Dillon moved through the house, checking security points and his own weapon and ammo stashes.
With this preamble came the electric feeling he always felt, the excitement of the imminent danger and the promise of killing - that was surely to follow.
* * * The three black long wheelbase Landrover Defenders pulled over onto the roadside, powerful diesel engines idling with a promise of almost limitless torque. Heavy raindrops continuously rolled down the blacked out windows and in the heavy woods to either side a quiet stillness prevailed.
The police car that had been following, a dark blue BMW M5 sporting full police livery, slowed to a crawl as it passed the Landrovers. The two armed response officers inside taking a close look, before moving on, tail lights glowing. It disappeared over the brow of the hill up ahead and was immediately swallowed by the rain and dense woodland.
Still, the Landrovers remained at the edge of the road with their engines idling.
Heavy thunderous clouds continued to roll in with ever increasing persistence, the rain still ferocious as it pounded against the blackened glass of the Landrover’s windows and sent streams running down the narrow strip of tarmac.
In the gloom up ahead, bright headlights glittered through the downpour. The blue lights in the front grille of the BMW flickered into life and the fast German car returned to a halt beside the three Landrovers. Windscreen wipers swished, sending splashes of rain dancing onto the slick road. One of the patrol car’s doors opened, and a muscular man wearing a bright yellow waterproof over-jacket over his body-armour, climbed out. He walked warily forward, his hand on his holstered pistol. Behind him, the other officer remained standing by the BMW, wedged between the door and the car’s body, eyes alert, Heckler & Koch MP5 machine pistol held across his chest body-armour.
The lead policeman tapped on the driver’s side window of the lead Landrover and said in a raised authoritative voice. “Please open the door and step down from the vehicle.”
Nothing moved; the lead Landrover remained still, engine rumbling, the rain running in rivulets down the dark windscreen and bonnet. The police officer repeated his request.
Still nothing happened.
A moment later, the driver’s window slid down on smooth electrics; the police officer took a step backwards and at the same time slipped the leather safety strap off of the holstered Glock. The officer peered inside the Landrover to be confronted with the muzzle of a silenced pistol.
The bullet hit the middle of his forehead with a dull thud. The officer was hurled backwards, dead before he had had time to shout a warning to his colleague. Through the gloom came a shout of - “No!”
- as the second officer brought the MP5 up and began to fire. Three bullets slammed against the side of the Landrover before a stream of automatic gunfire cut through the BMW and into his body, spun him off his feet and left him lifeless and bleeding on the tarmac.
All three Landrover Defenders moved off in unison. The last one swerved a little and ran over the body of the first police officer to have been killed, leaving wide tyre tracks across his crushed chest.
They roared off into the gloom, leaving a ghostly scene of carnage, and the flashing blue lights of the police car, in the mist.
* * * Dillon watched the convoy of luxury Mercedes limousines sweep up the drive towards the house. Standing outside Zhenya’s room as she dressed for the party that evening, his attention drawn to the small window out of which he gazed. Rain was still falling heavily from black murderous clouds directly overhead and an oppressive gloom had settled over Cornwall.
Dillon half listened to the live orchestra tuning-up, guitars, keyboards and percussion sounds floating up the wide sweeping staircase at the end of the lavishly carpeted landing and coming from the huge ballroom - and the rhythmic sound of Beyoncé from Zhenya’s bedroom. Dillon un-holstered the automatic pistol from under his right arm. He passed the Glock from hand to hand, feeling its perfectly weighted balance, checking that there was a full clip in and one round in the chamber then checked the six other clips he carried about his body. Ninety-two rounds in total. Dillon had learnt over the years to always be prepared. As he had always told the younger members of the Ferran & Cardini - Special Projects Department: “Who wanted to die because they ran out of bullets.”
The door opened. Zhenya appeared - stunning in a small black cocktail dress that showed off her pale complexion and auburn hair.
