by Paul Starkey
She looked at Lucy. “Backup?” The blank expression she got back in reply could have meant anything.
“Hit-team. Got to be,” said Cheung.
On screen the wrought iron barriers that had only just parted, were coming together once more. The figure was by one of the gateposts. She knew there was a manual keypad there, on both sides of the pillar, for just in case the infrared key should fail.
“Bottling us in,” said Tyrell. “Be harder for us to escape if the gates are locked.”
“Tom, what do you reckon? Looks like a hatchback; a Fiesta maybe, So we’re looking at five hostiles maximum.”
Cheung’s brow was furrowing. “I think it’s a Skoda, a Fabia. But yeah, five hostiles at most.”
“But only three of you,” said Lucy. “Sorry John, I was forgetting my manners. Two and a half.”
Chalice heard a soft rattling. She turned expecting to find Tyrell shaking, but it was Thomas Cheung. The young man was tapping his gun nervously against his leg. He looked petrified. Tyrell looked scared too, but curiously resolute as well. On screen the figure was returning to the car. She had moments to decide what to do. Time to gamble.
“Tom, take Ibex upstairs, barricade yourselves in somewhere and be ready in case we don’t stop them.”
“Ok,” he responded, nodding furiously, grateful to be out of the firing line, yet obviously guilty for feeling that gratitude.
She didn’t think he had anything to be guilty about. If the killers outside made it past the initial defences all she’d done was give him a few minutes more life.
As Cheung ushered the American out of the room, Tyrell raised an eyebrow. “We?”
She nodded. “We.” She slipped the phone back into her pocket. No point calling for backup, it would take too long to arrive. She pulled the Beretta out of the waistband of her jeans and handed it towards the older man. “I need you, John.”
His face grew pale, well if she was honest paler. He looked sick, and the gun was making him sicker as surely as if it were irradiated.
“I can’t…” he muttered.
She glanced at Lucy. No movement, no signs of life. On screen the car was disappearing out of view. They had maybe a minute. “John…”
“You don’t understand.” He blurted out before she could continue. “I’m scared, scared of that,” and he jabbed an accusing finger at the hefty pistol. “I had a gun, hidden at home, tried to use it and it frightened me. To heavy, too noisy.”
“Ok then, take mine,” she said without hesitation, reversing the pistol and handing it to him.
He took it, hesitatingly, but he took it. “PPK?”
“More modern but about the same. It’s a .380 so it shouldn’t give anywhere near as much of a kick.” As she spoke she pulled the Beretta’s magazine from her pocket and reinserted it, quickly jacking the slide back to chamber a round because she didn’t like being defenceless when Lucy was so close. Normally there’d be fifteen bullets, but one was inside Brendan, and another was on the floor. Thirteen rounds. Probably not enough but the spares were secured to Fox’s holster upstairs.
She needn’t have worried about Lucy; Miss Parrish was content to keep her attacks verbal. “Girls’ gun for a wimpy old man,” she said calmly.
“Still deadly enough,” said Tyrell, a hint of steel in his voice as he pointed the gun at her.
“We need to tie her up,” said Chalice.
“No time,” said Tyrell. “Besides I have a better idea, but we need to get to the kitchen.”
Chalice raised an eyebrow, but had no time to query further. “You first,” she said to Lucy. On their way Chalice grabbed one of the holdalls from the floor. The Beretta and the SIG definitely wouldn’t be enough.
Chapter twenty eight
John Tyrell was amazed at how calm he felt as they crossed the hall and headed into the bowels of the house. When Chalice had held her pistol out to him he hadn’t wanted to take it, but once he had it in his hand it felt right. Hopefully Lucy was right, maybe he just needed a wimpier gun?
He understood why she’d sent Cheung upstairs with Ibex. Or at least he thought he did. Either it was because she wanted someone more reliable as the last line of defence or, and he figured this was more likely, she actually thought he was more dependable at this moment. Normally he wouldn’t have considered this, but he’d seen the look in the younger man’s eyes. Maybe he wasn’t broken, but his spirit was cracked. He was blaming himself for Brendan Fox’s death and lord knows how he’d react in combat. However useless I’ll be I’m probably slightly more reliable.
