by Mark Dawson
“I’ll give them your number. They’ll cool the radio traffic from the police and guide you home.”
The call ended.
Milton used the side streets as much as possible and tried to stay off the main roads. Trouble was, in this part of London, nearly every street was an arterial route. Thankfully, the streets were quiet save for the odd group of late-night revellers staggering home and the occasional taxi.
His phone rang.
“Milton – it’s Commander Sanger. Give me your location.”
Milton turned left into a residential street with a park on one side. He pulled up outside a church and said, “Nightingale Square.”
“Oh my God, Julia,” said Hailey. She was staring into the rear of the car at the police woman’s body.
“There’s nothing we can do. She gave her life to make sure you survived. Stay with me, Hailey.”
Her breathing became more erratic; then, consciously, she brought it under control. There was an inner strength to Hailey, but everyone had their breaking point. Two assassination attempts in one night could break anyone.
A Land Rover came around the corner, the headlights sweeping the interior of the Jag. The driver’s window on the Range Rover slid down. A fair-haired man of forty leaned out and addressed Milton.
“Commander Sanger. Good to meet you. Is this the target’s car?” said Sanger.
“Yes,” said Milton.
“Then I suggest you come with us. That car is not safe; there might be –” said Sanger, but Milton cut him off.
“We’re staying in this vehicle. Where’s the safe house?”
Milton watched Sanger’s eyes closely. He guessed Sanger wasn’t used to being overruled.
“Are you sure? I’m not talking about the damage to the car, understand?” said Sanger, flicking his gaze at Hailey and then back to Milton. It was obvious Sanger wanted to say more, but daren’t in front of Hailey.
“I understand. And we’re staying in the Jag,” said Milton finally.
“Very well. So long as you’re sure it’s safe. We’re headed to Lazarus House. It’s a country manor just outside Salisbury. We’ll clear the radio traffic on your car. The police are going bananas. One of their own is missing along with their witness. I take it the cop is…”
“Dead. Nothing we can do about that now. We have to move,” said Milton.
“Agreed. Stay close. We’ll be hitting the blue flashers the whole way.”
With that, the Land Rover took off. A blue strobe light emitted from a small box on the roof. The Land Rover had diplomatic plates and livery. No police car in the country would stop it.
Within twenty minutes they had left the city behind on the A3. Soon they were on the M3, westbound. It was a two-hour drive to Salisbury, but Milton kept close to the Land Rover and kept his speed at a steady seventy. The Jag was in good shape, solid and sure even at that speed.
On the motorway, in the dark, with the night rushing into the car from her open window, Hailey seemed to settle.
“Do you work for the government too?” she asked above the rush of the wind.
Milton hesitated and said, “I can’t tell you anything, I’m afraid. I shouldn’t have even told you my name.”
“I think you’re safe. There are quite a few Johns in the world,” she said.
His mind drifted to a fragment of that evening. The moment he rammed a knife under the chin of the Russian mobster. The look in the man’s eyes as his lights went out.
“There aren’t many Johns like me,” said Milton.
“Why is this happening to me? Why does this man want me dead?”
Milton sat up a little in his seat. The shock seemed to be dissipating. She was thinking now.
“First, this man is a professional assassin. He doesn’t know you, he never met you before tonight, and he has no grudge against you. It’s not that he wants you dead – he’s been hired by someone to kill you.”
He glanced toward her and saw her swallow down the fear.
“Who?” she said.
“I was hoping you might know,” said Milton.
“Jesus, doesn’t anyone know why this arsehole wants to kill me? I mean, I thought you were part of the government. Like intelligence services. MI5.”
“Afraid not. The boys in the car up front are part of MI5. That department is mostly an intelligence-focussed operation. Sometimes they have the need to protect a high-value asset. That’s where Sanger and his crew come in. They are the ACP. Asset Close-Protection Unit.”
“And what are you? Before you say anything, don’t give me bullshit. I have a right to know.”
Milton thought about it. Decided she was right. “I’m the one MI5 calls when they need someone to pull a trigger.”
For a moment, Hailey said nothing. She stared out of the window, then nodded and said, “Thank you.”
Neither of them spoke for a time.
“Who is the man with the tattoo of the scorpion on his hand? The one who is trying to kill me?”
“We only know him by a codename. He’s ex-Russian Secret Service. He’s the man the Russians call when they need someone to pull the trigger.”
“Is he good at that?”
“The best.”
“Better than you?” she said.
“We’ll see,” said Milton.
Hailey rubbed her temples and sucked at her teeth. She looked at her palms, suddenly feeling the sting. Carefully, she picked tiny slivers of glass from her palms.
“Talk to me. Tell me what you do know,” she said.
“I know a little,” Milton said. “I know you’re not the only target. There are three. MI5 intercepted the encoded messages used to set up the hit. This man is highly respected in Russia. No one leaves the organisation he used to work for unless they’re in a pine box. He got away. And they let him. He’s a freelance assassin who occasionally does a bit of work for the old country to make sure they don’t come after him.”
