by Mark Dawson
“It’s alright. We’re going to get you out now. Just as we planned. Follow me, quickly,” he said. His tone was that of the English upper crust. Men who ordered other men to die. To whom life and death were merely different marks on a page.
Hailey let him guide her, and she found strength in her legs as she pushed herself to keep up with Sanger’s pace. They marched to the end of the room, through a door and onto the landing. He slowed as they came down the staircase. Hailey imagined he didn’t want to risk her falling and twisting an ankle. At the bottom of the stairs they turned left and went through another door. She found herself in a short corridor. The ornate flooring and plush, decorative rugs had gone. The bare concrete underfoot felt cold, even through her trainers. There was little light from the one naked bulb that hung overhead.
At the end of the corridor Sanger stopped abruptly in front of the Range Rover, found a light switch on the wall and flicked it on. She could see the light reflected in the shine on the Range Rover’s bonnet. Sanger opened the driver’s door, put one foot in the cab and turned to Hailey.
She had never felt so afraid. Hailey knew Sanger could see it. He had been trained for nights like this. He knew what to do, how to react. She didn’t. She was relying on him to protect her.
“It’s alright, Hailey. It’s going to work out just fine. Soon as you clear the grounds of the house, you’ll be fine. Now, get in,” said Sanger.
17
The last burst of gunfire had come from an MP5. Scorpion felt sure of that. Judging by the sound of the firefight, he had lost a lot of men. One, maybe two remained. The focussed attack on the rear of the property had always been an educated gamble.
Sweat from his forehead dripped onto the optical sight, and he used his sleeve to wipe it. He couldn’t allow anything to cloud that lens.
A sound pierced the soft murmuring of the trees. A shotgun. It sounded closer than the other shot groupings. The giant is probably dead, thought Scorpion. He had told Marko to stay in the forest and make sure the British didn’t come through the trees to flank him on this hill.
They were on their way.
At that moment, the garage doors began to rise. Scorpion immediately fought down the quickening in his blood. He’d lowered his heart rate and now needed to keep it that way. The shot would come.
Slowly, the door ascended, folding back on itself the further it rose. He could see the light spilling from the garage, growing on the gravel driveway.
Breathe. In. Out.
His sights found the Range Rover as it backed out of the garage. He saw the wheels first, then the trunk.
Perhaps it was excitement, but he sensed movement behind him. The British were at the bottom of the hill. They wouldn’t be able to see him yet. He told himself he had time to take the shot and then turn and face his attacker.
He dared not turn. Scorpion wouldn’t get another chance at this target. He had to make the shot first.
The garage door drew level with the low roof and stopped. And the Range Rover backed out further.
The light from the garage filled the interior of the car. In the back seat, on the passenger side, Scorpion saw the familiar chocolate brown hair that draped over Hailey’s shoulders. He steadied his sights, adjusted for recoil, let every ounce of air escape his body and began squeezing the trigger on the Dragunov.
Heavy footsteps behind him. The sound of a man panting as he climbed the hill. Not far from his position now. Maybe thirty feet. In five seconds the British would see him.
The car angled its turn as it reversed further and stopped. The driver was changing gear, and in one second the car’s wheels would spin, and it would take off for the lane and the B roads and the motorway, and his chance would be lost.
Scorpion pulled the trigger.
The back window of the Range Rover shattered. He was so far away he could barely hear it. Like a wine glass breaking in a room next door. Eagerly, his eye sought out confirmation, his finger feathering pressure on the trigger for a second shot.
That brown hair had altered. Turned red. The bullet had sheared through most of the skull. The head lolled to one side; blood and brain matter covered what remained of the glass, which clung to the outer edges of the window frame.
Hailey Banks was dead.
The driver’s door opened, and the driver got out low. He must have rolled out, because Scorpion couldn’t get a shot. He would have to leave him. There were more pressing matters.
Scorpion drew the rifle towards him, then rolled onto his back and swung the weapon in the direction of the approaching attacker. He couldn’t draw a side-arm, he had to use the gun in his hand. The length of the barrel meant it took a long time to turn, like swinging a battleship around.
The rifle stopped moving, as if it had been caught in a vice.
At first he saw a hand on the rifle, then he felt a boot on his bicep and he lost his grip on the weapon, which was wrenched from him. The barrel of a Glock loomed into view, pointed straight at him. There was no move to be made. If he reached for a gun or tried to grab the Glock, he would be dead in a heartbeat.
Scorpion let his head fall to the grass beneath him and he gazed up into the face of the man who had been sent to kill him.
He knew instantly it was the agent he’d spoken to on the phone. He didn’t need to hear the agent’s voice to know it was him. It was easy, he could tell by the anguished look on the agent’s face as he stared beyond Scorpion, down the hill and towards the Range Rover. Emotional suffering was a foreign country to Scorpion. He didn’t feel anything. That was what made him so effective. And so valuable to the SVR.
He thought the British agent needed experience. That one cared too much. Too deeply. Yet in the corner of those blue eyes he saw the other side of the agent. The side that pulled triggers without a second thought.
