Dillon stood in the middle of the drive, looking at the carnage, feeling even more light-headed as the cold air hit him.
He stepped through the snow. Flakes were falling, much heavier now, from a dark brooding grey sky that cast silver shadows across the landscape. The world was silent, a watercolour of stillness and serenity; which had been broken briefly by the unwelcome intrusion of the assassins sent to kill him.
Dillon searched the area for his 9mm Glock, located it, checked the magazine and condition of the weapon, and used a rag to wipe it free of blood and dirt. He checked the unconscious man, and then moved around the battered vehicles that were now littering his drive and up towards the edge of the woods. There was deep red blood spatters and staining on the ground where the man whose arm had been shot-off had been standing. The blood led away and Dillon followed for a hundred or so metres until he found the man face down on the ground, dead. Dillon checked him and then went through his pockets, before dragging him deeper into the woods and rolling him over a steep slope down into the dark waters of the loch.
The effort was almost too much as he worked methodically, but slowly. He pulled one of the corpses out of the Range Rover, and gathered the other bodies, dragging them all into the woods and laying them to rest in a line, like a macabre scene from a TV police drama. He wiped the blood from his hands and returned to the only surviving man, who was making low moaning sounds. Dillon rolled him over onto his belly and pulled garden wire from his jacket pocket, binding the man’s hands and feet so tightly that the wire cut into the exposed flesh. Then he dragged the tanned man to the tree where he had found Tatiana, propped him against the thick trunk and, taking his coat off, placed it over him.
“There, we don’t want you dying of exposure now, do we?” He muttered.
Night was closing in and the snow falling fast, the heavy flakes tumbling through the darkness like leaves in winter. Dillon moved to the cars and stood, hands deep in pockets. Deep in thought about his next move.
He walked through the arch to the inner courtyard and the garage block, and pulled open the first double set of wooden doors. Jumped into his Landrover and drove it out into the drive. The wire was attached to the rear tow hook of the Mercedes. He selected the lowest gear ratio and then gently started to pull the wreckage away from the front steps of his home. Dillon shivered at the icy breeze and flakes of snow peppering through the open side window. He eased back on the accelerator, the twisted, buckled metal of the Mercedes groaned as he dragged it over the frozen ground and then he stopped suddenly.
Dillon got out and unhitched the tow-wire, reversed around the Mercedes and shunted it into the mouth of the lane and exiting Dillon’s own private domain. The front of the Merc was smashed to oblivion; no headlights, no grille, only an exposed engine bay and a badly leaking radiator. Dillon went back to the Range Rover, eyes scanning the battered and hole riddled bodywork. The windscreen and driver’s side window had been smashed, a headlight shattered and bullet holes had peppered the bodywork. The rear of the vehicle was okay, and Dillon climbed in and started the engine. The powerful turbo diesel kicked into life, fumes pluming from the exhaust pipe. Dillon eased it into drive — then drove away from the castle and out onto the snowbound road. The 4x4 ran reasonably well, only the excessive wind noise from the open windows betraying its recent abuse. Dillon turned the vehicle off the road and into the entrance of a field, turned, and drove straight back to the castle, revelling in the power of the damaged luxury motor.
Satisfied that the Range Rover would be able bodied to use if the need arose, he parked the 4x4 out of sight. The central locking system was inoperative — probably a stray bullet. He pocketed the keys and walked back to the Land Rover, he shunted the Merc further into the lane, completely blocking the only visible access to Dillon’s property. He drove the Land Rover back through the arch and parked it inside the garage, locked the doors, and limped back to the large beech tree. Staring down at the would-be Assassin; he saw properly for the first time, just how big he was, much bigger than Dillon and quite fearsomelooking. He was dark-skinned, almost Arabic in appearance. He had a thick black moustache, and was looking up at him in immense pain — Dillon gazed down at the man — not compassionately — not with any feeling or emotion at all. His nose was well and truly broken and the wires that Dillon had tied around his wrists and ankles were biting deep into his flesh. Dillon crouched down. “Who are you?”
The man’s eyes narrowed, the gaze hardened.
“Were you sent here to kill Tatiana, or me?”
Silence. He continued to stare blankly at Dillon.
Dillon’s fist slammed into the man’s already broken nose, and he screamed, saliva and blood drooling from his mouth. His head fell forward, and then lifted slowly to stare at Dillon. He spat into Dillon’s face and grinned nastily, deep red staining his teeth.
“If that’s the way you want it old son.” Dillon whispered, wiping blood from his face.
Dillon grabbed the collar of the man’s jacket and dragged him across the frozen lawn and down towards the loch, wailing and attempting to kick out. He had to stop halfway to get his breath back, but moved on a moment later and dragged the man the final distance to the water’s edge. He took another length of wire from his pocket and tied it around a sturdy looking tree trunk, then attached the other end to the man’s ankles with the same over-zealousness as before. He crouched down and said, “Now you listen and you listen good, you piece of scum. By the morning you will be frozen dead. But, I’m not unreasonable. I’ll be back in a while, so I hope that the time you’re going to spend by this magnificent lake will enable you to reflect on the error of your ways.”
Dillon limped back to the warmth of the castle’s interior and Tatiana. He slumped down by her side. Her breathing was deep, her colour had returned to normal. He threw a few more logs onto the fire, and armed the house security defences with the wireless remote control, and then went and slumped in one of the leather easy chairs opposite Tatiana. His head suddenly felt heavy and every bone in his body ached from the recent beating, he wearily flicked on the TV. Keeping the sound low, he watched without interest as images danced in front of him. Dillon hated the TV; it was brain numbing. But he acknowledged that it had its uses as he flicked through the news channels, eyes searching, brain working overtime even though he was almost falling asleep.
And then he saw it, like some incredibly bad coincidence…
The camera panned through one hundred and eighty degrees, showing in graphic detail the destruction and carnage in London, sweeping across the explosions’ ground-zero where Scorpion HQ had once nestled in its secret enclave. Dillon wasn’t interested in the reporters hysterical sensationalism, because he didn’t need to hear his commentary, and he did not care what the man had to say; instead his widened eyes watched the amateur camera-phone footage, taken from a London Eye pod. The sudden rush of smoke, followed by chunks of concrete, twisted pieces of steel, and millions of fragments of glass emanating from the small nuclear device that had erupted hundreds of feet below the ground. The instant annihilation of every building and life-form within its effective striking distance of one hundred metres. Then came the small mushroom shaped cloud that rose up into the darkened sky.
Dillon remained sitting, totally shocked, and rubbing his eyes.
What the hell is going on, screamed his confused mind? He pulled out the Ferran & Cardini mobile smart-phone; the screen was lifeless; except for a network error message. Not surprising as the network it was linked to, had just been vaporised in a single violent act of terrorism.