Dark Spies

by Matthew Dunn

  As the pain receded to a fearsome but barely tolerable ache, the sock was removed from her mouth.

  Augustus grinned. “Catch a tiger by the toe. If he hollers, let him go. Unless we wish him to suffer so.” His eyes intensified. “This phone has only got one number programmed into it. I’m thinking that makes it a special phone. Am I right?”

  Ellie spat, “Screw you!”

  Elijah shoved the sock back into her mouth.

  Ellie braced herself.

  Elijah placed his knife by her injured foot and touched her four remaining toes while saying, “This little piggy went to market, this little piggy stayed home, this little piggy had roast beef, this little piggy had none.” He sliced her little toe off and held it in front of her face so that blood dripped from it onto her lap.

  Elijah stepped away and pulled out the sock.

  Ellie said between gritted teeth, “You’re wasting your time.”

  This made the twins laugh hysterically.

  “So, let’s try again.” Augustus tapped one of her cells. “Is this the number Cochrane’s got?”

  Ellie tried to decide what to do. She was certain she could withstand a lot more torture without breaking. She was also sure the men wouldn’t leave the room until they’d gotten the answers they sought. They’d keep torturing her until she was dead. Her best option was to maintain the upper hand by manipulating them into believing that she couldn’t take anymore, and giving them half truths and half lies that would help her and Cochrane.

  Though she felt nothing but focus and anger, she had to act like she was scared.

  It could well be her last curtain call.

  She lowered her head to look resigned, and whispered, “Yes. It’s the number Cochrane has.”

  Augustus clapped. “That’s my girl!” He tossed the phone to Elijah, while keeping his eyes on Ellie. “You’re going to call him and say you want to meet with him tomorrow—ten fifteen A.M. outside the Friendship Heights metro on Wisconsin Avenue. Don’t use any odd words, make yourself sound weird, tell him what’s really happening, or hang up midsentence. By all means sound scared, to make him concerned, but if you say or do anything to make him think you’re not making the call on your own, then today won’t be your best.”

  Elijah placed the tip of his knife a millimeter away from Ellie’s eyeball, and held the palm of his other hand inches away from the blade’s hilt, ready to thrust it deep into her socket.

  She rang Will’s number.

  It went straight to voice mail, which didn’t surprise her because Will would be preserving his cell’s battery life for as long as possible, and no doubt would be turning it on later to check for messages.

  She spoke for twenty-three seconds while Elijah craned his neck next to her so that he could hear if anything was being spoken back on the other end of the line.

  Elijah stuck his thumb up. “All good. We’re done.”

  Augustus stood. “We are, indeed.”

  Ellie closed her eyes after she saw Augustus moving across the room toward her, because his visage was the last thing she wanted to see right now. She knew what was coming.

  She wasn’t scared, because she’d lived her whole adult life expecting a moment like this.

  But she did regret that she’d never have the chance to sit in a Mexican beach bar, watch the warm sea ebb and flow while she drank a bottle of beer, feel a man’s hand on hers, maybe Will Cochrane’s.

  That would have been nice.

  When Augustus’s knife entered Ellie’s stomach, of course she felt absolute pain.

  But as the blade sliced upward, she kept her eyes shut and held on to the image.

  She imagined holding Will’s hand as they walked from the bar, along a white sandy beach, as if she were already in heaven.

  It was her picture.

  No one could take it away from her.

  Certainly not the repulsive scum who were with her now.

  And as the visceral savagery took her life away, she felt relief that the twins hadn’t noticed that her message to Will contained two words that would hopefully warn him off.

  THIRTY-TWO

  It was the last two words in Ellie’s voice message that made Will’s stomach knot and his mind swirl.

  Good-bye, William.

  She’d never called him William, meaning she’d given him a signal to let him know all was not well. And the tone of her voice was not one that was simply signing off a call. Instead, she sounded like she was saying her final farewell to him. He was in no doubt that her request to meet at the Friendship Heights metro in the morning was one that was made under extreme duress, meaning Sheridan or men working for him had caught her. But that wasn’t why Will felt so much despair. It was the fact that she’d said good-bye that made him fear the worst about her safety and future.

