Chimera Code (Jake Dillon Adventure Thriller Series) (6 page)

The three black long wheelbase Landrover Defenders pulled
over onto the roadside, powerful diesel engines idling with a promise
of almost limitless torque. Heavy raindrops continuously rolled down
the blacked out windows and in the heavy woods to either side a quiet
stillness prevailed.

The police car that had been following, a dark blue BMW M5
sporting full police livery, slowed to a crawl as it passed the Landrovers.
The two armed response officers inside taking a close look, before
moving on, tail lights glowing. It disappeared over the brow of the
hill up ahead and was immediately swallowed by the rain and dense
woodland.

Still, the Landrovers remained at the edge of the road with their
engines idling.
Heavy thunderous clouds continued to roll in with ever
increasing persistence, the rain still ferocious as it pounded against the
blackened glass of the Landrover’s windows and sent streams running
down the narrow strip of tarmac.
In the gloom up ahead, bright headlights glittered through the
downpour. The blue lights in the front grille of the BMW flickered
into life and the fast German car returned to a halt beside the three
Landrovers. Windscreen wipers swished, sending splashes of rain
dancing onto the slick road. One of the patrol car’s doors opened,
and a muscular man wearing a bright yellow waterproof over-jacket
over his body-armour, climbed out. He walked warily forward, his
hand on his holstered pistol. Behind him, the other officer remained
standing by the BMW, wedged between the door and the car’s body,
eyes alert, Heckler & Koch MP5 machine pistol held across his chest
body-armour.
The lead policeman tapped on the driver’s side window of the
lead Landrover and said in a raised authoritative voice. “Please open
the door and step down from the vehicle.”
Nothing moved; the lead Landrover remained still, engine
rumbling, the rain running in rivulets down the dark windscreen and
bonnet. The police officer repeated his request.
Still nothing happened.
A moment later, the driver’s window slid down on smooth
electrics; the police officer took a step backwards and at the same
time slipped the leather safety strap off of the holstered Glock. The
officer peered inside the Landrover to be confronted with the muzzle
of a silenced pistol.
The bullet hit the middle of his forehead with a dull thud. The
officer was hurled backwards, dead before he had had time to shout a
warning to his colleague. Through the gloom came a shout of - “
No!
”
- as the second officer brought the MP5 up and began to fire. Three
bullets slammed against the side of the Landrover before a stream of
automatic gunfire cut through the BMW and into his body, spun him
off his feet and left him lifeless and bleeding on the tarmac.
All three Landrover Defenders moved off in unison. The last
one swerved a little and ran over the body of the first police officer
to have been killed, leaving wide tyre tracks across his crushed chest.
They roared off into the gloom, leaving a ghostly scene of
carnage, and the flashing blue lights of the police car, in the mist.

Dillon watched the convoy of luxury Mercedes limousines
sweep up the drive towards the house. Standing outside Zhenya’s
room as she dressed for the party that evening, his attention drawn to
the small window out of which he gazed. Rain was still falling heavily
from black murderous clouds directly overhead and an oppressive
gloom had settled over Cornwall.

Dillon half listened to the live orchestra tuning-up, guitars,
keyboards and percussion sounds floating up the wide sweeping
staircase at the end of the lavishly carpeted landing and coming
from the huge ballroom - and the rhythmic sound of Beyoncé from
Zhenya’s bedroom. Dillon un-holstered the automatic pistol from
under his right arm. He passed the Glock from hand to hand, feeling
its perfectly weighted balance, checking that there was a full clip in and
one round in the chamber then checked the six other clips he carried
about his body. Ninety-two rounds in total. Dillon had learnt over
the years to always be prepared. As he had always told the younger
members of the Ferran & Cardini - Special Projects Department:
“Who wanted to die because they ran out of bullets.”

