by Jim Eldridge
Nelson glared at Gerald. ‘You people don’t know Deacon like we do,’ he said.
‘That’s one of the things that worries me,’ responded Gerald.
Nelson locked eyes with him. Finally, he said: ‘I’m taking my man with me.’
‘He’s free to go.’ Gerald shrugged.
Mitch got up and joined Nelson at the door, then followed the colonel out of the room.
As Mitch and Nelson walked away from MI6 HQ, Mitch asked, ‘How’s Two Moons?’
‘He’s in surgery,’ said Nelson. ‘Luckily for him there are no bones broken, and the bullet didn’t hit the artery. The damage is mainly to the thigh muscles.’
Mitch nodded. Two Moons would be out of action for a while, but that was all. It sounded like it was nothing serious.
‘When can we see him?’ he asked.
‘Tomorrow,’ said Nelson. ‘Providing the doctors agree.’
‘So, we’re off the case?’ Mitch asked.
‘Like hell we are!’ snapped Nelson. ‘I’m gonna speak to some people in Washington. No one kicks me off a mission!’
Mitch climbed the stairs to his second-floor flat, still going over in his head what had gone wrong. He pulled out his key and was just about to unlock his door, when he felt something sting his neck. An insect – a wasp?
Suddenly everything switched off: his brain, his body; and he crashed to the floor.
11
When Mitch came round he was slouched on one of the wooden chairs in his living room. Plastic cables tied his ankles to the legs of the chair. His wrists were bound together behind the chair, fixed to the wooden strut at the back. Thick tape had been stuck across his mouth.
He looked up, and found himself staring into the smiling face of Jimmy Deacon.
‘Welcome back,’ grinned Deacon. He held up a small object. ‘Tranquiliser dart. Very effective. You can knock out a horse with one of these.’
Deacon turned his attention to Mitch’s living room table, where he was tinkering with something. Mitch couldn’t see what it was because it was hidden by Deacon’s body.
‘So, you’re Paul Mitchell,’ said Deacon chattily. ‘The new guy with the unit. How’s that going for you?’ Then he grinned again. ‘Of course, you can’t talk. But I’ll take it that you’re getting along with them well. They’re a good bunch of guys.’
Deacon moved away from the table, pulled a chair near to Mitch and sat down on it, his face close to Mitch’s. The smile had gone. ‘You killed my operative,’ he said. ‘Poor old Dmitri. I thought he was good. Obviously I was wrong.’ The smile was back. ‘But enough of this small talk. Let’s get down to the real business of why I’m here.’
He’s mad, thought Mitch. Seriously, dangerously mad. He could see it in Deacon’s eyes. Everyone in Special Forces possessed a certain ruthlessness – it was how they survived. But Deacon was clearly beyond that. Mitch wondered what had happened to him after he’d left the unit that had driven him to this state. Torture? That often pushed people over the edge.
Deacon gestured towards the table. Mitch looked and now he saw the wires and explosives and a timer.
‘That’s right – a bomb, Mitch,’ said Deacon, still smiling. ‘But this is a very different beast to the little squib I left stuck in Gaz’s door. This is a big one. When this baby goes off, not only will it take you out, it’ll blow out the apartments upstairs and below.’
His smile became a sneer. ‘I guess you’re wondering, why you? Well, I’ll tell you, Mitch. If I did this to any of the others – my old comrades – they wouldn’t forgive that. But you, you’re the new guy. They know that you and I don’t have a connection. So they’ll take it for what it is: a warning to stay out of my way.’
Deacon got up and walked over to the bomb, studying it. Then he turned back to Mitch. ‘You may also be wondering why I’m going to all this bother. Why I don’t just shoot you dead?’ He shook his head. ‘It wouldn’t have the same effect, Mitch. We know what these spooks are like; they’re not to be trusted. They come in and find you dead, they’re likely to cook up some story to show that it wasn’t me who did it – that it was someone who held a grudge against you. Someone with no connection to this case. Anything to make sure the rest of the Unit will still come after me.
‘But this way, this bomb, the guys will know it was me, and that I’m sending them a serious message.’
