From the delivery, he sounded ex-military. Perhaps an ex-cop.
“Acceptable.”
The burly man said, “Drop the Negev and open your jacket.”
Pinchot let his Negev fall from his hands and opened his jacket, gently removing a pistol from his holster. An ex-cop wouldn’t have stopped there. The guy behind the door did.
The door opened wider to reveal a huge bulk of a man with a slab of meat for a head and no discernible neck. He flicked his gun at Nash, indicating that he should do the same. Once satisfied, he opened the door fully and patted each of them down before ushering them into the dark confines of the abbey.
Inside the dimly lit interior, Nash quickly took in the situation. He decided to call the slab of a man who’d let them in André the Giant. André lumbered over to join his Tartarus compatriot, who Nash labelled Junkyard Dog. The two had the room covered. André aimed his carbine at Pinchot and Nash while Junkyard aimed his at Harry and Bishop. Harry was visibly scared, a rare condition for the formidable woman. Bishop nursed a bloody blow to the head but appeared otherwise unscathed.
Paul stood next to his father at the old altar. Hatred bled off both men. André motioned with the barrel of his gun for Nash and Pinchot to step forward. Nash felt like he was being ushered the altar to be sacrificed. It didn’t exactly help that the flickering kerosene lamps gave everything a gothic edge.
The vast space was as Nash had left it. Various clumps of workers’ materials throughout; a pile of paint tins here, a packing crate of plaster there, a few half-completed scaffolds in the corner.
As he drew near Paul, Nash gave his friend a sardonic nod. “Nice move with the coldcocking.”
“The least I could do.” Paul frowned. “I missed your birthday.”
Nash turned to the other prisoners. “Alright, Harry?”
“Never better, Nash. I can’t express how glad I am you got me embroiled in all this.”
“Bishop, you alright?”
“Fine, fine.” He took the handkerchief from his bleeding forehead and assessed it. “This is from my new mate over there,” he waved it towards André, “who apparently doesn’t take too kindly to a plaster leg to the goolies.”
André grunted and took an angry step towards Bishop before being waved off by an annoyed Cavendish.
“That’s enough banter, thank you.”
Cavendish paced the raised platform like a British Raj. He could afford to be arrogant. He held all the cards.
Nash studied every face, every gesture, every outline of those in the room. He assessed their weaknesses, considered what their next moves could be. The last person he watched held a well-concealed ace. Strategizing how he could use it to his advantage, he was interrupted.
Cavendish slapped his hands together. “Well, isn’t this fun? Together again.”
With nothing left to lose, Nash thought he may as well kick things off and get it over with. “You’ve lost, Cavendish. Give up.”
“Have I now, Mason?” Cavendish chortled. “From where I am, I’d say your little crusade is over once and for all.” He folded his arms. “Too bad you won’t live long enough to see the good Tartarus will do for the world, the benefit we’ll bring to—”
Nash unleashed a thunderous groan. Swinging his head from side to side, he over-emphasised every word. “Enough. With. The. Fucking. Sermons.” He threw his hands in the air. “Every. Fucking. Time.”
Pinchot crinkled his scarred forehead. “Are you trying to get shot in the face?”
Ignoring him, Nash went on. “It’s boring, Cavendish. You’re boring. You’re a boring old twat who dresses like a banker from 1964.”
Standing beside his father, Paul chuckled. His face suggested he suspected Nash was up to something, but didn’t know what.
Nash continued as he rounded a packing crate piled high with plaster. “If you’re going to kill me, do it now so I don’t have to be subjected to another of your tedious rants about how Tartarus are a force for truth, justice and gold-plated cock rings everywhere. I just don’t care. I don’t.” He stepped forward; André followed him with the carbine. “You’re not building a legacy, you’re destroying one—your own. You won’t be remembered as the noble visionary who saved espionage for the twenty-first century, you’ll be the man who brought down centuries-old institutions by infiltrating them with your own warped brand of evil. No one will thank you for that, they’ll only revile you for it.” Nash took two more steps, coming within metres of Cavendish. “You haven’t saved MI6, you’ve condemned it.”
In the corner, Bishop stretched his neck, seemingly cottoning on that Nash’s rant had a purpose of some description.
Shaking his head in seemingly genuine confusion, Cavendish opened his mouth to rebuke Nash but was cut short when Pinchot pulled a Glock from his jacket and shot André between the eyes.
It was the gun André the Giant should have checked for when they’d entered the abbey, and now he paid the price for his sloppy work. Nash dove behind the plaster crate as bullets strafed the opposite side. Pinchot commando crawled beside him. With Pinchot armed, it was now two to one, slighter better odds than a few seconds before. Nash had noticed the outline of the gun under Pinchot’s jacket when Cavendish had started monologuing, unsure how he’d managed to conceal it from André during the pat down.
Chancing a glance over the plaster, Nash saw Cavendish standing in the centre of the altar holding Paul in front of him, gun to his head. He was using his own son as a shield.
Nash’s eyes darted to the pistol in Pinchot’s hand. He wanted to wrestle the gun from him but wasn’t certain he’d be able to disarm Pinchot without handing the farm to Cavendish. If the two fought and Nash lost it would be all over, and nothing but carnage on all sides.
Eva, Hawk and Sophia raced through the front doors of the abbey, quickly taking the situation in. Junkyard fired in their direction, but they managed to dive behind a large stone pillar.
The pendulum of odds had swung once more, but Nash and his team were far from a winning position. Hawk poked his head around the corner of the pillar and Nash gave him a thankful wave.
“Everyone stand down!” Cavendish’s voice carried more command than he possessed. “I’ll be leaving now, clear my way!”
“Give up, Dad. It’s over. You’ve lost.”
“Not when I’m this close.” The man’s voice was manic. “You’ll see what we’ll achieve. We’re almost there. I won’t be stopped by this pathetic rabble.”
Beside Nash, Pinchot hyperventilated, his unhinged eyes as crazy as they’d been minutes before. The gun danced in his shaking hands. Nash had to wonder how he’d managed to take out André. Nash had learned long ago not to underestimate Pinchot, even in this dishevelled state.
“I’m here to kill you, Cavendish!”
“Really, I thought you were here to suck my cock.”
Chancing a glance around the edge of the plaster again, Nash saw Junkyard frantically sweeping his carbine from side to side, eyes wide in panic. He’d taken his eyes off the captives behind him, more concerned with the armed newcomers.
