Killing for the Company

by Chris Ryan

  Only somebody who didn’t want to be seen.

  But how the hell . . . ?

  Chet looked over to where Suze was still sleeping fitfully. He moved over to her side of the bed, put one hand on her shoulder, one over her mouth, and shook her. She woke up suddenly, looking round as if she didn’t know where she was.

  ‘I’m going to ask you this once,’ said Chet, ‘and honestly, Suze, you’d better tell me straight. Who did you call earlier?’

  A pause. Suze looked at him with wide eyes, but she couldn’t keep that gaze going for long. She lowered her head and Chet removed his hand from her mouth.

  ‘My mum,’ she whispered. ‘I’m sorry . . . I just had to speak to her. She’s in a home and she’s expecting . . .’

  Chet closed his eyes. He wanted to be angry, but there was no time for that.

  ‘Listen to me carefully,’ he said. ‘Your mother’s dead.’

  She stared at him.

  ‘You’ll be dead too, if you don’t do exactly what I say. Get dressed.’ Suze didn’t move, so Chet grabbed her by the arm and pulled her naked to the window. ‘You see that vehicle? It arrived less than a minute ago.’

  As he spoke, a light came on in the car as the door opened and a figure got out.

  ‘Oh my God . . .’ Suze whispered.

  ‘Get dressed. Now.’

  ‘Is it her?’

  ‘Now!’

  While Suze scrambled to get her clothes on, Chet rummaged around in his bag. Christ, what wouldn’t he give for a nine-milly now? His fingers touched the cold surface of the alabaster cherub he’d stolen from Suze’s neighbours. Hardly a weapon of mass destruction, but it was better than nothing. He moved to the doorway and switched on the light.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Suze cried, pulling her jumper on over her head. ‘She’ll know where we are.’

  Chet shook his head. ‘She’ll think she knows where we are,’ he said. He grabbed her by the arm again and pulled her out of the room. The landing was dark and it took a moment for his eyes to get used to it; but he didn’t hesitate as he dragged her to the opposite end and quietly opened the door of the other bedroom they’d been shown. The lights were off in here, but Chet knew the layout was much the same as the room they’d just left: en-suite bathroom, double bed, window in the far wall. There was still the loft panel, but he calculated that the intruder would go straight for the room with the light on.

  ‘Wait here,’ he told Suze. ‘Don’t move.’

  From downstairs came the sound of the dog barking. Once. Twice. Each bark seemed to go right through Suze. Chet made for the door, but she grabbed hold of him. ‘Please don’t leave me . . .’

  ‘I’ll be right back. Keep the door closed and don’t make a sound.’

  ‘Chet . . . I . . .’

  ‘Don’t make a sound.’

  He left the room and made his way along the landing again. At the top of the stairs, he stopped and listened.

  And listened.

  Nothing. Just the sound of the rain battering the house, and a howl of the wind.

  And his heart, pumping heavily behind his ribs.

  He made his way down the stairs, slowly and very quietly. Something creaked – a beam, perhaps, on the other side of the house. At the foot of the stairs he stopped to listen again; the whole place sounded dead.

  It was darker than the barrel of a gun down here. Chet had nothing but the alabaster figurine with which to defend himself, and if their unexpected guest was the woman from earlier, she was armed. He needed the element of surprise.

  Creeping away from the stairs, he moved silently along the hallway, barely daring to breathe as he made for the flagstoned room where they’d signed the guestbook. The smell of wood-smoke grew stronger, and moments later he was looking into the room. Even in the darkness he could see that the main door was shut, but there was something on the ground, perhaps two metres in front of the entrance. Still brandishing the cherub, Chet stepped towards it.

  He was only a metre away when it started to dawn upon him what it was; bending down, he touched the fur of the cocker spaniel, its body totally lifeless.

  He spun round and touched the stone floor. Wetness. Footprints. He hadn’t noticed them before.

  He turned back, and followed them back to the hallway. He could just see that instead of turning towards the stairs they had headed left along the hall. He followed. There was a door at the right – slightly ajar – and one at the end. Chet put his back to the wall next to the open door and slowly kicked it further open.

