by Guy Roberts
‘Jack, I’m out of ammo,’ Cleo hissed. Jack swallowed, his mind filing through their options in a blur. He looked down, to see an oxygen tank rolling incongruously across the floor. A crack of lighting illuminated the window frame behind him and Jack’s breath caught. He spun around to the window and fired a shot at it point blank. The bullet bounced off the treated windows and ricocheted crazily into the inferno by the bar.
He glared at the unmarked window with a disgruntled expression on his face. ‘Fine,’ he muttered shortly.
‘Jack, we have to move,’ Cleo shouted over the fire. Jack ducked down by her side as a flurry of pistol shots came from where Reynard had taken cover. Evidently the hunter had found a weapon. Jack knew that he and Cleo were seconds away from being caught in a murderous crossfire.
There was only one way out.
‘Hold this.’ He passed the Tomcat down to Cleo then shrugged the Enforcer from his back. Without pausing, Jack rolled to his feet and carried the force of his momentum with him, swinging the Enforcer against the window with every ounce of strength he could muster. An internal piston was triggered as the weapon touched the glass, adding an additional burst of kinetic energy into the blow. Altogether, the Enforcer delivered more than ten tonnes of force into the inch-square tip of the device. The blow punched the Enforcer straight through the dual-layered laminate, shattering the entire window into an opaque sheet of minute cracks that burst away from the frame like an explosion. The storm entered the carriage like a maelstrom. Looking out, Jack could see rough concrete roadway, while thick green sward swayed farther away from the track. A bullet sang past his head and he pulled Cleo upright by the gaping window. ‘Can you jump?’ he asked urgently.
She looked at the window in fear, then nodded. ‘I can if you can.’
‘Then let’s go,’ he shouted over the storm, ‘just hold onto me as we go.’
He grabbed the Tomcat from her and fired another shot at Deschamps as Cleo wrapped her arms around his frame
‘Ok,’ Jack shouted, ‘on the count of three, jump as high as you can.’ She looked up at him fearfully.
‘One,’ he shouted, firing a shot at Reynard.
‘Two,’ he turned around and planted a kiss on Cleo’s lips. The two of them melted into each other for a moment, then Jack turned and lobbed the oxygen tank to the far side of the room.
‘Three!’ he shouted, simultaneously firing a shot from the Tomcat into the grey aluminium cylinder as it arced gracefully across the smoke-filled chamber. The bullet punched through the metal like paper and an instant later the far side of the room was filled with a billowing fireball. The force of the explosion picked them up as they leapt and thrust them effortlessly out of the window and into the dark night beyond. The thick green grass caught them softly as they rolled down the embankment from the train tracks, rain drenching them in an instant and providing a blessed relief after the fiery interior of the carriage. Jack looked up to see the ruined Train Bleu carriage rolling around a curve, smoke and flame billowing from its shattered window. He let himself collapse back to the ground, welcoming the touch of the rain-soaked grass on his battered frame. A few seconds passed as he lay there, savouring the raindrops and the smell of the earth and grass which surrounded him. After a long moment he hauled himself upright and took in his surroundings. The storm was raging overhead, wind and rain battering downward in a chaotic mix.
‘Cleo!’ he shouted desperately. Rain lashed at his eyes. It looked as if they had leapt from the train into the middle of a forest. Dark trees loomed overhead, rolling backward and forward in the storm’s tumult.
‘Cleo!’ he shouted again.
‘Over here!’ There was a faint reply and suddenly Cleo was in his arms, laughing with relief despite the rain and darkness around them.
‘Are you all right?’ He shouted over the rain, desperate in case she had hurt herself in the escape from the train carriage. ‘Are you ok?’
