Scorpion_A Group Fifteen Novella

by Mark Dawson

  Hailey drank more tea and watched McLean talking with the other officers in her living room. Julia patted her knee and said, “We’ll take you to the station soon. You can’t stay here.”

  A hundred blue, flashing lights from ambulances and police vans shone through Hailey’s thin curtains.

  McLean talked to men in white overalls with masks. Forensic officers, thought Hailey. One of them handed a sealed plastic bag to McLean. There was a Post-it note inside.

  Hailey put down her tea as McLean kneeled beside her to show her the note.

  “Ms Banks, did you write this note?” said McLean.

  Immediately, Hailey could tell the handwriting didn’t belong to her.

  “These men came to kill you. You are under my protection. It will be over soon.

  “A friend.”

  Not for the first time that night, Hailey struggled to see through the tears. Her throat constricted, strangled by fear. She shook her head.

  “Ms Banks, do you know of anyone who might try to harm you?” said McLean.

  Her trembling fingers touched her lips. She had no voice. All she could do was shake her head as she felt Julia’s arms around her.

  McLean got up and spoke to some of the uniformed officers in the hallway. “We go door to door, now. I don’t care what time it is–”

  “Sarge!” came a voice, silencing McLean. He turned toward the front door and was lost to Hailey’s vision. She rocked back and forth.

  Her world had been chaotic once. She’d been in conflict zones for most of her working life. Reporting on genocide, refugee camps and terrorist attacks the world over. Fear travelled with her. It was there in every bombed-out city, in every dirty hotel room. And if it left her, however momentarily, the sound of an AK-47 or a shell exploding nearby soon brought it roaring back into her bloodstream. She had done her best to put that life behind her. There are only so many times you can wear a desperate person’s cloak, inhabiting them just for long enough to tell their story. Soon that cloak becomes a dead weight around your neck. Hailey could no longer bear it.

  This was different. There had been men in her house. Men who’d come to kill her.

  For what?

  McLean came back into the living room. This time he was accompanied by a tall man in a three-piece, navy, pin-striped suit, pale blue shirt and yellow tie. He had dark skin and hair to match. In the lamplight and the flashes from the blue police lights swinging around the room, the man’s eyes looked almost black. Even so, Hailey was able to watch those eyes as they scanned around her living room, examining the two armed officers in the corner cradling their assault rifles, then Hailey and Julia on the sofa, and finally the possible points of exit – door and window. She’d been around enough elite military and intelligence officers to notice how they entered a room. They all did exactly the same. She remembered that in Afghanistan, when she’d asked one of these intelligence officers why they always looked around a room when they entered it, he told her it was called threat assessment. He went on to say he’d even found himself doing it in cafés and bars. Force of habit, it seemed. Stood next to the sharply dressed newcomer, McLean looked like his suit had been pulled from a black plastic bag at Oxfam.

  “Ms Banks, this is Timothy Coughran. He, ah, works for the government,” said McLean. Hailey could detect the discomfort in McLean’s voice. She’d been right about the newcomer – British Intelligence.

  Coughran stood with his hands in his pockets, examining Hailey. Then, gently, he leaned over and produced a silk handkerchief from his left pocket and offered it to Hailey. Tentatively, she took it and dabbed at her eyes. Sniffed and nodded her thanks.

  “I’m very sorry for what you’ve been through, Ms Banks,” said Coughran, in his perfect public-school brogue. “First and foremost, I want you to know that everything is going to be fine, and very soon your life will be back to normal. You are under the protection of Her Majesty’s government. My intention is to take you somewhere safe right now. As I’m sure the detective sergeant has explained to you, it is believed that two men made an attempt on your life. A man, who works in co-operation with certain government departments, made sure that they were not successful. But men like this can only do so much. We need to get you out of here, I’m afraid.”

  The knot of panic in Hailey’s throat loosened. “What? There has to be some kind of mistake. Who on earth would want to kill me? I haven’t been a conflict correspondent for years. I write restaurant reviews now and the occasional puff piece. No one wants to kill me. This is all wrong.”

