The gunshot shattered the surrounding serenity, but the intended kill shot was immediately matched by another. Wellington sat up to see Eliza holding out her Webley-Maxim as her target fell.
He had just removed his coat from the shotgun when he heard something snap behind him.
Wellington immediately rolled to his left, flicking the Mark III shut with a quick movement of his wrist. “Down!” No sooner had he finished the solitary word than he was on his knees, firing the first of the shotgun’s barrels. The Department agent spun on one foot and fell hard to the ground.
He slinked over to where the agent had landed and trained his weapon on her. “If you please, discard your sidearm, thank you very much.”
The woman’s eyes narrowed on him. “You’ve cocked this one up, mate. You have no idea.”
“No, perhaps I do not, but I do know how the Department works, so let’s talk about that. Snipers?”
The woman winced, glancing at her shoulder wound. “One. On the rise.” She gave a dry laugh. “Nice tactic with the smoke screen.”
“We have our moments, Miss Braun and I.”
Her name must have worked as a means of summoning, as a rustling from behind him grew. Eliza emerged from between the tall grass. She looked between the two of them. “So what do you know?”
“I suppose I should be asking you that, shouldn’t I?”
“Later, Welly,” she replied.
“We have a sniper in the rise. Probably has eyes on the cottage, and our smoke screen is on its last.”
“We’re not going to make it back to the cottage. Not at present.”
“Surrendering,” the Department agent chimed in. “Have you considered that?”
Eliza answered with a quick jab from her pistol’s butt into the woman’s injured shoulder. “I suggest you keep your mouth shut. I don’t take too kindly to being double-crossed by my own government.”
“This is not a betrayal of government,” she hissed through clenched teeth. “This is our job.”
“We are fully aware of your Department’s job,” Wellington interjected. He looked at the Webley-Maxim in Eliza’s hand. “How are the compressors?”
She glanced down at the gun, adjusted one of its dials, and said, “It’s still in the green.”
Wellington glanced through the tall grass at the rise looking over the cottage, then back to the wounded Department agent. He tossed her his kerchief. “That’s for the shoulder. Apply pressure as best you can. Now then, off you go. Start walking.”
“Start walking?” the Department agent asked.
“To the rise. Call off your sniper.”
Eliza grabbed his arm. “Wellington?”
“Up,” Wellington ordered. “Now.”
The woman groaned slightly as she pulled herself up to her feet. She looked over into the direction of the few modest trees in the distance, grimaced as she attempted to support her injured shoulder, and then started to slowly walk towards the grove.
“Wellington,” Eliza seethed, “I swear, if you believe—”
“Reroute your pressure to Barrel Three,” he whispered to Eliza, motioning to the gun. “Push it to critical. It should give your bullet a good amount of extra range.”
“That’s going to completely burn out the internal compressors, making this Webley-Maxim Mark II just a Webley with a lot of fancy decorations.”
“I know,” he bit back. “So you will have one shot. Don’t be at home to Mr. Cock-up, all right then?”
Eliza went to retort but then froze. Her bright blue eyes gleamed for a moment, just before she turned her attention to her sidearm. As she continued to flip switches and turn dials, the pistol’s lights flickered from green to yellow while its top barrel indicator switched to a blinking red. Once Eliza gave him a nod, they began following the Department agent from a distance.
“Leighter?” the agent called out. “Leighter? Come on out. I think we’re—”
Her head exploded, the impact of the bullet resembling a dull thud accented by a crack of a whip. On the sound of the actual gunshot, Eliza rose up on one knee, bracing for the recoil. The Department agent had not even hit the ground before Eliza took her one shot. White smoke devoured her, only to spit her out seconds later from the incredible pressure built up inside the gun. Sparks were now flying from the various wires and piping on the outside of her Mark II while steam slinked out from the top barrel as a serpent of pearlescent smoke.
Eliza hoisted herself up. “Target down,” she stated, her eyes still looking in the direction of the rise.
