The Diamond Conspiracy: A Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences Novel (33 page)

“No,” Brandon answered, “I don’t know that feeling. I need a good reason to not like someone.”

Bruce gave a quick shrug. “He got the better of me in a scuffle once.”

That appeared to catch him by surprise. “Really? When?”

Bruce was about to tell him about the incident at Ministry headquarters when his throat seized. It had been during his brief time as assistant director, during his time in the back of the Duke of Sussex’s pocket. It had been right before Brandon informed the Ministry of Agent Pujari’s death.

“Look,” Bruce said, shaking his head. Now Brandon’s opposition was just grating. Why couldn’t he just go back to the way he had been before all this? “The man just ain’t right. I got a suspicion about him.”

“So you have insinuated. Are you sure it is nothing to do with Agent Braun at all?” By the glimmer of the illuminati Brandon looked an awful lot like he was grinning.

“No bloody chance! I just don’t trust him. It’s always the quiet ones that we have to watch that much closer, eh what?”

“Then, keeping that in mind”—Brandon turned on his heel and looked over the car—“I’ll drive. I would hate for you to bring upon his wrath if you were to scratch the car.”

“Funny, mate,” Bruce said, looking around them. “Funny.” He could just see the barn doors ahead, several stacks of luggage between them and the door. “Before you settle in behind the wheel, maybe you’ll want to help me clear the way?”

With a grunt, Bruce and Brandon began the arduous and somewhat tedious effort ahead of them, filling their hands with either a set of luggage or a crate. The path would have taken less time to clear had it not been for the occasional check for the night watch.

“I have known cricket matches that have taken less time than this,” Bruce grumbled, picking up two suitcases.

“This would be less of a chore,” Brandon said, lifting two bags of his own and hefting them off to one side, “if you did a considerable less amount of bellyaching.”

“I like bellyaching,” he quipped, pushing a large—but thankfully, light—crate further into the shadows. “Ladies find it endearing.”

“Perhaps that is why,” his partner said, returning to the remaining few bags, “I’m finding it working on my last nerve.”

Bruce dusted off his hands and nodded as he went over to another crate. He gave it a slight push, and it moved with ease. “Good to know you are all man under that gentlemanly exterior.”

A laugh came from his partner. First one from him since they had set off. “Well, I don’t know about gentlemanly. There was this one woman, I remember in Colombia—my Scheherazade. She was anything but proper for a gentleman’s company.”

Bruce managed to slide the crate—the application of one hand more than enough effort—out of the way when he stopped in mid-step. “That isn’t right.”

“Oh, she was a lovely lady, even considering her profession . . .”

“No, Brandon, that’s not what I mean,” he said, still staring at the crate. “We’ve been lucky on missions before, right?”

Another laugh. It would have made Bruce feel hopeful about their relationship on the mend if it were not for the sudden tightness in his stomach growing.

“We have seen some close scrapes together, my friend.” Brandon was now beside him, giving the Australian’s shoulder a playful punch. “I remember that time in the Americas with that lunatic and his flying covered wag—”

“And we were lucky. We’ve always been lucky. It felt like we were riding with the angels.”

Brandon’s head inclined slightly. “I suppose so, yes.”

“I’m not feeling that right now,” Bruce said, shouldering the Mark II. “Are you?”

Bruce stepped back and took aim on the crate he had just moved. Two shots thundered throughout the warehouse.

“Dammit, Bruce!” Brandon shouted before the echo ceased around them. “Have you lost your mind? The watch—”

“Are not here. And not because we’re lucky,” he said, slipping the rifle over his shoulder while getting a good grip on the crate.

With two of its corners now blown free, opening the crate was simply a matter of a few hard tugs from Bruce. When its panel finally tore away, Brandon could now get a full view of what had been bothering his partner.

“Because all this has been arranged,” Bruce said, motioning to the empty space within the crate.

Brandon scrambled over to the barn doors while Bruce worked his way deeper into the warehouse. As he had dared to consider, the cargo located in the back of the warehouse was far sturdier. Even with his shoulder and back into it, moving any of this luggage was not going to happen. It would be easier moving Ayers Rock.

“We’ve got what looks like a line of Department agents,” Brandon said as he peeked through the split between the barn doors, “and two armoured vehicles taking position in front of the doors.”

