Spiral (18 page)

‘Go. Go now...’

Carter ran back up the steps and moved towards his pack.

‘Where have you sent him?’

‘Away from this place. It’s far too dangerous,’ said Carter softly. ‘Here.’

Natasha caught the keys with a wince of pain and licked her lips nervously, eyes suddenly bright and fevered in the darkness.

‘Your BMW keys. I’ve turned the car around; I think we might need to leave in a hurry.’

‘You believe me now?’

‘I believe somebody has a lot of fucking technological help, and anyone who can knock out all my sensors and back-up generator in one go has a head start on us.’

‘Did your set-up detect anything?’

‘Proximity. In the south woods ...’

‘Don’t trust it. The assassin could be closer ...’

Carter shivered, and flicked off the safety on his HiPower. He moved across the room, picking his way by precise memory ... a good place to defend, he thought. He knew the contours in the darkness so well - but to leave now? The open road at night?

Dangerous and foolish.

We should have left immediately, he realised.

This few hours could have killed us ...

He calmed his breathing. He forced his heart rate to reduce. He licked his salted lips slowly and peered out from the window and into the snow—

Nothing.

Entry point? he mused.

Only the front door - unless the assassin is a climber...

‘You need me yet?’

Only when I’m dead, thought Carter.

‘Don’t be such a bad sport. The assassin is in the house even as we speak.’

Carter was about to reply when a breeze washed across his soul, like a ghost seeping into his bones. His head snapped around. The shadow was a patch of darkness—

His arm shot out. At its end grew—

The Browning.

Five bullets screamed, smashing into the far wall and spitting sparks from the rim of a metal picture frame; Carter dropped to one knee and glanced sideways. Natasha was on her belly - automatic reaction to gunfire.

‘That was rather an erratic action,’ came a soft, smooth voice. The tone was curiously asexual and Carter blinked sweat from his eyes and tried to track the voice. He moved slowly sideways, the Browning a close extension of his body - until he was crouched beside Natasha.

Gun still outstretched, he reached down with his free hand and took her hand. She still held the BMW keys. He pressed them deep against her palm and she patted an acknowledgement—

They moved together, towards the stairwell that would lead them out into the snow.

A movement—

Carter opened fire.

Bullets howled across the wall, chewed the wood of the door and smashed the glass of a cabinet across the room; Natasha left him; the Browning’s firing mechanism came down on a—

Dead man’s click.

The figure sprang at him from the darkness and he ducked, twisting to the side; the figure landed lightly and - without time to change mags Carter thrust the Browning in his pocket at the same time going for the other gun - a Glock - in his belt—

A high kick came from the dark and hammered into his chest with such force that he was picked up and thrown backwards, toppling over the couch and landing in a heap, unable to breathe, eyes wide, pain smashing through his heart—

The figure leaped again with incredible speed and agility—

Carter spun, was on his feet, leaped in a blur to meet the assassin; they collided and Carter’s hands grasped clothing and flesh and his head smashed forward, connecting with bone. They both hit the ground and Carter smashed another blow, then a third - there was a deep grunt, they rolled, and the figure was—

Gone.

Carter scrambled up as the boots hit him in the chest, but his arms locked around them as both were punched backwards, stumbling, to the stone steps and—

The darkness below.

They fell, tumbling and bouncing down the stone steps, banging from the walls, both too shocked and stunned by the fall to fight until they bounced five steps from the bottom and in a tangle of limbs connected with the unlocked door, smashing it open.

Carter landed on his back in the snow, tasting blood.

The Nex rolled, coming up in a rigid poised crouch—

A cold wind blew across them, ruffling hair, cooling skin.

Carter coughed, then rolled to his feet and whirled in the moonlight as the figure leaped - Carter blocked, backed away, and shook his head. Blood was running down his face. He grimaced, realising that he had broken a finger and two ribs. He felt the ribs clicking within his chest cavity but he was careful to show no reaction, no indication of injury and location—

The figure circled.

Carter caught the shocked face of Natasha to the right. Get in the fucking BMW, his brain screamed, why don’t you get in the fucking car, you fucking stupid bitch? He watched her level the gun and fire off three shots, but even at that distance he could see the shaking of her hand ...

Snow kicked up and bullets whined.

Carter calmed his breathing. The Browning was still in his pocket, the Glock was lost and he had to
focus
—

The Nex approached. He - or she - was considerably smaller than Carter, clad all in grey and sporting a grey balaclava. Flat tight black boots were on the assailant’s feet—

Carter could see no weapons.

The Nex charged - Carter blocked a series of three punches, ducked low and smashed a right hook to the assassin’s face; he stepped in close, and was kicked in the throat, sending him scrabbling backwards choking and coughing, hands held out in front of him for protection—

‘The Nex is clearly faster than you,’
said Kade calmly.

The attacker leaped; in a blur Carter ducked, twisted and smashed three blows at the figure sailing over his head. The Nex landed lightly, spun on one heel, and charged—

Blows were smashed left and right. Carter blocked, received another kick to the chest and a series of rapid punches that sent him spinning to 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 lie there and never, ever get up again ...

Carter tried to get up, but his body screamed at him. Colours flashed a metallic rainbow in his mind.

He pushed, heaved, but finally sagged against the snow, energy fleeing him.

Behind, he heard the assassin approach, soft footsteps on the snow but he could not move, could not bring himself to turn, to roll over, to meet that strange copper gaze of this—

His killer.

He could do nothing... was paralysed... just like in Egypt... and in Belfast when the women were screaming and dying ...

‘Fight,’
howled Kade in his brain.

Fuck you, Carter, don’t let me die like this! Fight!’

But Carter could not move.

