It was about half an hour later that he heard the faint noise at about the same time his legs were losing feeling. Sound at night is almost impossible to place accurately. He stood perfectly still; even his breathing had become almost silent. It was quiet again. And then he heard the same sound a few minutes later — the faint rustling leaves. This could just be the light breeze that was blowing up from the coast, except that it appeared to be coming from only two directions: off to his left between him and the house, as well as from behind.
When he heard it next it was more prolonged and now he was certain that the movement was not natural. The next time he heard it, he moved his position, taking long strides and stopped after a few paces. He’d judged it almost perfectly as the sound stopped just after he did.
The game was becoming more dangerous by the minute. As it continued, Dillon detected confusion and a touch of panic as the movements became erratic and more drawn out. They were becoming less cautious and much louder. All the time they were moving closer to the tree line, where the stakes would become higher and the visibility would increase considerably.
Once Dillon was reasonably confident of the actual direction, he increased his stride, whilst still trying to synchronise with the others. He kept his travel to short bursts, but covered the ground to the edge of the woods. After a while, he lay belly down on the ground. He could just see the outline of the house now and, closer to him, the garage. It was then that both black-clad figures appeared at the tree line about ten feet from where he was laying, running at speed in a crouch towards the house.
It would be futile to attempt taking a shot at them. And anyway, they were travelling fast. Dillon waited until the two hooded figures had disappeared around the corner of the house and then sprinted as fast as he could. He went straight to the open window at the side of the property and slithered in over the sill. It was a risky move because Dillon had no idea where the two figures were, but one that he calculated was worth taking as he took a guess at what their next move might be.
Dillon was in the dining room. He crossed the carpeted floor, carefully opened the door and rolled himself round it into the hall just as he heard the digital beep of the telephone receiver being placed back on its cradle in the kitchen. He moved silently past the living room where Sheila had been watching her daily helping of a television soap earlier, and waited just outside the kitchen door. One of the figures was whispering instructions to the other as they moved across the room to the window, their backs to him.
“Put down your weapons or I’ll blow your fucking heads off!”
The figures continued to stand with their backs to him, Uzi machine pistols slung over their shoulders. It was impression rather than actual vision, for it was almost as dark inside the house as it was in the woods. They faced the window, remained silent and kept their weapons at hand, which made Dillon think that they were either stupid or extremely stupid. One of the men started to slowly turn around and Dillon silently moved to his right in a wide arc so that he was positioned on the same side of the man as the weapon slung over his shoulder. He could now see that the hoods had been removed.
The man suddenly spun round, brought the Uzi up in his left hand and fired a short automatic burst at where he had expected Dillon to be. There was the muted sound of the silenced weapon, and then dull thuds as the bullets slammed into wood and plaster. This sent flying debris everywhere, but Dillon was close enough to move in and hit the man at the nape of the neck with the butt of his own gun. With an almost simultaneous action he kicked the legs out from under the other man who was already bringing his weapon up to fire. As the man who had taken the pot shots folded into an unconscious heap on the floor, Dillon laid in to the other one with a purposeful kick to his mid-torso. The pain was instantaneous, as two of his ribs snapped like twigs under the heavy blow, and as he went down, he curled up and squealed like a pig.
He went over to the phone, ripped it off the wall and stripped out the wire, using it to tie the still conscious man’s wrists behind his back. He then searched through the kitchen drawers for something to tie up the other one with, and found some binder twine — the type that farmers use to bind bales of straw with. Wrists and ankles were tightly bound and the unconscious man left on the floor. He picked up the two Uzis and released the clips from their magazines, put these in his pocket and threw the weapons out into the garden through the kitchen door. Walking outside, he concealed himself behind the garden shed and stood there for some time until he was satisfied that there was nobody else in the house. He went back inside and switched on the kitchen light.
The bulb was blinding after the long hours of darkness and he stayed where he was until he could tolerate the glare. Both men were still motionless. Dillon turned the unconscious man over to get a better look at his face, but he wasn’t anyone that he’d seen before. The same for the other man, who was still groaning and wheezing with the searing pain running down his side. He could see that both men were in their late twenties, or early thirties, with rather rough and brutal features. He searched around and found a pile of clothing in a corner, pulled out a shirt and cut it into two long strips with his knife and bound the other man’s feet together with it. When he straightened up he saw that one of the bullets had smashed a framed family photograph that had been hanging on the wall at head height by the side of the door he had come through from the hall.
A shiver ran up his spine, making him feel thankful to still be alive. He noticed that there was a large walk-in larder room just off the kitchen. Looking at the two men on the floor, he decided it was worth locking them somewhere secure, so dragged both of them into it. Before leaving them he made a thorough search of their pockets, but was not surprised to find them empty. The lack of identification was a factor that worried Dillon. He used a chair to wedge the door firmly shut, collected up the Uzi that he’d taken off the dead man in the woods and after switching off the kitchen lights, left the house through the back door.
He found his torch, ran to the tree line again and flattened himself on the ground. He waited a moment and was then sure that there was a fifth member of the hit squad still out there in the pitch black, waiting.
He ran away from the spot and circled round to the rear of the garage. Someone called out softly from the shrubbery next to the front porch, “Rob! Is that you?”
Dillon whispered a reply and waited for the assassin to show himself. Carefully, with senses heightened and adrenalin rushing, he pulled the silenced Glock free from its holster. His breathing suddenly calm, his professionalism kicking into reality.
Nothing, no sounds of approach, and then the figure glided into view — its attention focussed directly ahead, sensing rather than seeing Dillon nearby on its left side. The hooded head, mere inches from the levelled Uzi-K2 machine pistol, snapped left and Dillon was staring into its dark menacing eyes.
The rear of the garage became the target. Wood and plaster splintered and disintegrated as the silenced weapon delivered its deadly payload in the general direction of where Dillon had been standing. Dillon flattened himself on the ground, rolled once, and then again raised the Glock in both hands and fired the weapon. The assassin was smashed back against the house and drilled with the entire magazine, each round holding the body upright, dancing and twitching until the ‘dead man’s click’ reverberated in Dillon’s skull and brought the world back to a sudden echoing silence. Dillon fumbled for a fresh magazine, trying not to choke on the cordite reek that filled his nostrils and throat.