Killer Intent

by Tony Kent

  ‘They’re almost here.’

  Sarah stood behind Michael, another snatched golf club shaking in her terrified grip.

  ‘I know.’

  Michael was keeping one ear on the corridor. The violent entry into McGale’s office and the systematic search of the sixth floor had confirmed that the newcomers were there for them. He turned back to Sarah.

  ‘Just stay calm and do exactly what I told you. Do that and we’ll be alright.’

  ‘How can you be sure? We barely survived against one. What chance have we got with more?’

  ‘These aren’t the same kind of guys.’

  Michael needed Sarah to be unhesitant if they were to survive this. For that she needed confidence. He would do his best to provide it.

  ‘And I only hear two of them. There’s no reason we can’t take two, Sarah. You just have to do as I’ve said. Remember, when the door crashes open you hit the first gun.’

  ‘When the door crashes open, hit the first gun. When the door crashes open, hit the first gun . . .’

  Sarah was almost chanting to herself. Michael hoped for both their sakes that the mantra would hold. That it would overcome her panic. If it did not then they were dead; Michael could not do this alone.

  The sound of the door to the neighbouring office being smashed from its hinges took Michael’s mind away from Sarah. The noise that passed through the poorly insulated walls had a welcome familiarity. It confirmed what he had hoped.

  Michael listened closely. In his mind he could see the movements he was overhearing. Movements he had witnessed so many times in a hitherto forgotten past. A door being opened with a single boot, followed by a forward assailant covering one half of the room in a single sweeping movement while his partner covered the remaining half. It was the classic technique employed by the Tactical Support Units of the Royal Ulster Constabulary.

  Michael had seen it first-hand as he grew up in the wrong neighbourhoods of Belfast. Tried and tested, the system was both devastatingly effective and yet fatally flawed. It worked perfectly against those unfamiliar with it. But when the prey was aware of the formulaic movements involved, that prey could be prepared.

  Exactly as Michael intended to be.

  Their pursuers stayed true to routine. Just as Michael hoped they would. The sound told him that the office across the hall had been entered with the same degree of terrible force, while the silence that followed indicated another efficient but fruitless search. It was in this silence that Michael turned to Sarah.

  ‘We’re next. Get ready.’

  FORTY-FIVE

  Sarah’s blood turned to ice at Michael’s words. As she struggled to control her breathing, she could hardly focus on the metal club she held in her shaking hands. She needed to calm herself. Needed reassurance. She found it by looking at Michael. He was calm and controlled, his breathing steady. The taut muscles of his back were visible through the undersized t-shirt he was still wearing. It was the back of a strong man. Which was exactly what she needed Michael to be. This was the man who had fought a trained killer and lived. Most importantly, this was the man who had already saved her life once. And a man who – she believed – would do everything possible to save it again.

  These thoughts were going through Sarah’s mind just as Michael turned to her and whispered:

  ‘Time’s up.’

  The door to room 6.3 was torn from its hinges by the force of Noel Best’s boot. Best must have expected another secured room as the power was considerable. Too considerable. Exactly as Michael had hoped.

  The unlocked door was thrown through its axis with such momentum that it came away from the frame and struck the left-hand wall of the office. It did not slow Best for an instant as he hurtled into the room. Michael made no attempt to stop him; it would fall to Sarah to engage him first. Michael’s attention was already elsewhere. Barely a flicker of time was available in which he had to predict where the second man would appear and muster his full strength to swing McGale’s five-iron towards that spot.

  The swinging club met a fleeting moment of resistance in the same instant that Michael first saw Graham Arnold. Resistance that did not last. The entire shape of the man’s face collapsed under the bad intentions Michael had put behind the swing. It was bone versus metal, and bone lost. In a tenth of a second Arnold’s nose had exploded, his right cheekbone had collapsed and most of his teeth were now in his throat. Michael had no way of knowing how tough a man Arnold might be, but that did not matter. No one could sustain that level of trauma and stay standing.

