Black increased his pace, though the going was slow. The ground was uneven. Easy to suffer a twisted ankle. Black eventually reached the side of the house – the woods pressed up close to the waist-high boundary wall. The building was huge, two storeys, with a third attic level, judging by the row of dormer windows. To one side was a large glass conservatory, curtained off. There was a rear wooden door, with a Gothic arch, black iron hinges. Two men were standing at it, talking quietly, smoking. They were dressed smartly, dark suits, white shirts. Tall, well built. They were sharing a joke. Laughing. The distance between the boundary wall and the door was about thirty yards, with nothing in between except a concrete space. Suddenly the lights went out, not individually, but as one – with the exception of the conservatory, where soft light flickered behind the drapes.
Black required to gain entry. A third man appeared, sauntering round the corner from the front, walking towards them. He stopped, and struck up a conversation with the two men. Now three. Black waited, hunkered behind the stone wall, nerves taut. He looked over – the third man was walking on. Presumably patrolling the building. There would be other men, no doubt. Black waited twenty more seconds. One of the men knocked on the door. It opened. He said something to someone, disappeared inside. Now one man.
Black had an idea. He crept further down, fifty yards, slipped over the wall, crouching low. He pulled out the Glock, clicked on the silencer. He opened the bag, took out one of the Desert Eagles, and placed it in the shoulder holster. He looked over at the man at the door. His back was turned. Black stood, and strolled towards him, one hand close at his side, holding the Glock. The man looked round, frowning. It was dark. Black raised a hand, waving. The man waved back, uncertain. Black approached, casual.
Ten yards.
“Who the fuck…” started the man, drawing a pistol from an inside pocket of his jacket. Black was first. He raised the Glock, firing as he walked. Once. Twice. A bullet in the throat, one in the chest. Hardly any sound at all. The man bounced back, on to the ground, groaning. Black ran forward – fired a third into his head. Clock was ticking. Suddenly every second was crucial. He knocked on the door. A bolt slid back. It opened. A man stared, face frozen in bewilderment as he stared into the barrel of Black’s Glock. Black fired an inch above his eye. The top of his head was a sudden froth of hair, blood and bone. Another man behind him, spattered in his friend’s blood. Black used the two seconds of shock. He shoved the door open, firing. The third man dropped, dead before he could think about it, brains scattered on the ceiling.
In less than ten seconds, Black had killed three men.
He dragged in the first man, bundling him on top of the others. He closed the door gently. Their absence would be noted. If there were two guards patrolling clockwise and counterclockwise, Black reckoned he might have five minutes. Maybe a couple more as they tried to figure out what was going on.
Black slid the bolt back in place. He turned. He was in a bare narrow hall – cluttered with bodies – and at the far end was a closed door. Black moved. He opened the door, emerging into a large kitchen. It was semi-dark, the light from the hall giving some illumination. A stainless-steel island worktop in the middle, ovens, microwaves, metal shelves, units, hobs. A commercial kitchen. Black guessed the building was hired out, for wedding functions, parties, special occasions. And much darker activities.
He crept through, a shadow, Glock in one hand, the hard weight of the Desert Eagle resting in its holster, pressing against his ribs, providing a modicum of reassurance. The Glock held fifteen rounds. Ten left. Enough for considerable damage. He passed through double swing doors, into another short corridor, another door. Locked. The place was well fortified. An essential requirement, given its use. Black knocked on the door, softly, heart in mouth, nerves tingling. He had no idea what to expect.
A bolt clicked, the door opened six inches. Black held the Glock waist height, fired twice into the recipient’s midriff. He heard a gasp. He pushed the door wide. Another corridor, a door on either side, one at the far end. A man was on the floor, writhing, clutching his stomach. Too bad. Black shot once more, the man suddenly still. He wore a mask. More specifically a silver Venetian mask, the type perhaps used in a masquerade, covering most of the face.
Black removed it, put it on. He was approaching the inner sanctum. His mouth was dry. Music drifted from beyond the far door. Faint laughter. Black got to the door, turned the handle, pushed. This time unlocked.
And entered into hell.
54
A spacious hall, thick lush carpets, vaulted ceiling. Opposite, the main entrance at the front of the building, comprising double stained-glass doors, two men standing on either side, wearing masks similar to Black’s. On Black’s right, a passageway into other rooms, too dark to make out. To Black’s left, a wide arched opening, the entrance to a glass walled passage, and beyond that, the conservatory.
The lights were off. Instead, illumination was served by candles. Hundreds. Placed on holders on the floor, lining the hall, the passage. Candles placed on furniture, candles flickering from brackets on the walls. Candles on an intricate candelabra above his head. Black felt like he’d stumbled into some ghostly subterranean world, devoid of daylight, inhabited by monsters. Heavy drapes covered the windows. There were five men altogether, including the two at the entrance, all with masks. A third stood close to the door through which Black had entered. Another two standing on either side
