Chimera Code (Jake Dillon Adventure Thriller Series) (14 page)

Nothing.
Entry point? he mused.
The front door - unless the Assassin was high up on the roof?
Dillon’s instincts told him that the Assassin was already inside the
castle walls - every nerve ending in his body tingled with anticipation,
and then he felt the breeze wash across his soul, like a ghost seeping
deep into his bones. His head snapped around. The shadow moved
quickly at the head of the wide staircase.
As his arm cameup, he slid the safety off the Glock, and squeezed
of three rounds in rapid succession. Bullets screamed, smashing into
the landing wall and spitting sparks from the metal shields mounted
on the granite. Dillon moved quickly, keeping low as he rolled across
the open doorway to the other side of the living room, he dropped to
one knee and glanced sideways.
“Tut tut, Mr Dillon. That was an erratic move, at best,” came
an emotionless voice. The tone was curiously flat and Dillon blinked
sweat from his eyes and tried to pinpoint the voice. He moved slowly
sideways, the Glock a close extension of his body - until he was
crouched beside Tatiana, who was laying on her belly behind one of
the large leather antique sofas - an automatic reaction, to get out of
sight, and to minimise being hit by the gunfire.
With the gun still outstretched, he reached down with his free
hand and handed her the keys to the Landrover. He pressed them
deep against her palm and she nodded an acknowledgement.
They moved together, out into the great hall, keeping low and
using the shadows for concealment. Towards a secret door in the oak
panelling, that would lead them through a narrow passageway out into
the snow.
A movement.
Dillon opened fire.
Bullets howled across the magnificent open space, slamming
into the door on the other side, and wood splintering in all directions,
the Glock kicking in Dillon’s hand with each round fired, right up to
the point when the only sound was that of an empty magazine and
the dead-man’s click...
The black clad figure sprang at him from out of the shadows
and he instinctively ducked sideways, twisting to the right; the figure
landed lightly and - without time to re-load a new mag Dillon thrust
the Glock in its holster, and at the same time was close enough to
reach under a long oak table and rip-off the masking-tape securing a
Beretta from its hiding position under the top.
A kick came from behind, smashed into his back with such
force that he was thrust violently forward, toppling over the back of
a chair and landing in a heap, unable to breath, eyes wide, pain searing
through his torso.
The figure leaped again with incredible speed and agility.
Dillon spun, was on his feet, leaping to meet the Assassin head
on; they collided and Dillon’s hands grasped spandex clothing and his
head smashed forward, connecting with flesh and bone. They both
hit the ground and Dillon threw a heavy punch to the figure’s kidneys,
then another and another - there was a deep grunt, they rolled twice
into the middle of the great hall, and then the figure was - gone!
Dillon scrambled up as the soft leather of a boot slammed into
his ribs, but his hands found their mark around the Assassin’s foot and
he twisted hard, flipping the figure over. Instead of landing heavily,
the Assassin spun like a gymnast and grabbed Dillon with both arms.
They were both thrust backwards and ended up against the heavy
front door in a tangle of limbs. Dillon kicked the figure hard behind
the knee, sprang up and wrenched open the door with both hands.
Outside, Dillon started down the front steps, and was instantly
flung forward into the snow, tasting blood.
The Assassin rolled, coming up in a rigid poised crouch.
A cold wind blew off the loch, ruffling hair, cooling skin.
Dillon blocked, and backed away, shaking his head to clear
the fuzziness. Blood was running freely down over his cheek. He
grimaced, realising that he had a long gash over his right eye. He felt
his bones crunching,
age was creeping up on him
, but he was careful to
show no reaction, no indication of injury.
The black clad figure circled.
Dillon caught the shocked face of Tatiana to the left. Get in
the fucking Landrover, his brain screamed, why don’t you get in the
damned car, just get in the car? He watched her level the gun and
fire off two shots, but even at that distance he could see her hand
shaking...
Powder snow kicked up and bullets whined.
Dillon calmed his breathing. The Beretta was still in his pocket,
and he now had to
focus.
The Assassin approached. The figure was of slim build, tall, clad
entirely in black and wearing a black balaclava. Tight black boots were
on the Assassin’s feet.
Dillon could see no visible weapons.
The Assassin launched forward - Dillon blocked a series of
four punches, dropped low and delivered a powerful left hook to the
Assassin’s jaw; he stepped in close, and was kicked hard in the chest,
sending him scrabbling backwards gasping for breath, hands and arms
held in front of him defensively.
Dillon’s mind was racing, thinking of his next move, all the time
aware that the a Assassin was much faster and more agile than he was.
The attacker leaped; instantly Dillon twisted and rolled to his
right, hooking his left foot in a wide arc, and as the Assassin landed,
knocking him or her off its feet. The figure landed heavily on its back,
instantly sprang back into a standing position, and charged.
Blows were exchanged left and right. Dillon blocked, received
another kick to the chest and a series of rapid punches that sent him
spinning into the snow. He tasted blood and looked down at the
frozen ground, which was suddenly cool and soothing to the bruised
and battered flesh of his face. It would be so easy, so easy to lay there
and never get up again...
Dillon tried to get up, but his body screamed at him. A rainbow
of colours flashed before his eyes.
He pushed, heaved, but finally fell back onto the snow exhausted.
Behind, he heard the Assassin approach, soft crunching footsteps
on the snow, but he did not have the strength, could not move, could
not bring himself to turn, to roll over.
Was this it, the end…?
He could do nothing... his body was not responding...
“Fight, Dillon, fight. Don’t let this fucker kill you like this...”
Dillon’s
subconscious screamed from the dark recess of his mind.
But Dillon was unable to move.

