‘Don’t do it, Peter,’ Nina gasped. Each breath felt like a glowing poker pressing against her chest. ‘He’s going to kill us anyway.’
Alderley glared defiantly at his former comrade. ‘I know. Go to hell, John.’
‘Very well. Goodbye, Nina.’ A smile of cold triumph curled Brice’s lips as the rifle pointed straight at her face—
‘Brice!’
The shout came from the building’s rear corner, a hundred and fifty feet away. The surprised MI6 man glanced towards it — then looked back at Nina as his finger tightened on the trigger—
The split-second’s hesitation saved her life.
Another gunshot — and Brice’s throat exploded in a gory burst of blood and torn meat.
He spun and fell, the Kalashnikov’s last bullets clanging into the car’s flank as his finger spasmed on the trigger. Nina scrambled clear as he hit the ground.
‘Nina! Nina!’ shouted Alderley, rushing to help her. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes — I mean no, I just got frickin’ shot!’
He kicked the rifle away and checked her wound. ‘You were lucky. Those last-resort jobs are pretty low powered and inaccurate.’ A brief look at Brice. He was still alive, squirming as he clutched his mangled throat. ‘That wasn’t, though.’
‘Sometimes it is all about being a good shot,’ said a familiar voice. Nina looked up — and saw Eddie jogging clumsily towards her, Alderley’s pistol in his hand. ‘Was aiming a couple of inches higher, but from that range, it’ll do.’
‘Eddie!’ she cried. Alderley helped her up. ‘Where’s Macy?’
‘Back there.’ He flicked a thumb over one shoulder to where their daughter was peering fearfully around the corner. ‘She’s okay, thank God.’ The Yorkshireman reached Brice. ‘Sore throat, Brice? Need some Lockets?’ The other man opened his mouth as if to snarl a retort, but all that came out was a slurry of saliva-frothed blood.
Alderley made a hurried phone call. ‘We’ve got Brice. I repeat, we have Brice. Move in and secure the area. He’s been shot in the throat; he’ll need urgent medical attention.’ He turned to the downed man. ‘Got to patch you up for your treason trial, after all.’
‘Mustn’t cheat the hangman,’ Eddie added.
Alderley gave him a knowing look. ‘Richard Burton?’
He nodded. ‘Where Eagles Dare.’
‘Great film. One of my favourites.’
‘You know, maybe you’re not so bad after all, Alderley.’ Both men smiled.
‘All right, enough with the male bonding,’ said Nina. ‘And I don’t want Macy to see that.’ She nodded distastefully at Brice’s ruined neck.
‘I’ll watch him,’ Alderley offered, recovering Brice’s gun. ‘You go and get your little girl.’
The couple thanked him and made their way to Macy. She regarded them both with tearful concern. ‘Mommy! Are you okay? You’ve got blood on you!’
Nina had done her best to cover the wound, but both her hand and the clothing beneath were smeared with crimson. ‘I’m fine, honey. Don’t worry about me, it’s you who’s important. Are you hurt?’
She shook her head. ‘No… but I want to go home.’
‘We will, soon as we can,’ Eddie assured her. He picked her up and hugged her, Nina nuzzling against them both as cars sped towards the building.
Epilogue
Even in summer, the Shetlands were far from warm. Eddie zipped up his leather jacket against the wind as he stepped from the helicopter. Mossy moorland greeted him, the sky and sea beyond a melancholy slate grey. ‘Don’t think I’ll be working on my tan,’ he said.
‘It’s not one of Scotland’s top tourist spots, no,’ Peter Alderley agreed. The rocky isles were over a hundred miles north of the Scottish mainland, most of the bleak archipelago uninhabited.
Which was why they were there. There were no trees on this particular island, the only thing rising above the rugged terrain a squat blockhouse of storm-scoured concrete. It was an old military facility, a relic of the Second World War when the Shetlands had been home to several Royal Air Force bases.
It had also housed facilities of the Special Operations Executive, the wartime military equivalent of MI6. Ironically, this former SOE bunker now contained a secret of its present-day counterpart. Alderley led the way down to a thick metal door, presenting his ID card to a camera. A brief wait, then a buzzer sounded and the barrier grumbled aside.
The two men entered to be greeted by a pair of uniformed guards. Identities were checked again, scanners passed over their bodies to ensure nothing was being smuggled inside, then one guard signalled to another man in a control booth. A second harsh buzz, and an inner door opened. The visitors were escorted through.
They marched down a stark concrete corridor. Heavy steel doors were set in each wall. Eddie and Alderley were brought to the third on the left side. ‘Open number six!’ the lead guard called, putting a hand on his holstered sidearm. A sharp bang as heavy bolts retracted, then his companion opened the door.
‘I’ll wait out here,’ said Alderley as Eddie stepped forward.
The Yorkshireman gave him a look of mild surprise. ‘You came all the way up here, and you’re not going to see him?’
‘He’s said as much as he’s going to say to SIS. Maybe he’ll be a bit less on-message with you. Besides, I think what you want to say is between you and him.’
‘Thanks.’
‘It’s the least I could do. Although I’d prefer it if you didn’t kill him. He might be officially dead, but we may still have some use for him.’
Eddie shook his head. ‘You should’ve made it official. I’d have been happy to help out.’ The story given to the media was that John Brice, the renegade ex-spy and latter-day Guy Fawkes who had destroyed the Houses of Parliament, had died from his wounds following a shootout with police. In reality, he had been whisked away by helicopter to a secure government facility for surgery before being interrogated, then eventually imprisoned far from prying eyes.
‘I fully sympathise, believe me. But I’m sure that if he were to somehow repeatedly fall face-first against a wall, the guards wouldn’t rush to help him.’
‘Good to know.’ Eddie gave him a dark smile, then entered.
The room beyond was square, the walls the same bare concrete as outside. A bed, small desk, plastic chair, steel toilet bowl and matching washbasin were the only furnishings. Cameras in each corner gave the guards total surveillance coverage of the confined space.
Its occupant lay upon the bed, languidly watching him enter. ‘They said I had a visitor,’ rasped Brice. His throat was a patchwork of Frankensteinian scars, shredded flesh stitched back together. Protruding from it was a slotted metal disc: a mechanical larynx. His voice box had not been completely destroyed by Eddie’s bullet, but was damaged enough that he required amplification to speak in anything more than a whisper. ‘I didn’t expect it to be you.’
‘Ay up, Darth,’ Eddie replied, folding his arms as the door closed behind him. ‘Just thought I’d pop in and make sure you were uncomfortable.’
‘Is that all? I’m surprised you’re not here to execute me, Chase.’
‘Bit hard to execute someone who’s already dead. At least, officially.’
‘Officially, this place doesn’t exist either. And it would eliminate any risk of retribution against the government if the Yanks suspected I was still alive.’
‘Well, you got lucky. Alderley told me that the new Prime Minister specifically banned, what did he call ’em? “Extra-judicial killings” by any British agency. So the only reason you’re still breathing — well, wheezing — is because the bloke you didn’t want to win the election did win it.’