The door opened. Zhenya appeared - stunning in a small black
cocktail dress that showed off her pale complexion and auburn hair.
“You ready?” asked Dillon, immediately sensing her nervousness,
and added. “Don’t worry, I’ll look after you.”
Zhenya took a deep breath. She knew - as well as he did, as well
as the MI6 agents around the house and in the grounds - that tonight
was a golden opportunity for an Assassin to strike. If the threat were
for real and not just a hollow blackmail attempt. A
hoax
...
“I want you to stay close by at all times. Do not leave me for one
moment.”
“So you’ll be coming with me to the toilet?” She laughed at her
own joke.
“Of course.”
“Really?”
Dillon smiled. “Yes. Easy location for a hit - it’s the one moment
when, shall we say, a person’s guard is well and truly down.”
They decended the extravagantly wide sweeping oak staircase,
the walls lavishly decorated with contemporary abstract artwork.
Working for a secret research department funded by the British
taxpayer obviously paid well.
Dillon had been very specific with his instructions to Zhenya
Tarasova earlier that evening: to stay inside the house, no alcohol, and
definitely no wandering off without him. If Zhenya wanted to survive
this potential threat then she had to minimise the opportunity.
Damn this party, thought Dillon.
Damn Kirill! Stubborn bastard.
A hundred and fifty guests. Dillon had almost shot Kirill himself
when Mark Palmer, head of the MI6 security operation, had handed
him the slip of paper.
Guests mingled. Waiting staff with trays of drinks and canapés
circulated and Dillon’s gaze swept across the large, glitteringly
decorated suite. Rich velvet drapes hung to the floor, obscuring the
view of any outside observers - and more importantly from any longrange snipers.
Dillon stayed close to Zhenya. She knew many of the people
who had come to the party and Dillon allowed the conversation
to wash over him. If anybody approached or spoke to him he was
dismissive to the point of being rude, and had no intention or interest
engaging in conversation with them - it only distracted him from his
job at hand.
He watched. Zhenya socialised and, as she had promised, stayed
off the booze.
Kirill, obviously suffering from a little stress, was well on his way
to a serious hangover and was holding court with a small group in a
corner. Dillon checked the security units status and found everyone
where he or she should be. Everything was okay.

The many hundreds of acres of woodland and moor surrounding
the Castle Drago estate rose and fell, following the slopes and
dramatic contours of the land - spread out for many miles. Several
rough tracks, littered with fallen trees and branches, crisscrossed the
estate, but on this dark and rain-filled night everything except the
thick branches swaying in the wind high above, was still. The rain ran
in violent rivulets down the nobbled bark of the oak trees - a deep
rumble cut through the gloom, and three dark blue long wheelbase
Landrover Defenders crept smoothly over the moor and through the
woodland. Heavy wheels crushed branches and negotiated fallen trees
with 4x4 ease... slowly the all-terrain vehicles came to a halt in a small
clearing, one behind the other.

All three engines died - and a silence crept back.
Doors opened, and black clad figures climbed out of the
Landrovers. They moved stealthily forward and crouched, peering
through night vision goggles towards Castle Dago, its lights glittering
with promise in the distance.
The many shadowy figures bristled with weaponry.
There were various clicks as magazines were slotted home.
Commands were given through concealed earpieces; and slowly,
with an infinite and precise care, the unit of armed killers moved off
through the undergrowth, untroubled by the rain and the threat of
death to come.

Stevenson squatted beside the old garden potting shed listening
to the commands being issued by Mike Palmer. He hoisted thesniper’s
rifle up and rested its tripod atop the rough stonework of a low wall
just in front of him. It was late and he had been positioned there for
a number of hours, he glanced up at the rolling clouds obscured by
the driving rain.

He sighted down the high velocity rifle’s scope, and swept the
grounds in front of him, rotating the rifle on the smooth-action
tripod. He could see nothing through the rain, even with the nightvision intensifier switched on. Stevenson stretched his arms and rolled
back his shoulders to relieve the tension in them and craved a cigar
and a cup of hot tea. Yes, he could almost taste the richly satisfying
tobacco and steaming brew.

A sound behind him made Stevenson glance over his shoulder.
Despite knowing that the other members of the security unit were
posted at the rear, protecting his back from infiltration, Stevenson
nevertheless felt that something was not quite as it should be. He
scratched at his short trimmed beard and frowned, eyes trying to pick
out any movement in the gloom. Then he brought round the rifle
and sighted down the scope. There - he definitely saw something... A
figure darting behind a tree? Or a trick played by the swaying branches
in the shadowy gloom fuelled by the desire for tobacco?

He adjusted the scope slightly, but could see nothing more
between the tree’s dense foliage. He shifted his aching muscles in the
rain, feeling trickles run down the back of his neck.

“God, will this effing rain ever give up?” Stevenson muttered.
He lowered the rifle for a brief moment to wipe his face dry, and
in the same instant the black cross-bow bolt hissed through the
darkness and slammed into his forehead, disappeared into soft brain
tissue and on exit lodged itself in the timber cladding of the potting
shed. Stevenson hadn’t had any time to close his eyes or even shout
a warning to his colleagues. He had been pinned silently backwards
against the side of the timber building that he had been crouching
next to, his unseeing eyes now staring straight ahead. Blood and gore
mixed with rain seeped out from the exit wound of his smashed skull,
congealing in his hair and soak into the timber at the back of his head.
There were soft footsteps; four figures crouched by the corpse. One
of them lifted the weapon from the ground and ran a black gloved
hand over the cold metal.

