Shroud of Concealment (Jake Dillon Adventure Thriller Series) (19 page)

Dillon was on his feet in an instant and searched around the body for its weapon. After a moment he found it: a silenced Uzi-K2. A lethal weapon in anybody’s hands let alone a professional’s. He went back to the body and pulled off the hooded mask, but the light was too poor for any kind of identification, and he realised then that he must have dropped the torch.

Two down and two to go. One of the others must have heard his colleague go down. Dillon faded once again into the woods and waited, and whilst he waited, he fervently hoped that the two men he’d killed did not belong to MI5. However, there were still two more men to deal with, and their nerves would be just as frayed as Dillon’s.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Dillon crouched with his back to a tree and waited so long, he almost began to think that the two remaining men had gone. Both the house and the garage were out of sight and it was so dark that he had to keep a grip on his senses to know which way he was facing; he could barely make out the next tree.

He glanced at his watch. 11.15 p.m. He had been there for almost two hours. From the time he had smashed the garage window to the present must have taken up about an hour. The temptation was to move, but he resisted and remained where he was, slowly straightening up against the tree every now and then in order to ward off cramp.

It was a stand-off. If he was to discover anything at all, he had no option but to stay. The night stretched ahead. There was plenty of time, but the unrelenting concentration of listening was making him edgy.

The longer he stayed in the woods the more intrusive the natural sounds all around him became. Nearby owls were hooting high up in the trees, the sudden shriek of two foxes fighting brought with it a cacophony of noises from above and on the ground. He continued to stay rooted to the same spot, knowing that any movement would carry through the night to ears as attuned as his own.

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.

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.