  He turned off his cell, feeling ashamed of himself for involving Ellie in his quest for the truth.

  No—shame wasn’t the right word for how he felt about himself.

  Revulsion and abject guilt were better words.

  If it turned out that anything had happened to Ellie, he knew how he’d react.

  Utter sorrow and self-loathing would be inevitable.

  So too would be the death his hands would deliver to anyone involved in hurting Ellie.

  He sucked in oxygen to focus his thoughts and stared at Marsha Gage’s house on Colorado Avenue. It was nearly nine P.M., and yet it didn’t surprise him that her car wasn’t parked outside her house. She was leading the FBI’s most significant manhunt in decades and would be working as close to 24-7 as possible. But he hoped that she’d be home at some point soon, if nothing else than to grab a quick shower and a change of clothes. That’s when he’d speak to her. Face-to-face. A gun pointed at her skull if the situation warranted.

  When Ed Parker finished the call with Charles Sheridan, he shook his head and began sobbing.

  Catherine entered the living room, frowned as she looked at her husband, switched off the TV, and placed a hand over his forearm. “What’s happened?”

  Ed looked at her, his face flushed red, eyes wet and streaming, bottom lip quivering. “We’ve gone . . . gone . . . gone too far. Much too far.”

  Catherine tried not to cry because her husband was so emotional, but she felt her eyes welling up. “Too far?”

  Ed nodded. “Ellie Hallowes. Sheridan’s men got to her. But . . . but . . .”

  “But?”

  Ed blurted, “They were only supposed to get her to flush out Cochrane. End there. Not do anything else, apart from keeping her quiet until after Cochrane was caught. But Augustus and Elijah couldn’t stop. Wouldn’t.”

  Catherine felt disbelief. “They killed her?”

  Ed rubbed his moist eyes. “Slaughtered.”

  “What . . . Jesus . . . what does Sheridan think of that?”

  “He doesn’t care. It’s what he wanted.”

  “Dear God!”

  “Sheridan doesn’t care about God.” Ed placed his head in his hands. “But he acts like him. At least, acts like His disciple. Jellicoe’s the one who pulls all the strings. Jeez, what have we done?”

  Catherine placed her arm around her husband. She loved him and hated seeing him like this. She’d always loved Ed, even though a decade before she’d been unfaithful to him while they were in Prague—not just once, but twice. Things had been bad between them at that time. But since then she’d gotten her thinking straight and had cherished what Ed had given her. Poor Lindsay Sheridan had also snuck into another guy’s bed at around the same time, but her reasons for doing so were wholly different, and Lindsay never suspected that Catherine had been less the perfect wife and more like her than she knew. “As far as I can work out, what you’ve done has been for your country and your family.”

  Ed pulled out his cell phone while muttering, “I wish I could turn back the clock.”

  Catherine pulled his head against her chest. “You want me to leave you alone?”

  Ed held onto h
is wife, still crying. “Just need to make a call. After that, stay with me. Please.”

  Antaeus gently lifted the chameleon out of the tank. Parker’s call had offended his sensibilities and dignity.

  Ellie Hallowes was dead.

  Killed by Charles Sheridan’s goons.

  That was unacceptable.

  Wrong.

  After this was over, he hoped Sheridan and Jellicoe would be forced to face up to their maker. They didn’t work for Antaeus, knew nothing about the truth behind Project Ferryman, were mere callous and ignorant foot soldiers in Antaeus’s grand scheme, and were self-serving swine who relished inflicting misery on others.

  He kissed the reptile on its back. To him, the chameleon had come to represent Ellie. He stared through his study’s window at the starlit night sky. “My daughter’s name was Anna. She’d be nine by now if she hadn’t been killed by the man who saved you in Norway.” A tear ran down the disfigured side of his face as he said, “Retribution is an intractable merry-go-round of inevitable pain.” He returned his attention to the chameleon while feeling deeply sad. “Tomorrow, my beauty, I promise you I’ll get you a much bigger tank, one that will give you lots of room to explore. It’ll make you feel free.”

