'What doesn't?'Will asked.
Ahmed's eyes flickered down to the sight of Priestley's body on the ground. 'Revenge,' he said simply. 'I thought it would feel different to this. Better.' He turned his gaze back to Will. 'You will find this out soon enough.' The Afghan closed his eyes and waited for the inevitable.
He's manipulating you, a voice spoke in Will's head. Don't listen to him. Do what you have to do.
But still something stopped him. A sudden doubt that this was the right thing to do. Surely the real criminal had been dealt with. The man who had been ultimately responsible for his family's death lay dead at his feet. The general had been killed; only the foot soldier remained. And as Ahmed stood there, resolutely waiting for death, Will couldn't help a creeping feeling of respect.
But respect wasn't enough to save Ahmed now.
'Open your eyes,' Will growled.
Ahmed's eyelids flickered open and he stared at Will, his face impossible to read.
'How did you get in here?'
A faint smile flickered across Ahmed's face. 'You don't really expect me to give away all my secrets, do you, Will?'
They stood there in silence, Ahmed's hands still firmly on his head, Will's arm outstretched, the handgun pointing straight at his enemy. He took a deep breath and prepared to fire.
To end it all.
Now.
It happened so quickly. At lightning speed, Ahmed's right arm delved into his coat and reappeared holding another weapon.
A sudden surge of adrenaline rushed through Will's body. He squeezed the trigger. But it was too late.
Ahmed's bullets were almost noiseless as they exploded from the suppressed firearm, but they slammed into Will's left shoulder with a thumping ferocity. He was knocked back against the wall and, as if in slow motion, he saw a hole explode in the wall where his own stray bullets made contact; then he saw Ahmed repositioning his gun, aiming it at his head.
Will Jackson knew he only had one chance to save his life.
He fired three times in quick succession. The shots cracked loudly.
The first bullet hit Ahmed in the chest, knocking him back half a metre and ensuring that the Afghan's next shot fell wide of its mark.
The second bullet found his throat. Ahmed dropped his gun and moved his hands up to where the blood was suddenly spurting from him like some grotesque fountain.
It was the third bullet that killed him as it thudded directly into the upper region of his head.
The Afghan crumpled to the ground. Motionless. Dead. Will's training demanded that he walk over to his target and despatch a head shot to ensure that the guy had been finished off. But there was no need. No one took that kind of punishment and lived. Not even Faisal Ahmed.
There is nothing more silent than death and in the stillness that followed, Will almost forgot that he'd been hit. He staggered towards Ahmed's body and looked down at him. The man's face was unrecognisable. A bloodied mess. And as Will stared at the sight he had longed for, he felt curiously numb.
Ahmed had been right, the thought flashed through his head. Revenge wasn't sweet. Revenge wasn't what he thought it would be at all.
And then, with a sudden, agonising stab, the pain hit him — a cold, sinister pain spreading from his wound. He felt his legs going weak and, looking down, he saw he was losing blood quickly. He needed help, but there was one thing he had to do first. Will bent down and felt in between the folds of the dead man's clothes. Sure enough there was a mobile phone.
He pocketed it, then staggered back to the door. Taking one look back at the room — it looked like a fucking slaughterhouse — he stumbled along the landing and down the hall, leaving a trail of blood. He started to feel light-headed and as he went down the stairs he stumbled, smearing blood over the banister as he fell against it.
At the foot of the stairs he tumbled again. Jesus, the blood was pouring out of him now. He needed help. Quickly. It took all his strength to push himself up to his feet and he slipped slightly in his own blood as he launched himself across the hallway towards the front door.
The room was spinning. He gritted his teeth and banged weakly on the door. Then collapsed to the ground.
The door opened and the armed policeman towered above Will. It took him a moment to take in what was happening. 'Fucking hell!' he muttered as he saw the blood flowing out of Will's gunshot wound.
When Will spoke his voice sounded alarmingly weak, even to him. 'Get me a medic,' he croaked, hoarsely. 'Now!'
And then, like a black wave crashing over his mind, darkness engulfed him as he passed out.
TWENTY
Will awoke gradually. The first thing he noticed was the pain.
His left shoulder throbbed and pulsated; the rest of his body ached and his head had the woolly stuffiness that instantly told him he had been sedated. There was something on his face and as he forced his bleary eyes open he realised it was an oxygen mask. It was uncomfortable and water vapour from his breath had condensed on the inside. Fumbling to take it off, he noticed a dressing on his shoulder, fresh and white and taped down on to his skin with sticking plaster. Each of his hands had intravenous tubes injected into the skin and on either side of his bed there were clear bags of colourless liquid being drip-fed into his system.
The curtains in his room were closed and he noticed in his half-awake state that there was carpet on the floor. That meant it was a private room. A private hospital. But where? With difficulty he pushed himself up on to his elbows, but he soon collapsed heavily back down on to the bed and closed his eyes again.
'How are you feeling, Will?' a voice asked.
Will forced his eyes open again. He hadn't noticed anyone else in the room and he didn't like the surprise. The voice was familiar, but for the moment his mind was too muddled for him to be able to place it. 'Who's that?' he breathed with difficulty.
A pause, and then he became aware of a figure standing over his bedside. He opened his eyes and squinted them into focus. A face appeared — thick black hair and square glasses.
'Pankhurst,' Will said, weakly. 'Where the hell am I?
'Hospital,' Pankhurst stated, before repeating his question. 'How do you feel?'
'Like shit.'
'Then you feel better than you look. It's been touch and go for you. Priestley's house looked like a bloodbath, Will, and our guys seemed to think that a lot of the blood was yours.'
'Ahmed hit me.'
'Obviously. But you hit him better. Assuming, that is, that the chap with half a face was indeed Faisal Ahmed.'
'Yeah,' Will replied. 'That was him.' He groaned as a wave of pain passed through his wound.
'Then congratulations,' Pankhurst replied, blandly. 'You got what you wanted. Does that make you feel a bit better?'
For some reason it wasn't a question Will felt inclined to answer. His face screwed up again as another wave of pain hit him.
'You have a self-administered morphine drip attached to you,' Pankhurst pointed out. He fumbled by Will's bedside and showed him the handheld pump. 'I wouldn't recommend using it, though.' He placed the pump just out of Will's reach.
Will looked up at the DG's blurry face. 'Why the hell not?' he asked, suddenly desperate for the morphine now he knew it was there.
Pankhurst took a couple of steps backwards.
'Because you need to get out of here as quickly as possible. We managed to scrape you up from Priestley's house without the CIA knowing where we were taking you, but we're not going to be able to keep them in the dark for long. They'll track you down any moment and I can promise you that they're going to want some answers.'