by Neil Howarth
Fagan felt the pressure of the gun barrel ease, as the guard was momentarily distracted. He ducked his head and swept around, catching the gun arm with his own. He pushed up and launched himself over the back of the sofa. The man put up a hand to defend himself, but Fagan crashed into him. They smacked on to the marble floor. Pain scythed up through Fagan’s body. They rolled over in a scramble, clawing and kicking. Fagan fought to get a hand on the gun. The man pounded at his ribs with his free fist, but Fagan blanked out the pain. The man’s face was close in. He could smell the sour stink of tobacco on his breath. Fagan head butted him hard on the nose. He felt the bone snap and blood gushed out. He followed up with a straight knuckle jab into his larynx. The man spasmed beneath him and the gun clattered on to the tiles as he went limp. Fagan rolled over and scooped it up.
He came up fast from behind the sofa. Blanchet was already halfway across the room towards him. Blanchet snapped off a shot. Fagan dived for the floor and rolled over swinging up the gun following the moving Blanchet. He let off two rapid shots, and Blanchet flinched in pain as the second one caught him down his left side. Blanchet poured fire in towards Fagan. Fagan rolled behind the sofa then came up again, the gun out in front. Blanchet was already moving through the French windows. Fagan fired two rapid shots and the glass shattered, but Blanchet took another stride and disappeared over the balcony rail.
Fagan shifted his eyes searching for Frankie. She had dropped the other guard and stood at the kitchen island looking at Marco, who had a gun pointing directly at her.
“No,” Fagan screamed.
Marco glanced towards him, and the hate finally erupted. He shifted his aim and fired. A maniacal bee screamed inches past Fagan’s head. Fagan tried to get off a shot, but suddenly Frankie was in the way. She seemed to twirl around like a ballet dancer, sweeping her hand across the countertop as she did. Then Marco was there, a look of sheer surprise on his face, his favorite sushi knife embedded up to its handle in his throat. He gave a low gurgle and collapsed on to the kitchen floor.
Fagan rushed across and grabbed Frankie in his arms. “Are you all right?”
She gave him a reassuring smile. “I am fine. What happened to Blanchet?”
“He jumped over the rail.” Fagan gave her a squeeze and a serious look. “I need you to stay here. I’m going after him.”
Frankie fixed him with her deep brown eyes. “Joseph, unless you want me to break those ribs of yours. I am coming with you.”
87
Della Vittoria, Rome.
The main gates of the villa were wide open as they sprinted out and down the hill. Fagan could see the black SUV disappearing in the distance. The bike was still parked where he had left it. He jumped on, did his magic with the wiring, and the engine roared into life.
Frankie put a hand on his. “Nice,” she said looking at the bike. “But I think I should drive.”
“Look, get on the back, he’s getting away.”
“Trust me, we stand a better chance of catching him with me riding at the front.”
“Frankie. . ?”
“And with you sitting behind me shooting at him.”
Fagan shook his head and shuffled back on the seat. “Remind me to be right about something one of these days,”
Frankie swung a leg over the fuel tank and settled in place.
“Grab a hold.”
She gunned the engine and took the bike away with a slight wheelie. She leaned forward across the fuel tank, and they roared off down the hill.
Fagan wrapped his arms around her waist, the automatic he had picked up at the villa held tucked into her tummy.
“There he is,” she shouted above the rushing wind.
Fagan could see the SUV a quarter mile ahead. Its brake lights flared as it slowed and turned to the right. The road began to climb again, winding its way up through the northern hills of Rome. Fagan recognized the A90, the motorway ring road encircling the city, as they passed beneath it. He had some knowledge of this area. It was a national park. He remembered a church out here that he had visited with Luca. There were towns and villages out here too, but Blanchet seemed to know where he was going because for the most part he was avoiding them.
