Chimera Code (Jake Dillon Adventure Thriller Series)

by Andrew Towning

  “I am very sorry, my friend. But it’s now time for you to really retire - permanently.

  Dillon looked Palmer in the eye, and nodded gently. “I hadn’t figured...” He brought the Glock up in a blur, and fired a rounddirectly into Palmer’s throat; the bullet entered the throat at the Adam’s Apple and made an explosive exit through the back of Palmer’s head across the wall and ceiling. Palmer was thrown backwards landing against wooden crates, as if in slow motion, sliding down them until sitting almost upright on the tiled floor.

  “…on having to kill so early in the evening,” Dillon finished.

  “Dillon,” Zhenya ran to him and fell into his arms. He hugged her briefly, and then closed the door - sealing them inside the storage room. He sat the girl down onto one of the wooden crates and moved to Palmer’s blood-drenched body and checked through his pockets. He took the dead man’s Browning, pushing it into the waistband of his trousers in the small of his back and collecting the spare magazine clips.

  “What’s happening?” said Zhenya.

  “Bad shit, that’s what. Something very dark.” Dillon said with malice. “The question is. How the fuck did they get past MI6 and all of their security sensors that are placed throughout the grounds and inside the house? Either a very large sum of money has changed hands, or something is at play. Something that I don’t understand.”

  “What about my uncle?”

  “The guests have all been herded to one end of the ball room and there’s the possibility that the Professor is with them. There are at least eight gunmen...” Palmer’s word’s came back to him again. Was this whole thing a set-up? Something didn’t feel right - everything was too easy - too neat.

  Like attempting to unravel a puzzle with some of the pieces missing, Dillon’s brain grappled with the implications.

  “Trust me about this, Zhenya, and don’t ask questions. We’ve got to get out of here and away from the main house.”

  The mobile phone vibrated in his hand. “Yes?”

  “It’s Vince. I hear you have company down there. I’ve secured the use of an American satellite that’s passing over. I’m now your eyes, old son. There are at least twelve of them. They came in from the woods - and have already killed the three MI6 boys who were stationed in that sector. Where’s Palmer?”

  “Dead,” said Dillon. “We now have at least eight Assassins in the main ballroom. Two were on the first floor and I’ve already taken care of them. Two were taken out as I crossed the courtyard. Are you sure about there being twelve to start with, Vince?”

  “Absolutely. I’m using the thermal imaging on-board the satellite and I’ve used the electronic guest-list to calculate how many people should be inside the house - the numbers tally perfectly.”

  What do you suggest?”

  “You are currently inside the main kitchen on the lower ground floor. Is this correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “The girl is with you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. Stay right where you are. I’ll liase with MI6 and get them into position outside in the courtyard to cover you both as you come through the door.”

  “Well be quick. I don’t know how much time we have.”

  A few seconds later, Vince Sharp was talking to Dillon again.

  “Jake, make your way up to the top of the stairs and wait just inside the door. Roth and his men will be there to escort you both out. Good luck, old friend.”

  “Thanks - we’re going to need it.”

  Dillon closed the cover on the phone and slipped it into his jacket pocket; he looked at Zhenya. “We are in deep shit. You need to follow my every order if you want to survive. Understand?”

  The girl looked at Dillon, not comprehending what he was saying.

  Dillon grabbed hold of her arms and shook her, hard. “You understand what I’m saying?”

  “Yes - I understand. Let go of me, you’re hurting.”

  Dillon released his grip. “This is what we are going to do. They think we’re going to leave through the back door; they don’t know that I’ve killed Palmer.”

  There was a sound. Dillon moved smoothly to the door he had originally entered through and opened it - fast, the barrel of the Glock moving, scanning.

  “My God,” hissed Dillon, removing his finger from the trigger.