“You ready?” asked Dillon, immediately sensing her nervousness, and added. “Don’t worry, I’ll look after you.”
Zhenya took a deep breath. She knew - as well as he did, as well as the MI6 agents around the house and in the grounds - that tonight was a golden opportunity for an Assassin to strike. If the threat were for real and not just a hollow blackmail attempt. A hoax...
“I want you to stay close by at all times. Do not leave me for one moment.”
“So you’ll be coming with me to the toilet?” She laughed at her own joke.
“Of course.”
“Really?”
Dillon smiled. “Yes. Easy location for a hit - it’s the one moment when, shall we say, a person’s guard is well and truly down.”
They decended the extravagantly wide sweeping oak staircase, the walls lavishly decorated with contemporary abstract artwork. Working for a secret research department funded by the British taxpayer obviously paid well.
Dillon had been very specific with his instructions to Zhenya Tarasova earlier that evening: to stay inside the house, no alcohol, and definitely no wandering off without him. If Zhenya wanted to survive this potential threat then she had to minimise the opportunity.
Damn this party, thought Dillon.
Damn Kirill! Stubborn bastard.
A hundred and fifty guests. Dillon had almost shot Kirill himself when Mark Palmer, head of the MI6 security operation, had handed him the slip of paper.
Guests mingled. Waiting staff with trays of drinks and canapés circulated and Dillon’s gaze swept across the large, glitteringly decorated suite. Rich velvet drapes hung to the floor, obscuring the view of any outside observers - and more importantly from any longrange snipers.
Dillon stayed close to Zhenya. She knew many of the people who had come to the party and Dillon allowed the conversation to wash over him. If anybody approached or spoke to him he was dismissive to the point of being rude, and had no intention or interest engaging in conversation with them - it only distracted him from his job at hand.
He watched. Zhenya socialised and, as she had promised, stayed off the booze.
Kirill, obviously suffering from a little stress, was well on his way to a serious hangover and was holding court with a small group in a corner. Dillon checked the security units status and found everyone where he or she should be. Everything was okay.
* * * The many hundreds of acres of woodland and moor surrounding the Castle Drago estate rose and fell, following the slopes and dramatic contours of the land - spread out for many miles. Several rough tracks, littered with fallen trees and branches, crisscrossed the estate, but on this dark and rain-filled night everything except the thick branches swaying in the wind high above, was still. The rain ran in violent rivulets down the nobbled bark of the oak trees - a deep rumble cut through the gloom, and three dark blue long wheelbase Landrover Defenders crept smoothly over the moor and through the woodland. Heavy wheels crushed branches and negotiated fallen trees with 4x4 ease... slowly the all-terrain vehicles came to a halt in a small clearing, one behind the other.
All three engines died - and a silence crept back.
Doors opened, and black clad figures climbed out of the Landrovers. They moved stealthily forward and crouched, peering through night vision goggles towards Castle Dago, its lights glittering with promise in the distance.
The many shadowy figures bristled with weaponry.
There were various clicks as magazines were slotted home. Commands were given through concealed earpieces; and slowly, with an infinite and precis
e care, the unit of armed killers moved off through the undergrowth, untroubled by the rain and the threat of death to come.
* * * Stevenson squatted beside the old garden potting shed listening to the commands being issued by Mike Palmer. He hoisted thesniper’s rifle up and rested its tripod atop the rough stonework of a low wall just in front of him. It was late and he had been positioned there for a number of hours, he glanced up at the rolling clouds obscured by the driving rain.
“Damned weather,” he muttered. “Sent to torment a man”. He sighted down the high velocity rifle’s scope, and swept the grounds in front of him, rotating the rifle on the smooth-action tripod. He could see nothing through the rain, even with the nightvision intensifier switched on. Stevenson stretched his arms and rolled back his shoulders to relieve the tension in them and craved a cigar and a cup of hot tea. Yes, he could almost taste the richly satisfying tobacco and steaming brew.
