Chimera Code (Jake Dillon Adventure Thriller Series) (12 page)

Kirill laid semi-conscious, dark waves of pain washing over
him. In fact, he was sure that he could hear the ocean; struggling, he
forced his head to the left and could see what he was convinced were
crests of gleaming white on the rolling surf, crashing and foaming to a
natural death on a beach of pure white sand. Kirill groaned, his whole
body shuddering. It took every ounce of energy that he could muster
to lift his head, gazed down at himself. He was completely naked - an
angry looking wound, marked the bullets entry low down in his belly.

What happened? He thought sombrely.
And then the voices, the words; the words drifted to him as if
they were a very long way away, tiny sounds in his brain, merging
with the sounds of the sea, hissing and rolling, surging and retreating
across the sand.
“He must be in great pain...”
“We have removed the bullet, but there are still many fragments
of shattered bone lodged inside; the hollow-point bullet caused
immense internal damage. This man should be dead; I am amazed
we’re looking down at him in a bed and not a coffin...”
Kirill groaned. He closed his eyes.
A cool breeze blew in from the Indian blue ocean.
He was aware that he was in a bad way, but also knew that by
some freak of fate, he was still alive and that his body was repairing
itself as he lay there. He could feel his blood racing through his veins,
along with the sedatives and other drugs to take away his pain.
He thought back, Kirill thought back across the long span of his
life - those long hard years.
Searing pain lanced him.
He concentrated on the wound; he could feel the drugs being fed
into his body, racing through his bloodstream, making him stronger;
could feel his body repairing the damage wrought by the bullet.
He drifted off for a while, the pain coming in wave after
agonising wave.
He listened to the ocean.
Voices.
“Give him another ten mils of morphine; there, that should ease
the pain for a while; or at least keep him going for another day or two.
How the hell did he survive? Has he spoken?”
“Yes, he called out in his sleep”
“What did he say?”
“He called out for Zhenya. Who is Zhenya?”
“The young woman who was found dead at his country residence
in Cornwall; she was his niece and only living relative. They brought
in her charred corpse - what a mess she was in. She’s in one of the
chillers down in the morgue awaiting an autopsy, although I’m really
sure what part of her they intend to use... Because there’s not much
left.”
“Were they close?”
“I believe that she lived with him and accompanied him on every
trip he made. He apparently treated her like a daughter.”
Kirill felt the anger and rage well within him.
He remembered: remembered Dillon - remembered the bullet...
and he remembered the gun, cold steel pointing at Zhenya, blowing
her backwards against the tall stainless steel kitchen cabinet. Her small
Russian pistol clattering on the floor, her skull cracking against the
stone, a pool of blood forming around her...
Zhenya; my beautiful Zhenya.
He remembered a time, from years earlier: sitting outside at
the long oak table. The sun gleaming, shimmering through the leafy
canopy of a one hundred year old oak tree, casting strips of bright
light across the table top. He could smell the lavender and the trees
from the apple orchard. Zhenya had only been young then; nine,
maybe ten. The two of them sitting next to each other eating freshly
picked strawberries and a generous helping of double cream - both
laughing at the moustache of cream across Kirill’s top lip. Zhenya’s
eyes wide and gleaming and beautiful, her face a picture of delight.
Kirill closed the door of the memory.
The bitterness instantly returning to his mind, a cold and clinical
hold taking over.
He knew; knew he should feel something amazing for Zhenya;
he knew that his emotions should flow fast and furious, and there
was anger there and a hatred for Dillon so intense that it held the
promise of many long hours of torture to come. And he warmed to
this thought, because he would be able to indulge his passion for the
ancient art of Shackra torture... but he knew he should be weeping at
her death. His intelligence told him he should be.
But something strange had happened.
Kirill could not bring himself to cry.
His face turned to a grimace now; the bullet wound to his gut was
healing, his flesh knitting together; in this drug induced dream state it
all seemed to be happening so quickly, almost instantaneously, strands
of skin and muscle joining together, cells repairing and replicating in
the blink of an eye.
It burned. It hurt real
bad.
Kirill remembered his brother. It had been a shame, but the
order had come from the highest level to kill him. To murder his own
brother, to murder a man he loved, knowing that he would leave an
orphaned child.
But he had carried out the order, with a single shot to the head.
And he had cried afterwards; Zhenya had not been there when
Kirill had carried out the execution, but when she had returned, had
come to him, asking why he was so sad. She had hugged him and sat
with him, and Kirill had wept long and hard and had vowed then, that
he would look after her forever.
Things had changed since then, he realised.
