The Ninth Step - John Milton #8 (John Milton Thrillers) (36 page)

“What’s happening?”

“Gillan is hit.”

Hicks had taken out three of Fabian’s guards. He had been presented with several opportunities to take down other men, but he had passed up those shots. He didn’t want to make things easy for Woodward and the others. He wanted them to struggle. Milton would be compromised if either the attackers or the defenders found success too soon. Deadlock was to be encouraged, so Hicks had waited and observed.

“Can you exfil him?”

“He’s dead. Shot to the head.”

“Negative. He’s dead.”

“Pull back.”

“Negative. I’m pinned down. There’s too many of them.”

Hicks pressed the sight to his right eye and slipped his index finger through the trigger guard until it was against the trigger. He squeezed, just a little, feeling the tension in the mechanism.

Woodward’s voice was fraught with tension.
“Hicks—do you copy?”

“I see you.”

Woodward was sheltering behind the wall of one of the cottages. The cottage was between him and the main house, the cover protecting him from the guards that were hunkered down behind the parked cars. Hicks placed Woodward squarely within the targeting reticule. He breathed in and out, nice and even, and then drew in a breath and held it.

He started to squeeze the trigger, slowly applying pressure and drawing it back.

THE FIRE had taken hold of the house with alarming speed. The heat blistered the paint on the corridor walls and, as Milton laid Spencer Fabian’s body on the floor, small patches of flame bloomed ahead of him.

He stepped back into the hallway and heard the voice of one of Higgins’s soldiers in his ear.

“Hicks—do you copy?”

Hicks responded,
“I see you.”

The other man’s finger must have been on the switch to open the channel. Milton heard the single report of the sniper rifle, a groan of pain and then, as the finger came off the switch, the channel was closed.

“Woodward?”
It was the general.
“Woodward, report.”

There was no answer.

“Hicks? What’s happening?”

Hicks did not respond. Milton reached down to his belt and switched the dial to channel twelve.

“Hicks, it’s me.”

“
Where are you?
”

“Inside. Are you okay?”

“
I’m fine.
”

“How many left?”

“Gillan and Woodward are down.”

“Fabian’s men?”

“
I can still see six. They’re all in cover. I think there are others.
”

Milton heard a clatter of gunfire; it sounded close to Hicks.

“Hicks?”

“I’m okay. They got Connolly. There’s only Shepherd left.”

“Pull back.”

“What about you?”

“Don’t worry about me,” Milton said. “Go and get Higgins.”

“How are you going to get out?”

“Leave that to me. Go.”

“Copy that. Good luck.”

MILTON CLIMBED the wide stairs to the first floor. There was one flight, then a half landing, then a second flight. He stayed low, beneath the level of the balustrade, and paused halfway to observe and listen. The fire was everywhere on the ground floor, with smoke pouring from all of the rooms. Milton had anticipated that it would be easy to set the kitchen thatch alight, but he was surprised by how quickly the blaze had spread. The noise was thunderous, punctuated every now and again with the popping of burst windows and the thudding impacts of beams and rafters that were sent crashing to the ground.

He edged around the corner formed by the banister and the balustrade, saw that the next landing was clear, and ascended the stairs quickly.

The landing was generous, with hallways leading into it from two directions.

He took the turning to the left.

There were doors off the corridor on both sides. He remembered the plan of the house. There was a large family bathroom off this corridor and four bedrooms.

Milton would have to clear the rooms one at a time until he found either Olivia or Fabian.

He moved quickly and carefully. He held the Sig with his right hand, pressed himself against the wall and reached for the door handle with his left. He turned the handle and pushed the door open. Nothing. He concentrated, listening for any sound from inside the room. Still nothing. He took his flashlight in his left hand, switched it on and held it against the Sig, and then stepped quickly out from behind the wall. With the gun and the torch aimed into the darkness, he swung the beam of light across the room beyond the door. He moved from left to right, his finger on the trigger and ready to fire.

The room was empty.

He went back to the corridor and tried the next door.