Wellington, still low to the ground, did not quite share in his partner’s confidence. “And your confirmation of this is . . . ?”
“I’m still alive.” Eliza looked down at Wellington. “The Department isn’t going to issue a musket for their agents, now are they?”
Her logic never ceased to amaze or educate him. “Fair enough.”
The heavy smoke from the burning barrels was now nothing more than a haze marring the pristine beauty of the French coast. It had served its purpose, but the smoke could attract attention. As this was a matter involving the Department, they were now counting the seconds. It was borrowed time with an extremely deadly interest rate they now spent. Wellington took the lead with Alice’s shotgun shouldered and at the ready. Eliza cast away the ruined Mark II, filling each of her hands with her pounamu pistols.
“Leighter,” as the female sniper had been called by her fellow, was slumped against the rise where she had taken lookout. Her scope was still open, its wind gauge still spinning in the light French breeze. Eliza’s one shot had entered the girl’s neck.
“I couldn’t duplicate that shot if I tried,” Eliza muttered.
“I doubt if I would ask you to,” Wellington returned. “Muzzle flash?”
“No, I caught the smoke from the shot along with the sunlight reflection off the scope. That was my target. Even adjusting for windage I was hoping for, at best, taking out the rifle.” Eliza went silent for a moment, staring at the dead woman. “She was on our side, Wellington. On our side.”
“And they just eliminated one of their own,” Wellington said, kneeling by the dead agent and relieving her of her coat. “Have we been deemed an inconvenience?”
“Not us,” Eliza said, her eyes still on the corpse. “The Ministry.”
“The entire Ministry roster?”
“Alice had a paper from England, probably Portsmouth or Southampton. The story was a column on the perils of technology. A motorcar had apparently exploded, claiming its driver.”
“Yes, and?”
“The driver was Simon R. Boswell.”
Wellington blinked. “Agent Boswell?”
“Welly, he doesn’t even own a car! He’s scared to death of them!” She raised a finger to keep him quiet and added, “There was a local paper in the stack, as well. The headline mentioned a contact I had worked with when here with Harry. Her name is”—Eliza paused and shook her head—“was Anne-Marie Bouvier. According to the reports, Boulangerie Lavande exploded in the early morning hours. The entire building just went up in flames.”
“Hardly the signature of the Department.”
“So I thought, until I read through the column. Bouvier’s body had been found stuffed in one of her ovens.”
“Stuffed? In an oven?” Wellington stammered.
“According to the journalist it was quite the macabre scene. When the blaze was put out, investigators reported the till had been untouched. The money in there had been reduced to ash.”
He shook his head. “Why would the Queen suddenly deem the Ministry an inconvenience?”
“No idea. Unless . . .” Her thought faded as a wind bent aside the tall grass, creating emerald waves along the valley. Eliza looked over the field reaching to the château. “Could all this be an elaborate ruse? What confirma
tion do we really have, apart from the tweed, that these are Department agents? They could be Usher.”
“This would be something very much their style.” He cradled the sniper rifle and Alice’s shotgun in one arm while holding the woman’s bowler and coat. “I suggest we move. Whether they are the Department or Usher, we won’t have much time. Once this lot fails to report in, reinforcements will come.”
Eliza holstered her pistols and stretched her hand out for the sniper rifle. “Just a moment.”
Shouldering the weapon, she pointed it in the direction of the main house. Before Wellington could even speculate what held her interest there, Eliza returned the rifle to him. “Get back to the château,” she ordered before turning towards the main house. “We make for Paris within thirty minutes.”
“And you are . . . ?” Wellington asked.
“Fetching the mail,” she said. “I’ll be fine. Just be ready to move.”
With time slipping away, Eliza felt the need to get the mail?
“Wellington, you yourself said it,” she called over her shoulder. “Not much time. Do not dally.”
There had to be a reason—a very good reason—for Eliza to check the mail at the main house. Yes, a very good reason.