“So we have a number of choices, I’m seeing,” Bruce began, returning to the car. “The first one: we surrender.”

“Rather not, cheers very much,” Brandon stated, joining Bruce.

“Second choice: we barge through those doors and give them a right reminder of why the Ministry is not to be tangled with.”

Brandon wagged a finger at Bruce. “That would be against the doctor’s orders. Avoid Department interaction at all costs.”

“Which brings me to our third option.” Bruce held out a hand. “Give me the dynamite you got there, Brandon.”

There was a sense of relief on seeing the Canadian’s smile. His smile widened with each nod of his head. “Are we giving these ruffians a Vancouver?”

“That would be too nice,” Bruce scoffed, taking the five sticks and heading back into the darkness. “I was thinking more of a Bruges.”

“Bruges?” he asked. “Are you sure?”

“Just start the car, and be ready.”

Roughly four rows of crates and luggage would be between them and what he hoped would be an exit. Based on how much time he would need to position himself for the blast, Bruce measured the fuse, gave himself and extra inch for luck, and then cut. The fuse, designed by Axelrod and Blackwell, immediately lit itself once it was trimmed to Bruce’s desired time. He placed the bundle at the spot he believed would give maximum power in the direction he wanted, and then walked back to the car. Books’ treasure was now shuddering gently as
Brandon picked up the front half of the tarp and Bruce the latter. Both of them covered themselves and the car and waited. As the seconds seemed to creep by, Bruce took the Mark II and released the safety on the generator.

“Now just a moment,” Brandon chided. “I don’t remember a Lee-Metford-Tesla of any kind being within reach when we were in Bruges.”

“Just a variation on a theme, mate,” Bruce said over the building whine of the rifle’s generator.

Brandon let out a little sigh, then asked, “How long did you make the fuse for?”

“I thought I made it for five minutes.”

“Well”—he shrugged—“you know how hard it is to guess these things accurately, and how time feels when you’re waiting for something.”

“Oh yeah,” Bruce said, his mouth bending into a wry grin. He glanced in the backseat. “Looks like their luggage is back there too.”

“Oh, I’m sure they’ll appreciate that.”

“Yeah.” Bruce nodded. “I remember once having my luggage lost. Spent five days in Hong Kong in the same suit. I swear, my undergarments could have probably found their way back to Sydney by themselves by the time my luggage was found!”

Brandon chuckled. He gave a slow nod, then let out a long breath as he checked his pocket watch. The nod turned into a shake of his head. “Bruce, are you certain you made that fuse for five—”

The concussive force rocked the car up and forwards slightly. Bruce pushed back the tarp and shouldered the Mark II. A wave of blue-white erupted from the bell of the rifle, ripping through a teetering wall of wooden boxes and unclaimed luggage. He worked the bolt action once just as the barn doors pulled back to reveal a line of men and women backlit by two massive armoured vehicles.

“Drive,” Bruce called as he pulled the trigger.

Department agents scattered, but not before Bruce’s second shot claimed another agent. Bruce felt himself thrown forwards as Brandon opened the throttle and Wellington’s motorcar lurched backwards, ran through the gaping hole that had
once been unclaimed baggage, and out into the night. Bruce fired off one more round before the car launched forwards, speeding past the disoriented Department and across the London Aeroport.

“Love the variations there, Bruce,” Brandon called back to him.

“Thanks, mate.” He looked at the Mark II in his hands. “Pretty proud of them too.”

A second rumble brought Bruce’s attention back to the receding aeroport. From between a pair of warehouses, another motorcar appeared. Just visible in the cab were at least three bodies.

“Either hold her steady,” Bruce shouted to Brandon with a wild grin, “or give her all she’s got. We’ve got unwelcome company on our back door.”

Bruce glanced down at the rifle’s generator and that second’s distraction cost him. He looked up at the moment something leapt from the pursuing cab and into him. The rifle flipped out of his grip while their motorcar swerved dangerously, nearly slamming into the other.

“Oye! Bruce!” he heard Brandon shout. “I think we’ve picked up a passenger.”

Through the twinkling lights that danced before his eyes, a face took form. A face framed by a head of bright blonde hair whipping in the night wind. She had a good grip on him and seemed thrilled to lay eyes on him.