  “I’m afraid it is devastatingly accurate, Ms Banks. You are a target for an international mercenary. An assassin. He’s a high-value target for British Intelligence. However, protecting you is now our utmost priority. And it shall remain so until the assassin is neutralized. You must come with me immediately.”

  “Hang on,” said DS McLean. “Ms Banks is my witness. She’s not going anywhere. You should have mentioned this at the front door before I let you in.”

  “Ms Banks is not under arrest. She is free to go where she pleases. I imagine she does not relish the thought of sleeping in a police station, and quite frankly, and with no disrespect, Detective Sergeant, this is a matter far beyond the capability of the Metropolitan Police. Ms Banks, there is no time to lose. You should not be here,” said Coughran.

  “And where are you taking her that’s safer than New Scotland Yard?” said McLean.

  “That is confidential,” said Coughran, “and Ms Banks is not a witness to a criminal investigation. We believe the two dead men are probably Sergei Topinov and Ivan Lasko. Two highly proficient hit men in the employ of the Russian mob. There are simply too many personnel in Scotland Yard. The mob has infiltrated the police before. Who is to say they don’t have an informant in the Met at this very moment. She is safer with me.”

  McLean rubbed his forehead and said, “I want DC Wyndham here to go with you.”

  Hailey watched Coughran turn his attention to Julia.

  “Very well,” he said.

  “I need to know your destination,” said McLean.

  “That’s classified, I’m afraid,” said Coughran.

  “I need to know where my witness and my officer are going.”

  “No, you don’t,” said Coughran. “And if you have a problem with that, you can call the Home Secretary in the morning.”

  “It’s fine,” said Julia, standing and smoothing down her sweater. “I’ll go with her. You can get me on the mobile if you need us.”

  Hailey saw the reflection of a small victory in McLean’s smile. She stood up and said, “I need to quickly grab a few things.”

  “No time. Let’s go,” said Coughran.

  The conversation between Coughran and McLean had momentarily distracted Hailey. While she got the impression McLean was a diligent, hard-working copper – Coughran had a certain confidence and swagger that had won her over.

  Hailey followed Coughran into the hall. She resisted the urge to look at the dead man. She’d seen many corpses, but never in her own house. The night air brushed her cheeks, making them glow. Coughran stood beside a new model Jaguar, holding open the rear passenger door. Hailey got in behind the driver and Julia joined her in the back seat. Coughran got into the driver’s seat in front of Julia and fired up the engine.

  The car smelled of new leather, and the ambient lighting felt like a balm for Hailey’s nerves. This man worked for the government. He’d promised to keep her safe. No one would be able to harm her with the might of Whitehall protecting her.

  “Seat belts, please,” said Coughran.

  Julia and Hailey exchanged smiles. Safety was this man’s number one priority, after all. The car moved off and purred down the road toward Clapham Common. The radio sprang to life and Classic FM filled the car with Beethoven. The volume was low. Just background noise. Closing her eyes, Hailey breathed slowly and settled into the leather seat. Suddenly she felt tired again. The adrenaline had washed through her system and h
er body was now on a climb down.

  Hailey felt a hand on hers. She turned her head toward Julia.

  “I think everything is going to be okay, you know,” said Julia.

  The car pulled up at the stop sign at the end of the road. There was no traffic. The dead hours before dawn.

  Julia squeezed Hailey’s palm. Hailey smiled and thought Julia was right. For the first time since the police had woken her, Hailey really did believe that everything was going to be alright.

  Then she saw Julia looking around. There was no traffic on the road ahead. The car should have moved off by now.

  Hailey watched Coughran checking his wing mirrors, then the rear-view mirror.

  Julia leaned forward anxiously and said, “Are we being followed?”

  Coughran turned around in the driver’s seat, leaning his left shoulder against the seat back.

  “I sincerely hope not,” he said.