FRANKIE FABIAN HEARD yet more gunfire and then a tremendous crash as a part of the house collapsed. Both he and Marcus had taken a risk by going to the window a minute earlier, and they had seen the flames that reached up into the darkness, the fire gorging on the roof of the kitchen. The crash must have been the skeleton of the roof collapsing.

“We can’t stay here,” Frankie said. “We’ve got to get out.”

“How? It’s a war zone out there.”

“There’s the Land Rover out the back. We could drive to the north gate.”

Frankie had been thinking about it. It was the only way out he had been able to come up with. The activity seemed to be centred on the front of the house. His guards were there, and they would make it difficult to get around to the back. It would be dangerous to go outside, but it might be more perilous to stay. They had an old Land Rover, battered but still reliable, parked in the barn at the rear of the house. If they could get to it, they could drive to the north gate, get through it and onto the road beyond. There was something to the idea. At least they would be doing something, anything, rather than waiting here for Milton and whoever it was outside to find them.

“All right,” Marcus said. “Better than staying here. We get Spencer and go.” He took his shotgun.

“Give that to me,” Frankie said, exchanging his pistol for the long gun.

Marcus stood beside the door. Frankie stood before it, the shotgun pointed ahead as Marcus turned the handle and opened it.

“Clear,” he said.

Marcus stepped out into the corridor, pausing to check to the left and right. He glanced back into the room. “Clear. Come on.”

The sound of the conflagration was louder out here, and Fabian could feel the prickle of the smoke against the back of his throat.

“What about the girl?” Marcus said. “We can’t leave her.”

“No,” Frankie agreed. Marcus was right. They couldn’t. “We’ll sort her first.”

MILTON OPENED the fourth door.

He heard something and raised the Sig.

“Help.”

The voice was low and quiet. Female.

“Olivia?”

“Help!”

“It’s John Smith. Are you alone?”

“Yes. Please—help me.”

Milton flicked the switch of the flashlight and the narrow beam played down onto the floor. He brought it up and aimed it in the direction of the voice. He saw Olivia Dewey. She was sitting on a four-poster bed, her hands behind her back. Milton crossed the room and put the flashlight on a bedside table so that the beam bloomed against the wall, leaving him enough light to address the length of rope that had been knotted around her wrists, the other end secured to one of the bed’s columns.

He pulled the balaclava off his head so that she could see his face. “Hold on,” he said.

He took the knife from his belt and sliced through the knot that held her wrists together. The knot came apart, Milton tugging at it until Olivia’s hands were released.

“We need to get out of here,” Milton said. “Do you understand?”

She stared up at him, her eyes blank. Her mouth opened and closed soundlessly. Milton diagnosed shock.

“Olivia,” he said, “the house is on fire. We need to leave.”

She nodded.

Milton told her to stay on the bed and, the Sig in his hand again, he went back to the door. He opened it a fraction and heard the sound of the blaze. He saw the angry colour of the fire from the end of the corridor, the fingers of smoke reaching up from below. The flames had spread with frightening speed. The house, with all the old wood, was one big tinderbox.

He thought about Frankie and gritted his teeth in frustration. He couldn’t leave Olivia here and he couldn’t take her with him. She would impede him, and it would be dangerous. And they didn’t have time. The house was burning down. They needed to move fast.

“Come on,” he said, pulling on his pack again. He reached out, took her hand, and drew her after him into the corridor.

HICKS WATCHED THE SHOT GO. Woodward had been fifty metres away from him, crouched in a static position and presenting himself in profile. He made for an easy target. The bullet took but a heartbeat to cross the distance that separated them, and Hicks watched as Woodward’s head snapped to the side, bouncing back up from his left shoulder even as his body went limp and collapsed. Woodward lay flat, still and unmoving.

