Urban Assassin (6 page)

‘Are you mad?’ demanded Mitch. ‘You could have opened up that wound. You might have died from loss of blood!’

‘I tried to get near enough to shoot him,’ said Two Moons. ‘From where I was I couldn’t get a proper sight on him, especially when the two of you started jerking around all over the place.’

‘He was trying to strangle me,’ protested Mitch.

‘Excuses, excuses.’ Two Moons grinned. Then he gave a groan of pain.

‘Bad?’ asked Mitch.

Two Moons nodded. ‘Yup,’ he said.

Just then they heard sirens approaching, and the sounds of vehicles screeching to a halt in the street outside.

‘Sounds like the cavalry’s here,’ said Mitch.

Back once again at MI6 HQ. With its metal table and chairs, and dark blank walls on three sides, Mitch felt like he was in an interrogation room. Actually, thought Mitch, this
is
an interrogation room. The fourth wall was a window made of black glass. Behind it would be an observation area.

Mitch sat at the table across from Gerald. His hands were taped up and bandaged, but the deep cuts from the wire still hurt. Another man stood behind Gerald, and a third guarded the door. All three were stony faced. Mitch could see anger in their eyes, and he understood it: their colleague, John Sparks, was dead.

Mitch would be furious and determined to find the culprit if one of his Delta Unit mates was killed.

‘What happened at Euston station?’ demanded Gerald. ‘Why did Pavel kill Sparks?’

It was the third time Gerald had asked this same question, as if repeating it would make Mitch admit something. It was like
he
was the suspect.

‘Like I told you before, I don’t know,’ said Mitch. ‘Following Sparks’ instructions, my back was turned to them. We were in radio contact. I heard Sparks go down, realised he was in trouble and turned. I went after the Russian.’

‘Leaving Sparks to die,’ snapped Gerald.

‘My orders were to follow Pavel. I radioed Two Moons to raise the alarm, get help for Sparks. But by that time he must already have been dead. Look, the man we were dealing with was a killer. He knew what he was doing. What was it, a knife to the heart?’

Gerald hesitated, then nodded. ‘Yes,’ he admitted, before quickly changing tack. ‘You were supposed to keep Pavel alive. Why did you kill him?’

‘It was an accident,’ said Mitch. ‘I tried to disarm him while he was trying to kill me. I flipped him
over to get him off me, and he landed on that spike. That was it.’

Gerald said nothing at first. He was obviously weighing up the situation. Mitch gestured at the room.

‘Am I a suspect?’ he demanded.

‘In what?’ asked Gerald.

‘You tell me,’ said Mitch. ‘You certainly seem to be treating me like one.’

‘This is standard procedure,’ said Gerald. ‘A debriefing. You have them after a mission, too, I understand – especially when things go wrong.’

‘What went wrong here is that Pavel spotted Sparks,’ said Mitch firmly. ‘How, I don’t know. Maybe Sparks did something . . .’

‘Sparks was an experienced field officer,’ interrupted the spy angrily. ‘He wouldn’t have made a mistake.’

‘Meaning you think Two Moons or I did?’ Mitch snapped back. ‘Let me tell you, this wasn’t our mistake. Either Sparks did something that gave the
game away, or someone gave Pavel the wink.’

‘You’re suggesting that someone in MI6 tipped Pavel off?’ asked Gerald, his eyes narrowing.

‘I’m not suggesting anything,’ said Mitch. ‘I’m just telling you what happened today. Finding out
why
it happened, that’s up to you.’

Suddenly the door crashed open and Nelson stood framed in the entrance. Immediately, the man nearest the door pulled out his gun, but Gerald snapped a command and the man put the gun away.

‘You’re interrupting a debriefing, Colonel,’ said Gerald coldly.

Nelson looked angry. ‘You’ve pulled me and my men off the case,’ he demanded. ‘Why?’

Gerald looked at Nelson, then shrugged. ‘Because of what happened,’ he said. ‘Sparks and Pavel dead, Sergeant Two Moons in hospital.’

‘That wasn’t down to us!’ barked Nelson.

‘I don’t know that,’ said Gerald. ‘An operation went wrong. The only people outside of MI6 involved
in the operation were your men. Until we’ve established the facts, Delta Unit are off this case.’

Nelson glared at Gerald. ‘You people don’t know Deacon like we do,’ he said.

‘That’s one of the things that worries me,’ responded Gerald.

Nelson locked eyes with him. Finally, he said: ‘I’m taking my man with me.’

‘He’s free to go.’ Gerald shrugged.

