Little Sister: A Group Fifteen Novella (Group Fifteen Files Book 3)

by Mark Dawson

“You. Over with the others.”

  The bodyguard did as he was told.

  “Very good,” said Björn. “Unless you do anything stupid, you’re all going to walk out of here alive.” He glanced over at Karsh. “Apart from you.”

  Björn realised that any slight chance he might have had of getting away with killing Karsh was now gone. He had shown his face. Mackay and Jessop knew who he was. Short of killing everyone in the room, which he definitely was not going to do, they would tell the police.

  They had all witnessed him shooting Jesse Brenner. He was going to spend the rest of his life in jail for murder.

  But at least Finlay Karsh would be dead.

  “Hey, Björn,” said Karsh, holding up his hands in a pacifying gesture. He actually managed to produce a confident smile; impressive in the circumstances. “Is this about Gudrún?”

  “Of course it’s about Gudrún.”

  “I spoke to the police. She was killed by a mugger. I’m as upset as you about that.”

  “You killed her, Karsh. You ordered her death.”

  Björn should just have shot him right then. But he wanted Karsh to know he was going to die, to know why he was going to die.

  “Olya knew about Walsh. Gudrún knew. You’re a murderer.”

  “Drop it, Thorsson.”

  The voice came from behind him. He turned his head to look back towards it. It was the man on the hill. Suddenly, Björn remembered his name. Sergeant McNair, that was it. Paddy McNair.

  “If you shoot him, you’re dead. If you put the weapon on the floor, you live. Simple as that.”

  Björn reassessed the situation. If he put the gun down, perhaps McNair would let him live. Live to do what? Rot in prison. And Gudrún’s murder would not be avenged. He wouldn’t have done what he had risked everything to do.

  Björn had faced death many times. He had come to accept it as one of a number of possible outcomes. And now he was going to die.

  So be it.

  He stared at Karsh.

  “For my sister.”

  He squeezed the trigger.

  20

  Paddy McNair knew that he should have shot Thorsson right away. With a bullet in the head, and no warning, Thorsson would have been dead before he could fire his weapon. Thorsson terminated, Karsh alive, the minerals in Dariastan going to Britain. Mission accomplished.

  He had found his rifle lying in the heather on the ridge and had run down the hillside to the windows of the castle, in time to see Thorsson disarm the bodyguard in the great hall. He had shouldered his weapon, ready to fire through the glass, but he was a second too late: Thorsson had shoved the bodyguard through the door.

  He had been considering how to get into the castle without alerting Thorsson when he heard a single rifle shot followed by a short burst of automatic fire. Instantly he had smashed the window to the great hall, knowing that the sound would be drowned out by the din of the gunfire, and had clambered into the great hall.

  Why hadn’t he just shot Thorsson?

  Because he didn’t want to kill the man unless he really had to.

  He tried to talk him down, but then Thorsson’s weapon erupted in another short, deafening burst of automatic fire.

  Blood spurted from Karsh’s chest and he dropped, slumping onto a chintz sofa, his blood splashing onto a pattern of winding red roses.

  The room smelled of cordite. Everyone stared at McNair. His ears rang.

  Now what?

  Thorsson was motionless, his weapon still pointed at Karsh’s body.

  McNair had time to think.

  As his ears cleared, he heard the thud of a helicopter. The police were on their way. McNair had to extract himself, fast.

  He made a decision. It was risky: it might turn out to be the wrong one as far as Control was concerned. It might even lead to McNair being dismissed from the Group. But, in his judgement, it was the correct choice.

  “You five.” He gestured to the three women, the injured bodyguard, and the man whom he recognised from the files as the butler. “Put your hands up and move over to that wall over there.” He indicated the wall opposite Brenner’s body and the rifle that was still lying beside it.

  “Thorsson. Come with me. We need to leave. Fast.”

  21

  Björn was sitting in the armchair of the grey-furnished little sitting room re-reading Egil’s Saga and waiting for something to happen.

  He had followed McNair out of the rear window of the castle, across the lawn and into the wood. Within a few minutes they were on the moors and making rapid progress into the empty mountains. After an hour or so, a police helicopter had made a couple of passes within a kilometre or so of them, but they had had no trouble concealing themselves.

  McNair had been in contact with whomever he was in contact with, and in the early afternoon, they had been extracted by another helicopter, an army Lynx this time, flying low over the mountains and landing on an expanse of dry turf well out of sight of any habitation.

  They had been flown direct to RAF Leuchars to refuel and then on to Northolt on the western edge of London, from where McNair had driven Björn to an anonymous house in an anonymous street somewhere near Harrow.

  Björn had asked once what was going to happen to him. McNair had told him he didn’t know, and Björn should just be patient. That was something Björn could do.

  McNair had taken Björn’s phone and left him overnight, asking him for a promise not to leave the house, a promise that Björn had given. Although he seemed to be alone, it was likely people were watching the property. Anyway, he had nowhere to go: he was on the run from the police, and McNair’s safe house was probably the most secure place for him.

