The front windscreen of the lead SUV shattered as a burst of machine gun fire exploded from the front seat. Sophia reacted in an instant, returning fire. She pushed her knee into the back of Nash’s, grabbed the back of his tactical vest and pulled him to the ground. The response from the rest of his team was as rapid as it was brutal. Hawk, Eva and Paul strafed the front vehicle with gunfire. Within seconds the front Tartarus SUV was no longer firing. The engine of the wreck of a car spluttered and clunked to a wheezy end. No windows remained intact. It more closely resembled a cheese grater than a means of conveyance.
“You okay?” Sophia asked nervously.
Brushing himself off and pushing himself up, Nash replied, “Lead free, thanks to you.”
The rear Land Rover’s front door clicked open and all weapons swivelled in its direction. The second tense standoff was shorter than the first. A multicoloured leaflet of some description was waved above the roof.
“Sorry, we don’t have a white flag.”
At least Nash’s plea for non-violence had appealed to some of the Tartarus mercenaries. But not enough, Nash lamented.
Hawk shouted, “Open the front passenger window and toss out all weapons. Now!”
He spoke with such authority, Nash was half inclined to throw his carbine down himself. Instead, he moved towards the first decimated vehicle. Every window was blown out, the three bodies—two in the front, one in the back—were bloodily pulverised and were virtually unrecognisable as human. The gruesome bullet-ridden forms reminded him more of Halloween mannequins than men.
“Fuck.” He shook his head, crestfallen. “This is what I wanted to avoid at all costs.”
Sophia placed her hand on his shoulder. “I know.”
Even in their minced form, the men in the decimated Land Rover were too bulked up to be Cavendish. Sophia had called it. He must be on his way in the second wave, having lost comms with his teams.
The four surrendered Tartarus mercenaries were escorted to Nash’s house by Hawk, Eva and Paul and promptly tied up with their compatriots.
On his return, Paul was smiling. “Some of those gents are positively chatty. They’ve got some stories to tell, more than we know, even. All we need to do is win this thing and they’ll issue statements, I’m sure of it.”
“Good to kno—”
Across comms, Bishop cut Nash short. “Ferrari’s hit the centre of town, and… huh, it just stopped. Someone’s getting… Visual confirmed, it is Pinchot. He’s headed to your twenty. The Rover’s… shit.” He paused. “They’ve turned up McClintock. They’re headed right for us. They’re heading to the abbey.”
Eva came on comms. “Get out of there, Bishop!”
“I’ll try, but running isn’t exactly my forte at the moment.”
“I’ll get him out,” Harry advised firmly.
In his mind, Nash reassessed the changing battlefield. They’d won the first two skirmishes but were no closer to their objective. They were now planning on the fly, a situation that never made him comfortable. He was reminded of the quote from German military strategist Helmuth von Moltke: no battle plan survives contact with the enemy.
“Right,” Nash said with more authority than he felt, “Eva, Hawk, you take on Pinchot. Sophia, hold position in case they send anyone else to the house, but don’t take any risks. Paul and I will back up Harry and Bishop and face Cavendish.”
Eva stepped forward, eyes wild. “But Bishop’s my—”
“That’s exactly why I’m going. And that’s why you’re going after Pinchot. He has a way of getting under my skin, every time. He’ll expect me to confront him, he’ll even take pleasure in it. I won’t give him the satisfaction.”
Not waiting for further argument, Nash slung an extra carbine over his shoulder and picked up a pump action shotgun the Tartarus mercenaries had discarded. When he straightened up Sophia was before him, her eyes focused but soft.
Her voice was low. “I’ve just found you again, I don’t want to—”
“We’ve got a date, remember?” He kissed her gently on the lips. “I’m coming to France to meet Sabine. You’re not getting rid of me so easily.”
She attempted to arrange her features into something resembling reassurance, but only partially pulled it off. Turning to Eva, Nash gave her an encouraging wink.
“You get him back.”
He held the side of Eva’s face. “I’ll get him back, Eva, I promise.”
Paul and Nash sprinted towards St. Stephen’s Abbey on the hill. The Benedictine structure was visible from most of the village, which made it the perfect vantage point, but also a hell of a thing to get to in a hurry.
The black sky was pockmarked with tiny stars, and the new moon offered little illumination. It was a dark night for dark deeds.
“We’re not going to make it in time.” Paul’s long legs raced up the steep grass incline.
“I know, but we have to try.” Nash didn’t take his eyes off the target.
Even with his long stride, Paul started to fall behind. He was inhaling heavily. “You shouldn’t have promised Eva.”
Nash gritted his teeth. “I know.”
“A commander can’t promise everyone comes home. You know that better than most.”
“I said I know, Paul.”
Nash was puffing now. The hill was hard going, but knowing what was about to unfold, he pushed through it.
“This is all my fault.”
Nash spared a moment to shoot his friend a glance. “We’ve gone through this, Paul. We’re not responsible for the sins of our fathers. All we can do is live a better life, do the best we can, otherwise we live in their shadow.”
“But if I’d only I’d—”