Mitch got up and joined Nelson at the door, then followed the colonel out of the room.

As Mitch and Nelson walked away from MI6 HQ, Mitch asked, ‘How’s Two Moons?’

‘He’s in surgery,’ said Nelson. ‘Luckily for him there are no bones broken, and the bullet didn’t hit the artery. The damage is mainly to the thigh muscles.’

Mitch nodded. Two Moons would be out of action for a while, but that was all. It sounded like it was nothing serious.

‘When can we see him?’ he asked.

‘Tomorrow,’ said Nelson. ‘Providing the doctors agree.’

‘So, we’re off the case?’ Mitch asked.

‘Like hell we are!’ snapped Nelson. ‘I’m gonna speak to some people in Washington. No one kicks me off a mission!’

Mitch climbed the stairs to his second-floor flat, still going over in his head what had gone wrong. He pulled out his key and was just about to unlock his door, when he felt something sting his neck. An insect – a wasp?

Suddenly everything switched off: his brain, his body; and he crashed to the floor.

When Mitch came round he was slouched on one of the wooden chairs in his living room. Plastic cables tied his ankles to the legs of the chair. His wrists were bound together behind the chair, fixed to the wooden strut at the back. Thick tape had been stuck across his mouth.

He looked up, and found himself staring into the smiling face of Jimmy Deacon.

‘Welcome back,’ grinned Deacon. He held up a small object. ‘Tranquiliser dart. Very effective. You can knock out a horse with one of these.’

Deacon turned his attention to Mitch’s living room table, where he was tinkering with something. Mitch couldn’t see what it was because it was hidden by Deacon’s body.

‘So, you’re Paul Mitchell,’ said Deacon chattily. ‘The new guy with the unit. How’s that going for you?’ Then he grinned again. ‘Of course, you can’t talk. But I’ll take it that you’re getting along with them well. They’re a good bunch of guys.’

Deacon moved away from the table, pulled a chair near to Mitch and sat down on it, his face close to Mitch’s. The smile had gone. ‘You killed my operative,’ he said. ‘Poor old Dmitri. I thought he was good. Obviously I was wrong.’ The smile was back. ‘But enough of this small talk. Let’s get down to the real business of why I’m here.’

He’s mad, thought Mitch. Seriously, dangerously mad. He could see it in Deacon’s eyes. Everyone in Special Forces possessed a certain ruthlessness – it was how they survived. But Deacon was clearly beyond that. Mitch wondered what had happened to him after he’d left the unit that had driven him to this state. Torture? That often pushed people over the edge.

Deacon gestured towards the table. Mitch
looked and now he saw the wires and explosives and a timer.

‘That’s right – a bomb, Mitch,’ said Deacon, still smiling. ‘But this is a very different beast to the little squib I left stuck in Gaz’s door. This is a big one. When this baby goes off, not only will it take you out, it’ll blow out the apartments upstairs and below.’

His smile became a sneer. ‘I guess you’re wondering, why you? Well, I’ll tell you, Mitch. If I did this to any of the others – my old comrades – they wouldn’t forgive that. But you, you’re the new guy. They know that you and I don’t have a connection. So they’ll take it for what it is: a warning to stay out of my way.’

Deacon got up and walked over to the bomb, studying it. Then he turned back to Mitch. ‘You may also be wondering why I’m going to all this bother. Why I don’t just shoot you dead?’ He shook his head. ‘It wouldn’t have the same effect, Mitch. We know what these spooks are like; they’re not to be trusted. They come in and find you dead, they’re
likely to cook up some story to show that it wasn’t me who did it – that it was someone who held a grudge against you. Someone with no connection to this case. Anything to make sure the rest of the Unit will still come after me.

‘But this way, this bomb, the guys will know it was me, and that I’m sending them a serious message.’

Mitch growled, his frustration growing at not being able to speak. Deacon saw the anger in his face. ‘You look like you’ve got something to say, Mitch. I’ll take the tape off for you to say a few words.’ He produced a deadly looking knife. ‘But you try to yell out and I’ll cut your throat. It won’t affect the end result; when the bomb goes off you’ll still be dead. But it’s a messy way to go.’

Deacon walked over to Mitch, took one end of the tape in his hand and pulled. There was a sharp pain as the tape tore the skin around his mouth.

‘So, what do you want to say, Mitch?’

‘Killing me won’t stop Two Moons and Gaz and the rest,’ said Mitch. ‘They’re my buddies. It’ll
just make them come after you harder.’