“Leave it. We don’t need it.” The words were spoken in a clipped
military fashion. The weapon was dropped onto the soft earth beneath
their feet and the figures disappeared into the night.

Ninety minutes had passed. Dillon could feel himself growing
weary and motioning to Zhenya he followed her into the relative calm
and cool of the glasshouse located just off one of the many sittingrooms. He took a small pen-like cylinder from his pocket, twisted the
top off to reveal a short needle, and stuck it decisively into his neck
and then replaced it back in his pocket.

“What was that?” asked Zhenya.
“A stimulant. Made specifically for me by our chemists at
Ferran & Cardini. Allows me to keep going and stay alert, but more
importantly it takes my primary senses to a higher-level. Lasts about
twelve hours, but I’ll pay for it tomorrow.”
Zhenya smiled, and shivered. “It’s cold in here.”
Dillon looked at her, then turning, walked back inside the sittingroom and through to the hall, Zhenya was only one step behind him.
His gaze moving up the sweeping staircase. “Do you feel that cold
air?”
Zhenya nodded.
“Well, it wasn’t there earlier.”
“One of the guests have probably just opened a window, said
Zhenya, as Dillon discreetly withdrew the Glock and with his free
hand waved Zhenya to keep close behind him. He pulled free his
mobile phone and opened the channel that the security service was
using.
“Palmer?”
“Yes?”
“Can you come to the foot of the main staircase? I think we
have uninvited company.”
“Okay.”
Mark Palmer was there within twenty seconds, a small black
Berretta pistol in his hand. “Stay with Zhenya for a moment or two,”
said Dillon. “I have a really bad feeling about this...”
“Wait, I’ll get some of my men to back you up.”
“No time.”
Dillon followed the cold air, his running shoes silent on the
thick carpet. He felt adrenalin and the recently injected stimulant kick
his system and with this surge of energy and heightened awareness
he climbed two steps at a time to the first floor landing. The music
drifted into the distance, a surreal ambience. He checked the security
service interface screen - ten minutes since all members had checked
in with Mark Palmer. Dillon frowned. An awful lot could happen in
ten minutes.
He moved into a darkened doorway that was located directly
opposite a nearby window on the wide landing and, crouching low,
peered out into the darkness. He couldn’t see any of the positioned
snipers - but that didn’t mean they were not there.
He moved cat like along the landing, keeping low and moving
fast, all the time keeping his free hand outstretched following the
gentle breeze.
Stopping in front of a broad oak door, he rested his hand against
the polished wood.
His senses were alive; the thought of what might be on the other
side, excited him.
He pushed gently and stepped aside; the door swung free. Dillon
peered in, and then with the Glock held outstretched in front of him,
slid in. The room was pitch-black and he swiftly turned on the main
light...
Empty.
Dillon moved towards the window, which was open, no more
than a four inch gap. He looked out, then down, immediately spotted
the muddy scuff mark on the wooden sill - and suddenly realised
that he was an easy target against the window. He moved fast, as the
hollow-point round smashed through the glass and embedded itself
in the ceiling.
Dillon rolled away from the window, was up and running.
He shouted into the comm, “We have uninvited guests, I repeat,
uninvited guests - first floor entry.”
He flewout of the doorway and into the path of a startled blackclad figure; the Glock kicked twice in his hand and the intruder was
hurled backwards off its feet, its hands groping around its throat in
a futile attempt to stem the flow of blood pumping out of the bullet
wounds as it hit the carpeted floor, hard.
Dillon looked left and right. From somewhere in the house came
the sound of distant screams and rapid automatic gunfire. He ran to
the top of the stairs and a stream of silenced bullets slammed into the
surrounding woodwork, sending splinters and chunks of balustrade
in all directions. He dived, rolling up against the far wall with a jarring
thud. His gaze fixed on the bullet holes in the woodwork, judged the
angle of entry and determined where the shooter was positioned,
rolled over twice and fired off six rounds in quick succession. Then,
scrambling to his feet, he ran across the landing.
The silenced machine pistol devoured the wall behind him as
Dillon reached the top flight of stairs and started to descend them
two at a time; his Glock kicked in his hand once more, four rounds
that picked up the Assassin and sent it spinning down the remaining
stairs where it lay crumpled at the foot, blood soaking into the plush
ivory coloured carpet.
The hall was quiet - no guests - no security service.