  Professor Kirill had been severely beaten. Blood covered his face and had spilled down the front of his white dress shirt. By the look of it he had a broken nose and his lips were badly swollen and split from the repeated blows upon him. He staggered forward, the reek of alcohol surrounding him like some sort of cheap cologne. Dillon helped him into the kitchen and checked the stairway outside; he could see the door sensor flickering and he checked the phone’s touch-screen once more. He scrolled through and found the security application, tapped the screen once and it immediately lit up with a complex looking grid system. He activated the function: anybody else entering the kitchen or stairway would now trigger the silent alarm.

  “Uncle!” Zhenya ran over to Kirill, hugged him, and helped him to sit down as he winced with pain. His bloodied nose was dripping onto the tiled floor, as he stared in horror at the pool of blood surrounding Palmer’s corpse slumped on the floor of the storage room.

  “You killed him?”

  “Let’s just say that he wasn’t up to the job and his contract has been terminated - permanently.”

  Dillon, the Glock still in his grip, crouched in front of Kirill.

  “What’s happening here?”

  “There are eight of them. They have imprisoned the guests at one end of the ball room. They have sent me to give you a message...”

  “Me? But they think -”

  Dillon paused. the only way that they could know that Mark Palmer was dead was if they had the kitchen bugged for sound and vision - or had access to and were listening in on the MI6 commsnetwork. That meant that the entire MI6 protection unit were in on the assassination. But why wait for Kirill’s party in Cornwall - why not take Zhenya out in Scotland with a snipers bullet?

  Dillon’s phone started to vibrate in his jacket pocket - the alarm warning him that movement had been detected. He moved quickly to the doorway; his Glock went around the door and sent a warning shot up the stairway leading in from the courtyard. There was no return fire and no more movement detected.

  Dillon turned sharply.

  Kirill was now on his feet - but now held a gun pointing directly at Dillon. Dillon’s stare met that of the older man. There was coldness in his eyes - a steely hardness that Dillon had previously seen. The hardness was that of a cold blooded killer.

  “What is you want from me?” Dillon spoke softly and with total calmness.

  “What indeed you bastard,” hissed Kirill in a spray of spittle and blood. “Drop the Glock - now!”

  Dillon glanced across at Zhenya; and she had changed, a change that was so dramatic that it actually shocked him. The tears had dried, the frightened young girl - gone. She was standing, a small Russian handbag pistol in her hands. The lethal looking weapon was pointing at him.

  “I don’t get any of this,” growled Dillon. “I thought you were working for the British Government?”

  “I told you to drop your fucking weapon!” Screamed Kirill, the pain of his beating was showing as each word was heavily laced with an edge of urgency.

  Something cold and sinister inside Dillon’s head - came alive.

  Zhenya smiled at him and gave a small shrug.

  “Don’t act so surprised, Dillon. It’s not as if you’re a blood relative.”

  Dillon knew then: knew that he would die. There were two targets, both brandishing guns and the odds were against him dropping them both in the blink of an eye... He was surely going to die, in that kitchen under the bastard’s country castle. Murdered and so obviously betrayed by... By who? And for what reason? What game was being played here? And why was hethe centre of attention all of a sudden?

  “Because you were always the t
arget - you cock,” whispered the stony voice deep within his mind. A sudden calmness took over Dillon’s mind - excitement made his finger-tips tingle - adrenalin pumped into his heart - and Dillon knew exactly what he had to do...

  Kirill was still standing a few feet away. He dabbed at his split lip with a fore-finger and it came away flecked with blood. He waved the heavy looking Browning in his right hand, his face a contorted animal snarl. “I said drop your fucking weapon now!”

  Dillon held both hands in the air as a sign of surrender, and then began to stoop, as if to place the Glock on the ground.

  Dillon blinked and the world changed from Technicolor to the harsh black and white tones of a 1960’s film set. His brain screamed at him; “Do it now...”

  And, slowly, the merciless killer inside the darkest recess of Dillon’s mind opened his eyes.

  Chapter 3

  The scene was a stark colourless black and white picture. He smiled at the blood smeared Kirill; the Glock felt good in his left hand, reassuring, like an old friend. It had become a part of him, his body and soul. It was held low as he stooped, at an angle. All it took was a twitch.