Milton knew more than that. He knew, for example, that when the SVR command discovered that Scorpion had gone AWOL, they sent a hit team to take him out. Ten of the best in the service. Scorpion killed nine of them on the first day. He caught the last man a week later. An old comrade of his who’d been his mentor. He cut off his trigger finger and sent the man back to Moscow with a deal. Scorpion would continue to work for them as a free agent, a couple of jobs a year, and they would leave him alone. This must have been one of those jobs. But Milton decided not to tell her any of that. He didn’t want to frighten her any more than she was already frightened.
“But why is he doing this?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” Milton admitted. “You must have some idea why. Something you saw while you were in Afghanistan maybe?”
She shook her head. “No, there’s nothing that I’ve seen that I haven’t…”
She stopped.
“What?” Milton pressed.
“When I was in Iraq, I saw a missile strike. We got word Saddam’s troops were going to bomb the village. We got out. Hundreds of us. It was night-time. We’d parked our Jeep at the side of the road. It’s dangerous to travel at night. One wrong turn and you’re onto a road that’s mined. We saw the people running across the dunes just as the strike hit. Then came the attack chopper to mop up the civilians fleeing their homes. Napalm. Russian napalm. Everything for miles was on fire. I’ll never forget it.”
Milton let her drift off, deep in thought. He noticed the orange glow from the sodium motorway lights trapped in her irises, as if it reflected that scene in her mind’s eye.
“And did you write that story?” said Milton.
“Yes, a long time ago now. I still see those burning fields in my dreams, you know? That’s why I had to stop.”
“I’m glad you’ve moved on to different work. There’s only so much anyone can take. But that article couldn’t be related to this list. I think it’s something recent. Scorpion has moved quickly on his targets. I sense a great deal of urgency here. There
must be something time sensitive,” he said.
“I have no idea what it could be,” said Hailey.
“Are you working on something now?”
She thought for a moment and said, “I’m always working on a couple of stories. Nothing there that I could think of that would make someone want to kill me.”
Milton was wary of pressing her, but there was no time. Any information might be of use. The SVR wanted Hailey dead as quickly as possible. Something had to have triggered that response.
“Your name is on that list because of something recent. Has to be,” said Milton.
“I can’t think what. The last two articles I published were on single females living alone and a book review. I’m working on a piece for the Guardian about house prices in London. It’s hardly controversial.”
“Can I read it?”
“If you have a laptop, you can. I email drafts to myself as backup. Not sure it’s what you’re looking for.”
“Maybe not, but at least then we can rule it out,” said Milton.
They drove on in silence for another half hour and followed the vehicle in front as it veered off the motorway and onto the B roads. The twisting English country roads slowed them down, but it didn’t take long before the Land Rover put on an indicator and turned right into a narrow, single-lane track. Milton didn’t put on his full-beam headlights, and all he could see were the tail lights of the car in front.
“Is that where we’re going?” said Hailey, pointing to the horizon.
Up ahead Milton could now make out soft lights in a large arched window. They headed toward the light. The Land Rover pulled up slowly and stopped. Milton got out and set foot on gravel. It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust, but then he could make out a large manor house.
Sanger approached him, stood close and whispered so that Hailey wouldn’t overhear, “Welcome to Lazarus House. You know, we should check that car. I didn’t want you to bring it here. There may be a way for Scorpion to track this vehicle. He might already know our location.”
Milton smiled and said, “I’m counting on it.”
10
A mile away from the site of the car crash, Scorpion knelt in a dark alleyway amongst the bins and watched the rats feast on rotten, discarded takeaway food.
He didn’t mind rats, although it wasn’t always so.
He remembered it easily. At twenty-six he’d had his first mission in Moscow. A training mission. His first kill was like his first kiss: it was as vivid to him now as if it were yesterday. The target had been a drug dealer who lived in a basement flat in the Solntsevo District. The small flat was accessible from a set of stone steps leading down to the front door. Scorpion had watched a stream of people come and go from the flat all day. Come midnight, the traffic to the flat had died down. Scorpion had left his car, walked carefully down the uneven steps and knocked three times on the door, then twice.
The signal.
The door opened, and a man in a white bathrobe stood before him. The robe lay open and Scorpion had noticed the man only wore a pair of boxer shorts beneath the robe. He remembered the man had been in his fifties and heavily tattooed.
Scorpion had opened the man’s throat in a flash of steel and dark blood. In the dim light from the hallway, the blood had appeared black at first. Scorpion had then grabbed the man’s wrist, twisted it, controlling his movement, then stepped inside and slid the blade between the man’s ribs, into the lung.
Scorpion remembered dropping the knife and turning to walk up the steps. A bullet ricocheted from the brink of the steps just before his head had breached the parapet. He’d ducked, then popped up to survey the street. Four men. All armed. The gunfire had then broken over his head again.
He’d been trapped. No way out of the basement.
Except for the manhole at the base of the steps.
For twelve hours Scorpion had roamed the old sewers. Following great packs of rats in search of a way through the subterranean maze.
Memories.
The phone in his hand buzzed, bringing him back to reality. Back to the present. Back to the alleyway in South West London. Back to the kill.