How many of them were there? Dillon thought as he crept down
the remaining stairs and over the dead Assassin’s body. The comm.
in his ear crackled. “Dillon, Palmer. I have Zhenya in the kitchens.
There are eight of them in the main ballroom - they’ve rounded all of
the guests up and are holding them in there. Oh and, Dillon. They’re
heavily armed with some nasty little toys.”
“I know. I’ve already taken down two of them,” said Dillon
softly as he put home another full clip into the Glock. “You stay there,
I’m coming to you.”
Dillon moved quickly along the wide hallway towards the
ballroom, stopping momentarily outside to listen. Everything was
quiet apart from the occasional whimper from some of the guests
who were otherwise silent. Dillon slowly eased his head around the
corner; a black-clad Assassin stood guard with a silenced 9mm Micro
UZI SMG. Dillon fired two rounds and ran off in the opposite
direction towards the courtyard. As he burst through the outer door,
bullets tore the wood and plaster only inches behind him. Outside in
the courtyard he ducked and darted in between large pillars, returned
fire as he ran, taking down two more of the Assassins, before he’d
made it to the door. Glass and wood splintered as he dashed through
and down the stone steps to the main kitchen, all the time the tirade
of bullets kept coming. He made it to the bottom of the steps and
launched himself onto the tiled floor, sliding between stainless steel
cabinets on his belly until he came up against the far wall.
“Palmer?” he yelled.
“Over here, Dillon,” came the shout from one of the adjoining
rooms.
Dillon looked around the stainless steel cabinets - all clear - he
then peered over the tops, pans sat atop gas burners, their contents
bubbling and simmering with half cooked soups and vegetables. There
were no cooks to be found and, as he moved between the cabinets
and around the room, the hairs on the back of his neck bristled with
anticipation.
“Hold your fire - I’m coming in.”
He stepped into the large brightly-lit room; a long overhead
fluorescent light hung from two short chains in what appeared to
be the kitchens main walk-in larder cold-room. There were sacks of
vegetables and crates of produce stacked against the walls. Dillon
looked around and saw Palmer, not more than five feet away, standing
beside an ashen-faced Zhenya.
Dillon turned and, met Palmer’s stare and he knew - knew that
something was definitely wrong - the Browning in Palmer’s hand rose
and was now pointing at Dillon.
“I am very sorry, my friend. But it’s now time for you to really
retire - permanently.
Dillon looked Palmer in the eye, and nodded gently. “I hadn’t
figured...” He brought the Glock up in a blur, and fired a rounddirectly
into Palmer’s throat; the bullet entered the throat at the Adam’s Apple
and made an explosive exit through the back of Palmer’s head across
the wall and ceiling. Palmer was thrown backwards landing against
wooden crates, as if in slow motion, sliding down them until sitting
almost upright on the tiled floor.
“…on having to kill so early in the evening,” Dillon finished.
“Dillon,” Zhenya ran to him and fell into his arms. He hugged
her briefly, and then closed the door - sealing them inside the storage
room. He sat the girl down onto one of the wooden crates and moved
to Palmer’s blood-drenched body and checked through his pockets.
He took the dead man’s Browning, pushing it into the waistband of
his trousers in the small of his back and collecting the spare magazine
clips.
“What’s happening?” said Zhenya.
“Bad shit, that’s what. Something very dark.” Dillon said with
malice. “The question is. How the fuck did they get past MI6 and
all of their security sensors that are placed throughout the grounds
and inside the house? Either a very large sum of money has changed
hands, or something is at play. Something that I don’t understand.”
“What about my uncle?”
“The guests have all been herded to one end of the ball room
and there’s the possibility that the Professor is with them. There are
at least eight gunmen...” Palmer’s word’s came back to him again. Was
this whole thing a set-up? Something didn’t feel right - everything was
too easy - too neat.
Like attempting to unravel a puzzle with some of the pieces
missing, Dillon’s brain grappled with the implications.
“Trust me about this, Zhenya, and don’t ask questions. We’ve
got to get out of here and away from the main house.”
The mobile phone vibrated in his hand. “Yes?”
“It’s Vince. I hear you have company down there. I’ve secured
the use of an American satellite that’s passing over. I’m now your
eyes, old son. There are at least twelve of them. They came in from
the woods - and have already killed the three MI6 boys who were
stationed in that sector. Where’s Palmer?”
“Dead,” said Dillon. “We now have at least eight Assassins in the