Mitch growled, his frustration growing at not being able to speak. Deacon saw the anger in his face. ‘You look like you’ve got something to say, Mitch. I’ll take the tape off for you to say a few words.’ He produced a deadly looking knife. ‘But you try to yell out and I’ll cut your throat. It won’t affect the end result; when the bomb goes off you’ll still be dead. But it’s a messy way to go.’
Deacon walked over to Mitch, took one end of the tape in his hand and pulled. There was a sharp pain as the tape tore the skin around his mouth.
‘So, what do you want to say, Mitch?’
‘Killing me won’t stop Two Moons and Gaz and the rest,’ said Mitch. ‘They’re my buddies. It’ll just make them come after you harder.’
‘The old Band of Brothers,’ said Deacon. He shrugged. ‘Maybe. But maybe not. We’ll just have to see, won’t we.’ He looked at his watch, and then at the timer on the bomb. ‘Anyway, we haven’t got time to continue this conversation. According to my timer, you’ve only got about twelve minutes left to live. So, I’ll say goodbye.’
With that, Deacon cut off another piece of tape and stuck it across Mitch’s mouth. ‘Oh, by the way,’ he added. ‘Don’t bother trying to get to those knives of yours to cut yourself free – the ones you keep strapped to your legs.’ He chuckled. ‘They’re not there any more.’
With that, Deacon slipped his own knife into one of his pockets, and headed for the door.
12
As soon as Mitch heard the door shut behind Deacon, he began rocking the chair backwards and forwards, working it one leg at a time towards the table and the bomb. He could see the digital display on the timer as it counted down: 11.48; 11.47; 11.46 . . .
He made it to the table. There was an empty glass near the edge. Careful not to nudge the table too hard and trigger the detonator, Mitch managed to lower his head enough so that his forehead touched the glass. He jerked his head to one side and the glass wobbled, then fell. It rolled along the table top, then dropped off the edge and landed on the carpet.
He looked at the timer. 10.57; 10.56 . . .
Mitch moved the chair so that the fallen glass was by his feet. He rocked back, then forward, and pounded his boots on the glass, smashing it. He tipped the chair sideways, wincing from the impact as his body hit the floor.
He wriggled his way along the carpet until he was beside the broken glass. Unable to turn his head, he felt with his fingers and found the biggest chunk of glass. Pointing the glass upwards he began to saw at the plastic tie that bound his wrists together. The glass slipped and sliced into his skin, re-opening the wounds on his palms. The blood made the glass slippery and difficult to hold, but Mitch gritted his teeth and continued sawing, flexing his wrists to put pressure on the plastic. The glass sliced his wrists again and again. More blood. Mitch bit his lip against the pain and kept going, aware of the minutes and seconds counting down.
Finally the plastic popped and Mitch could pull his hands apart. He hauled himself up and looked at the timer. 7.35. 7.34.
Mitch tore the tape from his mouth, pulled out his mobile phone and hit Gaz’s number.
‘Hi, Mitch,’ said Gaz cheerfully. ‘What’s up?’
‘There’s a bomb in my flat,’ said Mitch. ‘Deacon put it here. It goes off in seven minutes.’
‘Then get the hell out of there!’ snapped Gaz.
‘I can’t,’ said Mitch. ‘It’s a big one. It’ll blow up all the flats around me, so I’m going to try and defuse it. Get on to the emergency services and get the area around my flat cleared. Everyone out to safety.’
‘Mitch . . .’ beg
an Gaz.
‘I ain’t got time, Gaz,’ said Mitch. ‘I’ve got a bomb to disarm.’
Mitch hung up and turned his attention to the bomb. The timer showed 6.43; 6.42. Just over six minutes to work out how the bomb was rigged, and shut it off.
He looked at the cuts in his wrists, still pumping blood.
I need to strap up the wounds, he thought, staunch the flow of blood. But there’s no time. Right now, the main thing is to disarm the bomb.
It looked a simple rig: plastic explosives wrapped round a detonator, and wires attached to the detonator from the timing mechanism. It should be easy. Cut the wires and the bomb stops. But Deacon wasn’t a fool – he’d shown how tricky he could be. It was quite possible he’d booby-trapped the bomb. He could have set the timer so that if the wires were cut, it automatically defaulted to zero and triggered the explosion.
Mitch examined the wires. There were four going from the timer to the detonator: blue, brown, yellow, green. Why four? It only took two to make a connection. The other two could be a trick. Maybe one was a dummy lead.
