A Soldier's Revenge

by Matthew Dunn

  Lisping.

  His words: “I know you’re under the bed. It’s going to hurt if I have to drag you out.”

  Tom had recorded the man’s voice, knowing it was his only chance to be rescued.

  I had no idea who the man was.

  I tensed as I heard a car approaching.

  Pulling back the window curtain slightly, I could see a car’s headlights. It was drawing closer. But I had no way of identifying who it was in this darkness.

  I muttered, “Shit,” ran downstairs, and shoved Tom’s teddy in my backpack. After grabbing the detective’s SIG Sauer P229 pistol and four spare magazines, I put my backpack on. I left the house and picked up the other murdered detective’s pistol.

  Just as a car reached the rise of the valley, fifty yards away.

  One of the house’s external security lights came on as it detected the movement of the approaching vehicle. I could clearly see that the driver was Faye and that in the back was Billy. She screeched to a halt when she saw me standing stock-still in her headlights, a gun in my hand and a dead body close to my feet.

  I shouted, “Faye, Faye!”

  Faye’s mouth was wide open in shock and terror. She put her car into reverse and drove fast away from me.

  I sprinted toward her, desperate that she should know what I’d found and that things were not as they appeared.

  Faye stopped the car at the head of the lane, tried to put it into first gear, and fumbled the action.

  Billy was shouting something.

  I was twenty yards away, still calling to Faye.

  Faye finally engaged gears and put her foot to the floor.

  I lunged at the driver’s door, but missed the handle by inches as Faye sped down the lane.

  She was always a dreadful driver. Not now, though. She was too fast for me to pursue her on foot and try to persuade her to stop and listen.

  I dropped to my knees, my head to the sky.

  I heard sirens in the distance. Many of them. But I stayed still, tears rolling down my cheeks, wanting the world to swallow me up. Just let them take you, I told myself. The cops can end the pain. Or shoot at them and allow them to gun you down. Anything is better than this.

  Tom had been kidnapped.

  I’d be blamed for it, but that outcome didn’t even feature in my thinking. I imagined the poor boy in the back of one of the cars I’d spotted on the main road at the bottom of the valley.

  I had to get him back.

  No. I just couldn’t let this end here.

  I had a boy to save.

  And a bastard to catch.

  I got off my knees and vanished.

  Zhukov looked at the boy by his side.

  Next to him was the female member of his team, the doctor. She rolled up Tom’s pajama sleeve, momentarily rammed his head down as cop cars raced by in the opposite direction, and injected him with drugs. Tom yelped. Within ten seconds he was comatose.

  Zhukov called Edward Carley. “Sir—it’s done. We have the package and are heading to the location.”

  That location was outside Washington, D.C.

  Carley replied, “Good. Supervise proceedings at the location. Then I want you to head back to Roanoke and await my further instructions.”

  Carley hung up. Everything had gone according to plan.

  Things were bad enough for Will Cochrane. Now they were about to become infinitely worse.

  Chapter 17

  The Scottish police car wound its way along the country lane outside Edinburgh, rugged hills on either side. Sheep that had been sheltering from the blustery weather bleated and scattered.

  The lane was a dead end, only one house at its end.

  The police car stopped outside the house. One male and one female exited the vehicle and knocked on the door.

  Inside, James was rubbing flea powder into the fur of his beagle, Tess. She seemed to love the attention. James, however, was going through the motions. He was in a daze, thinking only about Sarah.

  He kept telling himself not to panic. Sarah wasn’t dead. She was in some kind of trouble, probably. Or she was being unfaithful. Funny how the thought that she might be screwing another guy was one he hoped turned out to be true. No, not funny. Nothing was funny.

  If she was dead, his world would collapse.

  He knew the knock on the door was the police. Few people came here. Those that did were usually Amazon deliverymen. But that only happened when Sarah was around and in full online shopping flow. And he’d been waiting day and night for the police to show up.