“Hello, sweetie.”

Bruce blinked and hoped to manage an equally pleasant greeting. “Good to see y—”

His words were cut short by a quick jab to his mouth. Apparently, Beatrice Muldoon wanted to pick up where they had left off in Rockhampton months ago.

Considering she had tackled him and scored the first punch, Bruce was trying to gather his wits but just at the point of clarity, he felt a hammer rattle his skull. It was, in fact, Beatrice’s meaty fist keeping him down. Bruce never liked throwing blind punches. He always found those who did it against him looked foolish, so in turn he particularly did not care to look ridiculous himself.

However, in this circumstance, necessity willed out.

Bruce felt nothing but air as he brought his own hook around. When he countered with a backhand, there was also nothing. As his right hand made its return voyage through space, he brought his left fist forwards. He just needed to connect with something.
Anything.

Then his left fist found a reinforced corset.

Beatrice Muldoon’s fight for balance gave Bruce enough time to get some fresh air and get a sense of footing in the front seat. When he finally got a focus on the Department operative, he could make out a rather intimidating knife that only Brandon could truly appreciate free of a sheath inside her tweed.

The car lurched suddenly sending Beatrice backwards, but also sending Bruce into her. The knife, still in her grasp, cut dangerously close to his face as he found himself plunging deep into the woman’s cleavage.

“Sorry!” he heard Brandon call out.

Why, mate,
Bruce thought quickly,
are you apologising?

He felt talons dig deep into his shoulder and spin him around. Those instincts he had worried had dulled to a point of uselessness brought his arms up in an X pattern, catching the blade bearing down on him, suspending it inches from his eye.

If he lived through this, he would have to make sure to thank Cassandra Shillingworth for a job well done.

“This could have been so much easier,” Beatrice chided as she struggled to bring the knife closer, its tip wavering closer at him, “if you had just said yes in Rockhampton.”

Then the motorcar came to a sudden stop, and Beatrice soared over the front of the car and slammed against the runway. Despite her initial impact against the concrete, she rolled and then propped herself up to one knee.

“Excellent braking system Books has got here,” Brandon said conversationally.

“Nice one, mate,” Bruce said to Brandon as he opened his door. “Now be a good chap, and point this car in the direction of headquarters.”

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“I’m tending to Miss Muldoon, if you please,” he replied, stepping out of the car.

Beatrice was chucking, as she dabbed her bloody lip on her shirt cuff. “That’s going to cost you, darling,” she called.

“If I gave a toss, I would be concerned.” Bruce stood over her. She must still be winded from that impact. At least the corset kept her ribs intact. “Don’t read into this, love, but I really don’t want this to get messy.”

From behind him, he heard Wellington’s motorcar rumble back to life.

“Sweetie,” Beatrice said, looking up at him, “it can’t get any messier.”

“It always can, love.”

“Bruce!” Brandon barked from behind him. “I really cannot stress how imperative it is we get a move along.”

“Sorry, love,” and Bruce delivered his favoured “Thunder from Down Under” that snapped her head back and returned her to the runway, flat against her back. “Got to run, and I’m not going to leave you at my back.” He hoped she appreciated that he’d proven her wrong about not being able to learn from his mistakes.

Bruce had just secured the passenger’s door when a bright glare suddenly flooded across their escape. The armoured transport that had been waiting for them outside the warehouse was now bearing down the runway, heading straight for them.

“Anytime now, Brandon,” Bruce said, pulling what he hoped was a lap belt across himself.

Brandon looked across the dash, leaned over and flipped a few switches in front of Bruce. Two red lights flickered on. “Damn.”

“Brandon?” Bruce asked quietly, the lights of the vehicles growing brighter.

“What about . . .” He flipped another switch and another light appeared. This one was green, and released what looked like a control stick that landed by Bruce’s right hand.

“Brandon!”

The Canadian reached across Bruce and grabbed the control stick. Headlamps flipped upwards, and then the darkness between them and the Department’s armoured transport was suddenly interrupted by wild flashes and streaks of fire erupting from the front of the motorcar. The vehicle bearing down
on them began to swerve, but then burst into flame as bullets tore into it.