“There’s no way you could have foreseen this. No one could. This isn’t your fault.”
“Then why does it feel like it is?”
Unable to answer, Nash powered on. He slowed slightly to allow Paul to stay with him. He’d need the backup.
Between progressively louder pants, Paul asked, “How did Pinchot get here?”
“I don’t know. He could have followed us or Tartarus, tapped into our comms or theirs.” He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter, he’s here and now things are a lot more complicated.” Flicking the comms switch, Nash addressed the team he was racing towards. “Bishop, sitrep.”
In a hushed voice he replied, “We lost visual when they—”
A burst of gunfire cut Bishop off. Short eruptions of automatic fire were interspersed with grunting and gasps. It sounded like a running gun battle, the team engaging with the enemy intermingled with Harry declaring, “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.”
Nash and Paul sprinted as fast as their tired legs could propel them. They were still not over the rise, the full view of the abbey concealed behind the grass horizon.
There was more gunfire, followed by unintelligible shouting, rustling and indistinct thumps. Nash could hear clear footsteps and a crackling sound. It was followed by an eerie silence.
“Nash?” The voice was as calm as a frozen lake. “You there, Nash?”
There was no mistaking the self-assured voice. Nash and Paul slowed to a halt at the top of the hill and waited a moment to catch their breath. They hadn’t made it in time. They’d lost.
Gripping his carbine tight, Nash hit talk on his comms. “I’m here, Cavendish. If you hurt my people—”
“The time for childish threats is over.” He waited, no doubt relishing his position. “This petty vendetta you have ends now. You will come to the abbey and we’ll end this. There’s no need for more bloodshed.”
If Cavendish was asking Nash to come to the abbey, that meant he didn’t know he was already there. They might have a chance of surprise, but it would be momentary. Nash took his finger off comms to think for a moment.
“You know, if this was a movie, this would be where I say it’s a trap, right?” Despite the words, there was no humour in Paul’s tone.
“Oh, I know.”
Nash took in the scene. They were twenty metres from the abbey, its windows dark, except for computers, a few lights they’d rigged to illuminate battle plans and a few kerosene lanterns in case the power failed. Nash and Paul stood behind the large oak front door at the main entrance of St. Stephen’s, an empty black Land Rover parked haphazardly across the front steps.
Below them, the quaint little village of Devil’s End hardly looked like its ancient earth had been tarnished by blood this night. It was more a picture postcard than a location of deadly skirmishes. Not that there’s such a thing as postcards anymore, Nash reminded himself.
He checked his weapons; Paul followed suit. They hadn’t verbalised a plan as yet, mainly because they didn’t have one.
“Come on Nash!” Cavendish bellowed triumphantly in Nash’s earpiece. “Just you and me. Let’s have at it. Only one of us is leaving here tonight.”
With no visual inside, Nash had no way of knowing if Harry and Bishop were alive or dead. His optimism hoped for the former, his well-honed cynicism leant towards the latter. The individual inside was responsible for so much death, so much misery. The architect of Tartarus and its evil conniving ways. Behind the heavy double wooden doors was the way to end it once and for all. Removing Cavendish would mean an end to Tartarus. An end to running. An end to more deaths. It just required a sacrifice.
Nash rested the shotgun in the crook of his arm and hit talk on his comms. “Cavendish, you once said your theory about me was once a killer, always a killer. Maybe you’re right.” He turned to Paul. “Let’s end this.”
Once Nash released the talk button, Paul said, “You’ll die.”
Giving a nonchalant jiggle of his shoulders, Nash replied, “If I don’t go in there everyone will.”
Paul shook his head. “No, I’ll go. This is my responsibility. He’s my responsibility. He won’t kill his own son.”
“Are you sure?”
“No. But I stand a better chance of surviving than you do.”
“I can’t ask you to do that.”
“I know. That’s why I’m going.”
“Bless you Paul, but you’ve never been in the field. You’re not trained for this, I am. Whatever happens in there, it needs an experienced hand, and as much as I love you, my friend, that’s not you.”
“But your vow of non-violence—” Paul’s fortitude was wavering, but he valiantly persevered.
“Every rule has an exception. I hope not to exercise that exception, but if I have to…”
Paul frowned. “You do what you have to. I’ll do the same.”
The men shook hands. It felt like a farewell.
From inside the abbey, more shots were fired. A woman screamed.
Nash straightened his back. “They may be the most powerful private secret agency in the world, killing everything we hold dear, but there’s one thing Tartarus never counted on.”
“What’s that?”
Nash pumped the slide of the shotgun. “An old man with a shotgun.”
He took a step into the light.
“That’s a hell of a last line,” Paul observed.
