Act of Betrayal

by Matthew Dunn

  There was no going back.

  Bartlett’s mind was cracked on that day.

  When Mrs. Haden saved him from the streets, it was a long road to recovery. Nothing instant. Just him taking each day one at a time. But now he’d found peace with his experiences. His two girls were in college; he secretly visited them without his ex-wife knowing. And he was absolutely clear in his head that he hated goddamn guns.

  His hands were shaking as he pointed the shotgun at the house. Firing it was one thing. Hitting a target was another. He doubted he could do either.

  Will Cochrane placed the muzzle of his handgun against the back of Bartlett’s head. “Nothing silly. I’m not here to hurt you.”

  Bartlett froze. “Who are you?”

  “Edward Pope. The man coming to see Mrs. Haden at noon.” Will looked at Bartlett’s hands. “Don’t be scared.”

  “I—”

  “Yes, I know. We’ve all been through shit in our past. It makes no sense how some of us can get through it and others can’t. We are not enemies.”

  Bartlett turned to Will. “I just want to keep my job and keep her safe.”

  “That is going to be achieved.” Will crouched beside him and stared at the house. “I’m fairly certain that in a few minutes men will come to the house when they see me enter. They’re hostiles. Not law enforcement, though they might be posing as such. They will be coming to kill me, not Mrs. Haden. But you and I both know the risks of innocents getting caught in the cross fire.”

  “She’s scared of you.”

  “Life sucks. I hate it when people are scared of me.” Will smiled sympathetically while keeping his eyes on the house. “I have a sidearm. But if I use it inside it complicates matters. The house becomes a wholly different forensics scene to be investigated. Your story of rescuing your employer will be muddied. It won’t be a straight case of intruders versus protectors. My bullets will be in their bodies. That means a third party was present.”

  Bartlett agreed. “And then I’ll be grilled and Mrs. Haden will be grilled. Muddier, yes.”

  “What were your original protocols?”

  “Fire two shots randomly in the grounds. Then kill intruders.”

  “Would you like to do that?”

  “No.”

  Will patted him on the shoulder. “You’ve done your time. No need for more of that crap.” He turned to Bartlett. “I’ll do it.”

  Bartlett looked uncertain. “I don’t know you. How do I know you won’t hurt Mrs. Haden?”

  “Make a judgment, paratrooper.”

  Bartlett lowered his head. “I made a judgment in Kuwait in ’91. I got it wrong then.” He offered no resistance as Will took his shotgun. “I called in an airstrike. I had no idea they’d be happy to rip apart my team to get to enemy forces.”

  “Presidents and high command suck. We both know that.” Will gripped the shotgun. “Is there a loft in the house or another safe place?”

  “Yes. A loft.”

  “That’s where I’ll put Mrs. Haden. When the shots start, give me two minutes, then call 911. After all, you’re pretending to be the shooter. You can’t call the cops until it’s done.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Don’t call me sir. I was a corporal in the French Foreign Legion.” Will didn’t elaborate that he held the equivalent rank of colonel in MI6. “It’s highly unlikely I’ll be successful. But if there are dead bodies, leave them, except mine. Bury my body, throw it in a pond, whatever. Just make sure the cops never find me.” Will handed the shotgun back to Barrett. “It’s time to go.”

  Barrett frowned. “I assumed you wanted me back here?”

  “We still need those two random shots. Cordite needs to be on your hands and forearms. Forensics will check.”

  Bartlett understood. He walked out of the hut and fired twice in the air, before reloading the gun and handing it back to Will. “She doesn’t believe your name is Edward Pope.”

  “Nor do I.” Will took the gun. He looked around. “Look after Mrs. Haden. I believe she may be confused.”

  “About what?”

  “I have my suspicions, but I can’t articulate them at this moment.”

  Flail and his men heard the shots as they approached the house.

  Flail said, “Shotgun. Agreed?”

  One of his men nodded. “Groundsman killing wildlife. Or Cochrane has arrived early and blown a hole in Mrs. Haden.”

  They moved forward, six hundred yards from the house, guns in their hands.