The traffic had thinned with only the SUV and the motorcycle on this stretch of the road. Frankie wound open the throttle, and the powerful machine seemed to leap forward. Fagan held on to her with his free hand, trying to take aim with the other. He let off three shots in rapid succession. The rear window of the SUV shattered. Blanchet weaved across the road which had moved into a series of bends and turns. The road dipped, then turned sharply to the left, brake lights suddenly flared, and the SUV swung around hard, tires shrieking as the brakes bit and smoke billowed out from all four wheels. It came to a halt diagonally across the road ahead, with the driver’s side facing them. The window was open, and the blunt stub of an Uzi stuck out.
“Ah merde,” Frankie shouted out and put the bike into a slide, trying to angle it away from the deadly line of bullets kicking up the road towards them. They hit the ditch at the roadside with a thump. Fagan was still shooting back when they hit. The bike bounced into the air. Fagan and Frankie flew in different directions. Fagan smacked into wet mud, driving all the breath out of his body. White-hot flames shot through his ribs. It seemed for a moment he almost lost consciousness, but somehow through it all, he managed to hold on to his gun.
He lay there for a moment catching his breath then lifted his head above the rim of the ditch and fired again. He expected Blanchet to be moving in to finish them off, but he had stayed in the SUV and was now maneuvering it forward. Fagan tried for the rear tire, but the slide on the automatic jammed open. He was out of ammunition. He had retrieved a spare magazine from the guard back at the villa, but by the time he loaded it, the SUV was already accelerating away.
He could see Frankie sitting up in the ditch.
“Are you okay?” He scrambled over to her.
“Twisted my ankle.” She tried to stand but fell back down with a cry. “I think it might be broken.” She looked up at him. “Check the bike.”
Fagan got to his feet and scrambled across to where the bike was lying. He managed to get it upright. Miraculously it appeared to be in decent shape, apart from a long black scrape down the fuel tank. He pushed it up on to the road and tried to start it. It fired first time. He propped it on its stand with its engine still running and rushed over to Frankie.
“Do you think you can make it?”
“Here give me a hand.” She wrapped her arms around his neck and Fagan eased her to her feet. She gritted her teeth, her face white with pain. She shook her head. “Put me down.”
Fagan eased her back to the floor.
Frankie grimaced and shook her head. “Sorry, you will have to do this on your own.”
“No, I’m not leaving you. The police can take care of Blanchet. He can’t get far.”
Frankie gave him a sympathetic look. “You know what will happen. He will disappear. He had the chance to finish us off, but he did not. Why? Because he needs to be somewhere. Maybe it is a safe house, a small airstrip, who knows? But if he gets there, he will be gone. He is our link in all of this, our link to the bomb plot, and our link to De Vaux. Without him, we have nothing. And De Vaux will simply walk away. You have to do this, Joseph. For both of us - for everyone.”
Fagan nodded. “Okay.” His smile had a little too much effort. “Don’t worry. I’ll be back.”
Frankie tapped a finger on his chest. “You had better be.”
He leaned forward and kissed her.
Frankie finally pushed him away. “Go.”
Fagan ran for the bike. He didn’t look back. He pushed it forward off the stand and leaped on, oblivious to the pain in his side. He gunned it down the road, winding the throttle all the way up.
As the wind whipped at his face, something seemed to come over him. It was like shedding a skin. He recognized the old feeling, but for once he didn’t try to resist i
t, didn’t try to push it away. He knew what it was. Joe Fagan was back. Perhaps he had never gone away. He settled in, taking the bike up to its limit. His mind focused on only one thing.
88
Open road north of Rome.
Fagan leaned the Ducati into a steep bend, his knee almost scraping the road, then opened up the throttle full, as he eased the bike back upright. The road ran straight in front of him, and way ahead in the distance he could see the SUV. He leaned forward, his chin resting on the fuel tank, streamlining himself against the whipping wind and eased the bike up to flat out. He took the next bend without easing off, determined that he would not lose him. He could see the SUV’s brake lights up ahead at the end of the clear stretch of road, then it turned and disappeared into the trees. The Ducati screamed towards it. Fagan swept the bike through a slight bend, his eyes searching the way ahead as the road stretched out before him. It was deserted. There was no sign of the SUV.
