Operative 66 : A Novel

by McDermott, Andy

  A glance back. Her pursuer was obscured by the path’s zig-zags. There was another downward path ahead, past a tall, run-down building. If she got to it without being seen, she could double back, maybe lose him.

  She looked behind again as she reached the corner. Still no sign of him. Eyes front—

  The man was right there.

  He had run much faster than her – so fast even he seemed taken by surprise. His gun wasn’t readied. Instead he lashed out, his forearm striking her face. She fell backwards, nose bleeding.

  Hayes stepped forward. He aimed his weapon down at her head. ‘Where’s Reeve?’

  Connie couldn’t reply, fear clenching her throat. The Operative frowned, then his face became terrifyingly emotionless—

  A gunshot – and one side of his skull burst open.

  He crumpled to the ground like a broken puppet. Blood and the glistening grey of brain matter was sprayed over the wall beside him. Connie gasped, desperately scrabbling from the twitching corpse. The shot echoed in her ears. Even now, she thought it was meant for her—

  ‘Connie!’

  Reeve ran up the path she had taken. Smoke streamed from his gun. He raced to her. His face was dirty and bloodied. ‘Are you hurt? Did he shoot you?’

  ‘No, no,’ she managed to reply. ‘He – he hit me.’ She put a hand to her nose, finding blood of her own.

  He helped her stand. ‘We’ve got to get out of here,’ he said, quickly checking the dead man’s pockets. No car keys. Either the other Operative had them, or they had been left in the Jaguar. ‘Come on.’

  He took her hand. She numbly followed him downhill.

  CHAPTER 41

  They returned to the bottom of the hill. The Jaguar’s front doors were open, the engine still running. A look inside; the key fob was in the centre console. ‘Get in,’ Reeve told Connie.

  ‘What about our stuff?’ she asked. Her voice was oddly level. She was still in shock.

  Reeve was about to return to the Saxo when he heard a siren. Some way off – but getting closer. Their wrecked car had stopped at an angle, blocking the tailgate. Retrieving their belongings would mean clambering into the back and pulling out the parcel shelf. It would take too long – he needed every second. ‘We’ll have to leave it,’ he replied.

  ‘But—’

  ‘The police are coming. We have to go. Now.’

  They got in. A fast reverse to make a skidding J-turn, starting back up the hairpin hill. ‘You’re going this way?’ she asked in surprise.

  ‘The cops are coming from the valley, and I don’t know the roads.’ He switched on the navigation system. ‘Find the nearest big town.’

  She had an answer by the time they passed the castle. ‘Looks like somewhere called Apt.’

  He glanced at the digital map. About fifteen kilometres south-west as the crow flew. The current road led northwest, but he was sure there would be connections. ‘Okay, put it in as a destination.’

  ‘Why are we going there?’

  ‘A bigger town’ll have other transport options. We don’t want to stay in this car. Even if nobody from the village saw it, Scott’ll report it stolen sooner or later. He’ll realise his men aren’t coming back.’

  She said nothing for some time, then, in a near-whisper: ‘You killed that man.’

  ‘He was going to kill you.’

  ‘What . . . what about the other guy?’

  ‘He tried to kill me.’

  ‘You killed him too?’

  A small nod. ‘Yeah.’

  Connie fell silent again. Reeve knew there was no point justifying his actions. All he could do for now was leave her alone. Another glance at the map. The satnav had been trying to make him turn back south, through Simiane-la-Rotonde. Now they were clear of the village, it finally decided on a new route. Left in five hundred metres. He reached the junction and made the turn. The new road wound through open countryside, a patchwork of grass and lavender fields. He lowered the window. Not for ventilation, but to listen for sirens. All he heard was the wind and the engine’s low snarl.

  He followed the satnav. They eventually reached a main road, the D30. A sign told him he was twenty-three kilometres from Apt. The computer agreed. He cruised south, sticking to the speed limit. Scott’s car was distinctive enough without drawing attention.

  They entered another swathe of lavender fields. The scent of flowers filled the cabin. Reeve had still been on full alert; he finally began to calm—

  ‘Stop the car,’ Connie croaked.