  Back in the hut, Bartlett said to Will, “Shouldn’t we bring Mrs. Haden in here or get her the hell away from here?”

  “We don’t know which direction the hostiles are approaching. Correct? You could be walking her into an ambush.”

  “But—”

  “No buts. Remember, the scene must look like a random home invasion. She has to be in the house.”

  Bartlett asked, “Who are you?”

  Somebody that for some reason had an emotional attraction to Kay Ash, thought Will. There was a reason for it. She was like him. He liked her eyes. He doubted she reciprocated the feeling, but he was an eternal optimist that one day he would find love. He said, “I’m a former special operative. Not just the Legion. Other stuff as well. I know what I’m doing.” He stood and smiled at Bartlett. “You’re doing the right thing. Fresh air, honest work. It beats therapy. But I’m sorry your government let you down.” He grabbed the shotgun and entered the rear of the house.

  It was 11:58 a.m. when Elizabeth Haden entered her living room, picked up a photo of her husband in uniform when he was in Delta, and smashed it against the mantelpiece. Her eyes were wet as she picked up the broken pieces, put them in a bag, and walked into the kitchen to put them in the trash. That’s when she saw the man who called himself Edward Pope. He was leaning against the kitchen sink, her shotgun in one of his hands pointed at the floor.

  She shrieked and dropped the bag.

  Will went to her. “I mean you no harm. I think men are coming here. They’re using you as bait to get to your husband. You need to hide in your loft right now. If you hear shots, stay silent and hidden. I’ve spoken to your gardener. He’s a good man. He will call the cops if there’s trouble.”

  She looked around, panic on her face. “Men? What’s going on? I should get out of here!”

  “No. I believe the men are professionals, possibly linked to your husband’s past. They’ll access your property from a three-sixty perimeter. The house is safer than any efforts to run.”

  “Who the hell are you?!”

  “I’m a man who wants to find out the truth about your husband. Show me where you’re going to hide. Go now!”

  Haden ran upstairs, her mind in utter confusion, tears running down her face.

  Will followed her into her attic. It was large and ran the full length of the house. Inside were boxes and floorboards to traverse the rafters. “Go to the back of the attic. I’m going to turn the light off when you’re there.”

  When she was huddled behind a box, she said, “Edward Pope. I always knew that wasn’t your name.”

  “My real name wouldn’t have any relevance to you. But I assure you I’m here to help. Your gardener and I have agreed that if men are killed here, it will have been by his hand. Please stick to that story. It was a home invasion and he was protecting you and your property.”

  “What have you brought to my doorstep?!”

  “If I survive this, I will call you soon. I’ll request a meeting—somewhere remote. You’ll tell me where that place is and what time. But do not under any circumstances attend that meeting.” Will turned off the light. “What I’ve brought to your house is vengeance.”

  He walked downstairs and waited, shotgun in his hands.

  Flail’s team was by the house. Flail gestured to two men to approach from the rear. He said to the man by his side, “Passive entry if she answers. By force if not. We’re Drug Enforcement Administration, investigating her gardener, Jedd Bartlett.
Got it?”

  His colleague nodded.

  Flail added, “Bartlett is under suspicion of growing and supplying opiates. That’s the story. When Cochrane arrives, he’s a suspected dealer.”

  His colleague moved to the front door of the house and rang the bell.

  Will moved to the top of the stairs, crouched, and pointed his shotgun at the base of the stairs. The doorbell rang again. Will was motionless, his gloved hands gripping the weapon, finger on the trigger. And he had no way of knowing if his hunch was correct that his call to Mrs. Haden had triggered the team he’d encountered observing Haden’s house. He wasn’t going to take any chances. Mrs. Haden and her husband were all that mattered—one of them was in severe danger; the other was a cold-blooded bastard.

  He didn’t hear the door open. But he did hear footsteps in the wooden hallway.

  From within the garden shed, Jedd Bartlett kept up his observation of the house and the grounds.

  He hated violence. But once a paratrooper, always a paratrooper.