He hit the brakes, fighting to keep the bike upright. He slowed almost to a stop then turned around and headed back slowly until he found what he was looking for. A farm gate conveniently left open, recent tire marks fresh in the mud. He followed a narrow track through the trees then out on to open grass that sloped down to a wide lake, its surface flat like a mirror. A helicopter painted in the black and gold livery of Excalibur Security, sat on the shoreline. Its rotors began to turn as Blanchet’s SUV approached.
The SUV skidded to a stop, and Blanchet jumped out. He ran for the helicopter then turned around as Fagan gunned the Ducati across the grass towards him. Blanchet stood his ground and lifted the Uzi, blasting away. Fagan angled the bike away from him then dropped it to the grass, allowing it to skid away. He pulled out the gun from his waistband and squeezed on the trigger.
Blanchet turned and scrambled onboard the helicopter. Fagan was already on his feet, running towards it, pumping bullets into the engine housing below the rotor. Blanchet pulled the door shut behind him, the rotors immediately increased in speed, and the aircraft began to lift. Fagan took two more strides then leaped for it, grabbing hold of the landing skid with one hand, oblivious to the blinding pain shooting down his side. He swung up the gun, pumping bullets into the glass compartment in the forward part of the floor, then raked back, firing directly up above him. The helicopter was already moving across the water, staying low. The pain down his side and the muscles in Fagan’s arm were screaming, but he held on. They started to climb, but the engine faltered. The helicopter seemed to stagger. Fagan let go, still firing into its belly as he dropped.
He hit the water like hitting concrete, the air crushed from his lungs, and he dropped into the icy depths like a stone. The pain from his ribs was nothing compared to the searing pain of the ice cold water, that seemed to nail iron stakes into his brain and paralyze his whole body. He had lost the gun, but that was the least of his worries. Now he needed to breathe. He kicked hard for the surface. It seemed a mile above him, gleaming in the sunlight.
He burst through the surface gulping in air and coughing out water at the same time. The noise of the helicopter grabbed his attention, faltering dangerously, still trying to climb but now swinging wildly across the sky. It swung around back towards him. It seemed to pause momentarily in the air, then dropped like a stone and plunged into the lake.
Fagan was already moving towards it as vigorously as he was able. He reached the point where it had hit and took a deep lungful of air then dived. He kicked his way down. The water was amazingly clear. He could make out the helicopter sitting on the lake bed about twenty feet below, as if it had made a perfect landing there.
There was no sign of life.
He swam down, fast as he could. He approached the glass-domed windshield. The pilot was strapped in his seat, motionless, his mouth open and his eyes staring wide. Fagan looked to the passenger side, but the seat was empty, and the door was open. He swung around, treading water, searching for him. Something dark came at him out of the depths. Blanchet, blood streaming from the wound in his side, a knife in his good hand. Fagan grabbed for it but Blanchet swung it away, and they went into what seemed like a slow motion dance.
He could see that Blanchet was struggling. He knew how to kill, but Fagan knew how to stay alive. Especially here. It had been a long time, but this was Joe Fagan’s world.
They rolled over dropping deeper. Fagan felt sand against his hand. He got his feet below him and kicked off from the lake bed, using the leverage to gain some advantage. Blanchet’s face was close, the smirk had turned to a grimace. He swept in the blade. Fagan deflected the blow and moved in closer. Blanchet tried to get an arm around him ready for the next stab with the knife. Fagan stuck out the flat of his hand on Blanchet’s chest to hold him off. Blanchet kicked with his legs and tried to get in closer. Fagan grabbed hold of Blanchet’s shirt. Blanchet lunged in with the knife. Fagan pushed off the sand with his foot, pulling on Blanchet’s shirt, moving inside the knife’s sweep. He allowed the momentum to carry him in, then delivered a short, straight knuckled blow to Blanchet’s larynx with his free hand, directing every ounce of strength through the resistance of the water.