T
he church was a cold place. The floors were polished wood, buffed to a well-worn shine and displaying decades of well-trodden worship. The walls were panelled in wood, polished oak, and led around domino stacks of pews that were so steeped in antiquity that their surfaces were slightly curved from the presence of praying bodies.

Weak sunlight spilled through the myriad of stained-glass windows; the coloured glass glittered like jewels -sapphire and ruby, emerald and diamond; the displays revealed the Last Supper, Moses and the Burning Bush, Adam and Eve and a hundred other religious displays taken from the Great Book itself.

A cool breeze drifted down the aisles, between the polished pews, between the members of the small congregation who had gathered in silent prayer. There was no Mass on this morning, just a gathering of local worshippers who attended when they felt the need for the company of God.

The Priest knelt by the altar, his hands clasped together in prayer. He was a huge man, broad-shouldered, wearing casual clothes and a long finely tailored woollen overcoat that reached nearly to his ankles. His wide oval eyes were closed in this act of prayer, his face calm, serene almost, bathed in the light of Jesus and this stained-glass phenomenon. By his side, on the low leather-padded bench on which The Priest knelt, sat his Bible; it was a small, ornately embossed leather-bound edition. The pages were as thin as toilet tissue, and edged in gold. It exuded age; it was The Priest’s most prized possession and this man was willing to die for his Book.

The Priest was aware of the people around him and his heart swelled with pride. They were fellow worshippers, all caught in this loving act of prayer, 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.

Footsteps.

Something changed the karma at his core; something ate The Priest’s serenity like an anthill devouring a rancid corpse.

The footsteps approached slowly, calculated, with care.

The sound struck a discordant note in The Priest’s soul.

The Priest kept his head down; he continued to pray; he heard the sound of the other worshippers hurriedly leaving this small rural church and he knew this intruder was the Enemy even before the opening speech or move was made.

‘The Lord will protect me,’ said The Priest suddenly, his voice loud and booming, crashing around the near-empty church. ‘I am one of His flock, and He never deserts His flock. He is the Master, and I am merely His servant. Amen.’

The Priest climbed slowly to his feet. His hand reached down, closed over the small leather Bible, and placed the book in the pocket of his overcoat. Only then did he raise his eyes to look at the intruder who stood in front of him.

The figure was slim, athletic, and wore grey; he, or she, had burning copper eyes that watched The Priest warily, drilling into his brain with the pure intensity of a hatred stare.

The Priest surveyed the figure.

‘You are not welcome here,’ he said, his words soft, steady. ‘This is a place of God; of Worship; of Love.’

‘I have come to kill you.’ The figure took a step back, spreading its hands out a little more in anticipation. The copper eyes were fixed on The Priest and his brown eyes flecked with gold noted the killer’s stance and concealed weapons; the liquid flow of movement.

‘What manner of creature are you, who dares to intrude on God’s Holy Ground? I would say thou art vermin; I would say thou art an infidel in the Lord’s Palace; I would say that you need to leave before God smites you down in a hail of hot death.’

The Priest waited, arms folded across his huge barrel chest.

The Nex attacked.

A police siren wailed through the village. The small Ford
J2
hammered down country lanes, flashing through a series of tiny village centres that had once been flowers of the country but that now bore the scars of recent battle. It hammered past startled villagers, past the bloated corpses of bio-smashed cattle surrounded by swarms of flies and farmers with sticks piling animal corpses onto reeking bonfires that belched black smoke to the heavens.

The Ford screeched around corners, tyres squealing, and rattled to a halt with a smell of burning engine outside the tiny village church.

A small group of ladies stood huddled outside behind a man carrying a shotgun. They were all peering at the door as the large, pot-bellied policeman struggled from the Ford and moved towards the group. The sub-machine gun slung over his shoulder looked out of place, alien.

‘Come on now, people, stand back, let me through,’ barked Sergeant Ralph.

‘There was gunfire!’ said one frightened lady, her hand to her mouth, her shining handbag reflecting the glint of the sun. Her eyes held a haunted quality - she was living through terrible days.

‘I was just about to sort this mess out,’ said the old man with the shotgun. He looked relieved that the sergeant had arrived. ‘Lucky for him that you got here, constable!’

The sergeant cursed himself. Gunfire! He unslung the machine gun, an Armalite X, and grimaced, looking down at the high-tech weapon. Somehow, it seemed so daunting in his fat-fingered hands. In the training centre he had felt brave: a hero ready to do battle as the country descended into anarchy and chaos. Now he merely felt fear, which dulled his brain and brought dryness to his tongue.

‘Are you sure it was gunfire?’

‘It sounded like a machine gun,’ said one old lady.

The sergeant stepped forward towards the heavy wooden doors, pitted and stained with the passing of centuries. He reached, turning the squeaking rusted iron handle.

He shivered as a cold wind caressed him.

He knew; could feel that Death was waiting for him in the gloom.

With a great act of courage, he stepped through the portal alone, Armalite X clasped in fear-slippery hands.

The Priest stood, arms folded, staring down at the dead Nex. It had been tossed across the church, its spine broken, creating interesting shadows among the pews where the twisted snapped smashed body sprawled. The Nex’s small alloy machine gun lay, black and evil, a weapon out of place against the polished wood of the church floor. The stench of cordite hung in the air, gun smoke drifting from the barrel. The Priest nudged the gun with the toe of his boot. Then, stepping carefully forward with a quiet tongue click of annoyance, he reached down and grabbed the limp body. The head rolled slack on a ball-bearing spine but, incredibly, the eyes opened. The mouth moved wordlessly for a little while and The Priest lifted the disabled but miraculously living Nex up to his face.