“Palmer?” he yelled.
“Over here, Dillon,” came the shout from one of the adjoining rooms.
Dillon looked around the stainless steel cabinets — all clear — he then peered over the tops, pans sat atop gas burners, their contents bubbling and simmering with half cooked soups and vegetables. There were no cooks to be found and, as he moved between the cabinets and around the room, the hairs on the back of his neck bristled with anticipation.
“Hold your fire — I’m coming in.”
He stepped into the large brightly-lit room; a long overhead fluorescent light hung from two short chains in what appeared to be the kitchens main walk-in larder cold-room. There were sacks of vegetables and crates of produce stacked against the walls. Dillon looked around and saw Palmer, not more than five feet away, standing beside an ashen-faced Zhenya.
Dillon turned and, met Palmer’s stare and he knew — knew that something was definitely wrong — the Browning in Palmer’s hand rose and was now pointing at Dillon.
“I am very sorry, my friend. But it’s now time for you to really retire — permanently.
Dillon looked Palmer in the eye, and nodded gently. “I hadn’t figured…” He brought the Glock up in a blur, and fired a rounddirectly into Palmer’s throat; the bullet entered the throat at the Adam’s Apple and made an explosive exit through the back of Palmer’s head across the wall and ceiling. Palmer was thrown backwards landing against wooden crates, as if in slow motion, sliding down them until sitting almost upright on the tiled floor.
“…on having to kill so early in the evening,” Dillon finished.
“Dillon,” Zhenya ran to him and fell into his arms. He hugged her briefly, and then closed the door — sealing them inside the storage room. He sat the girl down onto one of the wooden crates and moved to Palmer’s blood-drenched body and checked through his pockets. He took the dead man’s Browning, pushing it into the waistband of his trousers in the small of his back and collecting the spare magazine clips.
“What’s happening?” said Zhenya.
“Bad shit, that’s what. Something very dark.” Dillon said with malice. “The question is. How the fuck did they get past MI6 and all of their security sensors that are placed throughout the grounds and inside the house? Either a very large sum of money has changed hands, or something is at play. Something that I don’t understand.”
“What about my uncle?”
“The guests have all been herded to one end of the ball room and there’s the possibility that the Professor is with them. There are at least eight gunmen…” Palmer’s word’s came back to him again. Was this whole thing a set-up? Something didn’t feel right — everything was too easy — too neat.
Like attempting to unravel a puzzle with some of the pieces missing, Dillon’s brain grappled with the implications.
“Trust me about this, Zhenya, and don’t ask questions. We’ve got to get out of here and away from the main house.”
The mobile phone vibrated in his hand. “Yes?”
“It’s Vince. I hear you have company down there. I’ve secured the use of an American satellite that’s passing over. I’m now your eyes, old son. There are at least twelve of them. They came in from the woods — and have already killed the three MI6 boys who were stationed in that sector. Where’s Palmer?”
“Dead,” said Dillon. “We now have at least eight Assassins in the main ballroom. Two were on the first floor and I’ve already taken care of them. Two were taken out as I crossed the courtyard. Are you sure about there being twelve to start with, Vince?”
“Absolutely. I’m using the thermal imaging on-board the satellite and I’ve used the electronic guest-list to calculate how many people should be inside the house — the numbers tally perfectly.”
What do you suggest?”
“You are currently inside the main kitchen on the lower ground floor. Is this correct?”
“Yes.”
“The girl is with you?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. Stay right where you are. I’ll liase with MI6 and get them into position outside in the courtyard to cover you both as you come through the door.”
“Well be quick. I don’t know how much time we have.”
A few seconds later, Vince Sharp was talking to Dillon again.
“Jake, make your way up to the top of the stairs and wait just inside the door. Roth and his men will be there to escort you both out. Good luck, old friend.”
“Thanks — we’re going to need it.”
Dillon closed the cover on the phone and slipped it into his jacket pocket; he looked at Zhenya. “We are in deep shit. You need to follow my every order if you want to survive. Understand?”
The girl looked at Dillon, not comprehending what he was saying.
Dillon grabbed hold of her arms and shook her, hard. “You understand what I’m saying?”
“Yes — I understand. Let go of me, you’re hurting.”
Dillon released his grip. “This is what we are going to do. They think we’re going to leave through the back door; they don’t know that I’ve killed Palmer.”
There was a sound. Dillon moved smoothly to the door he had originally entered through and opened it — fast, the barrel of the Glock moving, scanning.
“My God,” hissed Dillon, removing his finger from the trigger.
Professor Kirill had been severely beaten. Blood covered his face and had spilled down the front of his white dress shirt. By the look of it he had a broken nose and his lips were badly swollen and split from the repeated blows upon him. He staggered forward, the reek of alcohol surrounding him like some sort of cheap cologne. Dillon helped him into the kitchen and checked the stairway outside; he could see the door sensor flickering and he checked the phone’s touch-screen once more. He scrolled through and found the security application, tapped the screen once and it immediately lit up with a complex looking grid system. He activated the function: anybody else entering the kitchen or stairway would now trigger the silent alarm.
“Uncle!” Zhenya ran over to Kirill, hugged him, and helped him to sit down as he winced with pain. His bloodied nose was dripping onto the tiled floor, as he stared in horror at the pool of blood surrounding Palmer’s corpse slumped on the floor of the storage room.
“You killed him?”
“Let’s just say that he wasn’t up to the job and his contract has been terminated — permanently.”
Dillon, the Glock still in his grip, crouched in front of Kirill.
“What’s happening here?”
“There are eight of them. They have imprisoned the guests at one end of the ball room. They have sent me to give you a message…”
“Me? But they think — ”
Dillon paused. the only way that they could know that Mark Palmer was dead was if they had the kitchen bugged for sound and vision — or had access to and were listening in on the MI6 commsnetwork. That meant that the entire MI6 protection unit were in on the assassination. But why wait for Kirill’s party in Cornwall — why not take Zhenya out in Scotland with a snipers bullet?
Dillon’s phone started to vibrate in his jacket pocket — the alarm warning him that movement had been detected. He moved quickly to the doorway; his Glock went around the door and sent a warning shot up the stairway leading in from the courtyard. There was no return fire and no more movement detected.