  There was nowhere to pull off the road unseen. ‘We need to—’

  ‘Stop the car!’

  Reeve obeyed, halting on the verge. Connie flung open the door and leapt out, running to the roadside. He emerged just in time to see her vomit. She coughed, then slumped back against the Jaguar. Her hands were shaking.

  ‘You’re all right,’ he assured her. ‘It’s just the adrenalin.’

  ‘I know what it is!’ she yelled back. ‘I’m a fucking nurse!’ More coughs, then she spat out a thick string of saliva. ‘Jesus Christ. He was going to kill me. That man was going to kill me!’

  ‘You’re okay, though. We both are.’ He stepped closer, raising a hand to comfort her.

  She moved sharply away. ‘Nothing is fucking okay, Alex. I . . . I heard you and that man at the villa talking.’

  Reeve felt a leaden lump form in his stomach. ‘How long were you listening?’

  ‘Long enough.’ Her eyes were locked accusingly on to his . . . then they turned towards the ground. ‘Is what he said true? About SC9 – about what it does?’

  ‘He thinks it is,’ he replied. ‘But that’s not why I joined.’

  ‘He’s the boss. I think he has a better idea of what it’s about than you.’ She walked shakily into the lavender field. Unsure what to do, Reeve followed in the neighbouring row. ‘I heard what you did, Alex. In court.’ Connie looked back at him. ‘You lied.’

  ‘I lied to put my father in prison. He killed my mum – if there was any justice, he’d be in the ground.’

  ‘Is that why you joined SC9? To kill bad guys?’ Her disgust was clear.

  ‘No,’ he protested. ‘I told Scott the truth. And I’m telling you the truth. I joined SC9 to protect the country.’

  ‘Protect the country?’ she cried. ‘You joined a death squad. That’s their job – to kill anyone Scott doesn’t like. I heard him reel off his enemies list.’ She faced him over the purple dividing line. ‘Feminists, peaceniks, progressives – I’m all three of those, Alex. Does that make me an enemy of the state?’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘But if Scott decided I was a target . . .’ She spread her hands wide, as if exposing her heart. ‘Would you kill me?’

  ‘I’m not in SC9 any more,’ he countered, not wanting to answer. ‘Right now, they’re my enemy. And after what Scott said, I don’t see that changing.’

  An unexpected emotion on her face: sadness. ‘And if one of the others had been declared a traitor instead of you? Would you be trying to kill them right now?’

  ‘I—’ He had no reply. All he could do was stare helplessly at her. She turned away. ‘Connie, I . . . ’

  A sound from the car caught them both off-guard. ‘That’s my phone,’ said Connie. A warning glare at Reeve as she returned to the Jaguar. He remained still. She took the phone from her handbag. ‘Hello? Jaz, hi.’ A look of surprise that her neighbour was calling. ‘What is it?’

  She listened. Reeve saw her concern rise. ‘Wait, wait,’ she said, hurrying back to him. ‘Let me put you on speaker.’

  ‘Alex, are you there?’ said Jaz’s amplified voice. ‘Look, we had a really weird visit from the police this morning. I would have called sooner, but . . . to be honest, I was a bit scared.’

  ‘How come?’ asked Connie.

&nb
sp; ‘They were really aggressive. They asked about Alex – and you. They talked to Mr Brownlow as well. He said they just barged into his flat.’

  ‘What were they asking about?’

  Reeve had a more urgent question. ‘What did they look like?’

  ‘A man and a woman, both white,’ came the reply. ‘The man was really big. Sort of dirty-blond hair. Really horrible guy. The woman was a lot smaller. Quite a thin face. Short reddy-brown hair. I think she was Irish.’

  ‘It’s SC9,’ Reeve mouthed to Connie, before speaking to the phone again. ‘Okay, Jaz, if they come back, can you let us know?’

  ‘Yeah, of course.’

  ‘Thanks for telling me.’ He tapped the screen to end the call.

  ‘Bye,’ said Connie, a moment too late. She looked at Reeve. ‘It was definitely them?’

