“Now, you’re going to die,” came the heavily accented voice.
Dillon’s eyes flickered open — everything seemed to reach his brain in slow motion, and then something deep within his subconscious came to the surface and he knew what he had to do. The excitement rising, adrenalin started to pump through his veins to every part of his body — “Drop this bastard like a stone,” came the whisper.
Dillon rolled away to his right as the military style boot struck where — a split second before — his face had been. Dillon’s fist smashed a heavy curling blow into the man’s testicles and then the man screamed like a girl!
Dillon dragged himself to his feet, his senses heightened to a higher level, every nerve ending tingling in anticipation of what to come; the man on the ground was still wreathing around on the snow in excruciating pain.
Dillon staggered against the Mercedes. He gave a quick glance across to Tatiana — she was down and completely out of the game. He looked around for the Glock but could not see the weapon in the powdery snow. He felt a warm stream of blood running down over his cheek from an open gash above his right eye and he wiped it away with the sleeve of his jacket.
He moved forward and kicked the man in the head several times, until he was sure that the killer was unconscious. Then he knelt, and slammed his fist into the man’s nose, breaking it in a return favour and making doubly sure that he wouldn’t get up.
Covered in blood, Dillon skidded across to where Tatiana was laying. Gently, he eased her over onto her back. Remarkably, she was breathing, raggedly, her eyes rolled open, her jacket soaked in blood. “Can you feel your fingers and toes?” he asked.
“You look like a fucking mess,” she smiled, her voice hoarse.
“You’re not so beautiful yourself.”
“I can’t move…”
Dillon gently lifted Tatiana into his arms and staggered despite her lack of weight. His head was spinning, pounding after the blows from the big man. She was still as light as he remembered… from better, happier times…
Dillon lurched towards the front door of his home.
Tatiana’s eyes rolled back into their sockets and her fingers clawed at his arm.
Dillon cursed, and dropped to his knees in the snow, droplets of blood turning the ground pink. Tatiana was in deep shock, the colour had drained from her face, and beads of sweat had formed across her forehead.
Her eyes blinked, and then closed again. She did not speak.
Dillon lifted her, limp now in his arms, and climbed wearily over the wreckage of the Mercedes which was partly blocking the entrance to his home. He went up the steps and kicked open the front door. He was suddenly weary as he went inside, suddenly aware of the pain he was feeling through his battered and bruised body. Stars danced in front of his eyes and he had to pause for a moment, leaning, heaving and panting against the wall. He moved into the living room, and felt elation when he saw the fire he had lit earlier was still burning.
He gently lowered Tatiana on to one of the large leather sofas, pushed it nearer to the fire, and threw a few logs onto the smouldering coals, the flames flaring reassuringly. Tatiana’s clothing was soaked in blood, seeping through the fabric.
There was a repetitive blipping coming from a remote control unit on the low coffee table: perimeter-sensor alerts triggered by the Assassins. Dillon reached over and picked the small device up, resetting the alarms with the push of a button and welcomed the silence.
Dillon threw a few more logs on the glowing fire, and then moved into the ground floor wet-room. He removed his jacket, groaning, and then his hoody. Cuts and bruises appeared across his body and shoulders, across his face and when he glanced into the mirror, an aging, battered shell gazed back. It grinned through blood stained teeth.
Dillon went through to the kitchen, and ran off a bowl of hot water, grabbed a knife from the teak block and returned to the living room. He knelt, and carefully started to cut away Tatiana’s clothing, her blood soaked silk blouse and bra. Her flesh was pale and cool to his appraising touch. He realised that she had, thankfully, taken only a single bullet but he still cursed, leaning over her to take a closer look at the wound. It had entered high through her shoulder — tearing flesh, just missing bone and exiting in a tight hole from the back of the muscle. An inch lower and it would have caused serious damage… the wound was angry looking and inflamed with fluid.
“Bollocks.”
Dillon went through to his study and grabbed a medical box; he returned to Tatiana and pulled out a syringe, injecting her intravenously with a morphine based sedative. He checked her pulse and blood-pressure, using a small hand-held monitor. Then he pulled free a sterile solution and cleaned the wound’s entry point and then, rolling her over onto her belly, the exit hole, using a scalpel to cut away any alien particles of metal and clothing. Using sterile wire, he finally stitched the fresh sliced skin together.
Rolling her onto her back again mumbling, he stitched the entry wound, Dillon checked Tatiana’s pulse and blood-pressure once more, then applied a dressing to her tightly stitched flesh and also to the cut above her right eye. Then he pressed tiny monitor pads onto her chest, which checked on heart rate and blood saturation levels. He pulled down her trousers, checking for any other wounds he might have missed.
Content with his work so far, Dillon considered wrapping her in more blankets, but used the fur throw-over instead. He piled on more logs, and gave her a final shot of antibiotics and another dose of sedative before limping to the wet-room himself.
He removed the remainder of his torn, blood soaked clothing, turned on the shower and stepped into the steam, wincing as the hot water lashed his battered and bruised skin like a bull-whip. Slowly, he felt the tension start to leave him as he lathered his body, washing free the dirt, sweat and congealed blood — his own and that of others.
His mind and body hurt — hurt bad, his mind a whirlpool of confusion.
There were far too many unanswered questions, and a broken nose did nothing to rationalise his thoughts.
He stepped out and towelled himself gently, his movements slow and laboured as the adrenalin left him. He looked at himself in the mirror and cursed. Heavy bruising, cuts, and abrasions. His nose was a mess, twisted bone and split skin. He dragged the medical box over and, with some difficulty, injected himself with a strong morphia based painkiller and waited for its numbing soothing effect to take hold. He went up to his bedroom and pulled on tracksuit bottoms and a T-shirt, feeling a little light headed as the drugs got a hold of his system.
He went back downstairs to the wet-room and stood in front of the mirror. Then, without preamble, he placed his two thumbheels either side of his nose, counted to three and wrenched bone and cartilage back into some semblance of order. Everything went black and he yelped with the pain, despite the painkiller. He threw-up in the sink and stood leaning over the bowl, drooling and feeling decidedly fragile.
Dillon looked up.
His nose was still a little crooked but almost straight once more, like it had been hit with a cricket bat but not by a lorry! He smiled weakly at his reflection, brushed his teeth gently and swilled with mouth wash — to remove the sourness of the vomit, and splashed cold water on his face to carry away his pain-filled sweat.
He went through to the living room and checked on Tatiana who was still out for the count, her breathing was now regular and the sweating had subsided a little. He gently placed his hand on her forehead, her skin soft to his touch, the colour having returned to her face. He pulled on a heavy coat and thermal gloves, and a pair of boots unstained by blood, and went outside and down the front steps.