‘Yes, yes, I think so.’ Cleo replied shakily, leaning against him for support. Jack ran his hands over her limbs quickly, testing for broken bones or bleeding skin. Remarkably, she seemed to have landed without a scratch – as had Jack himself. Small miracles still happened, Jack thankfully realised. What mattered now was getting them somewhere safe and dry before the storm left them with pneumonia or worse. The warm summer had been replaced by a freezing downpour that threatened both of them with hypothermia. Although Cleo appeared unhurt, Jack could feel his own battered body was in far worse shape. The pain in his shoulder was spreading out across his torso and there was a strange numbness at its core that he did not like. Reaching his good arm up, he felt his shoulder gingerly. His cold fingers felt along the soaked shirt and bandages that Cleo had wound around the knife wounds. In one small triangle of exposed skin he found a line of cut flesh where a bullet had skimmed his shoulder. A flare of agony lit up around the wound as one fingertip brushed along it. Jack tensed for a moment, then continued probing. It was as he feared – the leap from the train had left him exposed to fire from Deschamps or Reynard and one of them had managed to graze him as he flung himself to safety.
‘Come on,’ Jack muttered. It was more important to get under cover than to tend to such a flesh wound. ‘Let’s go.’
He pulled Cleo away from the train tracks, trying to be gentle as a sudden wave of dizziness burst across his eyes. ‘We’ve got to get out of here before Deschamps sends some of his men after us.’
‘I know, I’m right here.’ Cleo followed his lead, then slipped his arm over her shoulders. After a moment’s struggle, Jack suddenly found himself leaning on her gratefully as they staggered through the forest, her strong body lithe and capable.
‘You’re wounded,’ Cleo spoke shortly.
‘Beaten, drugged, stabbed, frozen, shot and now half-drowned.’ Jack muttered through gritted teeth. ‘Take your pick.’
‘Stop complaining.’ Cleo’s comment was interrupted for a moment as they scrambled over a fallen tree. ‘If you don’t want to get shot at, then you shouldn’t try and rescue damsels in distress from antique train carriages.’
‘Next time I’ll take a pass, believe me,’ Jack chuckled weakly, then grunted in pain as his legs buckled and he crashed to the forest floor. There was a moment’s struggle before they were upright again, two pale silhouettes in a rain-drenched storm.
‘It’s getting worse, and so are you!’ Cleo had to shout to be heard over the wind. ‘We need to get into some shelter and rest as soon as we can!’
‘I can rest when I’m dead,’ Jack spoke doggedly.
‘Jack, you stubborn bastard,’ Cleo’s voice was harsh with frustration. ‘If you don’t bloody rest, you’ll be dead!’ Another crash of thunder peeled overhead and Jack pushed himself onward, shaking Cleo off as he scrambled over a barbed wire fence that had appeared in the gloom. They had reached the edge of the wood – a thick belt of wilderness separating the train line from a range of fields. Unfettered by trees, a howling gale swept across the pasture, pushing rain and hail into their faces.
‘That way, over there!’ Cleo pointed across the fields, to where a windswept barn stood on a rise, it’s looming shape illuminated by streaks of lighting overhead. ‘Come on!’ The pair pulled each other onward through the field, nearly bowled over by the wind and rain sweeping down at them across the Belgian fields. They finally reached the walls of the barn, leaning into its lee gratefully as the storm whistled around them.
‘In here,’ Cleo declared, forcing the barn door open a crack. Jack staggered through into darkness, tumbling weakly to the ground as Cleo heaved the barn door shut behind them. A moment later overhead lights flickered on. A warm smell of hay and horse filled Jack’s nose as he lay helpless on the ground. He tried to speak, but black spots were dancing across his vision and all he could hear was a high-pitched ringing. Somehow Cleo hauled him onto a bale of hay. It was all he could do to sit upright in response to her murmured instructions. Images came and went as he faded in and out of consciou
sness: an oxygen canister floating through the air as he raised the Tomcat to fire… Cleo kneeling in front of him, a big first aid kit from the barn at her side, cutting away his ragged shirt and damaged body armour, touching at his shoulder with rubber gloves… then all Jack could see was his brother’s body in London, cold and dead. There was a dull pain as Cleo probed at his shoulder, the painful sensation blooming like the flush of a rose. Another image drifted in front of his eyes, of Cleo in the library of the Shard apartment, smiling at him as she stepped aside to reveal the books he needed. Jack focused for a moment to find Cleo bandaging his shoulder with a long white cloth.
