Adam choked out a series of numbers, latitude and longitude.
A moment later März got on the phone.
“We’ve confirmed the coordinates. Right where you believed it was, northern Scotland, in Loch Eriboll.”
“Excellent,” Havelock replied. “Send the coordinates to my cell phone, and move the Gravitania into position. I will be there shortly.”
Havelock slipped his cell into his pocket as he looked dispassionately at Sophie Pearce’s back, spun the chair around to see the tears streaming down her face. He’d done a nice job, he doubted Elise could do any better. He struck palm open across her face for good measure, then kissed her softly on the forehead and untied her wrists. “Come along. We have a quick trip to make.”
He grabbed her hair and dragged her out of the study and into the hallway, Elise behind him, no expression on her face.
Alex Shepherd came running toward him, saw Sophie, and stopped cold. “You’re not taking her anywhere. You and Weston promised she would be okay, that she would be safe here.”
“Move out of my way, Shepherd.”
But Alex didn’t move. He drew a gun, but Havelock was quicker. He already had a gun in his hand and shot him in the chest. He dragged Sophie over his body, and half dragged her down the stairs.
At the bottom of the stairs stood the guard who’d allowed Sophie to escape. He was holding his head. He looked up, an excuse halfway out his mouth when Havelock shot him in the forehead.
Edward Weston came through the front door at that moment, looked at the dead guard, at Sophie Pearce. He asked calmly, “Do we have what we need?”
Havelock shoved Sophie at him. “Get her in the plane. Let’s go.”
“Where’s Shepherd?”
“Dead.”
Weston threw out his hands. “What? Why? We need him.”
“No, what we need is the key, and now I know exactly where it is. Now, let’s go.” He signaled to Elise, who looked through Weston and followed Havelock out the front door.
“No, he’s not dead,” Weston said.
Havelock turned to see Alex Shepherd coming slowly down the stairs, his gun locked on Havelock. He raised a brow. “My, my. Still alive, are we? Wearing that armor I had made for you? I suppose I should have shot you in the head. No matter, you can bring her.” He pointed the gun at Sophie’s temple. “Let’s go.”
63
Notting Hill
4:00 p.m.
Penderley said, “The tech lads are saying the phone has some sort of scrambled signal, bouncing off relays throughout the country. The call may not have originated in Oxford after all, but we’ll be optimistic. We’ll find her.” Nicholas only hoped they’d find her in time.
They parked a block away from Leyland’s house so they wouldn’t alert Adam Pearce or Oliver Leyland, if he was there. The windows of Leyland’s white stucco town house were dark, the four-story mansion silent in the cool spring air.
Dark low-hanging clouds were piling in. The wind had kicked up, swirling through the town houses on Lansdowne Crescent and the green communal gardens of Notting Hill. Rain was coming soon. Mike shoved her hair out of her face. “It looks like we’re about to have nasty weather.”
“Yes, it does, doesn’t it?” he said. “It’s good to be home.” He saw himself at Old Farrow Hall, running through the labyrinth hedges toward the center even as the rain battered down. What was he, twelve years old?
Penderley said, “My team are set up outside the perimeter.”
Nicholas said, “And you promised to keep them there, sir. It’s only the three of us. Gareth? You ready? I don’t want to make Adam think I lied to him.”
Gareth Scott walked up, patted his chest, bulky with body armor. “Ready as I’ll ever be, let’s get it done, mate.”
They moved silently toward the house, Nicholas and Mike, weapons at their sides, following Gareth. They skirted the black-fenced front steps and forest green front door and moved to the side of the house to another entrance.
The side door was slightly ajar. There were clear rake marks on the lock. It had been forced.
Gareth gave Penderley a running commentary through their radios as they entered the house from the side entrance. They were on the lowest floor. There were a dozen windows, and despite the dark clouds overhead, light spilled into the hallways and rooms, making it easy to see. They split three ways, clearing the ground floor quickly. No signs of a struggle, no signs of Adam or Oliver Leyland. No signs of anything.