  Dillon flicked his wrist - faster than thought - and squeezed the trigger.

  Kirill was blown backwards, folding in half with a grunt of expelled air, and he slumped, sprawling to the ground with a look of sudden horror on his face. He dropped the gun. He looked down to where his hands clutched a widening patch of crimson at his belly. Dillon, in the same movement, spun on his heel, the Glock flashing up sideways and, again, he pulled the trigger - the bullet smashed into Zhenya’s shoulder, spinning her back to rebound from a tall stainless steel cabinet. She hit the ground hard, moaning, blood splashing down onto the cold stone floor, her small ornate Russian gun forgotten. “Fucking devious woman,” snarled Dillon, and moved forward to kneel beside Kirill.

  “It takes a very long time and pain like you’ve never before experienced to die from a stomach wound,” he said with malice. “It really is going to hurt - a lot.” He smashed the butt of the Glock across Kirill’s already broken nose. Kirill screamed out in pain - and another two heavy blows silenced him, reducing his scream to a foaming gurgle.

  Dillon moved back across the room to the door at the rear of the kitchen. He flicked open the mobile phone to scan the area for anyone in the small preparation room on the other side. The device was being jammed and every application; including normal phone functions had been disabled. No scans. No location finder. Nothing. Confusion wrenched his face as he realised that he was totally alone - not even Vince Sharp could contact him.

  Dillon searched the recesses of his mind - it took the blink of an eye - then, opening the door, he ran across the room, vaulting the stainless-steel worktop and toward the far wall, diving head long into the rubbish chute, he pushed his way into the tight hole, kicked at the stainless-steel base, and allowed himself to slide down and out the other end into a large commercial size wheelie-bin that had, thankfully, been emptied that morning.

  The sound of rapid automatic gun-fire came from above.

  Dillon climbed out and landed softly and looked around. He was standing in an underground service area. He moved past pallets and wooden crates towards the back of the room and a solid looking door. He pushed it open, waited a few seconds, and when nothing happened he crouched down low and rolled through the opening; coming up to a squat with the Glock held out in front of him. He checked left and then right, shifting his position to the cover of a large upright pillar. The underground garage. He moved past various cars covered with tailored protective covers. He halted, looking sideways at a gleaming black Porsche 911 Carrera 4S - it took a second or two for Dillon’s brain to register this. Then he ran forward to the ramp and the wide Aluminium security roller shutter door leading from the garage. He peered through the crack into total darkness. Dillon looked down at the mobile phone in his hand, rolled it over gently in his palm a couple of times and as if by magic the LED’s flickered and glowed from the device. The app’s menu appeared and rotated around the screen, Dillon tapped the screen twice and the colour of it changed from blue to red and two spikes appeared at the base of the device. He pressed the spikes against the electrical access panel to one side of the roller door and the next instant the screen colour changed to green and there was a sharp click and then a little smoke spiralled out of the top of the casing. Silently, he eased the aluminium door up a fraction.

  Running back to the Porsche, he tried the door - locked. He used the spikes on the phone, once again, to disarm the alarm and override the vehicle’s locking system, then opened the driver’s door leant in and felt for the ignition wiring. A few cuts. A few twists to bypass the immobiliser and he was sitting behind the wheel gunning the 3.6ltr flat-six engine, clutch dipped, into first, depress the throttle to 6,000 revs.

  Dillon settled back into to the leather sports seat and popped the clutch.

  The Carrera rear tyres gripped the tarmac and it shot up the ramp and under the roller shutter door with barely six inches to spare. Machine pistols on full automatic turned on Dillon as the Porsche shot like a bullet down the gravel drive, the Glock thumping in Dillon’s right hand. Skidding around the water fountain, Dillon blew a hole in an Assassin’s head, that you could have driven a bus through, with a single shot. He kept the revs high in second gear and the rear wheels kicked up gravel as he drifted around the fountain one more time before shooting off straight down the drive and away from the three figures that ran from the gate-house with their machine pistols blazing.