  ‘Mark Stone and Deirdre Flynn. Jaz described them pretty much dead-on.’

  Her alarm rose. ‘So – so SC9 were at my house?’

  ‘Yeah. That means I can’t go back there. They might be watching it.’

  ‘But what about me?’ she said, dismayed. ‘I have to go back – it’s my home! What if they’re there? Will they arrest me for helping you? Or – or something worse? What do I do?’

  ‘I . . . don’t know.’ It wasn’t only Connie he couldn’t help. He had no idea of his own next move – if there even was one.

  The sound of an approaching vehicle brought him back to immediate concerns. ‘We need to go,’ he said.

  The car was just a Peugeot with a family inside. Reeve waited for it to pass, then pulled out. They continued south towards Apt.

  Twenty-five minutes later, they arrived. Reeve stopped in a large car park opposite one of the mediaeval town’s old gates. He opened his door. Connie remained still. ‘Are you okay?’ he asked.

  ‘No, not really.’ She didn’t look at him. A deep sigh, then she got out. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Away from the car, for now.’ He gestured towards the archway. ‘We’ll go into town and look for buses, trains, whatever. Might be worth buying a change of clothes as well.’

  ‘You know what you’re doing.’ Her voice was dejected, resigned.

  They entered the old town. Reeve slipped into the first bar they passed, washing his bloodied face and hands. Once clean, they continued. Apt at lunchtime on a beautiful day was busy. They easily vanished amongst the people milling through the narrow streets. Quick purchases gave them new clothes, different in colour from the old. ‘We’ll need to eat,’ he told Connie. She reluctantly followed him to a café. Not a word was exchanged during the meal.

  Reeve used Jammer’s phone to locate Apt’s bus station. Annoyingly, it was back the way they had come, beyond the car park. He checked routes and timetables. One bus went to Avignon; the city had a high-speed rail link to Paris. From there, they could return to England. Once Connie finished picking at her food, he led her back through the town.

  She finally spoke as they reached the car park. ‘Oh, shit.’ Numerous cops, both municipal police and gendarmes, stood around the Jaguar.

  ‘Just keep walking,’ Reeve whispered, turning past a hotel towards a pedestrian crossing. ‘Nobody would have noticed us arrive. Even if they did, we’ve changed clothes.’ Connie followed him, though kept shooting nervous glances towards the police.

  They soon reached the bus station. Reeve checked a timetable. The next bus to Avignon was due in forty minutes. They sat down on a bench to wait.

  ‘You’ve still got your passport, haven’t you?’ he asked.

  ‘Yeah,’ Connie replied. ‘In my handbag.’

  ‘Good. I’ll give you more money. Once we get to Avignon, catch a TGV to Paris. Get the Eurostar to London from Gare du Nord. I’ll find another way back. We’ll need to travel separately; the authorities will be looking for a couple.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she said, with sudden anger. ‘We’re definitely not a couple. You won’t see me again. Don’t see me again.’

  He was startled by her hostility. ‘Connie, that’s not what—’

  ‘You’ve ruined my life, Alex!’ she cried. ‘I’m on the run from the police after you killed two people!’

  ‘Keep your voice down,’ he said urgently.

  She dropped it to an angry growl. ‘Ever since I met you, I must have gone crazy. I helped a fugitive with a gunshot wound. I let you stay even though you kept getting into fights. You made the local drug dealer personally threaten me. You’ve wrecked my car – shit, my laptop was in my suitcase as well. You’ve got the police after me. You’ve got international fucking assassins after me. And on top of all that . . .’ She hunched up, arms and legs clenched defensively. ‘You’re one of them. You’re part of a death squad.’

  ‘I told you, that’s not what I thought it was. That’s not why I joined.’

  ‘And why should I believe you? You lied, Alex. You’ve lied about everything. You lied about your name, who you are, what you do. You lied about your dad murdering your mum.’