  He went to the door, his hands clammy and still holding the flea powder. “It’s to do with my wife,” he told the female uniformed police officer who was standing in front of him.

  She nodded.

  It was 6:20 a.m. when detectives Painter and Kopański arrived at the base of the drive leading up to the Granges’ home.

  Just off the main road, the squad car belonging to the murdered cops was still in situ. Tape cordoned off the area and forensics experts were poring over the scene. A cluster of uniformed and plainclothes officers were standing outside the cordon, just watching.

  The NYPD detectives walked over to a man they knew—Detective Andrew Haine, Richmond PD.

  “Quite a mess, Andrew.” Painter looked at the car and the bloody area of scrubland twenty yards away. The cops’ bodies were no longer there. All the murder victims had been taken away hours before. “I’ve got the headlines, but tell us in more detail what happened?”

  Haine barely glanced at Painter. “We’re still collating results.”

  “Yeah, but what happened?”

  The Richmond detective resented the presence of the NYPD on his patch. They had no jurisdiction here. “We have three scenes. This one; the one outside the house; and the one in the house. What happened here is that Cochrane approached the vehicle, probably got talking to them, they got out of their car, he shot them. Then he dumped their bodies where you can now see their blood. Last night you wouldn’t have been able to see them unless you were looking with a flashlight.”

  Kopański said, “You know it’s Cochrane because of bootprints?”

  “Among other things, correct. The prints match the ones you supplied us from his room in the Waldorf Astoria. They’re everywhere—around the car, around the bodies.”

  Painter said, “Remember, Cochrane is still only a suspect. There’s a possibility he’s innocent.”

  Detective Haine laughed. “Would you bet your house on that?”

  Painter didn’t reply.

  Her acid-scarred colleague stated, “Motive was to get the cops out of the way before he approached the house. You think he did that on foot?”

  Haine nodded. “We’ve got his tracks going up the side of the lane to the kill zone. There’s also evidence of the squad driving up there last night, but that would have been a routine check on the Granges and their guards before the officers came back down here and got murdered.” Haine pulled out a stick of gum, tore it in half, and popped it into his mouth. “Got murdered,” he repeated. “I’ve drafted in everyone I can from state and county. We’ve put a net over the area. Still, it’s a vast zone to cover.”

  “The boy will slow him down.”

  “That’s what I’m hoping.”

  “But then again, Cochrane’s evaded capture so far,” Painter said. “Where are Faye and Billy?”

  “We’ve put them in a safe house in Roanoke. Billy’s going to be homeschooled for the time being. Faye’s got an emergency leave of absence from her work. And they’ll have twenty-four-seven protection until Cochrane’s caught.”

  “We need to go up to the Granges’ house,” Kopański said.

  Haine looked him in the eye. “This is my investigation.”

  Kopański shrugged. “No, it’s not.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I said it’s not. In fact, all things to do with Cochrane are our business.” He showed Haine the attorney general’s letter authorizing Painter and K
opański to have primacy on the case and ordering all other officers to assist them in every way possible.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  Painter stepped in and played diplomat. “Joe and I don’t want the glory. We just want to catch the son of a bitch. Whether we arrest him or kill him, everyone involved will get the credit, you included.” She added something that was true. “In fact, Joe and I would prefer not to get any publicity. That kind of stuff doesn’t flick our switches.” She knew Haine was the opposite. “Please. Take us to the house.”

  Haine hesitated before saying, “Okay, then. But I’m coming with you.” He drove them up the lane to the house, stopping his car at the rise. “This is as far as we can go by car. The rest is on foot. Here.” He handed them plastic shoe covers. “And don’t touch anything.”

  They walked to another cordon that surrounded the spot outside the house where the first Roanoke detective had been gunned down.

  “Any new updates?” Haine asked one of the three forensics officers working the scene.

