The Increment (34 page)

'Here's a smack that says I might be Increment material after all,' snarled Matt, jabbing another fist into Matram's face.

Matram spun round, his arms flailing outwards as he tried to regain his balance. Matt moved forwards, ready to finish him. A leg sprang out, kicking up towards his groin. The boot lodged into his stomach, sending him a few inches in the air. Suddenly Matt could feel himself falling, his shoulder bruising as he crashed to the ground. A series of blows fell down on him. Matram punched at his face with his right hand, and at his gut with his left.

'I don't think your ticket's valid for this train,' said Matram. 'We'll have to let you off here.'

Matt could feel Matram gripping his neck, squeezing all the air from his throat and starting to drag him towards the broken window, pushing him closer to the gaping, jagged hole. Matt was struggling to break free, trying to land a blow that would weaken Matram's grip. But without any oxygen it was impossible to summon up enough strength. His head was sticking out of the carriage now, Matram holding him from behind. As he looked down he could see the edge of the tunnel racing past them. He could feel his hair brushing against the damp wall as it shot past at over a hundred miles per hour.

'Journey's end, Mr Browning,' laughed Matram.

Reaching down, Matt grabbed a shard of glass from the broken window. He gripped it in the palm of his right hand, the glass opening up a cut in his skin, but he held tight, then twisted his arm sideways. With one swift, brutal movement, he stabbed the glass hard down into Matram's side.

A lucky strike. From the howl of agony that opened up on the man's lips, Matt sensed he had hit a main artery. Suddenly blood was gushing out of Matram's body, as if the tap had been turned on, flooding across Matt's back, warm and sticky.

He kicked back, shaking Matram away, and pulling the shard of glass from his body. Turning round and pushing him hard against the window, Matt now gripped tighter on his shard of glass, jabbing it into Matram's left eye. A pitiful wail erupted from his lips as the glass sunk deep into his skull.

For the first time in my life, I feel good about killing a man.

Matt took a breath, letting the oxygen flood into his lungs. The air was still mixed with fumes, and he could feel the tar sticking to his chest, making him choke. He closed his eyes, taking a moment to draw back his strength. He'd watched men die before: seen them shot, burnt, knifed and strangled. But he'd never seen a man take so long about it, nor absorb so much pain and punishment as Matram had just endured without surrendering his last breath. The man had the strength of a god.
Or a devil.

'This one's for Gill, you bastard,' shouted Matt.

He jabbed the glass hard into the side of Matram's cheek, feeling it rip through the skin and smash into his teeth. Then Matt grabbed Matram's shoulders and yanked him hard, pushing him to the edge of the window.

With one last heave, he hoisted the man upwards, letting him balance for one second on the edge of the train.
Let him see the fate that is about to befall him.

Matt put all his strength into his shoulders as he thrust Matram's head through the hole in the glass. As it struck the wall, his skull split apart. His torso was stretching, hitting hard against the side of the window, and spikes of the broken glass were piercing his guts and his chest, sending little jets of blood spiking up into the hurricane of air still swirling through the driver's compartment.

Then, as Matram's head was severed clean from his body, Matt suddenly fell backwards, the headless torso lying on top of him.

TWENTY-SEVEN

Matt looked up. The driver was still unconscious, and he had no idea how to revive him. The train was on automatic. Leave it, thought Matt. All we want to do now is get out of this tunnel, and get out of this train.
Our work is done.

He lifted himself up, and started running back towards the first carriage.

The sound of a scream pierced his ears. A woman's scream.

'Matt, look out!' cried Eleanor.

Matt ran into the carriage and ducked. The pain in his left shoulder was intense, and his left arm was fast turning numb. Above him, he could see Lacrierre lunging at the wall.

A flash of steel caught a ray of light beaming in from the tunnel lights. Christ, Matt realised, he's going for the swords. They might be two hundred years old, but they are still hardened, sharpened steel. And Lacrierre was a soldier once.
In his hands, they will be as deadly now as they were when they were first used by Napoleon's cavalry.

Lacrierre grabbed the first of the blades. It shook free from the wall, its casing crashing down on to the floor. He lashed it through the air, curling it upwards high over his head. Matt rolled on to his side, sending a fresh jolt of pain up the side of his wounded shoulder. From the corner of his eye, he could see Lacrierre advancing two paces towards him. Using the muscles in his back, Matt drew up his strength, kicking out his legs and jabbing at the man bearing down on him. He kicked furiously, his legs spinning in the air as Lacrierre deftly danced out of the way.

He might be older, but he's still capable of putting up a good fight.

The blade slashed down, and as Matt tried to roll out of the way, it cut into his right leg. The steel tore through the denim of his jeans, and the blade sliced into the flesh at the top of his thigh. The metal felt cold and soft against his skin, digging into his muscle with the delicacy of a surgeon's scalpel. A gash six inches long and half an inch deep opened up down the side of his leg, the skin curling outwards as the wound opened up and started to breathe.