Nicholas didn’t like this, didn’t like it at all.
They met in the grand foyer under a centuries-old crystal chandelier and began up the massive wooden staircase.
They found Leyland’s body on the first-floor landing, his head leaning against the panels. His legs were bent backward, his arms dislocated, making him seem a crumpled marionette, his strings cut and dropped straight down from the landing above.
Mike swallowed. “Is this Leyland?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Somebody pushed him over.”
Gareth fell to his knees beside Leyland. He looked up. “Sir, do you read me? Leyland is down. Repeat, Leyland is down. He was hurt badly, sir, before he died. We’re moving to the second floor. Do not send anyone else in here until we’ve cleared the place.”
Gareth skirted Leyland’s body, signaling to Nicholas he was going to move to their left. Nicholas nodded, taking the low side right. Mike was in front of him going straight.
The gunshot came out of nowhere, suppressed, like a pop, but they knew what it was.
64
Nicholas only had time to see Gareth fall before he was tackled from behind. He went down hard on his knees. Mike whirled around, right into the waiting arms of a big bruiser nearly twice her size, hard with muscle, strong as Rocky.
Nicholas shouted to her, but she couldn’t move. Rocky’s arms were tightening more and more, he was going to crush her ribs if she didn’t break loose. Gareth was down, Nicholas was under attack—she had only herself.
Rocky let up a bit, banged her hand against her leg, and she let the Glock go. She pulled an old trick—let herself go limp. It surprised him enough to give her time to force her shoulder under his forearm and twist hard to the right, and despite his weight advantage, she sent him over her shoulder to sprawl on his back on a thick Berber runner. The carpet cushioned his landing and he was back on his feet, a surprising shock for such a big man, and he was coming at her again, fists up, protecting his face.
He kicked her leg out from under her and she went down on her knees. His hands went around her throat, his fingers bent inward to gouge her eyes. She jerked and heaved so he couldn’t get to her eyes, twisted onto her back and kicked him hard in the gut. He windmilled backward, then started cursing her. She kicked him in the kneecap, but it wasn’t enough, so she kicked him in the groin as hard as she could. She realized in one part of her brain that she was out of control. She wanted to kill him, she wanted to obliterate him.
He was strong, fast for his size, and despite the blow to his groin, he was up and dancing toward her again. Bring it on, Rocky, bring it on. No way was she going to let him beat her. She blocked the next punch to her face, saw her chance. She slid her thigh in between Rocky’s legs, and crashed her left leg down hard, at the perfect angle. He went down with a howl, and she stomped on him again, in the exact same spot, and was rewarded with the fine crunch of bone. She’d blown out his knee.
Mike flipped him onto his stomach and cuffed him. He was yelling, cursing, so she hit him hard in the back of the head with her fist, knocking him out. At last he shut up.
She took a huge breath, felt all the bruises along her ribs, but she was okay, she’d won. She sent a prayer of thanks to her FBI hand-to-hand combat coach, press-checked her Glock, and yelled, “Nicholas!”
She found Gareth first. He’d taken a shot to the
neck not an inch above the top of his body armor and was bleeding, but it wasn’t too bad, not an artery, thankfully, a through and through. She ripped his sleeve off and pressed it to his neck. He groaned and his eyes opened.
Of all things, he smiled up at her. “Alive, am I?”
She laid her palm along his cheek. “You’re going to be okay. Hold this.” She pressed the shirt sleeve to his neck, guided his hand to it. “Help’s on the way.”
“No, it isn’t. They cut our comms. I called to Penderley, but no one’s come in after us. Where’s Nicholas?”
“I’m going to go find him now.”
But first, she tested her comms unit. Gareth was right, no communication. Disruption technologies were one of the FBI’s greatest fears, from knocking out comms to taking down planes and setting off EMPs, Havelock had clearly figured out how to make it happen.