Hicks had his rifle in his right hand and pushed down with his left until he was on his knees. He thought he heard something and, turning in the direction of the sound, he saw a flash of motion as a dark shadow passed across the gathering flame and rushed at him. He was knocked onto his back, and as he twisted his head so that he could look up, he saw the grim flash of a blade as it was thrust toward his chest. He threw up his left hand and reached for the knife. His palm was cut open as the edge of the blade sliced into the flesh. Hicks blocked the pain and pushed, closing his hand around the wrist of the man who was now kneeling astride him, feeling the warmth of his own blood as he tried to secure his grip. Warm gobbets dropped onto his face, into his eyes, his mouth. The blood was slick, and he found it difficult to maintain a firm grip. The man atop him leaned forward to exert more pressure and, as he did, he revealed his face.

Higgins.

The general’s mouth was twisted into a grimace of effort as he pressed down. The flames cast his features in a diabolical light, little pinpricks of fire that danced in his black eyes. Higgins had the benefit of leverage and Hicks’s left was not his strongest hand. He dropped the rifle and tried to punch up at the general with his right. Higgins managed to get his knee across Hicks’s right arm, pinning it, and then pressed down harder. The blade jerked lower and lower, the point wavering just inches from his face, switching in and out of focus as Hicks fought.

“I saw what you did,” Higgins grunted.

Hicks tried to resist, but the general was strong for a man of his age. Hicks’s strength was failing.

“
Traitor.
You betrayed the men.”

The blade shot down and it was all Hicks could do to divert it from his neck. The point pierced his jacket and then his flesh, lancing down into the flesh of his left shoulder until it scraped off bone. The pain was severe, dimming his vision, but he fought it.

“You betrayed
me
.”

Now they changed roles: Higgins tried to pull the knife out, and Hicks tried to hold it in place. Hicks’s left hand remained locked around the general’s wrist. Hicks pulled down, holding the knife there, biting down against the pain, his teeth chewing into his lip until he could taste fresh blood. Higgins jerked, trying to free the knife, the blade widening the incision as the two of them struggled. Hicks tried to free his right hand, but it was pinned firmly, and he couldn’t manage it. Higgins changed tactics; he pressed down with his left hand while his right went to the shoulder holster where he wore his Browning.

Higgins pulled the pistol free. Hicks closed his eyes. There was nothing else that he could do.

The shot did not come. Instead, Hicks heard the sound of something crashing through undergrowth and then a loud curse. Higgins heard it too and pivoted to the right. There was a man there, a shotgun in his arms. Higgins swivelled his hips, brought the pistol up and around and fired at the newcomer.

Hicks couldn’t see whether the general’s shot had hit or missed, and he didn’t have the luxury of time to check. The moment presented him with an opportunity. The general’s weight had fallen back onto Hicks’s knees and his right hand was suddenly free. Hicks sat up, the knife still in his left shoulder, clenched his right fist and put everything he had into a wild haymaker that caught the older man flush on his cheekbone.

Hicks tried to extricate himself from the tangle of legs and stand, but the struggle had brought him right up against the top of the gradient that sloped down to the lake. His boots slipped through the wet mud and he overbalanced, thudding down on his back and sliding down the slope. He tried to arrest his descent, but it was impossible. He shot off the edge and into the water. It was deep here, and he plunged all the way beneath the surface without any indication of where the bottom might be.

The water was ice cold, and it forced its way into his mouth and nostrils and stung his eyes. He put out his right arm and used it to slow his momentum until he was able to correct his positioning and kick away from the bank. His lungs burned, desperate for air, but he stayed beneath the water and kicked again and again. When he finally had no choice but to break the surface, he found himself in the middle of the lake, several metres from the slope. He searched for Higgins or the man who had disturbed them, but could see neither. He took a breath and sank beneath the surface again, kicking for the opposite bank to the one from which he had entered the water. He came up for a second time and realised that he couldn’t hear gunfire. He stroked to the bank, gentler at this side of the lake, and clambered out, each jarring motion sending a spasm of pain through the stab wound in his shoulder. The shoreline was quiet, with no sign of movement, but Hicks hurried across the mud and through the straggled reeds until he was in the cover of a spray of ferns.