Two souls were at war in this man, thought Scorpion.
When the agent glanced back at him, he saw the rage surge in those eyes. He raised the Glock, and the last thing Scorpion saw was the butt of that weapon hurtling toward his head.
18
By the time Milton had finished his third Scotch, the assassin had begun to stir. They were in an interrogation room in Lazarus House. No oak panels on these walls. Everything was lined with soundproofing materials. A digital voice recorder and video camera sat on a table at the side of the room. Scorpion’s head was bent over his chest, and he was beginning to regain consciousness. When he awoke, his head would feel like it was about to fall off. The cut on his forehead had at least stopped bleeding, but there could be no argument – Scorpion was in bad shape.
Milton poured a fourth Scotch and placed the bottle back down on the floor. He drained the glass, left it beside the bottle at his feet and approached Scorpion.
They were alone. No one listening. No one recording. That was how Milton wanted this meeting.
Scorpion raised his head, and Milton watched the man struggle, testing the handcuffs and the cable ties securing his arms to the back of the chair.
Their eyes met and they became still. Like two panthers suddenly stumbling upon one another in the middle of a rainforest.
Milton sensed a deadness in Scorpion’s gaze. As if something vital that gave life to the eyes had either died or had been buried so far down in the darkness that its light no longer reached the iris. That lifeless stare was at once familiar to Milton. He’d seen it before. He’d occasionally caught a glimpse of it in the mirror.
Scorpion pulled at his bonds again, then stopped. Such a struggle would prove pointless, and the Russian assassin knew it.
Milton held a mobile phone within inches of Scorpion’s face and said, “Call your contact in the SVR. Update them. Tell them you’ve encountered problems. You need more funds to complete the contract. You want half a million euros transferred to an account in Zurich. I’ll give you the account details when you make the call.”
“Why should I do that? Why help you?” said Scorpion.
Milton placed h
is feet a further few inches apart, lowered his head and answered the question. “You will make this call. You will assist me in identifying the SVR covert operations director. You will do this or you are no use to me. Assassins who are no longer useful don’t tend to live very long. Do you understand? And don’t waste my time. If you delay, I’ll hurt you before I put a round in your skull. We both know you’re not prepared to die to protect your country. If you were, you would still be in the SVR. Now, what’s the number for your contact?”
Milton saw the trace of a smile on Scorpion’s lips.
“You and I are not so very different, I think,” said Scorpion.
“You’re wrong,” said Milton, more to himself than the man bound to the chair before him.
Taking a slip of paper from his pocket, Milton held out the phone once more with his other hand and said, “Last chance.”
The Russian called out a phone number. Milton keyed it into the phone as the Russian spoke, and hit dial.
The call was quickly answered, and Milton heard Scorpion rhyming off a prepared greeting. Code words of some kind. He then reverted to English.
“The prince and the girl are dead. I’ve spent many lives. Had to pay the mob for some bodies. I need five hundred thousand euros to complete. Not in my usual account. I can’t access it. Too much heat,” said Scorpion.
After a pause, the voice on the other end of the line finally spoke. Milton listened with the call on speakerphone, but couldn’t discern a specific region from the Russian accent.
“Give me the account number,” said the voice.
Milton held out the slip of paper with the account name and number.
“Twelve hours and the money will be in your account. Don’t fail me,” said the voice, and hung up the call.
“You won’t get far with this plan,” said Scorpion. “The transfer account will be virtually untraceable. And the phone number will no longer be in use after tomorrow. I’ve given you nothing.”
Although he didn’t want to admit it in front of Scorpion, Milton thought he was probably correct.
The door to the interrogation room opened, and Control stepped inside, followed hurriedly by Sanger.
“What is going on?” said Control.
Milton noticed the change in Scorpion immediately. The Russian examined Control very carefully, from head to toe, and began silently chuckling to himself.
“This is Scorpion,” said Milton, pointing to the Russian in the chair. “I managed to take him alive. As a source, he’s a gold mine.”
Control unbuttoned his long overcoat as he approached Scorpion. “None of it will be of the remotest value. He’s been out of the service for too long. And he’s unreliable. Also, may I remind you, Group 15 do not take prisoners. We take lives.”
From the inside of his overcoat, Control produced a small black pistol. A Smith and Wesson or a miniature Ruger. One of the two. Milton couldn’t tell at first. All he could do was watch as Control emptied the clip into the chest of the bound, unarmed Russian. Neither Milton nor Sanger acted surprised. This was the business end of diplomacy, and it was always a dirty business. The dead man had no doubt been responsible for many deaths. Yet it felt wrong. Ending him in this way felt like a betrayal. Milton thought the Scorpion had been right – they were not so different after all.
“Sanger, get this cleaned up,” said Control, sighing. “This is a bloody mess. A police officer dead, and I understand Banks lost her life too. Make it go away. You can contact me with a draft statement for the press. Civilian and brave police officer gunned down in attack. MI5 have neutralized the threat. That sort of thing…”
Without another word, Control put his pistol away and left the room.