“You have to be kidding?” said Lucy.
She was standing by the open door of the cellar. Tyrell wasn’t sure what had put the idea in his head, but he’d remembered the key in the lock, and deduced that likely there wouldn’t be another exit from the subterranean vault.
“Do I ever look like I’m kidding, Lucy?” said Chalice, the gun in her hand never wavering from where it pointed at the younger woman. “I don’t have time to mess about, so you have two choices. The cellar, or something more permanent.” And she hefted the Beretta.
For a moment Tyrell actually saw indecision flicker across Lucy’s face. Maybe she didn’t believe Chalice would do it, or maybe she actually wanted to die. She’d failed in her mission after all. Perhaps she just didn’t like the look of the gloomy descent before her. He wouldn’t blame her for that. Even with the lights above the staircase turned on the path looked no more inviting. If anything it made the place look less desirable. He saw more cobwebs, and a large spider scuttle across the rough earth at the bottom of the stairs.
Lucy smiled thinly. “See you both real soon,” she said and turned to clamber down the staircase. She moved slowly, hand on the rail, stepping gingerly from one step to the next as if she might catch something from them.
She’d gotten maybe four steps in when Chalice flicked the lights off and slammed the door. Even as she turned the key Tyrell heard the muffled sound of Lucy running back up the stairs. There was a single, petulant thump against the woodwork. The door handle turned once, and then all was quiet.
Chalice looked slightly embarrassed. “Sorry, that was a cheap trick.”
“She deserves worse.”
Chalice nodded. “And she’ll get worse.” she shrugged. “Assuming we get out of here in one piece. Talking of which…”
She walked over to the kitchen table. The holdall rested there and without preamble she unzipped it and removed something large, dark, and deadly.
“An Uzi?” he said, thankful that she wasn’t handing it to him. The Beretta had been scary enough.
She rattled back the bolt mounted atop the submachine gun to chamber a round, then slung it over her shoulder.
Reaching into the bag once more she pulled out two more magazines. “This is all we have,” she said as she slipped them into her inside jacket pocket. “I wasn’t expecting a prolonged fire-fight. Not even sure why I asked Sir George for it.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Paranoia is an occupational hazard.”
“‘I guess. Maybe some nostalgia for my days in the IDF as well.” She headed towards the door. “Let’s go.”
“IDF?” he asked as they made their way into the corridor. Chalice had switched the lights off out here earlier in order to present less of a target through the tiny windows. It took a few seconds for their eyesight to adjust, but eventually the darkness gave way to mere gloom.
“Israeli Defence Force,” she whispered, dropping to a half crouch as they made their way along the corridor.
Tyrell followed suit, checking behind them frequently in case the attackers made their entry through the back door. He saw nothing, just the dimly lit corridor and the base of the staircase leading up to the first floor. Absently he wondered which room Cheung had chosen as a redoubt.
Chalice stopped dead, left hand raised for him to do likewise. The Uzi was taut on its sling, her right hand balled around the pistol grip. They’d paused just before the right
-angled corridor that led to the side of the house. She was listening intently. Tyrell did the same but could hear nothing beyond their own breathing. His was more ragged than hers he noted. He was scared, but exhilaration was keeping him going. If he were about to die, at least he would die more like the man he had been than the man he’d become. It was curious just how comforting that was.
“I still remember what the IDF is,” he said after a moment. “I guess that explains the accent; thought I detected a tinge of something, just didn’t know what.”
She didn’t look back, instead she kept her gaze fixed on the corridor ahead, he guessed it was flitting between the door to the left that led to the conservatory (another entry point, perhaps this house wasn’t well chosen after all) and the door at the corridor’s end that opened out into the hall.
“Ten years living in Tel Aviv will do that to even the most English of girls. Never could quite shake it off.”