  No way was he going to let these men ruin Mrs. Haden and her property.

  He saw a man walking across the meadow. He was wearing civilian clothes, though he had a pistol in both hands and was moving quickly in the way that Rangers and other special operatives do—feet always flat on the ground so that there was no bounce if they needed to fire a weapon. This guy was ex–U.S. military, Bartlett was in no doubt. He didn’t like the look of him—no law enforcement insignia on him, though the man could have been an undercover cop. No, Bartlett decided. This guy was trouble.

  His job and life at Mrs. Haden’s property meant everything to him. The man who was fifty yards away wasn’t going to ruin that. More important, Mrs. Haden only had Edward Pope to protect her. But if there was one armed man assaulting the house, there’d be others.

  He called 911, saying the house was being attacked by armed men.

  He then sprinted out of the shed, his footfalls silent on the dewy meadow. From behind, he kicked hard into the man’s groin, grabbed his throat, and swept his ankles away. The man tumbled to the ground, dragging Bartlett with him. They grappled on the grass, Bartlett repeatedly punching him in the face, the man jabbing him in the torso with his elbow. Bartlett grabbed the man’s wrist and twisted it in an attempt to get him to release his handgun. The man elbowed him directly in the face and writhed until he was free of Bartlett’s grip.

  One of Flail’s other men came right up and shot Bartlett twice in the head. He grinned and said to his colleague, “What are you doing? Back to the job.”

  Both men moved to the house, their guns ready for action.

  The footsteps in the hallway were getting louder. Will doubted Mrs. Haden could hear them, but there was a possibility she heard the doorbell moments ago. The last thing he needed was for her to scream. The element of surprise was key.

  If the man was hostile and coming after Will, there’d be others. They’d have been waiting for Will to turn up at the front of the house and for Mrs. Haden to let him in. But they’d also be smart. They may have predicted Will was already in the house.

  He heard two shots. It could mean only one thing: Bartlett had been killed by men coming from that direction.

  He braced himself, stock-still, gun at eye level.

  At the base of the stairs, the man came into view, a pistol in his hand. Will recognized him from his encounter at Unwin Fox’s burned-out house. The man spotted him and swung his handgun toward him. Will pulled the trigger and blew a hole in the man’s gut.

  He ran downstairs, reloaded, and looked out the rear windows. Bartlett was fifty yards away, on the meadow, prone and dead it seemed. Two men were approaching the house. Once again, men he’d seen before. Professional operatives. With guns. They’d have heard the shotgun blast. And now they were coming to kill him.

  Will sprinted to the conservatory overlooking the backyard. Crouching behind an armchair he aimed his shotgun at the men, waiting for them to enter the house.

  Flail was supposed to stay in position at the front of the house, waiting for Cochrane to arrive. Then he’d kill him. He tried to decide if the gunfire he’d heard meant Cochrane was already in the house or whether it belonged to the gardener. It was ten minutes past twelve. Cochrane was overdue. Flail decided Cochrane was already here and the gunfire was his. Flail ran to the front door.

  The men in the backyard were drawing ever closer to the house. Will had clear sight of them, but kept most of his body hidden. The sun was in the men’s eyes, so Will hoped that meant they wouldn’t be able to see through the reflection of the glass. But he wasn’t going to take any chances. He fired once, his pellets smashing through the glass but their momentum subsequently diminishing, sufficient to cause only one of the men superficial flesh wounds. Both men split up. Now they were out of view, almost certainly trying to flank him.

  He reloaded his weapon and spun around. That’s when he saw Flail coming at him, handgun held at eye level. Will pulled the trigger, but Flail dived behind a sofa, the gun blast shredding the top of the furniture. Will stood and walked toward him, pumping one more round into the sofa and reloading again. Flail raised his gun over the barrier and fired three shots blindly. One of them lacerated the exterior of Will’s stomach.

  In agony, Will retreated to the stairs, grimacing as he ascended to the top. All he could do now was protect Mrs. Haden. He pointed his shotgun down the stairs.