She had to find Nicholas, but first she had to let the Brits outside know they were in trouble. She couldn’t shout, she didn’t know how many bad guys were in the house.
She fired her Glock through a big glass window that gave onto a garden, straight down into the dirt. It was loud, a blast in the quiet. The shot that had gotten Gareth in the neck was suppressed. Hers wasn’t. That should bring them running. She tore off a sleeve of her shirt and attached it to the window as a signal.
“Go find Nicholas, Mike. I’m okay.” Gareth pulled out a knife, thin, deadly sharp.
She listened hard as she ran quietly toward the stairs to the upper level. She heard nothing.
Her ribs were on fire, but she paid no attention. She had to find Nicholas.
She saw a trail of fresh blood drops on the stairs, teardrop shaped, the fat end of the blood drops closer to her. Since the velocity pattern was moving away from her, she knew whoever was bleeding had gone up the stairs instead of coming down.
65
Mike followed the trail of blood up the stairs. There, windows were fewer, making it darker. It was silent as a tomb.
Come on, Nicholas, where are you? And where are you, Penderley? Come on!
Mike cleared room by room. The last door at the end of the hall was slightly ajar. She paused, listened. She heard breathing. Whoever was in there was waiting for her.
She edged sideways and looked through the crack. She saw Nicholas lying on his back under a large square window. Rain was coming down hard, slamming against the windowpanes. He was deathly still.
She kicked open the door, but forced herself not to run in, to keep to the side.
Five shots blasted out. She closed her eyes a moment, again blessed her training.
She aimed into the breach between the frame and the door and fired, praying the bullet wouldn’t ricochet and hit Nicholas.
There was a yell, then silence.
She’d hit him, whoever him was.
Adrenaline shot through her. Time to take a chance. She went in low and fast, rolled across the floor, coming up in a perfect crouch, arms extended, facing the now open door. The shooter wasn’t anywhere to be seen. Another door—she yanked it open and ran through a bathroom and back out into the hall and saw splatters of blood. The hall was empty.
She heard Nicholas moan. She shut and locked both doors, and dropped to her knees beside him and pulled him into her arms. She saw a syringe sticking out of his neck. The plunger wasn’t depressed, and a thick, viscous gold liquid was still in the tube. Still, he must have gotten a bit of a dose. She jerked the needle from his neck. The wound began to bleed, and she blotted it with her remaining sleeve. His eyelids began to flutter; he was coming around.
“Nicholas. Wake up.” She shook his shoulder. His eyes opened. He shoved himself away from her with such force she landed on her butt.
She scrambled back to him, grabbed his arm. “Nicholas, there’s another shooter in the house. They cut our comms, I fired a shot outside, so I hope Penderley realizes we’re in trouble.”
Nicholas was on his knees, facing her, weaving a bit. Slowly, he raised his hand to his neck. She saw his pupils were dilated, saw he still wasn’t with it.
She shook him as hard as she could. “Come on, Nicholas. Pull it together.”
“Trying.” His voice sounded nearly normal.
“Okay, okay, stay still.” She rose and looked through the thick pounding rain down into the garden, but they were on the wrong side of the house. No Penderley.
Nicholas grabbed a chair and pulled himself up. “Whatever that ruddy bastard shot me with is strong. My head’s still spinning.”
“He got out through the bathroom, over there. When I got back to the hall, I didn’t see him, but I saw a blood trail, so I gave him a shot for you.” She helped him to his feet, her shoulder under his arm. She got him up and into a chair.
He tried to smile at her. “My lips are numb, and my hands, but I’m okay.”
“Good, because we need to get out of here in case that bastard comes back with reinforcements.”
“Where’s Gareth?” Nicholas got slowly to his feet. He finally managed to straighten.
“He was shot in the neck, but he’ll be all right.”
“Good. Good. You look like you had quite a dustup. You won, I hope?”
“I did. Rocky’s on his belly, nicely handcuffed. I blew out his kneecap.”
“Remind me not to get on your bad side. You’re all right?”