  Bullets slammed into the side panels of the Porsche and Dillon stamped on the throttle as the car hit 165 m.p.h. He held onto the steering wheel like a limpet, an incredible grin across his face, the Glock forgotten in the joy and concentration of controlling this screaming insanity machine as the rev needle flickered on the redline.

  Behind him, perhaps eight or ten black-masked figures swarmed forward, and then suddenly halted. They watched the Porsche disappear into darkness. Men were shouting - they jumped into 4x4s and the black-clad Assassins leaped apart as the power of the V8 vehicles roared past in pursuit.

  In the Porsche, Dillon had the audio system wound up to near maximum and The Artic Monkeys blasting the night air. He spotted the headlights far behind him, and another smile hijacked his face as he drove the sports car even harder down the unlit lane surrounded by thick woodland. He suddenly slowed, ventilated discs being gripped and the nose of the car dipping under the harsh braking, and flicked off the vehicles lights as the Porsche’s engine throttled back and the rev needle flickered as he dropped down a couple of gears.

  The V8 Range Rover engines approached at high speed. The Glock kicked in Dillon’s hand as he emptied a full clip into the windscreen of the lead vehicle. The Range Rover veered right and slammed head-on into a large oak tree: a figure was flung through the windscreen, a pulped corpse. Dillon blipped the accelerator pedal and watched the rev counter dance. The rear wheels gripped as the clutch was let out sharply; within seconds he had hit 100 m.p.h. and again he switched on the lights as he took a slow left-hand bend. As he came out the other side he opened the throttle again, his grin broadened and the chase was forgotten as the Porsche was pushed to the twitching 160 m.p.h. plus limits of the powerful engine’s ability.

  “I just love fast cars,” Dillon said aloud.

  Far behind, Kirill’s country residence blazed briefly as several explosive devices located throughout the large building detonated one after the other. Fire roared, ate, consumed - billowed up into the night sky, causing Dillon to lock the Porsche’s wheels into a long broadside skid, finally to halt and to glance back with an intense frown.

  The explosions lit up the night - a vivid purple red in an otherwise black sky.

  Dillon selected first gear and let the clutch out with enthusiasm, accelerating up the narrow road, leaving two streaks of burned rubber. He disappeared into the blackness of the Cornish landscape.

  * * * Dillon sat in the a
ncient woods, listening to the rustling of leaves in the light breeze and the gurgling of a small stream running nearby. He was smoking a cigarette leant up against the twisted knurled trunk of a three hundred year old oak tree. Nearby, well hidden, was the scraped, scratched and mud-spattered Porsche behind a screen of dense bushes.

  Dillon wearily toyed with the mobile phone. He activated the emergency homer, a bank of red, green and blue lights danced across the touch-screen and, he felt it vibrate in the palm of his hand as the state-of-the-art device started to send out its powerful signal to the Ferran & Cardini International receiver in London. The longer he sat there, the more effect the tranquil environment had on him. Dillon felt the tension leave him and the sound of the running water was having a soothing effect on his soul. But too many questions were running around his head with no apparent answers to any of them.

  The only thing that was obvious now - was that he had been elaborately set-up.

  Dillon felt a shiver run through his body; someone wanted him dead - what was new about that. Somebody had wanted him dead real fast. But why go to the trouble of inducing him out of his selfenforced retirement to undertake such an assignment? Of course - to get him away from Scotland and into an environment where he had little control... Somewhere he was totally on his own. If he was supporting MI6 then he could not have been assigned to any other Ferran & Cardini job.

  And Zhenya.

  Dillon shook his head. She had fooled him; and he had shot her. She may be wounded or even dead and buried, and all to what end? To kill him?

  Kirill and Zhenya. They were both British Government... and yet they had both tried to kill him. And it would seem that some of the MI6 protection squad had been in on the betrayal... and those explosions. What the fuck was that all about? And what in God’s name had been going down back there?

  After Dillon had started killing, events had taken on a dullness, not dissimilar to a dream, without colour, or realness. The fury with which he had automatically cut down anyone in his path had left a sour feeling in his belly, and an empty void in his soul.