Blanchet dropped the knife as if stunned. Bubbles erupted from his mouth. He seemed to gulp once, as ice cold water rushed into his open mouth and down into his lungs. One moment he was alive and struggling, the next he was motionless, hanging in the water and smirking at Fagan - from hell.
Fagan moved away then kicked his way to the surface, watching him all the time, but Blanchet was never going to move again.
He broke the surface, gulping in air, while at the same time whipping his head around him, searching the surface of the lake, half expecting Blanchet to emerge at any moment. But that was not going to happen.
He swam to the shore and crawled out. He staggered to his feet and stood there swaying, his hands on his knees, gasping for breath and looking out across the lake, the bright afternoon sun reflecting off its flat shining surface.
Was that it, was it finally over?
But he knew that it was not. De Vaux was still out there, somewhere.
But not for long.
He staggered over to the bike. The once beautiful machine was a complete wreck. The red and gleaming fuel tank was battered and scraped with long black scratches. The bright chrome work was bent and scraped and covered in mud and grime. He hoped the owner had insurance.
He grabbed the handlebars and pulled it upright. It took three attempts to get it started, but eventually, it roared into life. It was not the beautifully smooth purring beast it had been, but it was still running.
He took a last look at the lake, a vision of peace and tranquillity, as if nothing had happened. He maneuvered the bike around and drove back up the track.
Frankie was sitting by the side of the road when he arrived. She waved an arm, and her face lit up. He climbed off the bike and dropped down onto the dirt beside her. He looked into her eyes and wrapped his arms around her, hugging her as tight as he could.
“You are soaked,” she said.
“I took a little swim.”
The smile faded from her face. “Is he?”
Fagan nodded.
Tears spilled out onto Frankie’s cheeks. “Maybe Jean-Claude can sleep easy now.” She wiped away the tears and a resolve set into her eyes. “De Vaux is still out there.”
“Don’t worry. We have him. We have it all now. Blanchet, at least we’ll have his DNA when the police fish his body out of that lake. We can link it back to the villa and the bomb plot, and from there to De Vaux. I’m sure Iggy has enough surveillance footage to help establish that. It’s over, Frankie.”
She reached out a hand and stroked his face. “Maybe we have some unfinished business.”
Fagan gazed deep into her eyes. He had been a long time coming to this point. The journey had started out long before he had even met Frankie. It was not a journey he had taken easily, and the destination had rarely been clear. Luca had always told him.
‘When you get there, you will know.’
Maybe he was meaning something else, but knowing Luca, maybe not.
89
Fontainebleau, France.
Dominic de Vaux stood out on the terrace. Micheline’s mausoleum seemed to float mystically above the water in the gathering dawn light, draped in wispy tendrils of morning mist. He needed her here, with him now, in this darkest moment. He needed her strength and her vision.
He had not slept, had not even attempted it. This was the bitter taste of failure, the dank smell of defeat, and he needed to consume every last morsel of it.
He had been so close. Everything had been so nearly right - No, it had been nearly perfect.
He had to absorb this now. This had to be the bedrock on which he would build his revival. This feeling of dark despair had to be the spur that would urge him on to success.
He looked up at the sound of an aircraft. He watched it fly low overhead then circle and drop out of sight towards his private airfield on the far side of the chateau. He turned and walked back inside through the French windows. He sat down at his writing desk and poured himself a Scotch. He drank it in a single gulp, savoring the peaty flavor of the single malt that lingered on his tongue, and contemplating the ornate ceiling above him — a single thought in his mind.
Who had they sent?
They would not be happy, of course, but he was still their best option. He was already having ideas about how they might recover from this. They would come back even stronger and who knows maybe this would turn out to be an opportunity. It was another ten minutes before a man appeared in the doorway.