  Without pausing, Michael turned to Sarah, whose role had been to swing at the first man’s pistol. A simple task, but simple is not the same as easy. It had been a big responsibility to give to anyone. Especially someone alien to violence. And yet, as Michael turned, he saw she had risen to the challenge; Best was clutching his hand, his gun nowhere to be seen.

  It bought them a much-needed moment, but that was all; Sarah’s second swing was much less effective, lacking both the surprise and the momentum she needed. Best caught the club in his good hand as it came towards him and wrenched it from her grip. As Sarah fought to keep hold of it, she was dragged towards Best. Close enough for a vicious left hook to send her crashing to the floor, blood streaming from her mouth.

  Michael’s adrenaline was at an all-time high. At its limit, he thought. So he was shocked to feel his blood pump even faster at the sight of Sarah’s pain. The rage it brought from within him was like nothing he had experienced in decades.

  It found an immediate outlet.

  With a primal roar Michael ran at Best. Best’s attention was still on Sarah, aiming a kick as she struggled to her feet. It was not a blow he would complete.

  Michael’s golf club had been discarded in unthinking anger. Instead he had just his own body as he took Best at a run. The two men crashed over the room’s only table and landed heavily on the floor behind it.

  Michael was the quicker to react as they hit the carpet. He did not hesitate. Best, still reeling from the shock of the attack, had no time to think before being pummelled by Michael’s fists, elbows and head. But thinking was not necessary. This situation called for instinct and power, and Best had those in spades.

  Reacting as an animal would, Best began to match Michael blow for blow, his fists doing damage wherever they could land. It was a dogfight. Raw. Uninhibited. Exhausting.

  Both men were waning within seconds. Slowing. Weakening. The blows were taking their toll. Finally Best managed to flip Michael, sending him feet away. It was a moment’s respite, long enough for both to struggle to their feet, but over the instant they were standing.

  Sarah backed towards a side wall as Michael and Best careered around the room. She had regained her wits and knew that she risked being crushed as the two men slammed from one wall to the next.

  Punching. Kicking. Gouging. Biting. Both men knew that they could not keep up such intensity. Each one needed the killer blow, and were beating each other to a bloody pulp as they looked for it.

  It is a common misconception that a knockout punch should be aimed at the chin. A strong enough blow to any part of the head will lead to unconsciousness, by sending the brain slamming into the side of the skull that houses it. But if a fighter has the skill to pick his spot, nothing beats a well-placed blow to the temple.

  Michael found that out the hard way as Best’s left fist found its way through his guard. Best’s knuckles crashed into Michael’s temple with all the power the weaker hand could muster. It was a blow that would put most men asleep.

  That Michael stayed awake was pure genetic luck. The ability to take a punch had been a Devlin trait for generations. Even so, the punch left him dazed for too long. By the time his head cleared he was already pinned to the wall, beside the remains of the shattered door. Best had lifted him clear of the floor, an iron grip encasing Michael’s increasingly damaged throat.

  Michael looked down as he struggled to breathe and saw the determination in Best�
�s eyes. Best intended to end this fatally. There was nothing Michael could do to stop him. He tried. Thrashed weakly at the wounds he had already inflicted to Best’s face and head. But his blows had little effect, with their frequency and power decreasing as his oxygen disappeared.

  Michael could feel his strength seeping from his body as his life was choked away. But Sarah still had hers.

  Michael had claimed all of Best’s attention since launching his attack, and so Best did not spot Sarah as she picked up one of the discarded golf clubs, gripped it firmly in her hands, took careful aim and swung. The head of the club connected with Best’s right ear, clean and crisp. His grip on Michael’s almost-crushed throat broke.

  Best turned, angry and in pain. He was determined to pay that pain back, and then some. But Sarah had learned from her previous mistake. She didn’t pause, not even to glance in Michael’s direction as he crumpled to the floor, gasping for pained but essential breath. Instead she swung again immediately, full force, and struck Best across the face, tearing a deep gash in his skin.