And then, bitterly;
I
have changed.
Now there were no tears. And he understood why - he
understood that he had become as emotionless as those he served.
He had thought that he could be immune from such changes; after all
he had always had a philanthropic view about life. He thought that he
would be able to make sacrifices for the good of the future; for the
good of all things.
I am doing the right thing, he told himself.
The sacrifice
will
be worth it in the end.
The ocean crashed against the white sand shore; and Kirill
realised that the surf, the rolling crashing waves and the hiss of the
foaming spray were nothing more than voices once more, distant
voices drifting in from the infinite darkness of the horizon.
“He appears to be stable and his temperature is almost normal
again... Hey, who are you, you can’t just barge in here, you’ve got
no…”
“Shut-up. My security clearance gives me the right to be here.
Now take this... And make sure you inject it straight into the wound.”
“Good; now tell your men to put their guns away.”

Kirill awoke suddenly. His eyes were still shut, and he waited for
a while, listening to his own rhythmic breathing. His senses were all on
high alert, though; he could hear breathing from at least another two
people in the room with him. He could smell sweat, a hint of cheap
stale aftershave, whisky, and somebody’s odorous feet. Kirill inwardly
checked his own body: it felt weak, the muscles stiff, taut with cramps,
ravaged by fatigue. And his stomach: it was nothing more than a dull
throb where the wound was still healing.

He slowly opened his eyes, sticky and crusted from days of sleep.
He could see a white suspended ceiling. Clinical, harsh white light,
made him flinch. The room was quite new; a private ward perhaps?

Kirill’s hand moved down his body; he felt the fresh scar where
the hollow-point bullet had recently smashed into him; he probed it
gently but there was no pain. He smiled to himself, then attempted to
prop himself up on one elbow.

There were three men; they were all watching him intently. Two
were obviously bodyguard types, large street-brawlers, carrying miniUzi submachine guns concealed badly within their jackets; they were
unshaven and looked weary. The third was a small frail looking man,
somewhere in his late fifties, with a gaunt face and long crooked
nose. What little hair he had, was smarmed, his hands small almost
effeminate. He wore the long white coat of a hospital doctor and a
stethoscope draped around his neck. A small aluminium attaché case
was by his side and Kirill knew exactly what items were in it.

“It’s very good to see you, Mendoza. How long have I been
out?” he asked.
“Five days, sir. A little longer than we anticipated, but you were
very nearly dead when we got to you. And you must appreciate that
the bullet that Dillon shot you with, was designed to cause maximum
amounts of damage on entry.”
Kirill nodded. “I would like a cup of strong black Colombian
ground coffee and one of my finest Cuban cigars. I feel like I’ve been
unconscious forever!”
“That is a side effect of the serum, sir.”
Mendoza waved away one of the bodyguards to fetch Kirill’s
coffee and cigar, who slid from the room. Outside the automatic
sliding door Kirill caught a glimpse of a white sterile corridor, with
several trolleys and more stark white lights.
“Does Ramus know that I’m okay?”
“He does, sir.”
“Is this a private facility?”
“Yes. As you can appreciate; you were losing blood and your body
had gone into shock, but with a slight boost of the new regenerative
serum, we were able to stabilise you just long enough to get you to this
private hospital. The drug will stay active in your system for another
three or four days.”
“Any side effects?”
“Mostly fatigue, sir. In some cases, it has been known to cause
short-term depression and severe paranoia.”
“Fatigue - paranoia!”
“But we also have drugs to combat these.” Mendoza added
quickly.
“Good.”
Kirill sat up. “There are still bits of metal inside me.”
“Yes, we ran thescans and determined that attempting to remove
the fragments still inside your body, would have been too dangerous
with the limited facilities that they have here. Also, Ramus said speed
of recovery was of the utmost importance because of the critical
state of the Chimera Programme. He said to tell you that we have had
developments regarding the whereabouts of the stolen blueprints.”
“And...” A pause. “Dillon?”
“After the incident in Cornwall, he has now been traced.”
“Tell me.”
“He killed many of our Assassins; very nearly killed
you
.”
“He’s far better than I thought - much better. Could almost be a
fucking Assassin himself!”
There was laughter; cold laughter; it contained little or no
humour.
“Another unit of Assassins has been sent to remove him.”
Kirill nodded. The street-brawler returned and Kirill lit his cigar.
“Tell me, Mendoza. My niece, Zhenya Tarasova: I am right in
thinking that she is dead?”