  No sound.

  He looked inside. A double bed stood against the far wall and he remembered the old lady saying that she avoided climbing the stairs. He stepped into the room, returning the door to its original position and scanning the shadows using his peripheral vision. Nothing. He approached the bed. The old lady was lying there, face up; next to her, her husband. Chet put his palm an inch above her face. No breath. He bent over and pressed two fingers against her jugular. No pulse. She was already going cold.

  Movement. Just a shadow in the corner of his field of view, passing the slightly open door. He turned and exited the room in time to see a figure disappear up the stairs at the end of the hallway, then limped after it.

  And it was then that the screaming started.

  It came from upstairs, and it was Suze: desperate and panicked. Chet ran to the stairs, ignoring the stabbing pains in his leg, and started to limp up. The screams stopped when he hit the fourth tread; by the time he was on the landing, the thick silence of the guest house had returned.

  Light was spilling out of the room where he’d left Suze. Chet burst through the open door to see the black-clad figure of the woman. She had her back to him; her hair was wet and so were her clothes. Suze was just in front of her, and she was being throttled from behind.

  Chet strode into the room, raised the figurine and brought it crashing down on the side of the woman’s head. She fell against the wall, releasing her grip on Suze, who gasped horribly as she inhaled. Chet bore down on the woman, fully expecting her to have been knocked senseless by the blow. But she hadn’t. Like a cat, she regained her footing, and she turned to face him, pulling a handgun as she did so. In a fraction of a second he took in the bloodied welt on her face, and her expression, filled with a mad fury. Suze was on her knees by the window, her hands at her throat as she continued to gasp for air. The intruder’s weapon – Chet instantly recognised it as a Beretta Model 70 semi-automatic – was in the woman’s fist and she was raising her arm.

  Beretta Model 70. Harah! Something clicked in his brain.

  Chet lunged towards her. It almost felt like slow motion. Maybe that was because he knew, beyond question, that he was about to take a bullet.

  The crack of the Beretta firing was deafeningly loud at this range. Chet managed to knock the woman’s hand as she discharged the round. He felt the bullet nick the flesh on the top of his right arm. No pain yet – the adrenaline was masking it – but he knew he couldn’t stop. Despite his flesh wound, he got one big hand around her neck.

  In a grip like that, most people would panic and wriggle. Not her. With her back against the wall, she raised her right leg and kicked sharply into Chet’s groin. He doubled over and released her as his prosthetic leg wobbled beneath him.

  Ignore the pain, he told himself. You must ignore the pain . . .

  He hurled himself at her once more, both bodies thumping against the wall. The Beretta went off again, but the round thumped harmlessly into the mattress. Suze screamed as Chet lifted the woman off her feet and threw her out of the door and on to the landing.

  She fell skilfully, still gripping her Beretta, and if the fall caused her any pain, she didn’t show it. Her eyes flashing, she scrambled to her feet, and as she saw Chet’s bulky frame staggering through the doorway on to the landing, her demeanour remained calm.

  Again she took aim, but Chet managed to launch himself across the metre between them and knock the gun from her hand with
one swipe of his left arm. As he did so, the pain from his flesh wound kicked in and for a moment his knees buckled. It gave the woman the time she needed to reach over to where the Beretta had dropped, stoop down and pick it up. But by the time she was standing, Chet was there again, his face twisted with both anger and agony. He grabbed the woman by her upper arms, lifted her off the floor and, with all the strength his damaged body could summon, he threw her down the stairs and on to the stone flags below. There was a dreadful clattering as she tumbled, along with the noise of an accidental discharge from the Beretta.

  And then silence.

  Chet didn’t wait. He hurried back to the bedroom, where Suze had shrunk into one corner, her pale face terrified. ‘Is she . . . ?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  He opened the window. Heavy rain, falling at an angle on account of the chill wind, splashed into the room. He looked out. They were just above the front porch, its roof only a couple of metres below the window. Impossible for him to climb out with his leg, but Suze could.

