“You’re good to go,” said Alex through my earpiece. “No traffic, but haul ass.”
“Roger that.”
General Rasquin sprawled across the BMW’s rear passenger seat. A bullet had glanced off his body-armoured torso, knocking him flat. The grisly contents of his bodyguard’s skull glistened in his lap.
“Good afternoon, General,” I said, giving him a mock salute. “Lovely day for it.”
“Who are you?” Rasquin was wiry, with a lick of black hair and deep-set eyes. He looked at me like something he’d scraped from the sole of his shoe.
“We’ve been checking your email. You’re on your way to threaten Jacques Paradis’ daughter in Switzerland,” I said. “You’re worried she might talk, right?”
“My email?” Rasquin sneered, pushing himself into a sitting position. He kept his blood-stained hands where I could see them. “I was going to pay Marie my regards, nothing more.”
“Bullshit.”
The General’s eyes settled on my rifle. “What is this? What do you want?”
I’ve found this to be a problem with generals. They get to ask all the questions, so forget how to give answers. “I’m keeping my word. I made a promise, you see.”
“I don’t…”
I shot Rasquin in the head. The calling card I dropped on his chest was a message for his benefactors in the Paradis Network. It showed an old Italian wood-cutting - a hooded crone, her misshapen face half-hidden by a cowl. STREGA. The mountain sorceress, chosen as a codename by the original EVOCATI. A group dedicated to doing the right thing, albeit occasionally in the wrong way.
I jogged back up the road to Duncan’s jeep.
Oz stashed his machinegun in a holdall. “Man, I love this shit.”
We were back in business.
Epilogue
Trieste - Italy
We took a taxi to the Caffe San Marco, nightime streets shiny with rain. “I need some scran, I’m starving,” said Oz, paying the driver. He wore a dark suit and Royal Marines tie, shoes spit-shined.
“You’re sure you’re happy with this?” I replied, checking the street. Just in case. “You could just take your dough and walk.”
“And do what?”
I shrugged. “Whatever you like.”
Oz’s face creased into a wolfish smile. “I am doing what I like.”
He was right, of course. Oz slapped my shoulder and laughed, and I was glad.
“One day we’ll be too old for this shit,” I said. I straightened my old regimental tie, gold and navy stripes.
Oz shot me a look. “We’re already too old for this shit.”
“You never told me why you ended up on The Firm,” I replied.
Oz stopped by the door to the restaurant. “You could have read my file at Bishop’s place.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t.”
“I appreciate it. But, in the nicest possible way, it’s still none of your business.” Oz opened the door and ushered me in.
I laughed. “Just thought I’d ask.”
The meeting had been called upstairs. The place smelt agreeably of cigar smoke, candlewax and home cooking. I stopped to smooth my hair, then stepped into the wood-panelled room.
“You’re late,” said Juliet Easter. She wore a raw silk dress, black and gold, high-collared in the Cheongsam style. Her hair was worn up, secured with a jade clip. I’d bought it in Hong Kong, on a recce for my next assignment.
“My apologies, Major Easter,” I smiled. “We were running a counter-surveillance route.”
“I was more worried you’d dived into a bar,” she replied.
“We only had a couple of beers,” Oz replied, “y’know, talked things over.”
“So you’re in for the long haul, Colour Sarn’t Osborne?” said Juliet.
“Yeah, I’m in.”
“I thought you’d given up drinking, Cal,” said Duncan Bannerman. He was clean-shaven, coppery hair neatly combed. He wore a dark blazer and a maroon Parachute Regiment tie.
“One day at a time,” I shrugged, pouring myself a flute of Pol Roger. “That day’s tomorrow.”
Juliet supervised the place settings, tables in a ‘U’ shape. When she was happy, the others were ushered in by Alex Bytchakov. The American wore faded denims and a technical jacket, hair cropped close to his heavily-scarred skull.
We’d come for a meeting of the new STREGA Committee.
Ex-MI6 man Marcus Nairn was SCRIVENER, targeting and intelligence. He wore an outrageously-dated beige safari suit, paisley cravat and a catlike smile. Diana Vaillancourt, elegant in dark lace and diamonds, returned as GROUNDSMAN. She’d accessed The Firm’s bank accounts and siphoned away a small fortune. Her new beau, Kenny Duncan, sat next to her in sharply-tailored pinstripes and a blood-red tie. He liked money, volunteering to run CROUPIER with alacrity. Hugh ‘Erlenmeyer’ Jansen and Jordan ‘Blind Angel’ Lynch were our new online ICEPICKS, specialising in information warfare and technical support. They’d even put on suits for the occasion and looked suitably uncomfortable. They bickered like an old married couple, but seemed to get on well enough.
That left Dmitri Aseyev. Clad in denim and black leather, nursing a bottle of Stolichnaya. We hadn’t decided on a role for him yet, but it would involve havoc of one sort or another.
Juliet cleared her throat. The gentle hubbub of conversation stopped. “Good evening,” she said. “As you now know, this room was where the original STREGA committee met in August 1954. They were dedicated professionals, determined to fight on the side of the angels. So I thought it was an appropriate place to announce that another name on the list has been managed. General Francois Rasquin.”
Everyone nodded approvingly. Kenny whispered something in Diana’s ear, making her smile.
Juliet placed Jacques Paradis’ leatherbound journal on the table and tapped it with a scarlet fingernail. “The rest of Paradis’ co-conspirators. Is it agreed? We continue to target them?”
“I say yes,” said Diana, watching the journal like it might bite. “They’ll only hatch something similar if we don’t keep at their throats.”
“Hear hear,” said Marcus. “I agree with Miss Vaillancourt. This variety of leopard seldom changes its spots.”
“Juliet, we elected you PRIMO EVOCATI for a reason,” I said. “We trust your judgement.”
“And I’m grateful,” she replied, barest hint of a blush on her cheeks. “This position is a privilege, but what went before is finished. Every one of us, as long as I’m PRIMO EVOCATI, will be a volunteer.”
Glasses were raised. Volunteers.
I’m a killer. I accept that now. A curse I can’t shrug. So I’ve decided to fight lost causes instead, battles nobody else has the guts to fight.
By the Saint Jude Rules.
Fight dirty. Fight hard. Always take the other bastard down. But like any weapon, I’m only as good as the targeting system. That was Juliet. I caught her eyes, kohl-painted, grey as steel.
“Yes, Captain Winter?” she said.
I reached for the journal. “Who’s next, Boss?”
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
> Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Epilogue
The Saint Jude Rules (Cal Winter Book 3) Page 24