brightest blue that watched the priest warily, the stare drilling into his mind with pure hatred.
The Priest stood perfectly still, surveying the man.
“You are not welcome in God’s house,” he said, his words soft, steady. “This is a place of worship; peace and love.”
“I am here to kill you, Priest.” The man took a step backwards, his gloved hands making fists in anticipation. The blue eyes constantly fixed on the Priest and his moss green eyes slightly blood-shot noted the killer’s stance and assortment of concealed weapons; the fluid flow of movement.
“What creature from hell are you, who dare to enter God’s holy ground? I would liken you to vermin; I would say that you are infidel in God’s house; I would say that you need to leave before the wrath of God strikes you down.”
The Priest waited, arms folded across his chest.
The killer attacked.
* * *
The police patrol car drove through the roads of the University City. The officer at the wheel of the Ford Focus drove at speed, using his blue light at junctions and traffic lights; overtaking other motorists with only inches to spare as he raced towards his call.
He approached the university, went through the main gates; and could see a small group of people gathered outside the chapel. As the Ford neared they spread out, he parked the car and stepped out into the crowd.
A group of four older ladies stood huddled outside behind a man carrying a brown leather briefcase. They were all peering at the door of the chapel as the rotund older police officer came towards them.
“Come along now, people, stand back, let me through” barked sergeant Pat Crocker.
“There was gunfire!” said one frightened lady, her handbag clutched tightly to her coat. Her eyes held a haunted quality - she had been one of the worshippers, who had left hurriedly.
The man carrying the brown leather briefcase stepped forward, and immediately introduced himself as one off the university dons. “I didn’t know if I should have gone in to check on the Priest?” He looked relieved that the Sergeant had arrived. “Lucky to get here so soon, Sergeant!”
Chimera Code (Jake Dillon Adventure Thriller Series) Page 15