‘The old Band of Brothers,’ said Deacon. He shrugged. ‘Maybe. But maybe not. We’ll just have to see, won’t we.’ He looked at his watch, and then at the timer on the bomb. ‘Anyway, we haven’t got time to continue this conversation. According to my timer, you’ve only got about twelve minutes left to live. So, I’ll say goodbye.’

With that, Deacon cut off another piece of tape and stuck it across Mitch’s mouth. ‘Oh, by the way,’ he added. ‘Don’t bother trying to get to those knives of yours to cut yourself free – the ones you keep strapped to your legs.’ He chuckled. ‘They’re not there any more.’

With that, Deacon slipped his own knife into one of his pockets, and headed for the door.

As soon as Mitch heard the door shut behind Deacon, he began rocking the chair backwards and forwards, working it one leg at a time towards the table and the bomb. He could see the digital display on the timer as it counted down: 11.48; 11.47; 11.46 . . .

He made it to the table. There was an empty glass near the edge. Careful not to nudge the table too hard and trigger the detonator, Mitch managed to lower his head enough so that his forehead touched the glass. He jerked his head to one side and the glass wobbled, then fell. It rolled along the table top, then dropped off the edge and landed on the carpet.

He looked at the timer. 10.57; 10.56 . . .

Mitch moved the chair so that the fallen glass
was by his feet. He rocked back, then forward, and pounded his boots on the glass, smashing it. He tipped the chair sideways, wincing from the impact as his body hit the floor.

He wriggled his way along the carpet until he was beside the broken glass. Unable to turn his head, he felt with his fingers and found the biggest chunk of glass. Pointing the glass upwards he began to saw at the plastic tie that bound his wrists together. The glass slipped and sliced into his skin, re-opening the wounds on his palms. The blood made the glass slippery and difficult to hold, but Mitch gritted his teeth and continued sawing, flexing his wrists to put pressure on the plastic. The glass sliced his wrists again and again. More blood. Mitch bit his lip against the pain and kept going, aware of the minutes and seconds counting down.

Finally the plastic popped and Mitch could pull his hands apart. He hauled himself up and looked at the timer. 7.35. 7.34.

Mitch tore the tape from his mouth, pulled out
his mobile phone and hit Gaz’s number.

‘Hi, Mitch,’ said Gaz cheerfully. ‘What’s up?’

‘There’s a bomb in my flat,’ said Mitch. ‘Deacon put it here. It goes off in seven minutes.’

‘Then get the hell out of there!’ snapped Gaz.

‘I can’t,’ said Mitch. ‘It’s a big one. It’ll blow up all the flats around me, so I’m going to try and defuse it. Get on to the emergency services and get the area around my flat cleared. Everyone out to safety.’

‘Mitch . . .’ began Gaz.

‘I ain’t got time, Gaz,’ said Mitch. ‘I’ve got a bomb to disarm.’

Mitch hung up and turned his attention to the bomb. The timer showed 6.43; 6.42. Just over six minutes to work out how the bomb was rigged, and shut it off.

He looked at the cuts in his wrists, still pumping blood.

I need to strap up the wounds, he thought, staunch the flow of blood. But there’s no time. Right now, the main thing is to disarm the bomb.

It looked a simple rig: plastic explosives wrapped round a detonator, and wires attached to the detonator from the timing mechanism. It should be easy. Cut the wires and the bomb stops. But Deacon wasn’t a fool – he’d shown how tricky he could be. It was quite possible he’d booby-trapped the bomb. He could have set the timer so that if the wires were cut, it automatically defaulted to zero and triggered the explosion.

Mitch examined the wires. There were four going from the timer to the detonator: blue, brown, yellow, green. Why four? It only took two to make a connection. The other two could be a trick. Maybe one was a dummy lead.

Mitch threw another glance at the count-down display:

5.01; 5.00; 4.59 . . .

He forced himself to think logically: two of the wires are real. The other two are fake. But which is which?

4.41; 4.40; 4.39 . . .

Mitch searched the timer for screw heads. There were none. OK, so it was a clip-together job. That was good; if he’d needed a screwdriver he’d have had problems. He grabbed a shard of broken glass. Blood spurted out from his wrists with the movement. He pushed the tip of the glass into the thin crack in the bomb’s plastic casing and pushed, gently so as not to disturb the timer, but with enough pressure to separate one end of the outer casing. He wiggled the glass, working it along the widening crack, until he had a space big enough to get his fingertips in.

He pulled at the plastic and it came apart. At the back of the timer mechanism he could see the ends of the four wires. He flicked the display over to check how much time he had left.