  Michael’s eyes had cleared in time to see the second blow, and that Best was still standing. Still fighting. Michael marvelled at the resilience. The man just would not go down.

  Then history began to repeat itself.

  Sarah took a third swing, but she had again lost the element of surprise, and this time Best was ready. He launched his full weight towards her, bringing him inside Sarah’s swing circle. With the club no longer a threat, he shoulder-barged her, sending her careering into and then down the opposite wall. This time Sarah stayed down, the last of her fight now knocked out of her.

  Michael would play the next moment over in his mind many times. A moment that would make him question his belief in the life he had created. It proved to him that, despite everything, he had never really left the old Michael Devlin behind.

  Best had spotted his fallen weapon and started towards it. Even with his mind still struggling to focus, Michael knew what that meant: if Best reached the pistol neither Michael nor Sarah would leave the room alive.

  In that instant Michael made a choice. A choice that cost Noel Best his life.

  Michael looked to his left at the remains of the office door, smashed against the wall. He reached out and gripped a single shard of glass that hung limply from what had been the door’s upper half. Climbing to his feet, he rushed towards Best without a sound. It was a short distance, and he covered it fast. So fast that Best did not notice him until it was much too late.

  Just as Best reached the spot where his gun had fallen, he half-turned. It may have been a sound that alerted him. Or perhaps just that feeling of presence when another human being is so close. Whatever it was, he never had a chance to react. He felt nothing as he saw Michael’s arm swing past his throat, sending deep-crimson droplets shooting through the air.

  Full realisation took a few seconds more. It coincided with both the knowledge that the guttural choking sound that Best could hear was coming from his own throat, and with a sudden loss of strength throughout his body.

  The dying man fell to his knees, blood seeping from the gaping hole that now ran the width of his neck. Then he looked up into his killer’s eyes just as life disappeared from his own.

  FORTY-SIX

  The distant chimes of Big Ben marked 7 a.m. as Joe Dempsey strode through the entrance of MI6 Headquarters. He flashed his DDS credentials and made straight for the elevators.

  Dempsey stepped through the open lift doors. He ran his security pass through the scanner that sat just inside and pressed his left index finger to the biometric reader above it. The building’s computerised ‘brain’ immediately kicked in. It sifted through personnel files at unimaginable speeds and immediately granted him entry to the DDS department on the third floor. A destination that required the highest security clearance. Thanks to Callum McGregor, that was something Dempsey still enjoyed.

  The short vertical distance was covered in a heartbeat. Used to the sensation, in barely moments Dempsey was striding along a corridor towards Callum McGregor’s occupied office. He entered without knocking. A habit.

  He was met by the surprised glance of his director. McGregor had not expected the interruption.

  ‘Jesus, Callum, you look like shit!’

  Dempsey was taken aback by the first sight of McGregor. The toll the past days had taken upon the man was unmistakable.

  ‘When was the last time you slept?’

  ‘Thanks a lot,’ McGregor replied. The heavy bags under his eyes were unusually prominent. ‘Some of us have been busy.’

  ‘Bugger busy, Callum. You’ve got to sleep. You’re making yourself ill.’

  ‘I haven’t got time for ill, Joe. Or sleep. What do you need?’

  Dempsey could detect a strange tone in McGregor’s voice. He couldn’t place it. On any other man he would describe it as defeat, but not on Callum McGregor. Never on him.

  Dempsey pushed the thought from his mind.

  ‘I don’t need anything. I’ve come to update you.’

  McGregor’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘This couldn’t have waited until the rest of the world’s awake?’

  ‘Only if you want to waste more time chasing shadows.’

  McGregor leaned back into a large leather chair that he somehow made look undersized. He took off his glasses and stared Dempsey in the eye.

  ‘OK. Tell me.’

  McGregor’s debrief took over ten minutes.

