If she was alive, then he had to save her.
And Kirill — alive, and using her as bait?
Dillon smiled a nasty grin.
“Our next meeting Professor, will be a sweet one, I’ll make sure of that.” He said softly.
The briefing was over. The intelligence officers were making final preparations for their departure; including the incorporation of a highly sophisticated software programme that Vince was uploading to the database of the three JetRanger helicopters to help them evade surface-to-air and air-to-air missiles.
From the airfield, they were to fly to the north west of the county, and then back down to the coast in the south. Flying at five hundred feet in tight formation with no filed flight-plan and total radio silence. Ferran & Cardini International had tracked Ramus using their world network of spies, their illegal (even by criminal standards) web of optical and digital communications, and good old fashioned legwork by the intelligence men and women on the ground. That’s how they found a one-hundred and fifty foot twin hull stealth ship. The powerful craft was a dull matt black and had no name. It was a huge vessel that would no doubt hold many surprises for those attacking it. But one thing was certain: all men and women involved were willing to lay down their lives to bring the enemies of the British Realm to justice.
Dillon stood watching the hive of activity, his Glock 9mm in his hand. Lola checked over the Apache and had refuelled her, ready for Dillon’s part in the attack. Dillon did not care.
“Alix!”
Alix, now fully dressed, walked swiftly towards his friend. “Yeah?”
“I need to ask a favour.”
“Anything, man.”
“I thought Tatiana was dead but the Priest has informed me that I was wrong. Kirill and Ramus have her; they have her aboard the stealth ship. I need time, Alix; I need time to get in there and get her the hell out before you start the carnage.”
Alix stood up, mouth open. “What are you asking me, Dillon? To hold up this operation?”
“Yes. I really need this, Alix; I need the chance to get her out.” Dillon ground his teeth. He stared into the eyes of the man he trusted most. “Come on, man, you can’t let her die in there — I knowwhat you’ve got planned… Come on, man, please,” he said.
Alix closed his mouth. He frowned, glancing over his shoulder. Then he met Dillon’s iron gaze.
“Just supposing I was able to let you do this, how will we work it?”
“We fly with the JetRangers, using them as our cover. You’ll fly the Apache; I’ll act as co-pilot and Vince will be your tactical weapons officer. When we get near to the stealth ship, you’ll drop down, and I will make a house call on our friend, Ramus.”
“But, you do know what I plan, don’t you?”
Dillon nodded. “Bomb in a bag?”
Sort of. I like to think of it as a dirty-bomb in a small trunk, to be more precise. It’s a home-made Molotov cocktail with a twist at the top. You will need to be well away from there, Dillon — because when this baby goes off, it’ll send that ship down big style.”
Dillon’s face showed the strain of the last week.
“I’ll be out, Alix, with Tatiana. If I’m not…” He left the sentence unfinished and Alix scowled, licking his lips.
“As long as you know the score, man. I can give you an extra few minutes… No more…”
Dillon nodded;he knew the score, all right. He knew the dangers, the risk, the hell that he would have to travel through before he could come out the other side and get his life back to normal. Normal? He laughed.
“So… Let’s do it — and do it now,” said Alix
Dillon looked up into a darkening sky full of heavy thunderous clouds, and a feeling of foreboding filled his soul with uneasiness.
He breathed deeply and walked over to the Apache helicopter now standing on the apron alongside the three JetRangers of the intelligence service.
Dillon settled into the co-pilot’s seat alongside Alix, who was already flicking switches and turning dials as part of his pre-flight routine. A moment later the Apache’s rotors started to turn, winding up to speed for take-off. He gave the thumbs up to the three JetRanger pilots, who confirmed with the same gesture, as no radio comms. would be used throughout the mission.
The four helicopters flew in tight formation; the noise of the engines filled the air around them. Alix focused on controls and weapon systems with Vince sitting behind him monitored the screens in front and on either side of him, revising the protocols. Dillon checked the Nav-Comp for the coordinates of the stealth ship. Their fuel tanks were full.
South of the Dorset coast, mid English Channel Alix flew the Apache, constantly checking the read-outs on the screen, and with each mile flown his confidence in operating the hi-tech machine grew: and he felt good.
No, he felt more than good. He felt alive.
Dillon gazed out across the landscape five hundred feet below them as they passed over. His brain running through the sequence of events that would surely take place as he entered the stealth ship and Ramus’ lair… Alix took the lead, not out of choice, but because the Apache housed the most advanced detection equipment of all four helicopters. And now he knew what he had to do. He had to get Tatiana out. But more than that: this was about Claudia, Ezra and everyone who had died at the hands of the Assassins. This was about life and death. This was about finishing what others had begun. This was about finding the truth. And this was about …revenge.
Not for himself, no. For the innocents, the people who had died merely because they were in the way. Those individuals who had thought they had been working in jobs out of the firing line. Away from danger.
Dillon knew. Knew that he had to stop this thing and stop it fast.
“What can one man do?” Mocked his subconscious.
“One man can do enough,” he replied calmly.
Alix dropped the Apache’s altitude, flying low over green fields and large expanses of the woodlands west Dorset and then down towards the Jurassic coast in the south. They flew fast over small villages and towns; he even fancied he heard the ringing of church bells.
Dillon looked up. “It’s Sunday, then,” he said suddenly.
Alix checked the Apache’s computer systems. “Yeah, Sunday. A day of rest and worship. We’ll give them something to worship,” he said grimly. “And boy, the Priest is not a happy-chappy.” He chuckled.
Dillon checked himself: his body had taken a pounding over the last few days and he was now covered in bruises and scratches. He flexed his aching muscles, that weren’t hurting quite so much now. His ribs didn’t click as much when he moved, although the soreness was still a nuisance and his stomach still gave him twinges of pain. But the pain-killers and anti-inflammatory drugs he had dosed up on before leaving the hanger were now kicking in and now these irritants were fading… His broken ribs were still healing. The blow was just too much and he knew deep down that it was his weak point, his Achilles heel. To take another blow there? The pain would scream through his torso and physically paralyse him…
Primary location for maximum protection then, he mused idly.
The Apache and three JetRangers hummed over a huge swathe of sandy undulating terrain, a desolate battlefield landscape created by many years of training tank crews in the art of fast moving heavy artillery warfare. Their shadows tumbling across the land and then over a series of hills towards the coast. Dillon checked to make sure that they were not being tracked electronically or by other aircraft.