Perhaps by the time Wellington reached the safe house, he would have it.
INTERLUDE
In Which Old Friends Reunite and Settle Scores
The machete blade would hardly ever be described as elegant, but to Agent Brandon Hill that only meant it was misunderstood. Yes, perhaps by design the machete was designed for one purpose and one alone, but even with manual deforestation there was a skill. You could easily whack away at a patch of flora all day and exhaust yourself after only a few feet into the jungle, or you could set a pace, know where to strike, and at what angle to strike vegetation in order to remove it with one stroke. Brandon understood this discipline, having watched and learned under Aztec guides that knew this jungle intimately. He understood the machete was not just some brute of the bladed world, but an underestimated advantage when deep in the heart of darkness.
That underestimation dearly cost Agent Dirk Dandridge of the Department of Imperial Inconveniences. When Brandon’s machete sliced cleanly into his neck, he must have at that moment truly appreciated what that tool could do in the hands of a skilled master.
South America had always held a special place for Brandon Hill. His Canadian lineage considered, one would have expected his aversion to the heat as being ingrained, but Brandon felt right at home here in this tropic region. The Department fellows were still acclimating to the climate change, and their sluggishness was one more advantage he held over them. Considering how many Department agents were on his heels, Brandon needed every advantage he could get his hands on.
Presently, another advantage he held was that he was ducking through the streets of Colombia with all the dexterity and knowledge of a street urchin. All his years of foot chases and eluding enemy agents were offering a windfall. He had to keep moving, and most importantly avoid getting cornered.
When Brandon came around the row of buildings to find himself at a dead end, he knew this evening’s entertainment was now reaching its Fourth Act. The finale was under way and near its climax.
His eyes darted from house to house on either side of him, and when he brought his foot up to kick in the worst of the two doors he was offered between them, he hoped he had chosen wisely. The door frame splintered at the lock and swung open revealing a dingy hovel of some fashion. He needed stairs, and those were at the far end of the modest dwelling. If there were any locals harboured within he did not hear their screams or shouts of protest that a white man was intruding. He needed to climb and he needed to run.
He had just cleared the second landing when he heard feet behind him. Brandon paused at the third landing only for a moment to try and assess how many were in pursuit. From the looks of the shadows and the thundering underfoot, at least five were on him. He needed to clear two more landings before he took the chase to the rooftops above.
Sunset was just about to begin, and that would be his fixed point. Before Brandon stretched modest stone buildings close enough to one another for him to jump between them as if they were stones across a brook. The further he would move from the centre of town, though, the more perilous the jump from rooftop to rooftop. He set in the direction of the sunset, knowing the aeroport would be closer at the end of his run.
The first two jumps were simple enough but on the third he felt himself landing a bit harder. His mind told him he would need to keep moving, but his body was imploring him to rest. His fifth rooftop landing caused him to wince in pain. Just a minute to rest. That was all he needed.
He looked back and could make out three shapes in pursuit now. They were well within sight, but his lead was considerable. That, Brandon took comfort in. He sheathed the machete, lifted his knees one at a time up to his chest, just to give them a bit more of a stretch, and then returned to his flight across Colombian rooftops. Just a bit further and then he would return to ground.
His feet skidded to a halt as he looked at the next building before him. The gap looked to be a good ten feet, which, if he gave himself enough of a lead, he could make. The problem was the drop down to it, which was closer to fifteen feet, although it appeared more like twenty-five. If he did not get the landing just right, he risked breaking an ankle or worse on impact. He had to time the jump precisely, otherwise this merry dash would end badly.
“For the Ministry,” he muttered as he walked back to the far edge of the rooftop.
One chance would be all he had. One. Sodding. Chance.