A sharp stinging pain ran along Matt's side. He levered himself off the ground. 'You're going to die for that, you bastard,' he shouted.

But in front of him, Lacrierre had flicked the blade upwards. It was now resting just beneath his chin, poised above the Adam's apple. A surgeon couldn't have placed it better, Matt reflected. One jab, and it would cut straight through the windpipe.
I will be dead within minutes.

'As far as I can see I am the only man here with a weapon,' said Lacrierre. 'So I'm afraid it's you that is going to die.'

Matt could feel the blade digging harder into the skin on his neck. The blade was polished and sharpened, its edge as clear as a razor. A sword had to be looked after to stay that sharp. Lacrierre kept it on the wall for show, but also to defend himself.

'Finish me now, you bastard,' snapped Matt. 'Matram's dead, that's all that matters to me.'

He could see that Lacrierre's hand was wobbling. His fingers were trembling, and his eyes were dark and fogged. The man is on the edge, he realised. If that hand shakes any worse, he's going to take out my throat.

'Tell that woman to lay down her weapon first,' said Lacrierre. 'Or else I kill you this instant.'

Behind Lacrierre's back, he could see Eleanor advancing with Godsall's MP-5.

'Careful, Eleanor,' said Matt, watching her movements.

Lacrierre stood still, his hand steady on the sword, a look of fevered pleasure sweeping across his face. 'Tell her to drop it.'

'I can handle him, Matt,' said Eleanor.

At that moment, the train raced out of the tunnel. Matt heard the brakes slamming down on the wheels, and felt the train start to slow down. Eleanor was walking to the side of Lacrierre, the gun held in front of her. Matt could see she was releasing the safety catch, but he could tell she had done it wrong. The rifle wasn't going to fire, no matter how hard she squeezed on the trigger. Had Lacrierre spotted that?

The train shuddered to a halt.

'Take your damned blade from my throat,' said Matt. 'This train is in France. If you give yourself up here, at least you'll be in jail among your own kind. With your kind of money, you'll get your own cell. Probably be out in a few years.'

Lacrierre laughed. 'I'm not going anywhere. Not until I've killed you.'

'I can take him, Matt,' repeated Eleanor.

Matt glanced at her nervously. She was certain of what she was saying, but it wasn't true. The blade was still rubbing against his neck, nicking the skin, sending small jolts of pain up through into his head. His shoulder was still throbbing from its gun wound, and blood was still weeping from the gash on his leg. I'm still standing, he told himself.
But there's not much more punishment my body can take.

'Put the sword down,' she said, looking straight towards Lacrierre. 'Put it down before I kill you.'

A smile creased up Lacrierre's lips. 'Have I not made myself clear?' he said slowly. 'I intend to kill this man.' The sword wobbled dangerously in his hand, as he glanced back at Eleanor. 'Now you put that gun down, or else I will have to kill you as well.'

'Damn you, it's suicide,' snapped Matt. 'One shot to the head and you'll be dead.' Talk him out of it, thought Matt. Let the fear take hold of the man. Let it eat into his soul.
That's my best chance.

But in the glint in his eyes, Matt could see the hint of madness within his opponent. 'I'm a braver man than I look,' said Lacrierre. 'Your threats mean nothing to me.'

Eleanor looked across at him, a sudden look of professional curiosity on her face. 'You took the drug, didn't you? You took XP22.'

Lacrierre glanced back at her, his eyes suddenly blazing. 'What man wouldn't take it?'

'You don't get courage from a pill,' snapped Matt. 'You've either got it or you haven't.'

Lacrierre jabbed the blade, exploring and probing the skin of Matt's neck, like a butcher deciding the best way to sever a hunk of meat. 'Prepare to die,' he said, his tone soft and gentle, the same voice an anaesthetist might use before putting you to sleep. 'Close your eyes, compose your prayers, and let the pain take you away to a better, gentler place.'

Somewhere he could hear the echo of a gunshot. The reverberations rattled through the confined space of the carriage, and the unmistakable smell of sulphur started to drift under his nose. In front of him, Lacrierre was lying on the floor, a gunshot blast breaking though his hand, leaving a trail of blood on the floor.

Matt kicked the sword free from his grip. He reached down, grabbing it in his fist, then slashing it through the air. The anger was alive within him, and he raised his hand back, ready to cut through the neck of the man lying prostrate before him.

'No, Matt, no,' shouted Ivan. 'We'll deal with him.'

Matt looked up. Ivan was stepping forward, a Glock in his hand and at his side was Sir David Luttrell, the head of the Firm.

'You?' said Matt, the shock still evident in his voice. 'What in the name of Christ are you doing here?'

'Saving your skin, mate,' answered Ivan, stepping carefully across the corpses of Harton and Godsall. 'I told you I'd gone down to Dorset to look after my family, but I actually went to see this bloke.' He grinned. 'I reckoned you might need some help.'

Lutrell stepped after Ivan, trying to avoid getting any blood on his brown half-brogue shoes. He was wearing blue cotton chinos, and a white shirt open at the neck. A snub-nosed Springfield pocket pistol was still sitting in the palm of his right hand. 'It's like a damned abattoir in here,' he said, looking around at the bodies.

