Sentinel Five (The Redaction Chronicles Book 2) (26 page)

ARISAIG, SCOTLAND

Twelve hours after bidding farewell to Penn and Miko, Jack Grant stepped into the porch of the little cottage, shook the rain from his shoulders and felt the warmth of the hearth from the sitting room filtering through into the hallway. He knew instantly that something was wrong; there was heaviness in the air and the cottage was ominously silent. The cottage didn't work like that; there was always noise, clutter and voices. But silence. Never!

He dropped his bag by the coat stand and listened. He gently shut the front door behind him, and instinctively reached a hand to the pistol in its holster. He would leave it undrawn – for now. As Penn had said, having it was a precaution and he had it ready, near, in case he should need it. He stepped through the connecting door and into the main living room. It was covered in a subdued glow of orange, the light from the fireplace providing both heat and light. In the corner, he took in the sight of May and Hughie, his sister and her husband, sitting on the settee. Their hands were tied, legs bound and each had a gag across their mouths. They looked exhausted, as if they'd been held for quite some time. They both had the desperate eyes of the prisoner who was terrified for their life.

His gaze moved over to the opposite side of the room. He had to squint until his eyes became accustomed to the gloom. He saw the small dining table they normally sat around, the four of them at the end of a working day and talked and chatted and laughed and cried. There was nothing normal about it now; today it looked like a scene from one of Grant's worst nightmares. For sitting in a chair facing the door where he stood, was Frank Trench and on his lap, with a gun pointed at her head, was the girl with the long, black curly hair.

“Take a seat,” said Trench, indicating the wooden chair directly opposite his. “You carrying? What am I talking about? Of course you are.”

“Don't make me draw my gun, Frank, that would be a death sentence for you,” growled Grant, lowering himself into the seat.

“Oh, I'm not stupid Jack. You think I'd let you use your gun? No, put it on the floor and kick it over to me… carefully, fingertips only please. We don't want to have an accident now, do we,” said Trench, nodding his head towards the child.

Grant removed the gun from the holster on his right hip and carefully placed it on the floor by his feet, a quick brush with his shoe slid it over towards Trench. Trench expertly back heeled it away, out of reach.

“Who's the girl? She's a pretty little thing,” said Trench nodding a head towards the child while he stroked her hair. “Is she your niece?”

Grant narrowed his eyes and fixed Trench firmly in his sights. He shook his head and said simply, “Daughter.”

Trench barked out a triumphant laugh. “Well, the ultimate prize, eh! So she's the little secret you've kept hidden all these years? Be a shame if something dreadful was to happen to her, because of her old man.”

Grant rested his hands on the edge of the table and glared at the man who had once been his colleague. “What do you want, Trench? The mission is over, the Raven's dead. The best thing you can do is to bugger off and leave us all be. None of this will solve anything.”

Trench smiled and smelled the child's hair. “Umm, she smells of strawberries… lovely. I'll tell you what I want, Jack. We're going to play a little game and decide once and for all who's the best stone cold killer in this rotten bloody business. Now, how does that sound?”

* * *

“The rules are simple. If I win, I get to take apart what's left of your family, piece by piece. I'll leave the girl until last… she's a bit young, but I'm sure I could have some fun with her. I'll let the old couple watch, before I finish them off. You'll be dead anyway, so you'll miss it all, unfortunately,” sneered Trench.

Trench had made the child sit in the corner by the fireplace, away from the action at the table and Grant's gun laid on the floor beneath his chair. She sat with her knees huddled up by her chin, eyes fixated on the two men squared off at the kitchen table. In the firelight, her black hair had taken on an almost silk-like quality.

“If you win, well obviously, you'll have the pleasure of killing me yourself. One pistol, one full magazine placed directly in front of us both on the table, safety off and ready to fire. On the count of three, first one to grab it and fire… wins.” Trench's voice had become more animated now, almost as if he was enjoying himself, ready for the revels that were to come.

Grant considered the proposition. A half chance was better than no chance, at least in his experience. But something didn't smell right…

“Why take the risk, Frank, why take the risk that I could blow your head off? Why not just kill us all now and be bloody done with it?” asked Grant, his fingers gently drumming on the edge of the table, bleeding off the adrenaline which was coursing through his veins.

Trench's mood turned quickly and when he spoke, the hatred in his voice was tangible. “Because, you little shit, I was always in your shadow! All these years; first at Redaction, then working for the Raven! Gorilla, the gunman, Gorilla, the best Redactor in the business… pah… bullshit! You were just an oik from the Army who kissed the right arses, namely that cripple, Masterman – who, by the way, I paid a little visit with last night. He's a cripple no more, if you get my meaning. The old KGB-style bullet to the back of his head; him and his good lady wife. Bastard tried to stab me with a commando knife, he nearly succeeded, so I had to beat him with my gun before he'd settle down. He didn't sing though, still a tough old bugger right until the end.” He shook his head violently. “No… I want to settle this once and for all, man against man, speed against speed. No excuses or third parties involved, totally fair. One chance and one winner!”

