Dillon was suddenly thirsty, the game was getting bigger, the stakes getting higher, the unknown enemy becoming nastier.
The alter-ego that slept deep within Dillon’s sub-conscious surged to the forefront of his brain like a black brooding monster emerging from the deepest darkest depths of the ocean. “I’ve had enough of this shit, playing by somebody else’s rules,” snapped the voice inside Dillon’s head.
“You’re not the only one,” Dillon’s tone was gruff and thoroughly hacked-off.
For a while he dozed, drifting in uneasy sleep. When he awoke with a start the fire was still glowing warmly, but outside he could only see pitch-black, highlighted by the heavy snow drifting up the window panes. Dillon looked over at Tatiana. She was still sleeping deeply, her breathing regular. He checked the sterile dressings, and replaced them with fresh ones. Dillon poured himself a large tumbler of single malt whiskey, and re-took his seat opposite Tatiana, sipping at the smooth fiery amber liquid and staring into her face. She looked so serene, her skin so young looking.
And yet he would have to wake her shortly; not knowing if, or when, more Assassins would be sent after them? Highly trained and intent on murder?
He got up and went and knelt beside her, pushing some stray hair from her forehead. She murmured in her sleep, Dillon stroked her cheek, enjoying the warm flushed skin under his fingers; his mood had shifted to one of reminiscence, of years gone by. This was only moderated by the hard outer casing of the Glock against the small of his back.
More of them will come, he thought.
They will already know that they failed.
Tatiana moaned in her drug induced sleep; she turned, sighing, then her face twisted in pain — stitches pulling tight. She coughed, settling back against the cushions. Dillon held back from waking her, to question her. She had lost a lot of blood, was weak from her ordeal and injuries, the shock of what had happened to her. She needed to rest… but not for long. They had to leave; and leave soon. How long did they have? Twelve hours? Thirty minutes? Dillon caressed the Glock.
He would be waiting.
And he would be ready.
F&CI Com-intercept. Transcript of recent Reuter’s news article.
Sources within the Kremlin have confirmed that two Russian nuclear-powered submarines have gone missing.
These long-range underwater vessels were both armed with the latest nuclear warheads when they went missing while on training manoeuvres in the Barents Sea. Early reports indicate that five surveillance satellites were overhead at the precise time the submarines vanished.
A rescue operation led by military craft in the immediate area was ordered, and since the disappearance of the subs, three high-speed search and seek submersible drones have been searching the deep water at the last known fixed position, but with no success.
The leaders of many countries have already been in contact with the Kremlin to offer their support during this tragic time…
Chapter 8
The small launch cut a foaming wake through the black water of the harbour, the deck rolling gently beneath his sandals. He stood looking back towards the shore as the wind caressed his long curled hair and thick beard, he could see the darkened buildings of the harbour side, embraced by the heat of a tropical summer. Seagulls flapped and squawked, like squabbling children, around the fishing boats as dusk descended upon this exotic part of the world.
A lone eagle soared high above the shoreline, backlit by the full moon, searching out its next prey. The one-hundred and fifty foot black twin hull stealth cruiser sat rocking gently in the deep calm waters of the bay. The eagle dived and disappeared beneath the trees.
The launch reached the stealth ship, bumping against the rubberised hull. The access door slid back and the man stepped up and into the vessel. He moved through the gloom and reached the watertight door, heavy steel, and it swung open on well-oiled hinges. Giving a final look over his shoulder towards the access door and the freedom of the ocean beyond — he was now trapped with nowhere to run…
Ducking to enter the confines of the ship’s lower corridor, he moved up the broad steps, his silver tipped walking cane clicking as he made his way through the ship; his limp even more pronounced on the mesh walk-ways.
Despite his age of sixty-five, he was still an imposing figure of a man, huge and tanned, his head covered in traditional Middle Eastern head-wear, his face hidden under the large grey-streaked beard.
Moving down the corridor, he paused as he reached another door; he wanted to enter, neededto enter, and yet still he hesitated. He considered knocking, but realised it was not necessary… Ramus already knew he was there.
He pushed, and the heavy door swung inwards.
He stepped forward, into a room of low atmospheric lighting, that was pure opulence; fitted furniture of the highest quality and an array of high-tech computer equipment, and wood-panelling; long rows of unevenly sized books lining the walls and through a tiny porthole the last remnants of daylight spilled in. The room was awash with warm light and colour. Strategically placed throughout the space was some extremely high-tech equipment; binary codes flickered on the High Definition monitor screens, except for one, which remained black. Reminding the man of the darkness, that will fill and consume the new world.
“Ramus?”
“I am here, my old friend.” A figure was standing beside a stack of old leather-bound books; tall and thin, the suit he was wearing, hand-made of the finest cloth that money can buy and concealing an ever present Browning automatic. The voice was rich, had strength and an almost melodious tone.
“Come my friend — speak — we are completely alone for the moment.”
“They have failed,” said the big bearded man in Arabic. “We thought that he might have gone soft after nearly a year and a half out of Ferran & Cardini. We thought him an easy target; retired, lacking rigorous and regular training.”
“Even after the events in Cornwall with… Kirill?”
“He was merely lucky.”
“Your naivety astounds me. You placed him low on the list of priority terminations, when in fact he should have been at the very top.” The smooth voice had a razor sharp edge to it and the bearded man shivered.
“What would you have me do?” Came, the deep voice of the Arab. The voice was starting to crack under the immense pressure. His cane remained firmly at his side, as he waited for a response from Ramus. Who used this to his advantage, allowing the silence to build up the tension. He knew the other man well, knew his fear was a tangible thing, physical, an aura which surrounded him like a cloud.
“Send in just one Assassin, but this time, make sure that it knows just how dangerous the quarry is,” came the soft voice.
“Why? What makes just one so special?”
“There is an elite group who are waiting for such an opportunity to demonstrate their unique abilities. Sending just one to our friend Dillon in Scotland, will reap success this time. And don’t forget, these very special individuals who share our ideals, have been waiting patiently for many years, preparing — harbouring their grudges — for a war! Soon this stealth ship will be at the centre of our activities… Yes, my friend you are living through exciting times of immense change — on a global scale. The likes of which, no-one has ever seen before and it is good for you that you are a part of this — integral, shall we say.”
The Arab gazed at the suited figure in front of him, seeing the smile, the show of teeth. His mouth was dry, his eyes filled with tears. His knuckles were white where they gripped the silver-tipped walking cane.