  He would have liked to have contacted Olya to tell her he had succeeded in avenging Gudrún, but that would have to wait.

  The kitchen was stocked with the basics to feed someone for a couple of days; there was plenty of coffee, and Björn had his book.

  He felt strangely at peace, in a kind of limbo. There was a lot to be done, to be faced up to: the police, most obviously, as soon as they decided to charge him. But, at least for the moment, he didn’t care about that. There was also Gudrún. All the administration to do with her death, getting her body back to Iceland, sorting out her affairs. How would he be able to do any of that while under arrest?

  There was also her death. Björn had channelled his grief at that into anger. Now, just briefly, he felt a serene detachment. He had done what had to be done. He had avenged her death. And in a strange way that he knew wasn’t rational, he had assuaged his guilt at killing her father. Both Siggi and Finlay Karsh had deserved to die.

  Björn knew this serenity was going to be short lived. There would be consequences for what he had done. And the loss of Gudrún would return to hit him hard. He knew he had long days and weeks of painful grief ahead. But not yet. Not while he was in this grey sitting room, reading his saga, listening to the tiny click of a battery-powered clock on the mantelpiece.

  At about eleven o’clock in the morning, McNair’s car pulled up outside the house. A tall man with a battered face and a military bearing emerged from the passenger side.

  Björn guessed: McNair’s boss.

  McNair let them both into the house with his key. Björn stood up, wary.

  The boss held out his hand. “My name is Captain Pope,” he said, looking Björn in the eyes as he shook his hand. “You can call me Control.”

  Björn held the captain’s gaze. They all sat down.

  “You’re in a bit of a mess, aren’t you, Thorsson?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You murdered two American citizens. Powerful, well-connected American citizens.”

  “Two murderers, sir.”

  Pope smiled, a touch of warmth this time.

  “The police want you.”

  “But, thanks to Sergeant McNair, they haven’t found me yet.”

  “Quite,” said Pope.

  The three men sat in silence for a few mome
nts. Björn could wait.

  Pope nodded as if to himself. “I would like to offer you a job.”

  Björn raised his eyebrows. “Really?”

  “The same kind of work as Sergeant McNair. I’ve spoken to your last two C.O.’s in the Regiment. They speak very highly of you. Sergeant McNair was impressed with your abilities in Scotland. You have skills we could use.” Pope hesitated. “We recently lost an agent. We need a replacement.”

  “And what kind of work is Sergeant McNair involved in?” asked Björn.

  “Killing people,” said Pope. “The nature of the threats facing our country these days is such that they can’t always be met in traditional ways. Our group takes a more non-traditional approach.”

  “You break the law?”

  “You’ve broken the law, haven’t you?”

  “I have,” Björn acknowledged. “I assume that if I don’t accept your offer, you’ll hand me over to the police.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “So I don’t have a choice.”

  “I would like to think that you do. I can’t accept you unless you are committed to the work. Apart from any other considerations, you won’t survive long.”

  “I see,” said Björn.

  “We defend our country from all kinds of threats, Thorsson. Serious threats. It’s important work - dangerous work - but we think you can handle that.” Pope looked directly into Björn’s eyes. “So, Thorsson. Will you come and work for me?”

  Björn had killed in the past. He would kill again.

  “The man who killed my sister,” he said. “Do you know who he is?”

  “I thought you might ask that,” Pope said. He took a piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to Björn. It was a photograph of a man. He was wearing a suit and tie and was neatly groomed; he looked nothing like the junkie that Olya had described.

  “A professional?”

  “Yes,” Pope said. “His name is Carson. Ex-Army, freelance now. A particularly unpleasant man, quite apart from what he did to your sister. I expect you’d like to meet him.”

  “I would, sir,” Björn said. “I don’t suppose you happen to know where he is?”

  “Actually, I do,” Pope said. “He’s booked onto the 12.15 Eurostar to Brussels.” Pope looked at his watch. “It’s ten now. Plenty of time. We could give you a lift if you like.”

  Control turned to McNair and gave a single nod. The sergeant reached into his jacket and unclipped a holstered pistol from his belt. He held it out.

  “Are you in, Sergeant Thorsson?”

  Björn took the weapon. It was a SIG Sauer.

  “I’m in,” he said.

  A Word From Mark

  Thank you for reading LITTLE SISTER.

  If you liked it, you’ll love the full-length John Milton novels.

  The first in the series is THE CLEANER. Milton decides to quit Group Fifteen, but that’s not a job that you can just walk away from.

  The next story, SAINT DEATH, sees Milton resurface on the Mexican side of the US border, in a thrilling confrontation with an international drug cartel.

  THE DRIVER finds Milton in San Francisco, investigating a series of murders for which he is the prime suspect.

  And 1000 YARDS is a dip into his case files. Milton is sent into the most dangerous failed state in the world – North Korea – with orders to assassinate a key military target.

  You can grab them individually or save by downloading the Box Set in one convenient package (the series is also available in Kindle Unlimited).

  What are you waiting for? The fun is just starting - once you start Milton, you won’t be able to stop…

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