  7

  Sitting on the steel floor in the rear of the Russians’ van, Milton lit one of the Javas and inhaled. He remembered why this wasn’t his preferred brand of cigarettes. There was a strange aftertaste of pine. Magic Tree air fresheners were hung all over the van. Most likely to mask the smell of butchered flesh. Milton thought he might as well have lit one of the Magic Trees.

  He glanced in between the front seats, which gave him a view of the house. The tall man in the three-piece suit held open the rear door of the Jag for Hailey. Even from this distance, Milton could see her hands shaking as she stepped inside the vehicle.

  The MI5 agent then walked around the car and got into the driver’s seat. He moved well. Milton could always spot a fellow agent. They were always in balance. Smooth, confident movements. He was surprised that MI5 only sent one man.

  Probably all they could spare.

  At least he looked as though he could handle himself, thought Milton.

  He took another drag on the cigarette, and, when he looked back, the Jag had gone. Milton blew smoke at the ceiling. His shoulders relaxed. The tension left his body like the smoke from his lungs.

  She was safe.

  He thought about the Saudi prince. A strange target for the Russians. What had the prince been up to that had drawn such deadly ire from the Kremlin? Hard to guess. Perhaps he sold weapons to the wrong people? Or facilitated an oil deal that would cause unwanted competition for the Russian fields?

  All reasonable possibilities, but no more than that. Control had always been careful to retain the most sensitive information. Milton didn’t need to know why the prince and Hailey were being targeted. And so he was not briefed. In fact, he hadn’t known who any of the other targets were until Control mentioned the prince.

  Who was the third target?

  If he knew more, he would stand a better chance of catching the assassin, thought Milton.

  He shook his head, corrected himself.

  Group 15 don’t capture hostiles. There were no prisoners in this game. Only dead enemies.

  Milton heard a large vehicle passing by the van. He covered the lit end of his cigarette with his palm, took a final drag and stubbed it out on the floor.

  Absently, he glanced out of the windscreen. He was still sitting on the floor, and no one could see him in the dark interior of the van, peering out between the seats.

  A black Land Rover pulled up outside Banks’s house. Four men exited the vehicle simultaneously. One from each door. It was a smooth movement. Practiced. Almost a military formation.

  Each of the men wore black.

  Each of them carried an HK MP5.

  Soon as Milton caught sight of the HKs, he grabbed the seats and hauled himself up, then jumped into the driver’s position. He started the engine, put the thing in first gear and planted half an inch of rubber on the road before the van took off.

  8

  Julia relaxed, leaned back into her seat and nodded reassuringly to Hailey, giving her a warm feeling in her stomach.

  Hailey nodded back.

  Then she went blind.

  She felt something wet slap her face. She rubbed her eyes, taking in a gulp of air on reflex. Blinking, wiping her eyes, Hailey looked at her hands. They were bright red with blood. Her gaze whipped to the right.

  Julia’s head slumped over her chest. Her dead eyes stared at Hailey. Only then did Hailey notice the bloodstain spreading through Julia’s sweater and the massive wound in her neck.

  Coughran held a gun in his right hand, pointed at Julia. There was something black on the back of his hand. At first it appeared to be a birthmark. Then, as Coughran swivelled the gun toward Hailey, she saw it was a tattoo.

  A small black scorpion.

  She tried to cry out, her hands braced against the seat in front, as if she was clinging to life itself.

  Coughran’s black eyes shone brightly; then his face seemed to light up and he looked over Hailey’s shoulder, out the back window. His face became brighter and brighter. As if he were running toward a spotlight.

  Hailey heard the roar of an engine at full revs and then her head snapped back violently. There was a loud bang. An explosion of metal on metal. The gun flew past her face and Coughran was thrown back and then forward, striking his head on the steering wheel.

  The seat belt cut into Hailey’s chest, knocking the wind out of her. She immediately felt the strain to the base of her neck as it whipped back and forth in the crash. Glass covered the back seat and Hailey’s shoulders and legs.

  Hailey looked behind her. They had been hit by a red van. The Jaguar was still moving forward, slowly, on the momentum from the rear impact.