A sound behind him made Stevenson glance over his shoulder. Despite knowing that the other members of the security unit were posted at the rear, protecting his back from infiltration, Stevenson nevertheless felt that something was not quite as it should be. He scratched at his short trimmed beard and frowned, eyes trying to pick out any movement in the gloom. Then he brought round the rifle and sighted down the scope. There - he definitely saw something... A figure darting behind a tree? Or a trick played by the swaying branches in the shadowy gloom fuelled by the desire for tobacco?
He adjusted the scope slightly, but could see nothing more between the tree’s dense foliage. He shifted his aching muscles in the rain, feeling trickles run down the back of his neck.
“God, will this effing rain ever give up?” Stevenson muttered. He lowered the rifle for a brief moment to wipe his face dry, and in the same instant the black cross-bow bolt hissed through the darkness and slammed into his forehead, disappeared into soft brain tissue and on exit lodged itself in the timber cladding of the potting shed. Stevenson hadn’t had any time to close his eyes or even shout a warning to his colleagues. He had been pinned silently backwards against the side of the timber building that he had been crouching next to, his unseeing eyes now staring straight ahead. Blood and gore mixed with rain seeped out from the exit wound of his smashed skull, congealing in his hair and soak into the timber at the back of his head. There were soft footsteps; four figures crouched by the corpse. One of them lifted the weapon from the ground and ran a black gloved hand over the cold metal.
“Leave it. We don’t need it.” The words were spoken in a clipped military fashion. The weapon was dropped onto the soft earth beneath their feet and the figures disappeared into the night.
* * * Ninety minutes had passed. Dillon could feel himself growing weary and motioning to Zhenya he followed her into the relative calm and cool of the glasshouse located just off one of the many sittingrooms. He took a small pen-like cylinder from his pocket, twisted the top off to reveal a short needle, and stuck it decisively into his neck and then replaced it back in his pocket.
“What was that?” asked Zhenya.
“A stimulant. Made specifically for me by our chemists at Ferran & Cardini. Allows me to keep going and stay alert, but more importantly it takes my primary senses to a higher-level. Lasts about twelve hours, but I’ll pay for it tomorrow.”
Zhenya smiled, and shivered. “It’s cold in here.”
Dillon looked at her, then turning, walked back inside the sittingroom and through to the hall, Zhenya was only one step behind him. His gaze moving up the sweeping staircase. “Do you feel that cold air?”
Zhenya nodded.
“Well, it wasn’t there earlier.”
“One of the guests have probably just opened a window, said Zhenya, as Dillon discreetly withdrew the Glock and with his free hand waved Zhenya to keep close behind him. He pulled free his mobile phone and opened the channel that the security service was using.
“Palmer?”
“Yes?”
“Can you come to the foot of the main staircase? I think we have uninvited company.”
“Okay.”
Mark Palmer was there within twenty seconds, a small black Berretta pistol in his hand. “Stay with Zhenya for a moment or two,” said Dillon. “I have a really bad feeling about this...”
“Wait, I’ll get some of my men to back you up.”
“No time.”
Dillon followed the cold air, his running shoes silent on the thick carpet. He felt adrenalin and the recently injected stimulant kick his system and with this surge of energy and heightened awareness he climbed two steps at a time to the first floor landing. The music drifted into the distance, a surreal ambience. He checked the security service interface screen - ten minutes since all members had checked in with Mark Palmer. Dillon frowned. An awful lot could happen in ten minutes.
He moved into a darkened doorway that was located directly opposite a nearby window on the wide landing and, crouching low, peered out into the darkness. He couldn’t see any of the positioned snipers - but that didn’t mean they were not there.
He moved cat like along the landing, keeping low and moving fast, all the time keeping his free hand outstretched following the gentle breeze.
Stopping in front of a broad oak door, he rested his hand against the polished wood.
His senses were alive; the thought of what might be on the other side, excited him.