Grant shrugged. Trench had always been ambitious and egotistical; he just hoped that in the next few minutes it would be one of those things which would give him a tactical advantage over his enemy. Pride and ambition could be terminal for a Redactor.

“I'm going to show you something – don't try anything, or I'll have to hurt the old people,” said Trench. Like a magician demonstrating a card trick to a captive audience, Trench moved the gun forward. It was a standard Browning 9mm. He expertly removed the magazine, pulled back the slide lock and ejected the chambered round. Then he placed the vacated round back into the magazine, slammed it back inside the weapon and let the slide run forward, chambering a round. As a last measure, he flicked off the safety making the weapon ready to fire, before gently placing it down onto the centre of the table and spinning it around like a carousel. The gun came to rest with the butt facing Trench and the slide facing Grant.

Both men stared down at it for a moment, pensive, each gauging if the other would make a pre-emptive grab for it. The air was still, the only noise the faint crackle and popping of the fire in the hearth. Then the moment was past and the two gunmen sat back to weigh up their options for this macabre game. It was Grant who broke the silence. “So how does it work then, Frank; you call the numbers, or do we just bluff it out and go for it rough and tumble style?”

Trench shook his head, his eyes hard and cold. Then he lifted an accusing finger and pointed at the little girl sitting in the corner of the room. “She counts to three and on three, we make our play. Fastest to the draw wins.”

Grant nodded his understanding of the rules and smiled. He also understood how Trench operated and he doubted if the killer would play by the rules at all, even if he had been the one to initiate them. Trench was a man who wasn't to be trusted… or underestimated. Grant glanced over at his daughter. “Close your eyes and don't look up, no matter what happens. Understand?”

The girl nodded and dropped her head forward so that it rested on her knees, then as an extra protection against the violence to come, she covered her head with her arms, fingers interlinked, locking them in place.

“Katie, in exactly one minute I'll tell you to start counting. I want you to count to three, one, two, three – exactly like you would in Mrs. Morrison's class. Can you do that,” said Grant. He heard a whimper in reply.

Grant turned his gaze towards Trench. Both men locked eyes and studied each other. The seconds dragged by, what seemed like endless hours was in fact, mere seconds. The rain outside, the howling wind, the crackling fire and the grandfather clock's ticking filled the void of silence. For Grant, everything was shut out. Only he and the Browning pistol resting on the table mattered. He flicked a final glance at Trench, dismissed him and then spoke to his daughter. “Start counting, slowly.”

The child took a breath and then with a wavering voice she began “One.”

The pistol… my hands… the target… the pistol… my hands… the target, that's all,
thought Grant. He ignored Trench's stare, noticing instead that the other man's hand was edging slowly downwards, until only his fingertips were resting on the table top. But why?

It hit Grant in a stunning moment of realisation. The main weapon was a ruse, a distraction, because Trench planned to do his killing with a secondary weapon… a back-up gun. Trench's fingers were moving further along the edge of the table, placing his hand to grab the concealed weapon.

“Two,” whispered the little girl, her voice catching in her throat.

She'd barely finished saying 'two' when Jack Grant lifted his leg sharply, kicking upwards with full force, his shoe connecting with the rickety table and sending its opposite end, Trench's end, heading towards the ceiling. It looked like a seesaw trying to ascend upwards. Grant heard a sharp gasp from Trench as the gun, through sheer force of gravity, slipped out of his reach and headed towards Grant's stomach, where his hands were waiting to receive it. Grant felt the gun slip smoothly into his grasp and then instantly had it up and out above the table, mere inches from Trench's forehead. Grant pulled the trigger, just once. Trench tried to draw his back-up weapon, but he never made it.

The explosion of noise lasted only a moment. One shot, one kill.

The smoke cleared and Grant was aware of his nemesis, still sitting bolt upright in the chair, surprise etched upon his face and his newly acquired third eye, just above his left eye, had started to weep blood. Trench had managed to access his back-up weapon, a small .25 Colt, which hung limply in his fingers. He heard Trench give out a last exhalation of breath before his chest stilled.

Grant sat in the darkness, staring at Trench for a few moments more until he was satisfied the man was truly dead. He lifted the pistol, removed the magazine and racked the slide back until it spat out the bullet. With the gun safe he slammed it down onto the table, glad to be rid of it from his hands. His mind was already clicking back into professional mode. Dispose of the body; Trench inside a sack weighted with chains, a trip out to the centre of the Loch in Hughie's rowing boat at dead of night… he glanced over at May and Hughie, their eyes agog at what had just happened. “Are you alright?” he said. His sister nodded, and her body crumpled with a mixture of stress and exhaustion.