He was close behind her, their bodies almost touching in the gloom. He smelt the subtle hint of her perfume or deodorant, almost washed away by the thick smell of gun oil emanating from the Uzi. He couldn’t shake the paranoia that someone was behind them, that perhaps Lucy had got free from the cellar and was even now stalking them with a kitchen knife. He fought the fear for a moment, then gave into it and looked back the way they’d come.
Nothing.
When he turned back it was to find Chalice had crouched even lower and was peering round the corner. “Ok, cover me as I get across. Then I’ll cover you. Ok?”
He smiled, not sure if she’d even see it in the dimness. “Deal,” he concurred.
She sprinted across the gap quickly. There were no muffled shouts of alarm, and no shots rang out to clip her wings as she flew.
She looked back from the opposing side of the junction. “Your turn.”
He moved slower, far less adroitly, and hoped this wouldn’t present a better target. When he reached her position he was breathing heavily from the exertion, but since it proved his heart was still beating and wasn’t riddled with bullets, he took this as a positive sign.
She didn’t say anything, just pointed to herself, then to the door that led to the hall, then towards him and the way they’d come. He nodded his understanding. The time for talk was over, it was radio silence from now on, and while she would lead the way towards the door, he was to cover their rear approach, just in case the hit team was smart enough not to all come through the front door.
Annoyingly it was likely they would be smart. People who were idiots didn’t tend to last long in this business unless they were uncannily lucky. Of course the flipside to that was that Chalice seemed a tough operator too.
If only I still was, he mused.
Chalice eased the door open. Once more he stayed close behind her, casting furtive glances over his shoulder every few seconds. She pushed the door as far as it would go, and it stayed put when she let go. She didn’t enter the hall though; she was content to stay behind what cover the doorjamb provided. Likely it wouldn’t be enough. He’d been on numerous combat training courses back in his day, and had been shown first hand by the ex-Forces’ types who ran such shows just how much wood or brick even pistol rounds could penetrate. If the team outside had automatic rifles then what cover they had would prove even flimsier.
Still it was better than nothing, and would at least serve to muddy their aim. The lights were on in the hall, which meant if someone came through the front door they would be easier to spot than he and Chalice cloaked in shadows. Despite the illumination it was obvious when the car reached the house, the light from its headlamps blazing through the windows like laser beams.
When the lights shut off he tensed, clutched the pistol tighter, his thumb resting against the safety. Chalice had given him her two spare magazines, so the pistol was now as loaded as it could be; a full magazine, plus a round in the chamber. Ordinarily it was something frowned upon, at least that’s what he recalled from his training—so long ago, yet it felt like yesterday— too much pressure on the spring. In the short term however eight rounds were better than seven. He had a full spare, then a magazine that was two rounds light.
In all likelihood he wouldn’t get a chance to use the second magazine, let alone the depleted one. They were outnumbered and outgunned. They were relying on chance, on a lucky opening volley that might even the odds somewhat.
If they got that far. For all they knew the hit team would use grenades, hell maybe they’d just level the house with explosives.
The main door began to open. Chalice had the Uzi’s metal stock to her shoulder now, and Tyrell clasped the SIG in both hands, leaning as close to the wall as he could to present as slight a target as was possible.
“Entry violation, main door,” droned the recorded voice.
“Don’t shoot until I do,” whispered Chalice.
Tyrell wasn’t sure he could comply. Already he felt his hands begin to shake, and he compensated by gripping the gun even tighter. Like a coiled spring there was only so much pressure he could take. Sooner or later he’d either have to shoot, or drop the damn gun.
And then the lead assassin stepped into view…
Chapter twenty nine
“Do I get a gun?” drawled Ibex.
Cheung tried to ignore him. He was crouched by the window, his head at windowsill height, and was just lifting the curtain a fraction to peer outside. They were in the room Quintus Armstrong had taken earlier, a bedroom/study by the looks of it. Cheung had pondered where to go for several seconds, but in the end this seemed the best out of a bunch of bad choices.