  Will walked across the street toward Marsha Gage’s house, with the intention of secreting himself in a place where he could get to her quickly once she pulled up in her car and got out. He was midway across the street when he heard a vehicle driving at speed toward him.

  Marsha Gage?

  Other law enforcement officers who wanted to apprehend him?

  Shots were fired from the vehicle.

  No, these were people who wanted him dead.

  He dived to the ground, rolled, and pulled out his handgun. The car was eighty yards away, its headlights off despite the road being in near darkness. But the streetlamps gave him just enough light to see that there were two men in the car: one driving, one shooting.

  Shackleton and Amundsen.

  Two exceptional assassins.

  Not that Will knew who they were.

  Or what they were capable of.

  He fired at the windshield, but the car swerved and his bullets went wide of their mark. Whoever was driving was clearly an expert. He maintained traction and increased speed as he got the car back into position so that it was hurtling toward Will.

  Will was about to fire again, but the headlights were now turned on, blinding him. The vehicle screeched to a halt as Will sprinted left to get behind the cover of a stationary car. Around him he heard dogs barking and doors opening and slamming shut as people came out to see what was causing the noise before fleeing back into their homes as they realized the commotion was a head-to-head gun battle. He pointed his pistol at the car, trying to adjust his vision so that he could catch any signs of movement. Nothing. He fired a couple of warning shots, with no idea if they’d hit the assailants, and broke cover, his only chance being to flank the car and get away from its dazzling headlights.

  Running over a front lawn in near darkness with his eyesight still temporarily diminished, he crashed into someone large. Both men fell away from each other but quickly got to their feet. The man opposite Will had a handgun and was raising it to shoot Will in the head. He was one of the assailants. Will was a fraction of a second quicker, shot him in the leg, dashed forward, grabbed him, spun him around, kicked the man’s gun away after he dropped it, and placed the muzzle of his pistol under the man’s chin.

  He could have just as easily killed him, but needed him alive to act as a human shield against the second assailant, who was now walking fast toward him with his handgun held in both hands at eye level.

  Will backed away, gripping his captive with all his strength, dragging him because the injured hostile’s leg was completely useless, ignoring his moans of pain as he kept his eyes fixed on the encroaching killer. “I’ll shoot him again if you come any closer!”

  “Will you now?” The man was under a lamppost, his face fully visible. “That would be a shame.”

  Irish accent.

  Who the hell were these guys?

  Will moved faster. “Back off!”

  “We’ve not come all this way to back off from anything.”

  The moment the Irishman had said the words, Will knew in an instant what the assailant was going to do. He released his grip on his captive and dived right just as three rounds sliced through the captive’s chest and exited his back. Had he remained standing behind him, Will would now be dead.

  He was dealing with men who’d shoot through each other to kill him.

  Jumping to his feet, he sprinted away, zigzagging as rounds raced through the air, narrowly missing him. Once on the other side of the road, he threw himself behind a low wall and trained his weapon back across the street to where he’d last seen his pursuer.

  His eyes were back to normal; he could see everything.

  Police sirens were loud at one end of the street. Will frantically glanced in that direction and saw three cop cars, then four. He glanced back and saw the Irishman drag his dead colleague into his car, get into the driver’s seat, and accelerate away.

  The act was incredibly brave, because it wasted valuable seconds of his getaway. It was also the professional thing to do—remove as much compromising material as possible from the scene of a fight, including dead colleagues.

  But the cop cars now stood a very good chance of catching up with the Irishman.

  Will couldn’t let that happen.

  He strode out into the middle of the street and barked, “Get back inside!” as Marsha Gage’s husband opened his front door.

  Will stood stock-still as he fired controlled shots at the cop cars.

  Some of his rounds hit tires; others engine blocks. All of the vehicles swerved out of control, hitting white picket fences and each other before shuddering to a halt. The cops got out of their damaged cars, but they were too far away to pose a threat to Will.

