Unlike Junkyard, Nash could see Bishop.
While Cavendish and Pinchot traded barbs, Bishop tore the plaster on one of his legs in two. He soon made light work of the second. Pushing himself upright, he stood on unsteady legs. Nash watched, open-mouthed, as Bishop took a step forward on what had very recently been two completely broken legs. Within striking distance, Bishop politely tapped Junkyard on the shoulder.
When he turned, Bishop landed a devastating right hook, but the force of the blow buckled his legs and both men tumbled. Not waiting to hit the ground, Bishop unleashed two more rapid punches to the man-mountain’s head. Landing with skull-cracking force, Junkyard’s head bounced up. Bishop screamed in pain but didn’t let up. Grasping the strap of the carbine, he wrapped it around the big man’s neck as his meaty hands desperately clutched at his smothered windpipe. In no time at all Junkyard stopped struggling and gave a final death rattle.
Now it was just Cavendish. Nash turned to his right and corrected himself. Cavendish and Pinchot.
“Jack. This is over. You just need to—”
Pinchot leapt to his feet, aiming his pistol at Cavendish. In reply, the ex-director of MI6 staggered backwards, his son positioned in front of him, gun to his head. As he did, Cavendish knocked the architect’s table Nash’s team had been using as a laptop charging station. The bump dislodged a kerosene lamp, which landed on a pile of painter’s tarps that was soon engulfed in flames.
“I’m walking out of here!” Cavendish announced, his head twisting to catch sight of the missing Junkyard, not having seen him fall. When Hawk, Eva and Sophia emerged with newfound confidence, he screamed, “Get out of my way!”
“Dad, it’s over.”
“Shut up! Shut up!”
In a low voice, Nash addressed Pinchot. “Put down your gun, Jack. We can resolve this. He has nowhere to go.”
“Never.” Pinchot spat the word like venom. “Not after what he’s taken from me.”
Cavendish’s glacial movement towards the exit was steady. Paul’s footing faltered, but his father held firm and half dragged, half guided his hostage on.
“You’re not leaving, you son of a bitch!”
“Jack, stand down.” Nash dared raise his voice at the deranged man.
“No!” Pinchot swung his weapon towards Nash, warning him to stay back. “I won’t let him win.”
“He won’t. We can stop him, but you need to give me the gun.”
“You little goody-two-shoes losers will arrest him. He needs to die.”
Closer to the door, Cavendish was heading towards Eva, Hawk and Sophia. Nash waved for them to move out of the way.
“No!” Pinchot broke into a run.
“Jack, stop!” He turned to Bishop. “Take him.”
Bishop awkwardly aimed his carbine, but his legs beneath him weren’t stable. He fired. He missed.
Pinchot ran at the retreating Cavendish. The old man glanced over his shoulder, saw the threat and opened fire. Pinchot returned in kind and the two exchanged volleys. Bullets flew in all directions. Paul stumbled and Cavendish sprinted alone towards the abbey’s doors.
Nash picked up his discarded shotgun and swung it towards the sprinting Pinchot. Before he could fire, Pinchot reeled backwards, his chest an explosion of red. Nash’s head snapped around and he saw Sophia in a firing stance.
“So you don’t have to live with it.” Sophia gave Nash a sad smile. “Plus, I owed him for Baptiste.”
Eva screamed and dashed to where Paul had fallen. “No no no no no no.”
Taking advantage of the chaos, Cavendish leapt through the door. Hawk and Sophia trained their weapons on a gurgling Pinchot, while Hawk kicked his pistol from his limp hand. Harry attended to the crumpled Bishop, his mangled legs finally given out.
Nash ran to Eva, who cradled Paul’s head. As soon as Nash arrived by her side, he knew it was too late. Paul’s eyes were open and their dead stare told Nash all he needed to know. He dropped the shotgun, his hands no longer functioning.
Tears streaming down her face, Eva caressed her friend’s cheek. “Don’t go, Pauly, don’t go. We need you. Come back to us. Come back.”
Her sobbing convulsed her entire body. She was inconsolable. Sophia appeared beside her and the two women embraced. Sophia gently eased Paul out of Eva’s arms, placing him on the ground and covering his body with a tarpaulin.
Nash wasn’t sure how he was still standing. His vision blurred. The world tilted on its axis. He wanted to throw up, to curl into a ball and never move again.
Paul, his saviour, his mentor and friend was dead. The man who connected them all, Eva, Bishop, Nash. The one who had led them all, had stood beside them when no one else would, had been slain. Paul Cavendish was dead.
Nash’s lungs fought for air that didn’t want to come. He felt like he was standing through some force unrelated to will. He honestly didn’t know what to do. He was numb.
Hawk sidled up to Nash and shook his head at Pinchot. “Chest wound. He’s a goner. Minutes at best.”
Near the centre of the room, Harry and a wincing Bishop flung bottles of water at the growing flames. The fire had spread to the sheets covering the paint tins and showed no sign of abating. Nash had other priorities.
Hearing Hawk’s words, no sadness reached Nash’s heart for the man who had just killed one of the few friends he had on earth. All thoughts of compassion, of peaceful coexistence had been purged from his body.
With a rage he’d thought long quelled, Nash marched to the laying, gurgling Pinchot. He was thankful he had no weapon in his hand as he honestly didn’t know what he would have done.
Somehow, Nash remained on mission. He had to, for Paul. He leaned down to Pinchot, whose blood dribbled from the sides of his mouth.
“You have more than one set of evidence against Cavendish and Tartarus, don’t you?” Nash asked, somehow managing to unclench his jaw. “When you destroyed the laptop back in New York, that wasn’t the only copy. Where is it?”
Pinchot coughed up blood. “I’m touched you care so much about my plight, Mason.”
“You have nothing to lose now, Jack. You can manage one last act of selflessness. Where’s the evidence against Tartarus?”