  The expert replied that nothing had changed. The police squad car had come up here at some point in the evening. After it was gone, Cochrane had arrived—his bootprints were everywhere. The murdered detective was either already out doing a perfunctory check of the perimeter, or more likely he’d heard something and came to check. Probably Cochrane had deliberately lured him out, based on the fact the detective wasn’t wrapped up warm. He’d come out here quickly, thought there was nothing to see, turned to go back in, and that’s when Cochrane attacked him.

  “Attacked?” asked Painter of the forensics officer.

  “Walked up to him and shot him twice in the back of the head.”

  “Come with me,” said Haine to the NYPD detectives.

  They followed him into the Granges’ home.

  The place was abuzz with Virginia state and county officers and forensics experts. Police tape was everywhere, cameras were flashing, videos being recorded, and everyone was going about their business while barely uttering a word. Haine, Painter, and Kopański walked along a white paper path that had been laid down by the forensics team and designated the only place that other officers were allowed to walk. The tape around the path had various signs at stages in the house, including stop, only forensics past this point, area not analyzed, and dead victim.

  dead victim was the sign that greeted them at the entrance to the only downstairs bedroom. Inside were two forensics officers, head to toe in white coveralls, masks on their faces, and rubber-gloved hands taking swabs from the bedsheets belonging to the second murdered detective.

  “Anything deviate from what you last told me?” Haine asked one of them.

  The forensics officer shook her head.

  The Richmond detective led them up the stairs. “This is why Cochrane came here.” He pointed at the pool of blood belonging to Robert Grange at the end of the hall. “Mr. Grange came out of the bathroom, intending to enter the master bedroom. He stopped when he saw Cochrane standing close to where we are. Cochrane immediately shot him.” He walked along the strip of white paper laid over the cream carpet. “This is the master bedroom. Celia Grange was in bed here, door was open, she saw her husband gunned down. Her immediate instinct was to protect the boy.” He led them into the twins’ room. “She rushed in here, got shot in the process but not badly enough to stop her locking the door. Tom Koenig was in here. She stood in front of the door—a human shield—knowing that someone as strong as Cochrane would easily be able to kick it in. It was incredibly brave. She got knocked onto her back. Was then shot. The boy was grabbed.”

  Painter surveyed the room, though most of it was off limits to them. “Keep an open mind, Andrew. It may well be Cochrane walked into this. He wasn’t the killer and kidnapper.”

  Haine pointed at the forensics officer. “These days, investigators can move very fast. Ain’t technology a wonderful thing? All of the bullet shells around the bodies and all of the bullets in the bodies have been examined. We’ve compared the results to the ballistics analysis you released from the Waldorf murder. One hundred percent match.”

  Half a mile away from where the two uniformed police officers had been shot, Simon Tap watched the numerous officers working the scene through high-powered binoculars, while listening to the intercept device Knox had given him.

  Painter and Kopański came into view. It was the first time the former Delta Force operative had seen them in person, having come here based on an earlier intercepted call. But there was no doubting it was them because they matched the photos Knox had given him. Painter was walking awkwardly because of her artificial limb and one side of Kopański’s face was an unmistakable mess.

  They entered their vehicle.

  Tap didn’t follow them. Cochrane was somewhere in the area. All that mattered was that if he was spotted, Painter would be immediately notified.

  With Cochrane cornered, the cops’ duty was to first try to negotiate him down. Whether that worked or not didn’t matter to Tap.

  What did was that he’d have a window of opportunity to get into position. From a distance. With a rifle.

  And end this—once and for all.

  Chapter 18

  After the Scottish police car departed, James Goldsmith was sitting in the kitchen with his head in his hands.

  Grief hadn’t yet taken hold. Instead, he was in shock, his mind and body filled with pain and dread.

  Every brain cell in his head had wanted the police to say there was a perfectly good explanation for his inability to locate Sarah.

  Instead, they’d looked him in the eye and said, “Mr. Goldsmith—brace yourself.” And they then told him what they knew.