Matt looked at Luttrell. 'So you two are old friends,' he said. 'From your time running the Firm's Belfast office. Ivan was one of your agents.'

Luttrell smiled. 'Not friends, exactly. But we played the occasional hand of bridge together.' He nodded towards Ivan. 'He's good, if a little reckless. Sometimes overbid his hand.'

'When I knew Matram was coming after you, I figured you might need some help,' Ivan said. 'Matram and his boys are tougher than they look.' He paused, looking straight at Matt, his expression serious. 'We knew all along there were some rogue elements working inside the Firm and the regiment. We just didn't know who they were exactly, or what they were up to.'

'We?' said Matt. 'For fuck's sake . . .' He was struggling to control his surprise. He had experienced many different forms of betrayal. But not Ivan.

Ivan shook his head. 'My old friend, didn't you ever wonder about the false passports, safe houses, explosives, all the rest of it? Why do you think I agreed to blow up that factory in Belarus with you? I'm not just a guardian angel, you know.' He smiled sadly. 'In bridge, when you win the contract, then you play your partner's hand for him. So, think of it as a game of bridge.' Ivan moved closer to Matt. 'Remember what I said to you? One of these days a little light bulb is going to switch on inside your head, and you'll understand what's really happening.'

'And you would have let me die?'

'No, no, I got hold of Sir David and told him what was happening,' said Ivan quickly. 'There's a safety device on these trains which means they can be slowed down from a radio link that goes straight into the computer that controls the engine. It was built in so it could be stopped if anything happened to the driver. We activated that so we could climb aboard just after it emerged from the tunnel.'

The blade was still hovering in Matt's hand. Down below him, Lacrierre was out cold.

Matt looked back up at Luttrell. 'So this was planned all along?'

Luttrell ran his fingers through his silver-grey hair. His eyes moved away from Matt, as if he was surveying the rest of the carriage. 'Like Ivan says, I suspected Abbott was a bad apple. Flash house in St John's Wood. A cellar full of fine vintage ports. It was more than most of us can afford. I just didn't know what he was doing wrong. I figured if you two were working together again you'd find something out.' A smug grin started to spread on to his lips. 'Looks like the whole thing has worked out quite well.'

'Thanks,' said Matt sarcastically.

'Oh, don't worry,' said Luttrell, nodding. 'We'll make sure the account is paid. The Firm always makes sure its invoices are settled. In full.' He turned round. 'Now, let's get this place cleaned up,' he said briskly.

Across the carriage, Matt could see Eleanor leaning across Orlena. 'She's still alive,' she said. 'I don't know how, but she is.'

'Kevlar,' said Ivan, ripping open the front of her coat. 'She's wearing a bulletproof Kevlar jacket underneath her blouse. These things are as strong as steel. The force of the gunshot must have knocked her unconscious, but none of the bullets have penetrated. A few bruises, perhaps, but she's going to be OK.'

'Lacrierre's going to live as well,' said Luttrell, checking the pulse of the Frenchman. He paused, looking first at Ivan, then at Matt. 'I'd rather take him into custody in Britain than in France.'

From the floor, Matt scooped up the fallen sword, then walked six paces across the carriage. He stopped, holding the tip of the blade hovering over Luttrell's chest. 'He's staying right here.'

Ivan started to reach out for Matt's arm.

'Back off,' snapped Matt.

The violence evident in his voice brought Ivan to a sudden halt.

'Don't be stupid,' said Luttrell.

Matt jabbed the tip of the sword forwards, cutting a small nick in the cloth of Luttrell's shirt. The button dropped on to the floor, breaking the silence that had fallen across the carriage. 'Take a look at my face, and tell me just how stupid you think I am.'

Luttrell sighed. 'I don't think . . .'

'How stupid?' roared Matt.

'Matt, I . . .' Luttrell allowed the sentence to fade on his lips as Matt twisted the blade close into the few grey hairs sprouting on his chest.

'Lacrierre was working with the Ministry of Defence,' said Matt, as the waves of anger washed over him. 'XP22 was a government-funded project. It went pear-shaped. Badly. That much is clear. And when the crap started blowing up, he paid Matram and Abbott millions to clear it up for him.' Matt paused, becoming more measured. 'But you aren't going to put him on trial. He knows too much. You're going to get him off this train, give him a slap on the wrist, then send him home. But I'll tell you what, he was responsible for the death of my friend, and the death of my fiancee. There's a price in blood to be paid for that.'

'Don't be absurd,' said Luttrell.

'Absurd?' questioned Matt. 'Then what are you doing here?'

'As your friend Ivan says, saving your ungrateful hide,' snapped Luttrell.

Matt shook his head from side to side. 'The Firm doesn't care whether I live or die.' He nodded down to Lacrierre. 'You're here to get him out.'

'Hold your damned discipline, man,' said Luttrell. 'You're a soldier.'