Was his mind playing tricks with him as he sprinted towards the edge? It seemed with each step into the rooftop gravel, with each pound of his foot against the roof, he was actually losing speed. He knew he needed to rest. He knew he needed water. What he truly needed was a bit of luck. He needed to soar as a hawk between the two buildings, and then surrender himself to the sciences of nature so that his body would bend and move as it was designed to do. The medical practice was always on about how the human body possessed so much potential but it never went utilised. It was wasted on idle lifestyles and lazy pursuits wherein the human race chose to observe rather than participate. When Brandon launched himself into the space between dwellings, the coolness of dusk enveloping him in a loving embrace, he hoped to tap into that potential and reap its benefits right there and then, as he needed them straightaway.
First, there was a sinking feeling he had not pushed off hard enough, that he would fall short. Then he felt that odd, queer sensation of gravity, its invisible maw sucking at him and bringing the lower rooftop at him at a dizzying pace. He had to time this perfectly. Brandon dared to reach forwards with his right foot, his favoured side, and reminded himself in this strange, macabre state of existence between rooftops to give in to the forces of nature. Let his body do what came naturally.
He felt something solid touch his toe. He allowed his leg to bend. Yes! He allowed his hand to touch the ground. Yes!
His shoulder did not fare so well. Oh bloody hell . . .
There was an audible snap that ushered in a silent wave of pain emanating from that point. He gave out a hard, guttural moan as his body rolled, several times, his dislocated limb striking the rooftop. He was going to have to snap it back into place when he had a moment.
His body stopped at a pair of feet. Even in the dying light of day he could see the tweed in the man’s suit trousers.
“Agent Brandon D. Hill,” the gentleman said, pushing him on his back, “you, sir, are quite mad.”
“Oh right you are, mad as a hatter,” he quipped, “but not so mad that I couldn’t give your lads a good foot chase, eh?” That’s right. There had been five of them. He only saw three continuing across the rooftops. “So what’s it to be then?”
“It is my duty to make certain th
ere is no trace of you remaining, Agent Hill,” the Department man said, drawing what Brandon recognised straightaway as an exciter of Axelrod and Blackwell’s design. “According to our new weapons designers, this ought to do the trick.”
“Oh dashitall, man, are you serious?” Brandon swore. He winced as he pulled himself upright. That injury to his arm was right smart, it was. “I was expecting some finesse like a tranquiliser followed by a bath in sulphuric acid, or perhaps something more diabolical such as being wrapped in cloth as a living mummy and then trapped in a sarcophagus with flesh-eating scarabs.” With his good arm he waved in the direction of the Axelrod-Blackwell exciter. “You’re going to kill me with a clankerton’s ray gun, are you?”
“It’s called the Jack Frost,” the Department man said, turning the dial on the exciter’s side to its highest setting. “It’s supposed to freeze you solid so that you turn into an ice statue. Under this sun, by noon, you will be nothing more than mist. Not a trace of you left behind.”
Cremation through cold. “Oh, that’s ripping,” Brandon said, most impressed. “Quite some style shown there. Nice one there, chap.”
The agent nodded. “We thought so.” He barked over his shoulder. “Neville?”
“Yeah, Terrance?”
“Go an’ collect the other lads. I think they might want to see this contraption do its work.”
“Rather,” the other one—Neville, Brandon gathered—said eagerly as he made for the exit. “We’ll still be able to make that last airship out.”
He was still turning for the door when the door opened seemingly of its own volition. It knocked Neville out of the way, and shortly thereafter a figure emerged from the thick shadows of the stairwell. The “Crackshot,” a favourite of Brandon’s from the Wilkinson-Webley line, dispatched without fail the three agents watching from the rooftop overhead. Brandon held his breath at the fact he had just witnessed three head shots within quick succession of each other, a feat that even by his fellow agent Eliza D. Braun’s standards was not to be dismissed. The fourth and final bullet in the Crackshot drove itself through Neville’s heart as his saviour placed the weapon square on the man’s chest and fired. Now spent, the Crackshot clattered to the ground as did Neville.
The Diamond Conspiracy: A Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences Novel Page 10