A Game for Assassins (The Redaction Chronicles Book 1) (52 page)

C continued, “I would hate to have to destroy my creation because it had become too loud and noisy, a distraction from the Service's usual operating style. Mace ends tonight, come hell or high water. I want all evidence and enemies expunged. Do I make myself clear?”

Masterman understood. Mace had been a difficult operation, far bigger and more widespread than anything the unit had been called on to handle before. The shootings and Redactions across Europe had given the senior command at SIS the vapors. “Of course. But what about the far-reaching consequences of Operation Mace? Mopping up the mess, so that the agents can survive?”

C waved it away. “Oh, I think we've done all we can for the moment. Let Porter and his case officers handle bringing Constellation back into the fold. Your man is armed and in place and the Americans are, as we speak, tracking down, if they haven't already, the culprits behind this rogue operation.”

“So I'm led to believe,” said Masterman.

C raised his hands in a reflective gesture. “Then for the moment, we can do nothing but sit back and see how the cards fall. It's the nature of intelligence work; you plan and plot and recruit and manipulate, but at the end of it all, we just have to sit in the hospital delivery ward and wait for the midwife to deliver our little progeny.”

Masterman reflected on the amount of times he'd sat in the back of a jeep, or stood on a street corner or had been huddled inside a covert surveillance van, waiting for something to happen. The sense of frustration at having little or no control once the operation was in play never seemed to wane.

“In time, sooner rather than later, we'll give the Americans a friendly push to remind them how we helped them out during this debacle, use it as currency. Manipulate their embarrassment a little to make them more compliant. I rather fancy some more of that new-fangled satellite surveillance intelligence that the CIA has access to. Perhaps they'll feel like sharing it as and when we need it from now on,” said C.

“And do you think they'll roll over that easily?”

“Oh, I know they will. It's what we do isn't it, take advantage of lesser beings. After all, our Service's job is to gain intelligence by any means, even if that does mean hamstringing our nearest and dearest colleagues. Well, don't let me keep you Stephen; I'm sure you'll want to keep a close eye on your operation. Do keep me informed about how it all goes and I very much look forward to meeting your officer when he returns victorious.” C stood and ushered Masterman out of his office and returned to his desk.

A good man that,
thought C. A credit to his father.

He pulled the next manila file across from his pending pile. It had the words OPERATION SHREDDER printed along the top. SHREDDER, the next step along in SIS's greatest deception operation of the Cold War.

Gorilla sat in the little Fiat, fuming, his knuckles white with tension on the steering wheel. He'd been locked in traffic for the past ten minutes and time was running out fast for him. He could see the Coliseum in the distance; he almost felt like he could touch it, that's how close it was.

The problem was that the traffic was backed all the way along the
Via de San Gregorio
, the result of a motor collision caused by the rain and the ensuing shunting of over a dozen vehicles had all but closed off most of the road. He had driven like the Devil from the church, throwing the small car around bends and speeding up on the long straight stretches. He had no idea of the roads he was driving down, or if he was even going the right way. Once or twice, he felt the rear end of the car sliding on the wet road surfaces. He revved the engine and held down the horn to keep pedestrians and other cars out of his way. So far, it had worked.
Probably by Italian driving standards, it was pretty tame,
he thought to himself.

All he could do was keep the spectacle of the Coliseum, rising like a mountain in the distance, in his sights. He knew that he would reach it soon… that was, until he finally made it onto the main arterial route that led directly to the Coliseum and everything stopped. Bastard bloody traffic! He had less than fifteen minutes to get to the rendezvous, less than that, in all truth, to help Nicole. He could sit here like a fool or do something!

“Bollocks to it,” he growled. He lurched forward and began to feed the car through the lines of backed up traffic and after much horn blaring and obscene gesticulation from his fellow drivers, he managed to get the car over to the curbside on the right. One final surge of power and the car finally rested half on and half off the roadside. He kicked open the door, aware of the glowering looks of the other drivers, tightened his coat around him and set off into the rain.

Half a mile, he guessed, so he ran. He ran at full pelt. One arm holding onto the weight of the gun in the holster on his hip, covered by his coat. The restrictions of his suit and the heaviness of the overcoat all hampered his speed. The sweat was creasing the collar of his shirt and tie.

The snake of stalled traffic passed him by, his legs pumping fast. He barely noticed the cause of the delay as he sped by; a delivery truck had skidded and overturned, which had caused the pile up that was now blocking the traffic lanes. The drivers and passengers were now berating each other in angry Italian.