“I’m afraid that she is, sir. Nobody is sure what happened in that
room... we were waiting for you to wake. The surviving Assassins got
you out of there just ahead of the explosion designed to eliminate the
majority of the Chimera development team along with a whole netfull of MOD top brass and mask your disappearance, but Zhenya...
well, the bullet had nicked a main artery - she bled to death. There was
nothing that they could do for her and didn’t have any time to make a
snap decision... you were obviously the main priority.”
“Priority?” Kirill said coldly, a dark intelligent glint in his eyes.
“Yes, I suppose I am.”
“One other thing, sir.”
“Yes?” His eyes sparkled.
“It appears that Scorpion had set up a special unit to search and
destroy our operation.”
“And?”
“Scorpion HQ and the special unit have both been successfully
dealt with, sir. Scorpion HQ no longer exists, and many of this unit
along with a large majority of the other operatives and networks are
now dead.”
“Exemplary, Mendoza.” Kirill smiled nastily in satisfaction, and
closed his dark eyes and allowed the pain to wash over him and take
him away to a calmer place.

Tatiana lay, broken and torn on the frozen ground.
“No!” hissed Dillon. His own Glock started to kick in his hand
as he ran out from behind his cover, both hands clasping the weapon.
The man who had shot Tatiana was lifted off his feet and slammed
backwards, bullets boring into his flesh, blood exploded from his
mouth, staining his chin and nose in a crimson shower. Dillon landed,
rolling across the ice crusted drive, grunting, his Glock magazine
empty and his body sliding out of control against the twisted buckled
Range Rover Sport with a dull
thud
. He changed magazines in an
instant - checked inside the 4X4.
Two men were still standing, retreating towards the woods: two
were dead inside of the vehicle from Dillon’s sniper rounds; another
had been shot by Tatiana, and one lay dead, face down, in the snow
with his face blown away, Dillon’s bullet in his brain.
Dillon popped his head around the car’s protective shell; bullets
screamed past from the edge of the woods, slamming into the stone
and metal behind him with showers of dust. Dillon dropped down
onto his belly and slid along to the edge of the Mercedes which ticked
and hissed with the sigh of cooling metal.
A shoulder and arm exposed from behind the tree.
Dillon squeezed off three rounds in quick succession, heard
screams, and saw blood erupt from the shoulder, the arm fall away
onto the ground.
One last assailant left .
Dillon looked to the right and left of the man he’d just shot but
could not see the Assassin. Where was he? He had been crouching by
a tree to the right, just back from the tree line, down near the low drystone wall that needed serious repair work which Dillon kept putting
off until the long awaited summer...
Heavy boots thudded on the Mercedes roof and Dillon looked
up - too late - as the man leaped forward on top of him with a growl.
Dillon caught a glimpse of tanned Middle Eastern features and jet
black cropped hair and three or four day’s stubble growth on his chin.
He smelled the stale body odour before he was grabbed, his Glock
knocked easily aside. He brought up his knee, but missed - the large
attacker rained down heavy blows on Dillon’s head and face and he
was momentarily stunned, blinded by the multiple impacts.
The weight lifted. Dillon lay on his back, on the snow, tasting
the metallic tinge of his own blood. He glanced up, into a boot. His
vision blurred and he was smashed backwards against the Mercedes,
grunting, blood flowing freely down his chin, his nose broken. He
might have even whimpered, he couldn’t be sure - as he tried to push
himself up off of the snow.
“Now, you’re going to die,” came the heavily accented voice.
Dillon’s eyes flickered open - everything seemed to reach his brain
in slow motion, and then something deep within his subconscious
came to the surface and he knew what he had to do. The excitement
rising, adrenalin started to pump through his veins to every part of his
body - “
Drop this bastard like a stone
,” came the whisper.
Dillon rolled away to his right as the military style boot struck
where - a split second before - his face had been. Dillon’s fist smashed a
heavy curling blow into the man’s testicles and then the man screamed
like a girl!
Dillon dragged himself to his feet, his senses heightened to a
higher level, every nerve ending tingling in anticipation of what to
come; the man on the ground was still wreathing around on the snow
in excruciating pain.
Dillon staggered against the Mercedes. He gave a quick glance
across to Tatiana - she was down and completely out of the game.
He looked around for the Glock but could not see the weapon in the
powdery snow. He felt a warm stream of blood running down over
his cheek from an open gash above his right eye and he wiped it away
with the sleeve of his jacket.
He moved forward and kicked the man in the head several times,
until he was sure that the killer was unconscious. Then he knelt, and
slammed his fist into the man’s nose, breaking it in a return favour and
making doubly sure that he wouldn’t get up.