‘You’re too cold Jack,’ her voice was stern and worried, ‘you need to stay warm...’
The next thing Jack knew, he was wrapped in horse blankets, lying on the hay-covered floor of a stable, heat lamps switched on overhead. He shivered violently, teeth clattering together. Jack had a moment’s image of a horse’s face looming overhead, the friendly animal looking curiously at the human who had invaded his neighbouring stall. There was a click and the lights overhead switched off, leaving the red glow of the headlamps radiating down upon him. Jack lay back, trying to fight the shakes and tremors that were rushing through his body like a tsunami. His breath came out in staggered gasps. There was movement in the darkness and suddenly Cleo was next to him in the blankets, warm and alive, strong arms holding his battered body close. It came to him that the two of them were naked, wrapped together under the blankets, Cleo doing everything she could to pull his body away from the hypothermia that had was claiming him. The scent of her body filled him and he breathed in deeply like a drowning man, his chilled skin savouring the roaring heat that emanated from her body like fire from a forge. His hands brushed against the smoothness of her skin and he tried to force his jaw to unlock, to force some words past his chattering teeth, but all he could do was whisper her name before sleep reached up and pulled him into its depths.
2355 hrs (2255 hrs GMT) 17 June 2015, Brussels-South Railway Station.
GR 50.835516, 4.335663
The entrance to the train station was filled with flashing lights and emergency vehicles. Fire engines, police cars and ambulances had all raced to the scene, news vans close behind, as the news of a possible terrorist attack against a French businessman filled the airwaves. Confusion about the situation had taken hold and men and women were rushing back and forth across the station concourse with rising panic, while a phalanx of security officials in high visibility safety vests were ringing close around the smoke-damaged carriage at the end of the platform. Deschamps’ rage was apoplectic, not least because of the unwanted attention triggered by his spectacular entrance. More and more police officers were asking how they could be of use in what was clearly a serious affair, while the handful of corrupt officers he controlled were looking more and more uncomfortable. The police captain at Deschamps’ side was stoically batting away enquiries from the press and only selected officers had been allowed into the Blue Carriage itself – the profusion of bullet holes and shell casings serving mute testimony to the gunfire that had played out on the journey into the Belgian capital. Smelling of smoke, yet seemingly at ease, Reynard had withdrawn to one side of the concourse and lounged on a bench, smiling sardonically as his master grappled with the unexpected notoriety he was attracting.
Jack Starling, Reynard shook his head in admiration. What a foe. What a thrill to see him pointing a gun in my direction. Reynard smiled at the memory. What a pleasure it will be to thrust a knife into his throat. Reynard had killed many times before, but the anticipation of another murder pleased him immensely. The thought of adding the resourceful Jack Starling to his catalogue of victims was irresistible. Reynard silently watched the chaos on the concourse increase and wondered how he would slide Jack Starling’s death into his memory. What would be unique about Jack’s death? English? Reynard rejected the thought. He had already killed three English people over the years. A solider? He had done that too. A cold smile broke out across Reynard’s face. English Brothers… I have not done that, not yet. Reynard turned the thought over in his mind. David and Jack Starling. Killed in the same manner, with the same knife… that will be a most pleasurable achievement. Reynard reached into one pocket and felt the sturdy little jack-knife that had ended David Starling’s life. It would be a pleasure to dispatch Jack Starling with the same weapon. That his location and plans were unknown to Reynard was utterly unimportant.
Deep in his heart, Reynard knew their battle was not finished. He knew where they would stand the next day, seeking cover in the crowds and pageantry, but Reynard was a hunter. He would find them and follow them to the gold, whether they wanted him to or not. The last thing Jack Starling would see in this world, Reynard swore, would be his own face as he cut the Englishman’s throat.
He shifted slightly in his seat, surprised to feel his cell phone vibrating in his pocket. He looked across the concourse to where Deschamps was fuming at the police officers standing around him in an apologetic huddle. Reynard frowned. Deschamps was the only man who knew the number to this phone.
Eyes cold, Deschamps flipped the disposable phone open and lifted it to his ear.
‘Mr Reynard…’
The voice on the other end was that of a young man, nervous, but determined.
