‘Satellite phone,’ Sofi hissed.
Helix swung the bergen from his shoulders. Unzipping a side panel he yanked out the sniper rifle and unfolded the stock. ‘Who’s he talking to?’ he said, popping the covers from both ends of the scope.
‘Working on it. Standby.’
At just over 350 yards it was an easy shot. He didn’t want to kill Wheeler, just put the wind up him. Helix had never fired at medieval architecture but he was sure that when the 43 gram projectile, travelling at 2650 feet per second, entered the window it was unlikely to come back out or go through the walls. One thing was certain. Wheeler would feel the effects long before he heard the shot. Helix cycled the bolt, chambering the high explosive armour piercing round.
‘He’s talking to someone in London,’ Sofi reported.
‘That narrows it down,’ he said, steadying his breathing. ‘Not for much longer.’ He took the pressure on the trigger, waited for the pause between heart beats and squeezed. The blowback from the muzzle brake spattered his face with snow. Lifting his head, he zoomed in to the window just in time to see a cascade of sparks ricocheting around the room’s interior. A dark burgundy drape, carpet or whatever knobs like Wheeler hung on the walls of their castle, had caught fire. Black smoke billowed from the window.
‘Call dropped.’
‘Oops.’ He cycled the bolt again about to take aim at the stables when Wheeler’s head appeared from another window, above and to the left of the first. ‘Christ,’ Helix said, settling his chin back on the stock. ‘Didn’t see that one. There must be a second level.’ He laughed to himself as Wheeler’s head bobbed in and out of the window. Maybe he fancied the jump onto the stable roof.
Helix switched his attention to the two men sprawled on the floor of the stable. They’d heard the shot but had no idea what they were dealing with and had taken refuge behind the flimsy half-height wooden walls either side of the door. Helix estimated their position relative to the opening. He placed the centre of the illuminated reticle three feet left from the edge of the door. Waited a beat. Squeezed the trigger. The wooden wall exploded into a cloud of splinters. Straw and gore spattered the stone wall sixteen feet behind where the first man had lain. He cycled the bolt. Aimed right. Paused. Waited. Beat. Waited. Beat. Waited. ‘It’s for Ethan.’ Squeezed. Same result. Setting the safety, he folded the stock. ‘Who was he talking to?’
Gabrielle’s face stared back at him. It wasn’t her.
‘It’s strange,’ she said. ‘It will take a while to get the recording and the exact location but it was somewhere in South West London. Not a million miles from where I picked you up after your encounter with Lytkin.’
‘Can you narrow it down?’ he said, zipping up the bergen and heaving it back over his shoulder.
‘Should be able to.’ She nodded. ‘By the way, I’m having trouble getting hold of Mace to arrange the return trip.’
‘That’s weird. It’s not like him to drop off the grid. Keep trying and stay out of sight until I call for you. I want some quality time with Wheeler.’
23
An agonised scream, barely muffled by a nondescript grey door, ripped through the shadows and lightless recesses of the basement. A voice, heavy with an eastern Slavic accent, pleaded: ‘Please, I beg you, no more—’ The plea for mercy was futile. Another scream. The malevolent power tools relentless in their torturous task. Calls for compassion turned to hatred and futile threats. ‘You bastard, I’ll kill you—’
Beyond the door, Ethan clamped his hands to his ears. He braced for the next outpouring of agony. There was no relief. The holographic screen playing the video stalked him across every inch of the 81 square foot polycarbonate box containing him. Respite came only when the victim on screen was overwhelmed by unconsciousness. The hiatus was short, each chapter of carnage looping back on itself. A woman’s voice, a foreign tongue, the tone suggesting words of admonishment laced with hate, provided a sinister introduction to the terrifying torture that followed. Ethan could escape the images by closing his eyes, but not the sound, which seemed to increase in volume whenever he did. Seizing control of his breathing, his thick, muscled arms and hands shook as he dared to ease their vice-like grip over his ears.
Drowsiness washed over him. Sleep deprivation was a common technique used in interrogation or torture often supplemented with deafening heavy rock music and strobes. Rock wasn’t his thing but he would have exchanged it for what he’d been subjected to for the last God knew how many hours. Running his tongue over his dry lips, he followed his breathing in the silence. His eyes blinked open and snapped shut in the dazzling light. He rested his head on his arm. Tried again. The contrast was better: the white floor, the taut pale skin of his arm, the black material of his t-shirt. He heaved himself upright and recoiled at the sight of Dmitri on the other side of the transparent partition. The broken, faeces-streaked man hissed. Saliva spattered the partition.
There was no way out; Ethan knew that much within minutes of waking from a drug-induced sleep. This place was modern not medieval. He rubbed at his sore wrists, glad to be free from the chains and electrodes, glancing at Dmitri, torn between pity, revulsion and panic. Was he seeing a reflection of his future? He focussed on his own glassy image in the polycarbonate. He’d lost limbs but at least he’d been spared most of
