aisle with the ring.
Without looking, she reached over to pat him on the head. She got nothing but air.
The little boy had bolted. He was running up the aisle just behind the bride. As soon as he could make his way around her voluminous wedding dress, he made straight for his father and clutched him around the knees. People in the church found this cute.
The man in front of her now kneeled on the bench below and put his hands together in prayer. When he bowed his head, his long hair parted and revealed a portion of a tattoo on the back of his neck. A blue scorpion. It was vaguely familiar. She’d seen it once somewhere. Perhaps on a corpse in the morgue. Yes. The Blue Scorpion. A Russian Mafiya hit squad in East London, that was it.
The tattoo sent a shock wave up her spine.
She was well aware that two Russian assassins had threatened Alexei’s life aboard the Red Arrow train en route to St. Petersburg. Now all her senses had gone on high alert. There was no longer a shred of doubt in her mind, either about the man or his intended victim. This man was very clearly a Russian assassin. He meant to kill Alexei. She sat back, the precise wheels within wheels of her mind spinning, pondering her options.
Moments later, the sermon ended, and the couple were pronounced man and wife. The pianist and the choir rose to the occasion, the music swelling and filling the tiny little church with magic. The wedding party began its procession back down the aisle toward her, a beaming groom and a stunningly beautiful bride, a smiling Lord Hawke just behind them, and, next, she was relieved to see little Alexei holding hands with the CIA chap, Brock. They were nearing the exit. She knew Brock was armed and took solace in that.
As the little boy passed by, the Russian thug turned and stared at the child, following him with his eyes until he disappeared. She looked around, a scrim of red desperation creeping around the margins of her consciousness. She had to do something, anything.
As usual there was a complete human logjam at the church entrance as everyone tried to make their way outside and see the departure of the groom and his new bride. Nell stayed put, craned around in her seat, straining to keep sight of Alexei, but, being small, he was soon swallowed up by the crowd pouring out of the church.
She stood up, desperate to get to Hawke, warn him about the assassin, find the child, get him into the bulletproofed van. It was hopeless. There was no way she could push through that crowd. She looked toward the front of the church. Surely there was a side door to the outside somewhere up there?
The center aisle was jammed, a solid wall of people waiting, chatting amiably and patient. So, too, were the aisles on either side of the church. Damn it! Just to her left she could see that there were scattered empty seats appearing now in every row almost all the way to the front.
Without a second thought, she grabbed her purse, slung it over her shoulder, crouched atop her pew seat, and, leaping forward like a WWI doughboy going up over the tops of the trenches, she began scrambling across the tops of each pew, sure-footed on the tops of the seat backs, moving steadily and with great athleticism toward the front. She could see people staring openmouthed at her in disbelief, but they meant nothing. This wedding was over. She quick-peeked back at the rear of the church.
The Blue Scorpion was gone.
Eleven
Nell Spooner dashed out the left side door of the rectory and into the blinding tropical sunlight. She took a moment to get her bearings, then raced toward the front of the church, around the corner, and out into the rapidly emptying churchyard. A lot of cars had already left, along with all the media, but a considerable number of people were still standing around being sociable.
Her heart racing, she scanned the yard.
Clearly the bride and groom had departed and there was a long line of cars, horns honking, snaking through the tall grass toward the highway in their wake. The black van she and Alexei had used to follow his father and the groom was still under the tree where she’d parked it. If only he were safely inside it.
She stood, composed herself, and made a more deliberate scan of the departing crowd. The big man in black was nowhere in sight. Where was Lord Hawke? She started moving forward, pushing people aside as she ran toward the oak tree, not knowing why but thinking that would be where he would wait for her to find him when she finally emerged from the church.
Yes! Hawke was there! He was seated on the same bench, talking quietly with the CIA man, Brock, who’d last been seen leaving the church holding the child’s hand. But no Alexei. Where was he? Surely they wouldn’t have just let him The man in black?
Yes. A large figure behind the wheel of a dark sedan parked about two hundred yards from the oak tree. It was one of the few remaining cars and at least three hundred yards away. But the glare of sunlight off the windshield was so strong she couldn’t make positive identification. Couldn’t see the face at all. Just a hazy silhouette. But every instinct said run for the car. Now.
She angled for it, circling slightly so she’d approach it from the side and rear. She got within fifty feet of the driver’s-side door and saw that it was him. He had his back to her, elbows up, staring through binoculars at Hawke and Brock.
She crept up silently in the thick grass.
He bent down, grabbing something from the floor, pulling it up by the stock.
A rifle with a large telescopic sight.
It was then that she caught a glimpse of some movement in the tree beyond, and her heart caught in her throat. Just a small dangling foot, swinging to and fro just above Hawke’s head.
Alexei was sitting astride the low-hanging branch just above his father’s head. Hawke kept looking up, his arms outstretched, ready to catch the boy should he jump or fall.
The man jammed the stock of the rifle into his shoulder and welded the gun to his cheek. He put his eye to the scope, raising the barrel upward and into the tree.
He was going to shoot Alexei!
“Drop the gun NOW!” she screamed. “Do it now or you’re dead!”
The man laughed at the sound of her voice. “Go away, little nanny. I’ve got business to do here.”
She racked the slide on the SIG P226 pistol she’d pulled from her purse as she ran toward the car.
He froze at the metallic sound, then craned his face around.
“Fuck. A gun, she says to me. Wot is a nice girl like you doing with a gun?”
“Drop the rifle, asshole. Now.”
“Sure, sure, lady, please, is no problem.” He pulled the gun back inside and let it fall to his feet. Then he turned to face her, the smile still on his face. His right hand moving inside his suit jacket as he said, “Just relax, okay. I’m just getting my cigarettes.”
“Sure you are,” Nell Spooner replied and put a ragged black hole in the middle of his forehead. He pitched forward, dead.
N ell Spooner expelled a deep sigh of relief, resting her head for a moment against the roof of the car. Then she looked up and headed toward the tree where Hawke and Harry Brock still sat, the little boy happily overhead on his branch, swinging his legs back and forth.
“Spooner!” he cried out. “Look at me!”
At the sight of the pistol still hanging loosely at her side, Hawke jumped up and raced to her, putting his hands on her trembling shoulders. She was clearly in a slight state of shock.
“My God, what happened?” he asked.
“Man in that dark blue car. Had a rifle. About to take a shot. I shot him first.”
“A shot? Me?”
“No, sir. He was aiming at Alexei on the branch above you. You may well have been next, I imagine.”
Hawke took a deep breath, looked back over at his son, now in the arms of Harry Brock, a gun in one hand, checking the perimeter. Hawke said something unprintable and then gently squeezed her shoulders. “Thank you, Sergeant Spooner, thank you for saving my boy’s life. I had no idea it would come to this so quickly.”
“The commissioner of Scotland Yard did the right thing in loaning me out, sir. Your fears were well founded.
