Dillon turned sharply.
Kirill was now on his feet — but now held a gun pointing directly at Dillon. Dillon’s stare met that of the older man. There was coldness in his eyes — a steely hardness that Dillon had previously seen. The hardness was that of a cold blooded killer.
“What is you want from me?” Dillon spoke softly and with total calmness.
“What indeed you bastard,” hissed Kirill in a spray of spittle and blood. “Drop the Glock — now!”
Dillon glanced across at Zhenya; and she had changed, a change that was so dramatic that it actually shocked him. The tears had dried, the frightened young girl — gone. She was standing, a small Russian handbag pistol in her hands. The lethal looking weapon was pointing at him.
“I don’t get any of this,” growled Dillon. “I thought you were working for the British Government?”
“I told you to drop your fucking weapon!” Screamed Kirill, the pain of his beating was showing as each word was heavily laced with an edge of urgency.
Something cold and sinister inside Dillon’s head — came alive.
Zhenya smiled at him and gave a small shrug.
“Don’t act so surprised, Dillon. It’s not as if you’re a blood relative.”
Dillon knew then: knew that he would die. There were two targets, both brandishing guns and the odds were against him dropping them both in the blink of an eye… He was surely going to die, in that kitchen under the bastard’s country castle. Murdered and so obviously betrayed by… By who? And for what reason? What game was being played here? And why was hethe centre of attention all of a sudden?
“Because you were always the target — you cock,” whispered the stony voice deep within his mind. A sudden calmness took over Dillon’s mind — excitement made his finger-tips tingle — adrenalin pumped into his heart — and Dillon knew exactly what he had to do…
Kirill was still standing a few feet away. He dabbed at his split lip with a fore-finger and it came away flecked with blood. He waved the heavy looking Browning in his right hand, his face a contorted animal snarl. “I said drop your fucking weapon now!”
Dillon held both hands in the air as a sign of surrender, and then began to stoop, as if to place the Glock on the ground.
Dillon blinked and the world changed from Technicolor to the harsh black and white tones of a 1960’s film set. His brain screamed at him; “Do it now…”
And, slowly, the merciless killer inside the darkest recess of Dillon’s mind opened his eyes.
Chapter 3
The scene was a stark colourless black and white picture. He smiled at the blood smeared Kirill; the Glock felt good in his left hand, reassuring, like an old friend. It had become a part of him, his body and soul. It was held low as he stooped, at an angle. All it took was a twitch.
Dillon flicked his wrist — faster than thought — and squeezed the trigger.
Kirill was blown backwards, folding in half with a grunt of expelled air, and he slumped, sprawling to the ground with a look of sudden horror on his face. He dropped the gun. He looked down to where his hands clutched a widening patch of crimson at his belly. Dillon, in the same movement, spun on his heel, the Glock flashing up sideways and, again, he pulled the trigger — the bullet smashed into Zhenya’s shoulder, spinning her back to rebound from a tall stainless steel cabinet. She hit the ground hard, moaning, blood splashing down onto the cold stone floor, her small ornate Russian gun forgotten. “Fucking devious woman,” snarled Dillon, and moved forward to kneel beside Kirill.
“It takes a very long time and pain like you’ve never before experienced to die from a stomach wound,” he said with malice. “It really is going to hurt — a lot.” He smashed the butt of the Glock across Kirill’s already broken nose. Kirill screamed out in pain — and another two heavy blows silenced him, reducing his scream to a foaming gurgle.
Dillon moved back across the room to the door at the rear of the kitchen. He flicked open the mobile phone to scan the area for anyone in the small preparation room on the other side. The device was being jammed and every application; including normal phone functions had been disabled. No scans. No location finder. Nothing. Confusion wrenched his face as he realised that he was totally alone — not even Vince Sharp could contact him.
Dillon searched the recesses of his mind — it took the blink of an eye — then, opening the door, he ran across the room, vaulting the stainless-steel worktop and toward the far wall, diving head long into the rubbish chute, he pushed his way into the tight hole, kicked at the stainless-steel base, and allowed himself to slide down and out the other end into a large commercial size wheelie-bin that had, thankfully, been emptied that morning.
The sound of rapid automatic gun-fire came from above.
Dillon climbed out and landed softly and looked around. He was standing in an underground service area. He moved past pallets and wooden crates towards the back of the room and a solid looking door. He pushed it open, waited a few seconds, and when nothing happened he crouched down low and rolled through the opening; coming up to a squat with the Glock held out in front of him. He checked left and then right, shifting his position to the cover of a large upright pillar. The underground garage. He moved past various cars covered with tailored protective covers. He halted, looking sideways at a gleaming black Porsche 911 Carrera 4S — it took a second or two for Dillon’s brain to register this. Then he ran forward to the ramp and the wide Aluminium security roller shutter door leading from the garage. He peered through the crack into total darkness. Dillon looked down at the mobile phone in his hand, rolled it over gently in his palm a couple of times and as if by magic the LED’s flickered and glowed from the device. The app’s menu appeared and rotated around the screen, Dillon tapped the screen twice and the colour of it changed from blue to red and two spikes appeared at the base of the device. He pressed the spikes against the electrical access panel to one side of the roller door and the next instant the screen colour changed to green and there was a sharp click and then a little smoke spiralled out of the top of the casing. Silently, he eased the aluminium door up a fraction.
Running back to the Porsche, he tried the door — locked. He used the spikes on the phone, once again, to disarm the alarm and override the vehicle’s locking system, then opened the driver’s door leant in and felt for the ignition wiring. A few cuts. A few twists to bypass the immobiliser and he was sitting behind the wheel gunning the 3.6ltr flat-six engine, clutch dipped, into first, depress the throttle to 6,000 revs.
Dillon settled back into to the leather sports seat and popped the clutch.
The Carrera rear tyres gripped the tarmac and it shot up the ramp and under the roller shutter door with barely six inches to spare. Machine pistols on full automatic turned on Dillon as the Porsche shot like a bullet down the gravel drive, the Glock thumping in Dillon’s right hand. Skidding around the water fountain, Dillon blew a hole in an Assassin’s head, that you could have driven a bus through, with a single shot. He kept the revs high in second gear and the rear wheels kicked up gravel as he drifted around the fountain one more time before shooting off straight down the drive and away from the three figures that ran from the gate-house with their machine pistols blazing.
Bullets slammed into the side panels of the Porsche and Dillon stamped on the throttle as the car hit 165 m.p.h. He held onto the steering wheel like a limpet, an incredible grin across his face, the Glock forgotten in the joy and concentration of controlling this screaming insanity machine as the rev needle flickered on the redline.