Chapter Thirty Four

Savage crept between the pillars of the shadowy Oculus. A 270 degree movie room in what had been the old treasury. The search lights over St Paul's during the Nazi’s blitz on London swung back and forth against the cinematic night sky projected on the far wall. The mood music disguised his footsteps, but also those of anyone else.

He cleared the room, then the warmth coming from the stone crypt beyond hit him. Centrally heated for the old folk that took their time getting around. Sweat formed on his back, his heartbeat ticked a staccato in his throat.

The crypt was the exact footprint of the cathedral floor above. He needed to move quickly. The kidnapper – the assassin – wouldn't want to hang around with the noise coming from upstairs.

He cleared the memorial to the man who built the cathedral, Christopher Wren and then tip toed past the tomb of the illustrious Duke of Wellington before feeling the cold on-rush of air from the room ahead. The mosaic tiles caught his eye, reminders of the Middle East, then drew them to the seven vaulted arches in white marble that housed Nelson's tomb. That most powerful of Britain's warriors.

Kevorkian stood in front of the golden orb beneath the central arch of the tomb. A dark shadow on his scalp where he'd let the hair grow back. Tourist clothes lay on the floor, the ARV uniform disguise he’d worn underneath now on display.

Clever, Savage thought, that's exactly how I'd escape.

When Savage entered the room Kevorkian grinned as if an old friend had just walked in.

'And I thought Viktor’s chrome-dome was male pattern baldness,' Savage said.

Kevorkian’s eyes shone. His MP5 pointed at the chancellor's head – the politician kneeled in front of the altar, hands cuffed behind his back, face a mask of terror.

Kevorkian pointed the handgun in his other hand at Savage.

'And you, the big investigator.' His accent had given way to something adrift in mid-Atlantic like Savage’s own. 'Always check the hair line John. You know the drill.'

Savage walked softly towards him.

'Ah-ah. Stay there,' Kevorkian said.

'You'll be asking me to put my gun down next.'

'That's exactly what you'll do.' He pushed the MP5 into the chancellor’s face and then twisted the barrel into his mouth. ‘See what happens if you don’t? Drop it.’

'I would. But you know, super-glue. Fingers. Gets everywhere. So how's the assassin game?'

'Good. Very good, in fact.'

'Everything going to plan then?'

'Stop baiting me John.'

'Only you had to go back for Jessica's body last time, didn't you? Bit of a cock up, was it?'

The big man laughed, then relaxed. Shop talk.

'It was,' he said, ‘but not mine. They neglected the files and physical proof. I cleaned up. I always go the extra mile for my clients. And I couldn't have done it without you John, you make a good sub-contractor.'

'I'm flattered.'

'Want your cut?'

'No thanks.'

'Get real. You're a killer like me. Make some decent money for a change. Re-invest and we all win.'

'Apart from him.' He gestured his gun toward the kneeling man.

Kevorkian scrunched his face up. 'Well, fuck, yeah John. Apart from him. This is what you've been groomed for, you know?'

'Groomed?'

'You didn't know?' Hah, they never told me that.'

'Who never told you?' Savage took aim at Kevorkian’s head. He cackled. The mad man peeped over sanity’s parapet.

'Really? You never knew, oh that's good. Your heart must be bleeding all over your bare feet. So confusing for poor little you.'

Savage edged closer.

‘Your friends are all dead upstairs,’ Savage said.

Kevorkian smiled. ‘Yeah, you really are a good sub-contractor. That was the point of the exercise dumb ass. You just killed the fledgling Veterans Army John.’

‘What?’

Kevorkian laughed, ‘And in public too. They’re a well meaning death squad that have been ghosting politicians recently, their grand entrance into the media spotlight was actually their grand exit. Thank you for that extra treat.’

Savage picked up the weight on the trigger, moved forward.

'Step back,' Kevorkian said. ‘Now.’

Savage stopped.

'Don't move a muscle,' their heads turned to the new voice. The MI5 man stepped into the room and aimed his weapon at Kevorkian.

'Jones,' Savage said, 'Get out.'

'I'm sorry?' Jones said. 'You work for who exactly, the FSA? You get out.'

'Not gonna happen.'

'Ditto. Who's the prick with the bad hair?'

'He's our assassin. His name is Konrad Kevorkian. His profile is on Dark Market. I've met him before. He’s tied to Jessica Price’s murder.'

'The journalist?' Savage nodded. 'Why didn't you just tell us?'

'Ah, there'd be too many dead people already. You were on the phone. You know how it is?'

'Oh yeah, I know how it is. His friends upstairs are dead and I just heard everything he said about them.'

Kevorkian’s face dropped, then recovered. The game had moved up a tempo.

A shadow moved amongst the pillars behind the big man. Savage realised what Jones was doing, and hated him for it.

'You're out of luck Kevorkian,’ Jones said. ‘Nowhere to go now. Put the weapons down and step away from the chancellor.'

Kevorkian sighed, fixed a smile on his face.

'John. Final chance. Are you with us, or against us?'

'Put the guns down and step away,' Jones shouted. 'Do it now.'

‘Really? If Savage takes a head shot, my gun goes off in the chancellor's mouth. Fire that shotgun and you’ll kill the chancellor as well.’

It might also do damage to the shadow directly behind Kevorkian, Savage thought.

Jones stepped forward.

'Too late, John.' Kevorkian shot Jones twice.

The shadow behind the blue eyed killer screamed. Kevorkian hesitated, torn for a fleeting moment between firing front or back.

Echo’s bullet ripped through his skull from behind, Savage's two-shot from the front. The big man's face popped like a water melon and disappeared in a sickening red mass, ripped apart in opposite directions.

Savage dropped his weapon and moved past Kevorkian’s falling body to Echo's side.

Blood and bone matter lay thick in her curls. He wiped the blood from her face. Saw the paralysis and shock beneath.

‘Echo?’

She stared past his shoulder. He shook her. ‘Echo?’ Nothing.

‘What’s six times six?’ he said.

‘Wha—?’

‘Come on, it’s thirty six. Quickly, what are five sevens?’

‘Savage,’ she looked in his eyes, ‘what are you—?’

‘Five sevens? Come on.’

‘Times tables Savage? Are you—‘

'Stress inoculation Echo, keep thinking, keep moving,' he said. 'Check Jones.' He shook her. 'Now.' She moved zombie-like across the mosaic floor, then saw her fallen colleague and rushed to his side.

Savage looked down at the cowering chancellor. Unscathed except for a few spots of blood on his face.

'And you had to go for a walk,' Savage said, he resisted an urge to knock him out, then reached toward the politician, who flinched. 'Sorry,' Savage said. ‘Don’t mind, do you? I need a phone?'

The man felt in his jacket pocket and produced a Blackberry on silent. It had zero signal.

Savage went to Kevorkian’s body and felt his pockets. His phone had one pip of signal strength and a message.

From: Tayla.

Tonight baby, I can’t wait.

At the sound of heavy boots on tiled floors Savage clicked through and dialled a number he’d memorised.

'Hello?'

'Vi, it's Savage.' He looked over at the prone body of Jones. Echo cradled his head. Men in black moved quickly towards them, she shouted for a medic.

'Oh, thank god John, we've been watching—'

'Vi,' he took a last glance at the blood pooling beneath Jones's body and raised his arms at the shouts of armed response policemen. ‘It’s not over yet. Tell me you got the log-in.'