His breath rasped as he left the accident behind and the roads became miraculously clear, as if a stream had been brooked. The pavement began to climb gently until he was at the huge roundabout that was the
Via Celio Vibenna
. He crossed the road and spent a hair-raising few seconds dodging the traffic until, safely across, he finally made his way down the steps that led him onto the cobbled forecourt of the twelve story Coliseum. He wiped away the rain from his eyes and looked about for an access point. He ignored the main entrance, which was gated and locked.
No,
he thought,
not the tourist entrance that's too obvious, even at this time of night.

He circled counter clockwise around the ancient building, looking for a not-so-obvious way in. Unsurprisingly, all the alcoves were secured with huge iron gates. He tested a few to gauge their resolve, but found that there would be no way of penetrating them without the help of an acetylene cutting kit. By the few people out on the street tonight, and those that were hurrying to escape from the rainstorm, Gorilla was barely given a second glance. He would be classed as just another businessman on his way home and of no importance.

He checked his watch; it was less than five minutes before he had to confront Marquez and hand over a nonexistent agent. He doubted the killer would give him any more time and would probably execute Nicole on the spot.
Think, think, reason it out,
he told himself. Marquez must have found a way in, there must be a weak point that he took advantage of.

It was halfway through his second search when he found it. A small metal gate that looked locked, but wasn't. No security guard. Where was he? The gate had evidently been opened and the padlock had been replaced, but not locked shut. Why wouldn't he lock the padlock after him?
Because he wants you inside, you bloody idiot,
he chided himself.
He wants you inside to kill you; he's left you a clue so that you can enter unhindered.

Gorilla checked around, but with no one in the vicinity, he swiftly pulled apart the rusty padlock from the bolt on the metal gate. He entered and reversed the process, ensuring that the padlock was merely held in place. To the casual observer, it would look like a secured gate.
Plus, it's better to have a quick escape point too,
he thought.

He turned and stepped into the shadow of the arch which formed the outer ring of the building, pulled the '39 from his hip holster and attached the silencer. A quick chamber check and a flicking off of the safety and he was ready. He moved slowly forward in the assassin's crouch, the pistol held one handed and out in front in the three quarter hip position, while his other hand hovered at his side in case of a surprise attack. He moved slowly forward, keeping to the shadows, and into the arena of death.

* * *

Gaining access to the Coliseum had actually been surprisingly easy,
thought Marquez. In fact, it had been the easiest task of his whole time here in Rome. Simplicity itself.

He had kept the girl close; their arms linked and the gun in his pocket rammed into the side of her body. She had already been warned not to shout out or make a noise, and to play along. Play along or it would go very badly for her.

They had circled the Coliseum in the miserable rain storm, looking for a guard whom they could engage in conversation. On the first half rotation, they'd found him; an old man in an ill-fitting security guard uniform patrolling with his flashlight. Marquez had called out to the guard through the metal fence with the locked Judas gate built into it. He'd played the desperate tourist with mangled Italian phrases, making him sound pathetic and non-threatening. “
Si prega di sir
.” Please, sir.

The guard had waved back and was about to carry on his patrolling routine. “
Siamo Chiusi
.” We are closed.

“Please help us. My wife is pregnant. She is in pain. She is ill… she needs to rest out of the rain. We need to call a doctor,” cried out Marquez, pushing the woman at his side forward and into the light.

The old guard shone the light over at them, as if to confirm what he was being told. He saw a tall, dark haired man with a young woman, her head resting on his shoulder. The couple seemed to be holding each other tight, almost protectively.

To her credit, the girl had played the part perfectly. With her rain-streaked face, wet hair and vulnerable look. But then again, what else could she do?
The game had to play out to its natural conclusion,
thought Marquez.

“I… I am not supposed to let anyone in after closing time. It is the rules,” said the guard, but Marquez noted the uncertainty in his voice.

“Please my friend… just so that she can rest. We have been touring the city all day, we are tired and my wife feels unwell.”

“Oh… I don't know,” called the guard.

Marquez thought he'd lost the ruse there and then. Thought the guard would turn around, throw his hands in the air and utter that it was not his problem and go back to his patrolling, safe inside the protection of the Coliseum. So it came as something of a surprise when the girl spoke, despite his orders not to, and clinched the deal for them. She probably thought she would help save the guard's life.
How wrong she was,
thought Marquez.

“I can't feel my baby moving… please I need to rest! Please, grandfather,” she said in halting Italian, her fragile voice perfectly pitched to squeeze the old man's heart.

After that it had all been so easy. The guard had let them through the gate and began to usher them along to the security office. “Come, I will have Santos in the office make you comfortable,” he said, now playing the role of the couple's designated protector. The man ambled ahead of them, chattering away contentedly.

Nicole knew it was coming, was expecting it, but that didn't stop the fact that when Marquez swung around in front of the guard and shot him in the head with the silenced pistol, she jumped involuntarily. Six weeks ago she would have screamed, but not now. The most that a Redaction agent would give away would be a temporary widening of the eyes and a sharp intake of breath. She had become hardened to death recently.