  The car came to a rest. Hailey hit the release on her seat belt. She couldn’t move. Turning, she saw Julia had fallen on top of her. She pressed the button on Julia’s seat belt, then pushed her body away and it slumped onto the floor. Hailey opened the rear door of the Jag and fell out onto the road. Her elbows hit the tarmac first, then her body, then her legs. Glass spilled out onto the road from the broken rear window. A ringing noise in her head. Slowly, she got up. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion. Her limbs felt sluggish, slow to respond.

  She looked around, unsure of her surroundings at first.

  Then she recognised the common and the end of her road. She stumbled toward Bromwood Road. The red van was behind her. The front had been caved in from a heavy impact. Steam hissed from the radiator.

  The driver’s door of the van opened. A man with blue eyes got out. The man she’d seen in her house just before she’d lost consciousness. The man who’d pointed a gun at her head. The man with those blue eyes.

  Her breath caught in her chest.

  “Hailey, get down,” said the man.

  Tears came as Hailey wondered if all of this was just some nightmare. Maybe if she lay down on the ground and went to sleep, this might all go away. She bent low, made her way to the kerb and sat down. The man with blue eyes ran past her toward the Jag. He pulled a gun from his jacket, opened the driver’s door and pointed the weapon at the driver.

  Only, there was no driver. The man looked around urgently.

  There was no one on the street. Somehow, Coughran had slipped away.

  Hailey’s body quivered. Teeth chattering. That was when she heard the sirens.

  “Hailey, I need you to come with me,” said a voice.

  She looked past his outstretched hand, into those blue eyes.

  “Who are you?” said Hailey.

  The man lowered himself onto his heels and said, “A friend.”

  9

  Milton took Hailey by the hand and together, keeping low, he led her to the Jaguar. On his instruction she climbed into the driver’s seat and crawled over into the front passenger side. Milton got in, closed the driver’s door and floored the accelerator.

  He knew Scorpion was still close by. He’d checked the tree line at the edge of Clapham Common, the parked cars on the other side of the street. Nothing. But he hadn’t gone far and he had the advantage of an unknown firing position. Escape wa
s the only course of action open to Milton. He couldn’t hope to protect Hailey in an open urban environment. All of these calculations and decisions he made instantly. Almost by instinct.

  Soon as he got the feel of the car, Milton reached behind his seat and put a hand on the police woman’s calf.

  No pulse. Another victim to add to Scorpion’s tally. Another reason to put a bullet in his eye. This was more than a mission now. Milton clenched his teeth, braked into a corner and accelerated out of the turn. The dashboard was ablaze with warning lights for tyres, oil, engine and some symbols even Milton couldn’t decipher. He ignored them. The car handled well, sounded fine. The Renault had come off a lot worse than the Jag.

  An idea began to form.

  “Are you injured? Are you hit?” said Milton.

  He glanced across. She shook uncontrollably. Milton had seen it before. The adrenaline shooting through her system would likely dull the pain from any wound. She could’ve been shot and not even feel it. He watched her checking her stomach, arms, legs, back.

  “N-n-n-o, I d-d-don’t think so.”

  “My name is John. Right now, I need to get you out of the city. I’m not going to let anyone harm you, Hailey. Believe me. I’ve saved your life twice tonight. You can trust me, okay?”

  “You were in my h-house,” she said.

  “Yes. I stopped those men. They were going to hurt you. The police were on their way, so I had to leave. I’m sorry.”

  A traffic light up ahead turned amber, Milton buried his right foot in the floor and the car sped through the lights before they turned red.

  Hailey said nothing. She put on her seat belt and clung to it with both hands. Her eyes were alert, wide with fear.

  “This is going to sound stupid, but it’s very important. Your body is going into shock. You’re going to have to calm yourself. Take deep breaths, put your head down and close your eyes.”

  She did as she was asked. Milton put his Bluetooth earpiece on and made a call.

  “The board is lighting up all over London. What the hell is going on?” said Control.