main ballroom. Two were on the first floor and I’ve already taken care
of them. Two were taken out as I crossed the courtyard. Are you sure
about there being twelve to start with, Vince?”
“Absolutely. I’m using the thermal imaging on-board the satellite
and I’ve used the electronic guest-list to calculate how many people
should be inside the house - the numbers tally perfectly.”
What do you suggest?”
“You are currently inside the main kitchen on the lower ground
floor. Is this correct?”
“Yes.”
“The girl is with you?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. Stay right where you are. I’ll liase with MI6 and get them
into position outside in the courtyard to cover you both as you come
through the door.”
“Well be quick. I don’t know how much time we have.”
A few seconds later, Vince Sharp was talking to Dillon again.
“Jake, make your way up to the top of the stairs and wait just
inside the door. Roth and his men will be there to escort you both out.
Good luck, old friend.”
“Thanks - we’re going to need it.”
Dillon closed the cover on the phone and slipped it into his
jacket pocket; he looked at Zhenya. “We are in deep shit. You need to
follow my every order if you want to survive. Understand?”
The girl looked at Dillon, not comprehending what he was
saying.
Dillon grabbed hold of her arms and shook her, hard. “You
understand what I’m saying?”
“Yes - I understand. Let go of me, you’re hurting.”
Dillon released his grip. “This is what we are going to do. They
think we’re going to leave through the back door; they don’t know that
I’ve killed Palmer.”
There was a sound. Dillon moved smoothly to the door he had
originally entered through and opened it - fast, the barrel of the Glock
moving, scanning.
“My God,” hissed Dillon, removing his finger from the trigger.
Professor Kirill had been severely beaten. Blood covered his
face and had spilled down the front of his white dress shirt. By the
look of it he had a broken nose and his lips were badly swollen and
split from the repeated blows upon him. He staggered forward, the
reek of alcohol surrounding him like some sort of cheap cologne.
Dillon helped him into the kitchen and checked the stairway outside;
he could see the door sensor flickering and he checked the phone’s
touch-screen once more. He scrolled through and found the security
application, tapped the screen once and it immediately lit up with a
complex looking grid system. He activated the function: anybody else
entering the kitchen or stairway would now trigger the silent alarm.
“Uncle!” Zhenya ran over to Kirill, hugged him, and helped him
to sit down as he winced with pain. His bloodied nose was dripping
onto the tiled floor, as he stared in horror at the pool of blood
surrounding Palmer’s corpse slumped on the floor of the storage
room.
“You killed him?”
“Let’s just say that he wasn’t up to the job and his contract has
been terminated - permanently.”
Dillon, the Glock still in his grip, crouched in front of Kirill.
“What’s happening here?”
“There are eight of them. They have imprisoned the guests at
one end of the ball room. They have sent me to give you a message...”
“
Me
? But they think -”
Dillon paused. the only way that they could know that Mark
Palmer was dead was if they had the kitchen bugged for sound and
vision - or had access to and were listening in on the MI6 commsnetwork. That meant that the entire MI6 protection unit were in on
the assassination. But why wait for Kirill’s party in Cornwall - why not
take Zhenya out in Scotland with a snipers bullet?
Dillon’s phone started to vibrate in his jacket pocket - the alarm
warning him that movement had been detected. He moved quickly to
the doorway; his Glock went around the door and sent a warning shot
up the stairway leading in from the courtyard. There was no return fire
and no more movement detected.
Dillon turned sharply.
Kirill was now on his feet - but now held a gun pointing directly
at Dillon. Dillon’s stare met that of the older man. There was coldness
in his eyes - a steely hardness that Dillon had previously seen. The
hardness was that of a cold blooded killer.
“What is you want from me?” Dillon spoke softly and with total
calmness.
“What indeed you bastard,” hissed Kirill in a spray of spittle and
blood. “Drop the Glock - now!”
Dillon glanced across at Zhenya; and she had changed, a change
that was so dramatic that it actually shocked him. The tears had dried,
the frightened young girl - gone. She was standing, a small Russian
handbag pistol in her hands. The lethal looking weapon was pointing
at him.
“I don’t get any of this,” growled Dillon. “I thought you were
working for the British Government?”
“I told you to drop your fucking weapon!” Screamed Kirill, the
pain of his beating was showing as each word was heavily laced with
an edge of urgency.
Something cold and sinister inside Dillon’s head - came alive.