  When they left, Tess was curled up on his feet. Whether she sensed something was wrong or not, she seemed to want to keep him warm.

  James smoothed her while crying. “What are we going to do?” he said, looking at nothing. His nostrils were burning, head giddy and throbbing. Nothing seemed of this world.

  Will Cochrane and his sister Sarah had barely spoken during the last few years. For a long time, she hadn’t known he was a spy and had assumed that he was a criminal because of his furtive attitude and frequent absences. When he told her the truth in an attempt to win his sibling back, the declaration backfired because Sarah realized it put her and James in significant danger. They’d had to be protected by Will’s allies from a man who wanted to kill Sarah just to make a point to Will. One of the protectors, a retired woman called Betty who was like a mother to Will, had been killed. Sarah had never forgiven Will for putting her in such danger. Even though none of it had been his fault.

  Some good did come out of that. The event was a catalyst for James and Sarah to reappraise their increasingly bourgeois London lifestyle. Suddenly, their surroundings and ambitions seemed shallow and unsustainable. With no kids to rein them in and ground them, it had felt like they were approaching an age where they were acting like grown-up children at a party full of people half their age. It was time to get out.

  All was now lost—the house, the money, the new beginnings, any sense of normality or hope. Most of all, James had lost the woman he’d been with since university.

  His lovely Sarah, tall, with long blond hair—though the police said she’d cut her hair and dyed it brunette before she was killed. That was a strange thing to do. Mind you, she’d been increasingly prone to whimsy. He liked that about her. No longer the highly strung metropolitan lawyer; instead, a woman who didn’t take life so seriously. Until recently, that is.

  This would be his greatest test. His beloved was no longer there to be the strong one in a wretched set of circumstances. He had to be that person. He had to dig deep and summon the courage to sort out his affairs, somehow focus his thinking and do the right things. Grief had to wait, he told himself over and over. If he sprang into action, then he could grieve properly without his mind being befuddled by worries about the future.

  He got to his feet, unsteadily at first,
grasping the back of the chair until he felt ready to move. Taking Tess out was the first thing he needed to do. He clipped on her lead and said, “Come on, girl. Bit of rain outside, but not enough to bother us, eh?”

  Wellington boots and raincoat on, he walked as fast as his asthmatic lungs would allow him, Tess pulling hard on the lead as they moved over the hills surrounding their home. Ordinarily, the fine rain and windless air would have made the trek a pleasure for James, who adored this type of weather. Now it didn’t register, his brain screaming at him to turn back, shut the door to his home, and just wait for all the pain to go. But he had Tess to think about. She needed this, and step one was that he wasn’t going to let her down.

  Four miles later, they reached the nearest dwelling to their home—a thatched cottage belonging to a blunt-talking but nice farmer and his family. No doubt the farmer was away working in the fields somewhere, but his wife was usually to be found at home.

  Smoke was coming out of the chimney, lights were on inside. James knocked on the door, rainwater dripping off his coat’s hood onto his face. “Mrs. McTavish. Good morning. I have a favor to ask.”

  The stout middle-aged woman, apron covering her blouse and ankle-length skirt, looked suspicious. “Good morning to you, Mr. Goldsmith. I don’t have much time today for favors.”

  “It’s just that . . . I’ve got a lot to do. I may need to go to London. Certainly I’m going to be stuck in Edinburgh for a few days. There’s a lot of paperwork. Things I need to sort out. But I can’t leave Tess on her own.” He held out her lead. “Will you look after her while I’m gone? It may only be a few days. She’s no bother and will eat anything.” He tried to smile. “In fact, she’ll try to eat too much of anything. I have to watch her on that.”

  The Scottish woman rubbed her hands on her apron, not touching the lead. “Can’t you put her in a kennel? It’s a madhouse here, and one more mouth to feed and set of legs to walk isn’t going to make my life any easier.”

  “I’d pay you, same rate as kennels.”