The rest, for Marquez, had been commonplace. One more murder – Santos in the security office – and then they had exclusive use of the Coliseum for at least the next hour or so. A simple shot to the back of the unsuspecting guard's head. Marquez grabbed her and pushed her face first against the stone columns in the warren of passageways that led down to the Hyperion, the underground section. She felt the gun pressed to the back of her head.

He rummaged in his shoulder bag and removed a length of chain that had been adapted. He knew she wouldn't struggle, she'd been warned too many times before, and he suspected she thought that by complying, she would be leading him into a trap, a trap that the blond assassin would be hoping to spring upon him. Marquez smiled inwardly to himself. Let her think whatever she liked, he had been a killer and a survivor of numerous double crosses in his career, and he was adept at outwitting the foolish.

“Hold still while I put this on you. You try to struggle and I'll shoot you in the elbow,” he said. A minute later, the chain and its contents were fastened around Nicole's waist. He kept the wire that attached itself to the belt taut and tense. He whispered in her ear, “Stay close to me and don't try to escape.”

* * *

Gorilla had only travelled a few feet when he found the security guard who had been on duty by the gate. The guard was old and was lying splayed out on the walkway. His official blue uniform was covered in dust and his peaked cap was a few feet away from his head, which had recently acquired a deep crimson third eye in its center. Gorilla knew there was no need to check for a pulse, you don't come back from a large caliber bullet to the head.

He moved onwards, his senses were keen and his hearing was just as important as his sight. The internal lamps inside the amphitheater had been reduced by fifty percent.
Marquez, trying to stay concealed for as long as possible,
he thought. He moved along the circumference of the ground level, taking it slowly, stalking his ground carefully. This is how he would have had it in the first place, if it had been his choice. This was Gorilla's forte. Both of them armed with handguns, hunting each other to the death, man against man – what could be simpler?

Up ahead, he made out a small watchman's hut that stood beside the main visitor entrance. A small desk inside, a lamp illuminating the interior so that it gave away the shape of a pair of feet protruding from the doorway.
Another dead watchman,
thought Gorilla. Shot in the back of the head this time, judging by the position of the body. He wondered how many more dead security guards he would find on his journey. Marquez certainly wanted the place to himself.

He bypassed the little hut and moved around the arc of the Coliseum, taking time to move from one archway to another, conscious of a potential threat waiting for him around every stone pillar. He moved the '39 into a two-handed grip, more aware than ever that his target could ambush him, anywhere from touching distance to over twenty feet away. Not that the man would get a chance, the only place that Marquez was going was to the ground. Gorilla was that fast and accurate with a gun.

Was Marquez concealed high on the upper levels, looking down at him through a sniper scope and taking a bead on a spot on his temple? One shot from long distance and he would be out of the game and the girl lost for good. But Gorilla didn't think so. Knowing Marquez's mind now, he knew the killer would want to settle this conflict up close and personal. He would want to see Gorilla's eyes roll up into his head and his lifeblood spill out onto the Roman stone.

Twenty feet up ahead, there was an area brightly lit by a series of arc lights, they cast a yellowish haze down into the ruins, and for those few moments as he stood there, he thought the Coliseum looked magical, even beautiful, but from a tactical point of view it was a hunter's nightmare.

He would be visible right across the grounds, and no matter how fast he could run, the distance would be too great for him not to be spotted, and potentially fired upon.

Gorilla turned and fired –
Phut
,
Phut
,
Phut
– the suppressed '39 making hardly any sound amid the battering rainstorm. The lights blinked out in quick succession and then Gorilla was on the move, running as fast as he could, being careful not to slip. Over his head, he could feel the bullets from a silenced pistol smack into the column walls, sending shards of stone flying out. There were three shots that he was aware of, coming from above and to the left. By the time he'd reached the end column he'd counted another three silenced shots. He brought his own weapon up, checking the angles and the shadows. He was ready to fire, but still there was no visible target.

He knew Marquez had to be near, very near, certainly no more than twenty yards away, but in which direction he had no idea. He'd hunted the assassin in Marseilles and had been within a few seconds of eliminating him. The same had been true in Paris, when he'd wounded him before the man had escaped. This time, however, the tables had been turned, albeit temporarily, and Gorilla was the quarry.

Gorilla removed his dead magazine and slammed in the spare. Satisfied, he moved carefully up the stone steps to the next level. He hated negotiating stairs during room combat. They were a pain to go up and a pain to go down. The risk of taking a shot to the head on the way up or taking a shot to the legs on the way down was greatly increased. Neither option was perfect, but he knew from past experience that sometimes you just had to bite the bullet and step out into the unknown.