The Secretary of Defense stared in horror. He heard his bodyguards shout, sensed them move, even caught the snick as their weapons came free of their shoulder holsters. And then he heard the masked attacker’s words, “The Blood King sends his regards.”
All he could think about was Sarah. If Kovalenko had sent a man to kill Gates, he would surely have orders to kill Sarah too. She sat between him and the gunman, and Gates was damned if he was going to let another woman die because of him. He stood up fast, skirting the table, focusing the gunman’s attention, and no doubt getting in the way of his own bodyguards.
“Down!” one of them screamed, but Gates made himself as threatening as possible. The hard blue eyes regarding him from behind the homemade mask showed nothing other than cold implacability. The gun didn’t waver. The man was a pro.
Shots rang out. The first hammered into the gunman’s shoulder, sending him to one knee without a sound. The second, again from Gates’ protective detail, flew through the space the gunman had just been occupying. The third came from the assassin, striking Gates’ upper torso and driving him back.
At first he felt no pain, just fear for Sarah and regret that he would never accomplish most of the dreams he had already set in motion. He landed heavily on his knees, but still held the gunman’s stare, still struggled to approach. All around, waitresses, officials and tourists were screaming, ducking for cover, or were just frozen in place, hands held across pure-white terrified faces. A second bullet struck the gunman, this one slamming into his gun hand, giving Gates a millisecond of hope. But the pro didn’t hesitate, instantly picking up his weapon with his other hand and discharging it at the Secretary of Defense.
Gates shuddered under the hammer blows. Three bullets hit him, one glancing across his temple. As he collapsed, the world was already fading. Sarah’s mouth was open; she was diving toward him and would no doubt beat his bodyguards. A third bullet hit the gunman, but his aim did not waver.
In a terrible split-second, three things happened. Jonathan Gates died, Sarah Moxley landed across his body in a desperate, selfless act of heroism, and the gunman fired his last round.
CHAPTER FIVE
Ben Blake felt his frustration build as Sam drove the Mercedes hard through the clinging, black night. The A64, the fastest road between York and Leeds, was all but empty at this hour, the perpetual set of roadworks along its length not even slowing them down. As they neared Leeds, the skies began to artificially brighten as thousands of street lights turned night into day.
“Can’t you find out what’s happening?” Ben asked Jo. It had already been fifteen minutes since the army officer had made the call.
“They won’t keep us civilians in the loop. We’re acting unofficially here, don’t forget. Downside to that is it gives us no juice.”
“Unofficially? What do you mean?”
“If things had been made official this op would have been cancelled weeks ago.” Jo sighed. “Due to no credible threat. Drake didn’t agree. Hence,” another sigh, “you’re alive.”
“Drake? He sent you?”
“That he did, mate.”
“Damn. He can still do that?”
Sam laughed at the lad’s naivety. “Not a chance. But we’ve had some downtime coming for months.”
“That being said,” Jo added. “We’re on our last two days.”
Silence descended as Ben realized how close he had come. Grief struck him a moment later when he thought about Stacey lying in a pool of blood back there, dead because she had done nothing but go out with him. He choked and had to push a hand over his face to stem the sorrow.
A hand covered in dried blood.
Again. He flashed back to the soldier who had died during the battle of the Singen tomb. Was this his destiny? To always have fresh blood on his hands?
Man up, kid. Man up. It was way past time.
Sam tapped the silver-trimmed satnav. It showed the estimated time of arrival as being eight minutes from now. “Let’s start prepping.”
Jo made sounds in the back seat. Ben heard fresh magazines being inserted into two guns and the sound of clips being pulled back. He stared out the windscreen at the familiar streets. “Thought you said these special cops know what they’re doing.”
Jo leaned forward. “We’re always prepared.” He handed a fully loaded weapon to Sam and sat back.
“Stay in the car,” Sam said as the secluded entrance to the street where Ben’s parents lived came up on the right. The vehicle swung into the tree-lined road, stopping immediately as they saw two big police cars blocking their path.
“That’s good,” Sam said, noting Ben’s panicked look. “Jo, c’mon.”
The two men jumped out. Ben watched them go, but could not stand to stay alone. Twenty minutes ago he had spoken to his dad, voice trembling, running quickly through the details and begging his dad to get to safety. At first the older Blake had laughed, both Ben and Karin had always played down their role in world events, but when Ben explained what had happened to Stacey, the raw emotion which had thickened his voice had made all the difference.
“I hear the sirens,” his dad had said. “I hear them, Ben.”
Then the line had gone dead. Sam explained that the police sometimes used a cellular phone jammer and had also been known to sever landlines, though Sam didn’t sound particularly convincing on the latter detail. The hardening of his features betrayed his concern.
Now Ben watched Sam and Jo approach the tree line surrounding his parents’ house. They moved gracefully, in time, and with a modicum of energy expended. Their heads were in constant motion, surveying every angle and each other’s backs. Their professionalism was unmatched.
But still… he couldn’t just wait in the dark, hoping his parents would come running out surrounded by a gaggle of cops. Chances were the cops were interviewing them inside. They would want to know he was safe.
Ben cracked open the door and stepped out into the cool night. The tall, densely packed trees whispered their observations high above, stirred by a flurry of breezes. The blue Mercedes ticked in the sudden silence. From another street, a world away, a car alarm yelped out a warning. Ben crossed the road, following in the footsteps of Sam and Jo. He paused at the tree line, then made his way to the open gate. It swayed and creaked slightly, making Ben smile. His mother had hounded his father for years about that creaking gate. “All it would take is a blast of WD40,” she used to moan. “Can’s in the cupboard,” he used to retort, smiling affectionately. They enjoyed many such friendly squabbles.
Now Ben made his way through the gate and up the driveway. The front door was open, but that could be for any number of reasons. Lights burned in the front room — a good sign. Sam and Jo were nowhere to be seen…
Ben strained his ears but heard no sound. Shadows scudded across the moon overhead, creating patterns of black and silver. A light rain began to fall, so gentle it was barely noticeable. At that moment, movement caught his attention from the back of the house. He crouched, feeling both foolish and scared, but soon recognized Sam’s face.
“What did I tell you to do?”
Ben saw that the hardness molding the army man’s features had deepened, if that was possible. The deep crags and inflexible lines had become chasms. Behind him, Jo pulled up, his face a mirror to Sam’s.
“No.” Ben whispered. “No…”
Sam rushed forward, lowering his weapon. “I’m sorry.” He crushed Ben into his arms and held the lad as he struggled.
Ben tried to push Sam away. He might as well have tried to reason with an anaconda. Sam continued to apologize, then Jo was there too, laying a hand on his shoulder.