The small chapel at the university stood some fifty metres from
the west wing, half obscured by a circle of speckle leafed bushes. Its
early history and the date of when it was built were unrecorded but
it was certainly older than the university, a single plain rectangular cell
with a stone alter under the eastern window. There was no means of
lighting except by candles and a wooden box of these was on a chair
to the right of the door, together with an assortment of candlesticks,
many wooden, which looked like discards from ancient kitchens.
Since no matches were provided, the casual improvident visitor had
to make his or her devotions, if any, without the benefit of their light.
The cross on the alter was of carved oak, perhaps by a local carpenter
either in obedience to orders or under some private compulsion of
piety or religious affirmation. Except for the cross, the alter was bare.
The chapel was a cold place. The polished limestone floors were
buffed to an age old shine by decades of worship. The walls were
of a simple white-washed plaster, the roof an elaborate show of
exposed oak rafters and cross beams. Rows of pews that were steeped
in antiquity and worn by the presence of praying worshippers, were
arranged traditionally one behind another.

Outside the early morning sunshine spilled light through the
stained-glass window directly behind the pulpit. A cool breeze drifted
down the aisles, between the pews, between those worshippers who
attended when they felt the need for the company of God. They were
gathered in silent prayer in the small chapel, while the university’s
church was undergoing extensive restoration.

The Priest kneltby the alter, his hands clasped together in prayer.
He was a tall man; some would say skinny, beneath thick curly ginger
hair, wearing casual clothes and a tweed jacket that had leather patches
on each elbow. His eyes were tightly closed in this act of prayer.
His face calm, almost serene, bathed in the coloured light filtering
in through the stained glass window. By his side, sat his Bible, the
Priest’s most prized possession, it was a small leather-bound edition
with wafer-thin pages that were edged in gold. And, this man would
willingly die for this little book.

The Priest was fully aware of the people around him and he
felt privileged to be a part of their faith and to worship alongside
them. They were all there to commune with the Lord and to receive
his blessing. The Priest sighed; this was as close to contentment as it
could get.