She nodded. “Don’t worry about me. We need to catch whoever’s running around this house with a gun and a stack of syringes. How did he get you?”
He looked surprised. “I have no idea. One minute the three of us were going up the stairs, the next I woke up in your arms.” He gave her a look. “Rather enjoyed that part of it.” And then he lightly cupped her face, then shook his head, and dropped his hand.
“Yeah, yeah, can you walk without help?” Actually, she’d have enjoyed it as well if she hadn’t been so scared.
He took three steps to test and nodded, then realized, “That bloody prat took my Glock.”
“Give me your spare magazine, I’m down three bullets.”
He handed it over and she switched them out. “Okay, let’s go. Slowly. You’re still not too steady on your pins.”
There was a clear blood trail down the hallway, then suddenly it stopped. He must have bound the wound. They went down another flight, paused on the small, dark landing.
They both smelled the blood. They heard him wheezing, each breath an effort. She’d lung-shot him, but he was still on his feet, still ready to fight, waiting for them by the main staircase. He probably realized Penderley’s men were right outside and he was stuck in here. And he was fully prepared to kill them.
Mike dropped and rolled to the top of the stairs, came up on her elbows, and as the man raised his gun, she pumped four bullets center mass. He stared at her in surprise, dropped his gun, then quietly fell backward onto the beautifully appointed foyer just as Penderley’s tactical team burst through the front door.
66
Nicholas watched the paramedics wheel Gareth to the curb. His face was white, he was clearly in pain. He touched Gareth’s arm as he passed. “I’m glad you’re okay, mate.”
Gareth managed a crooked smile. “You’re going to owe me for years.”
“I’ll stand you a pint at the Feathers when you’re up on your feet.”
“You’ll stand me a pint for the next ten years,” he called out as the doors closed and the ambulance pulled away.
Oliver Leyland’s body stayed in the house, along with the two shooters, one dead, one unconscious and cuffed, while Mike told Penderley and his team what had happened inside, her voice calm, emotionless, but she wanted to yell, I won, I won, I took down both of them.
When there was no more to say, Penderley patted her on the shoulder. “Well done, lass. Damn well done.”
Mike said, “I don’t know how they cut our c
omms. Both Gareth and I tried to call you.”
“We heard a gunshot, that was good enough. We were with you less than three minutes later.”
Mike couldn’t believe it. Only three minutes? No, at least an eon had passed. “Hopefully, Rocky will talk.” And then she had to explain.
Penderley patted her shoulder again, making her smile, then he turned to Nicholas. “Only Leyland was inside? No sign of Adam Pearce?”
“No sign. Can we pull CCTV feed on the street, see who entered Leyland’s house and when?”
“We’re working on it now. Also working on IDs for the two men who tried to kill you and Mike.”
“I’m going to bet you’ll find they’re German nationals. Havelock has a history of sending his own men to do his dirty work, not using local talent.”
“Understood. Also, while you were inside, the call came in from the boys at MoD Saint Athan. That missile did its job thoroughly, only small pieces of the tail of the plane that attacked you were located. It was a Gulfstream, though. A private jet.”
“Ten to one it was Havelock’s. Who else would have tried to stop us coming over?”
Penderley said, “First the chancellor of the Exchequer is killed, and now the head of the Bank of England? FBI planes are being attacked with lasers, there are two Americans on British soil being held against their will, and we haven’t the foggiest idea where to start looking for them. Not to mention the world press has already reported on Alfie Stanford’s death. When they find out about the murder of Oliver Leyland, they’re going to be asking questions. You know they’ll put it together soon enough, then all hell will break loose. This is a disaster.” Penderley looked ready to stick his head in the noose.
“Sir,” Mike said, her hand on his forearm. “Once we have the weapon and Havelock, once we show the world what he is, what he has done, including the murder of these two fine men, the world media will crucify him.”
Penderley gave her an odd look. “Do we tell them we have saved the world from disaster, Agent Caine?”
The Lost Key Page 26