Doyle pumped the trigger five times. Bullets hit the man in the face, chest
and shoulder, drilled through and erupted in several places leaving exit wounds the size of a man’s fist. Blood sprayed into the air and the man toppled backwards, arms flailing.
Doyle swung himself over the wall, scuttled across to the body and put one more shot squarely between the eyes of his opponent. The blast took off most of the back of his head.
The former counter terrorist snatched up the Kalashnikov and motioned to Duncan to join him.‘Hey, Robin Hood,’ he murmured, beckoning to the industrialist.‘Follow me. And keep your fucking head down.’
They scurried back towards the house.
They’re inside.’ Joe Hendry spoke quietly and without panic.
‘How many?’ Mel wanted to know.
Three of them.’
‘Where’s Duncan?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Jesus Christ, Joe. He could be dead by now. Contact Doyle. Find out if he’s got him.’
‘Doyle went outside, remember? If Duncan’s out there with him chances are we’re all out of work by now.’
Mel didn’t answer. She hurried along the gallery landing that overlooked the main hallway of the house, glancing over the balustrade occasionally, the 9mm gripped tightly in her fist.
Two of the intruders walked into the hall and Mel caught sight of the AK47s they were carrying. She swung the VP70 up and sighted it, pumping the trigger.
The first two shots caught the leading man in the shoulder and cheek. He dropped like a stone, his companion spinning round, finger tightening on the trigger.
A blast from the Kalashnikov deafened Mel and she dropped to her knees as bullets tore into the wall,
pieces of plaster flying into the air all around her.
She fired again. Three shots. All well placed. One in the stomach doubled the attacker up. The second slammed into the top of his skull and the third clipped his elbow, shattering bone and causing him to drop the assault rifle.
He toppled backwards on to the polished wood of the hall floor, already awash with the blood of his companion. Both men lay still.
Mel advanced slowly down the stairs.
Where was the other one? Hendry had said three were inside.
Her earpiece crackled and she put a hand to it as if to silence it.The door to her left was open. The third attacker could be there. Waiting.
Mel moved a little further down the stairs, her heart thudding against her ribs.
There were two thunderous blasts from her left. A muffled groan.
She swung her automatic up and sighted it.
The body of the third intruder fell face down at her feet, two bullets in the back of his head.
Doyle stepped over the body, glanced at the other dead men then up the stairs in Mel’s direction.
She had him in her sights. He nodded and she lowered the weapon.
‘Is that all of them?’ Doyle said, indicating the bodies in the hall.
‘Joe said three got inside,’ she told him.‘l don’t know about the rest.’
Two more dead outside,’ Doyle informed her. He tapped his microphone. ‘Joe.
Anything moving?’
There was a hiss of static.
‘Nothing that I can see,’ said Hendry finally.
There were six,’ Doyle murmured. The other one’s either fucked off or he’s waiting in the grounds.’
There’s nothing showing on any of the monitors,’ Hendry offered.
‘We’ll give it an hour,’ Doyle said quietly. Then we’ll check the grounds again. Every inch of them.’
Morning had dawned grey and with the threat of rain but, Doyle was relieved to
see, without the presence of any more men intent on killing William Duncan and his wife.
For the time being anyway.
The drive into central London had taken the former counter terrorist just over an hour.
The phone call that had made the journey necessary in the first place had been both unexpected and puzzling.
As Doyle brought the car to a halt outside the building in Hill Street he sat behind the wheel for a moment, looking up at the former town house of John Paul Getty, wondering why he was here. Wondering why he was back at the headquarters of the Counter Terrorist Unit.
He shut off the engine and walked to the door, pressing the buzzer.
‘Doyle, 239 …’ He corrected himself.
Old habits died hard, didn’t they? Forget your code number. You don’t work here any more. Remember? They binned you off.
‘Sean Doyle,’ he said into the grille. ‘I’ve got an appointment with Jonathan Parker.’ There was a loud buzz and the door opened.
Doyle stepped inside and the door closed behind him.
There was a new receptionist on duty. Mid-thirties. Shoulder-length blond hair. Pretty. Easy smile.
Old habits.
‘I’ve got an appointment with Parker,’ Doyle said.
The receptionist smiled again.‘I’ll take you through,’ she said, getting to her feet.
‘I know the way,’ Doyle told her, heading for the all-too-familiar door. He knocked. Thought about walking straight in but hesitated.
‘Come in,’ called Parker.
Doyle walked in and looked blankly at his old superior.
On the sofa to his right sat another familiar figure. Sir Anthony Pressman ran appraising eyes over the former counter terrorist then returned to the file he had balanced on his lap.
Doyle looked at the Home Secretary then back at Parker.
Take a seat, Doyle,’ Parker said.
Doyle hesitated a moment then accepted. ‘Why the welcoming committee?’ he wanted to know, glancing at Pressman.
‘There have been certain developments,’ the Home Secretary said without looking up.‘We felt they should be discussed.’
‘Declan Leary’s been arrested,’ Parker interjected. ‘He’s in police custody in Belfast right now. They got him two days ago.’
‘He wants to deal,’ Pressman added. ‘Presently he’s looking at life for his part in recent Real IRA activities. He says he has information that would be valuable to the security forces. He’s willing to trade that information for a lighter sentence. The Prime Minister is prepared to listen to a plea for clemency in view of the way the peace talks in Northern Ireland are progressing.’
Doyle considered each man carefully and silently.
‘As you know there are many IRA victims hidden in secret graves in both the Six Counties and the Republic,’ Parker continued. ‘Some dating back over fifteen years. Leary’s prepared to reveal the whereabouts of ten of these graves in exchange for leniency. That’s the deal he’s proposing.’
‘Naturally the Provisionals are anxious to prevent him revealing information of this kind,’ Pressman said. ‘Our latest intelligence reports indicate that they have sanctioned one, possibly two, of their own men to eliminate Leary before any of this information can be disclosed.’
Doyle looked at each of the men then snorted. ‘So fucking what?’ he said.
‘What’s any of that got to do with me? I don’t work for this organisation any more, remember? You threw me out.’ He began to get to his feet.
‘Doyle, wait,’ Parker said, raising a hand.
‘We have a proposition to put to you,’ Pressman added.
Doyle reached for a cigarette and lit it.‘I’m all fucking ears,’ he spat.