  ‘I didn’t lie about that!’ he snarled, barely holding his voice down. Connie flinched at his abrupt anger. ‘He did kill her. He forced me to see her body. I lied to make sure he didn’t get away with it. I lied to make sure she—’ His voice unexpectedly cracked. ‘To make sure she got justice. Do you know why? Because I could have stopped it happening.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I should have been at home, when it happened. If I had been, he wouldn’t have done it. I should have finished school and come home. But—’ Sickening guilt roiled within him. ‘I skived off school that afternoon. I was pissing about smoking and drinking at a mate’s house. I should have come home. I could have saved her. I should have been there.’ The sudden unleashing of truth and emotion long held contained – concealed – left him shaking.

  ‘Alex . . .’ He drew in a trembling breath and turned towards her. Sympathy in her eyes, her voice. But . . . not enough to change things. ‘I’m sorry, I really am. About what happened to your mum. You – I get that you believe you were joining SC9 for good reasons. But that doesn’t . . .’ Connie lowered her head. ‘Everything’s fucked, Alex. It’s your fault for dragging me into this.’ She looked back up at him. ‘But it’s my fault for going along with it. I let myself get taken in by the thrill – of who I thought you were. You’re the super-spy saving the country. Protecting the innocent. But you’re not. You’re just . . . a killer. You’re no better than your father.’

  That last struck Reeve like a blade to the heart. He opened his mouth to reply, but no words emerged. He slumped back, gazing miserably at nothing. Connie sat beside him, equally silent.

  Finally, the bus arrived. ‘Here,’ said Reeve, speaking at last. He passed her two wads of notes; one euros, the other pounds. How much exactly he wasn’t sure, but at least a thousand of each. ‘You take this bus, I’ll get a different one. Go home. Stay safe. Try to . . . try to fix everything I’ve broken.’

  For a moment she seemed about to give him a scathing reply. But then her face softened. ‘I’ll try.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said simply.

  Connie put the money in her bag, then went to the bus. One final saddened look back, then she was aboard.

  Then she was gone.

  Reeve stared after the departed bus. What now? He was completely alone. No support, no allies, and the only friend he’d had was now utterly alienated. And his objective, his hope – of convincing SC9 he was no traitor – lay ruined. There was no way back: for anything.

  What to do?

  Cold pragmatism gradually overcame loss and dejection. He was in France; that opened up the whole of Europe to him. He could travel to anywhere in the Schengen area. As a white European, the odds of his being stopped in transit were slim. And he could fluently pass himself off as French or other nationalities if challenged. Once he changed his appearance, he
should be able to slip into hiding.

  But . . .

  There was something else beneath the pragmatism. A deep, simmering fury. Someone had forced him into this situation. Somebody had set him up, framed him as a traitor. Someone within SC9 itself.

  He was going to find them.

  Reeve channelled the fury, controlling it. Using it. He had a new objective. He could never return to SC9, but he could find whoever had destroyed his life.

  And make them pay.

  CHAPTER 42

  Jahmir Haxhi limped painfully on crutches from the taxi to his building. His broken ankle was immobilised in a cast. He hadn’t wanted to leave hospital so soon, but its policy was clear. Deal with patients as quickly as possible, kick them out, empty the bed. His protests that his leg still hurt had been met with a prescription for painkillers.

  He had needed to stop by the letting agency. The bastard who broke his leg also stole his keys. Replacements in hand, he fumbled to open the lobby door. Nobody offered to help him; there wasn’t even anyone to help him. He had grown up on an east London council estate. A shithole, yes – but at least family and friends would assist when needed. Here, he didn’t even know his neighbours’ names.

  He eventually got in and reached the lift. There was so much to fucking do! Cancel his cards and get a new phone, for a start. So many people to call, and he’d been unable to do so at the hospital. All his contact numbers were in the phone.

  At least they were backed up to the cloud. Once he bought a new phone, he could get things rolling. And there were a few people he could talk to right away. The flat had a landline, his most important contacts programmed in.

  He hobbled to the flat, unlocked the door – and froze.

  Someone had been here.

  ‘Oh, shit,’ he gasped. Things had been moved, the blinds closed. His attacker hadn’t just taken his keys, he’d raided his home.

  ‘Shit . . .’ The word raided made him think of his most important possessions. He stumbled to the kitchenette.