Most of the rooms were too small, and the Master bedroom was out because he didn’t need Brendan’s body reminding him of his complicity in his murder. How could I have been so stupid? I allowed him to be killed, and then I actually felt anger towards him and pity for his killer.
“Definitely in the wrong business,” he muttered as he peered out, the SIG held loosely in his right hand, barrel resting against the carpet.
No, this room had been the best choice. Three windows, covering two sides of the house, and large enough to offer manoeuvring room once the enemy got inside. Not if. Because he knew they’d get past Chalice and Tyrell.
“Was that a no?” said Ibex.
“If you like.” Cheung watched as the car approached the front of the house. He’d been right, it was a Fabia. Congratulations, you win first prize, a bullet in the head.
Absently he glanced at the catches that held the window shut. From up here he had a good field of fire down onto the car, and the range wasn’t too bad, even for a pistol. He could probably empty the magazine’s fifteen rounds in as many seconds.
It would be too risky though. He wasn’t a brilliant shot to begin with, good enough to satisfy the carry criteria, but that was in a well-lit target range. This was different. Bad enough it was dark out, but the rain was still falling as well. At best he might get one or two of them, at worst none, and he’d betray their position. They could shift location of course but…
Stop trying to convince yourself. Tom. You’re scared you’ll screw it up. Scared because you’ve got enough things to be guilty about and you don’t want one more.
He thought about Brendan, thought about his brother, Alex, and knew the voice in his head spoke the truth.
“You always look guilty Thomas, even when you’re not.”
He’d lost count of the number of times he’d heard his mum or his dad utter those words. It was true. He’d always been a serious child, always ready to castigate himself for doing something wrong, even if no one else blamed him. His family tended to think it was endearing. Nancy said it was one of the many things she loved about him. His brother had used it as an excuse to pick on him. Ironic really.
And the Service? The Service hadn’t actually figured it out, or if they had (psychometric tests were mandatory) then they didn’t see it as a flaw. Hell, maybe they actually saw it as a positive. Tommy will never betray us; he’d feel too g
uilty about it afterwards.
Down below the car had come to a halt, its beams illuminated the Audi, and it seemed to be sitting there regarding the car; more likely the armed men inside were wondering how many opponents they had.
He frowned. That didn’t make sense. Surely they’d know? Lucy would have told them. And if a hit team was coming, then why did Lucy go through the rigmarole of murdering Brendan, of trying to poison them all.
“Come on, you must have a backup.”
Down below the headlights went out. A moment later the driver’s side door opened. Cheung gently eased the curtain back. The lights were off but he didn’t want to chance someone below spotting movement up here. He didn’t stand; instead he sat, back to the wall, and scowled in Ibex’s direction.
“A back up what; plan?”
The American didn’t exactly sneer, but the pleasant smile he usually wore shifted unpleasantly. “A back up gun, Christ if you were CIA you’d have two.”
I can’t believe I’m about to die for you, he thought.
Cheung knew he had another option of course. It would be a simple task to walk over to the bed where Quintus sat cross-legged, place the barrel of the SIG to his temple, and blow his arrogant brains out. Jam the pistol into his dead hand to make it look like he’d shot himself rather than be taken alive. Then all Cheung had to do was vacate the immediate vicinity. Make for one of the others rooms quickly and stay still and quiet. With luck the hit team would leave once they had what they came for. Of course they might search to preclude survivors, or even torch the house, but that at least gave him a chance.
Of course there was an outside chance that Chalice and Tyrell would prevail. In which case his career at least was over. A crude fake suicide would be enough to fool the untrained eyes of men in a hurry, but to a professional pathologist it would be obvious that Ibex didn’t shoot himself. Well, to be honest, I’m already considering a new career anyway, he mused. And he knew they wouldn’t do much more to him than relegate him to some dim distant outpost. It’s all they would have done to Brendan, all they would do to Lucy.
