This raid would break so many local and international laws, they could take no chances. Tensions rose in the confined space. The team was as expert as one could hope for, but the mission still felt off. Where did Cavendish fit into things? Why was Pinchot here? Had he allowed himself to be found? Was this all an elaborate trap, and if so, why?
Nash shook his head and pulled out the Desert Eagle Alain had given him and flicked off the safety. Taking a few deep inhales, he was ready.
The van’s door slid open silently and Sophia and Baptiste surged out. They didn’t glance back as they disappeared down a side street. There goes the mother of my child, Nash thought in a momentary daze. He still hadn’t fully accepted the concept. He couldn’t afford the distraction, and instead focused on checking his ammunition spares.
Alain didn’t wait; he took off. After rounding two corners he brought the van to a halt a few houses away and focused on his watch, counting down the seconds. After the requisite three minutes, Alain turned to them and simply said, “Go.”
Bishop and Claude leapt wordlessly from the van with Eva and Nash close behind. The street was quiet and not a soul could be seen. The streetlights were few and far between, so the dark shadows were both welcomed and offered an opportunity for enemies to lay in wait.
Bounding up the front steps of the late nineteenth-century townhouse, Bishop covered Claude as he used a lock pick gun to attack the sole keyhole. Within seconds he twisted the doorknob and was in.
This is too easy.
Nash’s unease only grew as he and Eva followed the pair through the breach. Claude and Bishop vaulted up the stairs as Eva and Nash peeled left into the downstairs living spaces. Flipping on his night-vision goggles, Nash swept his pistol around the nicely appointed but not overly special lounge room. A door under the stairs led to the basement. He gave two sharp points and Eva executed her assignment. She was through the door and descending the stairs within seconds.
Nash stepped around the corners of the room, where it was less likely he’d encounter a creaking floorboard. His gun swept left to right, finding nothing out of the ordinary. He made his way back into the hall and to the rear of the ground floor, where the kitchen was located. The lack of gunfire from upstairs was encouraging. He moved slowly but methodically. Entering the kitchen, he stopped dead.
In the centre of the floor lay a body.
Male, indeterminate age. Tied to a kitchen chair, both he and the chair were on their side. On the kitchen table were various implements: scalpels, butcher’s knives, a hammer. The body was utterly motionless on the floor. Even after a subtle kick with his foot it remained unmoved. Alive ones usually take offence; the dead ones tend to remain indifferent.
Swinging around, Nash checked for any other corpses. Finding none, he leaned down to the body and checked for a pulse. There was none. The body was cool to the touch, but wasn’t stone cold, despite the chilly night. Nash estimated death had been in the last hour or so.
Nash checked the man’s face; he didn’t know him. There were no visible signs of the cause of death, no headshots or stab wounds. In the harsh green light of the night-vision goggles the man seemed vaguely Middle Eastern in appearance. Whoever this was, they weren’t a threat now. Nash rose and returned to the hall.
Eva stepped from the basement door, gun at the ready. Using a sharp hand signals, Nash indicated their next target. Situated between the kitchen and lounge there was only one remaining room on the ground floor. Nash stepped in first with Eva behind him. The room was lined with bookshelves, with a desk at the far end. The high-backed chair faced the rear of the room.
In an instant, Nash was on edge. He turned to Eva; she sensed it too.
As a spy, you develop certain instincts, and if you don’t, you soon find yourself at the wrong end of a bullet.
They weren’t the only ones in the room.
Creeping forward as stealthily as possible, Eva and Nash took paths to either side of the desk. Nash’s intuition was accurate. There was someone sitting in the chair.
Placing his Desert Eagle to the man’s head didn’t garner a reaction.
“Took you long enough.” Jack Pinchot finally turned his head and smiled. “It’s been a while, Mason.”
Chapter Eight
“Did you…” Eva shook her head in amazement. “Did you wait in the dark this whole time to say that?”
Jack Pinchot gave Eva a sneer, his facial scar looking particularly gruesome in the green hue of the night-vision goggles.
Footfalls from the stairs filled their ears. Nash removed his goggles and motioned for Eva to do the same. He turned on the table lamp and yelled, “He’s in here, boys.”
The two slightly bemused figures of Bishop and Claude piled into the increasingly crowded study, removing their goggles as they did. Their guns at the ready, they turned to Nash with curious faces. Unfortunately, Nash couldn’t sate their curiosity—he was as confused as they were.
Blinking several times so help his eyes would adjust, with his gun still at Pinchot’s head, Nash asked, “Who’s the dead guy?”
Everyone but Nash and Pinchot tensed—the corpse in the kitchen was news to them.
With a nonchalant air, Pinchot replied, “A bad man who deserved his fate.”
“And what fate was that?”
“To be tortured and strangled.”
“Why?”
“Because he asked me nicely?”
“Nobody enjoys being strangled.”
“I don’t know, sometimes some consensual light choking can be fun.” Seeing the stern faces surrounding her, Eva held up a defensive hand. “Not the time for a witty observation? Got it. Jeesh.”
Nash pressed the gun against Pinchot’s head. “Why did you strangle him in the kitchen?”
“Better than shooting him. Do you know how hard it is to get bloodstains out of travertine tiles?” When the statement didn’t garner any more response than Eva’s attempt at humour had, Pinchot went on. “Yousif had vital information I required. In the process of him providing said information, he came to the end of his violent and harmful existence. I for one will not lament his passing, and if you knew anything about the vile little dipshit you wouldn’t either.”
Pinchot appeared entirely unconcerned that four armed invaders had stormed into his safe house. In fact, he was altogether relaxed, perhaps artificially so. It seemed to Nash that he had expected them.
“What information were you after?”
“Would you believe me if I said his recipe for Hungarian Chicken Paprikash stew?”
“No, I wouldn’t.” Nash glanced at the others. “How long were you torturing him? No one has entered this place since the day before yesterday. You must have taken your time, he’s only been dead for an hour.”