‘Mr Reynard, I work for the Termite.’ Reynard’s lips twitched for a moment but he remained silent.
‘He’s moving to take the gold for himself, Mr Reynard,’ the voice continued. ‘I want to let Mr Deschamps know he is being betrayed.’
Reynard snapped the phone shut with a definite click and sat in silence, considering the implications of the call. He knew of Deschamps’ relationship with the Termite and the possibility that the urbane Berliner could have gained access to all the secrets that Reynard had so laboriously collected. Whether the Termite would dare to do so was another matter entirely. The identity of the boy who called was another question – perhaps the young man was hoping to work for Deschamps in the future – in which case, such an unexpected telephone call would prove rewarding. Reynard stood and buttoned his jacket with Gallic insouciance and moved with languid calm toward Deschamps. It was midnight. Time for them to leave this crowded railway station and prepare for the next stage of their journey. Let the local authorities clean up the burnt train carriage – they were in Deschamps’ pay and the so-called terrorist attack would be identified merely as a mechanical failure by morning – a rich Frenchman’s luxurious train carriage half-destroyed due to faulty wiring and nothing more.
Talking to Deschamps about the Termite would be far more difficult, Reynard knew. His master would not be pleased at the news of the Termite’s possible betrayal. But then again, Reynard smiled, with Jack Starling at loose somewhere in the forests of Belgium, Deschamps would welcome the opportunity for an easier target to vent his anger upon. Either way, Reynard decided, it seemed the days of the Termite were drawing quickly to a close.
0145 hrs (0045 hrs GMT) 18 June 2013 Sint-Maria Halle Algemeen Ziekenhuis (St Maria General Hospital) Belgium.
GR 503736719, 4.226036
James Watts lay in a hospital bed with his eyes shut, his body cocooned in bandages, with two broken legs and one broken arm all carefully supported around him. Watts’ breathing was slow and laboured, but a faint smile of satisfaction kept returning to his lips. Amid the pain, his mind was clutching onto the sight of Jack Starling hanging grimly to the side of the train carriage as he was carried away into the night. For Watts, however, the next few moments had been a painful confusion of breaking bones as the shattered Renault van tumbled down the side of the train line after crashing into a hidden gully. Watts had somehow hauled himself from the burning wreckage and crawled through what seemed like an endless, storm-filled forest. He had only allowed himself to pass out when his bleeding hand finally felt the tarmac of a roadway. The passing motorist who saw him assumed that his shattering wounds were the result of a late-night hit and run and the ambulance that t
ook him to the hospital had to drive slowly through the pounding rain despite Watts’ serious injuries. The doctors at the Emergency Room of the hospital were hopeful, at least. They expected the mysterious pedestrian would make a reasonable return to good health, even if weeks would pass before his broken limbs would be able to carry his weight. Watts could see the steel pins they had threaded into his arm and legs, but the dull agony of his broken bones was a small price to pay for having finally settled his debt to Jack Starling. Eventually he had been wheeled away from the Emergency Room and delivered into a private ward. Watts kept his eyelids lowered as the nurses left him in peace. Best they think he was unconscious while he decided his next move – he feared it was only a matter of time until COBRA managed to track him down. The more dangerous alternative, Watts knew, was that the mysterious Deschamps might find him first.
Watts waited until the room was silent before he finally opened his eyes. To his surprise, a single doctor was standing at the foot of the bed, pale eyes watching him patiently. The surgical mask across the man’s face obscured every other feature. Watts’ medical chart was held in a binder in the man’s hand. The two of them regarded one another for a long moment.
‘Lucky to be alive,’ the doctor stated eventually. Watts gave him a wink and nodded slightly.
‘Of course…’ The ring binder swung shut with finality. ‘Curious that you respond so warmly to an English statement, when we are in a Belgian hospital.’
Watt’s eyes widened with alarm as he realised his mistake and a murmured groan squeezed from his lips as he tried to wriggle his arms toward the nurse call button left hanging to one side. The doctor stepped forward and slid the call button out of the way. Pinned into place by his broken limbs, there was nothing Watts could do to stop him.
