“How?”
“Stealth-ship. And before you ask. I don’t know where he is.”
Dillon scratched an imaginary itch on his cheek. He glanced again at Tatiana; she had moved closer to the main entrance, both guns held low. It was obvious that she wanted out of this place, immediately. But equally as urgent, was her need to hear the answers as much as Dillon did.
“Is Ezra dead?”
“I would say so.”
“You would say so, would you?”
“He fell over a hundred feet off of a cliff top. It would have taken a miracle to survive that, wouldn’t you agree?”
“So you’re high enough in the chain of command to be told about his demise?”
“I worked with Ezra on numerous projects for your masters, Ferran & Cardini International. He was also involved in the Chimera project at the beginning.”
Dillon stared hard into Kirill’s eyes, and the man looked up and met his gaze, his crumpled figure covered in blood.
“What is the significance of the Assassins, Professor Kirill?”
“The Assassins…” Kirill’s eyes widened a little. Then he smiled strangely, revealing once again tobacco stained teeth, tainted with blood. “Ah… Assassins… They’re — something altogether different from you or I…”
Kirill’s gaze suddenly altered, lifted to something beyond Dillon, something outside on the heli-pad, and Dillon knew that there was the strong possibility that they were out there.
“Tats — ” he started to shout a warning as he launched himself onto the floor, but everything was drowned out by the sudden roar of automatic gunfire. Glass exploded into the reception area; bullets slamming into the granite walls and pillars; they t ore into the oak furniture at the far end of the open-plan room, ending their journey as the wood splintered and yielded under the impact.
Everything was thrown into sudden madness.
Everything suddenly switched to black and white — in Dillon’s mind…
And then… silence. The smell of cordite filled the mountain air, dust drifted through the gaps where the glass had been. He saw Tatiana, crouched behind a large metal container filled with an assortment of large exotic plants, wedged between the wall and a marble-faced pillar. She glanced up. Dillon gave a quick succession of hand signals…
Stay.
Wait.
Check Weapon.
Dillon glanced right; he could not see Kirill from his new position but he could hear him. At first he thought he was crying… But then he realised with rising anger that he was laughing. The bastard was actually laughing.
“So you want to know about the Assassins?” called Kirill. “Ask one of them yourself, Dillon — go on, ask the question yourself!” He laughed again, almost a cackle came from somewhere in the back of his throat. Dillon sighted the Nemesis scope, adjusting and shortening the focus. And at this short range, the next person to step through the doorway would be literally cut in half by the 12.7mm caliber rounds…
Everything happened at once — and it happened fast.
The Assassins made their move; there were four of them. Dillon squeezed the Nemesis trigger once, adjusted angle, and squeezed again and saw two of the black-clad figures drop almost simultaneously. The first took a bullet in the face and spun up into the air before being tossed violently, down onto the ground. The second caught a bullet in the throat, virtually severing the head from the torso, blood spraying in a wide arc across the walls.
The other two came through the doorway like circus acrobats, tumbling over the polished floor at speed — Uzi mini-machine pistols set to semi-automatic, firing at Dillon…
Dillon left the Nemesis on its tripod and dashed low across the reception area, using anything he could get behind for cover. Bullets ripped through the leather couches and ate the exotic plants, Dillon dived, rolling behind a pillar and then skidding, arms flaying around as he fought to get some sort of grip on the highly polished surface to face Tatiana.
The automatic pistol slid over the floor.
Dillon scooped up the familiar heavy bulk of the battered gun, placed his back against the pillar and a split-second later, spun out into the open.
Dillon dropped to a crouch, head snapping round to the left, and his gaze roaming the room in search of the other Assassins. The first Assassin lay, its skull broken, a sticky gluten matter pooling around it. The second lay a few feet away, its hooded head twisted at a bazaar angle to the body. Where the hell is the Priest and the others, and why didn’t I hear these bastards coming? Screamed his brain.
“They must have come back for Kirill,” whispered his subconscious softly.
There was a movement — a soft sound as soft rubber soled boots moved lightly over the highly polished floor, deep in the shadows at the far end of the room by the glass doors of the lift.
And then it saw Dillon.
Dillon was already firing: bullets tearing across the space, ripping through the gloom and punching the Assassin back against the glass door of the lift. A crimson smear appeared as it slid silently to the floor.
Dillon stayed low, eyes quickly scanning around the room for any other movement. The Assassin he’d just shot was in a sitting position against the glass door of the lift, its head slumped to the left, arms inert, both hands still holding the vicious Uzi mini sub-machine pistols, each forefinger still on the triggers, a red pool covering the highly polished floor around it. He moved cautiously, checked Tatiana. She had scrambled even further back behind the large metallic plant container by the entrance. That’s it, you stay just where you are, he thought to himself. Don’t do anything heroic.
The gun touched the back of his head, cold metal pressing gently against his skull.
There was a long pause.
“Do not make any sudden movement, Mr Dillon. It could be your last…” Came the soft female voice.
Dillon grinned, a nasty malicious grin. “You damned idiot,” he thought. “There were four of them!”
“Gun on the floor. Do it, or I will blow your face clean off. Now.”
Dillon — moving very slowly — lowering his gun, he placed it carefully on the floor, and then stood up again.
“Very slowly, Mr Dillon.”
Dillon stood, gaze roaming, searching for a way out. “Move over towards Professor Kirill.”
Dillon began a slow walk; he did not glance towards Tatiana’s position but he knew that she could hear the exchange. He moved gradually into the view of Kirill.
Despite the fact that he had gaping bullet wounds and the pain that he must have been in. The man was smiling as if he didn’t have a care in the world. He had struggled up and was now sitting on one of the couches, his back leaning against the soft black leather, and then he glanced casually at his watch.
“Four minutes and — twenty-five seconds, Dillon. The clock’s ticking and then it’s — big boom time.” Kirill laughed, the laugh of a man resigned to certain death.
Dillon’s brain was churning over in search of a solution to his immediate predicament, the voice deep within his sub-conscious saying over and over. “Ask him straight out what it is he wants.”
“What is it you want, Kirill?”
“Want. I want nothing, Dillon. I have already resigned myself to death; in fact, it never ceases to amaze me how I’ve survived this long. My only pleasure now is to watch you go to your death, not knowing any of the answers. To know you died wondering where Chimera — where Scorpion — where Ferran & Cardini — and where the Assassins all fit into this rather interesting puzzle… You really have such low expectations of your enemies.”
“You can at least do one good thing, Kirill.”