Something stirred inside him; something ate at the Priest’s karma
like carrion pulling-over a rotting carcass.
The footsteps approached slowly, calculated, with care. The
sound struck a discordant note in the Priest’s soul.
The Priest continued to pray, keeping his head bowed; he heard
the sound of the other worshippers hurriedly leaving the small
university chapel and he knew that this intruder was not friendly even
before any words had been spoken or actions taken. He knew that this
was the enemy.
“Lord, protect me against the dark forces of evil,” said the Priest
suddenly, his voice loud with the clarity of polished glass, booming
around the near-empty chapel. “For I am your obedient servant, Lord.
Amen.”
The Priest climbed slowly to his feet. His hand reached down,
closed over the small leather bound Bible, and placed the book in the
pocket of his jacket. It was then, that he raised his eyes and looked
straight at the intruder who now stood in front of him.
The man was tall, had a lean physique with a full beard and
cropped black hair, wearing a black suit; his eyes were of the brightest
blue that watched the priest warily, the stare drilling into his mind with
pure hatred.
The Priest stood perfectly still, surveying the man.
“You are not welcome in God’s house,” he said, his words soft,
steady. “This is a place of worship; peace and love.”
“I am here to kill you, Priest.” The man took a step backwards,
his gloved hands making fists in anticipation. The blue eyes constantly
fixed on the Priest and his moss green eyes slightly blood-shot noted
the killer’s stance and assortment of concealed weapons; the fluid
flow of movement.
“What creature from hell are you, who dare to enter God’s holy
ground? I would liken you to vermin; I would say that you are infidel
in God’s house; I would say that you need to leave before the wrath
of God strikes you down.”
The Priest waited, arms folded across his chest.
The killer attacked.
* * *

The police patrol car drove through the roads of the University
City. The officer at the wheel of the Ford Focus drove at speed, using
his blue light at junctions and traffic lights; overtaking other motorists
with only inches to spare as he raced towards his call.

He approached the university, went through the main gates; and
could see a small group of people gathered outside the chapel. As the
Ford neared they spread out, he parked the car and stepped out into
the crowd.

A group of four older ladies stood huddled outside behind a
man carrying a brown leather briefcase. They were all peering at the
door of the chapel as the rotund older police officer came towards
them.

“Come along now, people, stand back, let me through” barked
sergeant Pat Crocker.
“There was gunfire!” said one frightened lady, her handbag
clutched tightly to her coat. Her eyes held a haunted quality - she had
been one of the worshippers, who had left hurriedly.
The man carrying the brown leather briefcase stepped forward,
and immediately introduced himself as one off the university dons.
“I didn’t know if I should have gone in to check on the Priest?” He
looked relieved that the Sergeant had arrived. “Lucky to get here so
soon, Sergeant!”
“Definitely not a good idea, sir. Whoever fired those shots could
still be in there.”
The Sergeant cursed under his breath. Firearms! He spoke into
his radio, asking the estimated time of arrival of the firearms unit.
A moment later a BMW pulled-up and three SO19 officers climbed
out of the Armed Response Vehicle. All three officers were heavily
armed, carrying; Glock 17, 9mm automatics, Benelli M3 Super 90
12-guage shotguns, and Heckler & Koch MP5 sub-machine pistols.
“You are positive it was gunshots you heard?” The Sergeant
asked the man, as the SO19 officers strode towards them.
“Oh yes. We all heard them. No mistaking, Sergeant.”
The SO19 lead officer stepped forward towards the heavy oak
door, knarled and stained with the passing of time. He reached, turning
the rusting iron handle. The other two officers had gone around to
the back door and were mirroring his actions.
The Sergeant stood back looking on with the small crowd. A
shiver ran through his body as a cold wind caressed him.
The lead SO19 officer knew; could feel that death was waiting
for him inside the chapel. And then with a great act of courage, he
stepped through the portal alone, his MP5 sub-machine gun clasped
firmly in black gloved hands.

The Priest stood, hands in pockets, staring down at the dead
Assassin. He had been tossed across the chapel; his head split open,
like a melon, against unforgiving stone, tearing flesh and destroying
bone. Blood seeping onto the aged flagstones, creating an interesting
congealed crimson pool around the twisted broken corpse sprawled
at the foot of the alter. The Assassin’s unique custom-made, mini submachine pistol lay, black and evil, against the floor of the chapel. The
stench of cordite hung heavy in the cool air, gun smoke drifting from
the barrel. The Priest nudged the weapon with the toe of his shoe.
Then, stepping carefully forward with a word or two of annoyance,
he reached down and grabbed hold of the limp body. The head rolled
slack, but incredibly, there was a groan of immense pain and the
right eye that was still intact, opened. The Assassin’s mouth moved
wordlessly for a second or two and the Priest lifted the paralysed but
miraculously living man up into a sitting position.