He pushed gently and stepped aside; the door swung free. Dillon peered in, and then with the Glock held outstretched in front of him, slid in. The room was pitch-black and he swiftly turned on the main light...
Empty.
Dillon moved towards the window, which was open, no more than a four inch gap. He looked out, then down, immediately spotted the muddy scuff mark on the wooden sill - and suddenly realised that he was an easy target against the window. He moved fast, as the hollow-point round smashed through the glass and embedded itself in the ceiling.
Dillon rolled away from the window, was up and running.
He shouted into the comm, “We have uninvited guests, I repeat, uninvited guests - first floor entry.”
He flewout of the doorway and into the path of a startled blackclad figure; the Glock kicked twice in his hand and the intruder was hurled backwards off its feet, its hands groping around its throat in a futile attempt to stem the flow of blood pumping out of the bullet wounds as it hit the carpeted floor, hard.
Dillon looked left and right. From somewhere in the house came the sound of distant screams and rapid automatic gunfire. He ran to the top of the stairs and a stream of silenced bullets slammed into the surrounding woodwork, sending splinters and chunks of balustrade in all directions. He dived, rolling up against the far wall with a jarring thud. His gaze fixed on the bullet holes in the woodwork, judged the angle of entry and determined where the shooter was positioned, rolled over twice and fired off six rounds in quick succession. Then, scrambling to his feet, he ran across the landing.
The silenced machine pistol devoured the wall behind him as Dillon reached the top flight of stairs and started to descend them two at a time; his Glock kicked in his hand once more, four rounds that picked up the Assassin and sent it spinning down the remaining stairs where it lay crumpled at the foot, blood soaking into the plush ivory coloured carpet.
The hall was quiet - no guests - no security service.
How many of them were there? Dillon thought as he crept down the remaining stairs and over the dead Assassin’s body. The comm. in his ear crackled. “Dillon, Palmer. I have Zhenya in the kitchens. There are eight of them in the main ballroom - they’ve rounded all of the guests up and are holding them in there. Oh and, Dillon. They’re heavily armed with some nasty little toys.”
“I know. I’ve already taken down two of them,” said Dillon softly as he put home another full clip into the Glock. “You stay there, I’m coming to you.”
Dillon moved quickly along the wide hallway towards the ballroom, stopping momentarily outside to listen. Everything was qu
iet apart from the occasional whimper from some of the guests who were otherwise silent. Dillon slowly eased his head around the corner; a black-clad Assassin stood guard with a silenced 9mm Micro UZI SMG. Dillon fired two rounds and ran off in the opposite direction towards the courtyard. As he burst through the outer door, bullets tore the wood and plaster only inches behind him. Outside in the courtyard he ducked and darted in between large pillars, returned fire as he ran, taking down two more of the Assassins, before he’d made it to the door. Glass and wood splintered as he dashed through and down the stone steps to the main kitchen, all the time the tirade of bullets kept coming. He made it to the bottom of the steps and launched himself onto the tiled floor, sliding between stainless steel cabinets on his belly until he came up against the far wall.
“Palmer?” he yelled.
“Over here, Dillon,” came the shout from one of the adjoining rooms.
Dillon looked around the stainless steel cabinets - all clear - he then peered over the tops, pans sat atop gas burners, their contents bubbling and simmering with half cooked soups and vegetables. There were no cooks to be found and, as he moved between the cabinets and around the room, the hairs on the back of his neck bristled with anticipation.
“Hold your fire - I’m coming in.”
He stepped into the large brightly-lit room; a long overhead fluorescent light hung from two short chains in what appeared to be the kitchens main walk-in larder cold-room. There were sacks of vegetables and crates of produce stacked against the walls. Dillon looked around and saw Palmer, not more than five feet away, standing beside an ashen-faced Zhenya.
Dillon turned and, met Palmer’s stare and he knew - knew that something was definitely wrong - the Browning in Palmer’s hand rose and was now pointing at Dillon.
Chimera Code (Jake Dillon Adventure Thriller Series) Page 6