Mitch threw another glance at the count-down display:
5.01; 5.00; 4.59 . . .
He forced himself to think logically: two of the wires are real. The other two are fake. But which is which?
4.41; 4.40; 4.39 . . .
Mitch searched the timer for screw heads. There were none. OK, so it was a clip-together job. That was good; if he’d needed a screwdriver he’d have had problems. He grabbed a shard of broken glass. Blood spurted out from his wrists with the movement. He pushed the tip of the glass into the thin crack in the bomb’s plastic casing and pushed, gently so as not to disturb the timer, but with enough pressure to separate one end of the outer casing. He wiggled the glass, working it along the widening crack, until he had a space big enough to get his fingertips in.
He pulled at the plastic and it came apart. At the back of the timer mechanism he could see the ends of the four wires. He flicked the display over to check how much time he had left.
2.15; 2.14; 2.13 . . .
He took a deep breath to calm himself. You’ve still got two minutes, he told himself.
Four wires: blue, brown, yellow, green. He followed each along with his fingers. The yellow wire disappeared as soon as it ran into the casing – it wasn’t attached to the actual timer mechanism. So it was a dummy. It could be ignored. That left three: blue, brown or green.
He lifted the digital display so he could see the time again:
1.26; 1.25; 1.24 . . .
He remembered the wiring diagrams from his basic bomb training. Brown live, blue neutral. Green was for earth. But a bomb didn’t have an earth. So why had Deacon put in a green wire as well? To fool him, or anyone else who tried to defuse it? Or had he replaced the brown or blue with a green wire? A wire was a wire. The coloured plastic was just wrapped round it for safety identification.
23; 22; 21 . . . Twenty seconds to go. 19;18 . . .
He held the piece of broken glass in his hand. Blue or brown should do it. Unless the green was a blue or a brown in disguise.
The clock now showed 7; 6; 5 . . .
Mitch sawed at the brown wire. If he was wrong . . .
He kept sawing with the piece of glass; but the edge had lost its sharpness.
Damn! thought Mitch. I need a knife or wire cutters. But right now this is all I’ve got. Three seconds. Two seconds. One . . .
The copper wire separated as the piece of glass cut through it.
Then came the explosion.
13
It didn’t take long for Mitch to realise it wasn’t a real explosion – just the door of his flat being smashed off its hinges. He looked towards the opening. Nelson and Tug were standing there, automatic rifles in their hands. Tug rushed over to the bomb.
‘It’s OK,’ croaked Mitch. ‘It’s dead.’ His throat felt so dry he could hardly speak.
‘We were the nearest,’ explained Nelson. ‘We came as soon as we could.’
‘I told Gaz to make sure everyone stayed away,’ said Mitch. ‘I just wanted the area cleared.’
‘Yeah, Gaz told us,’ said Nelson.
He bent down and examined the bomb. ‘Jimmy up to his old tricks, eh,’ he said.
‘Yeah,’ said Mitch sourly. ‘Your old buddy has a wacky sense of humour.’
Gaz and Benny arrived about ten minutes later. By then Tug had sewn up the gashes in Mitch’s wrists, and Nelson had dismantled the detonator from the plastic explosives.
‘That sure is one big banger,’ he commented.
Gaz joined Nelson, examining the bomb. He nodded. ‘If that had gone off, it would have taken out most of this side of the building.’
‘That’s what your friend Jimmy told me,’ said Mitch.
Gaz grunted. ‘He’s no friend of mine, pal. At the beginning, I was prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt, but not after this.’
‘It’s a pity we’re off the case,’ murmured Tug. ‘If you ask me, this attack on Mitch calls for payback.’
‘We ain’t off the case yet,’ growled Nelson. ‘More than ever, this one’s ours!’
*
A few hours later Mitch was resting in his flat when he got the call from Nelson.
‘Washington came through for us,’ he told Mitch. ‘They agree that we’re the ones most likely to stop Deacon. That’s why we were brought in in the first place.’
‘I can’t believe that Deacon thought that killing me would stop the rest of you,’ said Mitch. ‘He must know how we soldiers feel about our comrades.’
