The pair drove the rental car along the country roads, enjoying the quiet after days of strenuous travel from the US to UK. Given their collective status, commercial flights were out of the question, especially since they’d never officially entered the United States in the first place. Bishop had used some nefarious contacts—“good” drug dealers who owed him favours—to smuggle them in a succession of small planes through so-called abandoned airports. It had taken four days, and they were all exhausted.
Eva and Bishop followed behind them in another rental. Alain and Claude were back in New York dealing with Baptiste’s death. Sophia had taken a leave of absence under the pretence of working through her grief at the loss of someone under her command, although the truth wasn’t too far from the lie.
The travel time had enabled Nash to help her through her grief, but also given them time to get reacquainted. Sophia was every bit as captivating and enchanting as his rose-coloured glasses remembered. The travel was laborious and tiresome, the company the exact opposite.
Sophia gripped Nash’s arm as they rounded a corner and saw the village in all its glory.
“Oh my, it’s lovely.”
The clouds parted, bathing the sleepy Cotswold village and surrounding rolling green countryside in crisp morning sunshine. The few picture-postcard streets were lined with stone cottages in the shadow of the imposing Benedictine Abbey—St. Stephen’s—on the hill above. Unsurprisingly, the village had been used for various TV productions whenever a quintessentially English country town was called for.
“You must have loved it here.”
“I really did.” Nash thought back to the last time he’d been home. “Until I didn’t.”
Devil’s End appeared familiar yet completely foreign at the same time. He’d once thought he’d see out the rest of his life in the village. Given his plan, it now seemed more likely than ever that he’d do exactly that, but in a much quicker timeframe.
Not so long ago Nash had been a semi-happy schoolteacher, settling in with the locals, his violent past behind him—or so he thought. He’d fooled himself that this idyllic little slice of the country was where he could forget his sins. Unfortunately, those sins came looking for him.
He remembered his last night in Devil’s End. He’d been doing some light flirting with a local barmaid, Lila, when assassins burst in and attempted to kill him. He’d dispensed them with reluctant violence, but in doing so had triggered a series of events he could never have foretold. He still recalled the look on Lila’s face in the aftermath of the attack; a mixture of abject fear and horror. She was unaccustomed to such brutality, such bloodshed, yet Nash was surprised how naturally it had all come back to him. His old ways weren’t anywhere near as old as he’d fooled himself into believing.
Nash parked, and in the car behind them, Eva followed his lead. They’d already set events in motion, but today they would implement the bulk of the plan in earnest. The rest of the team would arrive within the hour. The final stand would be made here.
Devil’s End was the place where Nash had started his fight against Tartarus. It seemed fitting this was where he’d finish it.
The plan was as simple as it was thin.
Cavendish was scheduled to meet with MI6 two days from now, where he would capitalise on Tartarus’s supposed brilliance at uncovering a terrorist attack ahead of time using their bleeding-edge intelligence gathering capabilities, unencumbered by centuries-old red tape and curmudgeon-filled bureaucracies. Although it hadn’t been the shining success the former director of MI6 would have hoped—Nash and his team had seen to that—Nash had to concede Cavendish could be persuasive. It was entirely possible he could still put a positive spin on events, despite their best efforts.
But their best efforts weren’t done yet.
Cavendish would know his greatest threat was still Nash and his team. They knew the truth, and could expose him and Tartarus on the world stage. They were the fly in the ointment, the wrench in the gears, the floating shit in the swimming pool.
Not a man to permit loose ends, Cavendish would do whatever he could to stop Nash from ever posing a threat to the organisation he’d spent a lifetime dreaming of. Nash was counting on it. In fact, the plan hinged on it.
He turned the engine off and took a moment to take in his old house. The sight of the simple “chocolate box” thatched roof cottage gave him a warm glow inside. It was fleeting. What he’d thought would be his retirement house was to be the planning centre for his final battle.
Exiting the car, he and Sophia extracted their meagre luggage and Nash went to help Bishop out of the other car. His two plastered legs must have been uncomfortable, but he hadn’t complained once. Nash handed him the crutches from the boot; Bishop took them with a thankful thumbs-up and followed the rest into the cottage.
The house was musty and needed a decent airing. Throwing the bags on the lounge room floor, Nash realised the place would soon be overcrowded. On the journey from the US he’d been focused on their tactics, and hadn’t really thought about sleeping arrangements. Add it to the ever-mounting to-do list.
“This is how the modern bachelor lives, is it?” Sophia took in the surrounds. Eva and Bishop soon joined her.
“I’d hardly call it modern.”
“Neither would I.” Sophia gave a playful wrinkle of her nose. “Which one is mine?”
“Last door on the left.”
She accepted the information then raised a well-crafted eyebrow. “This place could really use a woman’s touch.”
Nash pointed the way and Sophia sauntered past—the woman could certainly saunter. Once she’d disappeared around the corner, Nash received a slap on the arm from Eva.
“Ow. What was that for?”
“Dude, that was totally a hint.”
He shook his head vacantly. “A hint for what?”
Eva glared at him. “You really are dense sometimes, aren’t you?”
“Am I?”
Bishop dropped his crutches to the side as he flopped into the genuine Eames reading chair. “Yes, you really are.”
There was a knock at the door and Nash opened it to reveal a tall lanky man and a much shorter Irish firebrand.
“Is this a town or a tin you keep your sewing kit in?”
Nash gave Paul and Nancy a hug. “Good to see you too, Nancy.”
He motioned them in. It seemed eons since he’d been in Paul’s company. But apart from the brief sojourn in Nepal, the whole Tartarus entanglement had started mere weeks before, though it felt a lifetime ago. He recalled that the first person he’d reached out to had been Paul, who hadn’t hesitated to help his friend. Though at the time, neither knew the harbinger of their torment was Paul’s own father. That was a conversation to be had over a very expensive whiskey later. For now, everyone needed to settle in.
Momentarily alone with Paul, Nash asked in a low voice, “Is it a good idea to have Nancy here?”
Paul slapped his friend on the back. “In our time as friends you unfortunately didn’t have much of an opportunity to get to know Nancy, but there’s one burning truth you need to know about my beloved wife. When her mind is set, there is not a force in the universe able to hold her back.”
Nash returned the back slap. “I see why you married her.”