  He pulled his wallet from his trouser pocket and pressed it into her hands.

  ‘There’s money there,’ he said. ‘Go.’

  She froze. ‘What about you?’

  Chet looked over his shoulder. He could feel his strength sapping away.

  ‘Just go. Get out of here now. You need to head cross-country, and keep going.’

  ‘How will you find me?’

  ‘There’s a cairn on the top of a hill about a mile due north of here.’ He took a moment to get his bearings, then pointed just to the left of the window. ‘That way. I’ll meet you there before sunrise. If I’m not there by then, hide. And don’t stop hiding.’

  ‘But I . . .’

  A sound from downstairs. Movement.

  Chet turned back to Suze. ‘She’s Mossad,’ he said.

  ‘What? How do you know?’

  ‘Beretta Model 70 semi-automatic. It’s their signature weapon. Last time we met I heard her speak. I’m pretty sure it was Hebrew. She’s a kidon – an assassin. The best in the world . . .’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know. But believe me – if Mossad have us in their sights, that’s as bad as it gets . . .’

  Footsteps, coming up the stairs.

  ‘Go!’ Chet hissed. ‘If you ever need any help, track down Luke Mercer, 22 SAS, tell him what you know. But only if you have to, Suze. If you don’t, stay anonymous. Remember what I told you before. Stay dark.’

  ‘How long for?’

  ‘Just stay dark.’

  He pushed her towards the window. ‘Go. Don’t stop running. Find the cairn . . .’

  She made to kiss him, but he pushed her away.

  ‘Go!’

  She nodded, and started to climb inexpertly out of the window. Just before she disappeared, she turned round to face him.

  ‘Go!’

  Chet heard footsteps on the landing. His mouth was dry, his heart pounding. He headed towards the door. Towards the fight. If he didn’t dig deep, it could be his last.

  She had two weapons in her hands: the Beretta in her right, and in her left a brass poker that she had found beside the fireplace downstairs. It wasn’t heavy.

  But heavy enough.

  Her face hurt. Whatever this man had hit her with had been sturdy. She’d felt the cheekbone crack on impact, and now the pain was blinding. It wasn’t going to stop her from finishing the job, though. It only made her more determined to see this through.

  There was silence on the landing now. The light from the bedroom spilled out. No shadow, which meant neither of them was in the line of the doorway. She needed to be prepared for an attack from elsewhere.

  She looked into the room. The window was open, rain splattering in, and the latch knocked against the frame. An unpalatable thought came to her. Had they escaped her again?

  Carefully, she stepped inside.

  He came at her from behind the door, the figurine in his hand and a look of brutal concentration on his face. She was ready for him. One swipe of the poker at the leg he limped on was all it took. Metal met metal with a dull thud, and he crumpled immediately to the ground.

  She set about him with the poker, striking him first on the gunshot wound to disable him further. He gasped in pain as the blood started to flow more freely, not only from the wound, but from new cuts that were opening up on his face and neck; but he still attempted to grab her ankles and unbalance her footing. She was nimble enough to avoid that; nimble enough to stamp down on his hands before she whacked him again hard on his wound.

  Another gasp, and his body started to shake.

  It would have been so easy to shoot him, so easy to put a bullet in his head and be done with it, but she was clear-headed and professional enough, even in the middle of this struggle, to take the more sensible option. For the third blow of the poker, she raised her hand a little higher in the air. When she brought it down on the side of his head, there was a thump and his body immediately went limp.

  Silence in the room. Silence throughout the house.

  She looked at the figure at her feet. The scarred, ugly face was still contorted with pain; there was a puddle of blood oozing around his head, dark and sticky, and the right leg below his knee was jutting out at an angle. He barely moved – just the gentle rise and fall of his chest as he continued to breathe – and the life blood was draining from him.

  The woman walked to the window. Nothing except the rain and the darkness. No sight of Suze McArthur, and she felt anger at the thought that she’d escaped.

  ‘Kalbah,’ she muttered. ‘Bitch.’

