These lost hours could be the death of us.
He calmed his breathing. He forced his heart rate to slow. He blinked a number of times and licked his lips, then walked back into the living room and moved to the side of the window and peered outside and into the snow covered landscape.
Nothing.
Entry point? he mused.
The front door — unless the Assassin was high up on the roof?
Dillon’s instincts told him that the Assassin was already inside the castle walls — every nerve ending in his body tingled with anticipation, and then he felt the breeze wash across his soul, like a ghost seeping deep into his bones. His head snapped around. The shadow moved quickly at the head of the wide staircase.
As his arm cameup, he slid the safety off the Glock, and squeezed of three rounds in rapid succession. Bullets screamed, smashing into the landing wall and spitting sparks from the metal shields mounted on the granite. Dillon moved quickly, keeping low as he rolled across the open doorway to the other side of the living room, he dropped to one knee and glanced sideways.
“Tut tut, Mr Dillon. That was an erratic move, at best,” came an emotionless voice. The tone was curiously flat and Dillon blinked sweat from his eyes and tried to pinpoint the voice. He moved slowly sideways, the Glock a close extension of his body — until he was crouched beside Tatiana, who was laying on her belly behind one of the large leather antique sofas — an automatic reaction, to get out of sight, and to minimise being hit by the gunfire.
With the gun still outstretched, he reached down with his free hand and handed her the keys to the Landrover. He pressed them deep against her palm and she nodded an acknowledgement.
They moved together, out into the great hall, keeping low and using the shadows for concealment. Towards a secret door in the oak panelling, that would lead them through a narrow passageway out into the snow.
A movement.
Dillon opened fire.
Bullets howled across the magnificent open space, slamming into the door on the other side, and wood splintering in all directions, the Glock kicking in Dillon’s hand with each round fired, right up to the point when the only sound was that of an empty magazine and the dead-man’s click…
The black clad figure sprang at him from out of the shadows and he instinctively ducked sideways, twisting to the right; the figure landed lightly and — without time to re-load a new mag Dillon thrust the Glock in its holster, and at the same time was close enough to reach under a long oak table and rip-off the masking-tape securing a Beretta from its hiding position under the top.
A kick came from behind, smashed into his back with such force that he was thrust violently forward, toppling over the back of a chair and landing in a heap, unable to breath, eyes wide, pain searing through his torso.
The figure leaped again with incredible speed and agility.
Dillon spun, was on his feet, leaping to meet the Assassin head on; they collided and Dillon’s hands grasped spandex clothing and his head smashed forward, connecting with flesh and bone. They both hit the ground and Dillon threw a heavy punch to the figure’s kidneys, then another and another — there was a deep grunt, they rolled twice into the middle of the great hall, and then the figure was — gone!
Dillon scrambled up as the soft leather of a boot slammed into his ribs, but his hands found their mark around the Assassin’s foot and he twisted hard, flipping the figure over. Instead of landing heavily, the Assassin spun like a gymnast and grabbed Dillon with both arms. They were both thrust backwards and ended up against the heavy front door in a tangle of limbs. Dillon kicked the figure hard behind the knee, sprang up and wrenched open the door with both hands.
Outside, Dillon started down the front steps, and was instantly flung forward into the snow, tasting blood.
The Assassin rolled, coming up in a rigid poised crouch.
A cold wind blew off the loch, ruffling hair, cooling skin.
Dillon blocked, and backed away, shaking his head to clear the fuzziness. Blood was running freely down over his cheek. He grimaced, realising that he had a long gash over his right eye. He felt his bones crunching, age was creeping up on him, but he was careful to show no reaction, no indication of injury.
The black clad figure circled.
Dillon caught the shocked face of Tatiana to the left. Get in the fucking Landrover, his brain screamed, why don’t you get in the damned car, just get in the car? He watched her level the gun and fire off two shots, but even at that distance he could see her hand shaking…
Powder snow kicked up and bullets whined.
Dillon calmed his breathing. The Beretta was still in his pocket, and he now had to focus.
The Assassin approached. The figure was of slim build, tall, clad entirely in black and wearing a black balaclava. Tight black boots were on the Assassin’s feet.
Dillon could see no visible weapons.
The Assassin launched forward — Dillon blocked a series of four punches, dropped low and delivered a powerful left hook to the Assassin’s jaw; he stepped in close, and was kicked hard in the chest, sending him scrabbling backwards gasping for breath, hands and arms held in front of him defensively.
Dillon’s mind was racing, thinking of his next move, all the time aware that the a Assassin was much faster and more agile than he was.
The attacker leaped; instantly Dillon twisted and rolled to his right, hooking his left foot in a wide arc, and as the Assassin landed, knocking him or her off its feet. The figure landed heavily on its back, instantly sprang back into a standing position, and charged.
Blows were exchanged left and right. Dillon blocked, received another kick to the chest and a series of rapid punches that sent him spinning into the snow. He tasted blood and looked down at the frozen ground, which was suddenly cool and soothing to the bruised and battered flesh of his face. It would be so easy, so easy to lay there and never get up again…
Dillon tried to get up, but his body screamed at him. A rainbow of colours flashed before his eyes.
He pushed, heaved, but finally fell back onto the snow exhausted.
Behind, he heard the Assassin approach, soft crunching footsteps on the snow, but he did not have the strength, could not move, could not bring himself to turn, to roll over.
Was this it, the end…?
He could do nothing… his body was not responding…
“Fight, Dillon, fight. Don’t let this fucker kill you like this…”
Dillon’s subconscious screamed from the dark recess of his mind.
But Dillon was unable to move.
Chapter 9
The small chapel at the university stood some fifty metres from the west wing, half obscured by a circle of speckle leafed bushes. Its early history and the date of when it was built were unrecorded but it was certainly older than the university, a single plain rectangular cell with a stone alter under the eastern window. There was no means of lighting except by candles and a wooden box of these was on a chair to the right of the door, together with an assortment of candlesticks, many wooden, which looked like discards from ancient kitchens. Since no matches were provided, the casual improvident visitor had to make his or her devotions, if any, without the benefit of their light. The cross on the alter was of carved oak, perhaps by a local carpenter either in obedience to orders or under some private compulsion of piety or religious affirmation. Except for the cross, the alter was bare. The chapel was a cold place. The polished limestone floors were buffed to an age old shine by decades of worship. The walls were of a simple white-washed plaster, the roof an elaborate show of exposed oak rafters and cross beams. Rows of pews that were steeped in antiquity and worn by the presence of praying worshippers, were arranged traditionally one behind another.