“Good; now tell your men to put their guns away.”
Kirill awoke suddenly. His eyes were still shut, and he waited for a while, listening to his own rhythmic breathing. His senses were all on high alert, though; he could hear breathing from at least another two people in the room with him. He could smell sweat, a hint of cheap stale aftershave, whisky, and somebody’s odorous feet. Kirill inwardly checked his own body: it felt weak, the muscles stiff, taut with cramps, ravaged by fatigue. And his stomach: it was nothing more than a dull throb where the wound was still healing.
He slowly opened his eyes, sticky and crusted from days of sleep. He could see a white suspended ceiling. Clinical, harsh white light, made him flinch. The room was quite new; a private ward perhaps?
Kirill’s hand moved down his body; he felt the fresh scar where the hollow-point bullet had recently smashed into him; he probed it gently but there was no pain. He smiled to himself, then attempted to prop himself up on one elbow.
There were three men; they were all watching him intently. Two were obviously bodyguard types, large street-brawlers, carrying miniUzi submachine guns concealed badly within their jackets; they were unshaven and looked weary. The third was a small frail looking man, somewhere in his late fifties, with a gaunt face and long crooked nose. What little hair he had, was smarmed, his hands small almost effeminate. He wore the long white coat of a hospital doctor and a stethoscope draped around his neck. A small aluminium attaché case was by his side and Kirill knew exactly what items were in it.
“It’s very good to see you, Mendoza. How long have I been out?” he asked.
“Five days, sir. A little longer than we anticipated, but you were very nearly dead when we got to you. And you must appreciate that the bullet that Dillon shot you with, was designed to cause maximum amounts of damage on entry.”
Kirill nodded. “I would like a cup of strong black Colombian ground coffee and one of my finest Cuban cigars. I feel like I’ve been unconscious forever!”
“That is a side effect of the serum, sir.”
Mendoza waved away one of the bodyguards to fetch Kirill’s coffee and cigar, who slid from the room. Outside the automatic sliding door Kirill caught a glimpse of a white sterile corridor, with several trolleys and more stark white lights.
“Does Ramus know that I’m okay?”
“He does, sir.”
“Is this a private facility?”
“Yes. As you can appreciate; you were losing blood and your body had gone into shock, but with a slight boost of the new regenerative serum, we were able to stabilise you just long enough to get you to this private hospital. The drug will stay active in your system for another three or four days.”
“Any side effects?”
“Mostly fatigue, sir. In some cases, it has been known to cause short-term depression and severe paranoia.”
“Fatigue — paranoia!”
“But we also have drugs to combat these.” Mendoza added quickly.
“Good.”
Kirill sat up. “There are still bits of metal inside me.”
“Yes, we ran thescans and determined that attempting to remove the fragments still inside your body, would have been too dangerous with the limited facilities that they have here. Also, Ramus said speed of recovery was of the utmost importance because of the critical state of the Chimera Programme. He said to tell you that we have had developments regarding the whereabouts of the stolen blueprints.”
“And…” A pause. “Dillon?”
“After the incident in Cornwall, he has now been traced.”
“Tell me.”
“He killed many of our Assassins; very nearly killed you.”
“He’s far better than I thought — much better. Could almost be a fucking Assassin himself!”
There was laughter; cold laughter; it contained little or no humour.
“Another unit of Assassins has been sent to remove him.”
Kirill nodded. The street-brawler returned and Kirill lit his cigar.
“Tell me, Mendoza. My niece, Zhenya Tarasova: I am right in thinking that she is dead?”
“I’m afraid that she is, sir. Nobody is sure what happened in that room… we were waiting for you to wake. The surviving Assassins got you out of there just ahead of the explosion designed to eliminate the majority of the Chimera development team along with a whole netfull of MOD top brass and mask your disappearance, but Zhenya… well, the bullet had nicked a main artery — she bled to death. There was nothing that they could do for her and didn’t have any time to make a snap decision… you were obviously the main priority.”
“Priority?” Kirill said coldly, a dark intelligent glint in his eyes.
“Yes, I suppose I am.”
“One other thing, sir.”
“Yes?” His eyes sparkled.
“It appears that Scorpion had set up a special unit to search and destroy our operation.”
“And?”
“Scorpion HQ and the special unit have both been successfully dealt with, sir. Scorpion HQ no longer exists, and many of this unit along with a large majority of the other operatives and networks are now dead.”
“Exemplary, Mendoza.” Kirill smiled nastily in satisfaction, and closed his dark eyes and allowed the pain to wash over him and take him away to a calmer place.
Tatiana lay, broken and torn on the frozen ground. “No!” hissed Dillon. His own Glock started to kick in his hand as he ran out from behind his cover, both hands clasping the weapon. The man who had shot Tatiana was lifted off his feet and slammed backwards, bullets boring into his flesh, blood exploded from his mouth, staining his chin and nose in a crimson shower. Dillon landed, rolling across the ice crusted drive, grunting, his Glock magazine empty and his body sliding out of control against the twisted buckled Range Rover Sport with a dull thud. He changed magazines in an instant — checked inside the 4X4.
Two men were still standing, retreating towards the woods: two were dead inside of the vehicle from Dillon’s sniper rounds; another had been shot by Tatiana, and one lay dead, face down, in the snow with his face blown away, Dillon’s bullet in his brain.
Dillon popped his head around the car’s protective shell; bullets screamed past from the edge of the woods, slamming into the stone and metal behind him with showers of dust. Dillon dropped down onto his belly and slid along to the edge of the Mercedes which ticked and hissed with the sigh of cooling metal.
A shoulder and arm exposed from behind the tree.
Dillon squeezed off three rounds in quick succession, heard screams, and saw blood erupt from the shoulder, the arm fall away onto the ground.
One last assailant left.
Dillon looked to the right and left of the man he’d just shot but could not see the Assassin. Where was he? He had been crouching by a tree to the right, just back from the tree line, down near the low drystone wall that needed serious repair work which Dillon kept putting off until the long awaited summer…
Heavy boots thudded on the Mercedes roof and Dillon looked up — too late — as the man leaped forward on top of him with a growl. Dillon caught a glimpse of tanned Middle Eastern features and jet black cropped hair and three or four day’s stubble growth on his chin. He smelled the stale body odour before he was grabbed, his Glock knocked easily aside. He brought up his knee, but missed — the large attacker rained down heavy blows on Dillon’s head and face and he was momentarily stunned, blinded by the multiple impacts.
The weight lifted. Dillon lay on his back, on the snow, tasting the metallic tinge of his own blood. He glanced up, into a boot. His vision blurred and he was smashed backwards against the Mercedes, grunting, blood flowing freely down his chin, his nose broken. He might have even whimpered, he couldn’t be sure — as he tried to push himself up off of the snow.