There was a short silence, then Nelson said, ‘If you ask me, it’s just goes to show he’s really lost it. He’s mad, and he’s very dangerous. That’s why we’ve got to stop him.’
‘Have you spoken to MI6?’ asked Mitch.
‘Nope. All I know is that Gerald’s bosses in Whitehall have had a word with him. He’s agreed to us coming back in on this one.’
Mitch grinned. ‘He’s not going to be a happy bunny,’ he said.
‘That’s his problem,’ said Nelson. ‘But his real problem is stopping Deacon, and he knows it. So, we meet up at 10 a.m. at MI6 HQ.’
‘I’ll be there,’ said Mitch.
14
Mitch walked into the small ward in the military hospital. All the way to the hospital he had been on the alert, keeping an eye out for Deacon in case he struck again. Two Moons was lying on his bed, earphones on, nodding in time to some music. He took the earphones off as he saw his friend. Mitch walked over and sat down on the chair beside the bed. He produced a small bunch of grapes, which he put on the bedside table.
‘What are they?’ asked Two Moons, regarding them suspiciously.
‘It’s sort of a tradition to bring grapes when visiting a patient in hospital,’ replied Mitch, smiling.
‘Fruit!’ snorted Two Moons. ‘I don’t like fruit. I like candy. I got shot in the leg – I deserve candy.’
‘What can I say? Fruit is better for you,’ said Mitch. ‘Anyway, I like grapes.’ And he picked one off the bunch and popped it in his mouth.
Two Moons looked at Mitch. ‘Let me get this straight,’ he said. ‘You brought me a bunch of grapes so you can eat them?’
Mitch popped another grape into his mouth and nodded. ‘Yep,’ he said. ‘That’s part of the tradition. You bring the grapes and then eat them yourself.’
Two Moons thought this over, and shrugged.
‘You English are crazy,’ he said finally. He noticed the bandages around Mitch’s wrists. ‘The colonel told me what happened. Sounds like Jimmy stitched you up real bad.’
‘It could have been worse,’ said Mitch. ‘The bomb might have gone off – in which case I wouldn’t be sitting here eating these grapes.’
‘No, and I’d be getting a visit from one of the others,’ said Two Moons, smiling. ‘Like Gaz, for example. He likes candy.’ Two Moons fell silent. Finally, he said in a serious tone, ‘Jimmy really tried to kill you?’
; ‘Yep,’ Mitch replied.
‘Son of a bitch!’ muttered Two Moons.
‘Look at it from the positive side,’ said Mitch. ‘He didn’t try to kill you. He’s your friend.’
‘Not any more he ain’t,’ grunted Two Moons. ‘Next time I see him, he’s gonna get it. No holding back.’
‘That’s what Gaz said, too,’ Mitch told him. ‘Glad to know we’re still on the same side, Two Moons.’
Two Moons looked uncomfortable for a second, then he nodded. ‘It ain’t easy to admit someone you thought was your friend is really your enemy,’ he said.
Mitch sighed. ‘I know. It’s happened to me before. Shame we have to learn this kind of thing the hard way.’
‘Trust only each other,’ said Two Moons.
‘Absolutely,’ agreed Mitch. He gestured towards Two Moons’ leg. ‘So, what do the doctors say?’
‘They’ve sewn me up nicely. They reckon I’ll be out of here the day after tomorrow.’ He grinned. ‘But that’s just their opinion. Me, I reckon I’ll be walking out of here today.’
Mitch frowned. ‘I think, for once, you ought to listen to what they say. Another day or so isn’t gonna make a lot of difference.’
Two Moons shook his head. ‘This conference thing is only a couple of days away. I want to be there for the action.’
‘Not if you’re still only working on one leg,’ said Mitch. ‘Me and the rest of the boys will be worried about you the whole time, which could mean we take our eyes off the ball when Deacon turns up with his gang of assassins.’
Two Moons scowled. ‘That’s what the colonel told me,’ he said. ‘And Benny, when he came to see me. You guys been talking behind my back?’
‘Nope,’ said Mitch. ‘It’s just logical. You stay and rest it another day, maybe you’ll be able to get in on the action.’
Two Moons’ scowl deepened. Then he sighed. ‘I guess you’re right. Only I don’t like to think of you guys blundering around out there without me to look after you. Getting yourselves blown up, and stuff.’