He got up and walked to the end of the alley and stood in the shadows. Sure enough, the man he’d called had come for him. A dark blue BMW pulled up. He got into the rear of the car, next to a small man in a leather jacket. He was around fifty, and his salt-and-pepper hair had been cut down to a mere fuzz on his skull. Despite his size, an obvious power emanated from the man. His name was Vitali Tsepov, the father of the Russian mafia in London. Known to all as “Little Vitali,” but never to his face. The driver, on the other hand, almost took up the passenger seat as well as the driver’s seat. He was truly enormous. From the back, his head looked like someone had fitted a wig on a ten-gallon drum. His arms pumped the steering wheel and the BMW turned sharply in the narrow street and headed back into the city.
“Who is the one who killed my men?” said Vitali.
“He works for the British government. A spy. A killer. He is all of these things,” said Scorpion.
“Where is he?”
“I will find him. It’s likely he has many men. I will need your strength.”
“You will have it. As long as you have my money,” said Vitali.
For a long time the car fell silent. Neither man spoke. The only sound came from the chest of the driver. Drawing and exhaling breath sounded like a gust of wind tearing through a cathedral.
After a time, the BMW pulled up in a mechanic’s yard that sat off the main road, at the end of a quiet suburban street. The lights were on in the garage, and Scorpion saw several men standing around smoking. A pair of black vans were parked in the yard, but no other vehicles.
He got out of the car and noticed the BMW rise an inch from the yard when the driver exited. Vitali got out and Scorpion followed him into the garage. In all, there were seven men in the garage. Each held either a pistol or a small semi-automatic assault weapon. He watched Vitali inspect his men.
“These men are the best I have. They’ve lost brothers tonight. And we cannot let that insult go unanswered. Now, the money,” said Vitali, pointing to a laptop sitting open on a dirty steel bench.
It took only a few keystrokes from Scorpion to access funds from a secure Swiss account and effect a transfer. He left the laptop open on his account page.
“The job was one hundred thousand euros. Assist me further and I’ll make it two hundred,” said Scorpion.
A nod from Vitali was all that it took. Scorpion made the transfer.
“You have what I asked for?” said Scorpion.
“We could not source the exact rifle, but this one should suffice,” said Vitali.
One of the men disappeared into a back room and returned with a canvas bag and what looked to be a rifle wrapped in a towel. Scorpion checked the bag. Black combat pants, tee shirt, bomber jacket and boots. He unwrapped the towel.
He’d asked for a sniper rifle and provided a list of acceptable weapons. This rifle was not on the list. The weapon wasn’t technically a sniper’s weapon. It was a Dragunov, but also carried the name SVD. A gas-operated semi-automatic rifle, it had been designed as a long-range weapon for a single marksman in an otherwise regular military unit. Most military units carried arms for rapid firing in close-quarter encounters. The SVD added another option to their capabilities. On the plus side, it was lighter than most sniper rifles at just under ten pounds without the magazine, this model had a muzzle flash suppressor designed to hide the position of the shooter from spotters, and it came with a cheek rest fitted to the stock.
On the downside, the standard PSO-1 telescopic sight didn’t come with night vision, and the reticule had an unusual layout for bullet drop compensation and windage. It would take some getting used to, but Scorpion would manage.
He checked the load in the magazine. He found 7.62-millimetre hollow-point, boat-tail cartridges. There was a full load of ten in the mag.
“This will be s
atisfactory,” said Scorpion.
He returned to the laptop, found the browser for access to the dark web and clicked on it. Scorpion had been careful with his money. He didn’t drink much, had invested wisely, but every man has his vices. For Scorpion, vanity proved to be an expensive trait to indulge. He liked bespoke suits, shirts, and cars. The bill from his tailor in Tokyo often came in over fifty thousand dollars. The suit on his back was one such indulgence. He stripped his tie and opened the top button on his shirt as he waited for the dark site he’d selected to load.
The screen changed and Scorpion entered the registration number and vehicle identification number for his Jaguar into the search box. On another screen he entered the access code for the car’s electronic brain. The Jag cost him over six figures. He kept it in a lock-up in the east end of London and had driven it on only a dozen or so occasions. The inevitable drawback with such expensive, top-of-the-range cars came with the increasing amounts of technology. Scorpion’s Jaguar came fitted with a GPS navigation system. Like any satellite system, it could be hacked. And Scorpion preferred if his movements were not tracked, so he’d remotely disconnected the GPS. This meant he had no satellite navigation, but for a city like London, he didn’t need it. He’d come to know the place well.
The GPS system in the Jaguar came back on line, and within moments Scorpion had the location of the car on screen. The Jaguar was at the end of a long, private lane in the middle of the English countryside. When the British agent had gotten into his car and driven away, Scorpion had anticipated he would dump the car somewhere. The dump site would provide a starting point for his search for Hailey Banks.
Only this was not a dump site. It was a fortress. Banks was there. In that house.
The troublesome agent was there too. He knew it.
And he was coming for both of them.
11
Milton had always hated large English country houses. They spoke of unearned privilege. The floor-to-ceiling oak panelling on the walls, the art, the chandeliers, the parquet tiled floor, all of it a testament to the wealth of the English upper classes, and, by definition, a stark reminder of how little most of the country had by comparison.