Grant stood and walked over to where his daughter was still hidden in her own private cave, her arms wrapped over her head. He stood over her, aware of her violent trembling, and gently laid one hand on her black hair and stroked it. “Katie, come here. Come here my sweet, sweet girl. I'm sorry love, so, so sorry,” he said.

She looked up, recognised the man standing above her and held her arms out to him. They embraced, holding each other tightly and she whispered into her father's ear. “Daddy, daddy, its fine, don't you worry yourself… you're home now. I read your letter; I read it every day…”

MOEL FAMU, WALES – APRIL 1968

Sir Marcus Thorne, AKA the Salamander, and now, the newly appointed Chief of the British Secret Intelligence Service, dug his hiking stick deep into the earth of the Welsh mountain Moel Famu, and pushed himself ever onwards up the side of the hill. He loved walking in this region of Wales. The mountains, the wide open spaces, the quiet, the freedom; all gave him the opportunity to think and escape. It was his release. He needed these small moments, perhaps once a month, to let him bleed out the tension of his double life and the nefarious workings of the British Secret Service. This was his luxury.

His hopes of manipulating the
Kyonshi
Crisis had all come to nought. His accomplice – the Raven and his organisation – were defeated… destroyed… at least, if the police reports coming in from Japan were to be believed. He'd grieved for his long-time friend and co-conspirator, had lit an incense candle out of respect. Thorne had spent a decade or more moving the pieces on the chess board that was the Great Game. The inside knowledge on how to extort money from the British government; moving Trench into position; manipulating SIS and MI5 into looking one way, while the Raven moved in another; the 'hit' on Masterman; negotiating as part of the extortion process and promoting that buffoon, Hart, into the role of being the new C … it had all ended in disaster.

The Salamander and the Raven's original plan had been to both extort money from the British and also to move Thorne into a more powerful position within the government, hopefully a Cabinet position, something which brought him ever nearer to his ultimate goal: becoming Prime Minister. Thorne was to step in once the
Kyonshi
Crisis was in full swing, take the reins as the Deputy Chairman of the Joint Intelligence Committee, and oust the reigning, and failing, Home Secretary. The man was an old fool, who would be out of his depth with this type of attack. That had been the plan… and the world would have been their oyster. Unfortunately, Masterman's private enterprise had put paid to that. Years of planning and strategically moving assets into place had been blown by a few gunmen taking down the Raven and destroying the stockpiles of the
Kyonshi
virus.

Not that it had been a complete waste. There had been a few positives. Trench had left a message in their emergency dead letter box, saying he'd taken care of Masterman at his home and that his next stop was Scotland, to finish off Grant and his relatives. Good man, that Trench. Perhaps he could be used at some point in the future, for quiet, unofficial wet work.

The other achievement was when that buffoon, Hart; the previous incumbent in the role of C had been sacked. Of course, he'd been helped on his way with a little judicious back door pushing by Thorne and his collegiate at the Joint Intelligence Committee. Really, it was inevitable; Hart wasn't up to the job and he had to go… he'd been a good 'straw man'. But who could take on the position at such short notice? Step forward Sir Marcus Thorne, respected Intelligence bureaucrat, former SIS officer and Deputy Chairman of the JIC. His position had been confirmed in an emergency session several days earlier. So not the top spot just yet, but a step or two nearer. One day, he'd be in Downing Street.

Thorne moved further up the incline, stopped and turned to admire the view. God, it was fantastic. The breadth and depth of the mountain range took his breath away. He waved to his police bodyguards and beckoned them to move across to meet him on the far side of the hill. It was one of the perks of his new position as Chief of SIS – twenty-four hour police protection. Sir Marcus Thorne, the new C, turned one final time to study the magnificent vista of rolling hills and mountains that lay before him. He smiled to himself, feeling safe and secure.

And then he fell…

* * *

Carter, the older of the Special Branch bodyguards was the first to see Sir Marcus fall. He turned and called to his younger colleague, Sergeant Martins. “Tony! Bloody hell, the Chief has slipped and fallen! Come on!” Both bodyguards made their way up the slope of the hill at speed, to the crest of the Tor where the body of their principal lay, not moving. It was only when they reached the prone body that they saw the extent of their VIP's injuries. He'd been shot in the head. The wound had been caused by a large calibre bullet, judging by the damage to Sir Marcus's temple. His head resembled a pumpkin which had been pulped with a hammer.

“Where did the shot come from!” Martins asked, fumbling for his revolver.

“Keep down! It must have been a sniper. Must have had a silencer on it. They could be anywhere!” Carter shouted.

“But there's nothing here! Not even a tree line for over five hundred yards!”

“Well then, they must be a bloody good sniper, mustn't they? For fuck's sake, call it in Tony, call it in right
now
!”

Martins fumbled with the radio that connected them to the Jaguar parked down on the main road. “Ghost man is down. Repeat, Ghost man is down! For God's sake… someone has assassinated the Chief of the Secret Intelligence Service!”