  He turned and ran from them.

  The Irishman’s car was now out of sight.

  As Will escaped into the night, he knew there’d be at least another two men in the team he’d confronted tonight. They were watching Gage with the hope that her efforts would lead them to Will. Two on surveillance; two off. That’s how it worked. And that meant there were three killers still out there who were not only highly trained, but also utterly ruthless. Will doubted he’d be able to take on all three of them. Together, they’d be too good. He stood no chance of speaking to Marsha Gage while they were watching her; the odds of him confronting Ed Parker were now ridiculous; and the probability that he would survive the next day was near zero.

  Probably the men who’d attacked him tonight belonged to Antaeus and were his insurance that Will was killed even if the FBI failed to get him.

  Either way, there was no doubt in Will’s mind that they were hired assassins.

  Antaeus and Ferryman had won.

  Will had lost.

  Unless he could pull off what he was planning.

  A piece of utter madness.

  Colorado Avenue was in chaos as Marsha drove home. Cop cars were everywhere, their lights flashing; police officers were on foot, moving back and forth between the numerous residents who were standing outside their homes wearing coats, blankets, or nightgowns.

  An officer banged his flashlight on the bonnet of her car and shouted, “Ma’am—stop!”

  She did what he told her to do and lowered her window. “What’s happened?”

  “You can’t drive along here.” The officer looked young, and the tone of his voice was both aggressive and nervous. “There’s been an incident.”

  “Incident?” Marsha looked toward her home, feeling panic. “Is anyone hurt?”

  “That’s none of your concern.”

  Marsha turned off her engine and got out of her car. The officer shouted, “Ma’am, get back in your vehicle!”

  Marsha looked up and down the road.

  “Ma’am!” The office
r had his hand on his holster and looked completely unsure what to do.

  She saw her husband emerge from their home, and called out to him, “Paul! The kids?”

  Paul held a hand over his eyes and squinted in her direction. “Marsha. Thank God! They’re fine. No one’s hurt.”

  The cop repeated, “Ma’am. Get back in your vehicle.”

  Marsha spun to face him and pulled out her ID. “My name’s Agent Marsha Gage, Federal Bureau of Investigation. I live on this street and have more right to be here tonight than anyone in uniform.”

  The cop looked terrified.

  By contrast, Marsha was furious. “Whoever’s the highest-ranking officer here had better tell me what the fuck’s happened outside my home!”

  Will entered the tiny apartment in the outskirts of D.C., smelled must as he turned on the light, and felt sorrow that the person who’d been here before him was Ellie Hallowes. A tear ran down his face as he saw that she’d made up the single bed and had placed some granola energy bars and a can of Coca-Cola on its sheets.

  He moved to the sole window in the place and heard police sirens and helicopters all around the city. They wanted him. Needed his head.

  On the center of the bed was a plastic bag. He tore it open and emptied the contents onto the floor. Some of the items that Ellie had procured during the last three weeks of her being in D.C. were not needed. Others were most certainly what he required for tomorrow.

  Goodness knows how Ellie had gotten them.

  He looked at the bed and wondered if Ellie had lain in it.

  He lay down on top of the sheets and held the can of cola over his chest as he closed his eyes and thought about drifting through the sky above Norway’s northern archipelago.

  The image faded and was replaced by a long and bustling shopping thoroughfare.

  Wisconsin Avenue.

  Would Ellie be there at ten fifteen tomorrow morning?

  He’d be crazy to find out.

  THIRTY-THREE

  The following morning, Major Dickie Mountjoy placed his handcrafted replica of the Cutty Sark on Kensington Palace’s Round Pond and smiled as he watched a cold breeze catch its sails and glide it across the water. It had taken him nearly a year to construct the hull, cut and stitch the sails, and create figurines that represented the real sailors who’d manned the tea clipper as it took provisions to the colonies in record-breaking times, before the advent of the Suez Canal made routes shorter and the invention of steamships made the likes of the Sark obsolete.