  He had insisted that Dempsey left out no detail and, with one key exception, Dempsey did just as ordered. The existence of Stanton, however, he held back. It was Dempsey’s nature to play his cards close to his chest. To keep key information to himself. Kept even from McGregor, a man he trusted with his life. But on this occasion Dempsey had another reason, too. Because if he shared the existence of Stanton then McGregor would be obliged to disclose the information to Britain’s other intelligence agencies. And to the Americans. This would surely take matters from the director’s hands, and that in turn could lead to Dempsey’s actual removal from the hunt for Sam Regis’ killer. Dempsey could not allow that to happen, and so he chose to assist McGregor in his duty by not burdening him with the information.

  By the time Dempsey was through, he had told McGregor everything else. That – contrary to the official line – Eamon McGale had seen a lawyer while in custody, and that the two men had spent almost two hours together. That the lawyer was now dead, killed in a car accident within an hour of leaving Paddington Green. That the same lawyer’s family were now missing. And that someone had tried to kill the lawyer’s closest friend – the one person to whom he’d spoken after leaving the cell – just hours later, first with a car bomb and then with a gun.

  For the second time in as many days, Dempsey had made McGregor’s jaw drop.

  ‘You’re telling me that Eamon McGale saw Daniel Lawrence? And now Lawrence is dead? How was it kept quiet? And how the hell do you know about it when I don’t?’

  The defeat in McGregor’s voice was replaced by indignation. It was no great improvement.

  ‘The same answer to both, Callum. It was kept quiet because the custody sergeant was bought. Trevor Henry was the only one who knew the solicitor was there. He didn’t even tell our agents on scene. I stumbled on a lead that took me to him and he told me everything.’

  ‘With only the slightest persuasion, I’m sure,’ commented McGregor. ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘In his own cells back at Paddington Green. I took him straight there. Someone is going to want him very dead very soon. He’ll be best protected by his own.’

  McGregor nodded in agreement.

  ‘Safest place for him. Tell me more about the friend.’

  ‘That one’s messy. His name’s Michael Devlin. A barrister, worked with Lawrence on most of his big cases. Lawrence spoke to him last night after leaving Paddington Green. I checked his phone records. There’s a single outgoing call after he left McGale, from his phone to Devlin’s. Eigh
teen hours later there’s a car bomb, followed by a shoot-out at Devlin’s address. Someone wanted the guy dead, Callum. Do you think that might be a coincidence too?’

  McGregor shook his head.

  ‘Of course it bloody isn’t. So what happened to him?’

  ‘No idea, except that Devlin wasn’t in the car when the bomb went off. It made a mess of the poor bastard’s house, though. Someone else was moving the thing for him, I believe a CNN cameraman called Jack Maguire. The car explodes, Devlin rushes outside with the reporter he was talking to, then someone on a motorbike tries to shoot them both in a ride-by.’

  ‘I take it this is the Islington bombing from earlier tonight?’

  ‘It is, yeah.’

  ‘Then why wasn’t I fully briefed on that earlier? If it’s related to McGale?’

  ‘Because no one connected the dots and put them together, I guess.’

  ‘You mean no one else connected the dots. What about the reporters you mentioned?’

  ‘Sarah Truman and Jack Maguire. Both from CNN. They were at Devlin’s at the time of the attack. Following up a lead, it seems. They came across the custody sergeant before I did and ended up getting dragged into all this. I believe Maguire died in the car bomb, and that Truman left the scene with Devlin on the gunman’s motorcycle.’

  ‘What? They left on his bike? Is this the most incompetent assassin on the bloody planet or something?’

  McGregor’s incredulity was visibly rising.

  ‘Far from it,’ Dempsey replied. ‘From what I was told by some of the witnesses, the gunman seems to have been highly skilled. I have a feeling that Devlin and Truman got incredibly lucky. I have a feeling they somehow got away from James Turner.’

  McGregor did not respond immediately. He seemed to take his time. To consider what he had been told. For once he did so without standing or pacing around the room. Dempsey found the change a little unnerving. He put it down to tiredness.