Covered in blood, Dillon skidded across to where Tatiana was
laying. Gently, he eased her over onto her back. Remarkably, she was
breathing, raggedly, her eyes rolled open, her jacket soaked in blood.
“Can you feel your fingers and toes?” he asked.
“You look like a fucking mess,” she smiled, her voice hoarse.
“You’re not so beautiful yourself.”
“I can’t move...”
Dillon gently lifted Tatiana into his arms and staggered despite
her lack of weight. His head was spinning, pounding after the blows
from the big man. She was still as light as he remembered... from
better, happier times...
Dillon lurched towards the front door of his home.
Tatiana’s eyes rolled back into their sockets and her fingers
clawed at his arm.
Dillon cursed, and dropped to his knees in the snow, droplets of
blood turning the ground pink. Tatiana was in deep shock, the colour
had drained from her face, and beads of sweat had formed across her
forehead.
Her eyes blinked, and then closed again. She did not speak.
Dillon lifted her, limp now in his arms, and climbed wearily over
the wreckage of the Mercedes which was partly blocking the entrance
to his home. He went up the steps and kicked open the front door.
He was suddenly weary as he went inside, suddenly aware of the pain
he was feeling through his battered and bruised body. Stars danced in
front of his eyes and he had to pause for a moment, leaning, heaving
and panting against the wall. He moved into the living room, and felt
elation when he saw the fire he had lit earlier was still burning.
He gently lowered Tatiana on to one of the large leather sofas,
pushed it nearer to the fire, and threw a few logs onto the smouldering
coals, the flames flaring reassuringly. Tatiana’s clothing was soaked in
blood, seeping through the fabric.
There was a repetitive
blipping
coming from a remote control
unit on the low coffee table: perimeter-sensor alerts triggered by
the Assassins. Dillon reached over and picked the small device up,
resetting the alarms with the push of a button and welcomed the
silence.
Dillon threw a few more logs on the glowing fire, and then
moved into the ground floor wet-room. He removed his jacket,
groaning, and then his hoody. Cuts and bruises appeared across his
body and shoulders, across his face and when he glanced into the
mirror, an aging, battered shell gazed back. It grinned through blood
stained teeth.
Dillon went through to the kitchen, and ran off a bowl of hot
water, grabbed a knife from the teak block and returned to the living
room. He knelt, and carefully started to cut away Tatiana’s clothing,
her blood soaked silk blouse and bra. Her flesh was pale and cool to
his appraising touch. He realised that she had, thankfully, taken only a
single bullet but he still cursed, leaning over her to take a closer look
at the wound. It had entered high through her shoulder - tearing flesh,
just missing bone and exiting in a tight hole from the back of the
muscle. An inch lower and it would have caused
serious
damage... the
wound was angry looking and inflamed with fluid.
“Bollocks.”
Dillon went through to his study and grabbed a medical
box; he returned to Tatiana and pulled out a syringe, injecting her
intravenously with a morphine based sedative. He checked her pulse
and blood-pressure, using a small hand-held monitor. Then he pulled
free a sterile solution and cleaned the wound’s entry point and then,
rolling her over onto her belly, the exit hole, using a scalpel to cut away
any alien particles of metal and clothing. Using sterile wire, he finally
stitched the fresh sliced skin together.
Rolling her onto her back again mumbling, he stitched the entry
wound, Dillon checked Tatiana’s pulse and blood-pressure once more,
then applied a dressing to her tightly stitched flesh and also to the
cut above her right eye. Then he pressed tiny monitor pads onto her
chest, which checked on heart rate and blood saturation levels. He
pulled down her trousers, checking for any other wounds he might
have missed.
Content with his work so far, Dillon considered wrapping her
in more blankets, but used the fur throw-over instead. He piled on
more logs, and gave her a final shot of antibiotics and another dose
of sedative before limping to the wet-room himself.
He removed the remainder of his torn, blood soaked clothing,
turned on the shower and stepped into the steam, wincing as the hot
water lashed his battered and bruised skin like a bull-whip. Slowly, he
felt the tension start to leave him as he lathered his body, washing free
the dirt, sweat and congealed blood - his own and that of others.
His mind and body hurt - hurt bad, his mind a whirlpool of
confusion.
There were far too many unanswered questions, and a broken
nose did nothing to rationalise his thoughts.
