“I like your choice of pistol, Mr Dillon. In fact, I like it so much; I’m going to use it to kill you with.” Kurt backed away towards the stern rail, smiling. “I would normally get this over with quickly. Say, with a bullet to the head. But, I’m going to make an exception in your case.” The German’s voice was as hard as tungsten steel.
“I should have killed you, that first time on the cliff top. But you have a nasty habit of surviving, Mr Dillon. I think a bullet to each kneecap, will not only stop you running away, but will ensure that you feel maximum pain. Then, I am going to leave you to bleed for a while, kill your three friends, starting with that idiot in the inflatable, and then come back and finish you off very slowly. Herr Malakoff, will approve of this.”
“Well, bully for old Malakoff, I’m surprised that he’s not out here himself.” Dillon said defiantly.
Rob Chapman, watching through the night vision goggles, at the scene unravelling on the stern deck. Had seen Kurt come out through the hatch, and had never felt so useless in his life. His frustration at hearing every spoken word, and not being able to physically help Dillon was overwhelming.
Mazzarin was leaning over the starboard side, AK47 pointing in Rob’s direction, telling him in no uncertain terms what would happen if he didn’t clear off immediately. Chapman wasted no more time, and started to pull hard on the oars.
“Jake, You look as if you could do with some help,” Chapman whispered. “Move back against the bulkhead now. Nod, if you hear me.” Dillon moved his head, and the next moment, Chapman threw a stun grenade at the Solitaire.
Kurt heard the object land onto the teak deck with a dull thud, no more than twelve feet away from him. As he turned to see what it was, Dillon rolled backwards, towards the cover of the bulkhead, immediately curling himself into a ball, covering his ears with both hands, and closing his eyes tightly shut. A second later, the grenade went off with a deafening sound, and blinding white light. Sending the confused bodyguard backwards over the rail, and onto the dive platform six feet below. He landed heavily on the deck, his left arm snapping backwards on impact.
Dillon stood up cautiously, a little shaken, but otherwise unharmed by the grenade’s detonation and he was instantly aware of Mazzarin’s footsteps coming up the gangway towards him. He remained cloaked in the shadows, pressed up against the bulkhead, until Mazzarin was standing in front of him, in the middle of the deck.
Dillon watched, as the Frenchman stood looking around him. Then he went to the rail, looked over, and saw Kurt laying on the dive platform below. Mazzarin started towards the steps, Dillon saw his opportunity, moved with cat-like stealth and was behind the former legionnaire in an instant. The other man didn’t have time to look around, or even know what was happening, death was instantaneous, and then his body went limp and he dropped on to the wooden deck. His neck broken, with one quick bone crunching jerk sideward. Dillon stood over the body, glanced down at the crumpled heap at his feet, and said quietly, “Three down, and three to go.” He then picked up the AK47, and threw it over the side rail into the harbour.
Looking down, Dillon could see Kurt lying awkwardly; face down, on the dive platform below. Although, he appeared to be unconscious, Dillon still went slowly down the steps towards him to retrieve his gun. At the bottom, he moved cautiously around the inert body, looking for the Glock, and found it not more than two feet away, bent down to pick it up, and had his legs kicked out from under him.
“Thought I was dead, did you, Dillon. Well it takes more than a stun grenade, and a dislocated shoulder, to kill me off. And now, prepare yourself to die, because I’m going to kill you with my bare hands.” Kurt told him through clenched teeth. He was now towering over Dillon, about to put the steel toe-cap into his groin.
Dillon spun round on his back, rotated his body through three hundred and sixty degrees, just like a break dancer does, and with the momentum of this he was able to roll backwards and flip himself into a crouching position, only just avoiding Kurt’s boot, which kicked at nothing more than fresh air. Dillon grabbed it with both hands, lifted, and sent Kurt reeling backwards. He landed heavily, arms flaying to break his fall. The pain in his left shoulder so intense, that he almost passed out.
Dillon was never totally certain what happened afterwards because everything moved so fast.
Kurt, somehow found a second wind, and was on his feet in an instant, his right arm sweeping Dillon’s extended left to the side, the Glock discharging into the deck. Dillon tried to manoeuvre himself into a more advantageous position, but Kurt moved quickly, side stepped, and immediately closed in on the Englishman. His arm went around Dillon’s neck, and then he started to tighten his grip. Dillon dropped the pistol on to the deck, brought both hands up, and grabbed a hold of the German’s sweaty forearm in an attempt to alleviate the pressure on his windpipe.
“So, you’re the best they’ve got, are you? Well, not for much longer, English.” Kurt mocked, as he wrestled Dillon down onto the deck, his arm still locked around the Englishman’s throat.
“If you’re going to do it, big man. Do it, don’t talk about it.” Dillon goaded, dug his fingernails into Kurt’s bare flesh, and after a second or two, the pressure was relaxed. He broke free from the crushing grip that he’d found himself locked in, and immediately scrabbled to retrieve the Glock, rolled over and turned to face the other man, pistol whipping him viciously across the side of his face. Blood immediately started to flow from the deep slash to his cheek, running down the side of his face, over his chin and splashing onto the deck beneath him.
Dazed by the blow, Kurt had to use all of his remaining strength to stand up. By which time, Dillon was already on his feet and moving in on him.
“Hey, big man. You’re looking a bit shaky on your feet, there. Perhaps you should call one of your friends for help?” Dillon said disparagingly, and then added, “Oh, but I almost forgot. Most of them are already dead, aren’t they?”
Kurt twisted round, and with rage running through him, lurched forward and pushed Dillon backwards towards the edge of the dive platform. It was the last thing he ever did above water. Dillon let himself go straight over, taking the German with him.
As they went into the water, Dillon held on tight to the other man, pulling him down with him, all the way to the bottom. Kurt struggled to get free, his lungs already starting to feel like they were going to burst. He rolled over and tumbled in a futile attempt to get away; but, Dillon was in his element, able to hold his breath for at least four minutes.
At first Kurt struggled very hard indeed, feet kicking and arms flaying around in all directions, but quickly he weakened. Finally, he was still and Dillon let go of the lifeless body, which hovered belly-down, just above the seabed. It rolled over, and unseeing eyes stared back at him through the murky water. Before Dillon started for the surface, he unbuckled his weight belt and tied it around the dead man’s waist. His own lungs now very nearly at bursting point, he kicked off and let himself float gently back up. As he broke water, he took in great lungfuls of air.
Through the tiny earpiece, came Rob Chapman’s voice. “You okay, Jake?” He could see Dillon clearly through the night vision goggles.
“I’m okay.” Dillon replied breathlessly, and waved at Chapman in the inflatable.
“So how many of them are left?” Chapman whispered.
“Malakoff and the Captain. Everyone else has been taken care of. Permanently.” Dillon said, and started to climb the dive ladder.
“Jake, it’s Vince. Just a little reminder, that you have no more than five minutes before the harbour master gets suspicious about the CCTV, and calls in the security company to check it out. Get your skates on, chap.”