  Silently she made her way down to the ground floor. She walked across the reception room, silent and dark, and propped open the door of the greasy old gas oven with a coal scuttle. She turned the oven dial on to full. It would be quicker, of course, to turn all the dials, but that would look less accidental. A hiss, and the smell of gas hit her nose. She took a box of matches from the worktop, removed a few pages from a newspaper and stepped over to the front door – edging round the dead dog – and waited.

  The smell of gas grew stronger.

  Stronger.

  It made her a little light-headed, but that was OK. She could step outside before it really harmed her.

  She gave it five minutes before opening the door and stepping outside. Standing in the porch with her back to the garden, she twisted the newspaper to make a torch and lit it. She waited for the flame to catch properly, then opened the door again, casually tossed the blazing paper inside and hurried away from the porch.

  The explosion was almost silent, but the heat was intense. She felt it against her back as she ran towards her car, and saw the reflection of the detonation in the vehicle’s windscreen, her own body silhouetted against it. And as she opened the car door, she saw flames licking from the windows: already fierce, despite the rain. She’d set enough fires to know that the house would be an inescapable inferno within seconds.

  Why, then, didn’t she feel pleased?

  She looked around. Darkness, rain and wind. The bitch could be anywhere out there. It was impossible to find her. A harsh look crossed the woman’s face as she got behind the steering wheel and started the car. It didn’t matter, she told herself. She would finish the job. Somehow. Somewhere. It was only a matter of time before Suze McArthur showed up. And when she did . . .

  And so, as the woman drove away and glanced in the rear-view mirror, she even allowed herself a smile. The flames had already engulfed the building now; they had spread to the first floor; they were quickly turning this old Brecon farmhouse into an enormous funeral pyre.

  Suze scrambled.

  Her clothes were soaked, and her matted hair was stuck to her tear-stained face. Her body trembled. She was 200 metres from the B&B, up a slight incline, crouching down, still clutching the wallet Chet had given her.

  A sudden explosion behind her. She stopped and turned, and over the next sixty seconds she stared at the orange flames emerging fro
m the windows of the ground floor.

  She was cold, but the effect of the wind and the rain against her skin was nothing compared to the chill she felt inside. She knew she should run, but her muscles wouldn’t obey her brain and she stood there in the elements, barely able to move. Barely able to turn her head away. The woman couldn’t have overcome Chet, she told herself. Any minute she would see him silhouetted against the flames, running towards her.

  She stared as the flames rose higher.

  ‘What have I done?’

  Listen to me carefully. Your mother’s dead.

  A sob escaped her throat, barely audible above the sound of the weather, and she shook her head as a corkscrew of terror and grief twisted in her heart. What kind of nightmare had she brought upon herself?

  The rain fell harder, but it had no effect on the flames. Within ten minutes the whole house was engulfed. When the roof collapsed, she heard the crashing sound even from this distance and over the noise of the wind. She found herself sobbing again, her tears making the conflagration bleary and indistinct. She wiped them away and continued to stare at the fire, desperately seeking the sight she longed for.

  It never came. Tears blurred her vision again, and with another sob she turned and stumbled into the darkness.

  The terrain started to descend and she found herself in a dip from which, if she looked back, she couldn’t see the flames, only the glow as they lit up the sky. But as she hurried desperately in the direction she hoped was north, the gradient increased again and the farmhouse came back into view. It was completely engulfed.

  She continued to climb. He would meet her, she told herself. He would meet her, like he said he would. Her lungs burned with exhaustion but she kept on climbing, and after twenty minutes she found herself at the brow of a hill. She looked around. About thirty metres to her right, she could see the vague silhouette of a small pile of stones.

  As she stood there, suddenly, unexpectedly, the moon appeared. Without knowing where the instinct came from, she threw herself to the ground to avoid being lit up against the horizon, then crawled on all fours towards the cairn.

  Suze didn’t look back towards the house. All feeling had left her, except the dread that seeped through every cell in her body. She tried to fight it. He would come. He would come. The moon disappeared again. The rain continued to fall. She heard sirens in the distance. Soaked and freezing, she hugged the stones, waiting for a figure to arrive. Waiting to hear his voice.