He stepped out and towelled himself gently, his movements
slow and laboured as the adrenalin left him. He looked at himself in
the mirror and cursed. Heavy bruising, cuts, and abrasions. His nose
was a mess, twisted bone and split skin. He dragged the medical box
over and, with some difficulty, injected himself with a strong morphia
based painkiller and waited for its numbing soothing effect to take
hold. He went up to his bedroom and pulled on tracksuit bottoms
and a T-shirt, feeling a little light headed as the drugs got a hold of
his system.
He went back downstairs to the wet-room and stood in front
of the mirror. Then, without preamble, he placed his two thumbheels either side of his nose, counted to three and wrenched bone and
cartilage back into some semblance of order. Everything went black
and he yelped with the pain, despite the painkiller. He threw-up in the
sink and stood leaning over the bowl, drooling and feeling decidedly
fragile.
Dillon looked up.
His nose was still a little crooked but almost straight once more,
like it had been hit with a cricket bat but not by a lorry! He smiled
weakly at his reflection, brushed his teeth gently and swilled with
mouth wash - to remove the sourness of the vomit, and splashed cold
water on his face to carry away his pain-filled sweat.
He went through to the living room and checked on Tatiana
who was still out for the count, her breathing was now regular and
the sweating had subsided a little. He gently placed his hand on her
forehead, her skin soft to his touch, the colour having returned to
her face. He pulled on a heavy coat and thermal gloves, and a pair of
boots unstained by blood, and went outside and down the front steps.
Dillon stood in the middle of the drive, looking at the carnage,
feeling even more light-headed as the cold air hit him.
He stepped through the snow. Flakes were falling, much heavier
now, from a dark brooding grey sky that cast silver shadows across
the landscape. The world was silent, a watercolour of stillness and
serenity; which had been broken briefly by the unwelcome intrusion
of the assassins sent to kill him.
Dillon searched the area for his 9mm Glock, located it, checked
the magazine and condition of the weapon, and used a rag to wipe it
free of blood and dirt. He checked the unconscious man, and then
moved around the battered vehicles that were now littering his drive
and up towards the edge of the woods. There was deep red blood
spatters and staining on the ground where the man whose arm had
been shot-off had been standing. The blood led away and Dillon
followed for a hundred or so metres until he found the man face down
on the ground, dead. Dillon checked him and then went through his
pockets, before dragging him deeper into the woods and rolling him
over a steep slope down into the dark waters of the loch.
The effort was almost too much as he worked methodically,
but slowly. He pulled one of the corpses out of the Range Rover,
and gathered the other bodies, dragging them all into the woods and
laying them to rest in a line, like a macabre scene from a TV police
drama. He wiped the blood from his hands and returned to the only
surviving man, who was making low moaning sounds. Dillon rolled
him over onto his belly and pulled garden wire from his jacket pocket,
binding the man’s hands and feet so tightly that the wire cut into the
exposed flesh. Then he dragged the tanned man to the tree where he
had found Tatiana, propped him against the thick trunk and, taking
his coat off, placed it over him.
“There, we don’t want you dying of exposure now, do we?” He
muttered.
Night was closing in and the snow falling fast, the heavy flakes
tumbling through the darkness like leaves in winter. Dillon moved to
the cars and stood, hands deep in pockets. Deep in thought about his
next move.
He walked through the arch to the inner courtyard and the garage
block, and pulled open the first double set of wooden doors. Jumped
into his Landrover and drove it out into the drive. The wire was
attached to the rear tow hook of the Mercedes. He selected the lowest
gear ratio and then gently started to pull the wreckage away from the
front steps of his home. Dillon shivered at the icy breeze and flakes
of snow peppering through the open side window. He eased back on
the accelerator, the twisted, buckled metal of the Mercedes groaned as
he dragged it over the frozen ground and then he stopped suddenly.
Dillon got out and unhitched the tow-wire, reversed around
the Mercedes and shunted it into the mouth of the lane and exiting
Dillon’s own private domain. The front of the Merc was smashed
to oblivion; no headlights, no grille, only an exposed engine bay and
a badly leaking radiator. Dillon went back to the Range Rover, eyes
scanning the battered and hole riddled bodywork. The windscreen
and driver’s side window had been smashed, a headlight shattered
and bullet holes had peppered the bodywork. The rear of the vehicle
was okay, and Dillon climbed in and started the engine. The powerful
turbo diesel kicked into life, fumes pluming from the exhaust pipe.
Dillon eased it into drive - then drove away from the castle and out
onto the snowbound road. The 4x4 ran reasonably well, only the
excessive wind noise from the open windows betraying its recent
abuse. Dillon turned the vehicle off the road and into the entrance of
a field, turned, and drove straight back to the castle, revelling in the
power of the damaged luxury motor.