Both men stared at Scorpion’s body. They both knew they had just witnessed a murder. They would tell no one. In fact, they would never speak of it again. Milton offered his hand to Sanger, and the MI5 man took it.
“Thank you, for everything,” said Milton.
Sanger let his perfect white teeth loose in a broad smile and said, “Don’t mention it, old boy.”
19
After his years in the military, Milton always appreciated a good bed. He was in The Gore. A boutique London hotel modelled on Victorian and Georgian luxury. Sanger had dropped him there.
Egyptian cotton sheets and huge pillows were always a special experience for Milton. He’d eaten a light meal, swallowed a gin and tonic whole and then slept for the rest of the day and all that night. At seven o’clock the following morning, he woke to the sound of a telephone in his room. A wake-up call.
Milton showered, dressed and made his way to the drawing room of the hotel, on the ground floor. He ordered tea and sat in a soft armchair while he took in the day’s papers.
It had only been twenty-four hours since the incidents, but Sanger had done his job well. The tabloids praised the poor police officer who’d lost her life. She was a hero and had helped to foil a larger attack, according to some of the red-top papers. The broadsheet papers focussed more on the death of Hailey Banks, former war and conflict correspondent for several of those newspapers. They mourned her reverently. Milton examined the picture of Hailey, which the Times had stolen from her review column for the Express.
He heard someone come into the room, order coffee and take a seat at the opposite end. Milton dropped the paper into his lap, he couldn’t read any longer. Instead, he waited until he’d made sure they were alone, just the woman in the armchair on the other side of the room and him.
There was no one else.
He caught a flash from her – just her gaze flicking across the room and settling upon him. Her short, black hair had been cut into a bob. She looked pale and tired. She got up and sat down in a chair beside Milton.
“Hello, Hailey,” said Milton.
He’d last seen her yesterday morning. Milton had just cracked the butt of his Glock off Scorpion’s head, knocking him out cold, when he’d heard the second vehicle leaving the garage. Before she’d driven off in the Jaguar, Milton had waved at her. She’d waved back and then driven off.
“It’s Anna now,” she said.
“Where did you ditch the Jag in the end?”
“Just outside London. I got a train to the city and opened a bank account yesterday afternoon with the ID and documents Sanger gave me,” she said.
“Lazarus House really does raise the dead,” said Milton.
He’d managed to persuade Sanger to help Hailey before the Russians attacked. She’d been provided with a new identity, new clothes, and a wig. Lazarus House had a selection of disguises, and it was the wig that had given Milton the idea. He had guessed Scorpion would try to make the rifle shot, and they should fit the dead police woman with the wig instead. Scorpion could have been in immediate contact with the SVR. They wanted it known that Hailey was dead. They had to fool the Russians and the British. Otherwise, there would be more assassins sent after her.
“And the transfer went smoothly?”
“Yes,” she said, her voice breaking.
“Half a million euros should set you up somewhere nice. Somewhere quiet. I can tell you that MI5 will make a bereavement payment to the police officer’s parents. They had a closed coffin. And a cremation. Paid for by the Service, of course. The doctors and mortuary staff who work for the spooks cleaned her up as best they could before she was delivered to the family. Removed any trace fibres from the wig she’d worn when Scorpion shot her in the head. A post-mortem head shot is not an easy thing to disguise in a pathologist’s report, so the Service had their own people handle it. The family are well compensated, and no one will ever know that you survived. No one apart from Sanger and me. The public, the government, the Russians – all believe you died in the back of that Range Rover.”
She leaned forward, placed her hand on top of Milton’s and said, “Thank you.”
Milton nodded. “You’ve got a new life. Go live it.”
With that, Hailey rose and left.
Milton w
aited for a further ten minutes, then asked the waiter to bring him a gin and tonic. It was unlike Control to have acted so rashly. To kill a man who had been inside the SVR, at a high level, for years. Had he lived, he would have talked. Milton was sure of it. And Scorpion seemed to give Control special attention when he’d entered the room. The assassin had not paid that same attention to Milton or Sanger.
Control never did reveal the identity of the third target.
The gin and tonic arrived as Milton posed two questions in his mind.
Did Control kill a man for no reason, or did he take the necessary action to save his own life and protect himself?
There was no mileage in pondering this one. Control would be a target for any foreign aggressor. No, the more important question had to do with Milton.
Was he any different than Scorpion?
He took a long drink from the gin and tonic and ordered another. There were faces in his mind that needed to be covered in the black cloth that only booze could provide. There, in the darkness of his thoughts, Milton knew Scorpion would be just another face in a sea of dark accusing faces.
A sea that would grow until it or the booze would drown him.
He knew then that he and Scorpion were not alike at all. The weight of those lives taken bore heavily on Milton. He needed it. However much it hurt him. However much those images haunted his quiet moments.
Scorpion had no ocean of guilt. Milton clung to his conscience because he knew some day he would stop playing this dangerous game. And when that day came, he needed to know that there was a good man there – waiting to be set free.
A Word From Mark
Thank you for reading SCORPION. You got this far - I’m guessing you enjoyed meeting Milton.
The story continues in a series of fast paced thrillers that take John (and you) all around the world.