The corpse slithered to the ground in a crimson pool of its own blood. The fresh magazine clicked firmly into place and Dillon slowly got to his feet and switched on the torch. The pulped brains of the dead assassin were spattered, along with gore and blood, across the wall of the house. He stood staring at the corpse for a brief moment.
“What the fuck is going on here?” he said softly.
He stepped gingerly around the corpse and then headed back into the house through the kitchen door. He switched on the lights and pulled the chair away from the larder door. Dillon stood well back, the Glock trained and ready on the two men inside. The one who Dillon had knocked unconscious was still dazed and firmly bound, but the other one had managed to get free and as soon as the door opened, launched himself through the doorway towards Dillon.
The bullet slammed into the assailing man’s shoulder with the force of a train, sending him reeling across the stone floor of the kitchen where he lay prone until Dillon kicked him hard in the thigh. He groaned as Dillon rolled him over onto his back with the toe of his boot. Looking up, he said defiantly.
“You’re the bastard we’ve been sent to sort out, aren’t you?” The accent was northern Irish, without a doubt, and in a lot of pain.
“You need a hospital, mate. Most likely a blood transfusion the way you’re bleeding there. But first I want to sort a few things out. Afterwards I’ll call an ambulance.”
“I want a doctor, not a bloody ambulance. I’ve got a special number to ring.”
“Why not a hospital? Because you’re definitely going to need a transfusion, you know?”
Blood was freely seeping out of the wound and pooling on the floor.
“You know exactly why. I don’t want the police involved. The doc will fix me up.”
Dillon had to gauge the situation and consider how long he could wait calling anyone before the man became unconscious or, died.
“Why should I help you? After all, I’m the one you’ve been chasing around the woods trying to kill for most of the night. You can stay there and bleed to death for all I care. It really won’t worry me, especially as I’ve already killed three of your companions and your mate in there is trussed up like a turkey. Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t put a bullet in your thick skull right here and now?”
“For pity’s sake, you said you’d call an ambulance.”
“Who sent you down here to kill me?”
“Look, we just get a text message, right? The number is always withheld and the instructions are always to the point. We’re told what to do and that the bloke who lives here would know all about it when we arrived. He was instructed to get lost for a while, and we were to hide inside the house to deal with anyone trying to break in. When the job was finished we had to phone the old man and then he would come back from wherever he’s been. By that time we would have disappeared, taking with us any incriminating evidence to bury in the woods. A straightforward job.”
Dillon glanced around the room, spotted a towel by the kitchen sink, grabbed it and threw it at the wounded man.
“Press it against the wound — it’ll help to slow the bleeding. Be quick about it.”
The injured man did as Dillon ordered and leant back against the wall. Five new faces; Dillon had never seen them before. But then why should he, it was way off his usual turf. When the assassin complained and wouldn’t answer Dillon’s questions, he lost his patience and hauled the man over onto his front. He screamed with the searing pain in his shoulder, had his wrists and ankles roughly bound together and was then heaved back into a sitting position.
Dillon stared down without remorse. At least he had fought in self-defence — these men were paid killers.
“Do you know who I am?” he asked.
“It’s not important to us who you are. We’d rather not know. We do know that you’ve been poking your nose in where it shouldn’t be and that you’ve really upset some pretty important people.”
“Don’t go getting brave, dickhead. Or you might end up with a hole in the other shoulder.”
Dillon walked over to the other man. He appeared to still be unconscious. Kneeling down, Dillon felt for a pulse and was satisfied that he wasn’t dead. As he went to stand up, he noticed a small pouch attached to the man’s belt. It annoyed him that he’d missed it the first time he had searched him. He unbuckled it and slid it free, went back out into the kitchen and stood over the now semi-conscious man.
“Now then, let’s see what we’ve got in here, shall we?”
There was at least twenty grand in fifty pound notes, presumably kept by the gang’s leader and paid out as an individual cash bonus to each man when the job was over. He put the cash in his jacket pocket and left the injured man slumped on the stone floor, ignoring his pleas for help and a doctor. Without a backward glance he left through the back door, closing it quietly behind him.
Dillon went to the garage. The main electric door was still firmly locked down with the heavy-duty padlock, and he assumed that one of his would-be killers must have climbed through the broken window at the rear of the building to switch off the alarm. Dillon crouched below the window, listening for a moment, in case there was someone positioned inside the garage. He slipped a fresh magazine into the Uzi and checked the Glock once again, setting both weapons to single shot only. He slithered over the sill, fell silently to the concrete floor and waited behind a stack of wooden crates for a few seconds before swinging the torch beam around the interior. Surprisingly there wasn’t anyone or anything lurking inside with intent to do him permanent harm. He found the light switch just inside the main door and wondered why the Conners hadn’t used it — perhaps to simply confuse the issue.
The first thing Dillon noticed was the metal shelving racks that were covering most of the wall space. Some were neatly stacked with cans of paint, and others had an assortment of tools on them. A sit-on lawn mower and a petrol leaf shredder were positioned to one side of the garage which was spotlessly clean; too clean. Apart from these things there was nothing else, except for the fifteen wooden storage crates stacked at the back of the building. Again, these were neatly positioned one on top of the other, and when Dillon lifted one he found that it was empty. And so were all the others.
Once he’d shifted a few of the crates, the long wooden trapdoor revealed itself. It was not locked and when he pulled the rope handle it opened on sprung-loaded hinges to expose the steps below. He shone the torch beam around the opening as he went down the steps to find it deeper than he at first thought it would be from above. He stood at the bottom of the steps — stooped forward because of the low ceiling height, torch in one hand, gun in the other, and wondered why it simply opened up into a narrow room and nothing more. Why the alarm and all the fuss for nothing, because that was all there was in there — nothing.
It appeared to be a deliberate decoy to divert his curiosity and attention. His gut instinct told him differently. He went round, feeling the smooth plastered walls with his fingertips. It was then that he noticed the hairline cracks in each corner at the far end of the room running from floor to ceiling. The force was unnecessary — the end wall swung on well-oiled pivot hinges and opened to reveal another passage, which was much darker and seemed to go on infinitely.
Dillon stood back smiling. It was so simple and had been beautifully constructed. He shone the torch beam through the opening. The passage was not that wide — there was limited headroom and he had to stoop to get through. He holstered the Glock and slung the Uzi over his shoulder as he stepped forward. The walls were of roughcast concrete and nowhere near as finished as the small room on the other side. Dillon counted off each pace he took, estimating that the passage was about a hundred feet from one end to the other. He ran the beam of the torch over the heavy metal door that now barred his way. It looked impregnable, but to Dillon’s surprise was unlocked and swung open into a much larger room on the other side. Perhaps the person, or persons, who had engineered the labyrinth, had not thought it possible for anyone to find their way to this area.