They waited…
Time stood still, as they waited to see the two powerful boats that had been following them, come bursting through the wall of flames, as Dillon knew they surely would. A second later they came through at high speed — there were three Assassins in each craft and they all wanted Dillon — dead.
The raced past Dillon, who wasted no time opening up the throttles and surging the rib forward, now as the pursuer. Dillon fired the first flare at the trailing boat, veered to the left, accelerating, and opened fire with his Glock set to automatic at the lead craft. The flare hit the cockpit with a devastating effect, within seconds the entire craft was being consumed by intense flames. Two of the Assassins were killed instantaneously as the interior became their own personal crematorium, the third jumped overboard, only to be fatally struck by the bow of the rib, as Dillon came racing back up the channel.
Three down and three to go, he thought…
The remaining craft spun round and chased Dillon back up the channel. Bullets slammed into the rib from the machine pistols of two of the Assassins behind, shredding the inflatable pockets running around the edge of the deck.
Dillon swerved the rib to the right and headed for the cover of a rocky islet jutting up out of the water. He dropped the power to an idle, just long enough to allow himself to reload the flare gun with another cartridge and then immediately broke cover, surging forward from behind the islet and through the wake of the Assassin’s power boat as it raced by.
Bullets scythed across the rock face of the Islet, sending chunks of debris splashing into the water. Dillon pushed the throttles wide open, spun the rib round in a ninety degree turn, just as one of the Assassins turned, brought its Uzi up, and fired a continuous burst straight at the windshield of the rib. Dillon ducked as the glass shattered into a million tiny pieces all over him and the deck, and also showering Tatiana who remained sprawled face down on the deck, hands clasped tightly together over the back of her head.
“For fuck’s sake,” she hissed. “Will they never stop?”
“Not until we are dead — or they are…” Dillon shouted over his shoulder, and urged the rib on; made a series of evasive manoeuvres, all the time trying to get a clear shot in with the flare gun. Then he got his chance… He knew that it would be his only opportunity and he made it count. The flare hit the Assassin at the controls in the centre of its chest. The black-clad figure slumped over the side rail and fell, dead, over the side, the other two Assassins responded, one taking over the control of the power boat, the other moving forward.
As the dead Assassin went over the rail, Dillon was already spinning the rib round and as he raced past his pursuers, tossed a hand-grenade onto the deck of their boat…
By the time the grenade exploded, Dillon was racing through to the other end of the sound and had just enough time to look over his shoulder and see the explosion wipe-out the boat in the blink of an eye.
With a foaming wake trailing behind the rib and no Assassins pursuing them, Dillon pulled back on the throttles and eased himself onto the seat. Tatiana came and stood next to him, her arm went round his neck, and she kissed him on his cheek.
He looked up at her. “What’s that for?”
“For keeping your word. You looked after me and kept us both alive. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. Now it’s time to get the hell out of this place, and take Ezra with us. I only hope we can find him in time…”
“So do I,” Tatiana said soberly. “So do I.”
Franky froze. A figure was crouched in the tunnel, an Uzi SMG levelled at her.
After fighting alongside Ezra and his group, Franky had been told to keep well back, but as the battle raged on, everyone had either been killed by the Assassins or had fled the bullets to find safety. She had retreated back into the tunnel and along the passageways towards the control room deep underground…
That had been the plan. To meet; to regroup if the situation became hopeless.
And the situation had become totally hopeless…
Franky stared at the shadowed figure. It had to be an Assassin; it had to be. She cursed the dim lighting down in the depths of the tunnel…
Slowly Franky raised her hands in the air.
The Uzi SMG was beside her, digging into her ribs.
She did not dare look down at it.
“What do you want me to do?” She asked gently, not wishing to antagonise the black hooded, armed and extremely dangerous assailant.
The muzzle remained pressed firmly against her clothing. The masked face expressionless, the brilliant blue eyes scanning the tunnel.
The figure remained perfectly still.
There was a slight tilt of the head and a word whispered, almost inaudible — die; the Uzi spat, and Franky was slammed backwards against the rough hewn wall of the tunnel, blood splashing up the rock, the bullets cutting a line straight up through her chest, throat, and ending their journey slamming into her skull. She slumped down the wall into a sitting position on the tunnel floor, limp and dead, the top of her skull split open, her brain exposed and bloody, glistening in the surreal emergency lighting of the tunnel.
Suddenly, silence reigned.
The Assassin’s head snapped right; the Uzi moved in an arc to cover the tunnel opening.
Karp sprinted into view, his handsome face changing from a happy smiling visage into a snarl of rage as his eyes fell across Franky’s still corpse and he staggered backwards. His mind racing, confused, as he regained his footing and then felt the damp wall of the tunnel against his back.
“Franky?” He shouted, stumbling towards her. His hand reached out, fingers stroking her bloodied face, sliding in the congealing gore soaking her smooth skin.
“Franky!”
Tears rolled down over his cheeks.
The bullets cut into his back and Karp didn’t even know what had hit him.
Spiros wiped his bloodied lips with the back of his hand and closed his eyes, listening. He stood in the tunnel corridor, the Heckler MP5 sweat slippery in his hands and he knew; knew that death had come and whoever was the executioner had killed both Franky and Karp. They were good; they may not have been military trained, but they were fast and they were efficient. Get a grip, screamed his brain.
He took several deep breaths, feeling sweat soak him under his shirt, cold and clammy.
He moved forward; not towards the gunfire, but away. He had heard the shots; perhaps forty or fifty rounds in all had been fired. This wasn’t assassination, this was butchery. He had heard Karp’s raised voice calling out Franky’s name; understood the intensity in his tone; knew the man — his friend, his comrade — was dead.
Spiros halted, the Heckler swinging from his shoulder.
He was at a junction with three tunnels before him.
“Spiros!” came the distant voice.
Spiros frowned; Ezra?
There came another cry, this time of pain.
Ezra is injured?
Spiros moved forward, still cautious, staying low and close to the wall of the dimly lit tunnel, every sense in his body on high alert, even the sigh of the breeze through the tunnel seemed to be amplified. He came to a small circular chamber with four smaller tunnels leading from it.
He halted.
He turned, turned again.
And then the figure stepped out from the shadows. His eyes widened. The barrel of the Uzi swung around but it was too late and the SMG was already pointing at him and he saw the gentle flex of muscle beneath the black skin-tight clothing and could read the figure; could read its amorality.