  Multiple sirens were encroaching. Damn, thought Will. Bartlett called it in too quickly. Will didn’t blame him. This whole situation was screwed up for Haden, and Bartlett was dead. They didn’t know Will or the precise objective he had for being here. The sirens were outside the front of the house. Flail knew he had to get out of here. The front of the house was blocked, so he had to make a run to the rear and escape with his men. To do that, he needed to get past the stairwell that Will was guarding.

  He dashed, Will shot, Flail somersaulted and narrowly avoided getting his brains blown out. Out of Will’s sight, Flail exited the rear of the house and screamed to his two men on either side of the house, “Abort! Abort!”

  His men joined him, and they ran across the meadow and vanished. Their mission had been a failure. One of their colleagues was dead. That still left three of them. They were certain they’d get another opportunity to assassinate Cochrane. And on that occasion, they’d make certain the job was done.

  Will moved downstairs, his wound causing him to sweat and grimace. He rested the shotgun against a wall and picked up the dead hostile’s handgun. Rapidly, he examined the dead man’s clothes. Zero ID. He cursed. At the front of the house, he peered through a window. Four police squad cars were there, men behind them with guns pointed at the house. Will fired pinpoint-accurate shots, decimating one of the car’s roof emergency lights, striking another’s tires, scraping the hood of the third vehicle, causing an officer to dive for cover, and destroying the engine block of the last vehicle. The vehicles and men were from the local sheriff’s department. They weren’t trained for this. Through the broken glass of the window he’d fired through, he shouted at them in a false American accent: “I got a woman hostage. If you want her alive, you let me go.”

  A cop shouted back, “SWAT’s on its way. Give yourself up now.”

  “I’m not going to hurt her. Just let me be.”

  “Put down your weapon and walk out the door!”

  “Me and my buddies ain’t going to do that. You’re going to have to wait. The woman will be fine. But if you come in here, there’ll be trouble.”

  “How many of you are there?”

  Will responded, “Four. We only came here for cash and jewelry. We didn’t expect there was a man with a shotgun. Things got nasty.”

  “Then you’d better turn yourself in.”

  Will deliberately hesitated for five seconds, before saying, “Let me talk to my brothers. Personally, I don’t want a shoot-out. But I’ve got to get their vote. You okay with that?”

  “Take your time.�
��

  Will limped to the back of the house, dropped the pistol next to the dead ex–Green Beret, and picked up the shotgun. He knew Flail and his two men had long gone. He looked at his stomach. Blood was oozing through his jacket. Shit! The last thing he needed was his blood on the crime scene. He grabbed a fistful of paper towels from the kitchen and shoved it over his wound, under the jacket. Entering the rear meadow, it took every ounce of strength for him to walk. He dropped the shotgun next to Bartlett and carried on walking.

  Under other circumstances, he would have taken a moment to pay his respects. No doubt Bartlett broke cover and assaulted one of the intruders. And he’d done so unarmed. His bravery cost him his life.

  Three miles later, Will reached his car. He was in agony as he squeezed himself into the driver’s seat. Don’t pass out, drive, focus, he told himself.

  He drove to Kay Ash’s sea residence. Along the way, he called Ash’s cell phone from a public pay phone. “Things didn’t go well. I need you to call Hessian. He needs to meet us at your place. He also needs to call the person I told you about—the Russian. I’m injured. I need help.”

  From his White House office, Deep Throat made a call. “There has been an assault on Mrs. H’s residence. One assaulter dead. One employee of Mrs. H’s dead. I’m not happy about that. Are you?”

  The person at the end of the phone replied, “No. Things are drawing too close.”

  “And yet you are complicit. Kill Mr. C. Is that clear?”

  The person answered, “Yes.”

  Uniformed police, detectives, and forensics swamped Elizabeth Haden’s home. Haden was questioned by the detectives repeatedly and stuck to her story: unknown men assaulted her house—no doubt they were criminals; her trusty gardener shot one of the men and chased three others into the grounds, but they returned fire and killed him. The detectives told her that she’d need to make a formal statement but for now they needed to examine the crime scene.