A sound behind him made Stevenson glance over his shoulder. Despite knowing that the other members of the security unit were posted at the rear, protecting his back from infiltration, Stevenson nevertheless felt that something was not quite as it should be. He scratched at his short trimmed beard and frowned, eyes trying to pick out any movement in the gloom. Then he brought round the rifle and sighted down the scope. There — he definitely saw something… A figure darting behind a tree? Or a trick played by the swaying branches in the shadowy gloom fuelled by the desire for tobacco?
He adjusted the scope slightly, but could see nothing more between the tree’s dense foliage. He shifted his aching muscles in the rain, feeling trickles run down the back of his neck.
“God, will this effing rain ever give up?” Stevenson muttered. He lowered the rifle for a brief moment to wipe his face dry, and in the same instant the black cross-bow bolt hissed through the darkness and slammed into his forehead, disappeared into soft brain tissue and on exit lodged itself in the timber cladding of the potting shed. Stevenson hadn’t had any time to close his eyes or even shout a warning to his colleagues. He had been pinned silently backwards against the side of the timber building that he had been crouching next to, his unseeing eyes now staring straight ahead. Blood and gore mixed with rain seeped out from the exit wound of his smashed skull, congealing in his hair and soak into the timber at the back of his head. There were soft footsteps; four figures crouched by the corpse. One of them lifted the weapon from the ground and ran a black gloved hand over the cold metal.
“Leave it. We don’t need it.” The words were spoken in a clipped military fashion. The weapon was dropped onto the soft earth beneath their feet and the figures disappeared into the night.
Ninety minutes had passed. Dillon could feel himself growing weary and motioning to Zhenya he followed her into the relative calm and cool of the glasshouse located just off one of the many sittingrooms. He took a small pen-like cylinder from his pocket, twisted the top off to reveal a short needle, and stuck it decisively into his neck and then replaced it back in his pocket.
“What was that?” asked Zhenya.
“A stimulant. Made specifically for me by our chemists at Ferran & Cardini. Allows me to keep going and stay alert, but more importantly it takes my primary senses to a higher-level. Lasts about twelve hours, but I’ll pay for it tomorrow.”
Zhenya smiled, and shivered. “It’s cold in here.”
Dillon looked at her, then turning, walked back inside the sittingroom and through to the hall, Zhenya was only one step behind him. His gaze moving up the sweeping staircase. “Do you feel that cold air?”
Zhenya nodded.
“Well, it wasn’t there earlier.”
“One of the guests have probably just opened a window, said Zhenya, as Dillon discreetly withdrew the Glock and with his free hand waved Zhenya to keep close behind him. He pulled free his mobile phone and opened the channel that the security service was using.
“Palmer?”
“Yes?”
“Can you come to the foot of the main staircase? I think we have uninvited company.”
“Okay.”
Mark Palmer was there within twenty seconds, a small black Berretta pistol in his hand. “Stay with Zhenya for a moment or two,” said Dillon. “I have a really bad feeling about this…”
“Wait, I’ll get some of my men to back you up.”
“No time.”
Dillon followed the cold air, his running shoes silent on the thick carpet. He felt adrenalin and the recently injected stimulant kick his system and with this surge of energy and heightened awareness he climbed two steps at a time to the first floor landing. The music drifted into the distance, a surreal ambience. He checked the security service interface screen — ten minutes since all members had checked in with Mark Palmer. Dillon frowned. An awful lot could happen in ten minutes.
He moved into a darkened doorway that was located directly opposite a nearby window on the wide landing and, crouching low, peered out into the darkness. He couldn’t see any of the positioned snipers — but that didn’t mean they were not there.
He moved cat like along the landing, keeping low and moving fast, all the time keeping his free hand outstretched following the gentle breeze.
Stopping in front of a broad oak door, he rested his hand against the polished wood.
His senses were alive; the thought of what might be on the other side, excited him.
He pushed gently and stepped aside; the door swung free. Dillon peered in, and then with the Glock held outstretched in front of him, slid in. The room was pitch-black and he swiftly turned on the main light…
Empty.
Dillon moved towards the window, which was open, no more than a four inch gap. He looked out, then down, immediately spotted the muddy scuff mark on the wooden sill — and suddenly realised that he was an easy target against the window. He moved fast, as the hollow-point round smashed through the glass and embedded itself in the ceiling.
Dillon rolled away from the window, was up and running.
He shouted into the comm, “We have uninvited guests, I repeat, uninvited guests — first floor entry.”
He flewout of the doorway and into the path of a startled blackclad figure; the Glock kicked twice in his hand and the intruder was hurled backwards off its feet, its hands groping around its throat in a futile attempt to stem the flow of blood pumping out of the bullet wounds as it hit the carpeted floor, hard.
Dillon looked left and right. From somewhere in the house came the sound of distant screams and rapid automatic gunfire. He ran to the top of the stairs and a stream of silenced bullets slammed into the surrounding woodwork, sending splinters and chunks of balustrade in all directions. He dived, rolling up against the far wall with a jarring thud. His gaze fixed on the bullet holes in the woodwork, judged the angle of entry and determined where the shooter was positioned, rolled over twice and fired off six rounds in quick succession. Then, scrambling to his feet, he ran across the landing.
The silenced machine pistol devoured the wall behind him as Dillon reached the top flight of stairs and started to descend them two at a time; his Glock kicked in his hand once more, four rounds that picked up the Assassin and sent it spinning down the remaining stairs where it lay crumpled at the foot, blood soaking into the plush ivory coloured carpet.
The hall was quiet — no guests — no security service.
How many of them were there? Dillon thought as he crept down the remaining stairs and over the dead Assassin’s body. The comm. in his ear crackled. “Dillon, Palmer. I have Zhenya in the kitchens. There are eight of them in the main ballroom — they’ve rounded all of the guests up and are holding them in there. Oh and, Dillon. They’re heavily armed with some nasty little toys.”
“I know. I’ve already taken down two of them,” said Dillon softly as he put home another full clip into the Glock. “You stay there, I’m coming to you.”
Dillon moved quickly along the wide hallway towards the ballroom, stopping momentarily outside to listen. Everything was quiet apart from the occasional whimper from some of the guests who were otherwise silent. Dillon slowly eased his head around the corner; a black-clad Assassin stood guard with a silenced 9mm Micro UZI SMG. Dillon fired two rounds and ran off in the opposite direction towards the courtyard. As he burst through the outer door, bullets tore the wood and plaster only inches behind him. Outside in the courtyard he ducked and darted in between large pillars, returned fire as he ran, taking down two more of the Assassins, before he’d made it to the door. Glass and wood splintered as he dashed through and down the stone steps to the main kitchen, all the time the tirade of bullets kept coming. He made it to the bottom of the steps and launched himself onto the tiled floor, sliding between stainless steel cabinets on his belly until he came up against the far wall.